Zadown

Yeah! I'm already going through yellow pages for a good psychiatrist so I can deal with the trauma. I guess at this point it'd be wise to have other instant messangers and stuff, but since they are all inferior to the god of communications, IRC, I don't. Wanders off the computer chair and goes to sit in a corner, going 'Waily waily waily!'. PS. Tried 4 different servers, none responding and www.galaxynet.org is down also. All other IRC servers and www pages work fine. 'Tis the end of the world!

A house-trained ||` looking for a good server, will sweeten stuff for a dose of IRC! x_X

The Dreamer took one last look around, noted that the wards were in place and there was nothing threatening nearby. The place was silent, the pulsing colored light the only thing that wasn't perfectly still. He sat down into a lotus position, had the scabbard of the no-dachi hit the floor and poke his back, spent an awkward moment shuffling his long limbs. Finally he was ready and closed his eyes, reached forward with his left hand to touch the temple of the dead soldier. He exhaled slowly all the air out of his lungs and froze into that position for a moment, then inhaled the pine-scented air, whispering. When the planewalker opened his eyes the scene before him had changed: before him stood a silvery ghost reflection of the Dreamer, waving and transparent, holding Pain in both hands, and from the corpse rose up a thin strand of smoke that vanished somewhere beyond the normal three dimensions. He exhaled again, let his awarness flow from his body to his astral projection, and closed his eyes to fall into a trance. I feel .. stronger than usual, now. Reminds me of those shards of me I dreamed to existence when I slept; perhaps it is legacy of the dream god, this unusual strenght of my mere reflections. He opened his eyes to look at his immortal body sitting inside the warded circle in a trance. The scarred face looked worn, a look reinforced by the wispy strands of grey hair floating around it as a halo. The body glowed with power that was easy to see in this form, swirling streams of chaos and raw magic engulfing the planewalker in a protective cage. The projection turned its head to look at the soldier. The corpse was empty and cold in comparison, only thing separating it from dead, soulless items being the thin, smoke-like line that connected the body and the soul even after death. Now he could see the way it wormed its way through the Astral even if the destination was too far to discern quite yet. Wherever it goes, no place hoarding souls welcomes a planewalker. There is no shape I can take that'd prevent a fight with the demons if that's where his soul has fallen... The Dreamer drew forth a copy of his angel mask from thin air, waved goodbye to his corporeal form as he put it on. The astral form wavered and transformed, wings sprouting from its shoulders, scars vanishing, armor turning from the chaotic mix into beautiful and elegant celestial platemail. Pain's reflection flickered and was gone, a long slender blade appearing in its place. The fake angel flexed his new wings, sheathed his sword and jumped to flight. A few wingbeats later he had already left the small demiplane behind him, following the trail of the soul through the shortcuts only souls and other fully incorporeal entities are allowed to take through the Astral. The journey was very different from normal run through the Void, flashing images of bypassed planes flickering all around him in dizzying cavalcade. The Dreamer ignored them all however, and concentrated on keeping track of the thin, almost invisible thread he was following. When he breached the last planar wall, he paused to float in the air disoriented. Before him opened up a vivid, deep blue sky half-full with pure white clouds, a yellow sun peeking between them. He floated above rich golden fields and dark green forests, small lakes here and there between gently rolling old hills. There were a few wooden huts, some villages but no towns or cities, and he could see no larger roads either. A rural idyl, the paradise called Cáleathia. The Dreamer frowned as he slowly floated downwards along the tether. So he ended up in here, despite being torn up by demons? They usually catch all the souls they can. He came to a stop above a small farm. Below him the soldier's soul was toiling away in the fields, apparently harvesting grain. The Dreamer wasn't very well versed in the art of agriculture - the only harvesting he was really familiar with was the gathering of souls with tools of war, so he couldn't tell for sure. He turned his silver eyes away from the happily toiling man and scanned the sky, shading his eyes with his hand. No angels or other celestials in sight, so far. He flexed his wings again, and manifested himself, turning visible to normal sight, and floated down. The aura of light and power that was part of his disguise alerted the soldier and he turned to face the Dreamer pausing his work. There was an amount of awe and fear in the soldier's eyes, but he also frowned as if the angel was an unwanted guest on his farm, and he did not bow down his head. The only concession the soldier made to the blinding aura of light surrounding the Dreamer's angelic form was to narrow his eyes. "Yes?" "Greetings, soul. Ye are Jenael Graersonson Thamusson of Tlaenor, recently deceased in the Fortress of Gsiv and torn away from thy mortal body?" "Yes, yes I am .. what about it, angel?" "Rejoice, for ye shall be restored back to life! Thy body has already been repaired and 'tis just a matter of time for ye to be reunited with it." "Eh.. what? I appriciate the offer, but I don't want to leave. I did my time in the mortal realms, fought a losing war and set free a diabolic demon that demolished my home city as one of my last acts - I was suprised to be granted the mercy of salvation with such a heavy sin weighting against it." "What!?" The suprise was too much for him, and he let his concentration lapse for a moment, allowing his disguise to crack and falter. He looked like a statue of a majestetic angel breaking apart, the monochrome silvery projection of the planewalker shining through. A stricken look appeared on the soldiers face and he screamed in anguish, throwing away his tools and running away in blind panic. "Noooo!! He is here! He has come to take me away!" The illusion around the Dreamer wavered and returned to its former glory, but the damage was already done. Feeling quite foolish, the planewalker remained where he was, staring after the escaping soldier with a mixture of incomprehension and annoyance on his face. Well, that could've gone better. At that very moment he felt a terrible pain lancing through his left arm and the disguise of an angel shattered again, this time shattering irrevocably. The remaining projection of the planewalker swayed in the air, flickering in and out of focus, a huge hole appearing out of nowhere through its left shoulder. He had time to twist his face into a look of unexpected pain before he felt himself vanishing, awarness transfering back to his corporeal body in trance. What theeeeaaa aaahh in niineeh hells.... !?

