Ozymandias

While Aardvark is busy with the runs, Ozymandias claps Vincent on the shoulder and smiles. "It goes both ways, amigo."

Oh, that's beautiful! :woot:

Some dozens of yards away, Gyrfalcon tended to Timothy's injuries as best he could. Even as a mage, the young man had him worried. While he had taken only supeficial outer injuries in the battle with the zombies, he still wasn't sure what Timothy's altercation with Elena had done to his insides. And the fact that they had had to stop their trek abruptly due to the bedraggled man's rapidly rising fever concerned Gyrfalcon even more. Even though his outer injuries were relatively light, there were several of them that were open wounds- that had been caused by animated cadavers. Kaylera had done what she could, but had seemed far too distracted with what could very delicate work, so Gyrfalcon had kindly but firmly sent her downstream to relax. And so she would hear no screams, if need be, he relflected grimly.

In the east practice room... Ozymandias lunged forward for a quick "kill" with a thrust to Gyrfalcon's ribs. The younger man's greater speed gave him a solid clip to the ear for his trouble, as the old mage twisted out of the way of a throatbound counterattack. "Ack," he grunted. "Well, that'll be ringing for days," complained the Loremaster in mock misery. Shifting his footing off to Gyrfalcon's left as he swung himself left and upright from his hasty dodge, Ozymandias followed up by simultaneously swinging his bamboo sword in an arc from the right at Gyrfalcon's knees. It was the half-elf's turn to grunt in effort as he brought his sword down in an uncomfortably stiffarmed block that pushed Ozymandias' 'blade' back toward its' wielder. Almost pirouetting in his evasive spin, Ozymandias retreated a few feet to catch his breath and begin circling the other man, who he noted, with some small annoyance, hadn't yet broken a sweat after five minutes of heavy combat. Despite it all, he grinned toothily at Gyrfalcon. "Thank God I found you, Gyr." The half-elf raised an eyebrow as he made a (deliberately) crude, but vicious feint at Oz's right tricep. "Oh really?" Ozymandias danced back another step, not spotting the feint until the maneuver had allowed Gyrfalcon inside his guard again. Thinking quickly, the aged Egyptian went with the option he bargained Gyrfalcon would least expect- he leaned back and kicked his opponent full in the chest. "OOF!", gasped Gyrfalcon, as his falling back with the impact narrowly saved him his breath. "Really," Ozymandias continued as he took the opportunity to drop backwards and spin forward on his left foot, left hand, and then land and finish his turn on his right shoulder as he swung his sword out to rap Gyr smartly in the ankles. That was his intention, at least, until he found Gyrfalcon had swung himself around, prone, just as he he had, and had his blade ready and waiting to crash into his slower opponent's unprotected wrist. "OWW!", Ozymandias cried as he dropped his sword. Flipping easily to his feet, Gyrfacon quickly but carefully pressed his sword's tip to Ozymandias' throat. The Founder sighed heavily. "Je suis mort. You win. Again." Chuckling ruefully, he stretched out his hand to the smiling Elder. "Help an old man to his feet?" Shaking his head in sympathteic amusement, Gyrfalcon replied, "Of course," and reached down to grasp the other man's hand. He saw the light in Ozymandias' eyes a moment too late, as the wiry old man had already risen into a crouch, and, still firmly gripping his hand, grasped his torso armor with the other hand and heaved. Gyrfalcon landed gracelessly on his back some five feet away, chagrined, annoyed, and amused, all at once. "*That* wasn't very sporting," he remarked dryly. Still grinning companionably, Ozymandias stiffly got to his feet and headed over to his fallen comrade. With a quick kip up, Gyrfalcon was on his feet again. "Oh no. No more tricks from from you", he warned good-naturedly. Ozymandias held up his hands in surrender. "Just remember. You are far more skilled, but sneakiness can do you in if you're not careful." "I know," said Gyr, rolling his eyes at the "wily old man" show he knew Oz was so fond of putting on. 'I meant it though," the much (visibly) older man managed, inbetween deep, gulping breaths as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. "I really needed this; the adrenaline, the endorphins. I haven't slept well for days. Each time I try to, it's much the same, random, confused visions of our members attacking one another- viciously. And you can understand why I wanted to tread carefully away from *that*."

