Gyrfalcon

A small, robed figure trotted to the clicking of claws on stone, passing through the doorway and pausing to take in the room, a faint blue glow extending itself beyond the figure’s deep black hood as it slowly turned its head before finding its target. It grinned (not that it had much of a choice in the matter) and trotted purposefully into the crowd, easily slipping between and around legs as it passed the tanuki Tanuchan in the process of returning to her human form, bearing down on its target. Salinye was talking to Finnius, finally relaxing enough not to flinch nervously every time a crash sounded near the inebriated Mynx, which was happening quite often, and thus unaware as to the approaching robed and four-legged creature behind her until it spoke. “YERF!” it said, it’s voice echoing of tombstones and iron mourning bells. Salinye started badly before turning around and gasping in relief, breathing hard and putting a hand to her heart. “Daryl! You nearly scared me out of a decade of my life!” she said chidingly, a blush creeping across her cheeks in response to how startled she had become. “What was that all about?” “YERF YERF YER MRPH Y-*coughcough*” Daryl said, “Yerf mrph mph.” he finished more weakly before coughing again. Literally translated, he apologized for scaring her, noted that the opportunity had been too good to pass up, and that he was attending as the Death of Foxes. Salinye laughed and gathered him up, then paused, for he was lighter then he normally was. Almost hesitantly, she pulled back his hood. A gleaming white fox skull grinned up at her, having no other choice. The blue lights in the eye sockets danced merrily though, for the two seconds he remained in her arms before she screamed and flung the fox skeleton away from her. Daryl described a long arc through the air, howling all the way “Yeeeeeeerrrrrrrrf!” With a crash and a splash, he landed next to the spiked punch then went straight through, throwing the oddly smoking punch everywhere. He slid off the other end of the table without an appreciable loss of momentum due to the slick nature of the spiked punch and ricocheted off the wall, ending up spinning slowly in the middle of the dance floor, bony limbs and tail sprawled in every direction. “Yer...?” Something wrapped around him and pulled him into the air, and blue-glowing eyesockets came up to meet Mynx’s grey orbs. “Like, wow! You’re sort of cute! You have good taste in clothes too, but you’re sort of, you know, sort of bony!” she said, her tail waving Daryl, the Death of Foxes, back and forth as she bounced excitedly. “YERF.” Daryl put his head down and watched the ground swing back and forth, glad that she wasn’t tossing him across the room, at least.

Happy Birthday, Tralla, hope it was a good day for you.

Good to know, Stick. Here's to your having your own net access soon.

I plan to join in the Halloween party, I just need to think of a costume and get my act in gear.

Happy Post-Birthday, Lady Celes! I hope that you had a wonderful day.

Beyond the squimish, sick feeling most men get in the pit of their stomach when they learn that? I mean, take it from the animal's viewpoint. Bad enough you've been killed, gutted, chopped into dozens of pieces... but then they fry your family jewels and eat them. My spirit'd be flipping out.