2) I think the objects in my apartment are stealing my life. This ice tea carton fell down without any wind to do that, without tremors; it must've jumped and stumbled. Glasses are not where I leave them and they stare at me, smugly. Spoons are even worse, eyeballing me with their round faces like they were royalty! Sometimes when I sit perfectly still, I can hear them walking around and around and around, but still staying at one place to fool me. But I can feel my colors fading, my senses receding as they drain and leech and sip - and laugh, afterwards, moan and groan with huge mouths at me, taunting and saying "There you are, not much left in you, while we get fatter every day. Soon you'll be the one skittering away in the dark and shadows, hiding from us as we rule this place." Not with those words, of course. They haven't stolen enough to talk yet. Or so I say to myself, muttering in voices so much like the spoon's I do wonder. What if? What if ... WHAT IF!? 3) There are moments, when I wish I had a camera. Then there are moments, when I _really_ wish I had a camera, weeping, nearly, to the visions that are destined to die unrecorded. A summer morning, wind utterly still (having a holiday), transparent ethereal mist squirming over water, sunlight truly golden dancing over white ships, blindingly white fleet of them in the harbour; and an empty beach, some forgotten child's cry waiting in the air above it, too early for it to show itself. And the birds, they circle and cry, seagulls, or just sing their repetitive but still beautiful tunes over and over again, louder than the one or two cars marring the serene soundscape. I can smell hyacints and other flowers enjoying the short summer, the long long days and non-existent nights, an hour of dark and 20 of light, three of shadowy blue dawn and dusk, or even more. We pay the price during the winter, of course, but Finland can be so beautiful, so right, during summer. I walk forward, trying to at least scavenge a poem out of the vivid, beautiful, dying vision of a summer morning, but each step towards the computer jarrs a word away from me, and I leave a trail of bits and pieces of the picture behind me as I walk. Something for the other morning walkers to find and cherish, a few superlatives, words like 'golden' and 'eerie', but in finnish, of course. I cannot write poems on empty papers in english, the same way I can't write short stories on those same empty papers in finnish. So cubersome, but there it is. Nobody ordered me to have two languages, or to go watch the already risen sun at 4:30 am. These things just happen.

Not sure what the rules are except to write fast and not to go back to edit it? Yui was aiming at 25, don't think I'll do any set number myself. Well, anyways... 1) One thing I remember really well is an old animation where they realized they were living in somebody's dreams, and that the person would wake up in 5 minutes. They did research, built and tinkered, and managed to finally make a dimensional portal with which they kidnapped their sleeping god, dragged him home so he'd never wake up and make them go away. In three minutes his dream changed to chaos of flamingos, and the clever dream civilization transmuted into those pink birds and was forever gone. What if we all have those dream civilizations inside our heads, waiting for us to go to sleep so they can work their magic, research and tinker some more on loaned minutes that stretch to years for them, like dreamtime does? What if they are communicating there beyond the veil of dreams, their ideas breeding with each other, a thousand dimensional portals, a thousand kidnapping teams ready to haul us away so we'd never wake up? Should we start to dream about flamingoes, while we still can?

