Application: The Immolation and Rebirth

[Shathward]

The pale, blue moon shone almost reluctantly on a field filled with twisted, broken weapons and corpses. All the fires that might have burned on the battlefield had long since been put to rest, so the only light illuminating the aftermath was the reflection coming from the broken pieces of metal that mocked the ones who had died. The light whispered derisively, brushing by the ascending souls as they disappeared, one by one, in a voice that could not be heard by mortal minds.

 

What did you give your lives for? Where did it get you?

 

Nothing you would understand. We ascend, having fulfilled our dharma as warriors.

 

... fools ... what is the point ... what is the point ...

 

The wind grew in strength, and blew away the silence that broke the silence, and the silent voices gradually faded away like so many emotions swept away by time. Nature was not merciful, and true silence blanketed the landscape under the moon once more. Rare were the nights when the moon was as blue as this; tonight it could almost be felt as ice on one's finger.

 

"What fortune. The true moon shines tonight."

 

A lone figure shifted, and staggered to its feet. It was a disheveled, wounded man covered in robes that were soiled and torn enougn to hide their true colors. Arrows decorated the patches of his bare flesh, broken pieces of various weapons stuck out from his body, and dried blood crusted on his clothing, giving him a very grotesque appearance. However, his eyes did not show any mere physical pain. Instead, they looked weary. A weariness beyond even that of the immortals.

 

"The debt of karma must be paid tonight, though it may weigh down my soul."

 

He smirked. If he still had one, that is.

 

He needed to build a pyre, and the readily available fuel appeared to be the many corpses around him. He raised his hand, which began to glow a dull green, and swept it around himself in a circle. He started to mutter the mystical syllables in his mind, and stopped. He shook his head. This needed to be done by hand, otherwise it was meaningless as the repayment of the karma he had accumulated. If he was going to atone for his sins, using sorcery to avoid getting dirt under his nails wasn't the way to do it.

 

He began to gather the corpses by hand. Each one, he lifted with his own hands and piled on top of the little pile he had already made. Every corpse he slung over his back seemed to weigh more than anything he had lifted before. The lifeless eyes of the dead felt like the eyes of Judgement. They burned into his back, into his mind, and into his soul. Sweat, mixed with dry blood and dirt, ran into one of his eyes and put these thoughts from his mind.

 

Having built a sufficiently large pile of corpses, he noticed he had no means of making fire. He sighed. He would have to set it on fire by sorcery.

 

"I suppose there is no other way. Well, this is the last spell I shall utter as myself. Pyros."

 

A corpse was instantly covered with flame. The mage took out a bottle of oil and gave the surrounding corpses a pouring of oil and stood back. He gave the burning corpses a thoughtful glance. It was definitely true that the ones with a finite existence were the truly happy ones. They didn't know true power. They lived their short, boring, but happy lives and passed away without ever knowing real temptation. In a way, they were the blessed ones, and the immortals were the truly damned. As the fire spread, the flames reflected in his eyes gave voice to the turmoil in his mind. He closed his eyes and thought back on his life.

 

All of a sudden, every murder, every lie, every theft, everything he had ever done wrong came back to him in a single instant. The towering flames reared up like a living thing, and flew up into the air, leaving the pyre a pile of ashes. The mage drew in a deep breath, and gave the flames a final nod. This was the final moment. This was when he would pay for his sins. This was when he would be destroyed and be given an appropriate punishment. His mind felt clear, and his resolve was firm. In a way, this was the only moment he could truly say he had been happy.

 

The flames descended with powerful force, completely devouring the small figure, and grew into an enormous whirlwind of fire that took on a mind of its own. It roared and screamed in anguish, almost as if it wished to destroy the world in the frenzied dance of the Nataraj. All of the silent eyes looking upon the fire turned away. Not even the most powerful of planewalkers could meet the fiery eye of the sacred flames for long.

 

The moment of judgement was the most eternal of moments, and the shortest of eternities. What occurred during that moment is indescribable in any speech or thought. The powerful consciousness withdrew from the fire, and the flames disappeared very soon. Miraculously, the flames didn't seem to have burnt anything but the corpses on the battlefield, leaving behind a field with no traces of a struggle at all.

 

A completely different figure lay on the ground, clad in plain brown robes. This appeared to be a human male. He appeared to be a mulatto in his early twenties and was slightly more stoutly built, instead of the taller, deathly pale humanoid being of undeterminable age or race. A long, wooden walking staff lay next to his shaven head. The only other noticeable feature was the necklace that lay around his neck. It was wide enough to allow freedom of breath, but not wide enough to be removed. It was made of some sort of black metal, and was marked with the ancient symbol for sin.

 

He thrashed wildly on the ground. His eyes flew open, filled with confusion, and his hands clutched at the air. He gasped out a few words.

 

"I ... am ... Shathward ... "

 

 

OOC: This is my application writing piece. I hope this suffices. If there is a problem with format, let me know.

Edited February 28, 2005 by Shathward

[Peredhil]

Well done!

[Shathward]

Thanks.

 

So ... am I accepted, or what? I'm still a 'guest', it seems ...

[Peredhil]

Only Wyvern, the Elder of Initiates or the Lore Master (In Wyvern's absence) can accept an Initiate.

The rest of the Elders provide veto power, as do voting members in the Minstral Hall if they choose to provide it.

Any vetos require a reason, and what the person would need to do to be accepted.

(Except in the case of Plagarism.)

 

While this isn't codified into Pen Bylaws, it is a workable system which has the force of Tradition.

