Degorram

Degorram poked her head (which resembled a fleshy turnip encrusted with horns, needle-shaped teeth, and two watery, yellow, glaring eyes) through the curtain to see the back of Wyvern's head as he awaited his customers. Pennites were starting to line up, but Wyvern hadn't started collecting geld just yet. He seemed rather intent on stirring his cauldron of beverage with the tip of his tail.... "Wyvern!" she whispered frantically over the growing murmur of the crowd. The almost dragon turned around to attend to his only employee and almost fell out of his chair at her appearance. "D-Dego!" he wheezed. "Get back behind that curtain! Y-you'll give yoursssself away." He avoided looking at her whilst he spoke, turning his eyes to the ground as if he had dropped something. "Wh-what is it anyway?" "I am going to receive copious piles of chocolate for this, right?" Degorram asked. A trickle of monstrous slime oozed out of her teeth. Wyvern gulped fearfully as she stared at him. "Of coursssse Dego, just as I promised." "And no one will know that I am actually the creatures that are scaring them, right?" "Yes, yes yes yes," Wyvern said, waving his hands around. "Now pleasssse, go back before someone -gulp- sees you...." Degorram bared her teeth and pulled her head back into the curtain of the haunted house. An unearthly groan, echoing through the throat of some creature, floated from within. The scales on the back of Wyvern's neck stood up and he hastily turned back to his table, slapping down a stack of papers that he pulled out of his bag. "L-lasssst minute Almost Dragonic Brand Wyvern-Protecting-Waivers! Enter the house at your own rissssk!" OOC: I've always wanted to work in a haunted house....;D

The sun was setting earlier than usual -- with the coming of the fall months it had been growing duskier faster with every passing day, competing with the always dreary weather to plunge the seaside town into darkness. A stiff breeze, cool but not bitter, plunged down the cobblestone street that weaved alongside the many docks. Ships at anchor moved slightly in the water as the wind tickled their sails, restless as horses in their stalls. The women on the street pulled their coats further around themselves and the men ducked under the brims of their hats, either hurrying home or ducking into one of the many pubs that awaited them with cheerful, warm arms. Tristan rolled a barrel up the gangplank of a large ship, his chafed hands deftly moving it with speed and surety. Work was almost done for the day, and many of the sailors had already left, preparing for their journey that would take them far away from Anglia over the sea. He placed the barrel in its spot on deck -- he would move them all into the cargo in the morning -- and leaned against the railing, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes wearily. Tristan was a stocky fellow, tall and well built, with a smooth chin and green eyes. He was at the age where he hovered between boyhood and being a man, though he had taken on a man's work for many years already. The wind pushed at his shirt insistently, and Tristan turned his eyes to the sunset as it cast fire over the sea. The ocean and the clouds all about it were an angry grey, but the sun burned with a hot orange color that lit up all the storm clouds for miles around it. Tristan knew that once it set, the beautiful evening would turn into a miserable night of mists, rain, and fog. It was not a night to be without a roof over one's head. With a sigh he turned away and trod down the gangplank, his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. The street was empty since all the locals had already sought shelter. This was how he liked it best -- it being a very old street, it would often give up its stories when one walked on it alone. He started home, and a moment realized that the street wasn't empty after all. Ahead of him, sitting on a bench at the edge of the street, was a girl. Her cloak was wrapped around her tightly against the wind, but the hood lay back against her shoulders. At one point it had been a beautiful pine green, for the color still remained beneath her hair, but further down as it approached the worn hem it became the same color as the mud that caked her weary boots. She carried only a single bag, which she had propped up against the bench's leg. The sunset was at her back, and it cast fire on her already burnt auburn hair, which she had attempted to braid behind her -- the wind had whipped out many strands already, and they played around her pale face like riddle-asking spirits. As Tristan approached, she turned her face to him, turning the most beautiful hazel eyes he had ever seen upon him. ----horrible place to end, but I've nothing left for now.

