Kasmandre

A rather pleasant day in the Pen's courtyard is promptly interrupted by a rather large something falling out of the sky and creating a moderately-sized crater in the snowy ground. The few brave souls who approach the crater notice that the object that had fallen out of the sky is an unusually large potato. As if this isn't odd enough, a moment later, a hatch opens on the side of the over-sized vegetable and a man climbs out, dragging several cardboard boxes behind him. This man is every bit as odd as his transportation. Dressed in blue-orange-and-crimson Bermuda shorts, a sweatshirt advertising "Last Chance Life Insurance" and golf cleats of two different sizes, he tucks his black and white streaked hair into a hairnet and puts on a pair of safety goggles. Seemingly oblivious to the odd stares the growing crowd is giving him, the man waves and says to the crowd, "Don't worry, I'll be set up in just a second!" Out of the cardboard boxes, he pulls a rickety looking table, a steam-powered grill, and a crank-operated sausage-maker. Next he pulls out a large piece of wood and a squid. Squeezing the squid slightly to get the ink going, the man uses it to write a sign stating: Crazy Bill Scranton's Weenee Roast Free Sampels Avalable Kwalitie Ingratients Used The last part of his sign is belied by the odd conglomeration of objects that Crazy Bill is now piling on the table. Things that are actually edible seem to be in the minority while footwear, bicycle parts, works of art, and other unusual ingredients are a little more prevalent. As a final touch, he dons an apron proclaiming "Do not lynch the chef" Crazy Bill looks at the crowd with a smile and begins tossing ingredients into the sausage-maker. His writing-squid, a chunk of brimstone, three mismatched socks, and a sewing kit disappear into the top. Then the odd little chef begins turning the crank, squeezing a very normal-looking weenie out the other side. After tossing it onto the grill just long enough to char one side of it, Crazy Bill sticks it in a bun and hands it to an unsuspecting bystander. The hot dog promtly sprouts a dozen tentacles through the bun and opens a mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. The unfortunate customer drops the demonic hot dog and runs away as quickly as possible, closely pursued by his weenie, which is now breathing fire stinking of brimstone and dirty socks. Crazy Bill watches the pair flee into the distance with a smile of quiet pride on his face. Turning back to the shocked crowd, he says, "The line for refunds will begin to the left of the weenie-line. Next!"

Kasmandre the Koot walks into the booth, looking momentarily confused as to why he came in. Then, seeing Salinye, he suddenly remembers. As quickly as he can, he runs over to Salinye and bellows entirely too loudly (his Almost Dragonic Brand Discount Hearing Aid having shorted out again, this time setting some of his hair to smoldering), "So, another year added to the pile, my dear, eh!? I wish you double their number still in front of you and the happiest of days in the meantime!" He then bows deeply, falling asleep about halfway down and collapsing in a heap on the ground. Quickly, Venefyxatu and Wyvern drag his slumbering body off to one side so the rest of the crowd of well-wishers don't accidentally step on him. ooc: Happy Birthday! :wizzie:

"Power corrupts. Absolute power is kind of neat." -John Lehman, US Secretary of the Navy

Yay! Congrats, Salinye!

Happy birthday! And many more!

"Oooooh! Riddleses!" a small voice piped up from somewhere underfoot. "Sheemie loves riddles, so he does! And Sheemie's a good'un cook too, make up all sorts of nice foods for the Sphinxy-winksy. You just wait, Sheemie'll get his cooking things and be back in two shakes, so he will!" And with that, the little serving-elf Sheemie ran off to gather ingredients.

~Abilities~ Sardin is a master with the Te'barallan sabers, and proficient in unarmed combat and using his knives. Sardin attained the third level of the Wind Path (out of nine, one for each of Te'baralla's celestial bodies) before the death of his mentor, Shaman Pasa. This leads to his proficiency with his sabers, as well as granting him dexterity and endurance beyond those of mortal men. He also has some minor shamanistic powers, including minor healing abilities, and control over the desert wind, including being able to create a hot, dry wind in any environment. The deity who created Sardin made him from the sands of Te'baralla. Under Pasa's tutelage, Sardin quickly became able to utilize the special abilities gifted him through his creation. He doesn't need to eat or sleep. He never ages or tires. He has no blood, or bodily fluids and bleeds sand when cut. He is able to turn his body and any objects psychologically close to him (his clothes, which he's had for years, and anything under "Items" above) into desert sand. He retains control over himself in this form and can reform at any time.

