Damon Inferel

"An old... friend?" The demon replies, confused at how he could be friends with those he did not know. She may be familiar, but... wouldn't one recognize his own friends? There was something more, but it seemed just barely out of reach, the grasping palm in his mind struggling to hold on to a fact too slippery to contain. "Something more..." Damon says aloud, thinking to himself, and he quickly realizes he has just spoken something that might have been better off not said. A quick flash of his hand behind his head and nervous laughter follow loudly his spoken thoughts, the attention his smoldering eyes held, now lost into Rune, the small demon playing with a strange elf-child. She seemed sad when she spoke that. he thinks to himself, the painful look in her eyes not fading easily from his thoughts. "Rune?" Something more of a nervous whisper escapes his lips this time. "Yes? I don't know you... how do you know me? A spy!" she shrieks, suddenly alarmed and confused, her tiny finger drawing pink dust in the air... And producing a small rain of kittens. They land softly on the ground and scamper off in various directions, two tabbys bumping heads together. "That's new..." She says softly to herself before glaring back at the demon before her. "You needn't worry little demon. You will learn in time how to identify others like yourself as well. You and I are the same kind of person... if you wish to call it that." A small smile escapes, and the ebon-haired demon laughs. "You still have a lot to learn. If you'd like... I can teach you a thing or two." Perhaps I can make a friend or two after all... I wish I remembered who my old ones were. At that thought, his gaze turns back to Elwen. "Please forgive my earlier comment. I do not believe in keeping secrets, so I shall tell you what I was pondering. You do indeed seem familiar, and I am strangely uncomfortable when you seem saddened. A friend I might be able to believe, but I have this notion there is something else... I ask of you... who are you?" Nobody of importance. Both her and the demon you find so adoringly childish are insignificant. You may take care of your business here, but you still have other matters to attend to. Be thankful I give you this reprieve. Now, make haste with your trivial investigation. Both your time and mine draw nigh to its end. The voice holding his mind captive booms at him in a manipulative demeanor. A glaze washes over Damon's eyes for a brief second, and all he had recently asked... every previous thought... is erased, his investigation the only trace of memory left. "So, I inquire again. What is the situation, and when are we going to get around to it?" From his mind, Elwen is gone.

Um... never mind. I figured it out.

*Meows ahppily at the site of something pink* Oh! That's my shoelace... or so I wish. Anyhow, I have been pondering over the various titles given to people, and they seem to be created by the author themselves. Zariah holds the title Lady of the Crows, as Nyyark holds Crowboy... simply being used as examples. I am unsure if you are to be the one who dons such titles at the request of the member, but I would like to know two things. 1) If you are the one who places these secondary names for each meber, might I requuest one? I have something of a reputation in my mind for being a quiet person... half-demon in the sense of role-playing... and so I was interested in the title 'Silent Daemon'... or something along those lines. 2) If I am the one to attribute such a name for myself... how would I go about doing such a thing? I would greatly appreciate the help, but I am off to experiment. Thank you again oh lordship of the Pen. Adieu.

"But another investigator for the scene of the crime." states the ebon-haired half-demon as he strides into the room, a blank look glazing over his reddish-brown eyes. "I know not as to what may have been committed here, but I can assure you I can be of any assistance you may need me for." There is a brief flicker of his gaze as it floats from the vinyl(spelling?) lounge chair to Elwen, a small sense of recognition hidden behind a dark stare. Within less than a second however, his eyes fall back onto the chair, the object of his comfort soon to be. Hn. I have seen this person before, but at this very moment, I cannot place her. I have not seen her here, as my presence is a new one, but in the past... The thought floats slowly through his mind, as if certain he is correct in his instances, but yet unsure at the same moment. With a lengthy stretch to shift the long day from his tired mind to elsewhere away from him, he sits up, proceeds to stand up, and walks calmly over towards Elwen, keeping in mind that if he is wrong, he will look like a complete fool... "Excuse me, miss? I believe I have seen you before. Not here, but at another place. Could you possibly be able to assist me in confirming that?" Nyyark's crow sounds off in it's usual fashion somewhere along the window sill. A foreign tongue, but it too seems almost understandable. Perhaps with some practice...