Heh. Poor, poor Gyr... Ozymandias quietly steps out of their way (ah-zee-mahn-dee-us).

Ozymandias raises an eyebrow. "Do you, my fine, feathered friend, " the old man begins slowly, "have ANY idea how many messengers I nearly gave heart attacks trying to climb your tower before I found you were gone?" He smiles warmly, craning his neck a bit to meet Bhurin's eye. "It good to have you back, even if it is only in 'spirit'. And what's this balderdash about a lack-luster mind living in *that* head, mm? If yours is so wanting, then as Loremaster, I'm in trouble!" He claps his massive angelic friend on the elbow, as he laughs merrily. "Rest and relax for as long as you may!" (It's terrific to see you, B!)

"KIIIIIIIIIIIAIIIIIIIII!", screams the leaping form of Ozymandias, as he flies at Racouol, sword drawn. A worried look crosses the Lord of Nightmares' face as he bursts out of his chair that then changes to one of intense concentration, then surprise, in rapid succession as he reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a frying pan- just in time to block Ozymandias's blow with a resounding CLAAANGGGG! The sand king stands stock still, trying to brace against the impact (and getting the teeth rattled out of his head by the vibration). Still looking surprised, and now a bit confused, Racouol nonetheless drops into a ready position. "Oz-", he manages, before he is cut off by the old mage charging him again. Tossing his sword aside, Ozymandias heaves the shorter man off his feet in a fierce bearhug, laughing heartily as he does so. "Racouol, you old sonuvabitch! It's been TOO long! By GOD, it's good to see you back! The second, and all drinks after are on me!!" "Oz, I can't breathe...", gasps the bearer of deep pockets.

I agree. Poems are a different animal, and freely commenting on one in the thread (at the author's discretion, I think) is much easier for both the author and commentator.

Elsewhere... "aaaAAARRRRGGGGH!", screams the sand king. Any passing by the somewhat labyrinthine rooms of the Founder pause in some concern. Inside, Ozymandias backhands the contents of his desk viciously, sending papers careening through the air and his inkwell shattering against the cold stone wall. A tiny muzzle protruding from a black hood pokes into the room via a cornerstone in Ozymandias' "office". SQUEAK?, inquires the Death of Rats. Glancing over at the slow black dribble running down his wall, abashed, the old man looks over to The Grim Squeaker. "No, I'm fine. " SQUEAK. Bobbing its head in a quick nod, it exits. Frowning at the mess for a moment, Ozymandias stretches out his hand and incants. "Rebund." On command, the papers shed all ink from their surfaces and restack themselves neatly into three piles. Then the inkwell reassembles, and the ink flies back into a single mass and reinserts itself into the jar, which now bears no sign of violence. The hoary archmage sits down heavily into a wooden chair. "I need a break. Or more sleep. Or coffee," he comments to no one in particular. He shuts his eyes for several minutes before thinking better of it. I don't want any more dreams as colorful as mine've been the past few nights. With that, he stands, arranges his robes around the hilt of his sword, and strides to the door. Maybe Gyrfalcon's in the mood for drubbing me in a sparring match, he thought with a wry smile. Violent dreams, emotional or otherwise, have been of great concern for Phantasm mages since an older time than most remember. Those who immerse themselves in the element of illusion quite often have to grapple with their fears and insecurities in person, if they are not careful.

Maybe it's just me, but this almost sounds like a poem about Odin. Weird analysis aside, very evocative in a very short time. Impressive.

Smoothly put together, Doom. Almost majestic in its loneliness. And yes, hearty welcome back to the land of the writing.

I like these characters, I do. Whatever the heck's going on with 'em. A distinct flavor of Greek myth with just a hint of fairy tale in their pasts and present (cars? Eh?), they're all so much like most of the heros, villains and others I grew up with. Only two things I can find serious fault with here: I hope setting is coming soon. You describe the characters beautifully, in what physical description you have given, as well as what they say and do; but the world/place/whatvever they move in is still a very, very vague place. I can't even tell for sure if they're in a house or not! The other? Where's the rest??? ;>) Your grammar and spelling aren't as bad as you seem to think, btw. The only thing that really stuck ou tis sentence structure. Spelling seemed okay, but I might have to reread to be sure. More! More!

