Quincunx

The initial post was a trolling* by an Honored Guest with name not ever mentioned before (unlike I.M. Clueless, Nuncio, and Natanis to name a few)--nothing is going to undo that damage in perception. I had to reread the first post several times over to see it as a mutual Create New Workaday Persona invitation, instead of something worse. Even so, had your "secret contact" not posted in your defense later on the same day, I'd have deleted this thread on my own intuition. --Tzimfemme, the naked Disgruntled. *"and really one can't get all that specific with words" is a severe trolling itself, on a board dedicated to writing.

The caravan master kept a wary eye upon the stormclouds as he supervised Tanaquil, with her water jar held impudently sideways under one arm. She had haggled her payment down to a mending spell upon the ancient pair of wagons and frayed harnesses, and kept her eyes downcast upon their axles as she prayed. "Fortuna come to my call, settle in these ignorant foreign woods, stifle their cries of pain," muttered Tanaquil, scattering a handful of sand over the axle-joints for show. "Let their beast-spirits serve the need, you will fulfill the desire, and once you have lodged in this merchant's heart, he will pursue you with his life. Greedy numina, can you ask for more than a man's life, spilled out over the decades?" Satisfied with the gloss that had appeared on harnesses and wagons, the caravan master relinquished the water jar, and Tanaquil set her face into the wind. Heavy and humid, the wrong wind for a desert, it repulsed her from the gates of Eelix; when she gained the safety of the town walls, the sudden calm almost made her stumble. She steadied the water jar and glanced down the streets, seeing stables and merchants' tents, run-down barracks converted to poor quarters, and a young dandy folding himself into a green turban of sorts. The fig in Tanaquil's belt pouch touched her mind and whispered like pollen grains rubbing together in the wind. She drifted down the street until almost level with the dandy, loosened her air of command, then looked sidelong at him and let her dark pupils continue. He was already preening, but found for a moment that his hands simply had forgotten what to do with whatever he was holding. Tanaquil caught the trailing end of the silk and turned her eyes to it with feigned delight. "I always wondered what happened to my family's weaving!" she cooed, touching it to her cheek. "Do take me along with it. I don't want only my silks to see the world!" Somewhere, a ragged old voice shrieked, but died mid-wail. The dandy didn't immediately notice. Tanaquil smiled, her true superior smile. He was hers, entwined like the grapevine on the tree, a token with which to start bargaining in this town.

ooc: Only Mustardio? Wow, this IS prehistory, almost before the Reign of Lunatics, Blitz One. . .pre-Rydia. . .*thinks hard, trying to recall who walked then* Iron-eyed Tanaquil snatched back the water jar on the point of pouring it out. The fig tree by which she knelt whimpered and strained to bring its roots out of the dusty soil. From horizon to horizon, there was nothing but dust and the middens of the town, Eelix--nothing else grew. "Curse you anew, caprificus," she rasped, staring at the trunk as though she'd split it open with a glance. "Useless, stranded, starving just as I am. What good does it do to escape the armageddonite's treants now? That's my inheritance they'll be burning to the ground once they catch her, the incompetent hag! Deal-breaker! False numina! I'll abandon you!" The tree's trunk twisted even further, straining and popping audibly. Tanaquil listened without blinking, finally relaxing her grip on the water jar and letting the treant drink. It shuddered and gulped and shivered and forced a blossom, which Tanaquil grasped by the stem and harshly addressed. In her hand, it withered and grew into a single fig, which she ripped from the tree. "Accompany me, numina," she told the fig, putting it into a fold of her belt and replacing the water jar on her head. "I will travel with a caravan and deliver you to rich lands beyond the desert where you and your descendant trees will multiply--if you deliver possession of those lands to me." She adjusted a shoulder brooch of polished wood and set off towards the town, a druid without a home.

BPO, I think your cuffs are spelling out "Help me, I was just setting up shop in the left sleeve, then he donned and buttoned the shirt and now I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!" in spider silk. . .and your jabot is a last will and testament. (Rydia looks quite worried about this, and is busy writing down the translation in a little note-pad--"To my dear wife, nothing, it couldn't possibly have been bad enough to warrant trying to take off my head. To my 9997 faithful children, the left and right sleeves of this shirt. To my 2 layabouts who won't move out of the garment label, some free advice: Get Your Own Shirt.")

But he SWEARS to me that he _lost_ his pants. How can he be Lord of the Pants without pants?

The description broke down part-way through, Alaeha, but this time enough of it was clear that I could understand the Quill Quest objective. Please expand on part 2. Do you want us to indicate the type of questions and answers that would lead to our nominee? e.g. "Never leave me alone with a case of _____, I cannot be held responsible for what ensues: A) Thermite, Chocolate, C) Geld, D) Shinies." Or, do you want us to write up those blurbs that pop up at the end of such quizzes? e.g. "You are ORLAN! a Sexy Sexy Man, with an inexhaustible supply of lovely ladies...or computing projects."

