From quinn@fazigu.org Wed Dec 07 13:48:28 2005
Return-path: <quinn@fazigu.org>
Envelope-to: quinn@fazigu.org
Delivery-date: Wed, 07 Dec 2005 13:48:28 -0500
Received: from yami.57thstreet.com ([216.110.12.54])
	by work.fazigu.org with esmtp (Exim 4.50)
	id 1Ek4L5-000654-Nl
	for quinn@fazigu.org; Wed, 07 Dec 2005 13:48:28 -0500
Received: from moo.ghostmoo.org (yami.57thstreet.com [216.110.12.54])
	by yami.57thstreet.com (8.13.1/8.13.1) with SMTP id jB7Iwmgi019354
	for <quinn@fazigu.org>; Wed, 7 Dec 2005 18:58:49 GMT
	(envelope-from quinn@fazigu.org)
Message-Id: <200512071858.jB7Iwmgi019354@yami.57thstreet.com>
Date: Wed,  7 Dec 2005 12:58:48 -0400
From: "Quinn@Ghostwheel" <ghost@ghostmoo.org>
To: quinn@fazigu.org
Subject: Ghostwheel Message(s) 306 - 319 from *storylines (#5236)
X-Mail-Agent: Ghostwheel (moo.ghostmoo.org 6969)
X-Spam-Checker-Version: SpamAssassin 3.0.2 (2004-11-16) on work.fazigu.org
X-Spam-Level: 
X-Spam-Status: No, score=-0.9 required=5.0 tests=AWL,BAYES_50 autolearn=ham 
	version=3.0.2
Status: RO
Content-Length: 52209
Lines: 902

Message 306 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Sun Oct  9 02:11:38 2005 EDT
From:     Kzin (#5800)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Recovery

The isle was as he remembered it. Lush with verdant growth, and teeming with
life from the levels of the microscopic to the occasional escaped experiments
from Dakirion. No less to mention the human and not quite fully humans, who
seemed to think the isle a great and wonderously safe place. One free of the
darkness that so plagued most of the other lands still 'civilized'.
With steps made slow and heavy by the thick metal boots locked onto his feet,
he made his way down the familiar pathways. The tapping rhythms of his staff
muffled at first by thick sand and soon by dark, fertile earth. Slow, cold
ribbons of blood dripping down his chest, caught by the thick cloth of his
robes. Breathing heavily, he continued down the trail toward the building on
the hill.
Wrapped tight around his maimed left hand, tugging at every step, the rope
attached to the bag being dragged behind him slowed his paces even more.
Occasionally, a muffled whimper would escape the thick canvas as he pulled the
bag across a particularly rocky patch. The only response elicited by the weak
protests was a small twist of the lips beneath the blackened material of the
bone mask protecting his features.
Stopping a moment for his breath, his frame shakes with a racking cough. Blood
ribbons out across his lips, quickly wiped away by a scrap of cloth covered in
tattered runes. He whispers beneath his breath, a dim glow rising and then
failing as he cups his fingers over the scar mangled runes that cover his
flesh. A stirring motion from the bag is stilled by a quick blow of the
manskin gloves that enfold his hands, a shocked cry emerging from the canvas
and quickly silenced. He whispers, "You'll have time soon enough to scream,"
and mounts the pathway to the hill.
He pauses before the door, running his scarred hands over the deeply rune
carved front door. His eyes close for a moment, as he sends his energy out to
twist through the convoluted pathways of the ward structures guarding the
building. A soft sigh as he read the presences of those who had passed or
touched the door. "So. At least none were successful."
A quick series of movements from his hands, sigils glaring to sudden life.
Traceries of blue and silver, twisting and writhing along the wood as the
Adept works a new rune into the center of the wood with his fingernail.
Splinters grinding beneath his flesh and dissolving under the force of the
power at work. Sweat beads his face as he finishes, the new sigil standing
brighter than the rest for a moment before fading to match the colors of the
aged wood.
He lifts the rope once more, dragging the canvas bag behind him as he steps
slowly forwards. The door swings wide for the mage and his burden. His
nostrils widening with the sudden, familiar taste of the air in the room.
Home, in all it's many connotations, returning to his mind as a reality rather
than a disassociated concept. His right, free hand rises to lightly run along
the open wound in the center of his chest beneath the robes, their material
soaked by the slow weeping of the wound in his torso.
As he moves through the main room, silence and still air disturbed by the
movements of his flesh, the mage turns his head to the painting above the now
empty bed. He smiles a tiny bit to himself, inclining his head respectfully.
Ashes falling from his clothing as he continues to move, descending the stairs
into the workroom, the bag thumping slowly down step by step and accompanied
by stifled whimpers of pain.
As the sound of his welded metal boots echoes about him, he moves his lips in
a sibilant series of hisses, bringing the globes of magelight in the workroom
to sudden, sickly life before him. With a frown at the dust laden condition of
the room, the Adept lays his burden onto the bloodstained and ancient altar in
the center of the inscribed circle. The two mangled stubs of fingers on his
left hand seep slowly as he releases the rough hempen rope that binds the bag.
He shivers slightly, caught by a chill from the mossy stones.
With a grimace, the pale skinned Adept touches his gloved hand to the head of
the body wrapped in the canvas, sending it back into stillness one last time.
Moving to his tools, the bloodmage begins to prepare. The process would be
long, but the greater amount of the damage would soon be repaired. The
demi-planar spaces had been no place for such a working, but the wards and the
shielding on the work room would likely serve to at least give warning were
his ritual to call unwanted attention.
Reaching up, Kzin pulls the ashen bone mask from his head and runs his fingers
along the ritual scars that now run down the left side of his face. He
straightens, donning a fresh set of robes from the wardrobe, and moves to the
figure in the canvas. The obsidian dagger glints in his left hand as he
reaches down, opening the mouth of the bag. Bleached, blonde hair tangled over
the revealed face of a rather lovely young man. The Adept smiles slowly, his
flesh of his lips cracking. His tongue flicking out to smooth the sting, the
taste of iron rolling across his tongue, he whispers "Young one, be welcome as
a guest in my home. I regret, your stay will be most temporary. But be
assured, you bring me a guesting-gift beyond price." He brings his left hand
down, cupping the worn red stone goblet that rests atop the altar, still full
of the dark water that had been left there. Allowing a few, precious drops to
fall into the lips of the tanned, muscled youth. "Now. A feast, long denied,
brings fullness to not only the belly but the soul."
Hair falling into stinging, tear crusted blue eyes, the man's lips remain
parted. His throat frozen by the dark water, he remains unwillingly still.
Denied even the mercy of being allowed to plead, the pupils widen as the
obsidian blade rises to rest lightly on the browned skin of his belly. The
Adept bows his head, finding his center, and bears down slowly, words falling
from his lips. His voice quickly roughening, aching deep in his throat as the
long unused incantations come back and flow easily from his tongue.
The drops drawn by the sharp, black edge of the dagger track across the
trembling abdominal muscles and fall to the black stones of the altar, quickly
joined by others.
A distracted, lopsided smile crosses the Bloodmage's face as he works, feeling
much better already. As unpleasant as the necessity of such quick, sloppy work
was, there was still a pleasure to be had in it. And soon enough he would be
in a state where such enjoyments need not be rushed.
Indeed, it's good to come home.
And even better to be free again.

