-C-

I wasn't entirely sure where to put this, but uh... well, here it is. A friend told me she had to write a paragraph describing a set of words without using them directly, or their synonyms. It sounded like really good fun, so I gave it a try. I figured it'd be even more fun if we took it in turns, each writing a new set of words to use at the end of each post for the next person to pick up on. For example, first post has the words 'loud', 'hot,' and 'cold' in - and the second poster has to write a paragraph or a line describing said words without using their synonyms. Then the second poster writes several new words in, say 'kind', 'brick' and 'grass' at the end of his/her post, and poster the third has to write about 'kind', 'brick' and 'grass', and so on and so forth. There's no limit on the number of words one can put, but I'd suggest it isn't more than five. At least to begin with! It can be as silly or as serious as you like. (If this is posted in the wrong place, I do apologise in advance. It's not exactly a story, or a poem, or really an RP in the strictest sense, so I stuck it in here.) I'll start - the words that I absconded with were 'Love, Hate, Tragedy or Wrong and Right'. Left, left is the justice of the land! Gone is the moral fibre! Alas, we are undone! The courts have failed us, anarchy besets us; tyranny reigns! Woe! Woe! We weep at such injustice, for our land has fallen into darkness and despair. For shame! Such is the fate of all those who abandon law for bureaucracy, letting politicians rule with lies, lawyers with foul words. (Please note, I am being very silly here, and I'm not pointing fingers at anyone!) Next words: Joy, pain, cold, hot, mortal Enjoy! -C.

"Why, thank you m'lady Mynx..." C eyes the wyvern and nods slightly, "My thanks... now I think I need a frame, but in the meantime..." C rolls up the parchment and puts it in a waterproof tube. Then he locks and seals it and puts the key safely away. Then he meets the wyvern's eyes, "That'll be 500 geld, thank you. Paper is expensive; parchment even more so. Now it's been enchanted, the value has been trebled." C smiles sweetly. "I trust this won't be a problem?" C admires his shiny new title and smiles... "...So, who among you is up for restoring the Lizard's mags? Let us band together, and seek to resolve this issue, that other initiates may not suffer such irateness as I and Colemanite_flakes! Let us spare them from the Lizard! Together... we are... Fellowship of the... Mags? ...That name really needs some work on. Regardless, forwards! For geld, glory and... unsavoury magazines? "Geez, this is the worst excuse I've come across for a quest..." OOC: Thank you - I'm looking forward to it . So far, it's been fun! Following on from this, the quest to restore the Lizard's mags begins here!

"Perhaps... a new sheet of parchment could be found, Mr. Almost Dragon?" C glances around, shrugs, and pulls out a sheet of paper from his satchel. "Being a scribe, one often is wont to carry such things around..." Holding it out, C somewhat nervously offers it, preferring the sheet to his flesh. "If that's all right?"

"Well, uh... that's just great." C the Traveller looks around, "Should I accept responsibility since it was my presence that brought this... tragic travesty about, that laid low the... bah, it probably deserved burning anyway. Time for a quest! Who's with me? Off to see the Wizard, the wonderful wizard of..." C examines the remains of the burnt erotic in disgust, "Someone want to put the remains in a jar? "You know, isn't there a get-quick-rich scheme you can distract Mister Almost-Dragon with?"

"Ah, I see my entrance... is accompanied by unusual - usual? - disruption? A pleasure to meet you Mister W. Almost-Dragon." Shaking the glass off his cloak, and plucking the last shards with a gloved hand, C somehow manages to maintain a straight face. What... interesting characters that inhabit this place. Before he has time to respond in full, the knight greets him, and he finds himself responding automatically, "A pleasure, Sir Ordolar. C - the Traveller. I uh, would ask if meeting under such circumstances is normal, but such antics seem run of the mill where troublemakers are involved. I've already been told that there is a resident troublemaker in your ranks. Not that I would ever attempt to pass the buck, no sir. Sir. Ordolar." C clears his throat and looks around, eyeing the Wyvern's burning 'smug mags' with thinly veiled amusement. He seems to be half listening to what Stephen was saying, while responding to what's going on around him with surprising calm - after the window exploded, and the Wyvern left. "So... any place for a weary traveller in these parts?"

"Well, fire is pretty, after all. Ah, now let me see... the succubus... I was under the guise of another at the time, a human with some elfish blood, no more than an 1/8th, no less than 1/12th. A sword for hire; bounty hunter, mercenary - all guises. Never an 'adventurer' though, but rather one who simply took jobs of interest. Anything that interested him. "So it came about that he took a job of - well, the details aren't of interest, but he ended up going up against a witch in her marsh. Generic, except being a marsh, she was all alone and had control of various denizens that dwelt there. So she set deformed animals at him, a giant viper, and finally, a succubus she had summoned in the event he broke through. The succubus intended to devour him, and he had no way of defeating her foul witchery and magic, so he simply surrendered - but warned her that when she devoured him, she would lose the chance to ever see a mortal like him again. She wished to know why, so he invited her to look into his mind; to see his life. After all, she was in control, a succubus, while he could not defeat her. His blade could not even penetrate her hide - not that he tried. So she did - and there, once within his mind, he showed her the life of a mortal, as if she was a mortal, living, dying - and all that life has to offer. The mortal experience that she, as a monster, would never experience for herself. He touched her and changed her, imbuing her with a life unknown to her, teaching her love and hate, pain and joy - from a mortal's perspective. "She didn't devour him, but left him alive - with a curse of sorts, a proclamation. Because he knew better, because he had experienced life, knew right from wrong, and did not just prey on mortals as a lion preys on sheep, she warned him that he was the true monster; she simply followed his nature, but he? He had a choice. And after kissing him as a lover, she left him. "Whether part of her ever stayed with him, or part of him with her - through her long centuries and immortal life? That is a subject for the sages, but that is the long and short of the 'bloodless' conflict with a succubus. It makes for a fun tale. But I would hear more about the orcs!"