Violet shut the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily from her long run up the stairs. The initial fright had worn off before she had reached the upper landing, but a fearful doubt still gnawed at her chest, and she covered her eyes with a shaking hand. She was unsure whether what she had seen were real or not. Surely there really wasn't a man tied up in the bottom of the house...but she had seen it herself. She shuddered fitfully and stepped away from the door, as if she could hear the man's breathing even now. Curiosity combined with good sense flooded her with determination to discover the truth. She was not, however, prepared to descend into the dark room so soon after discovering it. She would ask her aunt about it at dinner. Delicately. She spent the rest of the day trying to read a book in the parlor, but found herself far to distracted to pay it any proper attention. Outside a cold rain had begun to fall and its drops collected on the leaves of the pines like little jewels adorning fine ladies. It would begin to snow soon in this deserted part of the country. There sitting by the fire, Violet began to feel a cold that was not related to the weather trace its delicate fingers down her arms. Dinner was served quietly -- the weather had managed to subdue everyone's spirits, and Ms. Ventner had sunk into one of her temporary melancholies. Violet attempted to lighten the silence several times with idle conversation, but failed at each try, and so finally broached the subject which had preyed on her mind all afternoon. "I was exploring as I like to earlier," she said quickly, spearing a vegetable with her fork. "And I found a rather interesting painting in the eastern hallway..." Ms. Ventner looked up and fixed Violet with an odd stare. "A painting? In the eastern hallway?" She shook her head a little. "Good heavens child, there are no paintings on that side of the house. I do not add decor to the parts of the house that are not lived in. The eastern hallway hasn't been walked upon, I daresay, since my great grandfather owned this place. I would not suggest you visit it very often...it is so old that it may be dangerous." Violet looked back down at her food. Ms. Ventner did not seem to have any more information other than that. None that she was willing to give, either way. The hall was indeed old, but dangerous? She felt that she was being told an excuse, or a falsehood, and determined once more to discover whether her encounter had been all nervous imagination. The next day had not broken before Violet found herself treading softly down the easy hallway's carpet. Unable to sleep she had thrown a robe over herself and lit a candle for her journey. The night was late and the rain that had been falling lightly all day had begun to torrent outside, bringing with it a wind that lashed it against the windows in gusty droves. Down the same dismal path she walked until the light of her candle fell upon that painting of the young man. Again she stopped to observe his features, his silver-golden hair, his pale eyes filled with some strong emotion she could not place. He was a mystery....just as the bottom of the staircase was. She turned to look at the dark door and shivered as the cold fingers touched her shoulders. Quickly Violet grasped the knob and descended into the blackness, her light a tiny glowing orb. At the last curve of the steps she paused, holding in her breath, before she walked boldly into the room and raised her candle high. There he was, wrapped as before in the strange cloth sack. She observed him more closely now, and noticed that the sack was also bound in leather straps and metal chains. It was through these chains that a huge metal hook attached the man to the ceiling. He raised his face to her and her light, not even wincing at the golden flame, and she now saw also that a mask of leather covered his mouth. The two stared at one another for moments that seemed to stretch forever to Violet. His eyes captured her and held her still, pale and full of a thousand different thoughts. Finally he blinked, showed movement in his features, and spoke. "Who are you?" His words were muffled by the mask, but she could still make out his meaning. "Violet..." she said softly. "Who are you?" The man closed his eyes and lifted his head, breathing in deeply. "Anton Jeremiah Valor Trebone," he said without opening his eyes. "M-may I ask...." Violet began, but the man cut her off with a sharp look and the words: "Why I am here, suspended in a sack that is restrained with straps and chains and beneath bound with cloth? Why my mouth has been covered, and my arms prevented from moving?" He tilted his head as he looked at her so that his hair pulled away from the left side of his face and she glimpsed a scar that traced from his ear to beneath the mask over his mouth. Violet nodded feebly, her knees shaking. His voice was horrible, yet musical, a beautiful instrument tainted with anger. The man stared at her a little longer, until he let his head hang limp again. "You are young and full of life. Go back to where you belong." "Mr. Trebone," Violet cried. "You cannot stay down here! Surely if Ms. Ventner knew you were here, she would rush to aid you!" He lifted his head at the mention of her aunt, a strange glitter lighting his eyes. "Of course, you cannot free me yourself," he said coyly. Violet took a step back. "Sir....seeing as how I am unaware...of the...the situations, and prospects of your being here....I am not sure how to handle the situation...Mr. Trebone." "Anton." "I beg your pardon?" "Anton. Do call me by my first name, Violet, and not the dead, broken name of my father." He looked at her again with the piercing gaze of before. "You can free me, if you give me your heart." Violet took several steps back. "I beg your pardon?" "Go back to where you belong," Anton repeated, his eyes now cold. "Go back." "Mr. Trebone, I don't...." "GO!" Violet turned and ran back up the stairs, pausing a few landings up to catch her breath. As she paused, she thought she heard the sounds of a choked weeping.