--------------------------


Message 307 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Mon Oct 10 11:37:40 2005 EDT
From:     Rhianna (#37042)
To:       *storylines (#5236)

Her mother found her in the orchard, lying in the grass & watching the
sparrowhawk circle and dive overhead.  Rhianna knew Ylaerin was coming before
she arrived, and so she sat up smoothly as her mother took a seat beside her.
Ylaerin's expression was guarded, carefully optimistic; it spoke to Rhianna of
trouble and of conversations that neither woman wanted to have.
There was idle chatter - are you eating? are you sleeping? wouldn't you rather
have a tent than lie around out here in the open? - and Rhianna brushed these
questions aside as convincingly as she could. If these things seemed trivial
before, when she was spending her days and nights sitting just outside
Ydhana's door, they seemed even more trivial now that she'd been exiled.
Her mother watched her carefully, silently for a few moments before she
finally said what she'd come to say.  Rhianna could see her screwing up her
courage, and her mother's tone was the measured, level tone that she used in
tricky diplomatic situations. The tone of voice that gave nothing away.  She
said, "Rhianna, have you thought about what you might do if he doesn't come
back to you?"
The question made everything around her shine and waver for a strange moment,
made voices rise whispering around her before she silenced them and said,
firmly, "Why would I waste my time not believing in him?"
Ylaerin smoothed her skirts, "It isn't about whether or not you believe in
him, or whether or not you love him.  I'm asking for your sake.  You need to
think these paths through."
She didn't look at her mother.  She tamped everything else down, as tightly as
she could, and said, very calmly, "It doesn't bear thinking on.  He's coming
back."
Rhianna could feel her mother looking her over, measuring, weighing what to
say next.  She felt paths springing up around her, outward from her - threads
glimmering off into the distance. The Might Be and the Never Was.
Ylaerin's voice was smooth and calm, "Rhianna, sometimes they don't come back
the way you expect or hope for them to.  You have to make yourself ready.  It
will hurt a little less if you've thought it over --"
Rhianna cut her off.  Turned to face her.  Chose the path that felt the best
in the moment.  She felt herself blossoming outward, upward, even though she
knew that made no sense.  She turned her voice hard and quiet, looked her
mother in the face, and said, "And have you spent these last years thinking
about the fact that Corwin isn't coming back?  Did you plan ahead? Resign
yourself? Or are you still sitting in your own little space somewhere, waiting
and waiting and waiting?"
Once you say a thing, you can't take it back.
Ylaerin regarded her with sadness, shook her head a bit, stood up and left her
to her own devices.  Rhianna lay back in the grass, her mind wandering out
along the paths, the filaments, the choices.  She listened to the voices
whispering around her about the things that Might Be.  The way things will
never be again.

--------------------------


Message 308 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Tue Oct 11 03:39:27 2005 EDT
From:     Kzin (#5800)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Child's play

