Patrick

Millie looked up and was surprised to see Xander staring at her. He looked clearly troubled by something. After a silence of several seconds he spoke in a shaky voice. "I wanted to thank you for all the lovely food and your kindness," he managed to stammer. He then handed a rolled up sheet of canvas, about one foot long to Millie. Before she had a chance to even say thank you, Xander turned and very happy with the way he had for once managed to act sociably sat down at his usual spot in the corner. As Millie unrolled the canvas she could see that it was but a painting of a field of yellow flowers, with gentle puffy white clouds dotting the sky above.

Go take care of yourself...of yourself...take care...take care of yourself. Meaningless words strung together and somehow managing to still stay meaningless. Pah, thinking was especially hard today. His arm was still bleeding, washing it seemed to have opened the shallow wound yet again. He left the tavern blood slowly dripping from his arm onto the floor, leaving a red trail behind and hostile glances directed at his back. Take care of yourself...he repeated the words in his thoughts. He knew a perfect way of doing that and lifted his hand to light his pipe. But it was already lit. He sighed and took several long puffs. The damp and bloody rag fell a sickening splat in the dust next to him. He followed it, eyes glazed, already travelling in a vastly different world. OOC: looks like I'll have to vote for Chalice Tantrella/gabrielcharon for purposes of staying alive and all that.

Blood...paint...roses. He lifts the bloody sleeve, and with the obvious gash on his forearm confirms his own suspicions about the cause of his injury. Time to get more red paints...or find the ones that he had misplaced somewhere in his home...his mess. The cook, or some maiden looking suspiciously like her passes by. "I'll not want any food today Millie. Wouldn't want to meet it again like I did yesterday. This establishment does not deserve my vomit fluidly grazing its cleanly polished surfaces." He puffs on his long extinct pipe, bringing a small taste of herbs to his mouth. Are roses herbs?

Firm strokes by a heavily used pen. A canvas almost hidden in the fumes, which constantly permeate the air in his hut. A ghastly drawing slowly appearing on the no-longer immaculately white canvas. A masterpiece, which shall end its life amongst the flames in less than an hour. Figures from the worst nightmares, bringers of death. In a lovely field of yellow roses. The roses encircle a lonely figure, a bizarre expression...a mixture of fear and joy on his face. His blood a lake of red. The painting's but a pile of ash. None of Xander's paintings from the last three weeks survived his return to a semblance of consciousness. He's thirsty. Famished. Was it just the last day that he had gone to the tavern and then emptied his stomach of the lovely meal that delicious cook had served him. Or was it a delicious cook from a lovely meal. Thinking was hard, thoughts disjointed and a piece of the painting still survived. A blood red rose over a patch of yellow ripples. It was weird. Even for Xander who was way used to weird. He needed a drink. He filled his pipe and mechanically lit it as he examined the painting with his eyes which once could have passed for those of an art critic. It was beautiful. Useless. Masterful strokes of utter horror. It was only a bloody rose over a pool of piss. No artistic merit. He lights it from his pipe. The burning paint stinks. He collapses on the bed, but is up in a matter of minutes, frantically throwing bed sheets and clothes all over the place, cleaning before his mother comes to inspect his room. She's been dead only seven years. Or was it seventeen? His pipe has gone out. He lights it from the fire, but the fire is no longer lit. Disgustedly he kicks at the ashes, covering his clothes and face by the rising gray cloud. When he gets to the tavern he doesn't look much different than usual. Ashen face, disgustingly dirty clothes, paint all over the front of his shirt, mixed in with the remains of some sort of weird meal he had had the night...day...whenever before. And the blood stains covering his left sleeve. He takes his usual place, the farthest from the bright lights of the fireplace as possible. Someone mentions his bloody sleeve loud enough for him to hear. A genuine look of surprise fleets across his face as he glances at it. Could he have ran out of red paint yet again? OOC(ICishly): No vote...yet...too stoned to remember who lives in the town

