Kasmandre

As the party rode on, Kasmandre retreated once again into his own thoughts. Faintly, he noticed Griever asking John something. This bothered him. Both John and Griever made Kasmandre moderately nervous. Griever because of the way he had looked at Kasmandre before riding off ahead, John...John for other reasons. The two of them talking could mean disaster if they concurred on the wrong points. But aren't you headed for disaster anyway? a voice whispered to him within his head. Over the past few years, he had grown used to hearing this voice. It was a comfort, especially during times when he and the voice's owner were far distant. What he disliked about it was that it sometimes saw more deeply into himself than he wanted to delve. Just like its owner. Kasmandre's first instinct was to shut the voice out. But that was pointless and weak. He considered his actions over the last day or so. He had told the group why he had to go to Trelain, but little else. The past two nights he had had dreams of the Eye of Sha'ran'kom, an artifact long dead (surely it must be gone after everything else), dreams of increasing horror, both of which seemed to bear heavily on their quest. And now he had found those books. He had seen their like long ago, but why would they be here? And if the books were here, if that symbol was here, then maybe... But speculation was pointless, the thrust of the matter was that while he had only a vague idea about the forces that may be gathering before them, his companions had none. Without this information, would they survive? And if they didn't survive, could Kasmandre still succeed? He mulled this thought over and over, bearing inward on it, completely ignoring the other members of the group and their conversations. What would he do? Which way to go?

Looking at his earlier post and the comment on it: Crud, that's a good point. I guess that's what I get for posting when I'm not exactly at my awakest. Alright, if I'm gonna get unique I'm gonna have to go wider: Kasmandre basically represents every tendency within myself that I dislike: my distrust, my anger, my arrogance, everything that I'd like to dispose of if I could. Kasmandre willfully destroyed a beautiful, utopian society to get revenge on one person. Realistically, he should be a villian. But he's not. Somehow, he becomes a hero and savior. He really doesn't change his personality, he just starts doing the right thing instead of the opposite. Despite all the cr*p in his personality, he's a force for good. It's a pretty big paradox and I'm not even sure exactly how it works, but it does. Bottom line: he's an evil guy who does good. He doesn't have an evil side to his personality, he doesn't have berkster rages, he isn't a madman with split personalities, he's just a fundamentally misanthropic a*****e who somehow gets around that and does the right thing.

Great pic, Rune. I've tried making a picture of Kasmandre, but I really don't have a lot of time to dedicate to drawing (which I'm not too good at in the first place) and I can't get it to look right. Oh, well, at least I can admire.

Hm, I actually liked the movies (well, movie, I've yet to see The Two Towers) more than I did the books. But that's just me. I'll second the recomendation of the Wheel of Time. It's a great series and I'm impatiently waiting for the next installment. Also, I'd suggest the Dark Tower series by Stephen King. It's different than a lot of his other work and really out there. The first four books are being re-released in June (I think the first is also being revised a little, not sure how I feel about that) and the last three are coming out in the next two years. The end of an era, really. For anyone interested in horror, I'd recommend anything by Richard Laymon. He's written some seriously twisted stuff. I've read nothing like it.

Congratulations, Elvida! Welcome to the family.

Hm, I just realized that the Kasmandre that appears in my stories is a lot different from when I'm just posting in the Cabaret Room...when I'm around here, I just post as me (more or less, here I have a shotgun), and in the stories and such... I guess one quality of Kasmandre is that he doesn't really trust anyone and tends to keep others at arm's length (basically, he's every bad habit or negative aspect of myself made into a person). [EDIT: Posted by Quincunx: Well, you unfortunately get to be the example of a challenged uniqueness. . . .Introverts aren't rare here, my Tzimfemme is also one. Refine ifyouplease?]

Sardin steeled himself against the soming impact as his body was violently slammed into a tree, sending splinters flying in all directions. He ignored the pain of the impact and of Nightshade's nails tearing at the flesh of his stomach. Somehow, he managed to keep his grip on his daggers. He raised them up and with a scream of pain and rage, he brought them down on Nightshade's shoulders.

Great poem, I love the three red dots at the end. Skips of singing, "Dots dots dots..."

