Degorram

Degorram smiled. "I'd love to." She placed the plushie carefully on one of the chairs that lined the ballroom's walls and joined Wyvern onto the dance floor. "Do you remember Halloween?" Degorram asked slyly, smiling with a laugh in her eyes. "I believe that was the last time we danced. Or was there another time....in between....?" She suddenly drifted off into confusion as she tried to remember. Her brain was filled with thousands of species and behavioral patterns, but she couldn't remember how many parties she'd been to to save her life. "Yessss.....Halloween. That wasssss lassst year, wasn't it?" Wyvern winced slightly and sniffed as he remembered. "A...a good time. Yesss." "Oh, but speaking of that carpet," Degorram said, looking back at Wyvern. "I would agree to cut it with you if, say, we did it 60/40. You see there hasn't been any way to earn geld around here for since before I arrived, and I am very poor as a result. How am I supposed to buy all of your Almost-Draconic products without geld?" "An excccellant point," Wyvern said, nodding. "40/60 it isssss. I'll, uh..." he glanced around confidentially and then leaned in to whisper behind a claw, "I'll contact you later about said carpet." He winked broadly and Degorram's black hair became streaked with pink and yellow highlights as she grinned.

Degorram waved and smiled at CheerMynx but was too distracted looking avidly at the cerbihuahua to say anything. She had never seen the species before and decided she'd have to go introduce herself once CheerMynx settled down. Surely she'd want to dance, and she couldn't hold onto the dog while dancing.... Glancing up at Wyvern's face, she was sure he'd want to dance at some time during the night as well. "Wyvern. Hey. Wyv. Wyvy-poo." She waved a hand in front of his frozen eyes and smiled when he slowly came around. "Please sign?" she asked, thrusting the plushie back into his vision. It squeaked and flopped when she squeezed it. "Sssssure Dego," Wyvern said distractedly as he scribbled on the bottom of the Wyv-plush's foot. "Say, that's more of a rag doll than a plushie, isn't it?" "It's undergone lots of use," Degorram said, holding up the slightly worn squishy and looking at it with attachment. "I've taken in a small flock of googlemonts and they enjoy cuddling with it." She winked and went in pursuit of the cerbihuahua.

Degorram appeared suddenly behind Wyvern, dressed in a black dress and gloves. In her hands was clutched a very squishy Wyvern plushie and a large marker. She held out both to the startled almost dragon and pointed at the Wyvern plushie's belly: "Sign here."

Two days the creature ran with him clutched tightly in its mouth. It did not stop to rest or eat but galloped endlessly over rocks and rivers. When he was concious he tried to grab the top of the beast's muzzle, hoping to gain a secure and steady grip. But when the creature sensed his awareness it would tighten its teeth or shake him about, forcing him back into his rag doll position. For two days he hung from its mouth, shaken into an unconsciousness that began to strengthen into a coma. The hounds came to a stop outside a fortress that was surrounded by forest. The ground that defended its walls had been stripped of trees and scorched to reveal holes in the ground where the goblins resided. The building was too small to be a castle and too large to be a manor: its walls were tall enough to guard against the natural beasts that wandered the earth, but its doors were not made for war. Goblins bearing their thin spears patrolled the wall, shouting gibberish commands as the hounds approached the doors. They creaked open slowly and the dogs slipped through silently. "What piece of rot is this?" a large goblin snarled as the hound deposited Izaan's body at the feet of its master, a tall grey man clothed in leggings and a tunic. The rock spirit stroked the creature's filthy coat, the muck coating its rough grey skin like oil. It turned golden eyes upon the man and touched its chin ponderously. "A gift from the first regiment," he grated, his voice as rough as the rock he possessed. "Or so my dogs report. To the green one, they say." "Useless human," the goblin snorted with derision. "Too weak for sport, not pretty enough for a wall hanging. What kind of gift is this?" "Do not take him lightly," the rock spirit said, straightening and wiping his filthy hand on the goblin's jerkin before tucking his ash grey hair behind his ears. "He is very ill. I assume that once he recovers he will prove to be the gift that has been promised." He leaned over to whisper in the dogs' ears and they walked stiffly away. "Now have him taken to the healer. We must make him presentable for the master." The goblin growled with displeasure and grabbed Izaan's jacket roughly, dragging him through the dirt towards another part of the courtyard. "Carefully," the rock spirit called. "Do be gentle." He placed his hands together and gazed at the place where the man had been lying, for there were sprouts of ivy growing where none had grown before.

