Zadown

I already awarded him a bonk with a wooden door on the Rune's RPG thread - what more recognition would he possibly need? Eh... j/k, Wyvie is my hero. I can't understand how he keeps on writing those long application responses...

They say 'thee' there in the land of doubles, but they do not say 'thou'. And they may speak in a way that is odd, but peculiar it is not. It's kinda too easy at this point but I didn't see it earlier. <_<

I tried to write a happy story. I had this vivid image of an eerie summer vision... but blah. Can't write happy stories in cold winter. I'm wearing black clothes too - Doomed Gothic Writer style. Now where did I put my glass of red wine...

Meanwhile, in some place completely different (but very close) ... The Dreamer stood on top of his Astral pier and glared at the runes of blue fire glowing above him in the darkness. Something was missing, he felt it in his lines of power, but all the runes that had been there last time were there again. He sat down in a lotus position, letting his eyes slowly fade to first grey and then to deep dark blue. Diving into his own mind, he started examining his stronghold. ... the portals, all locked and stable ... ... runes on the door, intact .. or wait ... The planewalker frowned and ended the trance. He got up, helping himself with Pain's scabbard, and walked briskly to the ordinary looking wooden door that connected his Astral harbour and the Pen Keep. He opened it and stepped out, accidently knocking down Wyvern in the process but not even noticing the almost-dragon, and stared at the door. The runes were still there. Except one of them had been altered. Muttering to himself something about things possibly escaping if he wouldn't have noticed that, he quickly corrected the rune and stepped back inside. The "WHAM!" of the closing door sounded very final.

It's the Artist Curse - titans of thought lamenting their mistakes and errors, too small for others to even see. Hard to find an equilibrium between hating and loving yer own works; hate it too much and ye won't show it to anybody, love it too much and ye might think anything that leaves yer pen is the best work ever, anywhere. Anyways, I read the 3D dreams in 2D world (and nothing else because I'm lazy), and I liked it a lot. I think I've sometimes felt somewhat like that...

His fingertipes brushed lightly on the glass as he pushed the curtain away to see the thermometer outside. The touch was enough - the glass radiated cold, making it pointless to see the actual depressing number. The man sighed at the darkness outside. Yet another day when he had slept past sunset; not that that was too hard, here. Outside the wind had spread the loose snow to new formations, coated the cars and trees with white. Any journey anywhere would involve ten minutes of preparing for the intense cold outside and then ten more minutes to dig the car out of the snow, warmth quickly fleeing first from fingers and face, then everywhere. It was sort of a siege. ... a faint twinkling sound, a fleeting fragrance of flowers and dry hay, a touch of warmth ... He blinked. Oh yes, summer would be nice, he thought, and shrugged slightly to himself. He rubbed his hands together to get rid of some old memory of coldness and walked to the small kitchen with the two or three steps it took. On the door of the fridge was a magnet declaring "Alaska - the way life should be". He smiled slightly at that. So life should be half darkness and cold, half light and slightly less cold? The man opened the fridge, took a sip of juice and noted that there would need to be a food run to the nearest store in nearby future, once again. The store wasn't that far, and it wasn't that cold weather by local standards, but still... He almost touched the kitchen window, felt again the malignant winter trying to push through the thin glass and looked at the orange streetlight illuminating white snow, white trees, white car-shaped mounds, buildings coated with frost. Darkness and cold outside. It felt like a pressure, a suffocating blanket over the city. Behind him electric light shone, filled the kitchen with bright harsh light - under the window a radiator did it's best to keep the room warm. He wondered briefly how the winters had been for his ancestors. ... rich golden light, blinding if you look straight at it but oh so friendly when you don't, crystal blue skies with a few white clouds framed by living deep dark green color of firs and pines and slightly lighter green of birches and alder .. buzzing sound, the meadow filled with warmth, green green grass, here and there a flower, mostly yellows, whites, purples and blues, small insects flying between them ... He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. All these hours alone here wasn't good for the mind. Cabin fever. It was still 4 months to summer, at least. One or two of full winter, then spring with mud and all the trash that the receding snow would reveal, water running liquid here and there, light getting stronger day by day, these half-days turning into full ones, then extending themselves past 9pm, past 10pm, past 11pm. Real warmth outside, that was still very far. He sighed, even more deeply this time. The man walked to the bed and took his book from the nightstand. It was the topmost of a big pile of fantasy and sci-fi books, all journeys far-away from this cell with bars of freezing ice, all taking him away from the haunting ghosts of the past that shared the room with him. He stood there, book in his hand, feet temporarily insulated from the chilling floor by a furry carpet. To open the book and lie down to read it would be a short reprieve, but restlessness tugged at him, made him stop and frown. ... the distant cries of seagulls, warmth engulfing your chilled body, sound of water lapping quietly against rock, wind bringing the smell of resin and cut grass, a tinkling laugh nearby and an odd sensation, as if something was left behind, a weight cast away from you... They found his cold still body days later when his parents started to miss the car. It was curled up on the bed in foetal position with a faint smile on his young face.