Daryl stepped through the portal and grunted as he fell several feet, ending up sprawled out on the cracked pavement below. With a grumble he pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his jeans, the denim feeling strange to his hands after so long wearing cloth or soft leather. “Who the heck puts a portal above street level?” he muttered to himself before replacing his battered sunglasses and looking around, satisfied to see a rundown warehouse street with not a person in sight. It looked like Peredhil was right on target, except for the little height issue. Daryl made a note to pick up something nice for Peredhil on his way back – maybe another Armani suit, or something nice in the way of accessories. He’d have to buy it rather then steal it though, since it just felt... wrong... to steal something for Peredhil. Daryl sighed and shrugged, he should be able to find something, and he could always borrow money from Jehane in the worst case. Thinking of her, Daryl’s face brightened and he glanced around at the street and the decrepit buildings lining both sides before ducking down the nearest alley, hoping that Jehane was right and that the portal was either unguarded or defended by those loyal to her family. Ten minutes later, Daryl tucked away his map and looked around, nodding to himself. The portal he needed was over another two streets and down another alley. Lost in thoughts of meeting Jehane again after their time apart, he barely noticed the men slipping out of alleys all around him. “Lost?” one of them snickered. “Not so you’d notice.” Daryl said casually, making the gesture that indicated that he belonged in the criminal underbelly of the city. The thugs didn’t react at all. “I think you’re lost, and you need some... guidance.” one of the thugs behind him said definitively. “Such guidance will cost you, of course.” Daryl made the gesture again, then stared at the thug in front of him through his sunglasses as they once again failed to react. “Can’t you idiots recognize the high sign?” he asked incredulously. “’Oh, so is that what all that finger waving was?” one thug asked, spitting on the sidewalk. “What do we need with that damn mafia for anyway? All they’d do is take a cut of our take and give nothing back. Now give us all your money!” he demanded, his patience worn out. Daryl grinned unpleasantly. “Well, for one thing... they prevent things like this happening.” he said, letting the Change from human to werefox come over him. The next five minutes were some of the longest and most horrifying the would-be muggers had ever experienced. Daryl whistled to himself as he sauntered down an alleyway, a grin pasted on his face and once again human. It had been rather fun enlightening those thugs as to the proper order of things in the city. He paused as a figure stepped out of the shadows, dressed in loose flowing robes. “I think you have the wrong alley.” the figure said, its voice carrying a magical compulsion to it, one prodding Daryl to agree, leave, and forget that the incident had ever happened. “Actually, I think this is the right one. I’m looking for Jehane Inamora.” Daryl said in near-flawless Kitsune, easily ignoring the compulsion. The figure hesitated, surprised both by the stranger’s resistance to his magic and the request. “And who is asking?” he asked suspiciously, stepping closer to Daryl, the light falling on him revealing his vulpine muzzle and at least two lashing tails. “Daryl Carnsilion.” the werefox replied, tensing slightly as he awaited the kitsune’s response. He blinked in surprise when the kitsune bowed deeply a moment later. “Of course, I will convey your arrival to her immediately. Please, follow me.” He said, gesturing behind him to where a softly glowing portal filled the end of the alley. Well, that went well. Daryl thought to himself as he stepped through the glowing portal behind the kitsune. So far at least. Minutes later, he had Jehane wrapped in a tight embrace, and enjoying her arms tightly around him in return. Finally, she slacked her embrace and looked up at him. “Daryl?” “Mmhmm?” “Why is there a hole in the back of your coat? Have you been fighting again?” She asked suspiciously. “Now why would you think that?” Daryl asked, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Because there’s a large hole in the back of your coat. Now tell!” She demanded. Daryl chuckled and shrugged, the movement tugging at the skin between his shoulder blades, where a faint scar was already fading. “There were a few muggers who didn’t appreciate the fact that I wasn’t prepared to hand over my money. In the fight, one of them stabbed me in the back.” Jehane sighed and closed her eyes. “How many of them did you kill?” she asked in a resigned tone. Daryl looked injured in return. “I hurt several of them, but everything should heal in a week or two. Well… except for that guy’s broken arm. Just because he can’t really hurt me with a steel switchblade, doesn’t mean I like having someone ruin my clothes.” Daryl explained, grinning. Jehane sighed and shook her head again, a smile finding its way onto her face. “You’ll never change, will you?” she asked Daryl softly, and he grinned as he shook his head. “Good.” She said in a satisfied tone as they wrapped arms around each other again, the five-tailed kitsune casting a minor spell that repaired the hole in his jacket and shirt. “Now what brought you here?” “Well, you see, Gyrfalcon is…” Daryl started explaining, and as he spoke of the half-elf’s plans as he knew them, Jehane laughed in delight. “And that brings you here why?” she said, teasingly. “Because I’d enjoy your company, of course.” Daryl said with a grin. “Well, and Gyr’d like your help with some of his plan.” “Let me collect some things, and then let’s go!” she demanded, smiling as broadly as Daryl.

And the Weenie Awards are over! Any posts after this one don't count - sorry, you had your chance! Read the beginning of this thread to learn how to get rid of that annoying Weenie that will appear under your name soon!