Izaan fell against one of the mammoth trees and gasped for air, clutching at the hole in his leg. With every step the wound gushed forth a putrid mixture of blood and strong smelling filth. The bandage he had applied only an hour ago was soaked through and stank like a bandage left for eight days. Frustrated, he ripped the bandage off, shaking the sweat out of his eyes. His long hair stuck in strands to his sweating back and chest; he had taken his jacket off and tucked it into his belt. As he paused to catch his breath he distractedly traced the woadish tattoos that covered his chest. The curls and strands that followed the line of his muscles were old, yet they had not faded: they were still as inky black as the night they had been sewn into his flesh. He closed his eyes and touched the one under his right shoulder. A static shock jolted through his finger, making him jump. "Good," he whispered. The forest echoed with a distant howl and Izaan glanced over his shoulder wearily. He had been hearing those moans for several minutes now, each time growing closer and closer to his position. The dogs were fast, but not fast enough to outstrip him with ease, and he had been pushing himself to his limit in order to stay ahead of them. He had been walking like a drunkard, back and forth and over and over, daubbing his reeking blood on trees, hoping it would confuse the beasts. "Run, Izaan.." Phre's voice was as unwelcome as the bitter taste of sorrow that flooded his mouth at the words. How long had it been since the battle? Two hours? Five? The stormy autumn evening had given way to a sunny spring morning, but in the forest Izaan wasn't fooled. A forest would trick you into staying forever if it could, and some were. With a yell of anger Izaan ripped some leaves off the branch over his head and began scrubbing at the exposed wound. "Get out you damned slime!" he snarled huskily. The branches of a tree to his right rustled and the creature poked its hideous snout into a beam of sunlight, its drool causing the mosses and flowers to shrivel and die. It snarled at Izaan's scent and stepped forward warily. Izaan tore his sword from its sheath and screamed in the monster's face. "I dare you!" he bellowed. "Test me!" The hound halted its approach and growled, eyes glinting with flames. From the trees two other hounds appeared, fixing him with the same hungry stare. "Feel what it means to be in hell," Izaan whispered, pulling a marbel from his bag and throwing it at the closest hound with poisonous vigor. It exploded and an orb that shifted with the colors of oil enclosed its body. Through the transluscent barrier Izaan watched with angry pleasure as the creature was slowly picked apart by unseen knives until it was no more than a heap of oozing chunks floating in its own gravy. The other two hounds shrieked with rage and charged Izaan. The first received his sword across its snout, but its teeth fastened on his arm in seconds, ignoring the bleeding wound on its face. The other knocked his legs out from under him with a swipe of its teeth. Izaan, his sword arm pinned but uninjured, kicked at the other hound, his feet landing as effectively as if he were kicking a corpse. It turned and took his head in its jaws, barking deafeningly. Blackness filled Izaan's vision and he fell limp. -------------------------------------------------- A bird landed on a twig and observed the strange scene in its forest, blinking and cocking its head curiously. The once unmoved turf was dug up and scratched, spattered and smudged with blood. Near the edge of the forest lay a pile of remains that smouldered. A river of blood dripped from it and followed the falls in the ground, trickling slowly over the small clearing.

A sign on Degorram's door says thus: "More to come soon! The shapeshifter is on two-day hiatus for scholarship competition starting friday."