Word up, my hommie!!! Great rap, Peredhil, I love it (or is it "I'm down with that"?).

Wow, I like it. Welcome to the Pen, Alaeha. I hope to read more of your work.

"Toehater?" I can't even imagine the personality that would inspire a name like that. And "Knifestomper" just sounds like a really stupid, painful idea. Although... Orc 1: "Who goes there?" Orc 2: "Toehater the Knifestomper." Orc 1: "How do you get a name like that?" Orc 2 (realizing that he has toes, sets a knife, blade up, on the ground and lifts a foot): "Die Toesies!!!!" (Orc 2 stomps down on the knife repeatedly) Orc 1: "Ah, I see."

Playing around with the generators "Eeeenteresting...very eeeentersesting..."

Sardin flailed about, feeling waves of firey needles racing across his body as Nightshade kept him locked in a kiss as deadly as her namesake. His dagger fell from fingers that began to lose all feeling. If he was going to have a chance to attack, it would have to be now. With the tattered remnants of his concentration, Sardin grasped the air between them and caused it to push outward, seperating the two for a second. Using that second to the best of his advantage, Sardin inhaled raggedly, attempting to feed good, clean air into his lungs. Also, he drove a fist into Nightshade's chin and squirmed out of her grip. Quickly, he stumbled backward, spitting violently, trying to get that taste out of his mouth. He then drew another two of his daggers - leaving only one still sheathed - and stayed back, readied for a counter-strike.

A few for computer users: "Why won't this magnet pick up your hard drive?" "Yeah, there was this Spanish program taking up a lot of space, so I deleted it. I think it was called Dos." "'I love you'? I wonder what's in here..." "Yeah, there was this file called virus.def, so I deleted it." (Note: never name your virus definations: virus) "I want the prettiest computer you have." "I wonder what this does..." "Of course I've got windows, there's one on that wall over there!"

Yeah, unfortunately, all of the gods I've run into recently seem to be more of the vengeful sort.

Most of the party had returned from their various searchings when John began "speaking in tongues" so to speak. Naturally, everyone was shocked. Daryl was the first to overcome his shock and speak. "I think we've about overstayed our welcome. The merchant of this caravan seems like an ungrateful twit and I'd rather leave before he gets any ideas." Usagi agreed. "From the way some of those guards were looking, I don't think they'd be averse to trying a little rabbit meat, if you get my drift. I'd rather not kill them all if I don't have to." Kasmandre, who had been staring at John longer than the rest finally spoke up. "If we're to be on our way, there's no time like the present. John, why don' you take one of the bandits' horses. That way, we won't have you burdening Katzaniel anymore." As quickly as possible, everyone mounted their horses (except for Katzaniel and Usagi, who still preferred their own legs to those of another animal) and gathered at the point where the road entered the trees. Somewhere ahead of them, Griever was ostensibly scouting ahead. Beyond them by about two days ride, was Trelain. Kasmandre thought about what they might find there and what he'd found in the package. And, in the pit of his stomach, he felt fear.

With a sudden thrust, Sardin arched his back and threw Nightshade off. With a little less than his usual grace, he got to his feet. Behind his mask and goggles, he snarled. As if it wasn't enough to be fighting an opponent that was practically his physical match, this had to happen. First, the downpour, which would not be working to his advantage as he was unused to any kind of rain. Then he gets attacked by that...plant...thing!! And now, he's been blindsided by a demon. And to top it all off, over the course of the battle, he'd lost both his swords and his armour had numerous breaks. A voice dry as desert sand whispered, "Sh*t." Then he drew one of his daggers and charged the demoness, intending to separate her from her wings.

Actually, I think it's more like taking twenty asylum inmates...this is the Pen after all

The person above me just got two pet rats.