"Happy Birthday, Peredhil. May you enjoy it with the warmth of your family." Gyrfalcon said with a wide smile. He eyed the XXXXXL T-shirt and can't help but wonder if it was made for Melba to begin with, perhaps in the hopes that something big enough to crush her would give her a hug. The world would probably never know, though Peredhil now had an excellent (if leaky) tent on his hands. Gyrfalcon grinned as he slipped a neatly wrapped present from behind his back and handed it to Peredhil. "This is from Daryl and myself, by the way." he said, watching Peredhil carefully and precisely open the package so not to mar the wrapping paper. Inside was a set of books, imports from Earth that Daryl had brought back with him from his latest foray back to his home world. "We know your viewpoint on Tolkien's take on the final days of Middle Earth before you and your kindred departed." Gyrfalcon said, nodding to the books, none of which bore Tolkien's name. "So Daryl picked up books by a few other 'fantasy' authors - specifically R. A. Salvatore, L. E. Modesitt, Jr. and David Eddings." Gyrfalcon grinned as he finished ticking off fingers. "I know you rarely have time to read, so if you enjoy these books, they should tide you over for a few months."

Friday! I get a whole extra hour of sleep tomorrow! WHEE! Still have to work though. I'll look forward to Sunday.

Still working on my date for Salinye, the one for Katzaniel is in limbo until Death of Rats writes his post. (*pokepokeprodpoke*) I will say that I have the next portion of the date for Salinye mostly written and I just need to give it a polish before posting. Yay!

Another thing I noticed is that your formatting is double-spaced, which looks odd on a forum. You might want to go back and single-space it. Otherwise, I agree with Happy Buddha that you can flesh this out and get a couple more pages out of it if you really wanted to. This can also help the readers learn the character of Leif's home village and their neighbors.

