Vigil StarGazer

To a little lost girl Take a good look in the Mirror and see what's beyond memories of things that is gone look deep into your eyes pass all the bad memories and see the beauty that's inside the world holds everything you want if only you have hopes in life the courage to face down all your doubts. there is more then emptiness and you shouldn't be afraid. believe in yourself, trust in me.

hehe, falling for the Good girl bad boy symdrom huh? Oh well live and learn poem critique: "Now your niceness is a ghost" Niceness? kindness would be a better word "Go find yourself another hoar" should be spelt whore =) (tsk tsk tsk, you are so innocent you can't even spell whore) and symdrom is spelled syndrome... - Peredhil

Name Recommended: Tony Cajun have you ever read any of the good stuff? all that matters is the last name.... it's like... Bond, James Bond. No one reads behind the meaning of the name, it's the name you give a face and a meaning to. So You get a catchy last name and then an ordinary first name... the last name is the mystical idenity while the ordinary first name means that it could be some joe off the streets hense serving the link from reality to fantasy. Ofcourse there's more... I'd imagine this is in the present setting, now imagine if you are in school one day and then the class is introduced to a new school and his name is vampryo.. you'll be like..."is that kid a vampire or what?" Anne Rice gets away with stuff because her vampires are name according to the ordinary names in their time.... i'm sure in ancient rome there's a million ppl name Marius and Pardona... later rome in North Eastern Europe there's a few kids in every village named Armando (Armand), in pre-industriazed France there's gotta be a few Lestat, notice in "Interview with the Vampire" the protangist's name is Louis... I'm sure if you name your kid Frodo, he'll be the laffing stock in his school and commit sucide before 4th grade. P.S. I don't think you should use Ash... it so reminds me of Pokemon =) P.P.S. Pay attention to the names in Dragonlance: Raistlin (Raisins), Caramon (Caramilk), Tanis (Tennis), Sturm (stern), Flint (the flint to light fire).

"Heart of the Desert" May it be like a desert still and endless, void emptiness, becoming nothingness. The same sun seems to shines on different worlds. There; it nourishes but here, it scorns. Bitter water had since run dried; the time had past even for the place to shed tears. The moon's unreachable, and stars are like ice. Night here holds no romance; This land is too old, too dry to even love. The sands remember what it wishes to forget, infinite mundane grains. Hiding it like sins, and soaked into its wounds Do not venture by This place holds no life But sucks everything dries. Do not lose yourself In this lost wasteland.

Happy B-day Canid!!! Our Most adorable Wolfie! *Hands Canid some Shiny Moss*

the seven stage of recovery: 1) Shock - the victim is stunned and refuse believe that his/her relationship is over. 2) Anger - the anger of misunderstand... "What did I ever do wrong?" 3) Fustration - asking why everything happened, usually placing blame on others for the events that happened. Also Victim would attempt futile recoveries on previous relationship. 4) Depression - Critical stage where victim's initial hormones and adlrenlin cooled down and the biofeed of negative neuton finally caught up to the brain... Victim would feel helplessness as well as a lack of self-worth. 5) Isolation - Victim return to a semi-awaken state where he/she questions all his relationship, hoping to avoid similar circumstances from occuring... because he feels vunerable he will withdraw from socity to avoid feeling the pain again. 6) Void - semi-recovery stage where victim will re-establish bonds after isolation ... the wound would still be tender but the painful memories will disappear, replaced as new experience filters into the victim's memories 7) RECOVERY - Finally the victim is recovered from the ordeal... note that scars will still be present in lonely nites with empty beds... but the degrees of pain will be severly lessened. Former Victim will once again attempt to restable stable bonds with society (ie. hook up with another partner and gets the boot again... and the cycles starts again)

So it's real death brings a finality to love death is another part of life falsely wasted and gone astray The heart's glowing feeling making us believe its real until old age had made us yield before our love is dead To last through eternity before the void and sadness Before nothing takes us we take them into the death in our minds. The person who brings thee love will eveuntually brings thee death.

Wait? tsk tsk tsk... To just sit there and wait persumes that there must be someone there that's meant for you and she will eveuntually come to you becase it is fated... it's like this little faerie tale about god creating a person with 2 heads, 4 arms, and 4 legs and they walk funny so God send a lightning bolt and split the person in half... and in doing so each half spend their whole life time looking for their other half...

Aegon, you lucky bastard.

