Ozymandias

"Look here Mister Gyrfalcon, I'll have you know...other people." His lip twitches, but only for an instant. Then the haughty calm returns. "Pardon me," he says, stiffly. Timothy turns back to Father Derick. "The people I came with, how are they?" The Father's relaxed expression tightens again. The distraught look he gave was all Timothy needed. "They're dead?", he asks softly. Slipping from gloom to happiness and back again, Father Derick said as reassuringly as he could, "The woman shall yet live, thanks to her arrival here and our wondrous guest," he said with a respectful gesture to the Dreamer, "but the old man was beyond help. I'm sorry." "I see. @#$%. A plague on all fools, I swear," he muttered almost to himself. Whirling on Gyrfalcon, fire leapt back into his eyes. "You presume too much, sir. It is the sort of people who did this to those poor souls who get no help from me. The self-centered and self-absorbed need to be taught that the world does not indeed, revolve around them." As Tim subsided, Gyrfalcon eyed him critically and quietly. Timothy paused to gather himself then started on a different tack with cool bolted in place. He looked to both men, trying his best to look sociable. "I didn't introduce myself properly. I'm Timothy McLaggan, historian by trade and sociologist by fate. I am chronicling society for the monks back home, and Sir... Dreamer, I assume? If what you were offering was an invitation, I would like to join you in your travels. The two of you seem accustomed movers and shakers, and adventurers (pardon the expression) tend to be the most telling of the largest amount of people." So are wars, but...we'll see, he added silently. He smiled a small smile at them, not very cheerfully, but without challenge.

RagingGoat, I can understand (in the context of this thread, at least. I have no knowledge of what else has gone on, and won't ask about what people don't want to share. That said-) how you took what Peredhil posted intially and subsequently as attacks on you personally, and thinks being angry's a reasonable, if irrational reaction. It seems like you read what he said, and then assumed that he meant his words one way, and not another- without even asking him about it first. A small matter, but that was your first problem. Your second was reacting in anger (as you still seem to be, somewhat.). The key to successfully discussing, debating, or even arguing a topic is staying dispassionate. When we get emotional, our reason gets sloppy, our patience shortens. It becomes much easier to say what you don't mean or simply make your case unclearly. Finally, lashing out at someone, angrily or otherwise, tends to make them shut you out more readily because the usual reaction is to be hurt by a violent reaction when they're trying to be reasonable. Hurt could mean offended, disappointed, saddended, and so on, but do you see what I mean? I do want to clarify, though. When you try to make a point, you shouldn't be *completely* dispassionate. You should care about the things you choose to fight for, but keep that caring as a motivation, rather than an arguement to present. Falcon- If I read what you were saying right, please don't ever try and stimulate your creativity like that again. It sounds like you're putting yourself through needless torture, and there is an important difference between accepting pain and seeking it out. One is educational and strengthening, the other saps one's strength and leads to addiction. I've got a similar problem with my writing, only mine stems more from impatience, than anything else. If I don't get it done in one sitting, suddenly, it's alsmost too hard. At current, I've got six projects, some that have been languishing for years, that I started off on brimming with ideas for, and then lost time to work on regularly at some point, which led to them being VERY stuck in limbo. All because that intial level of ideas 'just wouldn't come back'. Which I know, logically and philosophically, is poppycock. With the liberal arts especially, you sometimes just need to throw things against the wall to see what sticks. Damn! I just remembered that I wanted to get that... There's an article in the October issue of Dungeon magazine that I think would make a great reference here; It's all about how to find your way past deadlock in a role-playing adventure. The advice it gives I think is very well-thought out, succintly put, and applicable with many other things too. I'll bring it with me tomorrow. My current online access is only at school. Pain in the neck, I assure you, since I don't live here. One tip I can give is to not be afraid of using your writing as a general soapbox. I just put up my story For the Time Being today, and if you read that, you'll see a good deal of common thoughts in my head running through the main character's. Slightly exaggerated, of course. But only slightly. It might not work for you, but hey, why not try? Finally, to all of you, a sincere thank you for helping me keep it in perspective. ~Ozymandias~

His eyes seem to snap into focus as he turns to Gyrfalcon. Unable to help himself, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly. "A journey? Are you perhaps following in your namesake's footsteps?"