Jonathan Wolfe rolled on his side and smacked his lips, snoozing lightly, eyes tight-clenched as the morning light crept towards him, along with another, darker shape. The fox stretched out in the center of the bed, oblivious to his danger until a yelp of “BANZAI!” made Jonathan’s eyes snap wide open! Ten minutes later, Jon grumbled with ill-humor as Daryl gnawed lightly on his ear. “I already surrendered.” Jon reminded Daryl in Fox. “Of course you did, but this is fun!” Daryl said, finally stopping his gnawing and moving to settle a few feet away from Jon, nosing at his tail. Jon grumbled and pulled himself to his feet, shaking himself to resettle his fur. “Now what the heck was that about?” he demanded. Daryl pulled out a card and nosed it Jon’s way. Curious, the fox stared at the card. It read simply in Gyrfalcon’s hand writing. Jonathan blinked and stared at the card, then Daryl. “Do you know what this about?” he demanded, and Daryl grinned and shrugged. “You do know! Tell me!” Jonathan demanded. Daryl just grinned wider. “I am that is!” he said before jumping down and scampering out the door. Jonathan sighed. “That’s my line!” the fox complained to thin air. Daryl snuffled at the ground outside Jonathan’s quarters before returning to the Cabaret Room, seeking to find his next targets. A scythe-wielding tiger morph, a talking gryphon, and a human wouldn’t be too hard to track down. Indeed, before reaching the Cabaret Room, Daryl hit upon the musky scent of a gryphon and followed it, leading him eventually to the Assembly Room, where to his delight he found all three of his targets, weaving the next portion of their literary work, Walking the Unseen. He trotted up to Mynx and tugged at the edge of her robe, causing the scythe-wielding tiger to look down. “What? Oh, you must be the half-elf’s pet fox... or that other fox.” Daryl yerfed and wagged his tail as the other two stepped forward to inspect him. He plucked three more cards from his tail and stretched his neck towards them. The three carefully took the cards, and held them gingerly. “I wonder what an Elder wants with us?” Gryphon said with a touch of concern after reading the card. “Whatever it is, he hasn’t been noticed to call frivolous meetings.” cryptomancer said quietly. “Tell Gyrfalcon that we’ll be there.” Mynx bade Daryl, who yerfed his assurances that he would and wagged his tail at them before trotting off, snuffling the ground for his next prey. Daemara, more commonly known as BlackCagedHeart was quickly found in the Banquet Room and her card placed in her hand, and Daryl trotted off again, snuffling and searching for the last of his prey. The person’s trail led back and forth across the Pen, but eventually Daryl found a fresh scent and followed it to the writer’s workshop, where Loki Wyrd was hard at work on a poetic masterpiece. It took a fair amount of yipping and yerfing, but Daryl finally got Loki Wyrd’s attention and the card delivered before scampering off to inform Gyrfalcon that everyone was informed. ----- The six who had received Gyrfalcon’s message assembled that evening at The Confessional. They noted the sober silence, the tavern apparently dead that evening, with only Daryl and Gyrfalcon there to greet them. Gyrfalcon stood next to a small indoor pool at the base of a great tree that spread its limbs across the length and breadth of the large hall, leaves green and fresh despite the slow turning of the seasons. The six approached hesitantly, surprised at the presence of others then themselves. “You wished to speak to us, Elder Gyrfalcon?” Mynx asked. “Yah, what’s up Gyr?” Jonathan chimed in, looking about curiously, for the room was thick with scents despite its emptiness, many of them recent. “There is something very serious that you are all a part of.” Gyrfalcon said quietly, forcing them to focus their attention on them. “And it is for this reason you have been summoned here.” The six looked among themselves, confused. To their knowledge, none of them were involved in any of Wyvern’s crazy schemes, so it surely couldn’t be for that. As for any other reason... “Loki Wyrd, Gryphon, cryptomancer, BlackCagedHeart, and Mynx!” Gyrfalcon suddenly barked, and the five stepped forward hesitantly. “All five of you are but Initiates of the Pen, but devotion to it has been steadfast. Likewise, you have contributed your poems and stories, your very presence to our community. For these reasons and many others, I hereby promote you to the rank of Page, and I wish you the best of luck with your future endeavors in the Pen.” Gyrfalcon said warmly. Relief and then shock broke across the five as they stepped back, stunned by the suddenness of their new titles. Gyrfalcon smiled broadly at them and winked before motioning Jonathan Wolfe forward. “Jonathan, you are already a Page of the Mighty Pen, and you have shown a desire to take on a larger role within this community. Over your time here, you have contributed to the community with your presence, and likewise with your many poems and the story you hold close to your heart. It is with sincere pleasure that I award to you the title of Quill-Bearer! When you are ready, you may embark upon a Quill Quest for the good of the Pen to earn the right to one of the voting titles beyond Quill-Bearer. Congratulations, my friend.” Gyrfalcon smiled as Jonathan tottered back to stand with the other five recently promoted. “And now for you all, what promotion is complete without its very own party?” he said with a suddenly impish grin, waving his hands and causing the spell casters to dispel their illusions. The room was suddenly transformed, tables along the walls groaning with food and drink, and the majority of the Pen standing in deep ranks around the six. A few hands started the applause, and then many joined, a rising crescendo of welcome to the newest Pages and Quill-Bearer of the Mighty Pen.

R-rated. Definantly R-rated. I know that tactic, my friend Aaron always used it. When they blush bright-red and plead the fifth, it's R-rated thoughts!

Happy Birthday Racouol.

Gyrfalcon smirks in amusement as Wyvern's scheming is foiled once more - which was just as well, as the required 'y' for the greedy lizard's name would have come from Gyrfalcon's own. With a smile, he produced a quill of his own and wrote his name neatly below Wyvern's before tucking the quill back into his Bag of Holding before turning to Wyvern with a grin. "Just remember for this time around, you're not supposed to try to charge people for reading your portions of the Writing Exchange, no matter how numerious or well-written they were. "But Gyr," Wyvern said plantively. "It was a great three for one deal! And for a low, low price to boot!" "Tough luck, Wyv." the half-elf said unsympathetically, though he smiled at the lizard. "It sort of goes against the idea of the Pen." Wyvern muttered something under his breath, along the lines of how the idea of the Pen shouldn't interfere with his schemes. "What was that?" Gyrfalcon asked mildly. "Oh, I fully agree with you Gyr!" Wyvern said quickly, despite the guilty look flashing across his scaly face. Gyrfalcon chuckled as he walked away. "Silly Wyvern."