Talen Tyranus Cromyere Nothing has changed in the aged courtyard: the vines had intertwined the walls as if it was a part of the structure, the flowers still blossomed in their midnight fragrance, and the timeless oaks still stood as rays of moonlight penetrated through the leaves to the worn stone grounds. Yet there was change, and the change was in Talen himself. Three years ago on this very night he was here, the son of house Cormyere, loyal subject to the Tawdonian Emperor. The festival of rise of Olt had the lords and ladies into a drunken sluggishness. Talen hand too much himself and had to release some back quickly into nature by pissing behind a tree when he heard a giggle behind his back. He quickly finished and pulled up his pants to see a beautiful young girl behind him. One of her pupil was a glistening as an emeralds and her other one was as deep as the sea. “Margaery!” a shrilling voice called. She smiled, and ran toward the voice… The invited guests were so many and in a crowd so large that few would recognize. Three months had past and Talen had send out word for the mysterious young lady but not a whisper came back. Yet cruel twist of fate had allowed the two to meet again. When Talen’s uncle announced that her daughter should spend time with her kinfolk before being send off to House Faile, Talen obliged to be the guardian before her marriage. It was moments later when Talen realized that the lady that spied on him pissing that night was no other then his cousin Margaery. In the months that followed Talen grew to know her beautiful within more then without. The lass was a gentle soul blessed by Ney. It pains him that he and she are so close, too close that it shall never be. Yet honour and duty above all else had kept him silent. He wore his smiles with vigilance. Yet the short months had past he felt the same pain, for now she would be gone forever. On that fateful day Talen stood beside Nicolaus Faile was wedded to Margaery Cormyere in the same courtyard where they first met. Talen had met Nicolaus the first time, he was tall and handsome, with a dark secretly smile always on his face. Margaery was dressed in a lavished silken white dress that enhanced her gracefulness even as it draped the floor. Her bright eyes sparkled even beneath the thin veil. The night was a drunken haze again as the wedding feast commenced; soon enough Talen retreated into a dark grove of oaks and drank himself to unconsciousness. When he woke up he was in a dungeon, chained like a prisoner. On the third day of his imprisonment, Talen had a visitor. “So how fare are you, murderer?” The voice was vaguely familiar, but Talen could not place it. “I am not a murderer!” Talen exclaimed. “I am Talen Cormyere, and I demand to see my father!” “Cormyere you are not, wild Islander! You are not citizen of the Tawdonian Empire.” said the voice. “but I’ll bring you to see your father soon enough, You will soon share his grave!” Talen jumped at once, his hands reaching out of the bar to grab the man behind it. Guards rushed to jab their spears at Talen’s ribs, but already he had seen the speaker’s face. “Sim takes you Nicolaus Faile!” Talen screamed. “What have I done to you? What have I ever done to you!?!” The food that night was especially good tonight. The prison tray carried a jug of wine, a whole chicken, and a freshly baked potato. He knew he would be executed tomorrow, but there was no hope in escaping. Feeling useless, he fell asleep until a gentle hand woke him. He had wondered if it was already time for him to die when in the darkness he saw a pair of familiar eyes upon him. He recognized the green emerald and the deep blue sea in those irises of hers. Talen wrapped his arms around Margaery as she cooed and rocked him gently as a child. Again they passed through the Cormyere’s courtyard, this time in the deep silence of the night. Lady Cormyere sat on one of the stone benches as Talen knelt down before her. “No, Talen.” She said, even as she smoothen his hair. “You are not my child. I was found to be barren months after my marriage to your father, I mean Duke Cormyere. Yet he refused to married another. It was a dark time in the Frontier, where a vicious band of Crescent Islander known as the Sharks Clan constantly raided the borders every summer. Duke Cormyere was placed in charged to defend our land against those seasoned barbarians, and in desperation he led a raid against the Shark’s land himself. Two thousand Tawdonian soldiers with the Orders of Talon were sent against three hundred ferocious Sharks to ambush the raiders in the cold distant north before their yearly descend to our land. My lord himself earned a huge battle scar right along his back, but at last the day is won and the raids came no more. The raiders that were send out against us were down to a single child, a babe wrapped in linen cloth along with a silver sword. Both the sword and the child he claimed his own, and that child is you Talen.” Talen sobbed. “House Cormyere was always a vigilant house that serves the emperor, refusing to play politics when possible. Thus over the years we have gained a high standing among the Senate. The reason that we adopted you was that we do not wish for this pillar of the empire to crumble. While you do not carry our blood, you carried the family name and the honour of the house for us. Yet somehow the cunning the Earl of Faile had known of your origins. The marriage was just a ruse for house Faile. Now with only Margaery to carry the line the house of Faile will absorb Cormyere, and that must not come to pass.” Lady Cormyere took a silver blade from behind the stone bench and handed it to Talen. The design was crude and plain, but yet the beauty was within the blade itself. It was a blade designed simply to kill, falling short main or dismember. “This blade was found beside you when we found a child amist in the aftermath of the battlefield. We have no way of knowing, but I’m sure this blade are meant for you someday. Now swore on your life that you will protect Margaery and run away as far as possible.” “But what about you, Aunt Claire?” “I’ll be fine.” Lady Cormyere smiled at Margaery. “Not even those talons of Faile dared touch me with their beaks. Now go.” The gate was a stride within reach, but Margery and Talen could not move a step now that the guards surrounded them with marksmen aiming their arrows toward the two. “So the uncivilized Islander has another crime on his head,” Nicolaus Faile’s voice was sharp with distain. “Release my wife and I’ll make sure you don’t suffer.” “You killed my father,” Talen replied. Nicolaus laughed, “Who knows who killed your true father?” “I demand a trial by combat!” “By Nos’ name you will die!” Nicolaus dismounted and drew his long sword. Talen found the silver blade readily in his hands. “Wait!” Margaery cried as she stood between the two. Both of them gasped and turned toward her. “Let him go and I shall come with you.” “Go!” Margaery turned toward Talen and shield him from arrows or steel. She pulled him close. “I’ve always loved you,” she whispered in his ears and then pushed Talen out into the darkness, and quickly she pulled the mechanism to shut the gates. Nicolaus grabbed the girl and pulled her away as Talen screamed. “I’ll come back for you, Margaery! I’ll come back for you I promise.” The guards began to release their arrows, and Talen fled into the night. Thirteen months of wandering in the wilderness has taught him one thing: he was not prepared for the wilderness. Water he had scarcely found and games he could not catch. So at last he laid on the open road waiting for the guards to kill him, for he knew they were on his trail. Within broad daylight six travellers came toward his direction, but at one glance he knew they were sent for him. They had not even bothered to switch Imperial marked weapons. Dogs were with the team of assassins, probably used to track his scent down, and the beasts look hungry for flesh. “Talen Cormyere?” “Yes.” He answered and closed his eyes to await death when there screamed a war cry. Before the guards could turn a figure slew three. Two hideous sword lashes ended the guards’ life silently. A dog flanked the man’s rear as another guard rushed forward with his pike, but the stranger kicked the dog up in the air toward the oncoming guard, a sword thrust ran through both bodies. The remaining two guards and another dog fled with his tail between his legs. The stranger threw both his swords into their general direction and in another second two screams was heard from a distant. The stranger looked toward Talen and Talen gazed back at him. It was then Talen realized they both have the same darker skins. The thick wolf pelt on his back, the thick worn boots, and the crudely crafted swords was just as his father described them when he told stories of his battles. The man must be a wildman of the Shark clan. He pointed toward Talen’s silver sword and then made a grab for it. Talen seized the blade before he does and was rewarded with a kick in the ribs. Talen used the momentum to rolled to safety just to see the stranger grabbed two blades from the dead body. The stranger did not tried to kill him, but tested and played with Talen with his two swords. Talen himself received many hits from the flat of his blade. When sun sets in the west the stranger left with a canteen and some dried meat, retrieved his swords and went his way. Too tried to wander far, Talen built himself a fire and rested for the evening. The next day the strange Crescent Islander came again, this time with two wooden swords. At once they began to spar until twilight. Little by little Talen began to learn the ways of this stranger, and at the same time the Crescent Islander known as Colbey Calistansson began to know him. “Teach me the ways of the swords, so I may seek revenge.” Talen asked Colbey one day. “It will be hard, brother.” The wildling replied. “Flesh and bones does not make a Shark. You are still too much of a soft folk inside you. You want to learn the ways of the swords? Fine, but we must not allow you to disgrace the name. A True Swordsmen never strikes at the weak and the helpless; a True Shark is not a coward who hides behind magic, armor or shield but faces their enemy man to man and blade to blade; a True Shark must never surrender, but to fight gloriously to the very end. Do you understand enough to be worthy of the blade you carry?” “I do.” “No you do not, but Talen of Cormyere have already learned enough to face against these city weaklings. Go and exact your vengeance.” And so that is why he is here tonight. Three years had passed and now he found himself on this very courtyard. He recognized every single cobblestone underneath his heel as he stride silently to the bedchamber where Nicolaus Faile should be. He woke the man with a blade before his throat. The same silver blade glistered in the moonlight reflecting the man’s horrid face. Beside him another figure stirred. “Talen.” Margaery gasped in astonglishing disbelief. “Draw steel, Nicolaus!” Talen shouted. “I will give you the chance to fight to the death!” And so he did, drawing a long sword from a secret compartment beneath his bed. It was a long exhausting battle but at last Talen disarmed Nicolaus’ sword and caught it in mid air just as the Colbey had taught him. “Now prepare to meet your maker.” Talen thrust both swords in. “No!” Margaery managed to scramble between the two. In a little crib beside the bed a baby began to cry. “Your child?” Talen was stunned beyond words. “Yes,” Margaery answered, “and if you killed him the child will be fatherless. I asked this for you once, and now I will ask this of you. Please don’t kill him for whatever he has done… he is now my husband.” Her pleading eyes stared at Talen, the watery iris reminded him the first night he saw her. The air seems to linger in a haze, filled with memories and the had-beens. Behind Margaery, Nicolaus snickered. And finally in that moment Talen understand. He stepped back to see the innocent child, letting his little hands clang to his finger. He glanced at Margaery again, and her lips mouthed the same words last time she left him. He smiled at least in some satisfaction., turned away, and disappeared into the night. Dawn came for everyone, and Colbey smiled when Talen came back without blood tainted on his sword. His smiles broaden as Talen told the man his last confrontation with his past. The Cresent Islander seeing the swords has been tampered at last, placed an arm around on his shoulder, and whispered in his ears. “You are one of us now, swords brother.” So Colbey, Talen, and another companion set out forth to ventured in the world. They wandered around the land searching for adventures and when they heard of Carreg Wynn they traveled for many months to reach the place renowned for glory in danger. They will surely find adventures there.