The night was still just beginning as the Adept made his way down the path
once more. A rune inscribed black lacquer box resting heavy in his hands, the
Adept makes his way up the hill again. The bone white robes falling over his
features as he moves, lacking in the familiar goat's skull. A webwork of
scars, were there to be anyone watching, runs across the left side of his neck
and face, some still bleeding lightly and constantly.
The spells, transforming all the kinetic activity within the box into the glow
of the Adept's runes and enforced stasis, sit heavy on his shoulders. The
muscles of his face tic slightly as he reaches his workroom, moving quickly to
tie the workings off and power them with his font. He smiles, placing the
casket onto the altar in the center of the underground circle. Quickly
stripping himself of the wreaked clothing, a thought and a hand's movement
unworking the fiber's very history for the past few hours, he disposes of the
now unnecessary garment. His lean, clawmarked body moves through the shadows
to the chest in the corner, pulling on a new set of robes. "Aaah. Better."
Finally rid of the crawling unease of the cloaking spells, that feeling of a
thousand flies swirling not only across the skin but within your organs and
all the channels of your body.
A few moments spent, once more to gather not only the proper items but the
appropriate threads of power and knowledge. A dusty warehouse, a thousand
filing cabinets, and all you want is one old paid parking ticket. Sometimes
the mind works strangely. As the black, brilliant space of his own mind swept
by, images and thoughts of days past left him new gifts of creative glimmer.
Beneath a sideways gesture of his closed left fist, a panel of the casket
slides open and the mage reaches in. A shape under his fingers, brief. Warm,
slightly moist, and finally the fur he was seeking. The Adept's hand clenches
and returns, the panel sliding back into place over the absolute void which is
apparently the contents of the box. Without pausing for a smile or any feeling
of satisfaction, he lays the groundwork. His head bowed over the object, hands
and shoulders moving with almost gentle assurance over the surface, the
textures changing under his measured outpouring of powers.
After a time, a reflected beam of moonlight, filtered by a mirror at the
stairs, calls Kzin's attention back to this world. "Well. Close enough for
it's purpose." He holds the small, stuffed dragon in his hand, and bites down
on his lip with sudden force. Leaning down, a kiss of blood on the back of his
palm as he holds it over the miniature animal. It stirs with small life,
movements quickly quelled as he stills it with the force that created it.
Standing, slowly, he touches the casket once more. Tapping once, and twice,
then thrice. Sound emerges, the high thin wail of something tortured, sad, and
small. A flicker of expression crosses the mage's face as he runs his fingers
across the casket, energies crackling under his fingers. The screams rise
momentarily, then fade into a muffled sobbing. His voice, the grinding ache of
oiled grave sliding down a metal chute, is carried down into the void of his
creating.
The dragon-shaped homunculus in his left hand, he raises it over the portal
into the Skinner box. "This, you wish?" A sound, as though of small fists and
tiny nails clawing at the inner surface. "Aaah. So wonderful, to love
something. Even wordless, I can feel your love for it. Boiling through your
flesh, the need for something...assuring."
With a sudden movement, the Adept brings his heretofore pocketed right hand up
in a brutal arc as the faux-dragonette writhes, dangling from his left hand by
straining wings. The obsidian blade guts the miniscule organs cleanly, which
flop to land on the portal as though atop a glass surface. The Bloodmage's
lips move silently, but a scream of agonized suffering emerges from the
homunculus' throat as the eyes, wide with pain, stare down towards the
passageway created into the casket. With a twist of the knife tip, the tiny
wide eyes pop free of the skull as Kzin moves his hand. The cowls of his robes
hiding his features, a glow rising from the tattooed flesh of his face and
neck, highlighting the small dark areas where the scars have marred his runes.
Flesh melts partially from the frame, and as he incants, a new life returns.
Blue flames rise in the empty sockets, and a scream of wrath emerges from the
tiny throat of it's own volition.
The homunculus-wyrm's intestines slide over the invisible surface of the
portal without a smear, landing on the altar's blood runnels and sliding down
to the catch above the basin at the bottom. Tiny specks of blood flow from the
still open ribcage as Kzin releases his left hand and whispers a quick,
terrible word. The tainted toy drops into the casket as muffled screams of
rage and fear echo up. He sighs slightly, a twist at the corner of his lips,
and murmurs "Soon. You'll have your chance to scream."
The Bloodmage raps thrice on the casket again, the panel sliding back into
place and the runes writhing to re-form over the place the portal was. Moving
from his place above the head of the altar, Kzin throws the hood of his robes
back, the light fading from his runic tattoos. As he reaches into his pouch
and pulls free a stone, placing it on the top of the casket, he murmurs
"Tomorrow for the greater feast. For tonight, this should suffice." The chunk
of basalt rests in the center of the runes of the tiny casket, a perfect
sphere resting in a tiny hollow in the wood. Every movement, every scream,
every agony of that which remains prisoned inside feeds the trapstone and the
Adept's store of pains. With a small whisper, the lights of the workroom fall
to nothing as the Kzin moves through the darkness, guided by long years of
familiarity towards the stairs up and his own rest.
Deep in the casket, a tiny form trembles. Holding the angry, semi-animated toy
at bay with shaking fists. Tears dropping away into the apparently endless
void of the rift held within the box, accompanied by ribbons of bodily fluids.
There is nothing there but fear, void, and an angry falseness of what was once
a beloved toy now brought to horrible life.
All the struggles feed the very strength of the prison, now with quite enough
energy to bind for years from now if necessary. And elsewhere, an empty bed
waits to be discovered.

--------------------------


Message 309 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Thu Oct 13 02:02:56 2005 EDT
From:     Kzin (#5800)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  The pain

