From quinn@fazigu.org Tue Sep 24 12:08:57 2002 Return-path: Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org Received: from [66.100.224.110] (helo=yami.57thstreet.com) by requiem with smtp (Exim 3.36 #1 (Debian)) id 17tsF0-0005ay-00 for ; Tue, 24 Sep 2002 12:08:50 -0400 Received: (qmail 94586 invoked from network); 24 Sep 2002 16:14:09 -0000 Received: from localhost (HELO moo.ghostmoo.org) (127.0.0.1) by localhost with SMTP; 24 Sep 2002 16:14:09 -0000 Date: Tue, 24 Sep 2002 11:14:09 -0400 From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" To: quinn@fazigu.org Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 8 - 40 from *storylines (#5236) X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969) Message-Id: Status: RO Content-Length: 50543 Lines: 996 Message 8 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Jul 26 04:33:18 2002 EDT From: Timber (#9805) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Return Taking her time, Timber walked silently through the forest, smiling to herself at the remembered place she had been far from for so long. The trees ahead began to thin, giving her a glimpse of the river, the oxbow pond and the cabin she called home. Moving quietly, she approached the edge of the pond and stood looking down at the ice that nearly filled the pond edge to edge. Closing her eyes for a moment she listened to the forest surrounding her and taking in a deep breath, tasted the tang of fallen leaves, moss and damp earth. Snow began to fall quietly around her, a soft hush covering the world. She threw out her arms and laughed softly for pure joy. Turning, she called out, in perfect imitation of an eagles cry, and raised her arm as the eagle swooped out of the sky to perch upon her arm. Walking toward the steps of her cabin she noticed some gaps in the mud-caulk between the logs and the colorful, dry leaves scattered over the front steps and the thick drifts of them against the front of the cabin. She took a mental inventory of repairs needed. 'Patch the caulk, hrmm, looks like I need to cut wood before I do much else. Someone has enjoyed the wood I left stacked up against the wall.' Chuckling to herself she mounted the steps to the front door and motioning toward it, murmured arcane words. The door opened amid a flare of mage-fire, admited the Adept, then closed behind her with another flash. Raising her arm, Timber chortled softly to her friend, raising her arm so that Tokeya Inajin could fly from her out-stretched arm to the wood stand in the corner. The eagle sprang from her arm in a short hop onto the perch, stretched his wings with a flurry of feathers before tucking them against his body. Dropping her shoulder the carry-all on Timber's back slid to the floor with a dull thump. Quickly and efficiently, Timber took the bows from the bag and slid them into place on the racks near the fireplace. The clean, straight arrow shafts were placed neatly to the side. Timber walked toward the door, grabbing up the axe she had left by the front door, and walked out into the gently falling snow. Her thoughts calm, at ease. 'First the firewood for tonight and in the morning, then I can brew some tea and relax, finishing up the arrows.' It was good to be back, to rest. Some questions answered, some still hidden from her, her Walk had been good. -------------------------- Message 9 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Jul 26 04:40:59 2002 EDT From: Timber (#9805) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Re $ OOC: Timber is back from ..a Quest . o O (Yeah, that's the ticket!) and she will again be selling bows and arrows. Please contact her by @send (or oocly) to set up an IC meeting if you are interrested in a bow or in need of arrows. -------------------------- Message 10 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Jul 27 09:22:27 2002 EDT From: FoxFire (#22153) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: A Lesson at Dawn "Damn, why can't I for once wake up after dawn!!" I said to myself as I climbed out of bed. Since Magistra Merri agreed to teach me for a while, I've been studing like mad. From dawn to dusk. Merri found me in the library as always. Good Morning FoxFire." "Good morning." "Have you finished learning the spell I taught you," Merri asked. "Not yet, Magistra." I sighed. The topic of discussion strayed a bit from my learning untill Merri asked me to follow her. She wanted to show me something. It was still a bit dark out, but dawn was on its way. The moon still hung bright in the sky, accompannied by a few scattered stars letting off faint light. At the moment, Merri, with all her grace, began to cast a spell. She spoke words and did postures unknown to me. With this, the light from the moon began to shine directly into her hand and liquify. In her hand, I saw what I can only describe as a liquified light from the moon. With this, she began to shape it as if it were clay. When she was done, she presented to me a cresent moon necklace. With her showing me this, I find that there is much to learn, and this is only the beginning . . . -------------------------- Message 11 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Jul 27 10:46:20 2002 EDT From: FoxFire (#22153) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Warden Island Among my travels today, I came across a little bush on Warden Island. It had little berries and thorns. I decided to pick one for a closer examination. Upon picking a berry, I began to feel quite odd, very tired. At first, I dismissed this felling. Maybe I was hunting too much, and it was finally catching up with me. I studied the berry the best I could while I was there, but I figured I'd best harvest all of them for later analysis. But as I picked another berry, this same feeling came upon me. What was with this bush that's making me feel like this? Later, I showed the berries and described the bush to my brother, MoonShyne. He mentioned he had found a similar bush on Jizo Island. When I asked if he had felt odd after picking the berries, he said no. Maybe it affects only mages in this way . . . -------------------------- Message 13 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Jul 27 23:21:46 2002 EDT From: Shandryl (#24740) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Revelations After another round of hunting the dirty slisssh, Shandryl decided to go to the R/T for a much needed