"Well, 'C' is fine, unless you can think of a better name? 'Name the Traveller' contest? A bardic challenge. As to tales... I've no doubt you could tell me many of your own, starting with your fellows right here. The things I have seen are no doubt mundane and quite ordinary, yet new stories are always a delight to hear, especially when well told. "There was this one time I faced a succubus, having to defeat her in a battle of wits or else be consumed..." The traveller smiled, "And what of you? Ever faced a succubus in battle? Not that I'm bragging, but that is the most recent encounter I partook in."

"Ah, my thanks Lady Tanny for the warning. My soul - and my coin - are none but my own. I have encountered others who would have both, as well as those who would have my obedience, or have me as a zombie. Fun times." The Traveller wonders what other things this 'Almost-Dragon' has got up to, but shrugs inwardly. He would find out soon enough... probably. "So, a Wolf-Lady, a Troublemaker Ranger, a Patham, and a Tigeress? And yet to meet an 'Almost Dragon'. Am I missing anyone so far?"

The Traveller watches the arrival of the others in silence. What a welcome; the most activity he's seen in a single thread by so many for quite some time! He would not be surprised if it turned into it's own RP, complete with office fires, and gales outside. So he waits. Finally, he nods to Mynx "Greetings." His eyebrows raise ever so slightly, "May I ask, why will this not end well?" His gaze flickers over towards the papers, "Fireproof? I must have forgotten my layers of silk, cotton and wool..."

"Such a warm welcome! A pleasure to meet everyone." The traveller looks around the office's interior, and ponders over what has been said. "So this - Wyvern Almost-Dragon - may take a while to arrive? Well, waiting is part of life. Ah Patham, it is good to see you again - it's been a while since I've seen you wear that name. "Tanny, Stephen, it's good to meet you." The Traveller pauses, and decides he needs a better epithet; 'C the Traveller' has a certain... '*arches eyebrow and shakes head*' about it. But that can wait until later. "So, what advice have you for a Traveller in these parts?" Softly, the Traveller closes the door, aware of the wind scattering the hair of those around him. What happens now...

A reply! Perhaps there is hope after all; perhaps desolation has not come to all such haunts. Yet, personae is not so unusual as to not be unknown; thus, the tone of the traveller's scribblings alters to conform with the etiquette of 'Pen Keep'. A mask is worn; a persona adopted. Thus: a caricature is born. The traveller pauses, unsurprised at being addressed, yet unused to writing himself this way. That a wolf should address him does not shock him; he has experienced far stranger things than this, in his travels, yet the time to speak is nigh. For how long, should he remain silent, uttering the ramblings of unspoken thought? Indeed, no matter how he is responded to, by what manner of creature, strange or familiar, for now, he is a guest in this place, new and unused to the inner workings, the undertows, eddies and currents - the prose must be maintained, and RPing, is not something he is unfamiliar with (even if his sentences are far too long). "Hello... good... lady... wolf?" Unsure whether 'good' is the correct form of address or not, he considers the question, "An invitation, by a friend. Perhaps you know of him? One Patrick, one who has resided long here? I hail from distant and dying... forums, seeking one of life, to name as 'home', or at least, a temporary refuge in the journey that each of us take." He considers the weather, and watches the wolf shift into a woman as the wind sweeps across the land, taking him in its chill embrace, and with him, his hair and coat - cloak? - cloak, he decides. Any traveller worth his salt deserves a cloak. At least one where cloaks are in style. "Might I have the pleasure of your name, fair lady wolf?"

The wind howls, and dejected and forlorn, a not-so-ragged wanderer? Nay, a would-be scribe, stumbles aimlessly, wondering where those he shares his craft with reside. Where have all the writers gone? Where have the bards, poets, tome-keepers and dare he ask, the RPers gone? Have they all faded, turned to myth, a distant, lingering memory, recalled only within the dying echoes of a long-forgotten dream? Say it isn't so! But wait, what is this? The search engines turn up places, havens, sanctuaries - yet some once filled, have turned to flame, others infested with trolls, by the ranks of jeering denizens, citizens of once fine bastions of creativity turned corrupt. Do none care for literacy any more? Has the world turned, passing by those of pen and quill, keyboard and pencil? Must one be forced to write alone? Is such a fate the doom of this age? Where the written word turns to letters, to numbers, abbreviations and phrases so callously slurred? Surely, there must be some place somewhere, a forum of creative works, where imagination is encouraged, where kindness, respect and maturity hold sway? There must be many such places - but where, how? How far must one search, how great is such toil - until at least, a shining glimmer of light, a small, faint hope - an invitation, from a friend, a chance meeting within the realms of a dying, fading hall, where once was golden, is now by twilight, slowly fading, forgotten, until oblivion and inactivity claims it. An invitation to another, a more active place - a place where writing is alive, is appreciated, where creativity is read. Could this be such a place? Or shall the traveller continue on? Perhaps, in other times, such a prose shall not be quite so purple, self-deprecatingly waxing the poetic. And so, the traveller pauses, saying simply: "Hello."