Food. A hastily prepared broth that the kind cook at the tavern wouldn't have served even in her foulest mood. A bowl. Discarded container at the end of a trace of soup on the wooden floor. Footprints. Sticky reminders of the feel of the foul liquid. Smoke. Thick wisps of stench filling the room. A mess. His home was always a mess. Scented candles lay half burned over the floor. One of them had burned a small hole in the bedsheets. Herbs, which elsewhere would have a fetched a fortune from those who liked to soften their pain lay on the ground, trampled and sullied. There was always plenty more. The field was but two miles from his home. Life was good, life never had been so good for Xander. His dreams had never been so messed up either. For the life of him he could not remember painting last night. He could not remember the blurry strokes of a paintbrush, the dark shapes moving on the moon-lit field. He finished stuffing his pipe full of herbs and lit it from his tinderbox. Despite the shakes and the chills he occasionally had his hands still functioned well enough. But each day was worse, each day bringing closer the slow descent into his own personal hell. He had been at the gates for years, but he knew that he was slowly slipping out of control. Soon there would be no choice but to pass the gates, never to look back. The day when his hands weren't going to be able to hold a paintbrush satisfactorily weren't far away. A year...maybe three. Who knew? On a whim, Xander grabbed the painting and threw it in the fireplace. It caught fire fast and in a matter of minutes was reduced to a pile of ashes. The foul smoke the burning paints produced drove him from his home into the fresh morning air. It brought a minor coughing fit on him, which he cured with several long puffs from his pipe. He checked the pouch at his belt, but it was still half full. Still a couple of days before he had to refill. He coughed some more before deciding to make his way towards the tavern. It was the only place which seemed to have life this early in the mornings. And at least if he passed out there, he'd be put into a clean bed for a couple of hours. Lately, it was also part of the morning ritual in that place.

I'll be playing Xander, a man of undeterminable age, probably somwhere between 20 and 50. He was once a travelling artist with a minor drug problem. He found a village with a field of the herbs he uses to produce the drugs he uses right next to a small village, and became a settled artist in said village with a serious drug problem, now that his supply is almost endless. He mostly paints, rather surreal paintings with little to anchor them in reality, mostly due to his drugged state. When of a clearer mind he also occasionally sculpts or carves wood.

Original from the BBQ thread: Modified: And then for the different versions Tanuchan's version Degorram's version Peredhil's version Wyvern's version The Death of Rats' version Harmony's version Sora Hikari's version That's all folks. I was almost laughing out loud while completing these. Minor adaptations were made where needed.

I'm in. As nearly always with me, character to come later.

Yay a WW!

I could probably be prodded into playing, not modding though.

11/11/08 Lyon, Transbordeur So I saw Epica yet again. The show yet again was awesome and if anything the group is getting better live than before. I was especially surprised at how much progress the singer has made. Her voice seemed to be even more powerful and seemed to be able to go even higher. I won't lose more time with Epica I've already praised them quite a bit in this thread, I'll however mention the two opening groups. Kells, is a local group from Lyon, who joined Epica for the French part of their tour. They were quite enthousiastic in front of their home crowd and while their concert wasn't perfec it was quite good. Quite an enjoyable band to start with and possibly a future prospect to follow. Amberian Dawn are a Finnish band. Their singer had a really great voice, but a pretty awful stage presence. A bit of a let down between two enjoyable acts.

Except if said drink would be the one to push you over the limit...

Since I won't be around this weekend, the Madlib shall be closed either Sunday night or whenever I have the time after that.

A minor correction: since I won't be around this weekend, the Madlib shall be closed either Sunday night or whenever I have the time after that.

Erm...reverie happens to be male.

Whoopsity whoopsity whoops, I've mixed adjective and adverb all through the original list. It has been all edited. Would you mind changing a few of your entries accordingly Tanny?