It was an old house, to be sure. And Violet was not quite settled yet with her own opinion as to whether she liked that or not. But it was well built, and the walls kept out the misty draft of the marshes that surrounded the high ground upon which it was built. The doors were all straight and strong, and not a single wall was cracked from a slipping foundation. The furnishings and decorations of the house were old yes, but not so ancient as to make her feel like the house was not worth still living in. Yet an age pervaded over it all, a quiet, the kind that she had often felt around the soldiers who lay dying in their beds in the infirmary that she had so often worked at before her father sent her away for her health. It was funny that she should find herself in a house that reminded her so much of the work she had been told to cease. Violet's father was a general in the army -- a good reason for her to find work in the infirmary. And so often had her tiny, soft hands been of good use to the surgeons that she had been asked to stay on as a regular aid. She had helped many men regain their health with both her skills and her cheerful disposition. She had also seen many men die, in fact had been at their sides as the life vapours poured from their breasts to poison the air of the camp. This constant atmosphere of pain and suffering had caused an affliction not on Violet's spirits, but on her peace of mind. Many times she had woken from sleep seeing cold, pale eyes staring out at her from among shaggy silver hair; these dreams of death in human form (for that is what the young girl interpreted it as) caused her so much distress that her physical being also began to suffer. And so her father had sent her to live with a distant aunt, a Ms. Ventner, that she had met only a few times in her life. The lady was a pleasant woman, very kind and full of hospitality, but sadly she was quite older than her brother, and did not understand the younger generation. As well as this she had been recently widowed, and was not often in the spirits for conversation. Therefore Violet found in her a comforting host, but a rather poor kinsman. Being thus left to her own devices to entertain herself in the country side, Violet often took to walking in the gardens of the house on pleasant days, and exploring the many rooms and passageways on days when the weather was damp, which it was most of the time. Ms. Ventner had given her leave to explore any part of the house she wished, so long as she was on time for dinner and was careful in all old passages. Though she might have been neglected in reference to company, Violet was neglected in no other manner, and her health improved greatly as her stay increased. Her nightmares continued for a time, and soon became so scarce as to only startle her from sleep every other month or so. Violet woke one morning to find that the sun was hidden by a thick layer of fog, and that the frosts of the coming winter had frozen some moisture to her windows in a rather bitter manner. It was so dreary outside that she pulled an extra shawl over her shoulders and, after eating a simple breakfast as was her custom, began to explore a passage that had she had been forced to abandon earlier in the week because of the lateness of the hour. There were many doors along it and, poking her head in each, Violet found them to be all either rooms for the housekeeper's use or draped up storerooms. She was rather disappointed by this, and so turned to the rest of the passage bent on discovering something sublime and exciting. There were no doors left on the hallway, and so she would have normally given it up and sought another one. Today, however, she was certain that she must continue, and so walked down the hall until she reached the end, at which there was....nothing. She was rather startled by this fact. Why on earth would one extend a hallway only to have it end with no doors and rooms? She puzzled over this for a while and stared at the single painting that hung on the flat wall without really seeing it until a creak behind her caused her come to her senses and whirl about. Of course, there was no one there, and the creak had been caused simply by the breathing in and out of the house as it absorbed the moisture of the day, as old houses often do. Chilled, but not deterred, she turned back and observed the painting with more attention to detail: it was a fine portrait of a young man. His features were high and proud, and his gaze pointed down to the bottom right corner of the painting, as though he were contemplating some dastardly deed. His hair was so blonde that the painter had taken liberty to color it almost silver, and only at the points where the light of the foreground shone on it could she see that it was indeed a sort of gold-ish blonde. His arms he clasped behind him, and he leaned on his left leg as most men of noble birth did in their paintings. He was shrouded in a gray hunting suit, but the cape that hung from his shoulders was a deep sable. The man cut quite a handsome figure, and for some time she could not look away, for the detail of the art was quite astonishing. Eventually she grew tired of looking, however, and turned to her right to head back to find another, more interesting corridor. A door. How strange that she had not seen it before! It was a rather cramped looking door, she thought, made of quite a dark wood that was unlike the rest that adorned the house. She grasped the handle and peered into its contents, perceiving a staircase that was dusty and cobwebbed. Making a note of the time, Violet reasoned that a quick look would give her plenty of time before dinner called her into the presence of her aunt, and so she descended without another thought except to be sure to have a hand on the wall lest the steps prove treacherous. The cobwebs gave her no trouble, and Violet was not the kind of girl to shrink away from spiders. She felt for each step with a tentative toe, never minding the occasional scuttle of an unseen insect. Slowly she descended, so slowly that the steps passed her by uncounted and she began to worry that perhaps she had indeed come too far and would be late for dinner after all. Yet even as she began to consider turning back her feet came down on the firmness of the landing and she found herself encased in blackness. The room was so dark that she could barely discern its corners, though she did get a simple idea of its vertical vastness. Whether or not it was a wide room, it was certainly tall. Indeed...yes, she now discerned the back wall vaguely. There was nothing in the room except for a small drain-grate in the center of the floor, and a few sacks of unknown content leaned lumpily against the wall. Over her own breathing Violet felt she heard a sigh, or an intake of breath, and her shoulders crept up in fear. "Is someone there?" she called out, in a quite normal voice, for she had often found that speaking in a frightening situation was more use to one's nerves than staying silent. There was no answer in words, but this time she distinctly felt that there was another being, somewhere in the room, breathing as if it had held its breath for a long time. The sound was far off, though, and so she thought perhaps that the origin lay beneath the mysterious grate. She began to feel around the walls for a sconce in order to light the room and found, to her great relief, a candle stick placed in an ancient metal holding. She groped in one of her skirt pockets for a match, found one (for a practical girl was never to be caught without a match upon her person) and struck it. The sudden light flared up and cast warm shadows about everything, blinding her for the instant before the candle's taper caught light. A moment later and the candle burned brightly, forcing the golden flickering to turn into a single sphere of light. She held the candle out and observed the room. As she had guessed, it was indeed a small, square room with very little in it. The bags, now cast into light, seemed to be filled with hard, jagged objects, for their contrasts were sharp and defined under the flame. The floor was smudgy and dark in areas with great amounts of unknown grime smeared here and there where a pitiful attempt had been made to clean it. She raised the candle higher so that she could see the rest of the room, and as her light fell over the ceiling a cry of surprise and fear escaped her lips and, dropping the candle, threw herself back up the stairs. For the thing which she had seen was a man, wrapped up to his neck in a thick burlap sack which was suspended from the ceiling by its back. His hair had grown shaggy and fell into his eyes, covering most of his face. As the light had touched his face, he had lifted his drooping head and looked at her piercingly through the silvery locks, gazing at her with pale eyes that sent daggers of malice and a fiendish curiosity her way, all tamed by a coldness that she had only seen in the eyes of the dead.