Hehe Gyr, one of whatever you were smoking, please. Me writing a happy poem about snow? ROFL! *points at Vlad* Aim praise at that direction...

*waves to Mr J*

Heh, the recipe for one of these is to be haunted by a dream for over a year, get annoyed by the same image constantly intruding on your thoughts and finally exorcise it by writing with respect to the vision. What is amusing is that the actual image I had lies somewhere just after the final "..." in the written version - but I feel that describing bloody murder in grisly details often steals more from the strenght of an image than adds to it. For the pieces where I describe real landscape (A Winter Night) one just needs to stop and concentrate and memorize a moment. Very easy.

Ohh ya, pretty snow poem. Snow is beautiful, and coldness has it's own masochistic majestetic beauty as one of the vengeful faces of nature, but cold and snow and darkness all winter long is just blah.

... darknessnearfetiddirtyabysstearingsmallthingswithclaws ... The voice rose again from the deep sea of oblivion inside my head. I ignored it as usual, concentrated on the sound of my boots on wooden floor: thud thud thud thud. It was reassuringly ordinary, every thud pushing my unnatural gloom further away. I had changed - the voice was nothing to me now. Or so I said to myself and pushed my hat deeper down. The numbers on the doors flickered past, 604, 606, 608 ... and finally 610. ... bloodbrothersbigbigjawsandtalonstearslicecolorred ... As I reached the door and fumbled for the key I had been given with my gloved hands, I frowned. The odor was unmistakable: it was smell divining more work, more shouting headlines, more grief and hatred in a world already suffused with them. It was the smell of decaying blood. Involuntarily my nostrils flared and my left hand twitched. Paying no heed to these small rebellions of my body I carefully inserted the key to the lock and slowly, almost with reverence turned the key. A click told me it had been the right one. ... musttearjoinbrothersscreamengravemarkworshipopenrip! The door opened slowly, resisted my push as if the air inside was heavier. The voice screamed and ranted with unexpected fury, wailing harder with every inch the door swung inwards. My eyes burned with irritation when the air from inside met them - the feeling when I inhaled was a bitter mixture of pain and homesickness. Sulphur and blood. Still the door was in motion, in a world that seemed to slow down to contain all the different attacks against my senses that the air carried. The frown melted into snarl as my right hand fell to the butt of my gun, a gesture I knew was hours too late. The corridoor behind me faded from my awarness. Before me, the room I had come to inspect on a routine mission displayed all it's contents in a red-tinted display...

I should've reincarnated ye as a dark elf, Valdy. Shadow knight, preferably, so we'd have a high level plate tank. Runs away dodging the /disc trueshot arrows.