And another Madlib to help stretch and flex those creative muscles. This time one even Wyvern can participate in. 1. [male pennite] 2. [female pennite] 3. [adjective] 4. [another female pennite] 5. [adjective] 6. [item of clothing] 7. [adverb] 8. [almost dragonic product] 9. [adjective] 10. [creature] 11. [adjective] 12. [body part] 13. [yet another female pennite] 14. [sickness] 15. [event] 16. [shape] 17. [speed] 18. [feeling] 19. [body part] 20. [game]

1) Wrenwind 2) Mighty Pen 3) yelling 4) haltingly 5) internet 6) quickly 7) Pi²/6 Ozymandias 9) shortly 10) nihilistic 11) piercing 12) queer 13) longingly 14) keyboards 15) little toe 16) clearly 17) very pink 18) saw 19) fields 20) chat

01/10/2008 Drunk, this early in the morning? Or is he just slightly crazy? Heck, make that majorly wacko, Screaming at the top of his lungs Shouting about some obscure war Shouting about his own misery He looks agressive, wants a fight Doesn't want to let people off the tram Finally someone pushes him off This was our morning cinema

29/09/2008 Freely given newspapers Readily thrown away once read Garbage cans already full The information absorbed on the way to work, where I catch the tram, three free newspapers are given away every morning

As the title says, it's a tram. Thanks for the comments.

24/09/2008 Packed like sardines in a can In a long metal tram Bodies closely pushed together Fur on fur, leather on leather She thinks that she can still get in Push her body inside the tram No one says a word They just move as much as they can

23/09/2008 I wish he would blow his nose And stop making this noise Would he be insulted If I offered a handkerchief?

19/09/2008 Her eyes closed She listens to music Eyes flutter open when Someone bumps into her He distractedly twirls a ticket Clearly lost in his thoughts Empty eyes gazing ahead He realises he has to get off She is talking on her phone The volume is rather loud Sounds like business No one else really cares He's absorbed by his newspaper Some economics journal Held close to his face Neatly folded away for later use What would they think if they looked at me?

A couple recent reads: Steven Erikson - The Bonehunters I needed a book to read during a nine hour Greyhound trip in the US and this was the one that caught my attention, as it had the required size, and the description on the back was interesting. It is the sixth book in a series and it really shows. It was very hard to get in and even when I got to the end I wasn't sure that I understood everything. Obviously, had I read the other five first, it would have in all probability helped a lot, but as things are the book just doesn't stand on its own. It was intriguing enough for me to want to read the series though, expect reviews in the coming months. On its own: 2.5/5 Will review again once I get there in the series. Terry Goodkind - Wizard's First Rule Another book picked up during my US trip, this one at least was the first in a series. I was left perplexed by the apparent difference between the writing style and the contents of the book. At times the writing style felt really as though the book had been written for children, explaining everything thoroughly, maybe even too thoroughly. Reading scenes of quite brutal torture (which the book does contain) written in that overexplained style was rather weird. Oh, and I guessed the ending a quarter of the way through the book, which adds another negative point. Still, the other day I did pick up the second book in the series, for which I already predict a predictable plot...just from evil wanting to take over the world and only one man able to save it description on the back cover, but I guess we all need a little bit of predictable fantasy in our lives. 3.5/5 Stephen King - The Dark Tower I'm finally jumping on the bandwagon. Well-written book which has a non-stereotypic plot and a main character who seems to be well worked out. 4.5/5 Frank Schätzing - Swarm The back cover calls it an eco-thriller, so I'll settle with that. Probably the only reason I picked this one up was because of its size...it is big. I needed a book for a long night in Geneva airport... It is also surprisingly well-written and well-researched. Although most of the insignificant scientific details are right, the author does manage to describe a strong methane smell on several occasions. Apart from the ending it is a really intelligent book. The end felt just a little bit weak, and had a "ok, book needs to end, how about trying this" feeling to it. Still, a solid read, and had me coming back to it when I should have been doing other things. 4/5