Nobody would know what fate befell on him or grieve after him if I'd just leave him there. All his comrades are gone or patrolling the streets of New Tlaenor as shades. It was pure chance he ended up here. The Dreamer sighed and knelt down to examine the corpse better. The soldier had clearly died before the chaos storm had hit, and was still in normal human shape. He was missing most of its lower torso and big chunks from both legs - the throat was cut open and flesh torn away from fingers. Mouth was open, jaws dislocated by a scream that had ended up in death, wide dimmed eyes stared at the thoughtful visage of the planewalker. With another even deeper sigh, the Dreamer muttered a few words of magic and ignited a bright blue fire on the floor. His gesture sent it dancing across the floor, burning runes on the floor at the same time the planewalker himself kicked and dragged the few closeby corpses away from the soldier. He finally nudged the soldier away from the wall and nodded to the long-dead human, gestured again to the flame. It finished the runes and ran around the soldier leaving behind it a perfect circle. He rubbed his hands together in an uncharateristic show of uncertainity. He sheathed Pain in the black scabbard on his back and stepped carefully over the runes and the circle to not to smudge them, then turned and examined each of the burned runes. Third small gesture made bluish light dance over the now activated runes and protective circle and he turned yet again, obviously satisfied with the wards. Raise the dead, so they say. Short words for this whole abysmal procedure. I should've brought one of those morning stars the clerics used in Norrath with me as I left. The acrid air made him cough and he realized he had drawn a deep breath, as if he needed it. His deep blue eyes narrowed and he knelt down again, tracing the wounds and lost flesh with his scarred fingers. Without any definite start, he whispered gently, then muttered and finally spoke aloud words of life and regeneration, drawing small sigils on the pale dead flesh that shone green for a second or two, then faded. As he worked on the complex spell, the air inside the circle purified and a sweet fragrance akin to the smell of tall oil filled the small space. Time passed but nothing much seemed to happen to the corpse. After a while, the Dreamer abruptly stood up and turned to look deeper into the fortress, eyes turning into a curious shade of yellow. Is there still something alive down there? Or was that just some transmuted wall groaning? He gazed into the depts of the swirling mist illuminated by seemingly sourceless pulsing light, but the sound did not repeat itself. He shrugged and turned his blue eyes back on the corpse. It was still missing the same pieces of flesh as it had been when he started, but its skin had an almost lively color now and ghost images of the green sigils danced above the wounds. The Dreamer took a steady posture, pointed both of his hands at the corpse and spoke aloud a litany of true words, creating flesh out of nothing with each. His voice turned harsh and spent and sweat trickled across his brow as he draw the runes of each word in the air with his deftly moving fingers. Finally he was finished. With a shuddering breath he inhaled enough air to growl aloud the last word, word that restored some tiny but important piece of lost nerve tissue to the hands, and fell quiet. The planewalker took a half step backwards and wiped sweat away from his brow. Before him lay now a complete human body, every wound and missing scrap of flesh restored, skin flushed with lively colors. But soul gone, still. Here ends the easy part.

A tall armored figure appeared out of thin air to stand on dark, lifeless ground. It held a spectral no-dachi ready and eyed the surroundings with almost palpable wariness with its yellow eyes. The cracked and dry black plain it now stood on was the edge of a plane, and behind the planewalker arose the crystal wall that kept the Void in bay. Before him stood a gloomy fortress of dark grey stone, filling the whole plane with its immense bulk. It had thick, smooth walls, obviously not crafted of blocks but rather shaped with magic, and massive gates of black iron carved full of runes of warding and protection, now hanging open, useless. Above the battlements were two flags, one displaying the old mage sigil of the Dreamer, the other flagpole supporting an impaled, blood-drenched angel whose wings were scribbled full of obsceneties in various demonic and planar languages. A pale light constantly changing its color pulsed from between the half-open gates. Guess the battle was lost and the chaos storm released, then. This fortress was a bit close to the nearest abyss, I must admit, but still .. how very unfortunate. And just when I had been working hard to get the numbers of my angel army back to the normal. Hmm... can't smell any demons, devils or fiends nearby. The Dreamer walked slowly towards the gate, keeping himself alert and holding his sword ready. The only sound he could hear was the crunch of his boots on gravel and stone and the flutter of his sole survivng flag. There was no wind here but he had enchanted the flag to flutter, whether out of boredom or vanity he had forgotten by now. He paused in the shadow of the two tall gates, almost twice his height, and examined the runes he had wrought on their surface dozens of human lifespans ago. The planewalker frowned, demons forgotten for a moment. Not very great work. Even Valdar could do this by now. I've been lazy, should've reworked the enchantments on these ages ago. Sighing, he pushed both gates wide open. Before him opened a grotesque view, a convention of half-molten demonic nightmares and slaughtered celestials in a corridor that itself had mutated and twisted in the caustic chaos that had been let loose here. He could still feel the bitter, sickening warmth of the chaos storm around him. The air was thick and corrosive, it chafed against his fingertips and stinged his eyes, tasted like some long-dead scavenger in his mouth. The wall near him had grown scales that oozed some bluish liquid - the ceiling went from grey stone to green metal to iron rotted through with rust, changing to far more bizarre materials further along. Floor was so stained it was impossible to tell what it had changed to, but he disliked the manner it gave way under his boots. He walked forward even slower, examining each chaos-corrupted demon's corpse carefully before venturing near, noting every dead angel down. Not many demon corpses that weren't alive when the storm hit. The defenders must've been totally overrun - can't stop good old demon stampede once it gets properly underway. The Dreamer paused. He tilted his head slightly, then closed his eyes. He could hear something at the edge of his hearing, an organic, snapping noise. Just as he thought he got a good idea where the sound was coming from, he stepped backwards before realizing why. He opened his red eyes with Pain held ready to parry, and saw that one of the dead demons was still alive, twisted but not killed by the chaos. It rose up to its three new spindly legs of different lenght, its entrails swinging in the air from the re-designed and more open stomach, and gazed him with its insect eye and the empty eyesocket. Out of its two maws came out a pitiful warcry, half-hearted growling whimper. The sad mismatched creature brandished its chaos-bent blade and hobbled towards the planewalker. The planewalker stepped forward and prompty dispatched his opponent with a single sweeping blow. Flickering the ichor and blood off the blade, he turned away from the remains of the demon and stared towards the depths of the fortress. The colorful pulsing light was stronger there, and he could feel it pulse in accordance with the rhythm of the remaining chaos. A mist blocked his vision however, and he didn't feel like exposing his more supernatural senses to the tainted and stained fortress. Chaos in its most unpleasant and deadly form already assaulted all his normal senses from touch to smell, and even though he was protected by enchantments and doubly so by the fact he was branded by chaos himself, the sensations were still wholly disagreeable. Turning his gaze back, the Dreamer went through the rest of the remains, poking and prodding with the tip of his sword. There was a fixed grimace on his face now, a look that showed his dislike of this butcherer's work of shifting through disfigured corpses. After examining the dead for a while he shrugged and let them be - they did not seem to hold any secrets he'd been interested in. His eyes focused somewhere past the bodies and he was lost in thought, eyes turning deep blue. The contemplation of abstract thoughts and far-away things did not last long; in a few moments the harsh enviroment jolted the Dreamer back to this world. ... ah. Yes, I should go see what, if anything, remains in the storerooms. That is why I am here, right. He blinked a few times and turned to walk deeper into the fortress when by chance he saw what his more careful searching had missed: a partly eaten human cadaver still clothed in the blue tabard of Tlaenor's army, skeletal fingers curled around the hilt of a broken sword. Thrice cursed gods! I sent him HERE?