Zadown is an old, old nick. I picked it first time when I was just a boy and a friend of mine had this great nick Gilron Stardust or something like that. He used it in all the CRPGs and roleplaying games and whatnots, and I felt it was cool. So, during the summer '88, almost 15 years ago, when I started playing Ultima 5 I decided I will have a great nick too, one I'll ALWAYS use. It had to start with Z (cool letter, not found in finnish alphabet) and well, A is pretty close to Z on keyboard... after that just make it look like english name by adding a word, DOWN, and ye get Zadown. I would've never believed then that ALWAYS really means I'm still using the nick now that I'm old and ancient and can go to sleep whenever I please. Countless fictional characters have lived and died (most of them at least 300 times) as Zadown since, most of them humans/elves using at least some sort of magic. Zadown the Monk in BG2 was the black sheep of the brotherhood, no magic at all... Of course, that's just the official truth about it. The unofficial... well, it involves lots of rebirts, prophets, books deleted from bible, young men with whips wearing a fedora and mythical powers. Ye see, zadown is a hebrew word meaning pride, insolence, presumptuousness and arrogance...

That's what I wrote when my different personalities debated whether to join Pen or not, close to two years ago. It still seems very valid. There are still people here whose skill with words seems intimidating to me, but I just try to actively ignore it. *shrug* And yes, simple "I liked it" replies to my works, when they merit such compliments, still give me a warm and fuzzy feeling no matter if it's the 5th or 500th such reply.

Epilogue Air rippled in the realm of dreams, marked the passing of something that did not belong there. Nobody saw it, but they sensed it, and stayed away from it's path. Even the Crow, the Herald of Dreams only circled far above it and did not go close. It marked and marred the landscape where it walked, staining it with a touch of corrupted holiness, a stain that was like a rash on the pure neutrality of this place. Dreams faded out and dreamers woke up with a shock, half-remembering some terrible nightmare, soaked in sweat. Air rippled ... the outlines of wings, of a sword, of a tall humanoid form with a single disfiguring horn on it's head. Finally, after a long walk through the realm of dreams, it reached it's destination - the vault of the Grail. Sparing not a single glance to the mesmerizing display in the middle of the glade, the unseen form tilted it's head downwards to study a bedraggled form sitting on a round stone. Sarnael smiled and flickered into existence, drawing forth his great powers in one immense surge, hoping to suprise the planewalker. His white-black wings scretched out, his sword of white ice and black fire was drawn up ... and still the form of the Dreamer did not stir, did not try anything desperate to save himself from total destruction in the hands of his old arch-nemesis. The sword hung suspended in mid-air for a passing moment. Then it scythed downwards with the force of centuries of hatred, cleaving through the still inert body of the planewalker. The empty shell of the Dreamer shattered like a thin glass vase.

Bard / the Dreamer. Waves and fades out, flickering.

Door closes behind him and the wall of cold air rushes at him. Air like molten steel burning with terrible freezing flame, every gust of wind sharpening it into streams of knives. His breath steams out, creates the only cloud in sight. Above him the clear winter sky has hours ago deepened into dark obsidian color. Orange streetlights shine here and there in the deserted streets, every sensible soul hiding in their warm homes, as far away from the deadly bone-chilling cold as they can be. The bright lights obscure the stars, but they can't hide away the moon, a white semi-circle hanging alone in the inky black background. It looks unnaturally sharp, like a hole in the sky. The man, tall and thin, shivers briefly and then starts walking with the haste of somebody who wishes to be at home as soon as possible. He is clad in multiple layers of clothes, all different shades of black: trench coat, a hood hiding most of his face, mittens, jeans, leather boots. Another cloud drifts out from inside the hood, coloring his moustache and beard with the pure white of frost. He hurries over the wooden bridge, his boots making crunching noise on the snow instead of the usual thud. On his left side a school waits for the next monday, dark and silent. On his right, frost-rimed trees reach upwards, their white branches a bright contrast over the inky nigth sky. Beyond them stands an orthodox church, it's red brick walls and onion-shaped copper domes brilliantly lit by spotlights. Even though it is painfully cold, the man stops. The image engraves itself into his memory.