Journal entry: Today is an escape from all the other yesterdays. The simple waking means that everything had become the past. ‘Did I really do this right? What does he really mean when he says thank you? Did she give me a weird look when I chatted with her?’ A past that haunts, and cannot be undone. The only thing left to do is to ponder, and thus letting it haunts you again. It’s just a nightmare. The thirty odd sit-ups became the ritual that answers to no God, or else why didn’t I have those killer abs in the commercials? Yet I keep doing them day and night, hoping one day I’ll be. This is call faith. The days waiting for an interview call are a killer in every way. I thought I’ll be happy doing nothingness, but all I had was restlessness. Go out and play ball instead. Remembering why I was practicing, because I was never good enough to play with my friends. The lay-up was wrong. The un-merciful bounce when it rolled out of the hoop. Took one more step then I should’ve. You must think: “There is no board” when you shoot. At last throwing the ball in frustration, when there is no realization. It’s an exercise. Back home to be grandparent’s cabby. Beating down and taking names while driving Nothing else to do. Too old for games; too young for reality. Inspiration refuses to come no more. Except to escape from now, dream of invincibility I am a pathetic God in my own world. A God, nonetheless. Eat, Sleep, and perchance to dream. hunger of flesh and soul leaves me more empty. Bedtime, reviewing my life again. Too much of a coward, too co-dependent, Too bored to care for details. ‘I must wait my turn. She’ll come and it’ll come.’ What a load of bullshit, but i'lll do my 30 sit-ups. Thus this horrible day will become yesterday, metamophesis into the nightmares of tomorrow.

Ooooo.... haven't seen a narriative poem in here for a long long time... it's very cute.... almost children poetry type... and with a moral too =)

"Hurt" Interlude, the sweet song of pain Electrons flood the neural vein. Every sin is in my brain. One shriek, Blood from the flesh One scar, Etched into the mind. Welcome to a rest of life asunder. Hurt came from us Devours us. Misery that we feel Becomes our very lust. The most surreal joy spawns the sweetest sorrow. Only the suffering is real, happiness is hollow. The Skeleton man awaits, and we follow. Once dreaming, Shattered Psyche Once again, Anguish serenity. To hurt is to remember. Pain because we are Who we are. Hate because we will Never get that far. Hurt, hurt, hurt. "Mother" (for mother's day) Her hands are warm and rough, From everyday’s dishwasher touch. Her face lined with wrinkles Etched into familiarity. Her shapes are out, For all the months she carried. Her years are gone, Life she gave freely, her very own. And every time when I see your familiar face, The silhouette that peeks into my room at night, The touch of your hand, worn but strong, I’ll remember: Her sacrifice I shall not waste And I thank thee with all my heart, Mother.

the precision, finery, and almost long lasting mechanical pencil is my choice of "weaponary" when dealing blows to writer blocks and pinning down ideas into words. A pen would always run out of ink (unless refills, which is rare) or any pencil will be used up eveuntually. The Mechanical pencil is more then a mere convinenance, it's always sharp, handles wonderfully, and never obslete. It could be thick, thin, heavy, long, balanced in any way, but if you have just one it'll always be that one. There will be no need to adjust to a new pen/pencil because it ran out. My first mehcanical pencil carried me through grade 7 to grade 12... my second one carried me from grade 13 to summer of Year 3... Ofcourse my art teacher back in high school used to complain that a mechanical pencil scratches the surfaces of the paper and so on... and the mechanical pencil only got HB lead so you can't use different tone... i'd showed him when i hand in my drawing of David ... anyways enough dabbling, The Mechanical Pencil is Mighties then all!

The Yearning of a single touch, Extingulishing all other senses. A Hunger to feel.