Errare Humanum Est.

[03:03:23] * @||` plants X-Sabre in the middle of the Live Action Tic Tac Toe playfield [03:03:24] <@||`> X! [03:03:42] <@X-Sabre> I see [03:03:44] <@||`> yer move, Val [03:03:53] <@||`> silence, playing piece [03:04:15] * Valdar grabs OrlanBED and elfhandles him into the upper right corner [03:05:04] * @||` takes Star|idle and slaps him into right middle spot in X shape [03:05:55] * Valdar drags Yui to the left-middle spot and curls her up around a pillow [03:06:42] * @||` picks up AegonWoW and drags him to the middle low spot, arranging his limbs into X-shape [03:07:44] <@||`> hrmm... I think my brain's not working right tonight [03:08:00] * Valdar ponders a moment before grabbing Joat and maneuvering him to the upper-middle section next to Orlan [03:08:49] * @||` gently escorts the snoring Gwai to the upper left section, and draws a small X on her forehead [03:10:07] * Valdar tags his idle self by one ear and pulls him to the lower left \\\o_o\\\ [03:10:31] * Valdar carefully arranges his idle self's ears into a circle [03:10:34] * @||` flops down at lower right in X-shape [03:10:42] <@||`> ... as usual, a draw x_X [03:10:50] <@||`> err wait [03:10:51] <Valdar> yupyup \x_x/ [03:10:54] <@||`> XOO [03:10:56] <@||`> OXX [03:10:58] <@||`> OXX [03:11:01] <@||`> I win? [03:11:09] <Valdar> Xoo [03:11:14] <Valdar> OXX [03:11:18] <Valdar> XXO [03:11:23] <Valdar> according to mine [03:11:40] <Valdar> wait, lower left, should have been lower right. . .ya you win [03:11:47] <@||`> woohoo! ... just felt like posting that, so sue me. So, next time ye idle ... ye might be used as a tic tac toe pawn! Caveat!

It's no problem, Katz, yer just bumping up the thread and the view count, BWHAHAH HAHAHA HAAAAAAAAA!!!one Besides, it is Pen tradition to derail threads.

Yeah right! We usually set any disappearees on fire and feed them to Waterlily, but ... well .. guess we can make an exception, this once.

5 lines I guess ye mean? "period." is supposed to be the title. In any case, I thought it is rather clear as far as poems go. Never read an old love letter (or some "bad news" -mail, I suppose) by accident and felt bitter about how things ended up? Ayshela obviously has.

period. I opened an old mail by accident and even if I saw only a few words of a forgotten text I knew right away from whom it had been and what it was about I felt physically sick as always when I see my own blood flow from that dead end grew a path which I now walk and even when I repeat all is forgiven the sickness does not abate it erupts into pictures visions of some other me who did not go this way and is now, perhaps happier or just sad in a different way

