Ozymandias

The more I read, the more *I* want to write. Well done.

Well said.

I've long had a particular taste for classic styles. You take the morals of legend and the voice of ballad and paint a picture of death that is beautiful and sad. Thank you.

Timothy's hand goes reflexively to his belt, and he frowns deeply when he realizes its target is not there. Forgotten I'd lost my pipe, too. Damn. Sighing, he lays his hand on his sword and walks to Gyrfalcon's side. They both look at the wounded silently for several seconds, a mix of emotions surfacing momenetarily on the half-elfs' face while Timothy, oblivious, stares impassively. "Gyrfalcon." "Hm? Yes?" "You're an Archmage?"

Orlan strolled nonchalantly down the halls, humming the Imperial March. He was feeling quite devious today- as sneaky and underhanded as he hadn't had the opportunity to feel for a long, long time. It felt good. Got to keep the ol' sneak muscles in good shape. I'd hate to see any part of this Man's sexy, sexy repertoire waste away. Almost as much as the groupies would. He grinned a little wider, and started snapping his fingers in time as he added a bit more funk to the beat. It is a little known fact on Terra, or anywhere for that matter, that over two-thirds of the multiverse's original makeup exists outside the multiverse. This can be problematic to explain as, by defintion the multiverse encompasses everything, so bear with for now. This cosmic stuff- lost ideas, forgotten gods, half-formed concepts, dreams, and the like all exist in their natural form in this place outside all reality. Now, what is much more widely known is that reality, while more resilient than almost anything, can be pushed too hard. It is in those places and times that these lost things congregate, and try to get back through. They are horribly efficient at it. They can detect such weak points with a magnitude of sensitivity that when compared to a shark tracking blood, the shark's senes are as elementary as noticing a nuclear bomb has just gone off about five feet away. By that same token, they hunger for reality an uncountable number of levels greater than a shark's thirst for blood. Orlan passed Simon and Lewis' quarters and had to pause. His manly nose detected very familiar female pheromones. Strange, he mused as he continued on, I don't remember putting her in there ...

To mix William Blake and William Shakespeare like that and not write like a sixth grader who's never heard of either of them, that takes skill!

No wonder your imagery is all so epic. ;>) But seriously, It's very, VERY evocative of myth and painters like Michael Whalen or the brothers Hildebrandt for me. I get the nagging feeling sometimes that my own writing sounds a little too much like the newest episode of Spaceman Spiff. Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 1/31/02 6:18:52 pm

"None here," replied Timothy distractedly. Oh no, of course not. How could I possibly have a problem with another chance to play good lunatic, homicidal lunatic? I swear, one's probably going to crumble to the ground weeping when a battered childhood catches up with him and the other...feh. The other will probably unveil his evil plot to take over the world soon. It never works this way in the histories, it does not. But I know how accurate they are, really. Damn.

The office door slams open, and a beaming Ozymandias appears there. "Brute, my friend!! One more of the old guard come home to roost, eh?" Brute starts to speak, but the energetic old man cuts him off, eyeing the double shot of whiskey Wyvern had just poured for him. "Tsk. Such a welcome isn't fitting. This calls for a little something I've been saving..." Ozymandias snaps his fingers and a full two dozen Imps appear fluttering in the air around his head. Gesturing at Brute, the fallen king says only, "You know what to do," and the tiny creatures are off at breakneck speed out the window. A minute later (a full sixty seconds of Ozymandias' unsettling grin) there is a popping noise, and metallic squeaking is heard in the hall. Escorted by what seems now to be more on three or four dozen Imps is a massive metal keg that is wrapped in a least three different hides, yards of interlocked chains,is inscribed with more protection runes than can be counted and has three Devil Monkeys sitting astride it, looking very sullen, with one ankle each attached to the chains. The middle one mutters, "Ya knuckleheads," and twists the other two's noses hard. The entire affair fairly glows with malevolent mana energy. Ozymandias removes the powdered toenail of a beast that no longer exists, utters ancient words, and turns around three times. A gate to a dimension even The Dreamer does not know opens. Reaching into his robes, pulling out two woolen gloves and donning them, he passes his hands carefully through the small opening in the air. Slowly, carefully, Oz withdraws his hands. Clasped gingerly in them is a plain pine box, no bigger than Brute's fist, tied shut with a leather strap. Undoing the strap, flipping the lid open and reaching inside, Ozymandias removes...a tap. Impossibly, the old Phantasm Mage's grin widens. "My personal supply of Ol' Peculiar. Hope you two still have your mugs."