The depths of winter, the frosted slumber, the break of the night before dawn. Let the shortest day awaken the season of spring. For within the greatest despair lies our greatest hope, The frigid earth hides the sprouting seeds. Let the pure white snow turn to nourishing water. Now in the deepest sorrows the people will burst for joy. The eternal tide of life continued, Let the kindling life push death back toward its bay. And with the snatching evil undo itself. So in our darkest hour, we’ll see the light. Let the roaming rangers wander back home. The last echoing note of the lyre signaled the end of the hymn, but the sentiment within the last verse did not die. The ritual of spring dawning does not allow time for remembrance, it ran as fast as the silver sorrows flowing toward the inevitable future. With a signal of the Speaker, a silver-spanned tree burst forth from the ground. The year tree sprouted upward as emerald leaves burst forth from its branches. Like falling snow, golden fruits drifted slowly down from Quartz flowers. Though even as she reached out to grasp it, the sparkling gold orb slipped through her hand. Another illusion gone. There was a time, before the departure of the Gods, that the ever-tree was real. The giant oak tree had once grew to meet the sky, the nuts it has fallen was rich-brown and real, and fireflies of all colors nested on its sturdy branches. The multi-color light could be seen for miles. Now, the tree faded back into non-existence. There were fewer people meeting this year at the fork of the Silver Sorrows then she recalled. Most of the guests garbed in deep purple for mourning. Even if they wore their tired smile, it was to reassure this festival was politely cheerful. Their conversation was mundane; each trying to evade any reminder of the only thing that haunted their lives. The first reference of war could distrupt this otherwise peaceful ceremony; the first sign of misery could begin an avalanche of tears. “And that is why we must end the war quickly.” Artismusathis’ voice was beside him, “So the suffering of our people shall thaw like ice during spring.” His hands gently reaching around her waist, but even as he did so she slipped away from his grasp. “The speaker had called,” Umi replied plaintively. “We’ll be summoned.” “Ofcourse, my lady.” Artismusathis bowed and offered his hand, but even as he courteously did so Umi could feel the chill behind that elf’s eye. “Artismusathis, tell us of the search for the princess.” The voice quivered and wheezed even as it fell into each elf’s ears. None could help but to marvel at the Speakers’ sudden aging within the few years of war. The burden of the people had weighted heavily on his shoulder, as many would say. Much remorse would be invoked if he would one day earn his rest in the after-life. The Speaker’s time in the physical realm was dramatically shorten by the disappearance of his daughter, the event broke the old elf’s heart and snapped the last straw of strength in the remaining shell. His hair finally lost its silver luster, his eyes became weak and feeble, and he would slumber so deep that none could wake him. There remained a hope that the princess could still be live in the wretched human’s hands. The task was to rescue her, to place the Speaker’s mind at ease, or at worst, to retrieve the line of succession back into elven hands. Thus the assembly was in an uproar when Artismusathis’ response was “Speaker, we came across a more important task at hand.” The fragile skeleton stomped the ancient wooden staff that was made from the woods of the Ever-tree. The air of authority still commanded with in the old elf brought the discord back into his reign. “Explain your words, young one.” Umi-thanlana had wanted to step forward. Soloran was an exquisite crystallized long sword, its transparent blade shimmer within the multi-colored spectrum. The handle of the blade was scribed with the word “Honor”. She could feel the spirits inside the blade radiates an aura of benevolence righteousness even as it dangled on her belt within her cloak. “Alakgristiel,” A tall pale female appeared from the crowd even as Artismusathis summoned her amongst the others. Her silver hair was cut short from her back and draped down on her front to cover half her face. Deep blue eyes radiated a sense of coldness that reflected nothing within her soul. She presented in her arms a wooden box and held it up as she knelt before the Speaker. The black velvet within the plain wooden box enveloped a doubled bladed wicked-Scimitar. The black obsidian blade was carved with the word “vengeance”, the malevolence within the blade whispered fear and hatred within the crowd. Umi found herself instinctively reaching toward her blade for defense, the anger was so overwhelming that she had to draw steel. Yet as her fingers brushed the handle a reverberation came from within Umi’s cloak, instilling a sense of peace around her. “Blasphemy!” From the other side of the assembly, Archmagius Quiolsoth was the first to speak. Others around him rallied his voice with their own chatter. In the middle, the Speaker silently pondered in senility. Alakgristiel received a nod from Artismusathis, and in return the Speaker and Artismusathis exchanged nods. Alakgristiel picked up the weapon as if she was drinking rich flavored wine from its edge. Her liquid movement was graceful to behold, her careless moment betrayed no intention of mutilation even as the blade sliced at a nearby tree. The blade ran through the tree like a needle through cloth, but any highly crafted elven-carved blades could accomplish such feat. Yet even as the elf withdrew her blade, the gnashing wound from the tree decayed until the whole tree toppled to the ground. The fallen trunk continued to decay into ashes right in front of every elf’s eyes! “Rancor,” The female elf uttered to the astonished crowd. “The human gave the blade this name.” The spectacle brought another wave of silence in the crowd. Artismusathis’s voice was quick to fill in the gap. “Speaker, as we came across the ancient Wells of the World we found a large number of humans within the sacred sanctuary…” Even as the male elf speak, Alakgristiel sheathed her blade into a specially designed scabbard made to fit the exotic weapon. Umi had thought the elf was presumptuous that she would be allowed to keep the blade, yet at the same time she found herself keeping Soloran as her own. “…With much sacrifice of lives we managed to convey these blades from the wretched human’s hands…and so it was my decision alone that we shall pursue these weapons of mass destruction to protect the lives of all elves. May it be that they will not be used against us thereafter. All fault falls into thyself lest I was found erred.” A sweeping bow followed Artismusathis’ speech as he knelt down before the Speaker in fealty. “Bring out thy blade,” The Speaker commanded. He knew he had grown old, too old to still be alive. The war had sucked the life out of him as they had drained the blood of his people. Just when he thought there would be peace, the humans conjured more devastation up their sleeves. Are these the last days, now that the keepers of the Gods had once again walked the earth? None could have remembered the Mad Prophecies, and certainly none could remember the Tales of the Espers. He had heard it when he was still a child, and that was a time too long ago. The Speaker’s ancient hand brushed the blade, careful not to touch the edges else it would decay his flesh. “Baal…. Baal are you really in there?” the forgotten name came out softly from the Speaker’s lips as if he was cooing a child, a progeny of death, decay, and destruction. “Then let me destroy the cursed blade!” The Elf master forger raised his precious sword, ‘Stars of Gabrielle” and hammered the heavily enchanted sword onto the bare black obsidian. “A’trallin!” The Speaker scowled at the forger’s improvidence, but was too late to stop his rash actions. The famed elven blade struck Rancor, but the expected metal clash was not. Instead the jewels from the elven blade fell from the blade like raindrops. Enchantments and wards evaporated as the master forger’s proud creation crumbled to iron figments. A sharp pain razed the elf as the rot spread onto his hands. Artismusathis reacted quickly, raised his blade and chopped the master’s decaying arm off. “It’s better then letting the decay reach his heart, when he surely will die.” For all the violent action Artismusathis committed, the elf’s voice truly sounded sincere. “The fault lies within the humans who committed such sacrilege to create this deadly blade.” As the elf’s arm began to mummify on the frozen ground, the speaker could only arrived to this conclusion. “But tell me, child.” His true sincerity was toward the barer of the blade. “Alakgristiel, House of L’ander. Do you wish to accept this blade as your own, knowing the curse within it resides?” “It’ll be my honor, the burden is mine to proudly bear to eradicate the evil humans from this realm.” Umi-thanlana hated her, and in that moment she sworn an oath of her own, and proudly patted the blade beside her. Soloran’s aura expanded. “And the other blades?” “As I told you before, Speaker, four of the five blades had been retrieved. They would be presented to the assembly in due time.” The Speaker sensed no true triumph in that boost. With humans, it was not how many blades they had but how many they could make. The brutal demonstration will kindle the fighting anew, and if the other blades are as devastating as this black one… “Yes,” The Speaker smiled weakly. “We have had enough for today.” ***** Back within Artismusathis’ mind, he called the Speaker an old fool. Start a war, accomplishable ofcourse. Yet it was a surprise that the humans had outdone themselves, even if it was their own doom. Umi-thanlana had been equally useful in failing to retrieve the last swords of the Espers. Now the devastating blades had been revealed to the elves, they would stop at nothing to capture the last one. On the bed beside him, Alakgristiel smiled lascivious as she traced her nails on his bare back even he fondled her finely shaped leg wrapped around him. A knock on the door interrupted the foreplay. “Sir,” Artismusathis could recognize Thalidoion’s voice on the other side of the door. “Patrols have detect the human’s movement, but at their current direction they seems to be heading nowhere.” Artismusathis double check the bolt on the door even as he got up and began to dress. Alakgristiel had instinctively covered herself with bed sheets and now she glared at the door. “Notified my rangers. We will be heading out at midnight.” “With the blades sir?” “All of them.” The fading footsteps signified that the messenger had left. Artismusathis smiled to himself. Yes, everything went according to plan. *****

Have any of you saw the movie "dead poet society?" the protagnios as a high school teacher told all his students to rip out the introduction to the poetry text book because it's crap... Poetry does not need form or other rythming devices to constrain itself in it's construct, but rather it is a few simple line that expresses a magnficant amount of depth, invoking feeling and thoughts from the reader. The rythmes, the quatlets, phases are all just devices to shape the poem, but not vice versa