Eight, Six and Five were all ready. I could sense them nearby, even if it was impossible to see them. They were masters of stealth, lurking in the mist of the Veil. Still, I could envision them: their midnight-black chitinous plate armor, the dark sickles they held in their hands as claws, the tiny movements of their fingers as they signed to each other in the Crows’ own language. I sent a nervous thought, sort of “here I go, then”, and stepped through the planar crystal. He wasn’t there. At least not on plain sight. This plane was very small, a mere bubble in the great Astral sea, a 50 foot radius sphere totally empty of any features, so there wasn’t really any place to hide. I sent a quick warning to the boys and drew my sickles, crouched down to a wary position. I concentrated, but could not sense any magic either. Before I had time to start thinking what to do, I could hear our leader’s voice in my head. One: “Trap?” Me: “Mmm, the jury’s still out on that one. Place is clear to all my senses.” Five: “Outside clear.” Two: “Approach clear.” Nine: “Approach two unclear, some movement far-away but closing.” One: “We wait, Nine keep an eye for possible hostiles, Seven hide and wait. That movement might be our man.” Nine: “Got it.” Me: “Got it.” I melded myself with the few shadows I could find. Not very impressive, but it was the best I could do in an empty sphere devoid of any real hiding places. I grimaced inside my armor. One knew I hated waiting, which is why I was almost always the first man in. It was a miracle I was still alive with all the times I had been the spearhead, and I knew it, but as far as I knew not many humans had survived in the Murder of Crows as long as I had. It was mostly subtle hints and jokes, and of course with these accursed helmets I did not really know what races we had in the outfit, but I was pretty certain most were elves, as odd as it may seem. Guess we were elitist enough for them, intelligent, deadly and immortal. Hah yeah, immortal. We never let rumours of our losses circulate. If we had to kill a few extra ones for that, ‘twas unfortunate, but most of our boys weren’t in this business to feel all warm and fuzzy inside about moral superiorities. Nine: “Our man had a small skirmish but is now coming in solo. Approach two clear.” One: “Got it. Seven, stop hiding. We know how twitchy he can be at his worst.” Me: “Got it.” I stepped out of the shadows, feeling stupid. Same as if I had been hiding under a single leaf or a grain of sand. I put my sickles away and fidgeted – I’d rather had them ready, but with this customer doing any threatening moves could be fatal, and it’s not like I could’ve fought him in any case. I heard they tried to hire us to do him, a bit before I joined, but One turned the offer down. That thought chilled me to no end. One never turns offers down, the murderous bastard he is. Nine: “Customer stepping in. Wakey, Seven.” Me: “Alert and ready.” One: “Remember your manners, Seven. He doesn’t carry his sword around for show.” Me: “Got it.” Right then he appeared before me. I had heard his description before, but he had apparently changed his outlook since then. Very warlike attire, now. “Evenin’, m’lord Crow.” “You can call me Seven, Lord Dreamer.” And I bowed. Not all the way to the floor, but showed a bit of respect. I didn’t have to check my senses to feel his strength. It was oppressive to be so close to him; his aura of power flared all around him, and his deep blue eyes seemed to drill great holes into me, the way he kept on staring right at my full helm. “The Murder of Crows agrees to the contract, then?” “The payment was too unspecified, I am sorry to say. If that matter can be clarified during this meeting, we shall consider the contract binding, m’lord.” “Ye fear I shall give ye some sort of useless toy? That I’d try to hire the Murder of Crows with a trinket? That the only aspect my generousity takes is the number of souls I release from their mortal bodies?” His now purple eyes burned as he sneered. I could see him drop his left hand to the hilt of his sword. Me: “Tough customer. Ready to abort and obfuscate.” Two: “Got it.” Five: “Got it.” Nine: “Got it. Don’t mess it up, dayfly.” “Please calm down, m’lord Dreamer. Could you be so kind as to elaborate on the matter of payment so we could get to the business?” “Very well, Seven. As we all know, ye primarily use sickles in yer missions, an old rule originating from the very beginning of yer band o’ assassins during the year 12734 of Anvil reckoning. During the two times the kinds of ye have clashed against my interests, I have gathered some information on the manner of sickles ye wield. Unless ye have changed yer weapons in the last 400 years or so, yer sickles are quite inferior to the one I would give as payment.” I waited for a moment, but he did not continue. Feeling it was a bad idea, I nevertheless did as I had been instructed and opened up my big mouth to ask for futher information. “Ah, all that may be very true m’lord Dreamer, but according to the general lore of the Astral you are not the best of smiths, and while our sickles are, as you say, very old, they are still in perfect condition.” He narrowed his eyes and tugged the hilt of his sword. “Not the best of smiths? That’s the most direct insult I’ve heard from anybody still currently alive in a while. But yes, I was not going to forge the sickle myself. All this bickering over small details annoy me – ya must have a new One from the last time I hired ya.” I let the silence grow, even if it left me drenched in cold sweat. In the end, he did continue without me having to ask again. “If ye must know, Ammûrn Ôman-Ôa owes me a certain favour, and I have come across some materials during my travels that far exceed the trueglass yer black sickles are forged of.” Me: “Ammûrn Ôman-Ôa and err.. ‘materials far exceeding trueglass’, so he says.” One: “I’m impressed. Accept the deal at once.” Eleven: “Ammûrn Ôman-Ôa? Not that bad.” Six: “Did I just hear Eleven say something positive? Sure sign of the end of the worlds.” Four: “So true.” One: “Silence! Talk at the camp.” “I have been told to accept and tell that we consider the written contract binding from now on. As usual, the time we reserve for the fulfilment of this agreement is a year and a day.” “About time, Seven of Crows. Good hunting and fatespeed.” “Fatespeed, m’lord.”