Izaan turned away from the ranks approaching and began to walk towards the one hill the rose craggily above the rest. "I will serve better atop that cliff," he said as he passed Phre. "Be sure to pass my way should you need to retreat." "Afraid we're going to leave you behind Izaan?" the General asked, his voice cracking as he stumbled over the joke. Izaan looked back at his friend and watched him as he faced the battlefield, the wind pulling at his hair and cape. He was a strong figure, a man that men would follow. Izaan himself had felt this pull, this strength, that governed everthing that Phre did. He had walked at his side through the halls of the goblin cities, he had faced mountain spirits with him, he had seen the great fears and feasts of the earth. Through all dangers he had never faltered, until now. It unsettled and angered Izaan as only the unknown could. "No," he replied as he continued to walk away. "I'm going to make sure you get out." Phre bowed his head and sighed. Izaan's stubborn refusal to accept even what he himself knew had always been something Phre had struggled with. He and Izaan were very different men, and yet he admired his angry companion with all his soul. With one last look at the distant field, where he could see the haze of rain beginning to materialize, he turned his horse and galloped back to the ranks. "Form ranks!" he yelled, riding up and down the line with his sword in hand. "Keep your positions unless I or your captains give the word!" The men scrambled to form their defensive wall as the sound of goblin horns began to waft on the thick air. "Do not fear this foe!" Phre cried. "Wait for the mark!" Izaan reached the bottom of the cliff at a jog, pulling at the strings on his belt pouch as ran. He pulled out a clear marble and cast it on the ground before him where it shattered with a swirl of otherworldly fumes. His next step landed on the cloud which began to rise, lifting him to the top of the precipice. Stepping off onto the rock, he gestured at the cloud, rummaging in his pouch again. "Go." He turned towards battlefield and from the height saw miles of goblin hordes pouring like blood over the land, their high-pitched shrieks carrying on the wind. As if in a nightmare he saw before him already their wideset faces, their inhumanly large eyes slashed only by thin, cat-like pupils. He pulled out a fistful of marbles and situated them between his fingers in rows, ready to cast them at a seconds notice. The little cloud he had summoned only seconds before had reached the forerunners of the ranks and had turned into the shape of a dragon. It began swallowing the goblins, their bodies passing through its misty form and reappearing mangled, falling atop the heads of their companions. Seeing his work, Phre turned and looked up at Izaan, a small smile touching his face. Izaan dropped another marble at his feet and a clear liquid substance crawled up his feet and over his head, encasing him in a bubble. He blew out, and it expanded around him, creating a barely visible shield five feet in radius. Now he was ready. "Come little monsters," he breathed, holding his arms up in preparation. "Come meet my friends." The goblins had gotten over their initial shock as the small haze dragon had slowly diminished and now charged towards the humans without fear. Over their heads a single crow flew, heading back to where they had come from. "Now they know he's here," Phre muttered, again glancing up at Izaan's exposed position. He sincerely hoped the goblins did not have any weapons that might penetrate his orb. "Get ready!" he yelled, lifting his sword. The horseman at his side lifted a scarlett flag alongside him. The goblins continued to run, their war screams now heavy in the soldiers' ears. "Charge!" Phre yelled, kicking his horse into a gallop. The soldier thrust the banner forwards and the men burst forwards like a dam breaking from its limits, filling the air with their own cries of battle rage. Phre had let the goblins get as close to his troops before charging as possible. Their momentum had been considerably slowed by the distance. They were also now in range of Izaan's attacks. Just as the distance between the two armies grew dangerously close, Phre raised his arm and pulled his horse up short. The red flag shot up and the men skidded to their knees, raising their swords defensively. "Now Izaan!" Phre yelled. Izaan had already acted. A marble flew through the air and landed in the center of the gap that lay between the two armies. Flames shot out in two directions and cut the goblin army off. The goblins had no ability to slow down, and thus flew into the fires, their shrieks of surprise cut off by the flames that burnt them to ash instantly. "Forward!" Phre cried. "Do not fear the flames!" And he charged his horse straight through the otherworldly conflagration to appear on the other side, unscathed. The goblins filled the air with their screams of fear and surprise as the army ran through, the fire following in streams that attacked them in groups. All throughout the battlefield, fire rained down on their heads. "Die pestilence of the earth!" Izaan cried as he flung marbles into their ranks. They exploded and released the elements he had collected: water from the river Emul that surged and swept them into its embrace, icy blasts from the far north, the living darkness he had harvested from the depths of the earth. A monstrous golemn lifted itself under their feet and began crushing them with its fists, filling the air with its grinding moans. The rain reached them moments after the first clash, turning the ground to a bloody mud that the armies sank into with every step. Bodies were claimed by the mud as they fell and were not seen again until some violent turning of the earth resurfaced them. Izaan threw a marble down that expanded into needles of piercing light. Some goblins fell blinded, others fell dead, their brains literally fried by the intense beams that had traveled through the open windows of their eyes. At the back of the goblin lines, the crow landed and turned back into its goblin shape, bowing low to the large orc that commanded the army. "There is a magic wielder at the back lines," it grated, out of breath. "It devastates our army." The orc snorted and turned to a hooded goblin behind him. "What do you suggest?" he asked the shavac. The goblin wizard reached behind him and took hold of a thick shafted arrow and bow, handing them to the orc. "This will pierce his protection," the shavac wheezed. "And, if I may commander, allow you to bring home a very prestigous prize." "What mean you?" the orc boomed, narrowing his eyes. "The wielder uses a magic I have never before sensed," the shavac said. "The master would wish to see him contained." Understanding, the orc smirked and plunged the arrow into a barrel full of black, bubbling liquid. He handed the defiled weapon to the scout. "See that he survives," he growled. "Take down their leader. And order the release of the demons." The little goblin bowed and scuttled away. "Victory is ours!" Phre cried to his troops as the goblin army began to slowly retreat, running back with shrieks of fear. He turned his horse and waved his sword at Izaan. "Come Izaan!" he cried. "The battle is this way!" Izaan waved and smiled. Phre had been wrong after all. A whistling filled the air and Phre choked, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes widened in pain as he looked down at the thick goblin arrow that protruded from his chest. "NO!" Izaan bellowed, running to the edge of his cliff, eyes burning with rage. Phre clutched the shaft of the arrow and looked up at Izaan, smiling softly as he fell from his horse. Izaan shrank the bubble and leapt from the cliff, slowing his descent by causing pieces of ground to shoot up under his feet at every jump. He pulled out his sword and thrust it down the throat of the first goblin that got in his way, slicing off the head of the next. Reaching Phre's side, he pulled him into a sitting position. "I said no," he snarled. "Wake up!" Phre opened his eyes wearily and coughed. "You can't always have it your way Izaan," he whispered. "Now go. My men will not follow you. We will bury this field with our bodies. I have seen it." "You can't die in this place," Izaan hissed. "It does not fit you." "I die with you at my side," Phre said, smiling. "It fits me. Now run." He pushed Izaan away violently when he didn't move. "RUN!" he bellowed and grabbed a nearby spear, pulling himself to his knees. Izaan's scalp tingled and he whirled to see a goblin draw his bow back at him. He blew and the bubble expanded just as the arrow entered the air. The arrow hit him in the thigh with a heavy thud that made him fall backwards with an agonized yell. It had cut through his shield without being deterred or deflected. A highpitched howling filled the air and the men around him began to scream horribly. He could heard the brutal snarls and the sound of crunching jaws even from the back of the lines. "Time to go," Phre whispered at his side, pushing himself to his feet with the spear he held onto. As he stood, another arrow struck him in the stomach and he raised his spear, hurling it with all his might at the archer who was impaled. Phre stumbled without his support, then heaving a few breaths, grabbed his fallen sword and ran into the battle. Izaan threw a marble on the ground and the feeling of enormous hands enveloped him. The battlefield disappeared beneath him and all was darkness. "Fly Izaan," Phre whispered as he saw the cloud vanish into the depths of the eastern forest. "Fly away from us." From behind the howls grew louder and the dying General turned to face an enormous dog, its flesh black and charred. Where it had separated he could see fires burning inside its body, and its mouth poured forth a constant drool of thick blood. Phre smiled and raised his sword. "Goodbye Izaan."

