From quinn@fazigu.org Sat Apr 27 12:11:35 2002 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Received: from [66.100.224.110] (helo=yami.57thstreet.com) by requiem with smtp (Exim 3.35 #1 (Debian)) id 171UnO-000241-00 for ; Sat, 27 Apr 2002 12:11:34 -0400 Received: (qmail 7688 invoked from network); 27 Apr 2002 16:14:06 -0000 Received: from localhost (HELO moo.ghostmoo.org) (127.0.0.1) by localhost with SMTP; 27 Apr 2002 16:14:06 -0000 Date: Sat, 27 Apr 2002 11:14:06 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 71 - 76 from *storylines (#5236) X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969) Message-Id: Status: RO Content-Length: 10149 Lines: 213 Message 71 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Tue Feb 26 21:10:42 2002 EST From: Dexter (#14882) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Johnny Appleseed Dexter sat against the eastern wall that surrounded this area of the wastes, the sun burned red against his cheeks as he caught his breath. "Yeah, that was a full day's work." he sighed to himself as he looked towards the western wall and then towards the northern wall where he saw fresh little orange nuggets left in those directions. Dexter was happy there weren't any flies in the wastes because he was rank with the stink of slisssh droppings, his hands stained orange from his effort and his chainmail backpack caked with the organic residue. He was getting old, the mirror he found in one of the old ruined cities beyond the barrier was the first mirror he saw in ages and the first time he saw what happened to him over the years. Skin dark and leathery contrasting the wrinkles that framed his face and bionic implants. Dexter's hair had thinned and much to his surprise he had white at the temples like Reed Richards. He laughed at himself, he was probably the only one in this time period who would know who Reed Richards was or what Marvel comics were. When teleporters, warp tubes and shuttles had failed him his feet brought him to new places to see with ruins to discover and the general emptiness was starting to wear on his soul. It was a few weeks after he squeezed down the vent into the steel bowels and waded through the muck that coated the plastek walls and floors to fight the slissshes that slissshed through their own poo. He collapsed from the stink and lack of ventiliation but his recovery systems eventually revived him and dropped him in safety. In the poo-stink driven dream he dreamt of creating an oasis within the confines of the strange black barrier. There was plenty of fertilizer, his legs never got tired anymore after they were replaced and Dexter had nothing but time on his hands. He would make the wastes, at least a postage stamp sized portion, bloom again with flowers and grass and saplings and... As Dexter's mind reviewed his grandiose plan he fell asleep, head resting on his backpack like a pillow. A pillow filled with slisssh shit. -------------------------- Message 72 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Tue Feb 26 21:11:56 2002 EST From: Dexter (#14882) To: *storylines (#5236) (yes, i actually covered the portions of the wasteland from the north wall down to X/15/0 with a single slisssh dropping in each coordinate. i plan on finishing this.) -------------------------- Message 73 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Feb 27 11:10:02 2002 EST From: Akane (#14270) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: The reading As usual, the Adept perched idly atop the Spellsinger Hall, robes lightly blowing in the breeze as he stared towards the wastelands. Earlier he had sensed.. something. He wasn't sure what, for all he knew it could've been some spell, but that gave him the opportunity to visit a seer out in the petrified forests of Shadowbrook. The information he got there was intriguing, to say the least. "Four points from a distant past, combined to create the fifth. Five points disappeared with the vanishing of the child of storms. A union of the past hidden within the points." Unable to initially decipher the cryptic phrase at the house of the seer, Akane decided to head back to Drach'nal to consult with his vast library of histories and collections, hoping to find atleast some semblance of a meaning. Very few information was withdrawn, despite hours upon hours of research and delving into numerous books. Moving onto the roof, he decided he'd watch the glow of the wastes from afar as he contemplated his next move. The next step was tracking down a collegue or two, and he knew just the person.. though the encounter could prove interesting. (heh, hope the post wasn't too butchered, haven't posted in ages :P I'm attempting to throw a small tp together, so if anyone's interested, let me know, or just page Akeashar, as that would be easier) -------------------------- Message 75 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Feb 27 23:12:56 2002 EST From: Rathe (#14172) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: A pretty thing Just dig. Through time. Through dirt. Through stone. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Freshly packed dirt, and a dutiful wreath of flowers. Then - A wrotting mass of mulch, flowers wilting, worms feeding. Then - Grass which, with time, sends roots to feed on the malice beneath, Then - Wilting, rotting, brown to black to unyieldind earth. The soul is tied to the grave. A spirit rises fresh, confused. With time, it sheds its fleshy wrappings. It forgets the mortal life. While its corpse is whittled down to brittle white bone, when the fingernails and the hair stop growing, when all that made them human -- even their little wooden box -- has rotted away... the soul undergoes a similar change. Refinement. Purification. Wrath, lust, gluttony, greed -- they cease to be your vices. They become your identity. The Duke of Kiasyd had plenty of time to rot. To refine.Two decades to sit there, perched on the stone wall overlooking his own mausoleum -- his spirit's tatters, his broken king's crown. Five years ago, he'd found his fetter -- the boy who'd won that little, unconsequential signet ring at a game of cards. Five years of hounding the youth. Driving him mad. Prying his mind open to return the ring to it's rightful home. The Duke watched the dead as they piled around him. He watched as other restless spirits filtered through, each with the same lost expression -- the same aura that read: why am I here? Where is Heaven? Where is Hell? And he sat unmoving. He watched his grave. And now, he heard a voice. A low whistle, drawn taut and stretched out over an uneven frame: the Adept now strolls through the graveyard gate, the horror movie rusty hinges long since rusted to oblivion; the steel bar doors a planter box for weeds some three yards behind him. As if something had broken out, and the townspeople had never bothered to reseal the breach. He carries a shovel, because gravediggers have always used shovels. His is military green -- the folding breed, now unfolded, locked, clamped, and screwed into place. He will not need a shovel, but he is digging a grave. Albeit in reverse. The Old Man watches. He watches as the lost souls flock to the Necromancer, as if to some dull pulsing beacom. Moths to non-light; freezing flame. He watches as they dissapate: drawn into a casually open hand, sent scattering by thoughtless gesture. He has watched the dead for a long time. The Adept is whistling a funeral dirge to double-beat: something to keep his mind occupied while he searches. Washed out blue eyes flow past this grave marker, over the engraved markings on the side of a stone death-house. And then he sees the largest mausoleum in the cemetary: the seal of Kiasyd embossed beneath tangled, dying vines: the walls under the relentless assault of Kudzu. The Old Man is watching. The Old Man sees the Necromancer move in his world, a shaded blurr that beckons and repulses. And he watches as this shade draws near home, his charge. The anger is there, the heated ember to warm him through the decades; the centuries. And he watches as the blur lays one outstretched appendage on the wall of his home, the seat of his charge, his precious thing. The fire from which every scrap of warmth -- this familiar heat -- comes. .and the Adept lays his hand on the side of the building. And the kudzu revolts, twisting, blackening, rending. Stone shards scatter under the onslaught of vines decaying even as they grow thicker, even as their grip becomes more prominent. Thick, brown sap leaks in bloodlike rivulets down the side of the charnel house. The Old Man rises from his perch. He knows what is coming. He knows what is inevitable. Even now, he gravitates towards the open maw of his resting place, following the wake of lightless flame. The Adept is inside. Metal cold against his palm, he runs his thumb across the inexpertly cut gem: looks up. He sees the Old Man, now, as the Old Man sees him. His hand turns over; opens; reveals his prize. -------------------------- Message 76 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Mar 24 04:48:31 2002 EST From: Scorch (#16959) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Scorch "The old days." Scorch turned her head and wound her fingers through her firey curls, but the words wouldnt go away. "How you used to be." The sound was breathy and alive and warm in her ears. "Just like always." She growled deep in her throat. Even she knew she couldnt take this much longer. "They were weak" It whispered. "They werent strong like you" Scorch tried to pour herself another glass of whiskey, but her hands were shaking. She growled again and chucked the glass as far as she could. She heard the sharp breath of the shatter, then the delicate tinkling of the glass cascading to the floor. She lifted the bottle to her lips. "We used to hunt together didnt we?" She squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled her knees up to her chin, as if that would help against the imaginary intruder. "We want you back daughter." It had been to long. She didnt know how to anymore. She screamed it to the darkness inside her cavern. She called out to the shadow to relieve her of this presence. To tell them that she didnt have it anymore.. that the fire from her was gone. She got up, Kicked the candle in the middle of the floor over and watched it sputter out. Watched the Rush of shadows fill its place. Tilting her head she listened carefully, straining her ears, almost daring the voice to retort. Scorch sighed lightly, not daring to jinx herself by showing to much relief. She tip toed over to her bed and crawled beneathe the covers quietly. Pulled at a pillow Gently and tucked herself in. Dreams were dancing just beyond her vision.. her eyes were closed and sleep was near. Then ........."We really dont give up that easy .." --------------------------