Parry, parry, thrust. Actions themselves give no meaning, and instead we give meaning to every action. Thrust, parry, thrust. Actions themselves are repeated, often without another thought. Why do we do what we do? Thrust, parry, CLUNK! “Talen,” Talen himself regretted telling Manter his name. The knight elongated the syllables as if he was expressing an angry sigh. The half-elf was expressionless, his face was blank as he picked up his practice sword as if his arm was not tired or hurt from the welts. “Don’t hold it like this, Talen.” Manter took a long breath and groaned. “You are holding it like…” And what were he supposed to hold it like? The practice blade has been made from a wooden sword snapped in half and then rebound by magic to duplicate ‘Wind’s Nocturne’s’ unique shape. Manter had not touched the real blade nor seen it used. He imagined it could be used as an enlarged hand scythe or a cleaver, or even both. The student was equally unphantomable to the blade master. Even the most unwilling recruit would have jumped to learn blades from the Knights of Eastern Calculus. Manter have had squires who were not physically fit to even carry their own shield, but he never had to deal with inattentive students before. Manter withheld his anger, gave a smile of reassurance, and then walked over to adjust Talen’s grip on the blade. The refugees, especially the new recruits, were assigned various tasks and sent away as far as possible from those two. The lives of the whole camp could hinge on Talen’s shoulders, or at least his magical blade. Manter does not want to disappoint them. The tribesmen were another matter, for they were free to roam around as they pleased. Most flocked to see the two outlanders ‘dance’. The layers of thick clothing and kneel deep snow hindered dexterous maneuvers, thus the northern barbarians preferred their own style of brutal hack and slack that brought fear even from the elves. Most of the barbarians were partially disappointed. Manter Uth Vanyar was one of the finest blades on the land. The northern barbarian came to admire the finesse and the strength in this knight’s moment even if he was just teaching the basic thrust and parry. Most then a few tribesmen found themselves weighing against their own skills against him, studying his moves as if he was a enemy. Not too many of the outlanders deserve such distinctive honor. As for the fawn, they offered him encouragement in forms of taunts and jeers. “Give him a day with me,” Akira offered as she watched impatiently at the two. “I’ll make a man out of him.” The rest of the tribesmen laughed. Talen sank his head lower. “That’s enough for today.” The kid had to be tarnished, but Manter still wanted his ego to be intact. It was enough humiliation for the day, for both of them. “Go get yourself some hot water, rest well, and we’ll continue tomorrow.” Manter could almost hear his apprentice sighed, his innocent voice was merely a whisper “why do we fight?” Heads all turned toward Talen, and for a moment the whole camp was silent. Several held their fist tightly as if to punch the reasons out of the naïve youngling. The knight-blade master glared at the first person that tried to speak. The lesson would be his to teach, even if he was reluctant to give. “Raise your blade Talen,” and so he did. Without a warning Manter released three quick thrust toward his swordspupil. The strike was not at the leisurely practice pace but at a speed truly design to kill. Talen could only deflect the first blow, the second thrust barely singed Talen in the throat even as he moved backwards, with the defense wide open, Manter’s own practice wand jabbed straight into Talen’s heart. A cross swipe knocked the practice blade out of Talen’s hand before he could recover his senses, and Talen watched helplessly as the wand looped over his head and descending down again to maim his face. Instinctively Talen raised his hands to block the impending blow, but even as he did a sharp kick in the stomach send Talen flying into a pool of slush. “That,” Manter shouted, even as Talen screamed for help as he slowly drowned in the frozen lake, “is why we fight.” The rest of the crowd watched as Talen struggled to breathe and to stay afloat in the freezing water... struggling to live. Night drew near. A few sticks, stones, and lines across the snow. A true Amazon had the area mapped out in her heads, but she need to draw it out to demonstrate her point. Inside the tipi the three figures sat silently, pondering the grave predicament they found themselves in. “It would be two days before we reach the Grim Teath’s tribal house.” Akira looked toward the stone set on the furthest right. “The hollow path would be the only way through the glaciers and therefore it would be ambushed.” “Our other option is Raven-rift, we should be able to cross the Silver Sorrows.” Akira’s fingers slowly trailed the middle path, and stopping to where a stick was place diagonally from the trail. “That is forest ground.” Manter spoke at once. “There will likely be an ambush.” Akira nodded, as if the same idea came across her mind. “We could double back the valley, and then travel east toward the Crystal Dawn.” Manter suggested. “It’s closed.” Akira dismissed the idea without a thought. “The port would be ice-locked in this time of the year. Besides, it’s another neutral town. They might not let us in after what happened to Begynne.” Akira silently cursed. Manter’s eyes traveled between the trails, calculating the grim changes of survival between the two options. “There is another way,” Angelica offered cautiously, knowing that it might be a bit hard to swallow. “We could to the Stone hills. Its five days of travel northwest to Fortress Evan-Hart, but once we made it in the tunnels the elves could not follow us.” “Dwarves.” Akira sneered, but even she knew there were no other choices. “Northwest, but it would mean running against the winds,” Manter responded. “The Teeth of Schlachifeld was a chill that could not be easily overcome.” “That, from a man who threw a kid into the freezing water?” Akira questioned the knight in amusement. Manter kept his mouth shut. He knew what he did was necessary, but anything he’ll say now would make a fool out of him. Akira turned to Angelica. “My men could brave the harsh winds without fear.” “The refugees would have to do the same if they wanted to survive,” Angelica returned the comment with a nonchalanting smile. Both women gaze toward each other meaningfully, now it was Manter’s turn to look amused. Warm water. Talen cherished that simple luxury even as he rested himself in a giant bath that the refugees managed to provide. The bruises on his body and the pain of strained muscles slowly eased as he hide from reality for just for a while, but even as he dreamed the forest in his memory seems unreachable. Umi’s face was nothing but a blur. A sliver of fear crossed Talen’s dream, as Umi’s eyes became the same pair of eyes that glared at him at the alleyway. Talen woke from his unconsciousness at the betraying sound of rustling snow arisen outside the tent’s flap. The body repeal leaving the warm nourishing comfort, but his will dragged himself out of the water and got himself dressed quickly in the cold atmosphere. Talen could not remembering when the sword was placed into his hands, but he used it all the same and thrust the sword toward the shadows. “Hey Talen!” Sepher’s voice came out as a surprise for both of them even as Talen raised his blade toward Sepher’s throat. On Sepher’s shoulder was Claire, and even she leaned forward she patted Talen on his head. “Hello Talen! Is that your new blade? Can I see? Can I see?” Talen relaxed and brought his blade down. “You scared me there, Sepher.” Talen could not hide the awkwardness in his voice. “So, what brings you here?” “To see you ofcourse!” Sepher’s expression was one of shock. “There was a fire and everything, we were all rushing out of the village and we could not see you so we thought we’ve lost you there.” “… about Arianna…” “She’s feeling better already. She would’ve come, but she had to take care of the others.” “Sounds like a family already.” Without me in it, Talen silently added. “Please Talen,” Claire whined. “Can I stay with you instead? Joseph is picking on me again.” Both Talen and Sepher laughed. “I volunteered to be a soldier.” Sepher switched the topic. He unsheathed his sword and placed it in front of Talen. The blade was barely serviceable with all the rust and notched edge, but Sepher revered it as if it was a sacred blade. “We had a good practice today. Sir Manter Uth Vanyar told me I have potential to be one of the the best blades,” Sepher beamed proudly and continued. “Someday I’ll wish to fight beside you. We have to fend for ourselves you know.” Sepher was so enthusiastic that he could not see the dismay on Talen’s face. Talen wanted to strike out at him, screamed at him. He knew he should not have felt that way, and instead his anger turned to shame. “I really have to sleep, Sepher.” Talen was feeling tired; it was the fatigue of will. “Ofcourse, Talen.” Sepher smiled and patted him behind his back. Sepher ushered Claire out first, and just before he leave he turned to Talen. “By the way, Master Nickola told us. We’ve always knew.” Talen found himself crying as he slept that night.

Don't worry Tamaranis, you are not the only ones who didn't see it any sooner =) I guess Peredhil's just more preceptive It is a very well written work. Simple, elogant, clean.