The winds blew warm as the afternoon sun began to fade across the white capped
waves, wind urging the breakers against the shoreline. Far below, the surf
pounding at the rocks send a steady pulsing crash of noise through the
otherwise quiet air. Only the occasional, distant roar of a transit or
personal copter served to remind that this was not quite the isolated paradise
it could sometimes seem to be.
Moving diagonally across the slowly reddening surface of the ocean at the
horizon's edge, a trio of shipping vessels send drifting clouds of taint
across the otherwise lovely sunset.
With a shrug, the Adept raised the white stone cup to his lips. Drinking
slowly, savoring the heat as it runs down his throat. That relaxing, almost
painful sensation as the muscles of his throat finally untense, strained by a
hard day of incant and preparation. The smoke from the small fire in a huge
stone bowl beside his chair blows momentarily in his eyes, until redirected by
a moment's effort. He sighs again, flexxing his mangled left hand, and
whispers a trio of words into the dusk air. The structure of ward and circles,
bound each to their proper element and wound about tight with the red-flecked
madness of the blood magic flashing back into existance behind his closing
eyelids. Seeing once more what must be done, and how, but only now finding a
way to fuel the process without destroying the vessel carrying the neccesary
energies. That one most definitely having other uses, past this immediate
need. For which in truth any one of many, many bloodlines would have served.
But sometimes the effort to acquire a target of more than mere neccessity paid
off. Even if simply in satisfaction.
A few miniscule changes later, and all was ready. With a twist of his fingers,
the mage sent a last flare of warmth into his coffee. Drinking it down
quickly, grimacing at the taste of the menthol that would let his throat
endure this last, necessary pain before the major damage would be undone. He
rises, straightening his robes, and focuses his eyes on the sunset. Watching
the oily sheen of the tanker's trail shine on the waters, a mar on the blood
red surface of the ocean, he begins to focus inwards. Withdrawing, step by
step, from the world of light and wind and stars, even before he turns his
body to wander inside. Back into the welcoming darkness, his bare feet moving
easily over the cold stones.
Down once more the winding stair, the tingle of his own wards running in
slowly strengthening waves over his flesh as he progresses. The house's
defenses once more what they had once been, powered by the blood of a Magus
and the heart of a dragon. Setting aside the coffee cup in a niche along the
wall, Kzin advanced into the room. The casket, oblong and ebony, still sitting
where it had been left on the altar. The runes glowing more powerfully than
the past few nights, and the basalt sphere set atop the casket now rich and
ripe with the promise of agonies and pains transformed into power. Tainted,
indeed, but power none the less. Never one for the finicky approach, the
bloodmage grasps the basalt globe in one manskin gloved hand, ignoring the
fiery tingle  as the energy runs across his palm. Setting it carefully aside
atop the altar, he moves to stand by the coffinlike construct. Eyes wide,
pupils long since gone and replaced by the spinning merlot flakes of
blood-taint of his powers.
Considering, for a last moment, what he was about to. Another decision, made
before it even came conscious. Already a foregone conclusion, that this would
be the way it had to be, even before it became conscious. "I would almost be
sorry for you...were you not what you already are." His right hand tapping
almost affectionately on the lid of the casket as he brought his tools
together. The blades, gleaming black glass and dead, dark steel. The goblet
and the wire restraining loops. The small drugs, and the stone long since
prepared for such things as this. A way to burn pleasure and pain together in
the mind and soul, and feed deep of it all the while.
The movements of preparation bringing back days long since past. Other
victims. Other faces. The scream of female voices, the echoes of fear that
still cling to the stones around him. The ones who came back for more, even as
their souls strained to flee the flesh and seek respite. Their bodies
responding and urgent, slick with blood and heavy with the stink of agony.
This one, unfortunately, was far too young for many aspects of the taint to
stick forever. But the pain and pleasure, agony and love, would always be
tangled.
The implements laid out, warmed by the touch of his hands, across a silk
cloth. Gleaming with promise as he moves to the casket. Fingers crushing and
caressing the air, weaving the patterns necessary to unbind the skinner box
for a time. A pause, at the last gestures, to place a moonstone to the top of
the box, willing it's powers to drive the one within into a short lived rest.
A rest denied by the very nature of the place she has been bound for the past
few days.
The golden skinned, once energetic girl is a mess. Careful, almost sculpting
movements of Kzin's hands over her still frame on the altar cleanse her of the
worst bodily fluids and excreta. Perhaps a few years old, the for the time
being quiescent form of the altered wyrm-toy is clutched in her arms. Even
something fearsome, when it is the only company, becomes beloved. The Adept
smiles a bit, wrapping the restraining wires around the still form on the
altar, and begins.
As he brings the tip of the first, tiny obsidian blade runs along the inside
of one forearm, the Adept whispers "Wake up, Meat. You've a long night ahead."
The girl's eyes snap open, more from the first disquieting touch of the
bloodmage's power inside her very veins than the words spoken over her. Lips
work, soundless, the mind still stable enough to appreciate the situation.
Beneath the rune scribed robe's edge, the red flakes that move across his eyes
begin to shift and swirl, a blizzard of bloody activity. The sound of the
mage's voice thrums through the girl's flesh, enhanced by the spell-power he
channels into her. His throat still painfully gravelly, but deep in a way that
has nothing to do with the vocal cords. The first explorative tendrils of
blood spread down to the runnels of the altar, guiding that precious fluid
towards the chalice placed beneath the spout. The little one shudders, limbs
moving helplessly as the Adept begins to send a trickling of energy through
the pleasure center. Bringing the pain and pleasure together, burning new and
deep pathways into the neurons themselves.
The golden skinned girl shakes and whimpers, tears and laughter as well as
miniscule whimpers passing her lips as the black stone on which she lays
becomes a comfort, a place of rest. The energies of her life bound from spirit
and organs into blood and leeched away by Kzin's skillful ministrations.
Magelight shining from his flesh, the mage stops short of taking too much of
the fluids of the little one. Children are so fragile, after all. He runs one
gloved hand over the wounds now running along the inside of both forearms and
thighs, and the gashes heal...after a fashion. Still crusted and agonizing,
and marked with the blue-black of scarring. Along the thin blue veins of the
girl, a certain tint of darkness runs through the blood itself. The taint,
spreading itself.
The mage stares down at the girl for a moment, taking and capturing the memory
of her pain and the feel of her hot skin beneath his fingers as he lifts her
from the restraints, sliding her back into the void of the casket. "Little
one, this part is done for now. But from here, indeed, you shall have another
purpose for me." The wounds, though recently healed, slowly reopening on her
flesh even as minutes pass and he carefully lowers her still conscious frame
into the skinner box. "My meat, my stone, my blood, my bones. You're my meat,
for now." He taps the top of the slatted ebony wood, watching it slide back
into place.
Settling a new globe of stone, this time marble, upon the top of the casket,
the Adept turns and raises the chalice. Facing the stone arch at the rear of
the room, that most shadowed corner. Raising the cup, touching it so briefly
to his lips. His power swirling up with sudden, urgent power out from the
places it's been coiled in his belly to tear through his flesh.
Transformation or restoration becoming a moot issue, as the energies hoarded
so carefully for the last few years of hiding and caution are expended in a
burst. Cleansing and stripping the blood of all it's energies and powers,
making it a pure vessel without history or origin as he drinks deeply. The
bloodmage cries aloud, falling to the stones. His flesh flaring for a moment
as the runes damaged and driven inside, pushed under the scars, burst free to
the surface again. A sudden fever, so hot that his skin steams against the
cold stones. Rushing through him as he writhes on the cold stones, held and
protected by the working circle. Kept alive through the agonies that follow by
years of pain, and decades of practice and mental strength.
Hours later, rising, his robes burnt away by a flick of his hand, he smiles at
his reflection in the polished stone of the implements as he places them back
in their niches, sealing them with a gesture of his left hand. Admiring the
regrown fingers for a second. "Well. So much the better." He laughs a little,
voice still aged and gravelly but recognizable once more. Moving, naked but
for the tendrils of blood down his pale skin, through the room and up into the
night to feel once again the purity of strength and a measure of youth
returned. Feeling the blood stick and craack where it has dried on his bare
body. "I see you all. And soon, you'll see me. Oh, where have all the lovely
ones gone? The pretty ones who scream so well.."