Friggin' cliffhangers!!! First the Wachowskis, now you? ARGH!

The problem is, roughly half of commentators keep it short and sweet, and the other half carefully thought out and detailed. Take that into account with the proportion of an RP post (at least, what I've seen around here, and in Archamge) that is solely side comments, and it can really break the flow of a story.

The short answer is: Don't worry about it.

The only flaw I find is your subtitle. Due to the setup of these new boards, subtitles have essentially become a part of our works, and unfortunately (unless I've read you explanations incorrectly), the one you chose here is very misleading, in that your poem is an examination of the evil that men do in Christianity/religion/amongst themselves (simply "food for thought", if you will) but the subtitle leads the reader almost immediately to beleive this is Christianity's entire history, and that the poem is about what Christinaity is all about. Am I on the mark or way off? Either way, a very, very skillfully written poem with intense enough emotional impact that it feels like a punch in the gut from a random passerby. I'm very VERY interested to see what you post next.

I have to agree with Ayshela- "In the midst..." In the midst of somewhere the auhtor deosn't wish to define? Or is it "In the mist"? It's the only bit that confused me, because the rest seemed very metaphor-laced, and I took it as such. I'm hooked already, but get the feeling the actual story hasn't started yet. The stage is set, the players wait in the wings, and the audience waits in silent anticipation. More please!

I think whole is a bit stronger again, with the return of this missing part. Welcome back, Foe. It's an honor and a pleasure, as always.

Finding life frustrating, distracting and absolutely grand. It is so FREAKING COOL to have you here!!!! Okay, it's out of my system now. :>)

Beautiful, Cheyenne. Beautiful. I wish my words flowed as elegantly as yours. "Just write." I smell The Pen's first bumper sticker.

Looking utterly lost for words while grinning like an idiot, Ozymandias bows deeply to the room. "Thank you all. Definitely the best present I received." Someone ushers him into a chair (was it that very kind and efficient young lady with the hors d'oevures? Not sure, she's moving too fast.), and The Founder sits, soaking it all in in blissful confusion.