drink. It seemed the entire Wheel was there! Shandryl hadn't seen so many beings in one spot since she left her home country. A real live Magus, Krynwal was there, as well as some Adepts, Subbies, Mages, Druids, and DragonRiders. You would have thought there a convention brewing! Not one to keep her mouth shut, Shandryl couldn't resist getting into a few insult throwing contests. Shandryl smiled, remembering she didn't do too badly and left with only a few minor bruises. It sure beat fighting those slissh and meeting the Eagle every few hours. Shandyl retired to bed that night, exhausted, but warm in the knowledge she had learned from those around her. There were indeed many different kinds of people all about. And the Magus even turned a Druid into a jackass for the evening. This was something she didn't even know was possible!! She vowed to spend more time studying the ways of the Mage, and being around more humans. Fighting was losing its appeal anyway. There seemed to be much more to life than she had ever imagined! -------------------------- Message 14 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Jul 28 07:08:43 2002 EDT From: Merri (#24667) To: *storylines (#5236) Merri went home that night nearly shaking with the magnitude of the experience. She had spent several hours in close conversation with Kynwal, a Magus of the First Circle. Sightings of any of the First Circle were rare to begin with; to not just see one, but to spend time speaking with one was a rare experience indeed. And what conversation! The years she had spent at Trinity were nothing compared to the mere hours she had spent with Kynwal. She sat in front of her fire, sipping tea and then it would all hit her again and she would begin shaking. What was the Book of Leinster compared to a man who had lived it? Then there was her meeting with Timber, the Indian Adept. From wildly different backgrounds and cultures, still there was an immediate connection; the two women so grounded in the Earth and its Elements. Merri soaked up her presence like a parched garden. She had no idea how much she had missed the discourse of learning, the discussion of magic and what it was and how it worked and it made her realize how badly she had missed having a Teacher and Mentor in her own work. When Timber had offered to fulfill that role for her, Merri had been overjoyed. To again be a student.... The world opened up again. -------------------------- Message 15 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Jul 28 09:24:42 2002 EDT From: Ylaerin (#16541) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: A mother's secrets It is so easy, when they are children, to pretend that they will never be adults. Adults with lives and truths and troubles of their own, and with all of your own questions and secrets burning inside them. She hadn't meant to fight with her daughter, but it would seem that these days, such things were impossible to avoid. Ylaerin swept the floor of the cavern where her children stayed as she tried to work off her anger; her broom strokes were short and hard, almost savage, and she did her best not to dwell on the argument. But she was failing at that almost as badly as she had failed at avoiding the fight in the first place. Rhianna (Annie, as she had used to be called before she began to insist upon her full name) had asked her mother for a sword. She had also seen fit to ask for permission to ride downland, alone. Ylaerin supposed she should have seen this coming a long way off - although she had allowed her daughter to carry a wooden practice blade, she rarely allowed either of her children off the Mount without her. But Annie had been insistent, and Ylaerin could tell that she had been cooking up this argument for more than a few days. So Etra had tried to hedge a bit, "When Corwin is home, you can ask him what he thinks about the blade. As for going downland, alone, that will most definitely not be happening." Her fourteen year old daughter bristled with righteous anger, "Why do I have to wait on Corwin?" "Well, do you think that -I'm- going to teach you how to use it properly?" Etra had almost laughed, "I can barely wield my own staff. You may not carry a weapon that you do not know how to use. It's not safe." Rhianna squeezed the padded hilt of the wooden sword that she wore at her waist, "Well then, can I go downland?" Etra shook her head, "Annie, look, it is no place for children to be on their own - -" For just a split second, Ylaerin had been afraid that her daughter might lash out and strike something. "Don't call me that! 'Annie' is a child's name and I am not a child! If Rowan is nearly a man grown, as you are always saying he is, then I must nearly be a woman... I'm only a year younger than he is! I am fourteen! I am bigger, even, than you! Don't you think I can take care of myself?" Etra sighed, "I just think you ought to wait for your Da to get back..." What happened next had made Etra feel that her heart had glazed over with ice. Her daughter - so young, still awkward and gangly, too tall for her years, her wild auburn hair braided in a rope that swung down past her waist, her flashing, tawny eyes... and in so many ways the picture of her father, her real father, Strafe Shar - her lovely daughter's face hardened, the anger and pain behind it more than clear on her features. "Corwin," Rhianna said, carefully, over her anger, "Is not my real father. I mean to find out who father really was. I mean to find out what happened to him. I mean to make myself his heir, as I was supposed to do." Ylaerin had stepped forward, arms open, had drawn a breath to speak, to soothe. Her heart broke that she could not bring herself to tell her daughter, her son, the truth about their father. The truth about herself. But before she could even think to say anything at all, Rhianna was shoving angrily past her, saying with all the pent up hurt and anger of her fourteen years, "I will find it out. And you can't stop me." Annie paused at the door, turning back, and for a moment they were more than mother and daughter - they were two women with secrets between them, two women with a chasm to cross. "I'm sorry mother," Rhianna said, "but you can't stop me forever." [OOC: I may be bringing Rhianna out as a character sometime soon (hopefully this week). So I'll need lots of people on hand to influence her, both for good and for ill. -_^ See you IC!] -------------------------- Message 16 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 1 02:53:02 2002 EDT From: Ylaerin (#16541) To: *storylines (#5236) She hadn't meant to say it. It had simply slipped out of her. The way the truth does, sometimes. "Someday, my lord, you will have me." She had actually said that to him. To Rathe. And when she had said it, it had cut Corwin to the quick, maybe twisted something inside of him. Hearing the words pass out of her mouth, hearing them again as her husband - she was not sure she had ever loved, needed, been made so whole by anything, outside of the SoulBond, or anyone except Corwin - as he had walked away from her later that night, he had given her a sudden and very painful insight into too many dark things in her past to mention. She would have liked to pretend that she didn't know what she meant by it. That she had said it in a panic, to bargain with him, to keep him away from her daughter, Shar's daughter. Corwin's daughter. But if she tried that claim, she would have been lying. She knew, deep down, she knew exactly what she'd meant. That they were too tangled up, all of them, with one another. That she was too tangled up with Rathe ever to be completed freed of him. That no matter what she did, how many years past, however she tried to put space or time or other loves - the only other love that had ever mattered - between them, the foolish vow that she had made as little more than a child had stuck. She would turn around, and he would be there. A wave of fatalism washed over her, made her sick to her stomach. She felt like hurting something, maybe even herself. She felt like killing him before Corwin had a chance to try. She wished that she could lay the truth bare before everyone, so that they might judge her honestly, in the open. But whatever truth she had laid out - even the truths that she thought Corwin had already known - those truths were hurting people, taking lives, ruining lives. Destroying her and her family over and over and over again, and she felt powerless to stop them. She needed to be talking to Rhianna right now, making sure she was all right, finding some way to make peace there. Telling her the truth, as well, goddess only knew what Rathe had told her, said, done to her. But she could not face her daughter, not the daughter that bore such a likeness to Yshar. And she wished, not for the first time, that Rhianna was Corwin's trueborn daughter. Not that that would help now, either. In five days, it may come to pass that Etra had allowed another man to fall into shadow because of love - her love, whomever it was for. After 37 summers, when would she grow up? When would she learn the lesson that would finally turn her into an adult, make her wise, allow her to give up all this foolishness. And really, isn't that the cruelty of it? That our lovers, our friends, goddess knows our children - that they all believe us to be strong and wise and grown up and a thousand other things. When really, all we are is our selves. Flawed, small, young in our own minds and hearts. And ever turning toward the darkness, ever praying for the light. -------------------------- Message 17 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 1 13:37:45 2002 EDT From: Devon (#23970) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: The blood of the Forge. The memory flashed in his mind, Rathe's leering face over his wife... wrapping their arms around one another in open public display. Another flash, as Devon was preparing to destroy Rathe... his wife's crescent blade ripping into his skull as blood poured down his face... the loss of control, his wife, Rathe, death... everywhere. The uncontained series of images flashing in his mind as his rage consumed his every waking action. But, it was never enough to stop. Time had stopped making any sense, and Devon wasn't sure what he was doing anymore. It seemed like centuries when he apprenticed to Tristan, the proper way to work metal and pour your soul into the material until it would sing, sing like it had a natural spirit of its own that only the one who was making it could hear. This song, was rage. But no blade rested on the mantle of the hammer as he empowered spells and plate with the iron, the silver scales were nothing like Devon had ever beheld, and he was going to make a suit of armor that was unlike even any fae had ever seen before. But there was a fragment missing, some unseen knowledge that tied all the parts together. Devon could shape, empower, mold, and fashion but even his rage was unable to complete the spells needed to finish the creation. He would need to speak to someone who had done this before, someone who was familiar with articifing that was akin to the creation of the gods. But the last time he had paid the price for a favor, it had cost him his hand... what would be the cost this time? Doubt, fear, and exhaustion fading from his mind the blood of the forge filled Devon once more, he had work to do... and time was not an option. -------------------------- Message 18 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 1 18:43:32 2002 EDT From: Shandryl (#24740) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: The tree in the swamp Shandryl sighed as she leaned out the open window at the top of the turret. It had been a few weeks since she left her home to come and reside in the Obsidian Tower to be closer to her teacher. The time spent studying went quickly, and she was learning many new things. Her accomodations in the dormitory were adequate, but her roomate left much to be desired. She had yet to meet him as he slept most of the day, but that suited her just fine. She liked her time in solitude. The noise of the construction on the new area upstairs bothered her and caused her to get extreme headaches. It wouldn't be over soon enough to suit her. Shandryl often left the tower to explore among the marsh. She felt comfortable there, having spent many a night camped down below the R/T building and hunting. She often walked the marsh, but had yet to come across another person or creature. What she *did* find was a tree that seemed to be around every turn. It was as if the thing followed her and intruded on her thoughts. It was devoid of any foliage, old, gnarled and had a small hole in the upper reaches of the main trunk. The wood there looked alive, and she swore on more than one occasion amber eyes gleamed out from it at her. Tonight, she decided, she would go back to the marsh, find the tree, and climb to the hole to see it closer. The breeze turned suddenly chill, and Shandryl realized that Dante must have come back. It was time for her to get back to her studies before he noticed her daydreaming. She couldn't take the chance he may lock her in the tower. Shandryl sighed heavily once more, and returned inside. -------------------------- Message 19 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 2 23:07:23 2002 EDT From: Shandryl (#24740) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Night in the Swamp Shandryl awoke with a start. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the darkened dormitory and figured the loud snores of her roommate must have been the cause. Then she remembered that this was the night to sneak into the swamp. She had fallen asleep!!! Looking out the window, the moonbeams were the only light she could see and a large sigh of relief escaped her lips. Thank the gods, it wasn't too late. Shandryl waited a few more minutes but heard no evidence of anyone awake on this floor. Certainly everyone was fast asleep. Quickly she dressed and grabbed her weapon, sliding it into the baldric on her back. She must hurry if she was to get to the tree and back before the first rays of the sun crossed the sky. The seeker descended to the main floor and started to turn the corner when she became keenly aware of a disturbance in the room. Could it be either Coreen or Dante were still up and about? She slid behind a table and waited until her legs began to scream in stiffness. She couldn't be too careful. She knew quite well to be up at this hour would mean severe punishment and Shandryl was committed to make a good impression with both her superiors. After what seemed an eternity, she stood. Her legs screamed at the torment but Shandryl put the pain from her mind and focused on her mission. She just *had* to get to the tree and see just what made it haunt her every waking moment. Shan wasn't more than 100 feet into the swamps when an eerie presence seemed to float all around her. She looked cautiously around, raising her arm to grab her weapon from its sheathe on her back, but nothing seemed to be there. The swamps looked totally different in the moonlight. The creatures of the night made all sorts of sounds and seemed to be all around here, yet she could see nothing in any direction. Finally in sight of the ancient tree, Shandryl felt a brief sense of relief. She started to climb, and after about 10 feet she dared to look down. A marsh gator whipped its tail and slid into the murky water not a foot from where she had just stood. It seemed the goddess was with her tonight. She climbed for what seemed forever and finally her prize was in sight. Just a few more inches and she would be at the hole. Stopping briefly to catch her breath, she felt again like something was just behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she shivered in fear, questioning whether she had made a good decision in defying Coreen about being out of the tower at night. Shan looked up and saw in front of her what appeared to be a nest. It was a large nest. And inside was a leather journal. She reached in to get it, when an icy tendril grabbed her leg. Losing her footing, Shan was caught so offguard she didn't even have time to grab her blade. As she fell, an icy cold cackle rang in her ears and a much welcome blackness enveloped her very being. -------------------------- Message 20 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Aug 3 14:01:24 2002 EDT From: Yalindra (#13170) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: It was a dark and stormy night The rain fell steadily all around Yalindra in the forest, pittering softly against the leaves in a song that soothed and relaxed her. She was completely soaked from head to toe, her now platinum curls clinging about her face and neck in a damp, tangled mess, a poignant reminder of recent events. She didn't seem to notice or care about the dampness, so involved was she in thought, the past few days whirling about inside her head like a buzzing maelstrom. She did not want to think of them, but the memories came unbidden to her mind...Dante. Her realization of Devon's betrayal. N'Orleans. Strange men. Rathe. Ylaerin's daughter. Ylaerin.... "Ylaerin..." Yalindra murmured, opening her eyes. The soft rain falling down her body as she huddled against an old tree mingling with the warm tears that fell freely, masking them. As if there was anyone to see her crying. She had found a secluded spot, and no one in their right mind would be out in this weather if they had a warm hearth before which they could sit. Home...she couldn't go home like this, no matter how Devon begged her. Shame pulled her down like a tangible weight, dragging at her soul and miring her in despair. What had she done...? Impulses she couldn't control...impulses that were slowly taking over her mind, her emotions...changing her. "Making you stronger," Dante had said, a grin on his lips that seemed to laugh at a private joke she was not privy to. She understood what he had meant. And she despised it. But what could she do? She could no more stop the rain from falling upon her than stop the impulses that made her nearly wretch in disgust. "Get out of the rain, Worthy." a deep, booming voice blossomed in the midst of her dark thoughts like a firecracker, causing her to wonder at its source for a brief moment. Myr... Catching pneumonia will only serve to make you more miserable. Come back to me, and I will take you where you can be warm." She couldn't help but smile faintly at her dragonfriend's gently prodding voice. Myr knew not to push her, not when she was like this. Myr had been her anchor...the one person she could trust and confide in through all of this. In truth, Myr was the only one keeping her sane, pushing back the impenetrable darkness that cloaked her soul. How Myr must suffer through this. Blinking back another tear, Yalindra rose slowly like an automaton, sending a venturous squirrel skittering back into the underbrush. Slowly, she began to stagger back to Myr, the rain continuing to fall upon her in a derisive parody of the troubles that rained down upon her. She knew what she had to do. She had to face this...her fears...her