--------------------------


Message 310 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Fri Oct 14 14:29:07 2005 EDT
From:     Xavier (#37254)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  The wayward son returns

The black-cloaked figure trod slowly down the streets of N'Orleans, the soft
soles of his boots making no sound against the cobbled pathways.  Filth and
grime, human trashpiles and discarded needles everywhere.  Home, he reflected,
was a cesspool.

Quietly he strode through the filthy streets, not pausing to take note of the
pitiful excuses for humanity along the way.  Some called to him; others
attempted to stop him.  Some met their makers a bit earlier than they had
planned...

As he passed by the doors of the Cathedral, he paused; one hand almost reached
out to open those black doors, but stopped before quite reaching them.  Time
for that later...

In the near distance loomed his home for most of the past year; the Academie,
the place he'd learned so much.  The place he'd lost himself... and then found
himself anew.  The thought gave him pause; it brought a reminiscent smile to
his face.

Past the door, through the library, into the hallway... and to the door of his
own room.  He traced the runes on its surface with one ungloved hand; the ring
on his left hand bore all the power he needed, now.  The flickering magefire
that followed in his hand's wake made the runes glow a bright blue, then fade;
he smiled as the enchantments recognised him, where so many others had failed.
He grasped the handle, and opened the door.

Beyond lay the room he'd shared with his fellow student for much of that past
year.  It was much as he remembered it; the chest at the foot of the bed, the
armoire in the corner, the hangings on the wall... and the magic wheel
inscribed into the very floor of the room.  The sight made him smile; home,
after all, was where the heart was.

No; that wasn't quite true.  Without her, this place was strangely empty.  He
sighed, the thought bringing back the memory of their parting.  Shoving that
to the back of his mind, he set about unpacking the few possessions he owned;
his flute, his weapons, and the few clothes he owned.  That finished, he set
about preparing for the evening's events.

It was good to be home, but there was work to be done.  Not all of it
pleasant...

--------------------------


Message 311 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Fri Oct 14 19:21:29 2005 EDT
From:     Venom (#20510)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  HAHA Never did one of these, but im sooo bored at work

As usual, it is closing time at the Naked Parrot, Venom downs his drink and
heads out the door, "Fuck you", he yells at Olga. The waitress can be heard
even in the streets as Venom leaves, "Fuck me? How about fuck you Venom!".

A few stumbling steps and the Adept finds himself again on the familiar road
down the path to his complex. He crosses the bridge and looks down at the lava
pit, knowing he shouldn't be doing this after about 12 whiskeys, though trusty
liquid courage makes him take the climb down, only a few scratches and bruises
on his body as he tumbles down the last few steps. A few drunken curses are
muttered, the doors open in the far wall, and Venom steps inside the complex.

Venom takes a look around, seeing if anyone but the butler is still awake. At
last with a sigh of relief as he had found no one, Venom stumbles into his own
lounge and settles on the sofa, calling for the butler to grab him a bottle of
whiskey. Like most recombs, Venom hated this one as well; though having the
thing around made life easier, but he didn't trust it... he didn't trust
anyone for that fact.

The Adept's eyes flutter open, he had passed out for a little while, and still
the recomb was not here with his drink. He stands up, spitting pure venom of
curses out at the recomb, which is made worse by the fact his head is
pounding.

"Fuck, I gotta stop drinking".

He stumbles over to the bar, turns on the water and soaks his head in the cool
water. The taste of booze not leaving his mouth, but he feels a little more
with it, dizzy, but that's nothing unusual. Now to find that fucking raccoon.

He concentrates for a few seconds, eyes wide open, not blinking, as he
visualizes the raccoon and its whereabouts. "How did that little bastard get
down there?" In a pissed off rage, Venom grabs a glass from the bar and tosses
it against the wall, no one knows about the temple underneath the complex...
no one. That raccoon will not leave there ever.

Bolting from the lounge, anger brewing in his head, the type of anger he loved
and strived off of. The hidden trapdoor in the training center is open, the
runes deep inside them still glowing, "How did the little bastard do this...".
The Adept jumps down the door, quickly turning it he places his hand on the
center of the trapdoor, the entire exit glows red, then dims as it locks
itself in place.

Venom hadn't been down into the Temple of the Undead for quite sometime. Last
time he was here, he had conjured up the spell to trick the magic of the black
rose dagger. The illusion still holding as it believes for him to be a female
still. Venom opens up the blanket he is wearing, which he should probably wash
one day, just to make sure that his bits and pieces are still intact.

The fear in the raccoon is evident, these two never did like each other, and
as the door is sealed the raccoon lets out a loud squeal. The red on the ends
of the Adept's gloves glow slightly, as he pushes his arm outwards, fingers
flying out from his fist, five candles on the ground are immediately ignited.
The candles illuminate the floor, the carvings of a pentagram with a large
circle around it covers most of the floor before the altar. A candle settled
on the each point of the pentagram.