Morning comes and goes for everyone. The sun rises faithfully every day and disappeared behind the horizon every night as if it had always been, but the world that Talen had wakened up to seems like an alien place. Master Nickola, the inn, and the village had all gone to smoke as if they had never existed before except inside his memory. Talen’s life had completely changed, All that he deemed prescious had been scattered to the four winds by a brutal storm. Talen found himself looking toward the blade in his grasp for the cause, but the flawless Thorium bastard sword’s answer was the reflection of the wielder’s pale anglar face. A strong but gentle hand clasped on his shoulder. Talen himself speechless and stunned, remembering that he allowed himself to be ushered out of the burning village even as it collapsed. The villagers were all refugees now, another nameless casualty of war. The surviving soldiers lead the villagers out of the harsh winds into a nearby valley where they could be sheltered from the Arctic winds, kindle fire, and laid camping grounds for the night. Sepher, Arianna, and the rest of his siblings safely escaped from the fire. He had longed to join them and share each other’s comfort, but the need to distance himself was greater. Now they would find the cause to hate him and despise him for what he is. The sudden chill had Talen wrapped his cloak even closer toward him. The female human in the alleyway introduced herself as Angelica Lightwand. She thought he had saved her life and therefore returned the kindness by sharing her fire, offering him travel rations, and trying to talk him up. He could almost start a conversation with her, even if her eye occasionally pry on the sword in his grasp. It belongs to hers anyhow, but the possibility of her using the same blade to cut off his silly head was not a thought easily let go. Like always, he could never risked being too close to anyone. “Kid,” Talen did not look up to recognize the same man that had rescued him out of the flames last night. The voice was strong and empowering, yet familiar as if he was your neighbor. It was the ideal voice for any heroes out of children’s fairy tales. He led Talen's gaze toward the battalion that had just arrived just before dawn. A crowd of people surrounded the newly blazed campfire. They were all waiting for him, or at least the sword he carries. Once they arrived, the circle around the campfire was complete as officers exchanged salutes and stations. On the other side of the fire, surrounded by four bodyguards, was a female dressed in rich mink pelts. With the aid of her spear she stood up and saluted. “I am Akira, sisters of the frozen tribe and leader of the Arctic Fox. Address yourselves.” “Angelica Lightwand,” the human sorceress returned the primative salute with one of her own, “Under the Black Towers of Wayland and apprenticed to the late Archmagius Pan-Salida.” The archmagius’ name brought another round of salute toward her. The sorceress grimly accepted the homage. "Y'ul Kazzu, shaman of the BlackSkies Tribe, second in command of the Arctic Fox." "U'kiryo of the Icewind Tribe, chieften of the wind squad." "Fel'duth of the WhiteSea Tribe, chieften of the blade squad." "Mu'potain of the Nighthoof Tribe, leader of the strike squad." “Manter Uth Vanyar,” the man who still had his hand on Talen’s shoulder was the last to spoke. Talen would have expected more, for humans loved to claim status to enhance their self-importance. Yet that was all he said, and the others glanced toward him with an awakened respect. Even Akira flushed in embarrassment. “Sir knight,” she said even as she offered a bow. “It is the rule of the alliance to obey the highest in rank. Thus, my men and I are yours to command.” “Ofcourse not, princess of the ice plains.” Manter held both his hands up and backed away simultaneously. “Besides, Magius Angelica was delegated before me during this mission.” Talen caught a glare from Akira to Angelica. “Since our situation changed completely, the order of command would have to be rededicated.” Angelica announced, watching carefully each word that came out of her mouth. “And we are in the sister tribal land, it should be natural that we follow the tribe’s directive.” “Pray, sisters.” Akira was clearly smiling now, “but the two of you would be my left and right hand.” She turned around to her tribesmen. “Men, obey them as if they were me.” Her bodyguards were the first to salute. “Under the light, it should be then.” Manter said it with such a casual tone that at one all the tension released, but his voice held such finality that none would ever challenge the chain of command. They sat together and breakfasted, giving them some time to re nourish themselves before asking the critical question. Talen was offered bread and water as Angelica spoke of their flight from the elves and finally hid themselves in the neutral village of Beyenne where they are to wait for escorts to arrive. Akira’s battalion of native amazons was the assigned escort. The plan was flawless except that no one would expect the elves to attack neutral territories. “And the blades?” Akira asked. Angelica lowered her head, almost too ashamed to speak. “My order acted as keepers of the blade. They would die before letting it be tainted by the hands of the enemy. Yet now we have in our procession all but one.” A snarl almost appeared on Akira’s face, mocking the weak southerners, but if she did none would had caught her, for all eyes rested on the blade Talen carried. The sword was made without a guard, and the grip was plain but functional. The blade was crocked as if it was a scythe. No one could have imagined how the blade could be used. “That kid saved my life and managed to preserved the blade. If it wasn’t for him then all would be lost.” Angelica continued without catching her breath, as if to stop any attempts for anyone to seize the blade. “As if everything had not been lost already,” Akira sneered. She made a feint to grab the sword, and then flicked her hand upward to removed Talen’s hood. Talen saw the feint and tried to move back but he lacked the reflex to evade and at once his heritage revealed in open view. Normally Akira would have said something clever in this situation, but the truth shocked the wits out of her. The refugees that had known Talen so long all gasp in disbelief. The others behind her pointed their blades toward the hapless youth. Even Angelica was rendered speechless. ‘What trickery is this?” Akira shouted, and pointed toward the child in full hostility. “Stay your swords, gentlemen. Look carefully.” They all did. Even as Talen lowered his head Akira grabbed his silver hair and pulled his face toward her. The pointy ears was a definite sign, but his face was less akin. While his violet pupil is a color humans could never have, his eyes are large and round like all other humans. “A rapeling?” She asked, even as she let go of Talen’s hair and shove him backwards. “Not a rapeling!” Talen found himself shouting back at the amazon who’s a head taller then him. Another hand was placed on his head, but this one’s gentle fingers smoothen his hair. Angelica lowered herself and smiled face to face with the half-elven. “Not all elves and humans wished to take sides on this war. Some desired peace and choose to live in neutrality right?” Angelica smiled as she turned toward Akira. “The blade is too precious to fall into enemy hands,” Akira uttered even as she turned around to leave. “Even if he was only half of an enemy.” Talen thought he had just been slapped. “I am still the keeper of the blade.” Angelica returned the jeer with a tone of absolution. “He is the only one who could wield it.” The two women glared. Manter cough. “Ladies, we have other important matters to discuss.” They continued to chat about matters of consequences. Food would have to be rationed before they arrived at Alliance territory. The refugees will share what they have left. Yes the refugees would have to travel with the band. They will die in the bitter cold otherwise. It would hinder the troops down but it could be used as a cover. The village boys could be swordsmen, if there are enough weapons available. They will fight when there the choice is their lives. I will cover recruitment and training then. Storm? Talen did not stay and listened to the mundane conversation, and besides he felt that his presence was not convenient for the humans to discuss logistics. He dared not wandered back to the refugee’s camp. They would assuredly hate him now. Instead he found himself in a quiet place amongst the trees, meditating with the blade in his grasp. Four Akira’s tribesmen followed him into the woods, spying on his every action. Talen could not sense them as his began to lose himself in a childhood memory thinking of Umi-thanlana. A sliver of fear slipped into his mind as he began to recall the events last night. Could it be…? The fight of the moment did not belong to either human or elves, but the struggle in Talen’s mind. ‘Elves killing humans, humans killing elves, what else is new? Yet he should defend the humans, but why the humans? Certainly if the situation is reversed he would be helping the elf who was about to get slain, but the situation now is an elf slaughtering a human. He was picking a side, and to place yourself on one end of the battle means you’ll have to fight the other end, no matter how slanted to one side you were…’ All those reasons poured inside Talen’s mind at an instant, but instead Talen listened to his heart. His heart guided his hand to the hilt of the sword, but at once Talen knew he lack the sufficient strength to pull the sword out from the pile of debits, yet in another instant Talen felt a surge of energy coursing from his fragile arm into the blade. Thunder strikes as the pile of stones surrounding the blade were blasted apart. Stone flew everywhere and more then a few rocks strike against Talen’s fragile frame. A pebble came at Talen and scratched his otherwise flawless face. The shining blade stopped inches away from the human’s throat as the holder turned around, dagger on the other hand still aiming toward her captive’s throat as her blade flatly placed before her chest to protect her from oncoming harm. The moment they lock gaze seems like an eternity as the faint recognition was realized, but doubt shadowed both their senses. Talen could not remembered if she had whispering his name… ***** “No, It cannot be him.” The elf was perching on top of a tree, overlooking the humans even as they slowly venture south. Umi uttered to no one in particular, as she recalled that fateful night. Even as the same dawn approached for both of them in this world, she wished he were furthest away from Schlachifeld as possible. It was a twisting torment for the female elf, as her hand twiddled at the beautiful figurine he had carved for her. Him, the boy she had met when she was still a child. How tall he had grown since they laughed and played together under the summer light. She had remember when they played betrothed, how she danced while he played the flute, and how her first kiss ended up being a bruise on his cheek. She had wished to meet him again someday, and had always longed for him to be close. Yet she could never imagined meeting him now, in that night raid against such a small and insignificant village. That night, their eyes crossed each other. She could not tell if it was an expression of recognition or just simple fear. His broad open face that was always so solemn and melancholy, his body has grown, stronger, more muscular then she could have remembered, but those purple liquid eyes could only be his. She whispered his name at the same time as he whispered hers, but she could not be sure from all the noises the accursed human soldiers were making as they rushed toward the source of the blast. Realizing she could be outnumbered, Umi instinctively dashing out of the alleyway, slashing at a human as he came rushing in. His blade came up equally fast as he managed a simple cross parry to foil her unsuspecting attack. The armored soldier tried to follow through with an attack but already she passed him and disappeared into the night. Once out of the village she had run ceaselessly in the twilight, springing from tree to tree, following the human refugee’s movements, hoping to catch another glimpse of the person she saw that night. So far she found none. For no matter how fast she raced along the lonely forest path, she could not run away from the thoughts of her Talen dressed as a human, living as a human, fighting as a human.