shame. Devon. Ylaerin. She had to face them, and take whatever consequences came of it. She had never doubted her courage before, but this time there was an inkling of doubt in her mind. How could she get through this? She just wanted things to be as they were before, but deep down inside, she knew that they could not. Brushing sodden strands of hair from her eyes, she looked up at Myr's large form, waiting patiently near the edge of the forest, taking as best shelter as she could against the rain. "Take me...someplace warm...." Yalindra said through the Bond, her cold-numbed lips barely moving, unable to put the thought into words. Myr lowered her wing, a concerned look in her large eyes as she aided Yalindra in the mounting. "Courage needs to be tested to be proven, Worthy..." came Myr's gentle thought. Perhaps...perhaps she was right... -------------------------- Message 21 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sun Aug 4 11:03:22 2002 EDT From: Merri (#24667) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Endings and Beginnings Merri stood in the concourse of the main public transport bay and waited for the suborbital shuttle to come in. Her son, Michael was aboard and she was taking him to Akane...his father. The boy was nine years old now, a strawberry blond with his mothers blue eyes and a mage talent that was breathtaking. It had lain dormant all of those years in Erin. But it was time for him to come home. Last night, Merri had stood in the Spellsingers Hall and kissed her husband's cheek for the last time. Her hands shook a little, remembering. But the intervening years when Akane was lost and she was alone had taken their toll. She wasn't a girl anymore. And she had grown in ways that would seperate them forever. But their son....Merri wanted Akane to train him. He could...WOULD...become a far greater mage then either one of them. And in the crucible of shaping and molding a new mage, Michael could become close to his father. And the father could learn to love his son. The ramp doors opened and people began to come out. Merri spotted his strawberry head and waved. He spotted her and ran to her, his arms open, a smile of greeting on his face, his knapsack banging against his legs. Merri enfolded him in her arms and laid her cheek on top of his head, breathing in his child scent. Picking up his knapsack and shouldering it with her own bag, she took his hand. "C'mon, kid. It's time to go home." -------------------------- Message 23 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 8 19:23:20 2002 EDT From: Merri (#24667) To: *storylines (#5236) If you believed in legend, then you believed in him. He was their ancestor, their past and their future, a mystical being whose spirit dwelled in the hearts and minds of those who followed, because he left them something more real and assuring then a bodily presence. He gave them hope. No one had ever seen him but that did not mean he didn't exist. In this land of magic, they knew that what went before cast it's shadow upon that which was to come. Fame can fade to nothingness. A great name can pass into the unknown. But the magic of a kindred spirit pervades the places through which it has passed, like the haunting scent of roses in December. Over the centuries generations came and went, aware of his nearness as the seasons changed, for he was always present, quiet beneath a blanket of snow, reassuring in the green of spring, noble in the yellow and russet of autumn. With the haunting echoes of the Gaelic tongue they sang of him, along with ballads of the empty dales and ruined keeps, of the clink and rattle of armored troops, of humbled pride. And they would continue to speak of him through the ages, one to the other, telling of a time when he had lived and a time when he would return. "He will ride across the moors when the moon is silvering the heather and the wind is blowing thinly over the hills." Time had not dimmed their faith. They knew he would come. He would reveal himself, a shadow cast out of long ago, who would step out of the mist of the past and into the present. No one knew who would be the one to see him, or what exact moment he would choose to appear. They only knew it would happen. Long years had not changed their belief that he existed. He was there, in the eerie silence of bleak landscapes, in the thunder and lightning that came before the rain. Heathery moors whispered and spoke his name at night. Whenever one of their children cried out, they would gather them into their arms and sing, "Hush ye, hush ye" "The Prince of the Sidhe shall not get thee" Yet the little ones were not afraid, nor did they cry out. They felt his presence. They believed. -------------------------- Message 24 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 9 00:03:40 2002 EDT From: Oberon (#22725) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Sojourn: Part 1 No more. Swirling, pained eyes watch on, helpless as his Mistress is first infected with the darkness in Dante's soul, and then robbed of the very power by which she may resist. No more. In their depths was fixed the living image, the scultured essence of his own weakness. Countless times, a man stands alone there, beaten down, frail. Unable to defend himself, much less his principles, or those few who deserve them. No more. Each blast of power or arcane whim sent spinning from the hand of an idle Adept or Magus, twisting his body, his mind, his soul. It found its way finally, a dam strained to the breaking point, trapping every drop of his righteous fury behind its creaking facade. Before, it stood a bastion, laced with steel, reinforced with endless doubt. Now, the wall stands cracked, a spider-web of wind scoured fissures marring it's once flawless length. It bulges, squalling in protest, every last tenuous girder fighting against the tidal wave. No more. The dam explodes. -------------------------- Message 25 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 9 00:20:34 2002 EDT From: Oberon (#22725) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Sojourn: Part II The wasteland stretched on, the seemingly endless horizon featuring the final and welcomed end to another scorched, wind blasted day. Like a bloated vulture the sun sat perched, it's blazing eye trying to wrench the life from those still standing in a last ditch effort to proclaim its dominance before the rushing blanket