Now where is he? He should've already been here a long time ago... Argach tapped the stone floor of the Nexus with his booted feet, showing his impatience clearly. The gesture seemed oddly ill fitting to the big armored barbarian as if it was a copied manner. He was a tall and muscular man, wearing mostly leather reinforced with acrylia, a slight sheen of magic shimmering around his gear. Words of shielding floated in the air around him, and the blessings of spiritual purity and heroism would've shone clear to those who can see beyond the mundane. Suddenly before him the air shimmered briefly and an odd looking gnome appeared, coughing. The big barbarian directed an inquiring look at the small wizard and for a split second both the barbarian's and the gnome's eyes .. shifted, racing through different colors. Then the moment passed and both looked like relatively ordinary heroes of Norrath again. "Heya there, Astralis. Yer late already. Time to go hunting ... they'll never accept us to the planes if our highest triumph is some mangy tribal warrior!" The words seemed to be tinted with amused irony and the beastlord grinned widely, making it clear nothing would stand between him and the conquest of planes. The gnomish wizard didn't seem to pay too much attention, stooping to pick up a weather rocket that had dropped from his pocket instead of looking at the barbarian. "Yes yes ... sending us to Twilight Sea, be ready." After a few seconds of low chanting and arcane gestures, the air shimmered again and the unlikely pair was gone.

GWs in SF (or a lament to the lost time) mountainside painted with blood death upon death bled over it once more the hammer rises once more the spectres charge to kill crackles the power of conjured ice over the rivers of lava death upon death and one more mountainside painted with blood and guts death upon death and one more bled over it once more the tiger growls once more the judgement strikes soars the spear of pain towards the heart of a wyvern death upon death and two more mountainside painted with blood, guts and gore death upon death and two more bled over it once more the darkness engulfs once more the fighting edge is won claws rend the scaly skin of an already old wurm death upon death and three more mountainside painted with blood, guts, gore and sweat death upon death and three more bled over it ... (voice fades)

Somewhere on Norrath a storm rages on. Agnarr reigning in Karana's place rides the sky, stepping between the angry clouds with footsteps of thunder. The trees of Kelethin creak and sway, but Valdar does not notice ... he is deep in contemplation, trying to catch the memories his death scattered (or perhaps he is only contemplating his drink). Nevertheless, the wood-elf ranger stares at his mug of mulled wine as if it had all the answers he needs. The great elven trees shake as another gale hits them, and a branch hits the window of the tavern. Valdar's sharp eyes flicker at the window, then return to his mug. He takes a sip or two, waiting for the drink to cool. The branch taps the window again, but the sharp sound is half lost in the cacophony of noises wind creates in a city of trees. Then, with a sharp bang the window shatters and long deadly shards whistle through the air, striking the table and the chair. Some of them ricochet from Valdar's shiny armor or are deflected by his axe and his sword which he now holds, sitting suddenly towards the window, taken over by battle reflexes. He jumps up deftly twirling his weapons and looks wildly around for an enemy, ears held ready at odd angle. What he sees is far more odd than an invasion of his current home town. The eight shards, all deeply embedded in wood, all show different faces as reflections from somewhere else. As the faces whisper to him in a language no-one on Norrath knows, he feels a dreadful and chilling sense of deja-vu. A dark elf priestess, clad in steel: You have lot to learn about hiding, apperentice... A robed figure, elemental magic swirling around him as a fiery aegis: ... see the pattern, see how I hid. Soul apart... A lizard in blood-stained clothes, skeleton capering in the background: ... hide the parts deep, take hosts and blend... A cat-man, holding a drum, armored in dusty and dirty bronze: ... blend and vanish away... All shards in chorus, almost whispering just before they fade to ordinary shards of glass, mutter something that Valdar only half-hears but which seems to unlock something in his head. His mentor is here.