Light streamed in through the cell's one thin window, striking the now hale and hearty young visitor in the face. "@#$%&!", he said to the sun. Pulling the sheets over and under his head, he rolled further into the corner. After a few seconds, he sat bolt upright, then yanked the covers from his eyes. "What?" Looking around with utmost caution and quiet care, the befuddled stranger soon realized there was noone else in the room but himself, the bed, and the nighttable. The door seemed to be unlocked, too. Always a good sign. Almost always. Finally relaxing a bit, he swung his grimy, fuzzy feet to the floor. Standing resolutely, he retrieved his shoes from underneath the nighttable (wonder of wonders, they were clean!), slipped them on, and strode out of the monk's cell. Confronted in the hallway by nothing but a long, long stretch of marble floor and rows of closed doors, he considered a moment. Reaching the acceptable decision, he turned on his heel and knocked loudly on the door next to his. "Hallo?" , he called. There came a short shuffling, thumping, and rustling, and the door was opened with a groggy, "Unnh?" "Timothy McLaggan. At your service.", Timothy stated, without offering a hand. "Where am I and who the devil are you?"

Across town, a crowd gathered at the courthouse. It is, in fact, the second such crowd to do so this stormy evening; though it is considerably more violent than the first. A dozen or so faithful had arrived on the steps of the great stone building, braving storm, brigands, and the seemingly deaf ear of the judge as their leader pounded on the door in supplication. "Let us in, your grace!", bellowed the tall octegenarian through clenched teeth. His loud, ringing shouts more than made up for his feeble blows on the dense wood. Onlookers started to gather. It was not many at first, but even in the most primal of storms, one voice that can be heard over it all begins to demand attention. His comrades joined in the cry with a will, but died down just as quickly when he spoke further. "Our people are being slaughtered like animals! Where is the watch? What have they done to stop this? Where are your bounties posted for murderers? Hundreds of people have been burned alive and we see you do NOTHING! We demand an answer! Open your door!" His friends joined with him as one, barely audible over the now howling wind. "Open the door! Open the door!" Hecklers and less savory sorts started in on the bedraggled flock then. It was as if after watching the display for over two hours, they could stand no more. "-lease sir! Other pe-le are dying, but - we are, too! It's n- fair! We're the anoin-ted!", came a sneering singsong. "Save us! The Lord doesn't dictate mortal affairs, we're f*cked if you don't!" "You believe in someone who doesn't exist! Small wonder noone's saving you! Idiots.", shouted another. At this, the old man at the door turned his imposing gaze down on the throng at the foot of the stairs. "We are not here to justify ourselves to you, or to the judge.", he boomed. A thunderclap echoed his statement. "We are here to see that we are given the equal justice as is our given right! And we will let no-one stand in our way." He gazed sternly across them all for emphasis. "O-? I- - threa-?" "Arrogant old geezer." "Don't fling t- h-y crap at us, - man!" The speaker, a man dressed in now sopping leather armor and green cloth bent down and scooped up a handful of horse dung. Hefting it once, he yelled again, "Let us have a t-!" And with that, he threw it at the old man. It landed with a quiet splat right on his craggy face. Near the base of the stairs, a worshipper threw a punch, and seconds later, a full-scale brawl was under way in the middle of a hurricane. Minutes later, rounding a corner, stumbling, shivering, cursing, and trying desperately to wring out his cloak, a lone witness came in full view of the scene. Jaw dropping open, wetness was temporarily forgotten. " HEY!", he shouted, even as he tossed off the bulky pack that bent him nearly double. Pack swinging from his hand, he charged forward, slipping and spluttering oaths. " STOP!", he cried again- so loudly it hurt his throat. But they could not hear him. So he charged on. When he drew behind a bear of a swordsman viciously kicking a woman in the ribs, he threw all of his one-hundred and eighty pounds into an enraged swing of the leather pack at the swordsman's head. The mercenary was felled like a tree, and hit the ground semiconscious. The force pushed the young man's feet out from under him in the mud, and he fell on his back hard. He swore again. A blade is drawn. Two more hours later, it is finished. The outlaws have scattered gainst the storm, back to their rooms, hovels, and other refuge; save for one dead man with a crushed throat and a slowly asphyxiating swordsman dressed in green cloth and leather armor, who still clutches weakly at the knife in his ribs. The faithful have fared much worse. Those who had not been violated and grievously injured were either dead by stabbing, beating, or dying from half a dozen other cruelties. Screaming his pain with abandon, the young man slowly and clumsily dragged two survivors- a woman whose ribs seemed nearly shattered was cradled in his own broken arm as she wept softly,and the old man's nearly seven foot frame was thrown over his shoulder, unmoving. Their blood ran freely from their bodies, the woman's; bubbling down her chin, the young man's from an angry gash running the width of his chest, and the old man simply seeming soaked in it. The rain washed all of it away with the same aplomb it had their fallen comrades'. What seemed to the young rescuer's mind an eternity of closed windows and empty streets later, he found himself (he would never know how) at the door of the cathedral. Almost beyond caring, he used the old man's feet to batter the door open. The great inrush of wind and torrential rain all but eclipsed his croak of " sanctuary." Taking a step forward through the sweeping stone arch, his legs finally gave way and all three crumpled to the floor. They lay deathly still.