of the night returned. And across it marched a lone figure, bent against the wind and exertion, the staff in his hand tied to his palm to keep his grip. A waterbag was slung across his stomach, and across his back was a pack, containing only a few necessary items. The last vestiges of harsh sand infested wind tore at his clothing, flipping about and tearing the hood from his head like a grasping claw. His free hand reached to hold it, covering his parched features from even the waning light of the dying sun. Thank you for listening." He whispered briefly through the archway of the R/T Lounge, molten silver eyes locked on the unassuming bartender. Then he had turned, and dissapeared into the wastes. It was the only person he had bothered to speak to. His room was locked, without a note, for Dante would know he had left. His furniture and his important items remained Eldorath stood as a speck in the distance, and as the Druid crept forward, his words to Osbornn rang their bitter sweet song in his ears. I'm going to show them why the Earth withstands when all else crumbles to dust. -------------------------- Message 26 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Mon Aug 12 18:24:27 2002 EDT From: Red_Fang (#5907) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Reward 1000 crystal reward For the head of Skeeter for killing Nenana Red. -------------------------- Message 27 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Mon Aug 12 19:36:27 2002 EDT From: Red_Fang (#5907) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Reward Reward has been satisfied with Skeeter, he's no longer a wanted man.. Live long and prosper.. Red. -------------------------- Message 28 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 16 00:54:49 2002 EDT From: Clayson (#17237) To: *storylines (#5236) She swam, the oceans current oblivious to her strength. Her thoughts turned toward the stranger she met as the cold water engulfed her soul. The stranger would provide her with the knowledge she needed, she was sure of it, her choice was accurate, cunning..all would fall into place soon. -------------------------- Message 30 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 16 22:27:14 2002 EDT From: Shandryl (#24740) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Lost and Found After spending the last few weeks secluded in the Library of the Obsidian Tower, Shandryl had to take a holiday and go see the wilderness. She decided on touring the Ghostwheel Plain and left in the Lamar early in the morning. The day was spent exploring and killing the creatures she found there. It was wonderful smelling the fresh air and feeling the thrill of new kills. She was getting used to the feel of her new katana, and she felt life was good. She was surprised when she realized it was getting too dark to see. The landscape looked different at night and Shandryl was unsure of her way. She held Nemesis close to her side just in case she would need it suddenly. Somehow, she ended up beneath the Oasis, and felt a chill. There in the shadows, lurked a strange man. As she passed, he commented on her weapon. He seemed moderately interested in Nemesis. He had seen her wielding it earlier and asked how she came upon ownership. Shandryl was cordial, explaining she needed to get home, and started to pass. The next thing she knew, she was on the ground. A large knot on her head proclaimed the assault she had taken. Taking stock of her possessions, Shand realized that Nemesis was gone. In its place was a pile of crystals and a note. It read, "Sorry to take it this way, but after 7 long years, Nemesis and its rightful owner finally back together. I hope this will be payment enough to suit you." It was signed simply, Skeet. -------------------------- Message 31 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Fri Aug 16 22:36:29 2002 EDT From: Menroth (#14123) To: *storylines (#5236) Menroth sat in the R/T lounge and sipped his whiskey, thinking to himself. He thought of various things, but the newest thought that popped in his head was slightly disturbing. As he thought about it, his grip on the glass tightened. He thought about Clayson and her new attitude towards things. Taking a long swallow of his whiskey, he brought images of the other night back into view. She had been totally apathetic towards him. Muttering slightly, the glass in his hands shattered into pieces. Staring at his hand, he plucked small pieces of glass out. Oz looked quietly at him, and Menroth nodded slightly and turned to leave. As he was walking out he had an epiphany. He grinned slightly. -------------------------- Message 32 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Aug 17 21:47:24 2002 EDT From: Rhianna (#37042) To: *storylines (#5236) She had never had to care for her own mother before. It felt weird, it made her nervous. It made her feel like crying all the time, and Rhianna almost never cried. But it would seem she had no choice -- she couldn't find Corwin anywhere, her Aunt Myst and Uncle Devon weren't exactly handing out the information, and her brother did what he could. But Rhianna felt the most responsible, and so she trailed her mother as much as she could. Ylaerin was like a stranger -- and Luthe wasn't much help. When she wasn't wandering the halls silently with the sapphire on her heels, she was sleeping in the sand of the hatchery with the dragon watching over her. Luthe was more silent than her mother was; his usual trickster's sparkle was gone, trapped inside their bond as he sought his Worthy out through the broken circuits of her mind. Lyetra barely knew her own daughter -- she seemed to think she was just some nice girl who was hoping to become a Rider. Rhianna could not get her to eat -- every now and then, she could coax her mother into accepting a sleeping draught. She felt so powerless. She felt at fault. She watched the weight fall off her mother, watched the circles etch themselves under her eyes. Watched her hair go dull, saw the silver coming out in it. She wanted her Papa, but no one seemed to know where he was. She remembered how her mother had come home that night -- dazed and covered in blood, wearing the bridal gown that Rhianna barely remembered. When she had tried to help her mother out of the gown, tried to help clean her up, she'd received a rather nasty blow upside the head. That had been perhaps more upsetting than