Ah, comrade, 'tis been a time since I last spoke with thee. I must note my apologies, as I still find time difficult to locate with the despair of having to attend school. I have recieved an e-mail message from your lordship, but I know not how to rise above the mere status of honored guest. While I am content being a member of the gloomy corner group, as I prefer my solitude with my so-called-sonnets inspired by my dearly beloved, I might hope that one day I could join the rest of the happy crew and play my part as a pawn in your fantasy world. So here I bring to you another application, hoping that one day, when you find yourself taking a great gasp of air from the ocean of razor-edged paperwork and the blood that has resulted in your daring escapade into that sea, I too can join the ranks as part of your merry crew. I have no title for this particular work, but I have decided to make my titles as the first lines are, much like a long time idol of mine... Emily Dickinson. 'Tis time for me to state my purpose here, Wandering in a boat, the leader so near. Long hair flows as the wind catches the sail, My application being writ, and not sent in the mail. A simple poem and hope to join, A possible bribe with gold coin. Wishful eyes tearing in the wind, The heavy gales hold my shirt pinned. A pen flies out and over the boat, A fish like that I never saw, one to write a note. One more paper falls out of the sky, Drifting with the wind, passing me by. Another application is sent before mine, I'm writing too slow, and falling behind. I hurredly scribble, my paper catching fire, The spring leaps from my pen, an uncoiled wire. I cannot write anymore, my ink has been spent, So I give this to you now, my application sent. I certainly hope that it is worthy of your approval, overseer of the cyberspace domain, despite the lack of lengthy sentences found in the end rhymes of my particular work of random poetry. I await a response, but I hold you to no rush. Life in general can be a little annoying, and I would not want to take you from the incessant ramblings of the everyday commonfolk just to spend your precious time on but one of a thousand applications. I exit your dwelling now, and leave you to the cascading current of paper you were recently swallowed in. (As an off-note, I was reading one of your topics a few minutes ago where you were diving into paper, which is where I got the idea for my poem. Thanks for the inspiration.)

The party continues on in the background, several poets and people of all sorts enjoying the delectible treats provided by the Elders. A buffet of sorts, watched by the wandering poet who sits in the dimmest corner of the room, plotting another poem. The joy of his beloved complimenting his feeble works in earlier times has passed, and so the depressed soul searches to find her once again to inspire his happiness. A troubled soul, a troubled mind, ‘Tis only darkness this poet can find. Thoughts fall short and happiness fades, Holes in my joy, dug with spades. ‘Tis so common to be depressed, A thousand reasons have me possessed. I try so hard to find my dear, Tonight she is out of reach I fear. Not often I come across such a time, When my joyous demeanor is not at prime. A flicker of happiness here and there, My mind’s eye starts to focus and stare. I’ve found her, I’ve found her at last! The end to my loneliness, wrapped in a cast. My sorrow is over, my mental wounds will heal, My love cannot be hidden by such a shallow veil. I’ll be happy as long as she chooses to live, It may not be much, but forever, my love, I’ll give.

*sighs* Meow... i love suicide. Don't go dying on me... i won't be able to hear any more of your talent. Don't mind him... both him and I are a little morbid. We've had our share of death for now... Thanks for the fix.