~Items~ Other than the clothes on his back, Sardin carries a few items of note. -Pair of Te'barallan sabers: these wide, curved blades lend themselves to quick, fluid slashing attacks. Sardin earned these for reaching the first level of the Wind Path from Shaman Pasa. They are made of a metal not known anywhere but Te'baralla. This metal has the unique property of being able to cut through any stone or metal provided it is not wet or enchanted. -Three sandstone daggers: the blades of these daggers are elongated pyramids made of mystically hardened sandstone. They're a common weapon on Te'baralla even though no one in the world knows how to create them. -Backat pouch filled with small objects: this small pouch, made from the tanned hide of a backat contains 29 small, mundane objects. One from each member of the band of nomads Sardin couldn't protect. He protects these objects in their stead. -Medicine Bag: this smaller backat-hide bag contains some bandages and a supply of medicines, most made from grow weed juice, from a potent healing plant native to Te'baralla.

~History~ There's a reason Sardin is as single minded and personality-less as he is. He was created to be that way. He was brought into being by a deity as a last line of defense against a prophesied foe. He granted Sardin a soul but left out the heart creating a creature more creative and able than any golem or monster, but without passion or direction of his own. He then planted an imperative to protect him deep within Sardin's psyche and set him out into the world of Te'baralla, a world of endless desert. He set him out both to test him and to keep him hidden from the prophesied hero, only to be called back in the last extremity of desperation. Set adrift in an unfamiliar world with only a buried imperative to protect, Sardin came across a band of nomads who survived only by leading small flocks of backat, a small, cow-like creature, from oasis to oasis. This band was periodically set upon by bandits and other, less moral groups. Sardin took this group under his protection and was accepted as one of their own and given the name he still bears. As he traveled with them, he learned from their leader, the Shaman Pasa. From this leader, he learned how to harness the abilities given to him by his creator. This arrangement continued until a group of bandits got too close to the nomads before Sardin noticed them and most of his band was killed, including Pasa. The survivors made Sardin their leader and started referring to him as "Shaman Sardin" even though he was far from earning that title. Sardin decided the only way to properly protect his people was to go on the offensive against the bandits. They followed the trail of the bandits and ambushed them. In the ensuing battle, Sardin killed all the bandits, but lost the remaining members of his band. Left without anyone to protect, Sardin once again started wandering the world, eventually coming across ways between the worlds and leaving the desert of Te'baralla. Since then, he's wandered the worlds, feeling only an unconscious urge to protect.

~Personality~ Short answer, none. Sardin speaks so seldomly that it might as well be never (and even when he does speak, it's never in an intelligible language), he betrays almost no emotion, and he never makes any effort to appear to listen or understand anything anyone else says. When he has a goal, he sets about it with a singlemindedness more like a robot than any living being.

~Physical Description~ Sardin stands about 5'7" tall with skin and hair approximately the texture of desert sand. He is typically dressed in loose-fitting leather and cloth clothes of light tan weathered from years of wear in desert sun and sand. He also has a hood a veil of the same coloring which he wears during combat and any time he's in a desert environment. With the hood and veil up, his eyes are the only visible part of him, a disconcerting thing considering his eyes, at first glance, appear to have no iris. On closer inspection, it becomes apparent that he does have irises of light brown which actually fade into his whites instead of having a definite border.

"Got to watch those desert nomads," Gyrfalcon chuckles before walking away from the stand. A few steps later, he feels a warm, dry wind brush by behind him. Turning quickly, he catches a glimpse of a man in light tan clothing brush by toward the adventurers booth. Speak of the devil... he thinks as he turns his mind toward a cup of hot chocolate. Meanwhile, the man has arrived at the booth and, without saying a word, takes a contract and waiver from Scarlot and signs them quickly without reading either. Taking a look at the forms, Lorne notices that the signatures, while legibly written, aren't in any language he's ever seen. "Um, could you possibly write your name below in a more common language, so we know who to call?" The newcomer stared at him for a minute without speaking. Then, just before Lorne went to find someone with a greater knowledge of languages, the man took the contract and wrote beneath his signature "Shaman Sardin." Then walked a few steps away and sat, cross-legged on the ground, awaiting his mission.

~Introduction~ Kasmandre is the first character I wrote a story of significant length about. This has pluses and minuses. The big advantage is that I'm very personally connected to the character and, when I sit down to write, I want to write about Kasmandre. The disadvantage is that as I progress in my writing, the character in that first story seems poorer and flatter. So, from time to time, I rewrite him. I can think of five different incarnations of the character off the top of my head, each used to varying degrees in different stories and settings (and occasionally, the same story and setting). So sitting down and writing a profile of Kasmandre is next to impossible simply because the various stories I've imagined him (them?) in. He's been young and brash, old and cantankerous, unaging, dying, a mage, a monk, good, evil, a savior, a genocidal maniac, and a good deal of what goes in between. At this point, you're likely thinking why I'm bothering to post anything in here at all on the character(s). After looking at the differences, the similarities become clear to me. Kasmandre is never an obvious hero. He's almost always caused horrible bloodshed, either directly or through inaction. He's a weak person, more than willing to look for the easy way out and used to turning away from the suffering of others. He falls victim to his vices over and over again. He should be written off as irredeemable. And yet, somehow, through circumstances beyond his creating, he winds up a hero, on the side of good. To me, he represents the worst parts of myself, what I think of myself at my most self-destructive. Making that vision of myself a hero gives me hope. Which explains why I haven't let go of the character despite the convoluted history of the people bearing that name. Plus, I happen to think it's a pretty cool name. Anyway, I'm gonna post the various "versions" of Kasmandre here with as much information as I have. Who knows, maybe I'll find some use for them all...