"Izaan!" He looked around behind him as the general rode up on his horse, his armor clinking against his weapons. The sky was clouded with smoke and storm clouds, and the hills all around him were covered in mud and tar. To the east the toes of a large forest poked up from the ruin of war, peaceful, silent, terrified of the chance that the battle would extend into its sacred halls. "Yes, General?" he replied, casting his cold stare onto the man who he worked for. As a mercinary he owed the man very little. But as a friend, he owed him his life. The man on his horse glanced behind him and then leaned over so that Izaan could hear him. "I appreciate you showing your respect in front of my men, but it really isn't necessary when we are out of hearing. I would prefer you just use my name." "What is it you want, Phre?" Izaan asked testily. He turned away to watch the dark horizon. Their foes would be swarming those rocks in a matter of hours and many would die. He was in no mood to talk. General Phre sensed this and knew from many years of fighting alongside his dark friend that he despised chatting before a battle. His insensitive manner of brushing off unwanted company had ceased to affect him years ago. "Are you prepared for what is to come?" he asked solemnly. "What am I saying. I know you are, but I am concerned for my men. And myself. We held them off the first time, but they will have reinforcements, and we do not." Izaan looked back up at the General and frowned. "You fear an ambush?" "I fear a rout," he replied. "We are abysmally outnumbered, underfed, ill-provided for by those who wish to cast us about like pieces on the board. The men are disheartened. They will fall to the least amount of pressure." "If the battle starts to turn against you, then retreat," Izaan said. "You may be able to save some of them in those forests. Save your men and sacrifice a few miles of this barren wasteland that you are throwing your lives away for." Phre glanced at the distant trees and shook his head. "The fairyland will not repel goblins for long." Izaan turned and faced the man, impatient. "What is it Phre?" he asked. "What do you know that I do not? What have your eyes seen?" For a long time his friend did not respond, and Izaan turned back to the rocks south of them, squinting in the stormy dusk to make out any movement other than the flutter of tattered flags that littered the body-strewn field. "They have a new weapon," Phre replied. "I can smell it on the air. It is a foul, filthy sort of treachery that I fear will be our doom. And I want you to leave." Izaan looked back, startled and immidately offended. "What?!? You wish to save my life and not your own?" Phre bowed his head. "This is all there is for me. I owe a debt of service to my king. You do not, and I do not expect or wish to see you die along side our forces." "You will not die!" Izaan spat, gripping the reins of Phre's horse passionately. The horse shied from him, jerking its head against his grip. "And I do owe a debt of service. A debt of service to you, my friend. I have not paid that debt and I intend to do so by seeing you off this field alive." Phre smiled sadly. "You and your strange sense of loyalty. You hold to no kings, no laws, no lands, no boundaries of blood except those of friendship and honor. Today you fight when you should run. Tomorrow you will run rather than fight." "I run from no battles worth fighting," Izaan growled, releasing the reins and placing his hand on the sword at his side. "My sword is a last resort; if I were to expend all my weapons on battles that I felt useless, I would be left only to my sword." He glanced up at Phre. "You know how I hate the sword." The General drew his own sword and gazed at the watery blade. "A sword is a magnificent beauty," he said. "And you use yours so well I am amazed you are not more fond of it. Then again," he glanced at the leather bag that hung from Izaan's belt, "With such an arsenal of unique weapons, I too might grow tired of the sword." "It is too slow," Izaan replied. "In the second that it takes to destroy one goblin with the sword, I could destroy two with my bow, or seven with a single one of these." He lifted the bag in his palm and the contents knocked against each other noisily. "You are distracting me!" Izaan cried, suddenly dropping the bag and whirling to glare open mouthed at his smiling companion. "You are easily distracted when discussing weapons," Phre said, lifting his hand in an attempt to cover his smile. "I will not leave," Izaan snarled. "No, I will not." A horn behind them began to blow, filling the windy air with its mournful tone. General Phre and Izaan both turned their eyes to the south where just barely the ranks of a goblin army began to appear.