“…With the departure of the Esper, the races of Kol’yun co-existed in an uneasy peace. However it was until the tragedy of the Weeping Woods that finally released the tension between the races and prelude the bloodshed of human and elves. With their vast armies, the Joint Intercontinental Human Alliance Directive hoped for a quick decisive victory. Nonetheless the war continued for thirteen years finally locked into a stalemate between the two armies in the northern eternal frozen plains of Schlachifeld even as the war continues…” – The Legacy Cycle. A.E 258. The glaring sunlight through the leaf-less branches brought no warmth for anyone in the frozen forest, but Talen enjoyed it nonetheless. It reminded him of another forest where beauty is eternal, timeless. It is where he had made his first true friend, Umi-thanlana. “Oh Talen!” A familiar voice caused a young man to raise his head, he agilely puts his hood back on before she came too close. Talen’s delicately skilled hand did not stop even as his child-like face looked up toward the voice. The seemingly older redhead looked down at Talen. “So there you are,” said Arianna, “Sepher and I have been looking all over for you this afternoon.” “Master Nickola was looking for you.” The taller blond male spoke. “He said it’s something urgent.” The words were lost on Talen’s ears though. He saw Sepher had his arms casually around Arianna, and she doesn’t seem to mind. Talen’s paused made him feel the situation became more awkward, but at least he managed to stutter a reply and hurried off back to the village where Master Nickola surely awaits him. At a very young age Talen was lectured on the fact that he must held his hood closed to him and never let the wind caught it as he ran. Even now, after his parent’s death, he unconsciously obeys the rule and hang on to his hooded cloak as he hurried through the forest. The forest was covered with fresh snow from the storm yesterday but Talen managed to leave little tracks on the path. It was on the path where he met another heavily cloaked man blocking the way. Talen also noticed six other humaniod shadow behind the foryage but he was wise enought to heed no notice. “Where’s the village of Begynne?” The voice coming out of the dark hood was merely a whisper, but somehow seems awfully familiar. “It’s five miles east off from here, if you followed the trail.” Talen replied in earnest even if he tried to catch his breath. Vapors escaped from his mouth even as he spoke. “Do you want me to guild you there?” “No need for young pups! Be off with you then.” The man's snarl came out unnaturally as he stepped aside to let the kid through. ***** As Talen’s figure disappeared along the twisting forest path the others came out, pale skin, almond eyes, and pointy ears they were. “That was easy,” commented one, “Humans are such simpleton.” "Shouldn't have let that one escape," said another, as his eyes gleamed uneasily. "But I suppose it really won't have mattered." “And I thought all humans are brutes, the kid’s so fragile he could almost be one of us.” Another voice cajoled almost mockingly. The others looked toward her as if she committed an unspeakable sacrilege. “Watch your mouth, Salianathana.” Artismusathis, the man who was on the road commanded. “Let’s not waste time. Call the Rangers. We’ll strike at dusk.” ***** Talen came back to Begynne just before nightfall and went straight to Master Nickola’s inn “The Hermit’s Home”. Master Nickola was a jolly middle age man whom lost his family in the first few years of the war. Left alone in this world without a kin he took with him what's left of his fortune, opened an inn in a neutral township, and began to foster orphans who shared his fate. Talen was the second of Master Nickola's child followed by another child who had grown to maturity and left to appretience for a blacksmith. Arianna was adopted fifth when her mother died from a plague and her father had to join the army. Sepher and the rest of the little ones followed them into the house as the war raged. What Master Nickola wanted today from Talen was just a mundane routine about sums and digits on the general ledger for the village’s taxes. The calculations came easily for Talen but it was still time consuming. Darkness blanketed the skies when Talen deemed he had done enough for the day. Talen stretched and then realized he had been unconsciously using his night-vision and forgot about candles! He gave a silent cursed and walked downstairs to the tavern for some nourishment. Arianna were serving tables to a crowd of human soldiers, Master Nickola was busy at the bar serving drinks to the usual patrons while Sepher and the younger ones were helping out in the kitchen. Talen hungrily stuffed down some of the inn’s famous roasted potatoes. A child, Talen’s favorite little Claire caught Talen’s little thief. He just smiled and stuffed a chunk of spiced chicken into the child’s month when the village’s bell suddenly rang in alarm. Talen punched his chest and managed to swallow down the potatoes he choked on and hurried out of the building. The memory of the streets that night was an unforgettable sight for the rest of hife life, all the surrounding homes became a funeral pry as the village-folk pour buckets after buckets of water to no anvil. A band of cloaked figures wandered around the confusion with a sense of cold purpose, and stopped right in front of the inn where the group of human soldiers stood. The leader of the cloaked figures was the same person Talen met on the road earlier on, and slowly the cloaked figures took off their robe to reveal their pale skin, their cold almond eyes, their pointy ears, their elegant armor, and their thin but deadly swords. They are elves. “This is a neutral town!” The mayor, one of the patrons that happened to be in the inn tonight, shouted with his sense of authority. “This is clearly a violation against the treaty of the non-aggression pact. I demand to speak to your…Gah! Ugh…” The mayor crumbled like the church that had been set on fire as cold steel ran through his guts, warm blood trickled from the ghastly wound that quickly became his death. A robed figure whispered to one of the soldiers. The soldier only nodded, unsheathed his sword, and stood out from the crowd. “There is no need to harm the villagers in here,” The man spoke as solid as the ground he stood on. “We came here on our own accord and we’ll definitely fight our own battles!” “Not so fast,” said the elf. “I want you all to feel how it is to be outnumbered!” Even as he spoke elves appeared from the rooftops and fired arrows toward the unaware human soldiers. More then a few fell silently as the fine elven arrows found their mark right into their throat. “Charge!” The human raised his sword as the rest of the humans rushed toward their enemy with frenzy. Those elves on the streets also unsheathe their sword, but the elves-marksmen on the roof had already gone after the few escaping robed humans. “The whole town is burning! Everyone toward the west gate!” A scream within the flaming building caught Talen’s attention, and he rushed toward its origin to find Master Nickola and Arianna still within the inn. “No Papa, I’m not leaving you!” Arianna scream even as the beams that supported Talen’s old home began to fall. The old man said not a word but grappled Arianna’s hand behind her back, picked her up, and tossed her out the window. Talen had his arms outstretched but it was Sepher that caught her. “Take care of her,” were the last words of the old inn master. Master Nickola’s silhouette disappeared behind the waves of smoke and flaming carnage. A few seconds later the inn collapsed into the ground. “Let’s go!” Talen exclaimed with urgency, “We got to get out of here!” He never expected the acrimonious glare from Arianna. Talen stretched his arms out defenselessly, but before a word could be spoken Sepher placed a hand on Arianna’s shoulder. “Talen is right. Master Nickola saved your life and his sacrifice should not be wasted.” Sepher said in his caring voice, and at once Arianna fell into Sepher’s embrace, crying. Talen gave a longing side glance for a moment, but at last he sighed and moved out with the rest of the villagers. The slow orderly moments became filled with a sense or urgency, and finally into a rush of confusion as everyone with his or her belongings and carts trying to fit through the small village’s gate. In the sea of human faces Talen lost track of where Arianna and Sepher were. He was out of stamina, he could hardly breath from all the smoke in the air, and slowly he found himself alone on the ground of a dark alleyway. The sounds of people slaughtering each other fills into the background of his conscious. ***** “All it take was a few fires to chase the rats out of their hole.” The comment was made with a menacing laughter as Two elves perched themselves on the bell tower overlooking the blazing inferno that surrounds them. The other figure was impassive, unmoved even as she glares into the flames and the line of villagers trying to escape this hell on earth. “They are worthless,” the first figure continued. “Gnats! If you don’t squish one now a hundred will come after you.” The first figure continued to justify itself. “This is to protect Norswood, This is for Weeping Woods!” Both figures turn as a third being appeared out of the darkness, kneeling toward them. “Artismusathis, three of the blades have been retrieved.” “And the other two?” The person kneeling gave no response. Normally Artismusathis would glare and spoke harshly, but tonight he kept his temper in check, all for the sake of his very special companion beside him. “Very Well then,” Artismusathis respond with a voice of authority. “You have done well, retreat with the blades you have now and meet us at the fork of the Silver Sorrows.” He paused, as if to emphasize his decision. “I will retrieve the rest of the blades myself.” Artismusathis swipe his cloak aside and was ready to depart when an outstretched hand stopped his progression. “Wait,” the figure standing beside suddenly stopped his pace. “I feel my destiny is tied into this.” Even as she spoke Artismusathis’ expression was a misxture of shocked amusement. The lady continued, “I will retrieve the blade myself." "Ofcourse you are," Artismusathis smiled. The words slowly edged into her mind as if the hand of the Gods rested upon her shoulders. "You will wield one of the blades yourself." ***** The robbed figure hurried across the alleyway, her paranoia warned her of every shadow, as if an elf could appeared out of any of them. Even as she searched frantically for a glimpse of pointy ears, she found what she was looking for right in front of her eyes. An elf, purple eyes and silver haired, appeared soundlessly but stood there as if that's where she always haddben, awaited her at the end of the short alleyway. The robbed figure held the box she was carrying tightly around her arms, pondering an out in this tight situation. The elves could not have what’s inside the box! The elf spoke first, her voice as cold and distant as the stars. “Hand it over, human sorceress, and I might let you live.” The human laughed. “You think I would hand this to you just to save my life?” The memories gave her courage to finally speak, and her sense of duty strengthens her resolute. “Thousands of my people will die if I hand this to you, I would die a thousand deaths before I surrender myself.” To which the elf replied coldly, “thousands of my people did die, in Weeping Woods.” The human had no answear for her except a wand of mists, and at once the alleyway filled itself with a dark smogs that not even elven sight could penetrate. The human sorceress thought she bought herself some time before she prepared her next spell, but even as she did so a blade swiped inches from where she stands. “Nice trick,” the elf’s voice almost sung with the blade, but even as she spoke both gasped at the sudden light of the sword pierced the darkness of the mist. The elf was stunned at the beauty of her new-founded weapon while the human cursed, realizing the enemy already possessed one of the five blades they had sacrificed so much to create. 'Soloron' gleamed so brightly that it even outshone the fiery of the flame. She had no choice but to use what she have, and threw the box toward the elf. Both knew it was a ruse. As the sword cut through the empty wooden box and the velvets, another blade was ready to meet Soloron’s steel. The two battled on, steel and skills and magic. The golden trimmed edge of Soloron crossed and uncrossed with the other blade, creating aesthetic sparks and painful symphonies into the dense midnight air. “Look out!” the elf said, and before the human could respond the elf hand was on her arm. The human did not take the chance to strike at the elf but rather let the elven hand dragged her out of the way of a fallen building. The dust finally settled and the two combatants found themselves panting from battle fatique. They smiled at each other for a moment, but then their smiles were replaced by chilled battle rage. Once again they were at each other, blade against blade. The song of affliction continued. Finally a skilled strike send the opponent’s blade flying out of her grasp and stuck fast on the ground missing Talen’s head by an inch. Before Talen’s eyes was a word carved into the blade itself: ‘bravery’. Talen looked up just to see a human female kneel toward an elf, a custome for the defeated against an honorable victor. “Your sword is ‘Soloran', the blade I was using is 'Wind’s Nocturne'”. The other figures just nodded and send her blade toward the human’s throat.