Haha, yeah it is depressing, but sometimes one just needs to be sad.

I am lost again with no memory. I am sad again with no hope. I have no dreams and no future. I'm alive. I'm alive. They are after me, but I can't run. My legs can't move, and you carry me. But you soon will leave me in darkness. I'm alive. I'm alive. And I see you smile brave and proud. You hold me tight, never let go. Be careful now, you are slipping. I'm alive. I'm alive. There is blood here. I am crying. Where are you now? You are dying. And I cannot see your face. I'm alive. I'm alive. You had promised me but I knew then how a promise is. So empty. And I'm all alone and I'm falling. I'm alive? I'm alive. And I'm feeling numb; day is leaving. And my eyes are dark, as the stars dance. But I can see you in the distance. I'm alive? I'm alive? There is grass beneath, and I'm dancing. Dancing in your arms with the music. And I cannot bear to leave this. I'm alive. I'm alive. But the image fades, I awaken. You are truly gone gone forever. And I weep aloud all because I'm alive. I'm alive. ~This song inspired by the song "Terra's Theme" from Final Fantasy VI~

Burninator

The Blob

Classic

Al Gore (?) I really don't know what up-globalness is.....

I also thank you, lad. Thank you for seeing us when most others wouldn't. Thank you for being wise in your reservedness, but willing to try, to grow in our friendship, to get to know us despite all the things that the world would tell us must forbid it: age, the foremost of these things. Thank you for rescuing me from a rash and emotional decision that could have changed my life forever. Thank you for making me feel safe as no one really can. Thank you for awakening the feelings of peace and happiness that are too often brief in the pessimistic cloud that I surround myself in. Thank you for breaking our shells with that smile, that laugh, that look that you seem to reserve only for us, as if contemplating our differences from others. We love you. Very much. You are, as said before, the knight in shining armor; not the romantic rescuer, but the wise teacher who helps those he rescued to grow and become heroes themselves.

U.S.S. -is that a word???-

Spaceship

*drool* I like this very much.

*content removed for safety reasons; sorry!*

*content removed for safety reasons; sorry!*

It is. I'm glad you guys liked it.

Scream into the sunset. Converse with the clouds. Say "Excuse me" to the ant trail. Take a train ride through space. Drop a pebble in the river. Paint myself with chalk. Feed ducks cotton candy. Challenge a tree to a race. Find the end of a rainbow. Collect a hundred skulls. Fall in love with a robot. Watch a star's face. Staring contest with a statue. Win because it cheated. Jump in puddles of jello. Feel a love one's embrace. It's not really good, but I just felt like it.

A few gramatical errors here and there, but the rushed, troll-speak language you used was enchanting throughout, once you got used to it. Love it. Perhaps our dream of the book will come true, if I can follow suit and be as good.

The moment Izaan became conscious he sat bolt upright, sweating and shivering at the same time. He sat rigid for a moment, barely daring to breathe, every fiber of his being on fire. He knew someone had been there.... But the room in which he lay was empty and quiet. His muscles relaxed, the breath he had been holding in his terror rushing from his mouth all at once. He felt dizzy and weak, but whole and mostly unharmed. The wound in his leg throbbed. Gingerly he pulled back a corner of the bandage that had been wrapped tightly around his leg. The black ooze had been cleaned away and the infection had been stopped: beneath the bandage was a properly healing wound; it was gruesome still, but it was healing. Izaan knew his leg would be damaged for the rest of his life. As he moved a rustling sound and a tugging feeling at his wrists alerted him to the woven ropes tying him to the bed. The strands were long enough for him to move freely, but short enough that he could not get out of the bed. Smoothing the bandage back