He opened his eyes when the droplet of dew fell onto his cheek with a barely audible *plip*. Above and all around him was an indistinguishable green and brown blur. In his ears his own breathing was loud and even. The sound was so startling that he paused mid-breath and listened to the silence that muffled his ears. A low steady throbbing sound began to grow in his ears and through his body and suddenly with necessity he sucked air back into through his mouth, drowning out the sound of his heart again with breathing. Slowly more noises joined the cacauphony: varied high squeaking noises that warbled and shifted in tone, a rustling noise as something moved near his body. Multiple shadows, large and small, darted over his head. His vision was clearing. There were leaves above his head. Gradually their veins and lightly bedewed surface came into focus. Soft sunbeams, warm with the life of the leaves, filtered down and dappled his face. He could feel the small spots of heat touching his skin as if an acutal creature were curiously reaching out to him. He sat up and looked around him. The forest was deep and old, the trunks as wide as towers and the space between them covered with soft mosses and ferns. Nearby a silent creek trickled down over a rocky path, sending sparkles of light through the air as the sun hit its wandering surface. Birds flew from branch to branch, their songs making the forest alive with sound. A fox was trotting through the foliage a little ways off, his nose pressed to the ground in search of mice and milipedes. His body had been settled between two thick roots of a tree. The tree's lowest branches made a canopy over him, like a protective shade concealing him from unkind eyes. And sticking from the muscle in his thigh like a miniature tree itself was a filthy, bloodied arrow shaft, its fletchings clumped with detesful grime. Immidiately the pain that had been banished away by the peacefulness of the morning flooded back into his body, causing him to cry out suddenly and startle the fox into a stance of watchfulness. He leaned back against the tree and bit down on his wrist, wishing to crush the pain away. Squinting through watering eyes he looked back at the wound and swore under his breath. The arrow was obviously of goblin make, but the black sticky substance it had been coated with was unknown to him. Gingerly he reached out and daubed a bit onto his fingers; as he pulled them away the goo stretched into fine droplets like the innards of some insect. Raising his fingers to his face he sniffed the substance delicately and received the most potent shock he had ever drawn into his nose. He coughed and reeled, his vision growing black for a split second before he disgustedly wiped the reek onto the ground beside him. What a smell! He was surprised the fox had not smelled it and fled his presence. Looking up, however, he noticed the fox had disappeared. The birdsong had faded and the forest was now as devoid of life as it had been full only moments before. The change was unsetlling but obvious. Something was out there. Urgency forced him to turn and raise himself slowly on his good leg, but pain forced his lungs into overdrive and his heavy breathing filled the forest with its unwelcome sound. If the smell of the arrow did not alert his foe, then his noise would. Leaning against the tree, as if he would gather strength from its resolute power, he gripped the arrow shaft and pushed it further into his leg. No fear of gathering unwanted attention could keep his agonized scream from squeezing past his clenched teeth. He felt as if his jaw would break with the force of his bite, but the arrow was through his leg now. He was halfway to being rid of the cursed thing. It was a thick shaft. It would be difficult to break. It took every ounce of his will to live to force the shaft to break just above the point where it had entered his leg. Another cry of pain and he tossed the fletching away and, reaching under his thigh, gripped the now exposed arrowhead and drew the rest of the arrow from his flesh. He was dizzy as he pulled a bandage from the pouch on his belt and tied it tightly around the wound. With a jerk he settled the knot and the stab of pain that followed the pressure cleared his head and his eyes. Though it was time to move, he realized the importance of checking the rest of his body for wounds. His arms moved well and the skin of his head and ears was intact under his fingers. His ribs were not broken, nor did he detect any injuries to his back. Pulling of his black jacket he slipped his shoulders through the wide neck of his undershirt and let it hang about his waist. There were no large bruises to signal any internal bleeding. A few small abrasions on his chest and abdomen were the only sign of damage other than the arrow. A sharp crackling in the trees caught his attention and he whirled around, staring intently at the trees behind him. The forest was thicker behind him and the shadows plentiful. He turned again and slipped his jacket back over his naked chest, leaving it open. There was no time to fasten the buckles. Limping away as silently as he could, he headed for the creek and began to follow its path.