The spirits within the room start to dance around as the Necromancer raises
his hands in the air, soft whispers running from his lips, the spirits scream
and beg to be free from their torment within the temple, but the necromancer
quiets them quickly as his eye lids flash open, eyes red as he looks to the
raccoon.

A few short steps and the Adept is at the altar, a large whip sitting in its
holder, and he takes it from the sheathe. The souls of the dead start to move,
screams and moans coming from them as they surround the raccoon, yelling to
him that he will never leave, that he will become one of them.

The raccoon is rather brave as he receives the first lashing from the whip;
the souls though now corner the recomb in a corner, no place to run as the
Adept continues to flail the whip towards the recomb, lashings upon lashings
until there is only blood and bones, a barely audible whisper still comes from
the mangled heap of bones.

Venom drops the whip, an idea swirling through his clouded his head. He wipes
a few drops of sweat from his eyebrow with the edge of his blanket, he walks
into the middle of the pentagram, his eyes shut completely, this may take a
few days work but the result would be glorious, he just wishes the Gaia loving
bear was around to see the finished product.

--------------------------


Message 313 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Sat Oct 15 00:17:49 2005 EDT
From:     Satarel (#44416)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Novacain For The Soul

poke...poke...poke...

A slight twitch and the poking stops.  He draws it back slowly, holding it
 like a staff in one hand.  A gloved hand comes up to brush back the hood over
 his head so he can see.  Did it move?  Was it still alive?  Slowly a hand
 moves out, silver rings shining in the sunlight, to grab one of the
 shoulders.  A quick tug and the prone man is on his back.  With sand covering
 him and old blood coating his clothing, a vision of death at first glance.
 But as the small man leans over his discovery there are signs.  The slight
 twitch of a lip, the grinding of teeth in agony, the twitch of his eyes.  All
 signs of life still clutched close.

Joy, pleasure, and excitement all the hooded man at once.  Quick words fall
 from his lips; very few in english and a great many in his native vietnamese.
  The stick goes out again for a quick few pokes.  No major movement other
 then a groan of pain.  Excitement comes back full force.  Like a vulture
 Satarel falls to the ground beside the prone man.  The stick is tossed aside
 as his gloved hands work to clear away the blood and dust.  To clear off the
 tan skin before him for inspection.

Each touch, fingers scraping harshly over his flesh, causes the near
 unconsious man to flinch and shift.  But he does not wake up.  The wounds are
 too deep for that, consiousness too far away.  For a good ten minutes this
 goes on.  At some point the hood is thrown back to reveal black hair to the
 world.  Sand flies everywhere, coating him as he clears away his find.

At last he finishes the cleaning job.  With both hands on the man's shoulders
 Satarel drags him.  Across the sand, rocks, and harsh ground.  Away from the
 spot he was found.

It is almost an hour before they arrive.  The old abondened gas station in the
 wastes.  He drops the man outside of a small tent; his home in this harsh
 land, and plops down beside him.  Once more he cleans his find.  Though now
 he does a better job of it.  Herbs and medicinal plants come out of his pack
 and onto the wounds and claw marks.  Still his touch is not gentle.  Each
 time his hands move against the wounds causes another flinch, another groan,
 a shuffle of movement to excape.

Though at last the task is done.  A slight giggle excapes from beneath the
 black hood that keeps the sun from his face.  With the air of a child he
 jumps to his feet and near skips across the dead ground.  Wood is pulled out
 from among the trash.  Old scraps of paper that look nice enough to burn.  It
 takes several trips to get all the materials but at last he has them all.

As he begins to build a fire he stops.  Both eyes, a vibrant yellow, move to
 the prone figure.  Was it true, was he moving?  Quick steps close the
 distance between them and the last bit taken on hands and knees.  A quick
 glance over brings a smile to Satty's face.  A hand moves to caress the man's
 brown hair as the other moves across the ground towards something.

"No se preocupe. Sua multa. Voc ser fino. V apenas dormir e descansar." Soft
 spoken words to the man.  It does not seem to effect him though.  Still the
 movement continues.  His free hand clenchs down and pulls its' prize back.
 It is not a long wait.  Groggily the prone man comes to; eyes fluttering open
 and closed lamely.  Unfocused and dazed as they look on the hooded figure
 crouched over him.  Then they widen and close once more as blood drips down
 the face from the forehead.

Angry words flow from Satty's mouth as the now bloody stick is thrown aside.
 Though with the last words, "Eu disse-o para permanecer adormecido!", all
 words stop.  Closer and closer he goes to the man, sure of his renewed
 unconsiousness, until at last his face is hovering over the other.  And then
 up as a smooth pink tounge slips out to caress the curse of the forehead and
 drip red blood as it slips back into his mouth.  Only a taste that is found
 to be delightful.

His hands grab onto the man and tug him once more the few feet to the fire
 pit.  There he begins to get to the serious work.  First building a fire, an
 epic experience without the use of matchs.  Then gathering all of the herbs
 and seasonings in quick trips.  Constantly checking on his find.  And then it
 was all done.  Which only leaves to prepare.

Satarel moves quickly on his prey.  Cloths are taken off in places, ripped
 away in others.  Even unconsious the man screams in pain as hair is gripped
 and ripped away.  Blood flows like a river from gaping wounds and tears, even
 old wounds torn open once more in this persuit.  More then once pain brings
 him to wake up and scream.  These moments never last though.  By the time the
 task is done the stick is covered in blood.  Each time, each strike, followed
 close by the best attention possible to keep him alive, if even for a moment.