The Grim Squeaker Before anymage knows it, a seven inch tall figure with a bony muzzle, skinless tail, and a black robe appears. In one hand, it wields a scythe, which it uses to poke the nearest mage in the leg. "YYYEEEOOOWWWCHH!", replies the mage. In the other hand, it has a scroll of papyrus. It unrolls it with a flick of the wrist. *SNAP* The small mage holds it up for all to see: _____________________________________________ C O N V E R T Sincerely, ------------------ The Death of Rats The Great Squeaker Priest to the left side of the priest to the left side of the priest to the left side of the great God and Pharaoh Nanotoknonnen Treant Hill Mob, App Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 10/25/01 2:32:27 pm

A Brief History of Zool Editor's note: I made light grammatical and spelling corrections where I felt it disrupted the flow of the story. Otherwise, the threads you see here are intact. Chapter 1: Clash of the Titans #43,996

The interior of a post office. The lines are unbearably long, as usual, and the customers extremely aggravated, as usual. We cut in to the third teller from the left, who has just finished with her immediate person. Let's listen in: Teller: "Next?" A remarkably placid man steps up to the counter with a manila folder under his arm. Man: "Yes, how much for chicken mail?" Teller: ( surprised)"Chicken mail?" Man: "It's for my uncle Edward. He's got a farm out in Kansas." Teller: "I see. And you would like this letter sent by chicken mail?" Man: "Yes. I'd considered crow, but I'm not really sure how the crow flies from here to there, and I figured, 'Hey, if the bird's walking, it'd have a deuced easier time stopping to rest than if it had to land every time.' " Teller: ( uncertain)"Land. Of course..." Man: ( smiles slightly)"Yeah, and I don't exactly need it overnight or anything, y'know?" Teller: ( Smiles weakly; obviously looking for help from her co-workers, who don't notice)"Right... Ed? Ed, can you come here a minute?" Man: ( gazing off at nothing as the teller inches away from him)"And of course, pig is just too damn slow..." Abruptly, a serious-looking man steps directly in front of the camera. He looks to be in his early middle age, with already thinning blond hair. He is dressed in rumpled beige slacks, a white dress shirt, and a wine-red tie that is slightly askew. He wears a concerned expression. Man #2: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm the director of this sketch. I'm terribly sorry about all of this. You see, we promised Phil that he could have his own sketch about chickens, and this was the result. Again, I'm terribly sorry." In the background, we see Man #1 from the counter sprinting past to stage left. He has a manic grin on his face, and is letting his arms flap limply behind him like streamers as he runs. Two policemen jog after him. Man #1: "I'M THE BIRD! I'M THE BIRD!" *BEEEEEP* End of side one.