Would you add a note giving credit to authors, or is this story just for your writing pleasure? I'd love to help. I like this kind of writing.

PHWAHA! More. More I say. Lord Amnyx commands.

I used to be so happy at the prospect of growing old. I saw my siblings with careers, I saw my friends around me, I saw my life being wonderful. But now that I am old-er, I see my friends slowly disappear, I see my siblings with hardships, I see my life being hard and perhaps not so sweet. Change is after me. Change is following me. Every corner there is change, Every second there is change. In a way it's "Another one bites the dust" all over again. Continuous. Never ending. The only thing, that does not change, is change.

1. [male pennite] -- Wyvern 2. [female pennite] -- Kikuyu 3. [adjective] -- cramped 4. [another female pennite] -- Degorram 5. [adjective] -- dark 6. [item of clothing] -- cloak 7. [adverb] -- sinisterly 8. [almost dragonic product] -- Almost Dragonic Brand Vampiric Batting Ball™ 9. [adjective] -- wildly 10. [creature] -- spawn 11. [adjective] -- eerily 12. [body part] -- tail 13. [yet another female pennite] -- troubled sleep 14. [sickness] -- african sleeping sickness 15. [event] -- birthday 16. [shape] -- ball 17. [speed] -- mach 1 18. [feeling] -- a bad 19. [body part] -- wing 20. [game] -- twister > Hahahaha....

*gives Wyvern a noogie* I think the Kikuyu Peredhil one is rather nice. Going for the ear, are we Kiku?