just then out of the corner, where mage here a plead. Can someone pull me out of this grape.

*bows* Thank you.

quote: Originally posted by Ozymandias: Quote: Originally posted by Dameon: "I'm really tired. I think I'll go home now." (where's that quote from? (i know you server one guys can get it)) Forrest Gump. Now, back to your regularly scheduled blasted remnants of sanity.[/b] You the man

Jet Li walks quietly over to Woods and Barbara Streisand. "Ahem." They both turn. "Sorry to interrupt, but you can't do that here." He motions to Barbara's microphone. "Please", he says with a an outstretched palm. " Let's not make things any messier." Ms. Streisand looks highly offended. But, surveying the mostly drunken several thousand mages, the oddly quiet giant hole in the floor, the giant Frenchmen, the grape juice on the floor and the drying blood on the walls, she finally relents and hands him her mike. "Thank you", Li says, smiling politely.

"You", comments Ozymandias from his all-too familiar spot on the floor,"are not helping."

Woods is awestruck. He feels as if his whole life has been given meaning by this moment. He forgets the Giant Stereotypical Frenchman, the gaping maw in the fabric of the cosmos, the hamsters and the bats and the grapes and the way the other ents used to call him 'Sapface'. This makes up for all the drama, the struggle, the pain. He can hardly breathe, let alone speak, but manages to gasp out the most important words he has ever spoken: "Ms Streisand. Would it be too much if I were to ask you to sign my trunk?" Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 1/28/02 11:43:58 pm

"Crap! Not her! Not now! Alright, everyone, if we're going to do this thing, we've GOT TO DO IT NOW! Circle me." Many more than six magi comply, but since most of them are rubberneckers unsure of what to do while others battle the Frenchmen and gaze in horror at Barbara Streisand, it makes little difference. "Start channeling your mana!!!", Ozymandias shrills. "We can settle this Shaolin style", he says, grinning maliciously. Greased gives him a look, as does a finely robed newt who goes sailing by overhead (not of his own volition). "Ehrm, not *those* Shaolin. The other kind." "Ah. Okay.", replies Greased, mollified. "Ladies and gentlemen, salvation in your hour of need is coming! In the form of none other than the one man Matrix himself, the guy who doesn't even need to stop walking past you to kick your @$$..." He trails off in midbluster, chanting quickly. Orange (?) energy ripples like water out of the group of mages, slowly expanding until its width fills the hall. Woods pokes at it curiously. The rest of the Surfing Druids inhale a little more deeply. Greased panics and barely snatches his comb out of its path. Suddenly, it snaps back into the mages with terrific speed and the crashing of a tidal wave. Everyone is thrown to the floor. Another Frechman is sent tumbling into the abyss, taking a mutlimage with him, whose all 100 personas were stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Slowly, everyone regains their feet. Horribly, Barbara Streisand smiles, and produces a microphone. She takes a breath, opens her mouth to sing-and Ozymandias' triumphant shout cuts her off! "Mages, multis, moderators, and whatevers alike, I give you JET LI!" Far too late, Barbara and the remaining Frenchmen see a small Oriental man in jeans and a t-shirt casually step forward. The howling stops, and is replaced by a lone whimper echoing up from the pit. A hampster capers by serenely. Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 1/28/02 11:39:55 pm

