Peredhil

Peredhil enters with a List in his hand. "Hmmm," he hummed as he perused the parchment, "I'll have to update the Master Lists to show the current status of everyone." He smiled happily. "Some of these people will be pleasantly surprised I think. This is long overdue." With a faint frown, he paused. "I do hope they all remember to put the Pen is Mightier than the Sword in their Signatures and update their Ranking. Posting the List, Elrond wanders to check the Conservatory for bright new creative types. Elrond Peredhil, 31 The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, Elder of Lists and Manners

Peredhil, still physically drained but recovered at other levels, rises and stands with the support of the worried Guinea Pigs on either side. A small pile of pellets around the feet of the pigs attests to their terror. His sons sit pale and slumped, having enfused their energies to their father to aid in his recovery. Appearing physically weak to the room, the three half-elves still spiritually flame with the auras of those that have walked and studied in the presence of Elbereth and Manwe, Orome and Aule. Leaving the fighting side to those that do it best, unable to directly help his friend Zadown of the Rogs, Elrond instead fixes his gaze on Spellbinder and searches for Understanding. Watching the flows of energies pooling around the Demon, the manner in which it Demonically Possesses each spell, Peredhil comes closer and closer that which he seeks. Spellbinder senses a threat, and snarls soundlessly, but no attack has been mounted, only a rising tide of ambient power in the room. With a psychic snap that rocks Elrond back on his heels, he has it. The Demon's True Name by which it may be Bound, locked into physical incarnation, unable to utilize its magical or spiritual powers. Unfortunately, holding the Name of such a Being on top of his earlier weakness has left Peredhil unable to use it in a Binding! Rapidly Weaving the Name into his passive defenses, He looks around the room for a Mage to whom he can share the Name as a weapon...

Laying in bed he listened to the different patterns of breathing. His father drew deep breaths, held for a moment, then released to end in a faint snore. Mother's breathing was always nearly silent, except the occasional faint whistle of her nose. She hated whistle-nose. His littlest sister's breath was quick and harsh, like that of a captive bird nestled his one's hand. The empty spot in the bed where his brother had lain still tore the rhythms of his life. Sometimes when the Voices were loud, he'd reach out to hold his brother, and find only a cold pillow to comfort him. He strongly suspected the Voices had taken his brother away. They talked about his sister at times, but she was too fast for them, always moving. Even now her feet jiggled in her sleep, making the enormous quilt they all shared vibrate like ripples in a pond. He'd started hearing the Voices about the same time as he'd begun growing hair other than his head. At first, he'd thought the hair caused the Voices, perhaps the white downy hair on his lip being the Voices that sighed in the wind, and the darker hairs under his arm that dampened so readily with sweat were the Voices which babbled in the water. The Voices that groaned in relief as they dug the rocks from the ground would have to be the dark curly hairs. But he'd carefully and painfully plucked all the hairs one day, hidden alone in the trees. With the studious fascination of the child he was just outgrowing, he'd caught each hair in the fine cracks of a bent stick, then straightened it and pulled. When he was all awash with red bumps and tears, he could still hear the Voices, laughing softly at him and whispering for him to join them in play. And at night, the Voices were louder. When his parents slept, when the fire was banked, when his sister twitched, the Voices plucked at the thatching and howled under the eves. The Voices grumbled like Old Papa had in the mornings, but deep under the floor. They sang low melodies in the blue flames that crept between the ashes and lickered along the charred coals. It was getting to where a boy simply couldn't sleep at night unless he was exhausted. He hoped they'd dig stones tomorrow, or chop wood.

Peredhil shudders delicately at hearing the burdens under which Wyvern suffers. Pitching in with a will, he quickly organizes and collates the stacks of paper. When done, the largest stack by far is the one marked 'Harebrained strategies for Getting Rich Quick!' Peredhil glances at the sheet on the top, and pauses mesmerized. Taking the entire stack, he moves to the antechamber to read and chortle. At the rate which he is reading, it will probably take him until Monday to finish the comic reading.

Peredhil wanders in from the Armies of Darkness. Elder Wyvern! Just a head's up - I redeemed that old scrap of paper you signed. Where are you hosting my celebration? There? Here? the Conservatory? He looks at the heaps of paperwork moldering on the desk Busy, huh? ( pub36.ezboard.com/farmyof...ID=6.topic )

He enjoyed this day's work beside his father. Working side by side on the fence line, they had fallen into a rhythm. Stoop, scoop, heft, fit. Each stone was nestled firmly into place before moving to the next. The sun was hot on the linen shirt he wore, although it's wide sleeves caught any movement of air. The steady work was soothing, mindless. The days spent digging in the fields, uncovering the stones, shaping them for their future resting place, those required more thought - and forced him to work alone. Alone was not a good thing. Alone mean he could think about the dreams that haunted his sleep. It was better to work beside the solid comfort of his Father, fitting the shaped stones, enjoying the breeze and bird's twittering, the blue of the sky and the light brown of the soil. Together they worked their way steadily down the row, muscles bunching in unison. Stoop, scoop, heft, fit. The stones nestled into their allotted places, chosen for the pattern of their colors as well as their shapes, peasant beauty rising from necessary form. Wistfully he wondered when he would be allowed to wear a sword while he worked.