1) Name of Female Pennite: Kikuyu 2) An Object: rock 3) Verb, ending in “ing” : sitting 4) Adverb : quickly 5) Noun " cloud 6) Adjective : fat 7) A Number : seven Name of Male Pennite : Peredhil 9) Adverb : slyly 10) Adjective : kind 11) Type of Laugh : chuckle 12) Adjective : perturbed 13) Adverb : gruffly 14) Plural Noun : hats 15) Part of Body : ear 16) Adverb : bluntly 17) A Color " teal 18) Verb, Past Tense : rolled 19) Plural Noun : girrafes 20) Verb : fly

Far off in the distance, Degorram roars with laughter.

Time is flowing forth in days, treading down the dusty ways, looking for something to say, and coming up with nothing. Peace is dancing past the guns and tears its flesh and runs and runs, but time can’t tell that Peace’s sons are the children of disaster. Fear is struggling with itself, possessing dolls upon the shelf and turning sinister the cheery elf that children like to play with. And time goes on, and Peace is wise, and Fear is reaping a grander prize, and all can’t see with their own eyes that life at all is living.

Degorram took the bottle and looked at it for a long time, twitching visibly. Slowly she put it on the ground, and, closing her eyes, gave it a hefty turn. It rotated once or twice before it began to slow down and finally inch to a stop. And of course. It landed in front of Wyvern. Wyvern laughed nervously, a slightly hysteric high-pitched giggle. "W-well, I guesssss I'm pretty p-popular tonight..." Degorram turned her head stiffly and stared at Wyvern, feeling her own cheeks flare. Might as well get it over with... she thought hotly. Leaning over she kissed Wyvern on the cheek as quickly as she could and then turned away, face crimson, eyes closed. She would answer no questions. She was too afraid that talking would disrupt the extremely difficult job of trying not to smile.

Degorram reached down and grabbed the rat skeleton by its sternum, bringing about a series of squeaks and bone clatters. "Don't touch my soul," she growled. "It' been prodded enough these past weeks." Angry though she was, however, she put the small creature down gently, flicking its tail bones to encourage its departure. Kikuyu had moved off. Degorram stood and walked over to join her sister, who seemed to be enjoying herself. She and Wyvern were squaring off over the chocolates, Kikuyu winning and looking very entertained. Wyvern seemed desperate to avoid any conflict. The almost dragon looked up as Dego arrived and began working very hard to mask his chuckles. "Hu-ssssso that'sssss -*snort* - where all the chocolatesssss went...." he said with a wink. Dego frowned for a moment, then immidiately understood. With a small grunt of embarassment she cast a thick shadow over her body, which then burst into flames. Wyvern took a step or two back, looking extremely nervous. To the side, Kikuyu was sating her hunger for chocolates. The fire smoked itself out and Dego reemerged, chocolate free. Her cheeks were red from embarassment (or was it the flames?). "Hey Wyvern," she said, as if nothing had happened. "What game do you want to play?" "Oh. Oh!" Wyvern exclaimed. "That one over there. Lookssss intersting." He pointed again for Dego's benefit to the small circle of guests. Dego peered over at them and shrugged. It looked harmless enough. "Sure thing. I like games." She turned to Kikuyu, who had finished her chocolate holocaust. "You coming?" "Of course," Kikuyu said, smiling. The twins each grabbed one of Wyvern's arms and marched over to the circle, plopping themselves down next to each other. Wyvern grinned nervously as the leader of the circle began to explain the game's rules. "We go around the circle and everyone spins the Bruteweiser Bottle once. You have to obey the choice, no matter who the bottle lands on. Well, of course, within reason." Degorram stared at the bottle in the center and once again felt herself getting hot. This wasn't the kind of game she had expected. Not at all. It got worse when the leader of the game handed Wyvern the bottle first, despite his many stuttered protests. And it got worse and worse as the bottle slowly spun to a halt....

Degorram poked her head into the coffee room and looked around quizically. "What is going on?" (haha, that's not my question ) She picked up a cup of the espresso and sniffed it, grimacing. "More importantly, what is this?"

Degorram stared at the black creature, fascination appearing in her face. "I know you," she said softly. "You're...." But before she could list the name of the creature, the music started and her eyes were drawn to the yard where a few people were beginning to play some sort of game. Degorram sighed wistfully and stuffed a cookie in her mouth, not even caring about the chocolate that stuck to her cheeks. It all reminded her of last Halloween....