Good luck with the hurricane coming your way, Xaious! I'll take a pass at wind-surfing with rollerblades though.

*laughs at Wyvern's gifts* Happy Birthday, you two. If you want a better demonstration by someone you don't wince to look at, I'll be willing to help you with the ear speak, Thinas. *grins*

*sits and waits so very impatiently* I love it so far, keep going!

This is also found in the Library, but more people read here then there. Enjoy. This post from another forum was directed to my attention, and I decided to share it with you. WARNING: Do not drink anything while reading this. You have been warned! Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street) Author: Daniel Meyer Posted: 10/26/2003; 7:17:42 PM Topic: Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street) Msg #: 287 (top msg in thread) Prev/Next: 286/288 Reads: 210792 I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too. Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being “behind the power curve”. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up. Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle…at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine. I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there! Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness…all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway. I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that “edge” so frequently required when riding. Little did I suspect… As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it—it was that close. I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves! Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street…and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing. I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an evil attack squirrel of death! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in…well…I just plain screamed. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street…on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however. The rpm’s on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop. Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand…I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak. Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car. I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser. So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger… That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car… I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood. As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I’ll take my chances with the freeway. Every time. And I’ll buy myself a new pair of gloves. CUAgain, Daniel Meyer

Have a good time in RL to all those going AFK for a while! Meanwhile, the rest of us will just stew here, lonely without you! *Daryl whispers in his ear* Oh, sorry, we're going to be too busy partying, according to Daryl. And you won't be attending, your bad luck! *Daryl hopes the sounds of the merriment will draw back those leaving more quickly!*

I'm glad you enjoyed the experience, Salinye, and I hope you head to bed early - it sounds like you need it!

This post from another forum was directed to my attention, and I decided to share it with you. WARNING: Do not drink anything while reading this. You have been warned! Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street) Author: Daniel Meyer Posted: 10/26/2003; 7:17:42 PM Topic: Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street) Msg #: 287 (top msg in thread) Prev/Next: 286/288 Reads: 210792 I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too. Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being “behind the power curve”. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up. Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle…at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine. I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there! Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness…all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway. I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that “edge” so frequently required when riding. Little did I suspect… As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it—it was that close. I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves! Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street…and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing. I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an evil attack squirrel of death! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in…well…I just plain screamed. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street…on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however. The rpm’s on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop. Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand…I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak. Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car. I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser. So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger… That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car… I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood. As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I’ll take my chances with the freeway. Every time. And I’ll buy myself a new pair of gloves. CUAgain, Daniel Meyer

Good to know Stick, though I hope the situation can be resolved quickly in a manner that guarantees you net access.