into place he looked around the room. It was obviously that of a healer's. The tables and shelves that were pushed up against the walls were covered with books, glass instruments of alchemy, herbs, delicate grasses, mushroom caps, and other tools that he might have recognized at another time. The ceiling was a gallows, more plants and some dried animal carcasses hanging by strings from the slatted roof. A single candle burned on the small table that was next to his cot: it was almost out and the glow it gave barely reached to the corners, but there was a fire crackling in the far wall. Its heat reached Izaan and the shivering from his nightmare slowly dissipated. With a sharp creaking and clanking noise - so loud in the silence that it made Izaan jump - the door opened and a dark skinned elf walked in, his hood pulled far over his eyes. His black leather armor was wet with dew, the pouches hanging from his belt full. A glint of red drew Izaan's attention to the shadowy face beneath the hood; he glimpsed a displeased grimace just before the elf turned away to place his bags on the floor. "You seem upset by my presence," Izaan said blandly. "Would you feel differently with a stranger in your bed and stinking up the place?" The elf turned his head as if to look at Izaan, but his face remained hidden. "The stench of Fever disgusts me." "Do forgive me," Izaan said. "But you see I came here against my will." The elf finally turned to face Izaan, piercing him with the glittering rubies that were his eyes. "Most of us did," he said softly. He pulled his hood off wearily and cast it into a corner, shaking out his moist hair. "Do not be mistaken, however," he said, sitting on a short stool near the wall. "When I say 'most of us' I speak on behalf of barely half a dozen souls. 'Us' is merely a representation of the physical creatures in this fort. The rest are either spirits or goblins." He glanced up at Izaan and looked him over, partly curiously, partly sadly. "You'll not be here long enough to participate in our happy group." "Won't I?" Izaan asked, glancing down at the ropes that held him, wondering if he could break them quickly enough. The look in the elf's eyes had caused the shivering to beset his shoulders again. "No," the elf said shortly, standing up again. "The last time the hounds brought a morsel to Silvilan's Forest, he was taken into the inner fortress and then promptly discarded again. There's a pile of rotting flesh at the border of the wood, and it's getting wider and longer by the day. It separates Silvilan's land from that he gave to the goblins." He stared into Izaan's eyes. "Past that, there's nothing but rock and holes in the ground." Izaan frowned slightly. Either the elf was truly attempting to show him the futility of his position, or he was giving him a map. He took a mental note, but it was a small one. The elf walked over to Izaan and lifted the bandage on his leg carelessly, as if he did it only out of a lack of something to do. "Healing well," he said. "It would have been better for you if it had gotten infected. An amputation would have been best. Buy you more time." "You're convinced this Silvilan has brought me here to murder me?" Izaan asked. "Oh yes," the elf nodded. "He'll get what he wants from you and then string you up for a few days. Or he'll torture you until he figures out he can't get what he wants, and then he'll publicly torture you to death. He has no patience for the physical world, and even less for the race of man. I am an elf; that is why I still live." Izaan sighed. "Perhaps I was man once, but I am no longer. I should think that the wiser world of elves and spirits would recognize that." "Oh I do," the elf said, and he poked one of Izaan's tattoos with a long, dark finger. "I've heard it's a painful process. However, Silvilan will not care what you are now. At your birth, you were man. At your death you will return to man's halls. In your fiber, your being, your very soul, you are and always will be man." He blinked. "Or so Silvilan believes." "What is he?" "He is a tree spirit. *edit later*