Tuesday came in quietly enough. As any other new day's beginning in The Pen, it was silent, save for the noise that can be heard -somewhere- of the wheels in dozens of heads turning as pen is put to paper first thing, or finishes and lies still for a few blissful moments of the joy of another piece completed before falling, along with its wielder, softly to the desk and many red-eyed authors begining to snore as one. But something was happening in the Cabaret Room. For one, the inside of the entire already massive room now looked suspiciously like an ancient cathedral. For another, there were carefully inscribed nameplates, running the length and breadth of the cathderal pews proudly displaying in inlaid gold, the names of all members of The Pen in alphabetical order (actually, the organizer's first attempt at getting his guests to mingle). The carefully polished oaken stage stood utterly empty. For the moment. All writers and guests of The Pen is Mightier than the Sword find themselves awoken by a polite, but insistent calling of their names, and a gentle shaking of their shoulder, each one in their own room, or chosen sleeping space du jour. Any abuse the visitors are unintentionally visited by those of The Pen who are somewhat slow to wake is paid no heed, as it is (fortunately) difficult to truly injure a shadow monster's being or feelings. Even ones as decorously polite as these strange visitors. Soon, led by their quiet guides and their curiousity, all writers under the expansive (somewhat given to random remodeling) roof arrive at their seats in The Cabaret and make themselves comfortable. All the guests are offered their choice of coffee or a strange concoction in a gleaming silver can named only "Crazy Larry's". Either one does wonders for those not yet awake. Once all are situated, the Founder himself takes the stage in as dignified a manner as possible when one is climbing onto a stage through a small, glowing, rectangular aperture that suddenly opened in the air. Once he too was properly situated, Ozymandias flashed a look of apology to the assembled. "I apologize for cutting things so close, one and all, but there has been much work to be done." A wry ghost of a smile crosses his lips as he continues: "I also apologize for the earliness of the hour, but I had a promise to keep. But NOW," he boomed, voice suddenly reverberating throughout every nook and cranny of the Cabaret/Cathedral, "Let us begin." With that, in two smooth motions, he unsheathes his longsword, and produces a tightly rolled scroll from his sleeve. Unfurling the scroll with a snap of his wrist, blade pointed to the sky in his other hand, Ozymandias intones, "Ayshela. Salinye. Wrenwind. Damon Inferel. Tamaranis. Yui. Please rise and approach me." The bewildered yet respectfully silent six do so, stopping quietly at the foot of the stage. "Ayshela. Salinye. Wrenwind. Damon Inferel. Please step up." They mount the first step, still a bit unsure, but trusting the weatherbeaten old man nonetheless. Touching each gently on the shoulder, he intones, "For services rendered to our beloved Pen and to our beloved craft, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Page." He smiles at them. "May your inkwells never run dry." With a gentle nod, Ozymandias dismisses them to his either side. "Tamaranis, step forward." Tamaranis approaches the stage. "For services rendered to our beloved Pen and to our beloved craft, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Quill Bearer." He smiles at Tamaranis as well. "May perserverance and endurance continue to be your constant companions." With a nod, he moves off to the Founder's side as well. Fixing his eyes carefully on the still (though very brightly lit) elusive form of the Pen's Shadow Huntress, he addresses the final candidate. "For services rendered to our beloved Pen and to our beloved craft, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Elder." At this, he clasps her firmly by the shoulder, mouth splitting into a wide grin. "And allow me to be the first to say it's about bloody time." At Ozymandias' none too subtle urging (after returning a bemused smirk of her own) Yui turns to face the people of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword with her other newly promoted fellows. "Lords, Ladies, All!", bellows the old egyptian jovially, "Let's hear it for them!" And the Pen is Mightier than the Sword burst into a standing ovation. (OOC: Okay, I loves me melodrama. Sue me. Congratulations, everyone! Unfortunately, I cannot attend to making the appropriate changes to your accounts until this evening 9:00 PM or so, EST. But it will be done, I promise!) Accounts done, Help File updated. Couldn't wait, oh Great Leader.

Ah, stories lost and stories gained, it is the neverending cycle of our collective unconscious. But one way or the other, we have the architect of these tales. So it's party time! Brute? The looming figure ever lurking on the fringes of iminent keg parties deftly tosses Ozymandias a rapidly spinning, glinting shape. Ozymandias throws out a hand and casually snatches his old whiskey flask from midair. Brute, ever the only trustworthy supplier of alcohol, rolls in a keg of...sake. Ozymandias eyes it critically, then shrugs. Close enough to appropriate, right? A toast to Madoka! May her sword never dull, and her pen never run dry! (OOC: Madoka, I cannot remember if you have any idea who I am from our AM days, but I well remember you. Thrilled to see you- *especially* here! :>) )

With what Tralla and wyldpatienz have already said, I can only applaud. Well done, and swift healing. It sounds like God has already blessed you well in many ways.

Well, finally some Sci-fi! (my apologies to any other embattled SF authors I've missed 'round here, I'm heading for ya!). It's very interesting so far, too. Thanks to Uncle Orson (Orson Scott Card, author of Ender's Game), I'm developing more and more of a taste for militaristic SF. The attention your little teaser is generating is arther interesting, Aardy. I actually got a 'report this post to a moderator' message about it. When I opened it up, I found out it was from another reader who really liked it and wanted to know what'd happened to the rest. *nudge nudge* Definitely the most interesting post report I've had yet. The aerie has me intrigued, as well as our jaded (?) hero. A society of pilots, perhaps? Maybe the best spacefaring warfleet in the galaxy? Or maybe a space station colony that doesn't use gravity? Does our protagonist die? How, exactly does the mission go down? I have a habit of rooting for the underdog, so I want to know! For the polite segment of this response, I do want to ask you one favor- please don't use the adjective you used to begin the sentence about the "pintsized terrorists". I try to be pretty liebral about language usage, but that's one term that I and at least some others will/do find offensive. That being said, don't worry, I'm not mad or anything. I just don't want to see it typed here, that's all, no more. For the impolite segment of this response- FINISH IT!!!!!!