Degorram leaned over the platter of weenies and sniffed them suspiciously. Kikuyu peered over her shoulder with an eyebrow arched. "Are they edible?" she asked her twin. Degorram picked one up, smashed it between a bun, slathered it with ketchup and mustard, and stuffed it in her mouth unceremoniously. After a few moments of poised chewing and polite dabbing at her messed-up mouth with a napkin, she swallowed. "I pronounce these weenies to be edible." "Good." Kikuyu said, grabbing a plate. Degorram scrubbed at her mouth quickly, removing residue sauce before she was seen by anyone she cared about. This was why she didn't eat in front of people usually. The animal instincts hoarded inside her were too much, and no matter how she tried she always managed to get something on her face. She picked up another few weenies, a plate of chips, a good handful of cookies, some deviled eggs, a plate of fruit....she decided to stop and just go back for seconds later. People were staring. Finding a nice patch of grass on the outskirts of the group, she sat down to feast and observe the crowd. Wyvern was attacking the food table with just about as much enthusiasm as she had been previously. The hosts were chatting with a few guests, one looking excited, the other looking rather bored, panic hovering behind his calm.

*Degorram sneaks into the Banquet Room and quickly scrawls the lines on a napkin. She puts the now ink-covered napkin down her shirt and sneaks out again, hugging the napkin quietly* *MWAH MWAH MWAH!!* Thanks Ozy!

*huggles Wyvern plushie*

Degorram had not been expecting visitors. She stared at the crew of troglodite cameramen standing crowded in the middle of her room, her hand still on the handle of her door. Wyvern's bottom was protruding from under her bed, his legs kicking now and then as he tried to delve further in. Her Wyvern plush sat discarded on the bed, unearthed recently by, obviously, the same lizard who was now sticking his snout under her bed. Degorram walked forward, ignoring the frantic stairs and whispers of the troglodites. One kicked Wyvern's leg, attempting to grasp his attention. The almost dragon kicked back, missing by several feet, and said in a bed-muffled voice "Whatch your feet, I'm bussssy!" Degorram tapped Wyvern's scaly rump and bent down so that he would see her face from under the bed. "Looking for something Wyv?" "YIPESSSS!" Wyvern yelped, bumping his head on the underside of Degorram's sleeping quarters and stabbing one of his horns into a support plank. "D-D-D-Dego!! What a p-pleasssant ssssurprisssse!" He wiggled out from under the bed as fast as he could and stood up, nonchalantly leaning against the bed. A red flush was creeping up his scales as he scratched the back of his neck. "Surprise?" A small quirk of a smile touched Degorram's otherwise cold face. "It's my room, after all." She glanced around. "The decoration's not much, but I do try." She looked back to see Wyvern once again staring at the tiny replica of himself, sitting grinning on her pillow. Her eyes flashed purple for a quick moment before she picked it up and squeezed it's head. "It's not a voodoo doll, if that's what you're worried about." "Oh, nonononononono!" Wyvern said quickly, waving his arms. "I'm flattered really. Umm....." he cased the room again, seeking anything in the shape of a lute. "You wouldn't have sssssseen a lute around anywhere recently....ssssspecifically in your room.....would you?" Degorram blinked. "Nope." Wyvern sighed. "Oh. Well then, I ssssupossse we'll...um....get out of your hair.....er...." he made frantic motions at the troglodites and they hurriedly shuffled through the door. Wyvern backed away, avoiding Degorram's rather creepy gaze. "I'll...um....ssssseee you around, eh Dego?" He closed the door behind him and she could hear him tear down the hall, yelling at the cameramen "Why didn't you warn me!?!?" Degorram raised an arm and grabbed one of the tassels hanging from her ceiling, giving it a pull. A small compartment slid open and a no-longer-dusty lute appeared before her eyes. Smirking, she closed the compartment again and walked over to her wall. She was grateful she had put those new sketches up. With a small wave of her hand the two long parchments, one bearing the innards of a Satyr, the other a simple drawing of a Cooper's Burdengle, and placed them on the floor. Beneath them was a large poster with the words "I <3 Wyvern Club!!" and the other was a detailed sketch of an almost dragon.