Peredhil comes back into himself to find he shares his head with a splitting optic migraine. The brief touch at the end with that which he pursued lingers to haunt him at the edges of his awareness, slipping away when he tries to understand it. Lieing still, he seeks mushin - no mind - and allows the lesson to form in its own way. Finally he gives a convulsive breath and immediately moans at the pain which accompanies it. The realization of his near escape solidifies into understanding. "That is not a mortal being... We are dealing with an elemental force of reality." Peredhil is suddenly very grateful he's still alive to feel pain. In his arrogance that he is wise, he has been reminded that there are still many that exceed his understanding and abilities. Opening his eyes slightly, he is captivated by the dance of dust motes in the light, overwhelmed by the cool texture of the floor against his cheek. All his senses seek and soak in the reality of now, of being... His sons prepare a glass of ice water for when he comes back fully. They've seen him throw himself recklessly into peril too many times to be surprised or worried. Edited by: peredhil31 at: 7/26/01 2:39:01 pm

While Peredhil stares in amazement at the Original Zadown, his son Elrohir is not quite so slow. Quickly casting a Mage Mark - Adept Version, he 'tags' the vanishing Mage. The colors smear and settle, only the mess of the im/ex-ploded magi remain. At a cool glance from Elladan, Guido helps Guildo to clean up the mess. "Well of course we want him here," snorts Elrond, "Why would he think that WE of all people would reject HIM!" Turning to Elrohir, Peredhil continues, "Quick thinking son. This gives me a chance, abet a slim one with a mage so powerful and so tormented, to reach him." Drawing the Sigals and enscribing the Runes, (At which his family group move waaay back (Elrond rarely feels he has to use these, they take it as a sign of caution,)) Peredhil begins to chant. The air moans and begins to scream faintly under the stresses, the colors warp and smear in strobing kaledescopic rainbow fragments. The way is difficult indeed, even for an Adept Master. There are simply some places the Sane should not follow. Reaching as far as he can into the Warp, Peredhil casts his words down the fading trail - the Mage Mark itself is fragmenting under the conditions to which it is exposed. "Lord Zadown! Destroying yourself will not heal! Take it from one who knows Healing! You must Capture each dream and absorb it to regain your Heart and Mind! To Bind Dreams, Define them with the Peeeeennnnn!" Elrond's last words are ripped with his life's breath from his mouth and dragged down the rift through Realities, which implodes suddenly. A large section of the floor, shaped and bound by the Sigals, is gone. In it's place scuttle scorpion nails and knotty frogs. The inanimate and animate have lost their distinction in the exposure to the hideous stresses of the Adept Magic. Peredhil lies crumpled where the spell has left him.

But inside the Cabaret, the air is cool. Peredhil looks happily around. Guido the Bodyguard is talking to Guido the Bartender. Nuncio is standing at Elrond's back, scratching idly at the the blond wig still fixed to his pate. Elder Zool's portrait is talking to Loremaster Jechum in low tones, while Orlan is idly whittling chocolate into bunnies and other shapes - some not so recognizable. Doctor Evil, lolling at a table, smiles faintly everytime he and Elrond's eyes happen to cross. The wheels and cogs of many ideas spin behind his impassive gaze. His confidence is rather disconcerting. As always of late, several of the Zadowns are around, although very subdued at the moment. Peredhil frowns faintly, but can do nothing about the situation. Gwaihir has taken his stack of parchments to a table in the shadowy corner. His Quill is worn to the nub as he works and reworks each line, searching for the perfect meter and word, building poems from his heart. Not for him the quick scribbles such as Elrond enjoys. The faintest glimpse of Yui in the shadows behind Gwaihir, then gone again. The Huntress has many hidden paths through Shadow and shadows, this must be an intersection she uses frequently. All in all, it is a lovely day so far, wondering who will come through the door and spend some time next.

Peredhil saunters into the rubble of the Recruiter's Office followed by his sons and Body Guards. Elladan and Elhohir begin straightening furnature and pictures as Guido and Nuncio grab brooms. Peredhil strides up to the wall behind the desk and pulls his Pen from an inner pocket (Guaranteed to write on any surface!). Dearest Founder, he writes on the wall, The egroup site has been left behind Myfamily is gone over, ThePenisMightier ThenTheSword Was deemed simply crude. This Mighty Pen-Site is the one and only, You've found it now - with 'than' Permit me to break the hairy-knuckled bonds Of your grammatical jailor's brawny grasp. Peredhil summons Power and uses the titianium quill tip to slash the Runes of Release around the stanzas. A Portal opens to Ozymandias languishing in the grip of Confusion and the verse flees down the into his cell, providing a Map. Stepping back, Peredhil tosses the Pen into the Portal as it begins to implode, hoping it will reach the Founder. Sensing a faint contact, he knits his brows together in intense concentration, pouring his very essence into maintaining the spell's power - even as a brief smile of nostalgic pleasure plays across his face. "Hurry," he whispers in strain, "Hurry!" An azure flash paints a sudden stark shadow against the ceiling as if a phantasmal train were running the rails of the pathfinder spell. Elrond Peredhil was blown away as the spell collapsed birthing the body of the King. Peredhil was back on his feet in a flash ready to raise the Ringed hand when the Founder's chest shuddered into gasping life. As Peredhil turns, he sees that the clutter and rubble has been removed. With Ozymandias carried by the Giant Guinea Pigs, the party then exits out the back door from whence they came before Wyvern can return. (Edited to comply with the Founders post. ) Edited by: peredhil31 at: 7/19/01 4:50:10 pm

To Pen! To Pen! To the new Pen site! We have arrived...