 

Informative Peredhil, of the Ancients (who have no vote, just advisory positions)

[Wyvern]

Shathward fumes as he paces back and forth in the Recruiter's Office, running over Peredhil's words in his mind as he anxiously glances towards a nearby grandfather clock and takes note of the time. The applicant pauses for a moment and growls, wondering what could be taking the Elder of Initiates so long and turning in the direction of Peredhil in the hopes of learning more about approximate waiting times for Honored Guests. Before he has time to question the Polite Ancient Bard, however, the door creaks open and Wyvern wobbles in, the Decanter of Endless Booze held in one hand and an open bottle of Ol Peculiar in the other. The overgrown lizard hiccups smoke rings as he hobbles towards Shathward, sending him an enormous claw wave greeting and practically falling over in the process.

 

"About time" mutters Shathward glumly as the lizard reaches him. "Here's my application, please-"

 

"Sssshhhorry I'm sho late." Wyvern grins a grin of razor sharp teeth, his breath dizzying Shathward slightly with the overwhelming scent of mixed alcohols. The overgrown lizard attempts to swipe the application story out of Shathward's hand but misses, aiming for it twice more before managing to pluck it out. "I wash jusht out shelebrating the return of ntraveler2... Joyish occashion!"

 

Shathward frowns as Wyvern begins skimming over his application in a disjointed manner, his expression deepening as the lizard turns his story upside down halfway through it to continue. Once he's finished, the reptilian Elder briefly uses the back of one of the sheets as a napkin and hisses:

 

"Nissshhhhhely done, Shathward. Can I call ya Shatht? Y'know, like 'who'sh that man with th'weapon chesht, who buildsh dem pyres and feelsh he's blessed? Shatht!' Heeheeheehee!"

 

"So, ummm..." Shathward hesitates, extending a hand towards the lizard. "Since you like the story, that means I'm accepted ri-"

 

"Not sshhhhhooooo fassshhht!" The lizard sneers, once again revealing his teeth. "I, uh, I'm gonna make you an offer firsht. Shee, you like corpshes, and I juuuuushhhhht so happen to be a mortishan. Lemme get my papersh here."

 

Shathward raises a brow as Wyvern bluntly takes out a folder labeled "Devil's Advocate" and sets it on a table in front of him, using it as a drink coaster for a moment before waving his claws over it and singing some drunken rhyme in a horribly off-key manner. Shathward breaths a sigh of relief when the singing ceases, then turns curiously as Wyvern hands him a blank piece of paper.

 

"Shee?" Wyvern points at the blank paper, tapping it three times. "Thish ish the kinda contract you would give a corpsh!"

 

Shathward stares blankly at the overgrown lizard, lightening up a bit when the drunken Elder stamps his application ACCEPTED. Wyvern belches a short spout of flame that narrowly misses Shatht, then sways and hisses:

 

"You shhhould meet that ntraveler2 guy, real shhhweell. You could learn from'im, I tellsh yah. Great shhhhport."

 

The lizard then collapses, leaving Shathward to bask in the glory of his acceptance.

 

;-)

 

OOC: A good story and an ACCEPTED application Shathward, welcome to the Mighty Pen! Hope that you enjoy your stay with us here, and find us a friendly and acceptant community.

[Shathward]

Ah, thank you.

 

*whisper*

 

You all know I used to be ntraveler2, right?

 

 

This shall be my official Pen character, and this piece will describe his history.

Edited March 2, 2005 by Shathward

[Quincunx]

"'Course we do, you've only mentioned it three times this round," Tzimfemme replied from the doorway. The door had shut on an open-backed wooden cart and she was trying to heave it through the doorway on strength alone. "I was thinking about taking it off of your hands, after all I'm a persona stigma--" she put her right foot on the doorjamb and heaved on the poles of the cart, "--specialist!" Right then the sentient door decided to let go of the cart's sides and Tzimfemme flew into the room, tumbling to the right while the cart veered to the left, bumping its way over piles of paper and mummified applicants, before getting its poles wedged in the open drawers of two hanging file cabinets. One wheel creaked in midair and scattered road dust over Tzimfemme. Supine, she stuck one forearm into the air. "Anyone want to help me up?" she inquired. "Those corpses won't load themselves y'know."

[Sweetcherrie]

Sweetcherrie wandered past the recruiter's office, on her way to take a look at the new posts, when she heard the officedoor clos with a loud BANG.

 

Seconds later she heard another BANg, and decided to stick her head in to see what was going on.

 

Inside the office she saw Tzimfemme lying on the floor, half hidden under a corpse. She also saw somebody else standing there with his mouth wide open.

 

Sweetcherrie hurried in and helped Tzimfemme from the ground.

 

"What were you doing there?" she said, while she looked curiously at the other person in the office, "and who is this?"

 

"I enjoy lying on the ground, and this is Shathward formerly known as ntraveler2."

 

Sweetcherrie decided wisely not to react to the first part of Tzimfemme's reply, and stepped over to Shatward.

 

Sticking out her hand she said with a big smile "Hi, I'm Sweetcherrie, I'm still kind of new around here as well, welcome to the pen! Is it ok if I just call you Shathward? The 'formerly known as' part is history anyways."

 

Edit: I've taken out a phrase that was not supposed to be there, and added a word. (sorry I was abit tired when I wrote this)

Edited March 2, 2005 by Sweetcherrie

[Quincunx]

The upraised hand folded itself into a pointing index finger* and jabbed at the air a few times, as Tzimfemme herself was inarticulate. . .amusement? rage? both? neither? . . .

 

*Not the rude gesture. Sweetcherrie did bother to step around me instead of on me.