Thank you both. It's good to be back. Ozymandias The Pen is Mightier than the Sword Founding Elder And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. -"Ozymandias", P.B. Shelley Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 8/2/01 5:11:50 pm

"And the final seals are BROKEN!!", bellows the aged Egyptian, thrusting his fists into the air. A passing page jumps at the sudden outburst. Eyeing Ozymandias warily as he picks up now scattered parchment and pens, the man scowls at the odd nuisance. With one mighty leap he rescues the last sonnet from being blown away in the wind. Completely oblivious, the fallen king takes a deep breath of fresh air and smiles. I must go to Wyvern, and make an official petition now. With purposeful stride, he sets off to the Recruiter's Office. Walking quickly, his smile begins to fade a bit. Worry creases his brow. After all this time, can I still do it? My magic is as strong as ever, but my mind... There's only so much one man can take. His smile falls a little further. For a moment, the time ravaged yet regal face slips into despair. But only for a moment. In a flash, his pace quickens twice over. His jaw is set. By God, this is where I belong. And come Hell or Armageddon, I will serve with them. No matter what that service may be. In three steadily measured steps, he comes to a halt before the door marked with the crest of a geld piece with scaled red wings spread wide. Ozymandias, king of kings, begins to conjure. Wvyern looks up from his ledger with a start as he finally realizes that two translucent servants stand by his office door. They are two tall bald men, barechested and muscular. Their only clothing is light-colored cloths with silver trim wrapped around their lower torsos, and elaborate sandals on their feet. Each also sports a sheathed dagger at his left hip. Recognizing their energy immediately as being mirage monsters, he becomes suspicious. And a little paranoid. Without opening their mouths, they say in perfect unison, "Our great master, the one known as Ozymandias, king of kings, the sand king, and the son of Seti I wishes to bid you greeting and comes to seek your council. Shall you make ready for the honored guest?" They pause, waiting. "Of course, of course. Send him in!", replies Wyvern, putting on his best salesman grin. I hope he doesn't want his cut of the book royalties, I hope he doesn't... "Ozymandias comes.", they announce. Turning on their heels and marching through the wall in tandem, they are gone. There is a knock at the door. Wvern's left eye strays over to the wobbling tower in his 'IN' box for the barest second. By sheer chance, the one readable document right at eye level is stampe in the livid red URGENT! Gaze almost magnetically repelled by imperative work, his eye stops dead as he spies the name in the barely visible first line: Ozymandias. Snatching it with the lighting reflexes and deft touch that only a Wvyern in dire financial peril has, he skims hastily through and nearly lets out a joyful yell. There is another, harder knock at the door. "Come in!", calls Wyvern gaily, smile firmly in place. The door opens, and The drunken Phantasm mage walks in. Shutting the door carefully behind him, Ozymandias bows respectfully, and barely before he has had time to straighten, Wyvern is out of his chair and in front of him, pumping the man's thin arm with his large claws like the lever of a slot machine. "OZ! It's great to see you, bucko, it's great to see you! Welcome back! It's been too long, we've all missed you so! I just got the word from on high himself- You're reinstated, effective immediately." His visitor bewildered, Wyvern's smile threatens to injure his facial muscles. "Welcome back, Honored Founder!" And with that, he engulfs the old egyptian in a bear hug the way only someone with arms almost as thick as your torso can. " thank you, wyvern. good to see you, too." The stunned mage pats his old friend weakly on the back. "*huuuuuk* Wy-vern...you're...crushing...me" Wyvern immediately releases the smaller man and backs up a bit. "Sorry, old sot. I just got so, so, into the moment! Now, time's a wasting! You'll want to see Jechum, posthaste! There's lots of guild matters that've changed since you were gone, new blood; Shoot, even Terra's a bit different! You'll need to get set up in your quarters, find some servants..." Wyvern babbles on excitedly, all the while steering Ozymandias back through the door. "...to say nothing of what we'll have for dinner tonight! Better get moving! I'll see you then!" And with a friendly heave, propels his now thoroughly confused guest out the door. "Ah, I'll see you!", calls Ozy over his shoulder. Wyvern smiles even wider still, gives a little wave, and shuts the door. He slumps against it. "Whoo..." Edited by: Ozymandias the Elder at: 8/2/01 4:53:54 pm