Kasmandre walks around in circles, trying to make sense of everything. Eventuly his mind just shuts down and he collapses, his eyes reading: "TILT"

Long ago, in a far distant land, there was a clan of artists and guildsmen. These artisans lived in harmony with the warlike clans that surrounded them. Despite the fact that these war-mongers disliked their kind, within the walls of their Conservatory, they were not touched by the flames that engulfed those in more warlike venues. In their domain, the word and the dance of language was absolute. They had nothing to fear from these outside forces. Or so they believed. For many years, they continued in a state of blissful ignorance of the threat that loomed over their heads. For the god Marious, who had been seen as a creature worthy only of disdain, was awakening in its power. It asked that all give tribute to its greatness and promised great riches to the warmongers if they raised it up. Little tribute was given and the lands suffered. It was then that many of the artisans began their pilgrimage to old lands strong in their sovereignty. Lands that did not fear the wrath of Marious. They left their homelands to a brighter land. But a select few did not leave. Whether through dedication or obstinacy, they remained in the ravaged lands and tried to maintain the old ways. Among their number was a young man called Darkness, a poet and bard. Despite the adverse conditions, they survived, after a fashion. Some left for the brighter lands, some came anew to the old lands, and a very few returned from the brighter lands. Most of these stayed only a short while, memories of what was lost burning to hot to remain longer. A small fraction, though, stayed, or split their energies between the two lands. One of these was another young man, a few years Darkness's junior. He called himself the Voyager. The Voyager was young and brash. At first, he badgered the inhabitants of the old land to move on, that this world's age was done. But, after seeing their dedication, he joined in their effort. There was some small conflict between the artisans, but the effort of keeping the old lands whole kept these arguments from breaking into something greater. They worked together to keep their land whole. And then Marious struck again. With one breath, the entirety of the old lands was frozen, made uninhabitable and barren. All the artisans' work was for naught. Many of the remainder passed into the brighter lands. The rest waited, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. And then, the Voyager saved them. He prepared a place, far from the frozen tundra of the old lands, where they could continue on until the sun broke through the old lands' sky again. Once again, the remnant had escaped destruction. It seemed that they would survive yet again. And then, things went south again. It began as a small argument between Darkness and the Voyager over a joint project of theirs. Darkness felt that the Voyager was being too controlling, destroying the parts that Darkness had created. Voyager felt that Darkness was too soft for the task at hand, that his work was inferior. Before, this argument would be forgotten for the sake of the community. But now, with no enemy to guard against, their conflict escalated. Each hurled accusations at the other. Almost at once, it came to a head. The Voyager invoked his powers as the creator of this haven, threatening to banish Darkness back into the cold of the old lands. Then he considered the issue closed and moved on with his work. But Darkness would go no further. If he could not have control over what he had created, he would create elsewhere. He had not spent long hours counteracting Marious to allow himself to be under that same arrogance in a different form. With no other choice, he left the safety of the haven forever, to find a new place to create. Perhaps when the old lands thawed, he would return there. Perhaps. I would that I could tell you the end of this story, but it has none. I can say though, that the Voyager was no victor. As Darkness said in his last moments at the sanctuary, in battles like these, there are no true victors; everyone suffers and everyone loses. Darkness lost a home, but the Voyager perhaps lost more. The conflict between those two did not happen in a vacuum; the other artisans saw. Many of them left not long after Darkness. Some traveled to the brighter land, others to other havens. Voyager was a god without a people. And that is all that I can tell, except to warn that this tale is not of fiction. It is the recent memory as retold by a man who was ignorant to a struggle until it became too late. A man who left sanctuary with the others and returned fully to the brighter land, knowing a little more of the pallor of darkness that power causes. A man who hopes for better in his new land, who knows that such arrogance is unlikely, but who holds still a seed of doubt in his heart. No mountain stands forever, nothing is truly eternal. Our choices decide merely the length of our stay and the legacy we leave behind. Choose your legacies well.

Famous last words while driving in Arkansas "Here, hold my beer, I think I can beat this train..."

Tam, all the Weenie awards were dissolved during the move. Looks like you'll have to earn it again next time around

ooc: jeez, I really let this fall off. Vincent, I hope you're still willing to play ic: Sardin was weakened enough that he didn't have much of a chance to react to Vincent's headlong charge. So, he did the simplest thing he could think of, he held his sword striaght out, hoping for Vincent to impale himself on it. For the first time in the battle, a small smile emerged on Sardin's face.

There is Zool, but no reverie in the Land of the Doubles