STEP 1: CONCEPT ART The camera pans across a section of the library that has been hastily converted into an animation studio. Mages and creatures alike labor dilligently on their sketchpads. Voice over: The first step in creating any good special effect or animation of any kind is the concept art. What should the final product look like? How does its design fit into the facts of the story? How does its desing incorporate the mood of the setting? These and many other questions are the ones the art team must tackle in this phase. The camera has continued to pan, stopping to zoom in on this artist, then that one, showing us pens that look straight out of Greek Mythology, or Leonardo Da Vinci's nightmares. Some drawings are unintelligible scribble, others are massive in their construction and foreboding. Some are small, exuding a quiet, yet forceful physical prescence. The camera cuts over to a corner of familiar blue robe. Voice over: Let's see what work the Founder himself has already laid out. The camera pulls back to reveal Ozymandias...snoring softly, draped over the back of his chair with his feet hooked under his drawing desk to keep from falling. A thin rivulet of drool dangles from his moustache, dripping slowly to the floor. A pencil already lies there. His drawing pad is nearly invisible due to the dozens and dozens of empty bottles of Woodchuck Cider until, tilting a little further back, a little further, then a little further, The Sand King's center of gravity defeats the desk's and bottles, desk, chair, art supplies and mage go crashing to the floor. When the furniture and glass shards have finally settled, his drawing pad stands, revealing a quick pen sketch of...a ball point pen with little stick arms and legs. A groggy "I'm okay..." floats up from behind the counter Ozymandias toppled behind.

The Squirrel Duo scampered along the Keep's halls at that same moment, not a care in the world (due in no small part to their having outdistanced Ozymandias' bodyguard to their satisfaction). They slowed to an exhausted halt. Throwing themselves against a door, Simon looked at Lewis as both gasped for air, tounges lolling out of their mouths. "Some...work- ehhh-out, eh...Lewis?" "I'll say.", replied Lewis, flopping onto his back. "Who...knew...he'd...have...a...spooned...Dominion watching the door?"* "Untrusting sort, that one," managed Simon as he put paws on knees and breathed slowly. Suddenly, realization dawned. "Say, Lewis?" "Yes?" "Do you know what Deja vu is?" "Um. The sensation you are doing something you have done befo-" Lewis was cut off abruptly as the most unearthly, bloodcurdling shriek they'd ever heard erupted from the door behind them, followed shortly thereafter by what felt like a major earthquake and the door catapulting open. "MOTHER FORKING*, " they chorused before being slammed into the wall. Seconds later, Simon regained consciousness just in time to see Wyvern's running form careen around a corner. Lewis groaned. "We're getting in a rut," he muttered. "The old Alligator's crafty, that's for sure," grunted Simon through his headache. Moments earlier, Wyvern had successfully completed his five hundred and fifty-nith complete budget inventory and come to the inescapable conclusion that he was down 543 million geld from yesterday- exactly half of his lives savings from Terra. Gone. *Stephen, Ozymandias' Guardian Angel, colocates quite often, and on spying the Squirrel Duo heading for Ozymandias' quarters, had decided to give the little miscreants a good scare. As preventative, of course.

But where are you now?? I like poetry that begs questions. :>)

You've been holding out on us, Gyr. Shame on you! Keep up the poetry!

The image you conjure is a lot like tree in the painting by Greg & Tim Hildebrandt on one of the newest Magic: The Gathering cards. It's called "Simplify". Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 1/28/02 11:27:09 pm

A "Well said!" and a hearty "Hear, hear!" Have you ever seen the movie 'Shower'? If not, I highly recommend it to a conossieur such as yourself. Seriously. It's one of my all-time favorites.

Just wanted to give my heartiest Beatnik applause to your new stuff, Cioden/William/Falcon (too MANY of you!) and to tell you what a nifty sig that is. Yours too, Tralla. Did you make them yourselves?

It's poetry like this that makes me sorry I gave up painting.

Well done.