I apologize, I hold another random place in this dwelling of cyberspace. I have decided to simply use the first lines of my poetry as the title, much like a poetess I know as Emily Dickinson. I will go hide in my corner now, figuring out how to read it so it runs smoothly. I hope it's good... But one more time the poet returns to the board, A lack of ideas, and nothing stored. A thousand thoughts mixed between love and hate, Which one to write about, I contemplate. I think to myself such beauty deserves attention, But it is debated as to if I should mention. An attempt to contain, failing fast, As in my mind, joyous thoughts have passed. A touch of old language deserves a turn, My poetry random, not always modern. Alas fair maiden, you are in my head and my heart, Sitting here thinking that we are apart. I know that tomorrow is to come soon, See you I will, from dawn until noon. ‘Tis a game of patience I enjoy to play, Whilst we are apart, I wait for the day. To be near and so far from the one I love, ‘Tis a small fight with my patience, a duel with a glove. Time moves so slow sitting in the dark of night, At my keyboard, my only light. But happiness reigns over all time passing, Thoughts of warmth and care are in my mind, amassing. I am to wait, dawn after dawn, For the day that follows, the time for serenity to spawn. I see my beloved, my mind has no qualm, Tomorrow and forever, an infinite calm.

Meow! I wrote another random poem... I really wish that these were planned ahead of time, it would cut back on the time it takes to write them. But it's worth the time to see my dear beloved smile. Anyhow... it has something to do with my idolization of my darling girlfriend, and how I keep myself quiet... I think. I don't really know what it's about. Here it is... A poem, ‘tis a sonnet of sorts, The rhyming words are my cohorts. Writing a poem like this in my usual fashion, There is the attempt to add a hint of passion. Words that speak of surreal beauty, To vocalize them is not my duty. I keep them treasured inside my mind, Until ‘tis the surface of paper they find. Chicken scrawl or typed word, The words of compliments seem absurd. But I write them anyhow, As I know only silence, my solemn vow. I could only write about one so gentle and fair, Both in heart and appearance, and so full of care. Soft brown eyes and a lovely warm smile, Most else concealed by her secretive style. Among all else she has a wonderful voice, Occasionally she sings by choice. A marvel, a treat, a delicacy of song, And for what of the lyrics she knows, her words are never wrong. A bit of idolization I suppose, But nothing else does my mind propose. In the end, all seems well, I balance the thoughts in my mind and what I should tell. I’ll treasure her as perfect on paper and in my head, But my spoken words will stay mostly dead. A compliment or two when I have courage and when it’s right, Such beauty and wonder that seems so bright. I promised to love her forever, and so I will, All of her dreams and goals… I hope to help her fulfill.

A street lamp on a corner in a city on a street, People selling flowers that aren’t edible to eat. The sun goes down and the light burns out. The shady corner dims all about. A passerby with a full pocketbook, Gropes through the dark to take a look. The individuals palm runs across a stem of thorn, A trickle of blood and a look of scorn. ‘Tis a grey rose, half-wilted and dead, But it was beautiful while it was still red. There are other flowers too, still lively and bright, Though it is difficult to see in the dark of the night. Pink and blue and white and gold, All kinds of petals, waiting to be sold. The salesman lights a small fire, Not letting darkness keep him from a buyer. The passerby pulls out some money, The expression blank, as if nothing is funny. Blue eyes settle on the marigolds and roses, A bouquet to be made with intricate poses. Arrangements for a wedding it turns out to be, Due for a wedding in the morning at three. A dark wedding under the light of the moon, And at three in the morning, very soon. An exchange of currency takes place fast, The bouquet is arranged and the customer walks past. A satisfied smile on the consumers face, As the customer takes off at a blinding pace. A few hours to go and not even ready, The wedding last minute and the plans unsteady. The person selling flowers watches in admiration, The beautiful bundle of flowers, a brilliant creation. A tired look on the weary expression, It means it is time to lock up for tonight’s session. Collapse the desk and pick up the flowers, A nearby cat watches and glowers. Walking home in the night air, A fire burning behind as a signal flare. ‘Tis the end of a day well spent, And so to the end of the road, the person, and his flowers went.

Ah, something of a rap artist perhaps? I do believe that it was quite interesting, though if you were attempting to use a specific rhyme scheme, you did miss a spot or two. Overall, I would give you my congratulations for crafting something political... even if you do consider it a failure. Adieu.