As all is done he steps back and admires the new state of his find.  Naked and
 hairless, skin dripping blood and wet, pieces of flesh torn away.
 "Bonito...", the words spoken in near reverance.  And with that he turns away
 and moves to the pile of supplies.  A quick hunt brings him a long spear,
 sharpened to a fine point.  The ghost of a smile dances his lips as once more
 he returns to the man's side.

An old motion this one is, done more by habit without real thought.  To turn
 the body into a position where it kneels.  On knees and face to the ground.
 A position that only the lowest of creatures assume.  A quick inspection and
 he clears a bit of the blood away.  And then he drives the spear forward.
 Into the back and into flesh, deep into the body where no weapon was meant to
 go.  The man snaps back into a consiousness built on true pain for only a
 moment as the smaller Satty pushes it deep.

Then its' over in a spray of blood as the tip of the spear emerges.  Pushed
 straight through the body and through organs.  Wedged through places in the
 skull and sent out the eyes.  A graphic dance of violence that coats the
 ground all around them in sprays of blood.  The moment is still as he
 inspects the obviously dead figure before him.  And then it continues.
 Numerous kicks send them both towards the fire where two massive spits have
 been erected.  It takes a great deal of work but the small man, coated in
 fresh blood even beneath his coat, places the larger corpse onto the spits.
 They hold fairly as Satty begins to throw pieces of paper and wood into the
 flames.

Often he is brought to a stop by hunger.  Quick knife work gives him the
 prize, pieces of flesh and muscle, still lightly cooked.  And so the feast
 begins.

--------------------------


Message 315 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Sat Oct 15 01:33:11 2005 EDT
From:     Laurent (#14050)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Eminent Domain

The naked girl looked around the stone cavern, shivering and wide-eyed with
badly concealed fear.  "May I go home?"

Her captor smiled reassuringly at her, but shook his head in a regretful
negative.  "Not yet, but eventually you may.  First you must stay here and be
my guest for a while, until I can figure out whether your God in fact loves
you."

The girl hastened to assure him that her God did not, in fact love her.  That
it was no part of her agreement and that she worshipped without ever expecting
love in return.

And as he listened, smiling gently all the while, the man (just as naked as
the child who knelt before him) plotted and planned, laying out possibilities
and likelihoods, trying to map out what gain could be had from this unexpected
stroke of luck.

Suddenly the girl broke into her own monologue.  "Where is my finger?"

Grinning, he held up the grisly little artifact, still dangling from its
silver chain.  Her eyes widened, fright and anger battled in her for a moment.

Anger won.  "You can't hide it you know, I see it...wherever it is..." As she
spoke, she pushed at him with her magic.  Weak, untrained, but strong in will,
want, and defiance.  The finger began to twitch and writhe at the end of its
chain.

The pleasant smile never faltered, even as the severed finger began to crawl
up its own bindings toward his hand.  "Stop that or I'll feed it to a wyrm and
you can enjoy what you 'see' then.  Little chain, you do not particularly
matter to me.  You are a means to an end, a pawn in a game I play.  Behave
yourself and very little harm will come to you.  Irritate me and I will show
you why even your God fears me and mine."

She shrieked out defiance and terror.  "You cannot hurt my God, he will eat
you, then use your dead body to kill those you love...you are a silly man to
think otherwise, he is more powerful then any Mage you know..." Though her
lips were trembling, the girl stood strong, glaring up into his eyes. "And
you...you Sir, you smell like death, if I were you I would take a bath, 'cause
God owns death."

Laurent laughed and pocketed the now-still finger. "Haven't you heard?  I am
the wyrmmaster of Uruken, the undead dragons answer my call.  /I/ own Death,
little girl.  Your God just rents from me."  And without so much as a backward
glance at his shivering, furious captive he turned and left the cavern.

--------------------------


Message 316 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Sat Oct 15 17:48:28 2005 EDT
From:     SnowHawk (#24690)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Next Steps

SnowHawk wakes from her fitful dreams, voices telling her that she has let
them down, that she is unworthy. In the dark of the lodge where she sleeps,
she feels the tears welling up inside, boiling over, releasing emotion. Her
fists clench, reliving the last week in her mind. "What is wrong with me?" she
asks of the still darkness. Her trusting, her flow with emotion, has helped to
release a captive power, and she grieves for that. Rejection there, turning
her stomach to other desires. Then...  She found another caring soul, another
follower of the earth. He said he liked her, but the memory of his feelings of
disgust, his recoiling from her simple touch. The tears came again. Is it so
wrong to want to be desired?
She even found her mind drifting to the years before, the hatred she had while
held captive, yet in that place there was want and desire... and she was
needed. No. She was just feeling sorry for herself, wishing too much for
herself. She sighs, gathering herself. A soft voice, "Mother Earth, Gaia,
Goddess... it is I, your grandaughter, Snow. Perhaps I think too much for
myself. You know I've always asked for you to guide my hands and do what is
right. I think I see it now... this path must not be for me. I will quest
again and wait for your guidance."
Snow gathers her things. She will wander a bit, close to the earth. Explore
the cliffs along the sea and see what waits.

--------------------------


Message 317 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Sun Oct 16 01:06:21 2005 EDT
From:     Venom (#20510)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Venom's new bitch

The recomb lay in the middle of the pentagram, its body fleshless as the Adept
had skinned the raccoon earlier, its hide strung up on the altar. Though days
seemed to have passed since Venom first came down here in a drunken stumble
and beaten the recomb, it still lives, its whimpers had now stopped, and just
the soft rise of its chest is the only sign of life. The candles on the tips
of the pentagram have long since burnt out, leaving only melted wax in the
holders. The adepts eyes are bloodshot, dark rings around them, blood and
sweat dripping from his brow. He stands over the body, a bottle of whiskey in
one hand, the blood soaked black blade in his other hand.