Proverty could only enrich a person's soul, It's only in the bleakest darkness that one could truely see. Loneliness is a state of mind to allow clear thinking. and desperate struggling makes everything suddenly prescious people either came out bitter, ignorant, broken, or they could finally understanding and cherishs every simple thing in life. When you were gone, you were missed now you are here, again we rejoice. I hope the years has harden your dedermination but not your heart. The worst will never be over, but knowing you could probably survive worst is pride in itself. I wish you prosperity my friend, and not just in your bank account. from Nortorious LOTG

You also need a plot... sure you got some ideas... but now it's time to chain them inside your head... it's like playing with Mad Dr.Tzim mixing kit... you got a lot of ingridants in there, but you gotta mix them up together. 1) You got yourself a farmer destined to be a heir... and he'll prolly have to think he'll need to fight his way back to retain what he believe is rightful to his family.... so what is he gonna do about it? what means is he gonna to achieve his goal? 2) Throw the holy Roman catholic empire in the picture... how does it help the prince? does it has the prince's family record to prove his birth right? does the prince think the empire is gonna lend him some aid? 3) How is angel Grabriel help/hinder the prince? did the prince just pray for divine guidance and he came? what sorta of practical joke does grabriel plan to play on the prince? Ofcourse there is no one way to go at this, you can change the order and make the farmer boy evil who desire to rule over his land again with an iron fist... he fears the holy roman empire because of their might, and after all that scheaming, planning, and all his effort he finally gets what he wants... but it's nothing except a 3 acer lot near the sea... he throws that thing away and then some ppl discover gold along the shore... irony and stuff

Sigh Nyyark... looks like we need to chat again sometimes. Good poety thou, the form is simple and elogant repetition of words reinforces the idea well enough.

Tsk tsk tsk Rahsash Geldich... while it's nice to dream about the perfect women sometimes, you gotta notice that there is no use day dreaming =) in many ways you'll be surprise that the person you'll end up having a crush with is actually better then you'll every imagine =) So maybe instead you'll need to get out of the confinment you place yourself in and just start talking to girls... er... any girls... 1) they'll become more beautiful, you'll be surprised 2) it's a good way to get experience... if you'll never talk to any female, how could you talk to the perfect one when you found her, and 3) women has more sense then men... and ofcourse 4) they don't bite... really, nibble maybe.... and no they don't have cooties =)