We had a discussion on this mouldering somewhere in Cabaret Room, probably multiple times, if you search for Love in the title and want the answers of those who are no longer here or unabashedly busy at this time.

(A contingent of white-smock-clad builders ((imported from Cftm! when the guildhall went idle)) trot into the Recruitment Office and line the walls, followed by a nekkid human with a flail.) Pre-emptive strike--mentioning the word "free" in Wyvern's territory usually results in some property damage, plus we need to be able to write off the cost of repairs when the Wyvern Revenue Service does its audit. . .Should I have them expand the applicants' bunker for you?

Can the kids paint on the wall before you apply that color to the rest of the wall? (Minta echoes "canwecanwecanwepleeeeeeeeeease!") *paint* *paint*

Incidental note: On all poems, you make very good use of the subtitle space. The poem rocks even without the implication of the ocean in the first line (which I managed to miss on the first reading), and the broken rhythm of line five adds to that line. . .all except for the last line, with odd rhythm and imperfect rhyme. Only one of those needs to be changed but I haven't an idea how to do it, at the moment. Tweak "week" to "weak" in line four and "now" to "know" in line nine. Change nothing else in the poem!

I'm afraid.

Yes, he turned out extremely sparklyshiny. (Tzimfemme hauls Rydia by the ear away from gawking at the diamond studded piano. . .)

Forgiveness: An incomplete form of forgetting, which dulls the emotions while retaining the event. Distortion of the memory. Useless crap. --Tzimfemme Still prickly.

Common?! So far as the Pen is concerned, it's universal, although I think that's more because we're articulate than odd. Why we humans have a universal mechanism to make us feel alone baffles me. . .but I digress. From what I've seen of you on the poetry boards, chase shinies. Flit from happy moment to happy moment and create 'em if they aren't there to hop upon; dance over awkward moments secure in the knowledge that there's a shiny one ahead. Be shiny enough to attract shinyhunters from ten leagues away (can't push away while you're attractive)! Introspection is a sure way to stop being glad. --Tzimfemme Prickly, but trying to be personal.

(Precisely 0.9 miles away. . .) BLAST Tzimfemme was kneeling not too far from the Pen boundaries, knotting around her ankles some leather laces which supported an egregious set of bone spurs. There was ass-kicking to be done, and by gum it was going to be done with style. Also seemed like it would be occuring in an unanticipated solar eclipse. . . .Tzimfemme looked upwards. Her opinion of HappyBuddha lost months of progress, as it fell about as fast as he did. SPLAT It fell faster than she dodged, also. Tzimfemme wriggled sideways between two rolls of HappyBuddha's skin and the ground and eventually popped free. Bruised and comically flattened, she reinflated, popped open a mini-portal, extracted her flail, and whipped it around a few times in annoyance. Bonds sliced open on the fake Nimball (no tm), revealing an. . .imp. Out from another mini-portal came Familiars of Terra, another forgotten and dusty tome*. She flicked through the pages, ignoring the gentle aftershocks of HappyBuddha's landing, reading aloud, "IMPS: Binky, see also Blinky, Drinky, Slinky, and Wyvy the Almost Imp. . .well this is no good. . .wait. . .'William Jefferson'. . ." She hadn't cut off the imp's gag yet but it could nod, and did. "Holy hell. You're kidding. You're not," Tzimfemme babbled. She shoved the book carelessly behind her, and a portal opened up beneath it as it fell. Briefly, the inside of the portal showed the Nimball™ parting ways with Savage Dragon's foot, then it rolled out of the frame. . . *Tzimfemme more often searched her laboratory library for the Ager Guilded Book of Indiscretions or Men of Terra Magazine, Lickable Chocolate Edition for some light reading.

Minta zipped out from behind the shoutbox Recliner™ and skidded to a halt before diving under the carpet. She pulled a toolbox out of nowhere, found a wrench and a couple of bolts and a jar of honey in some of her pockets, and tinkered together a spyglass. . . "NIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMY!" She leaped into the fray, whacking people aside with the spyglass and cutting a gnomie-sized swath of bruised shins in the Pen population. Super pixystix-fueled speed propelled her to the front of the pack, and she seized the Nimball™ to her chest with a big squishy hug. A small *glip* could be heard every so often as Nim tried to inhale, but Minta (eyes wide as dinner plates and nearly comically heart-shaped with happiness) only squished some more. About a third of the pack paused to murmur "awwwwwwwwwwwwww. . .how cute." The other two-thirds leaped variously over the hole into which Savage Dragon had disappeared. The sun eclipsed behind their great numbers. A living tsunami of rabid Nimball players crashed into shore with a sickening CRUNCH. Amid groans of pain and pulped lower extremities, Minta popped up to ride atop somebody's shoulders, mysteriously unhurt as usual. . .but sulking at top volume because both the spyglass AND the Nimmy were gone! The Nimball™ had popped out of her grip during the tumult and landed in the loving embrace of. . .