DoodeeDOOOO! A trumpet blast echoed over the halls as Degorram marched down it, blowing with all her might into the tiny instrument. An obnoxious and amazing amount of noise was coming from it, even though she could only play it with two fingers it was so small. Dressed in a jester's outfit, she had donned a hat that not only had bells but also almost-dragonic horns. Her tial had grown spikes, much in the fashion of the Almost-dragon pennite, adnd two lizardly wings sprouted from her shoulders. She paused momentarily, took a deep breath, and then yelled at the top of her lungs, "HAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPY BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRTHDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY....*gasp*...TOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...*gasp*...YOUUUUUU U UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU U UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU U UUUUUUUUUU!!!!! *gasp* "ALL HAAAAAAAIL! WYVERN IS TURNING TWENTYYYYYYY SIIIIIIIIIIIIX!" She changed her bellow into a scream and shrieked "SO GIVE HIM LOTS OF CAAAAAAAAKE AND BRUTEWISER AND ALMOST-DRAGONIC GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFTSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!' "And geld too," she added as an after thought, then remembered to make herself heard. "AAAAAAAANNNND GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLD TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!' Happy birthday Wyvern! *hug*

The forest was deep and old. Its trees were several feet in diameter and coated with thick layers of moss, mushrooms, and tiny star-shaped flowers of all colors. Light barely reached through the dense canopy and trickled down like water through dust motes and mist in tiny streams of gold. There was no chatter of animal folk among the branches, no birdsong above the leaves. All of the forest was surrounded by an ancient hush that reached down into the very soul, prompting the same silence and reverence for the old ones who resided in the quiet. Respecting this silence the rock spirit walked slowly through the maze of roots and mushrooms, placing his bare feet in just the right places. His eyes he kept on the ground, watching that he stepped only on grass, and his gray hair hung like curtains framing his thin face. The trees separated before him and brought him to a grandfather cherry that towered above the rest. A string beaded with feathers and stones, now faded with time, had been hung around its great trunk. The tree was just blooming and its delicate pink petals drifted to the ground like light snow. The rock spirit moved his way between the enormous roots and stood close to the trunk, his head bowed as if in the presence of royalty. "Silvilan......" a voice whispered, and all the trees around rustled, groaning as their branches reached towards the cherry tree. "I am here," the rock spirit murmured back. The bark in front of him moved and a face faded through the moss, like a ghost's. It was followed by shoulders and arms, and a man emerged from the tree, his legs and waist still lodged in the tree's wood. His short hair -- white that faded into a dusky gold -- was moistened by morning dew and the petals of his tree settled there like jewels. He raised a hand and placed it on Silvilan's grey shoulder, his own skin the palest of greens. "Greetings friend," the tree spirit said, gazing just past Silvilan's face and into the forest. His eyes were silver with blindness. "Are you well today?" Silvilan asked, his voice still hushed by the forest around them. "Well," he responded softly. "I grow stronger. My father protects and nourishes me. With every passing day I feel myself pulling away from his hold." "You will be able to walk again soon," the rock spirit said, gazing up at the tree. "It is good. There is more magic in this place as you grow, and soon it will take you back. We must finish the war first, Lahul." "When this is all over," Lahul sighed, closing his unseeing eyes, "I will become one with the trees, once again. I will see them cover this land and the next. I hear their cries every day, Silvilan." He sucked in air and opened his eyes wide with horror. "I feel their pain as they die far