Kneeling down in front of the recomb, the Adept tilts the bottle of whiskey,
dripping some of the alcohol on the throat of the recomb, which moans softly
as it feels more pain. He sets the bottle down on the ground, bringing the
blood soaked blade down quickly into the throat of the recomb, death
immediate.

The darkness of the room is lit up, the runs carved into the wall glowing
yellow; the soul of the recomb seems slowly to shift out of the body. The room
is surrounded by the other trapped souls within, all of them screeching and
moaning, as if welcoming Epsion into their home. The adepts' eyes flicker, his
hands rested on the ground before him as he hunches over, muttering in an
unusual language. The walls covered in the blood of the recomb turns black,
the blood starting to move, dripping down the wall.

Then there is silence, the souls disappear, the runes on the walls disappear,
"He won't be leaving here anytime soon.", Venom mutters to himself as he rests
on his knees, heavily exerted breathes coming from him as he recovers from
placing the ward on the room, trapping the soul of the recomb between the
walls to never find the eagle again.

The corpse lies lifeless before him, knowing the next step that needs to be
done, Venom grabs the bottle from the floor and heads to the alter. He takes a
large swig of it before his gaze goes to the corpse.

Leaning on the altar, Venom grabs the bottle and downs the remaining contents,
shattering the bottle against the far wall as he throws it. He rubs his hands
together before he starts, fingers interlacing with each other. His eyes stare
at the former housing of the soul of the raccoon, deep in concentration, eyes
not blinking; he attempts to finish the ritual.

Arcane words come from Venom's mouth in a shout; the chant becomes a loud
rhythm which echoes against the solid walls of the Temple. The corpse is still
for a moment, and then a twitch comes from its leg, then arm. As the
Necromancers words stop, the echoes die down, the body on the ground convulses
in the center of the pentagram, every muscle and joint having life in it
again.

The recomb stands, struggles at first as the Adept stares at it. As it gets to
its feet, on all fours it walks towards Venom. It stops at his feet, the
hideous looking creature, skinless except for its head, bows down to its new
master.

Worn out from the work of the last few days, the Adept steps over to his
throne, self made for his ego, and rests in it, eyes closing for a few moments
to clear the dizziness from his head. The black blade still in his hand as the
new and improved butler sits at the feet of Venom, eyes lifeless, never
blinking.

The head of the recomb tilts back as the Adept places the tip of the knife to
his finger and cuts a small gash of his skin. Blood oozes from the wound, the
finger held above the mouth of the servant as a few drops of blood are leaked
into the undeads' throat.

He departs from the throne, the room silent as the hideous creature follows
behind Venom up through the trapdoor and into civilization. The runes inside
the Temple glow again, allowing the souls inside to roam endlessly around the
room, their search for the eagle, hopeless.

--------------------------


Message 318 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Thu Oct 20 01:18:42 2005 EDT
From:     Adele (#43312)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  Something needed.


Shy, thou determined, Grace headed to the Round Room to post her needs.
Everything she owned besides her furniture, was missing. She knew who held it,
and was sure he would have passed it on by now for a few coins, or crystals.

Her intuition was correct, for within an hour of her tongue lashing of the one
she called God for her imprudent behavior, a small man appeared in her tree
house. A midget, Grace tired not to smile to broadly. He had everything she
owned, down to her dirty laundry, though his demand was rather high, a signed
note would promise her return of 6000 crystals within the week. As she dug
through her belongings, there was one thing missing, the only thing she was
needed, the only thing she craved to please her Teacher, her finger.

"Fuck!"

Her words cried against the bare limbs of her death hold, "That fucking,
fucking, fucking bastard."


--------------------------


Message 319 from *storylines (#5236):
Date:     Thu Oct 20 02:27:22 2005 EDT
From:     Aksinya (#37211)
To:       *storylines (#5236)
Subject:  It begins..

The night had come to blanket across the land to mark the activities of the
 night owls to stir. Within the green room of the Tower the plans of the next
 few weeks began to bloom. Aksinya was knelt down upon a narrow path of
 crushed marble sending her fingers to play along the soft petals of the
 exotic flowers before her.

Emerging from the hallway, Elevar strolled into the green room as he has done
 a thousand times before. His hands tucked deep within his pockets and his
 single eye laid upon Aksinya.

Aksinya stayed quiet for a few moments before turning her head to look back
 onto Elevar. Upon crimson lips a grin begins to emerge as words were rolled
 forth from the shades of pink. "You came quickly. Good, the sooner we begin
 then the sooner everything will come into full effect." As the last world was
 delivered she rose from her kneeling position. The soft click of boots upon
 the marble sounded as she made her way towards Elevar. "Let's go. We have a
 long trip ahead of us, and dangerous one at that."

 A short chuckle rolled from his lips as he stepped aside.  Upon her passing
 he moves to follow, his movements a mere foot behind hers'.  "I really do not
 see why you need," As they finished going down the stairs he would stop to
 look at the statue.  Her teacher had strange tastes, he recognized this long
 ago.  But that statue just topped it all. ", a guard for this trip. They are
 not that hard to take down. Or have you been neglecting all forms of
 combat...again?"

Twisting through the air did Aksinya's hand raise like that of a snake drawing
the tips of her fingers
to glide across the chin of Elevar. "Not all.. " As the last word rolled past
the lips would the hand fall
obediently onto her side.

The trip upon the Banzai was brief, and filled with silence. Aksinya was too
 occupied with thoughts stirring within her mind. The Banzai came to land upon
 their destination, Wolf Moon Valley, and thus the weeks of solitude would
 begin. Through the Forest of Thorns did they wander for hours upon hours
 until coming upon the perfect place of camp.

Aksinya's gaze drifted over towards Elevar as the smile came fuller upon her
 lips. "When dawn breaks then we will begin."

--------------------------