Found some stuff from my My Documents folder. The first one is 1.5 years old, the second a bit older. Can't remember what I felt when I wrote them... dead calm I live in the high places on the backs of leviathans great behemoths of the sky it is calm in here still and quiet and I feel vertigo grip me I could drop from this nest soar downwards claws extended be a death from above but I fear the seething sea below the boiling ocean beneath me falling is a lonely way to die but perhaps being up here is lonelier still repeat I'm a sleep addict eight hours are not enough any more ten make me feel ethereal but tired twelve blur the line between dreams and imagination reality is too harsh or I am too soft either way I want to sleep forever

Was surfing through all sorts of old files and AM battle raports and AIM logs and whatnots, and found this: LordZadown: it's the images, man LordZadown: the visions LordZadown: the paintings done with words LordZadown: one picture is a thousand words, but one painted with a two dozen words is still a thousand words when you look at it again and again LordZadown: good text expands upon reading LordZadown: it is distilled LordZadown: the essence of what it describes (name removed): interesting view on this LordZadown: I just made it up LordZadown: but I'm still serious LordZadown: poems are a perfect example LordZadown: a few words - and you see a still moment (name removed): I know what you mean LordZadown: to write is to see visions and to distill the focus points out of it and write those out to others LordZadown: to draw the essence and the soul of the moment you are describing LordZadown: one can always extrapolate and deduct the things that are not needed LordZadown: "fir" says green, it says the smell of a forest, it implies squirrels somewhere LordZadown: but it is still a single word LordZadown: ... (name removed): squirrels??? LordZadown: perhaps LordZadown: perhaps not LordZadown: that depends on what else is written and who reads it (name removed): ... guess it does :-D Dunno. I kinda liked reading it. That's (still) how and why I write.

scaled feet tap the stone huge bulk moves with grace tail snakes from side to side yet eyes alight with fury prisoner of his own kind roamer of the Halls tested but not yet guilty balking at the justice a lizard appears defier of the dragons kin of the undead emperor unwelcome guest a roar and a bellow and winter's icy breath heralds of the guardian vanguard for white wurm he steps to crush only finding bare stone he snaps with jaws to eat empty air a deadly pursuit claws bounce from plate reptilian blood splatters and marks the path the little one persist hisses and skitters runs like a wolf with fire on it's heels turn through a door made for giants down vast steps for titans to stride finally talons connect gouge hardened metal fell the iksar make him crumble down a moment of triump draconic yell of victory he stamps the ground whips with his tail and is disturbed again made to turn by a blast of magic a new challenge he surges forward ready to claim another thundering up more steps to close with the mortal wurm unleashes it's anger coats the walls with frost slices the puny paladin with shards of ice he stands stalwart ignores the gaping maw mortal wounds opening bones rent broken paladin's axe scratches slices and wounds bites and claws even as he bleeds long neck snaps back ready for a final blow paladin retreats a step and is healed a pause second of silence wurm and a man poised for a fight paladin from afar he gestures invokes his god marks the drake guilty beyond the corner behind the wurm flows an army soldiers of justice a dark elf slips his dagger under the scales stabs a deep wound the puny lizard rises anew and whole repaired by prayers now deadly with his lance drake trashes and rages spewing ice clawing flesh all undone by soft chants he burns by the fires of sun poison fills his veins tiger tears his flesh assaulted by magic and steel light fades in the eyes death's door last enrage crushing of a magician's pet so he falls forgotten prisoner clutching in his claws unadorned plate boots

Most everything I write is just what I'd paint if I had the gift for that kind of art. So, if they convoy images, that's because they are richly colored, moving and lively pictures in my head. Poems are for my lazy periods ... less words, less work. Have no idea about what is a good and what is a bad poem, though. With my normal prose I at least know I'm usually doing half-decent job, with poems I have no such reassuring feelings. I post what I post, and wish it's worth the time it takes to read it. And Gyr - easiest to write about things I know. Dying to heal aggro in Plane of Nightmares is one of those things.