away from here. My cousins, my sisters, they must not perish any longer." "Lahul, I have come to tell you of a stranger who came to the fortress. My hounds brought him to me. He contains great power that perhaps we could use." Lahul turned his eyes and connected them with Silvilan's gold ones. "Spirit?" "Human, or so I sense him to be," the rock spirit replied. "His powers are far greater than any human I have ever encountered. He transcends legend." Shaking his head, Lahul pulled back into the tree a little. "We can use no humans. The goblins we send back underground at the end. They will not disturb my forests. No, all humans must meet their end and pay for the deaths of my kin." Silvilan put a hand on Lahul's arm. "Then he is a danger. You are alone in your skill of magic, Lahul. You must dispatch of him yourself." The tree spirit nodded and turned his head up to the canopy. Petals cascaded over his face and he closed his eyes wearily. "Peace my friends," he whispered so softly that Silvilan knew Lahul wasn't talking to him. "Soon there will be no war. Never again." He lowered his face with a sigh and pulled himself away from Silvilan, disappearing back into the tree. "I will be with you shortly," his silent voice echoed, once again causing the trees to stir with love. Silvilan turned and walked away from the tree. "Two thousand years you slept, Lahul, prince of forests. Two thousand years you were oblivious to the earth's pain. Coming back to us now to discover the crimes of man, you lead us to war. Grow strong, Prince Lahul, and shed your branches so that you may lead us in body as well as spirit." He turned back to face the tree that was now lit up in a wash of golden sunlight, the sight so peaceful that it woke the earth in him and called him to lie down and join its embrace once more. "Depart from heaven for just a little while, so that in this last push we may be rid of hell."

Degorram turned around blearily and observed the chaos with a bemused and absent look, her eyes half open and not at all focused. There were a few empty mugs behind her on the bar table, at which she sat alone -- for most of the soldiers had joined the fray in their own drunken excitement, though it was certain that they had forgotten who their enemy was. Obviously Degorram did not realize that she was alone, for she leaned over to the empty chair behind her and whispered "These dance parries......always out 'f and," and she nodded knowingly, every nod causing her General disguise to slip and waver until it dribbled onto the floor like a puddle of silk. Degorram slipped off her chair and stepped in it, slipping on it slightly as it wheezed and squeaked under her feet, and walked towards the party, a white mustache the only part of her disguise still attached. Amazingly she managed to make her way uncertainly across the battle field without hitting anyone, mumbling apologies to discarded chairs as she tripped over their legs. She came to a halt next to Wyvern, dazed by the alcohol she had consumed. Putting her hand on his shoulder she hicupped. "Iss getting a liddle rowdy Wyv. Shallweezzzit the bilding?" Wyvern nodded frantically and started to back away towards one of the doors when someone reached out and made a grab for his arm. Degorram's fist flew swiftly and crashed into the person's nose, sending them flying across the room. The shapeshifter pulled her almost-dragon overlord towards one of the doors, smashed it open (wasn't that magically padlocked?) and yanked him down the hall, bumping into walls everynow and then.

A few moments after the not-so-secret, oh-so-noisy shadow had fled the scene the door of the twins cracked open very slowly, two pairs of golden eyes shining in the darkness through the crack. "Preeeeeeeeeeseeeeeeentssssssss........." the two whispered and two hands reached out slowly to drag the boxes into the room. The hall was empty, silent, dark. Not a creature stirred.

Degorram released an inward sigh of relief as she stomped venerably over to where 'her men' were beginning to drink. If she was to spend the rest of the evening confined as an old man (cripes the beard itched!) she was going to make sure she enjoyed herself in some manner. "DRINK UP BOYS!" she roared in a general-type fashion.