Thanks, I pretty much just started writing it and the repetition just seemed to be the natural thing to do, so I ran with it.

"Bu- Wha- I- Qui- Ka-" Kasmandre tries to interject, but before he can get an entire word out, Katzaniel is already in the maze. "I'll show that little ragamuffin! Her snow-fortin' ways are no match for the way we did things back in my day. We didn't just toss snow balls willy-nilly, we fortified ourselves!" With that, he strikes the ground with his cane and out of the center of the maze, an enormous tower of ice and snow arose. Then he taps his head with the cane and a army helmet appears. Taking his sculpture (which now has a helmet to mimic its recipient) from Venefyxatu, he says, "Thank you, good sir, Veneboolyhoo, but I've got a war to win! Come Lieutenant Sculpture, the game is afoot!" And striking the ground with his cane again, he disappeared and reappeared back at the top of his tower. "Come one, come all! See Veneflippityflops' amazing snow maze! Brave the barrage of snowballs from myself, Kasmandre T. Koot, from my impregnable tower! Fear me and my ITing-" He's cut off as a snowball arcs up from the maze and snacks him right in the face. From far below, he can hear Katzaniel giggling.

The sound of a collapsing wall deeper in the maze wakes Kasmandre. "What's the commotion? Can't a body take a nap in his own..." He trails off as he realizes that he's not in his armchair in his quarters but rather in a corridor of snow. After a long moment, he remembers why he's there. "AH! Yes, that was it. Now in my day, we didn't put sleeping enchantments in our snow mazes, but it's a clever trick," Outside the maze, Venefyxatu smiles to himself, trying to decide whether or not to tell Kasmandre that his maze contained no such enchantments as Kasmandre continues rambling, "It quite reminds me of a time many years ago when I and my good friend Roland were building a snow maze. Now in those days..." his voice fades away to a mutter as he continues deeper into the maze. After another ten minutes of shuffling through the falling snow, Kasmandre comes across the unconscious form of Wyvern, half buried under a snow drift. "Ah another victim of the dastardly Sleep Traps! You seem to need this more than myself my good man...er, dragon...um, I mean...well, you need this more than I do!" He finishes with a flourish, throwing the flannel blanket over the almost-dragon and mostly missing. He doesn't notice this as he attempts to clamber over the part of the wall still remaining. Ten minutes later, after sliding down the snow drift several dozen times, Kasmandre decides to take a less mountainous route and find the real right way through the maze. After two hours and running into more dead ends than actually exist in the maze, Kasmandre emerged at the other end. He proudly stepped up to Venefyxatu to receive his sculpture. "Beat your little maze! And in record time, I bet!"

~Introduction~ Lesse here...I'm currently a junior theatre major (and hopefully english minor if I can ever get the pre-reqs done) at Northwestern. I spend a good deal of my free time doing table-top and live-action roleplaying, but I started rping at the Pen (and the Archmage Conservatory before that). I have a tendancy to post here in spurts, being fairly active for a few weeks or months, then disappearing for fair amounts of time. Right now, I'm in one of the active phases, but we'll see how long this lasts . ~List of Works~ Anywho, some of my past work (odds are I've missed/forgotten some things, so this list most likely isn't complete): Stories: Rebirth of a Dark Heart There and Back Again Kind of like a twilight zone episode Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos Role-plays: World Without End Arch of Enzoob Untitled The Third Archmage Royal Rumble RP Games: Werewolf XV: Name of the Rose Werewolf XVI: Star Wolf Werewolf XVII: Pulp Wolf Werewolf XVIII: Isle of the Damned (Mod) Poems: In love for those who've gone before Editted by Katz for Search-compliant formatting.