Katzaniel was bored. There was no way to escape that fact, or that she was beyond bored. Deathly bored even. With a long sigh, she rolled over onto her back and stretched out luxuriously, admiring her striped forearms as she enjoyed her tiger form, that annoying little voice in the back of her mind reminded her of all the things she could be doing. She ignored it as a matter of course. She raised her head in surprise as someone knocked on her door fives times, then twice more. Pulling herself to her feet, she sighed and shifted forms, becoming the half-man half-tiger that was capable of communicating with the rest of the Pen. With a grumble, she threw open the door and demanded. “What?” The young man on the other side of the door blinked in surprise over dark glasses of some kind Katzaniel had never seen. She noted his eyes were a strange golden color before focusing on the bouquet of bright wildflowers he held in his hands. “If you’re another suitor, I already have plenty.” Katzaniel said, rolling her eyes at yet another suitor who didn’t understand that what she really wanted brought to her was a freshly killed creature to show the suitor’s hunting prowess. Not a bunch of flowers that weren’t even good to eat! The little voice in the back of her head piped up that flowers were considered part of the mating ritual in some human cultures – an attempt to please the woman with a pleasantly scented gift. She suppressed that voice again. “Actually, you bought my attentions, unlike the others.” the stranger said with a short bow. “What?” Katzaniel said, looking blank. “Bachelor auction? Bidding for a date? You won me. I’m Daryl, by the way.” he said, holding out the bouquet. “Oh. Oh yeah, that thing.” Katzaniel said, memory finally starting to emerge, Salinye nagging at her to bid on bachelors and her finally choosing a few at random and bidding a bit of geld just to please Salinye. Apparently, she had won one of the ones she bid on. “Yeeeeeah, that thing.” Daryl said with a smirk, slightly off-put by Katzaniel’s ambivalence towards him. She finally took his flowers and tossed them to the side... where they landed on a mount of similar bouquets in the corner. “You are popular.” he muttered, slightly awed at the number of offerings that had been made, and from the sweet scent of the mound, all of them within the last few days. “I was thinking of taking you out to a restaurant.” he said smoothly. “I’ve heard that the Porterhouse Golem serves excellent steak.” Katzaniel collected her spear and stepped out of her quarters, pulling the door closed behind her, deftly used to the intricacies of even simple actions like closing a door when you’re a tigertaur. “Fine, let’s go.” she said, hoping that the evening wouldn’t be too boring. ---- “I am sorry sir, but we have a strict policy regarding attire here.” the head waiter said mechanically. “Look, she’s a tigertaur; it’s impractical for her to wear shoes.” Daryl argued. “I’m sorry sir, but the policy is very strict: no shoes, no shirt no service.” The waiter repeated monotonously. Katzaniel glared poisonously at the head waiter and wrung the haft of her spear slowly. Daryl snarled in frustration and shook his head. “Fine then, I want my deposit back.” “I’m sorry, but deposits are non-refundable.” the waiter said, neither satisfaction nor unhappiness staining its voice. Daryl leaned closer, golden eyes staring into steel eyes. “If I don’t get my deposit back, they’ll never find all of your parts.” he said, biting off each word slowly. The golem considered this statement and the spear pointed its way and wisely acceded. It wasn’t a combat model or a heavy work model and had no defense against situations like this. “Of course, please wait one moment.” it said, quickly retrieving Daryl’s deposit and returning it to him. “Please come again.” it mechanically said as the two brushed through the restaurant’s doors, before turning to the next customers. “A table for two? Certainly...” “Sorry about that Katzaniel.” Daryl said glumly, his carefully planned evening crumbling already. “The nerve of that... that... walking rust heap!” Katzaniel fumed, thumping the base of her spear on the ground as she stormed along beside Daryl. “If you want, I’ll go back and appropriate some steaks.” Daryl offered. “I don’t want steak! I want something freshly killed!” Katzaniel grumbled. “Foxes aren’t well known for their ability to pull down deer, but I’m willing to give it a try.” Daryl said with a shrug. Katzaniel smirked at him. “I’m willing to eat smaller prey too, if your hunting skills are limited.” Daryl chuckled. “Smaller, huh? Well, some of the rats in the tunnels under the Confessional back at the Pen are the same size as rabbits...” “If that’s all you can handle, fox, then so be it.” Katzaniel said with a smirk. “Though they hardly match a fat deer.” she paused for him to turn away before adding. “I wouldn't want you to get yourself hurt, after all.” Daryl shook his head. “Ah well, just so you enjoy yourself.” he muttered. “Even if it is at my expense.” ---- Not twenty minutes later, the two were in the tunnels under the Confessional, Daryl a fox and Katzaniel a tiger-stripped house cat, to make the hunt a little more challenging. She shook her head as Daryl bounded down the tunnel, shouting in Fox . Whatever he was saying, the rats sure were responding, squeaks and chitters as rats of every size, even some as large as small dogs went scurrying every which way. Katzaniel smiled to herself and crouched, tail lashing, one particularly large rat was running right her way, looking back over its shoulder. It never even had a chance to see her spring.