all the blood. Her mother had never, ever struck her before. That was when she knew for sure how wrong things were. The only upshot had been that Ylaerin had talked more about Rhianna's real father than Rhianna had ever heard in her whole life. She hid the wolf bracelet that she'd taken from her mother's chest, and played along with her, asking all sorts of questions. Sometimes, her mother's mind would jump and shift, and then she wouldn't answer anymore. And every time Rhianna asked what had happened to Yshar, Ylaerin would say that nothing strange had happened at all, and would encourage Rhianna to go find him herself and talk to him. It was growing late... Rhianna sat with the broadsword that Corwin had given her the last time she saw him across her knees. She'd never felt so alone. She sat watching her mother sleep in the sand, watching the dragon with the black eyes. She jumped half out of her skin when Rowan touched her shoulder, but she let him hold her for the first time since she'd grown too proud to be hugged by her brother. And she wept, even though the weeping shamed her. She didn't know what else to do -------------------------- Message 34 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Mon Aug 19 20:59:06 2002 EDT From: Fortitude (#24841) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Outbreak The wasteland doctor stared at the scruffy man before him. His patient was seated on a wooden crate, wheezing to catch his breath. As the adventurer explained his story, the physician thought back over the past month. There had been 5 people now, all of whom had come to him with the same sickness. He'd never seen or read about anything quite like this before. They had constant congestion, always coughing or wheezing just to get the next breath. And the black slime.... He could find no cure, and the only treatment he could come up with was a costly snack of crystals every half hour. The healer found himself pulled back into the present by the sound of a violent coughing fit. His patient was doing no better than the others. At least the symptoms, though troublesome, didn't appear to be life-threatening. The only clue he could garner from listening to his patients was that they were all frequent visitors to N'Orleans, and who knows what diseases were lurking in that swampy mess. He'd also learned another thing. It was contagious. Finally, the healer escorted his ailing patient out of his tent. He was disappointed, but could offer no treatment other than suggesting a lot of rest. As he zipped up the tent from the inside, the doctor cleared his throat and coughed into his hand. He pulled the hand away and frowned, looking at the familiar sticky black substance now coating his palm. [OOC] Call it fair warning. This is a coded, contagious disease which will be in play indefinitely. It is not lethal, and there is a cure if you can find it. There will be more to follow, but I won't be posting about them. -------------------------- Message 35 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Tue Aug 20 20:26:20 2002 EDT From: Oberon (#22725) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Restoration Pushing back the flap of the small animal skin tent, the robed man moved out of the light of the dying sun and into the dark suffocated air of the small dwelling. On the cot in the center of the dirt lay a thin, scrawny man, barely conscious. He only moved to cough, and it was a pathetic movement, wracking his whole body, flecking his lips and clothing with more of the black slime. His eyes turned quickly to the newcomer, flashing dangerously, filled with spirit, despite his condition. No..." The Druid held out a hand in comfort, using the other to remove his hood. "I'm here only to help. Laying the man's weakened arms at his sides, Oberon drew a chipped ceramic cup from the folds of his robes. He filled it with one squeeze from the waterskin at his side, setting it beside the man. At the same time, his fingers delved into the pouch of herbs at his side, crushing a small, noisome leaf into the liquid. "Poison!" The man called defiantly, but the Druid appeared not to notice. Tilting the frail man's head backward, he held the cup to his lips, slowly and carefully letting the flecked water pour into his throat. By now, the strength had left the sickening man, and he fought little against the stranger. After he was asleep, far into the night, the Druid sat motionless at his bed side, silver orbs ever watchful. "Grey." Oberon smiled softly, watching the slime slowly become more transparent through the hours, until it was no more. Without another word, the Druid stood, dissapearing into the darkness of the Wastes. -------------------------- Message 36 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Wed Aug 21 10:36:47 2002 EDT From: Devon (#23970) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Dreams of Foretelling. Misty vapors curled around Devon, as he walked through the shadowy landscape of his dreams. Something else seemed to be here, but he wasn't sure what exactly it was. He came upon an iron door, chained and ensnared with many locks and reinforced steel bars, such a strange thing to just happen upon on his mind. The dream didn't seem significant nor important, but Devon pushed on the gate. A violent blast of rage threw the gates open, as his mind was assaulted with images of pain and torture. It didn't seem important, but his place seems to have shifted from one side of the door to the other, with a quiet shrug he returned to his dreamings of other things. But, outside in the waking dreams that many may walk, the cries of unheard wasteland nomads filled the air. Blood drenched the ground as vicious crimson arms tore one human apart, leaving a cold and desolate land. Nights like these, are ones you don't want to be outside on, especially with a monster loose. -------------------------- Message 37 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 22 20:56:18 2002 EDT From: Khyber (#12460) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: A change of pace... Khyber sat in the desert sands of the wasteland, staring up at The Balrog, its vents slightly hissing. Standing up say and brushing himself off, he looked around, and saw a figure approaching from the southeast. The figure gained a say more womanly shape as it approached. He didn't recognize the woman who stopped in front of him, but