Author's note: read slowly for intended effect. I barely think at all. Anymore. Sometimes I dream. Disjointed, muted dreams that turn back to the safe, soft darkness. Sometimes I listen. Not hear, but listen. To the quiet. Nothing else is here. Almost nobody knows the way. One year, I heard. Again. It seemed to be words, after the first week or so. That woke me up. And still the words went on. So I spoke, with my voice of mountains and thunder. “Yes?” The words went on. Like mantra. Then he woke up. “So ye do still speak, master. Greetings from the outside world, ancient one. I had thought ye had passed beyond thinking already.” “No.” “Everything is going well, master? You require anything?” “Quiet. Words woke me up.” “I apologize, master. I was singing the dirge of the dead, m’lord.” “Life.” “Excuse me, most honoured ancient? Life?” “Yes. No need for a dirge. There will be life, not death.” I moved. It hurt as if I had been tearing open old wounds with every move. Light hurt me even more. “You look different, apprentice.” “Yes, m’lord. I have aquired some new scars.” “In your eyes? I taught you better than that, boy.” I paused to gather my thoughts. They wavered. Like shadows cast by a torch. “Never take a wound in the eye, boy.” “They are not wounds as such, master. Merely a mark of my pledge to chaos.” “Merely. Worse than lost eye.” “Perhaps.” “You make me weary, Wodzan Xe Chanima. Go. Be an agent of Chaos, then.” “As ye wish, m’lord. Hope yer … transformation goes well.” “It will. No Chaos or Law. Don’t come back to meddle.” “As ye wish. Thank ye for everything, m’lord.” “Farewell, boy.” “Fatespeed, master.” Quiet again. I relaxed back into oblivion.

It was another glorious morning in Alhavianna. They all were, really, but this one was trying its very best to be even more so than average. The colors of dawn sun and the surrounding light cloud cover were vivid and rich, magnificent tones of red and yellow and purple mixed together in perfect harmony. A sweet, heavy fragrance rose to the air as the sun hit the gently rolling hills and meadows full of flowers, the airy orchards near the settlements and the few wild forests. I inhaled the warm morning air deeply and closed my eyes in bliss – truly, it was heavenly. I did not tarry longer than that, though, and when the sun managed to raise its ponderous body above the horizon I too left the ground below me and leaped upwards to fly. My mission might have not been the most important in the multiversum, or even the less incomprehensible but still vast realm of this particular plane, but it was my mission and I was overjoyed to have one. Most angels of my lowly caste were kept in reserve cooped up in the overcrowded halls of Eliasyn or were told to fly around the countryside patrolling against enemies that never appeared here in the heart of the realms of good. Not me! I was told to take my message and carry it to the high priest of Baladar, who resided in the mortal realm of Athra, in the city of Chan-áv-Iman. Flying through the very Lost Paths, no less! “Beware the wily and abyssal on the Paths, my son”, had the local leader of my order told me very seriously. “Keep thy vision clear, fly with utmost haste and avoid any and all contact, my son, for contact with the travellers is first step towards contamination if thou surviv’st at all!” as if I was some Lantern Archon freshly ascended to the heavenly realms. Of course I knew the hazards of the Lost Paths, but I was steadfast in my faith. What peril could harm me, nay even brush me lightly, since I was armed with shield of raw goodness and flew with godly blessings? So I debated inside my head and flew upwards, towards the unseen ceiling of the heaven, ready beyond any doubt for my first unsupervised Astral jaunt. I hovered for a moment. I was in a hurry, true, but we are taught to cherish our life and moments like this, and Alhavianna looked beautiful beyond words from up here. It was getting closer to midday, and the fiery yellow sun bathed the whole plane in warm, caressing sunlight that sparkled on the waters, painted merry shadows from the few lonely clouds floating on the sky and made the vibrant green of trees and grass almost glow. I sighed aloud from pure joy as I stepped through the cold planar border into the lifeless Void. Miracle after miracle, I thought, for the vision before me was almost as breathtaking as the one I had left behind me. If Alhavianna was the paragon of days, all around me I could now see the paragon of nights: the utmost darkness of the black, cold Void painted full of pearly stars, every star a full world. Between the stars floated a gossamer web of paths, hard to see but very real. I must admit it was all a bit overwhelming for me, and despite my hurry I tarried again, drinking the pure nectar of that divine sight in front of my eyes. It was then when he appeared, a full-grown Solar sailing towards me through the airless Void. First I only bowed my head as was proper and stepped back, assuming His Glorified Magnificence wished to plunge through the world crystal from where I was floating, still moved by the beauty all around me. He stopped however; so close I could feel his aura as a hot wind, tinged with heavenly fury and pure goodness. I had never been so close to a Solar, for they are rare and powerful, always on their own errands, working on missions so high above my lowly rank I only heard rumours of them. My frail body quivered and I was confused – was the way not clear? Had I offended this greater being? Then he turned towards me, face shining with so great a brilliance I could feel it as a gentle touch, a benediction of light brushing my down-turned head. “Alas, my son! For I have to divert thy from thine urgent errant, as much as it pains me. There is a great need for a messenger nearby. Do not argue, for time is of highest importance.” The words were hard to understand, for he spoke with dialect so pure and close to the One True Language that it was almost beyond me. I gathered he needed me, however, and since my last order had been from a far lesser master, I did not pause to think. We sped away towards the depths of the Void with haste. I did my best, focusing on the power of faith when I felt that my wings would not carry me and soaking my weariness away in the warmth of the Solar’s radiance. Mortal high priests could await, this was clearly more urgent. Praise be Balandar! Earlier this same very day I had been happy to have a mission at all, but now I was travelling with a veritable titan of good. I was clearly being marked for works of even greater servitude and glory! In these thoughts and struggling to keep up with my powerful guide, I did not pay heed to the direction we had been going. When the Solar slowed to a halt, my quick glance did not notice any landmarks. We did seem to be out of the main roads but that was all I was sure of. Of course, I could feel the direction of my home, Alhavianna as a compass in my very core, and so I’d never be truly lost anywhere. It was then, when the glorious day started to go horribly wrong. As we floated there on a less used path, the Solar turned to look at me again, and before I had time to avert my gaze as was proper, he … changed. He pushed his radiant face upwards, as if removing an irritating mask, and his huge wings faded away, the heavenly glow around him was doused and his form twisted and shivered into sheer horror. Where a moment ago had stood a Solar, now hunched a tall, thin planewalker in chaotic armor, wearing an iron crown and wielding a spectral no-dachi. His pale skin was full of various scars, his grey hair floated around him in the weightlessness of the Void and his deep, dark blue eyes were fixed on me. On his forehead was a mask indeed, a bleeding mask of angel skin, crude strings keeping it from falling. He grinned. “Ya, urgent need indeed. What happens next might feel unpleasant, nameless angel, but when it hurts, just remember the first angel I met today. The one that had the pleasure of turning into a mask and a few bottles of blood, ya?” I tried to fly away, but his faintest whispers grew into chains that held me fast.