Six Months Dead. . .is a pile of grey (tone) matter Three Months Dead. . .still retains some features, like eyeballs Freshly Dead. . .is Alaeha asleep on the desk.

Reading this poem shut off Rydia (the sentimental side) like a lamp and brought Tzimfemme charging to full prominence, and not just for the series of statements within it.

(Rydia sends the double post to oblivion with a wiggle of her ears. . .which raises a small whirlwind to whisk the extra copy away to Oz. Winkies and Munchkinlanders alike see it as a second sign from Dorothy.) . . .Wow. On the strength of this poem, I went back and re-read everything you've posted here. I'm frightened of this pitiless cold (but the time to run is past) and also frightened of the reckless life. . . >_ --Rydia, singing pointy ear shiny hunter

Democrats make better lovers--whoever heard of a good piece of elephant?

Alaeha, Ayshela--you can't hope to not offend me. Nothing enrages me more than the conceit and the realities of helplessness, and I'm not sophisticated enough to do more than seize helplessness by the scruff of the neck and drag it onto a better course, mangling the person. . .and that's in the best case. Articulate rage is a survival emotion that comes at the expense of all others--I had to learn how to cower, and it's so much less effective. . . I don't understand you.

"It's not a problem--it's a feature!" Actually, the problem is that you're not yet reclassified to initiate (honored guests can't use search).

Accolades and nakie time for Orlan and the return of the boards!

Rare are the poems that appealed to me more when spoken--the repetition raw on the eyes makes a perfect mantra for the ears. These were chants for many people in unison, so the first poem (which is not limited to one speaker) sounds better to me. Don't change a line!

Rarely, Tzimfemme cursed her mutable body. Most people only suffered reddened ears when someone was focused upon them; she would undergo metamorphosis under the pressure of her viewer's dreams, bursting out of clothes and changing coloration. Keeping close to Orlan held her features mostly steady nowadays, but some people--and Rosemary was one--retained their power over her. If the vampire's mad mind saw their bond as a disease, it was one: nausea and fever and hallucinations and mottled skin. "Dammit," she croaked, coughing, "dial it back a bit already, Rosemary!" "It is what you think it is." "I *cough* know that! And if I'm going to help with whatever idea you've got," lied Tzimfemme, "I need to be able to function! Give me something useful!" She straightened up, smiling, as the vampire let go of her hand and let the powder recede. Rosemary gathered herself and impressed to Tzimfemme's mind three mage names, one fused name, and an absence-of-name that screamed volumes. Tzimfemme doubled over again with the rush of memories, then crumpled to the floor, alternately cursing Rosemary and gritting her teeth against the emotions. Underneath her feet, her clenched fingers and toes started to dig tracks into the stone floor. After letting a vein into one end of the most coiled track near Tzimfemme's head, Rosemary turned her back and walked briskly away before the blood made it into the naked mage's system. ***** "Awaken." Minta pulled the zombie-skin crazy quilt more firmly over her head. When Rosemary shook her shoulder, she flipped a half-turn under the covers and tucked all of the quilt ends under herself. When one quilt end was pulled high into the air, she did one and one-half turns in midair before she was entirely free of the covers. Not even that and the resulting bounces coaxed open her scrunched-shut eyes. "Don't wanna! Rydia's sad so I'm sad, an' is all about a stupid boy anyway, an' is not time for me to get up yet, an' Tzimmy's being weird again an' nobody told me again. . .oooooooooo are you gonna tell me? Can I come this time can I can I can I pleasepleaseplease!!!!!" Minta shot out of bed and orbited around the bedpost and into a clean robe, landing with a bounce right in front of Rosemary with one sleeve turned halfway back on itself. Rosemary corrected the sleeve, then took a silver circlet of her own design (properly warded and engraved to be as distracting as the little one herself) and settled it on Minta's curly hair while sending thoughts of her spiritual sisters into the little one's mind. "Tonight," she whispered, "you will be where I once was. . ." Her fingers clenched angrily, and Minta protested. "Tonight you are the one to call, to see where she and I enthrall--and don't forget," with a sharp slap to Minta's backside that sent her scurrying into the corridor, "you're next to fall." ***** (to be continued)