she seemed familiar, as if he had met her in passing. He looked down at the weapon she carried. It was a large double bladed axe, the silver blades gleaming in the harsh wasteland sun. She threw it down at his feet and walked away. Slowly he bent to pick it up. As he looked over the weapon, hidden fears in the far reaches of his mind made him avert his gaze quickly. He knew what it was, and he knew who it belonged to. But it was in his hands now... -------------------------- Message 38 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 22 21:03:27 2002 EDT From: Rhianna (#37042) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: ..growing up.. She was starting to get used to the dreams, and now that was what scared her the most. Since her mother had gotten sick, she'd stopped taking the sleeping pills. She was learning to live with the splitting headaches. She'd been so worried about her parents that her own bad dreams and sleepless nights seemed to pale in comparison. She felt like she'd aged years in the past couple of weeks the dreams only made it seem more so. In the beginning, they were just a useless deluge of frightening information. Things she could not explain - fragments of dreams that could not have been her own. Her mother facing a man with terrible, faceted eyes. Her father, Corwin, falling in a rain of blood. And, around every corner, the wasted, gaunt, towering form of the man they called Rathe. The worst of the dreams always featured her parents, in the beginning. Rathe with his hands inside her mother's chest, blackness spreading out all around them. A dragon that looked too much like Luthe dying - his blood spreading red-black all over the ground. They were horrifying images, nothing like anything she'd seen in her own, sheltered life. After a week of this, of jumping at her own shadow and hearing whispering voices coming at her from all sides, she'd begun to realize that she could focus it. That she could block parts of it out, or mentally turn away from some of the things that terrified her the most. But not all of the images would go away. Some came at her night after night, relentless in their horror. And there were some voices that would not leave her alone. She sat now, watching her brother play his lute. Her mother lay on the bed, smiling at her son and correcting him here and there, still too weak to do much. Her mother had never seemed so small to her as she did lately, so fragile, so... old. Corwin wasn't much better off, but at least Rhianna knew where he was. Too much was changing. Rowan could roll with the changes - he'd always been that way. But for Rhianna, everything hurt. She rarely saw her uncle any more, she did not always know what to make of her parents' strange behavior (but then, they'd always been different, maybe it was normal for them). Kijindei was growing up faster than any of them and leaving her behind. And Rowan as much as she thought of him as the tie that bound her family together, safely, she could see, now, how far away his gaze got sometimes. How inside himself he could be. She knew he loved them, but sometimes it seemed that nothing mattered to him more than his music, than the worship of the goddess, than his work and dedication to the Bard. It pleased their mother infinitely more than Rhianna's hopes of swordsmanship did, but it seemed to take him farther away from them with every passing day. If this was what growing up was like - seeing people as they were, and everything changing around you out of your control - then she didn't think she wanted to grow up. Not that she had any choice in the matter. -------------------------- Message 39 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Thu Aug 22 21:30:56 2002 EDT From: Tirafal (#24173) To: *storylines (#5236) Tira sat on the step of the lift at the bottom of her mech looking out over the sands of the wastes. The hot desert wind blew, pulling strands of hair from her braid. The heat shimmered in the air and mirages came and went. The axe sat on her knees and she stared down at it. The memories flooded back; Ynaoise wielding it as they hunted together, sitting by the fire as he explained to her what it was and what it meant. Ynaosie...her children...her hawk...all gone. Gone forever. She broke and bent her face to her palms, weeping, the tears dripping on the brightness of the blade. The Riders had taken everything from her. But she had this...their precious weapon. The symbol of the office of the Defender of the Mount. She would have given it back in a second to have Yna back...to be riding with him on Elshydrath's back, her hawk flying in tandem with them. Sudden anger filled her, the bitterness rising in the back of her throat in acid bile. Their precious axe would be the instrument of their destruction. Placing her palm on the axe she swore it as a vow. She knew what to do. She needed a champion. Rising from the step she took off walking. Rounding the dune she saw him. He rose as she approached his mech, looking at her with puzzlement in his eyes. Without a word she threw the axe at his feet. She looked into his eyes and he saw all of the hatred, all of the anger, all of the pain. As if that act had finally released a burden she had carried for a long time, her shoulders slumped. She turned and walked away. But she knew it had finally been set in motion. -------------------------- Message 40 from *storylines (#5236): Date: Sat Aug 24 21:25:20 2002 EDT From: Tikiaido (#24781) To: *storylines (#5236) Subject: Medical Miracles Tiki was finally starting to heal up. And none too soon for his tastes. He had had a constant headache for over a year, vomiting, cancer-laiden, mutated... A regular Puking Charlie. Dakiron was great about it. If they knew how to CAUSE mutations (I.E. the process that makes recombs) they definitely knew how to reverse them. For the first time in roughly 18 months, Tiki had eaten a hearty breakfast, crawled out of his burrow, taken a deep breath of fresh, mountain air (and a morning piss) without vomiting until there was nothing in his stomach, and dry-heaving until he hurt so bad he couldn't think. There were some things they couldn't mess with, but all the cancer was gone, the radiation out of his system, the extradermal bone finally permanently broken away... And then he uttered a spiteful 'Fuck you.' to the setting sun and went back to bed. --------------------------