Walking Dreamer is fine, but the Dreamer has already been in use here for .. oh, three years? Something like that.

Guess I should've linked it ... Flux.

It's spelled D-R-E-A-M-E-R, the Dreamer, and he isn't a Master Archer ... oh wait, he is. Nevermind. He isn't 15 though.

I've read Iliad (though it was years and years ago) and like Greek mythology, and I still liked it. I genereally like movies though. Iliad and a Hollywood movie are literally worlds apart, and there are certain clichés you learn to expect, certain changes ye can expect when the story is 'converted' from ancient mythologic legend to modern Hollywood hero story/epic. If you don't stop to hate the movie for being a child of it's time, you get a lot more out of it. Let's put it this way - if you have read LotR and hate LotR movie adaptation, you might hate this one too. If you have read LotR and stll liked the movie, you will prolly like this too. PS. So much hate!

*cough Shinies are more of a Rydia thing. Things with either caffeine or sugar (or godhelpusandhaveinfinitemercyonoursoontobevaporizedsouls both) are a Minta thing.

The unmistakable laughter of Minta brough the Dreamer away from his reverie and sent his train of thought carreering to a completely new direction. Almost forgot the gifts! He started whispering with a cajoling tune. This time magic did not whirl around him or eerie lights dance in his wake - the faint words travelled away, triggered something already enchanted. Far away. Or well, even further than that. Here, yes here ... where ancient wars had ravaged the Lost Paths, broken planes and scattered the Void with debris of a thousand different places. Lone skulls drifted through the void, still showing the fractures they had gotten ages ago. Here and there weapons of deadly enchantment floated undisturbed, the skeletons of a few unfortunate corpse robbers strewn between them. In the middle of the field of death and decay was a darker spot, the point where the battle had been most intense. The area still bubbled with mana residues, half-formed bloodcurses and souls that had not been strong enough to escape the gravity of this graveyard. In the very epicentre of the devastation two dead corpses were left in last embrace, generals or lieutenants of the armies that had fought here: the mummified corpses of a great dominion, wings still unearthly white, on the desiccated face a look of mixed sadness and fury, and a death slaad, a great 20 foot tall, frog-like titan of malice and chaos, still grinning and still gripping a greatsword in both hands. Here the words the Dreamer had whispered arrived, touched the sigil burned into the slaad and made it flicker with ghostly light. A shudder ran through the huge beast and something moved in its rotten eyes. It shuddered again and pushed its killer's corpse away, flexing and unflexing its dead muscles. And then it vanished, only the swords remaning to rotate in empty Void. Only to appear right below Minta with a resounding crash. The whole building swayed slightly, making her lose her balance even with the skeletal support and fall. The mummified death slaad acted faster than most beings alive, snatching Minta from air. She stared at the rotting face as large as she was from head to toe, huge jaws half-open and greenish light burning faintly in the deep eyesockets. "YAAAAAAYYYYY! Froggy zombie!" "It's all yers, Minta. Happy birthday! I'm afraid I had to leave the swords it held behind, I remember Rydia saying something about no metal weapons for ya." She was only half-listening, already climbing to the neck of his new mini-Godzilla to test drive it. Grinning at the sight, the Dreamer walked away to find Rydia. She should be somewhere in the direction of the dance floor...