Imagine, if you will, a world quite unlike our own. Gods roam it, and heroes and villains and monsters of various colors, sizes and nasty tempers. Magic flows in the air, heroic deeds are the news of the day every day and dragons roar in the distant wastes. They call the place ... Norrath. This distant land, far away in time and place and magicality, is home to two different tribes of adventurers. Both may seem similiar if spied from afar, but a closer examination clarifies the profound differences these two tribes have... A broken tower of a huge castle surrounded by moat. Inside, near a window and knee-deep in rubble stands a knight in silvery armor, carrying a huge flaming sword, fair hair flowing in the slight breeze. The floor is stained with old blood. The knight looks around, ready to fight if needed, when an adventurer clad in odd bits and pieces of armor, all different color, style and material, and wielding a huge spear in right hand, massive longsword in left, appears. Adventurer: Hail, Knight. Hail, Knight. Hail, Knight. Knight: Ho, adventurer! 'Tis fine to see some civilized company in this thrice accursed castle of evil! Adventurer: invite plz Knight: Very well, my new and stalwart man-at-arms - together we shall cleanse the stain of Venril Sathir from within these walls. Adventurer: class lvl plz Knight: I have difficulty deciphering your accent, sir, but I assume you enquiry about my training and how many seasons I have fought against evil here and elsewhere? Adventurer: class lvl plz Knight: Very well, sir. I follow my god Mithaniel Marr and try to emulate his immortal ways as well as my lesser spirit and mortal frame are able. Thus, I have been trained in the use of martial weapons and the heaviest of armors, and even in the mysteries of priests. I have been following my vocation now for over 58 seasons. Adventurer: k Im rog 54 u pull Knight: Before I set forth to draw the canine guardians of this castle from their lairs, there is a question burning in my mind. How do you, dear sir and my current loyal man-at-arms, manage to effectively use two such unwieldy looking weapons at the same time? Adventurer: Im rog u noob I got dualwield Knight: Ah. While that did not fully illuminate the darkness that descended upon my poor wits when I first saw the odd combination you, dear sir, seem to be using, and I hasten to add I have utter faith in you and your martial ways, I will be content with the answer. Adventurer: pull plz Knight: Do not despair, my loyal companion, the evil shall have it's due! On the other hand, haste leads to doom, sayeth my old mentor, and thus.. Adventurer: pull plz!!!!!1 Knight: Very well, sir, I succumb to thou eagerness to lay a divine, nay even holy reckoning to the enemy. Wait here, and I shall lure the unsuspecting and overgrown dogs of war to this very spot. For the Truthbringer! Knight disappears into the gloom of the twisting corridoors of Karnor's Castle and reappears after a minute leading a horde of drolvarg guardians and sentries. He bleeds from many wounds but doesn't seem alarmed. Adventurer, on the other hand, goes white with shock. Adventurer: OMG TRAIN! Knight: Assist me in my holy mission! Preaching to a drolvarg sentry with steel! Adventurer, shouting: TRAIN!!11 Knight disappears inside the seething mass of drolvargs, sword rising and lowering a few times, then it too vanishes beneath the flailing werewolven arms bearing various steel weapons. Adventurer is nowhere to be seen inside the castle. Adventurer, in Dreadlands: n00b Knight, naked in Shadowhaven: Alas, I have fallen! But by the miracle of gods and the Order of Soulbinders I have returned to this world for the glory of the Truthbringer! Now, my loyal ally, wouldst thou be so good and seek a priest of my own faith to restore... Adventurer, in Dreadlands: thxbye Knight, naked in Shadowhaven: Man-at-arms? Dear sir? Dost thou hear my lament? Oh my misplaced faith! This is the darkest of betrayals... Voice and vision both fade to black. There we have it, the two tribes. As ever, their actual name depends which one you belong to...