A grizzled old man works his way through the various booths, muttering to himself about whatever grizzled old men muttered about (popular music mostly). Eventually, he arrives at the entrance to the snow maze. He stands in front of the enchanted sign, squints, moves a few feet closer, squints at it again, moves up until his nose is almost touching the letters, then squints until his eyes almost disappear. "Vene- Verer- Veneneen- Venef- Verbot-" he mutters to himself, attempting to decipher the enigmatic first word of the sign. After several more unsuccessful tries at pronouncing the offending name, he scowls, backs up, snorts, and shuffles back up to the sign, squinting even harder. "Veni-whatzitz's Snow Maze, search your way..." his voice trails off as he finishes reading the sign, then he pipes up in an annoyingly high pitched screech, "An ice sculpture, you say! Well, if that isn't a seventh day wonder! And of me no less! Well, I'll just have to show this young whippersnapper that there isn't a maze made that can out-boggle Kasmandre T. Koot!" With that, the grizzled old man trudged resolutely into the maze, disappearing around the first turn. Three hours pass. More than a little worried about the elderly contestant, and long since done with his sculpture, Venefyxatu hovers into the maze, looking for Kasmandre. It doesn't take long. Shortly after rounding the first corner he comes across the old man bent over his cane, fast asleep, muttering to himself between snores. "Whippersnapper...zzz...hippity-hop music...zzz...'n my day...zzz" Not wanting to disturb his rest in case Kasmandre planned to finish the maze, Venefyxatu simply conjured up a flannel blanket and draped it over the geezer, then floated out of the maze as quietly as possible. "Well, if nothing else, he'll be a bit of an obsticle for the others," the mage thought to himself as he sat down and waited for his next customer.

Seriously creepy. It won't stop looking at me. Very nicely done. ...Now how am I supposed to get to sleep tonight?

To the one I never knew, goodbye. Whom I never understood, goodbye. To the one who never spoke, goodbye. Who taught a family love, goodbye. To the one I know they miss, goodbye. Who they visit every year, goodbye. For through the sick does healing come, Dear Alice, goodbye. To the one I barely knew, goodbye. Who I saw the days before, goodbye. To the one who waited for Godot, goodbye. Who was in a day, a friend, goodbye. To the one who left too soon, goodbye. Who didn't know he was missed, goodbye. For the end is not the solution, Dear Sean, goodbye. To the one I grew nearby, goodbye. Who knew a dirty joke (or nine), goodbye. To the one who taught me much, goodbye. Who crafted the glasses I wear, goodbye. To the one robust and stout, goodbye. Who had to wither away, goodbye. For there is always an end to suffering, Dear Jerry, goodbye. To the one I owe so much to, goodbye. Who was, at times, my only friend, goodbye. To the one who was always loved, goodbye. Who I never told I loved, goodbye. To the one I learned true faith from, goodbye. Who was suddenly ripped away, goodbye. For angels dwell here for just so long, Dear Joanna, goodbye. To those I'll always miss To those I'll never forget To those I'll always love To those I'll see again To those who taught me in life To those who taught me in death To those who live on within To those gone forever without Goodbye, my loves, Goodbye.

Kasmandre hobbles up to the front of the room on his walker, clears his throat a few times, adjusts his comb-over and squints in the general direction of the assembled Penners "Well, I'd just like to thank all y'all younguns for coming out at such a late hour-" The other celebrants all look at their watches, seeing that it's not even 7 pm yet. "and I'll keep this short so we can all get back to our creamed corn and cat food. I'd just like to say that y'all younguns need to keep that damned rippity-rap music down to a reasonable level! I've had enough of your bippin' and a-boppin' dancing! Sinful, that is! You should be ashamed of yourselves; I'm looking at you Mr. Pointy Stick! And another thing-zzzzzzzz..." Kasmandre trails off as he falls asleep in his walker, occasionally muttering something about his pills. ooc: Seriously though, thanks. I really need to spend more time posting around here.

1) A Nonsense Word - Abstentatious 2) Adjective - french-cut 3) Plural Noun - singularities 4) A Verb ending in "ing" - tracking 5) Adjective - Greco-Roman 6) Plural Noun - thesi (or whatever the plural of thesis is) 7) Verb - ingest A Location - the stomach 9) Name of a Pen Member - Zool 10) A style or font of writing. - confusing 11) Plural Noun - members 12) Something Red - wine 13) Something White - wine 14) A Color - wine 15) Adjective - whining 16) A State of Mind - denial 17) A Rank - Private First Class 18) Plural Noun - Privates (as in soldiers) 19) Adverb - finally 20) A Proverb - "He who hops highest, hops happiest."

My weekends are busier than my weekdays, so my break in the week comes closer to Cerulean's (from Tuesday after 5 to 4 Thursday). And the days around it aren't too stressful either. Although today wasn't too bad... And Aardvark, wouldn't a backwards hole be a tower?

Happy Friday to all, and a restful weekend to those who have that off. Try to spare a moment to think of me dealing with annoying redneck customers at the go-cart park. And feel free to have a laugh at my expence . Hugs to all...

Yay! Welcome back! ... ... Wait...he knows magic now? Run for your lives!!!