> bonk! < Somebody naked almost fell on him, but his automatic defense measures flickered into existence creating a forcefield over him and then tried to summon his two bodyguards (last seen rotting in the Castle of the Birds, both chopped in two), without much success. He frowned at this interruption of a perfectly good tea-time, his eyes turning pale red. The naked, muddy elf on the floor on front of him, holding his head with both hands, did not seem very dangerous, but appearances could be deceiving. Before he had time to decide whether the elf was a threat or not, some blue man in ragged clothes came and helped the elf on his feet. He glanced from the Dreamer to the elf, grinned and giggled. "Knew it all along..." Huh? Knew what? The blue guy managed to depart before he had time to ask what that meant, waving, and shouted before he vanished. "Don't stop living in the red!" He turned his almost colorless eyes at the elf (who happened to be Gwaihir). "What did he mean? And were we supposed to come here without clothes? I don't think I could remove my armor even if I was inclined to do so." "Oww... no, the ogres stole my robes. Wait.." Wincing in pain, Gwaihir uttered a spell that made the ground spring forth a set of vines that covered him better than average modern swimwear. Still, it was somewhat haphazard creation, and the frown on the Dreamer's face only deepened as he kept on staring Gwaihir. His eyes had changed to deep green with odd pinpoints of golden light moving in their depths, though. The planewalker muttered, half to himself. "That still lacks a certain something .. I remember seeing some beautiful party suits of that color in Cáleathia. Hmmm." Between the words he was speaking, he was already muttering on some other language as well, now totally forgotten the fact where he was and who he was talking with. The green in his eyes seemed to permeate the air around him as well, and distant cries of wild animals and birds could be heard faintly around him. The green glow got mixed up with bluish halo around the Dreamer as he drained more and more magic into the spell he was nurturing to full power. Some of it went haywire: a forgotten frog of Joat's army turned into a prince behind a potted plant, Katz's spell of speaking made her voice first unhumanly high and then manly low for a moment, one of the ducks carrying geld that had circled around Wyvern's head re-materialized and instantly bonded with Melba, thinking she was its mother and last but not least, one of the toilet bowls in the men's bathroom turned into massive albino crocodile. Most of the mana flowed into the great spell, however, and the warm glow around the Dreamer was now almost painfully bright. He raised his hands, a crackling orb of green and white fire between them, and released the energy at Gwaihir. The orb of fire left a smoking trail as it soared through the air before striking the elf in the chest. Instead of turning Gwaihir into a pile of dust it was absorbed by the vines surrounding him. "Ack! It tickles!" The vines of which Gwaihir's new attire had been made woke up again and squirmed and crawled to new shapes. Some leaves grew and others shrunk, a few of the vines bloomed into white and red flowers, a few grew roots that gripped Gwaihir's feet, all twisting into weird shapes under the planewalker's will. In a minute or two it was finished: Gwaihir was now clad in a well-made (but clearly alien in fashion) green suit with white and red embroidery, a stout boot made of brown roots in both feet, all so exquisite workmanship it was impossible to notice the material had been living plant. The Dreamer muttered again, even fainter this time, apparently speaking to his own hand he used to stroke his beard with. "That'll do, I think .. intresting excercise, yes."

I'm finally trying to get some of my work published, and I felt that the easiest way is entering a Finnish short story competition by translating some of my older stuff, since they publish the winners in a scifi/fantasy magazine. I chose Flux (for reasons I've now completely forgotten, guess it seemed sufficiently stand-alone and new enough), and I've already almost completed the preliminary translation to finnish. Since there is a woeful lack of other finnish-speaking Pennites, I only ask help and critique with the story itself, its flow and structure. I've translated it quite word to word and next step is for me to revise (and partially rewrite) it, so if the underlying story itself has some weaknesses I can't see with eyes blind to my own creation, I'd love to know. I'm also having great troubles in translating the term 'planewalker' to finnish, but can't really ask any help there I suppose. ;( Oh, and since there is time, I might translate some other piece as well .. any recommendations on that?

Looking at the various party-goers milling chaoticly around, the Dreamer tried to discern a pattern to their movement. In the end, he decided that aiming at the buffet tables first seemed to be the thing to do here. Not wanting to ruin the party, he joined the general loose line near the buffet table, but missed his mark slightly and ended up at the drinks section. Strange chemicals in these bowls ... perhaps they are used to clean the party-goers before the real festivities? They certainly smell toxic... The planewalker shrugged at the madness of the material planes of the world, sunk his hands in the punch bowl and rubbed the sugary, highly alcoholic liquid all over his grimy, blood-spattered face. "Um.." He turned to see the brother of the poor unfortunate who had been mauled by Joat's plague of frogs, random_partygoer_02, and raised his eyebrowns in questioning manner. "Ya, puny mortal?" This didn't seem to be a good way to start small talk by the confusion on his new aquiantance's face. Nevertheless, the mortal did not run away screaming quite yet, which was always a good sign. "... that's normally just .. err .. drunk, man. Say, what happened to yer face to make it so dirty in the first place?" The Dreamer grinned - straight questions like that, he couldn't go wrong by telling the honest truth. Happily grinning (and not caring about the little detail it made his scars dance across his face in the most unsettling manner) he told to his new friend: "Oh, it's just blood from the last humans who tried to block my way .. happens a lot on my line of work. So hard to get off the robes, but platemail .. just isn't me, ya know? I've tried find robes that don't get dirty or shreddered but the forces ... hey?" Now the mortal did, in fact, run away screaming. Was it something I said? Well, I hope there's something I can do to repair my error. He looked around again with all his senses, seeing, sensing and smelling a 10 foot empty area around him, the buffet tables, the drinks, the glittering chaos of the party-goers. The drinks! Some of them did not seem to contain any of this toxic substance that seemed to be required for proper party-drinks. With a wave of his hand and a few muttered enchantments, he remedied this unfortunate fact. Smiling as only a being of intermediate deity's powers can smile after the good deed of a century, he returned to his aimless wanderings.