SoaringIcarus

Therefore The Pen is a book in which a good deal of Pages reside, but mostly quills, poets, elders, ancients, and any guests who want to be part of the fun as well. In other words, a book that complains, exclaims, has to use the bathroom, is upset when you don't read it, and, left to it's own devices, births most excellent literature on it's own. Who needs an Xbox?

Bravissimo. Your fluidity is nothing short of admirable.

OOC: Viva semicolons! And I find it quite amusing how ‘teachers’ can be read as ‘treacherous’ if skimmed. If you loved something, they told me, There would always be time for it; Music, writing, or mapping the forest None was too large that you must ignore it Yet time has grown thin With an ‘in-box’ now bloated Banishing my grin, (And away it floated) As if the very gods had voted For my toiling isolation For even all of my devotion Collapsed in defeat against teachers notions; A book, a chat, the time of day All, before work, had withered away Into ‘could’s and ‘would’s but never ‘am’s Alas, the victor was always exams; I do not have time for whims and fancies Philosophical dreaming or Sci-Fi zombies Because I must tend to the forms Lest they shall be eaten by worms Or whatever happens when they’re left stagnant Ah yes, I remember: next year in the basement. Edited by: SoaringIcarus at: 11/13/02 12:47:19 pm

I was always a docious man myself, though I'd settle for doshous. I suppose the Irish spelling for that would be doseas. Out or sheer boredom, I suppose, I'd be willing to argue over that point. Don't count me out.

Icarus wades through drooping cobwebs and his own kicked up dust to find this old post, one uneventful night. He reads carefully, and wanders towards the not-too distant board seeking the fox-kin story. Before he leaves, he unpacks a neon-lit juke box from his bag and lets it thud noisily on the floor, inciting more dusty clouds and causing a swarm of irate bats to screach as they flutter out a nearby window. Perhaps this will attract more people to the Library.

On that same cloudless night, Icarus was to be found in his almost comically dilapidated abode, fixedly staring at the sky, when he heard the thin rustle of grass as Vlad the Imploder walked away from The Pen. Icarus furrowed his brow, and stepped out of his thin shack, peering at Vlad. “Aye there.” Icarus stated, as Vlad turned his head, but not body, towards him. He was undoubtedly intent on his pending quest. Icarus dug into his pocket and conjured a small brown compass embedded in a vaguely iridescent brown maple leaf; the metal of the compass was turned to rust so completely that it seemed to have grown from within the heart of the leaf itself. He held it up loosely, in plain sight of Vlad. “It doesn’t look like much,” Icarus tossed “but you may find it a partial answer to your question.” He slowly ambled toward Vlad through wet grass and crisp air, holding the remarkable compass in his hands gingerly. “I do not know where it came from except that I found it in the house of a mystic whom I found dead, just beyond the forest outside of these walls.” They both paused, looking out at the forest nested underneath the moon, past the walls of The Pen. “If I may” he said hesitantly “I’d like to join you.”

The memories came flooding back, and this is the gelatinous residue. I haven't yet decided if this piece is solely out of character. Comments are appreciated and yearned for! Thanks. Heh, I haven’t heard that nickname in years. How quaint it still sounds. Was it…Kate…? Who first coined it? I believe it was. Yes, I distinctly remember now that night we spoke for the first time in months again, long and hard as if we had something to prove. Well, we did. We stayed up all night conversing without direction, recalling old but not stale anecdotes of years before, what we were actually thinking at the time, and how little we’d changed. Neither of us ever thought we had changed a great deal, and we wouldn’t, at least not around each other. She and I were, for the most part, a device for one another. She would speak to me of music, and I would always ask her questions. Only the kind of questions she wanted to hear, so she could recite for us what new volume of knowledge she had acquired since we last met. I, too, had learned something and we would sit there for hours on end slathering our knowledge together, gaining insight on what little theories we had dreamed up. We’d laugh at them, glance at each other, and stop. I knew better than to ask how her day was today; she would never stand such trite questions. Those types of meetings lacked formal boundaries, sweetly, as did the continuity of their reoccurrence. One morning I would wake to find her gone before she could arrive. I saw her somewhere else far from here, laughing, with our little theories still on hand. She had forgotten all about those meetings, I’m sure. But that couldn’t bother her too much; one can never truly know what it is like to have forgotten all about something, now can they. She may even coin the very same nickname for some very similar young lad, wearing that very same smile on her lips. And he may be allowed more evenings in her room to hear her sweet desperate voice; as if her will alone propelled it out into the cosmos. I’m sure he will. But he’ll never see that look in her right eye when she knew you heard the music too.

Before Icarus is able to see Vlad the Imploder, he feels his presence heading towards him and Katzaniel. Distortion of the lines between evil and good was hardly the kind of thing that eluded Icarus. “Hello there.” Icarus stated, noticing how pleasingly Vlad fades into darkness, seeming almost as if darkness faded into him. “Does she keep you awake as well?” He gestured to his winking gem. Curiously still, Icarus strolled all the way around the shack, with his hands jammed in his pockets, palming what discarded or forgotten stuff of his journey remain. They both stand in the chilled night, admiring her, while Icarus plainly wondered “Does she weaken the silence for you?” as he gazed out at the houses dimly lit from within, but strangled still by the looming silence. Icarus cleared his throat softly, just to release his ears from such a death-grip.

Icarus laughed, because it was precisely at moment after he had wondered where everyone else was, that Katzaniel greeted him gleefully. He smiled warmly, as he was always fond of humans and felines. This made for an interesting acquaintance. “Hello there, Katzaniel.” He said heartily. His accent had barely detectable traces of Welsh in it. “I’ve noticed you around the city, and have heard about your history. It’s pleasant to not be alone in our recent entrance to The Pen, don’t you think?” He said while he examined Katzaniel’s spear and stature; he mused upon how well both could fare in battle. Katzaniel responded positively, agreeing that it was indeed nice to have fellow non-Members. Icarus stood up, out of the tent, at his full height of 5’8 (He never said he was an intimidating guy.), stretched his arms while he glanced at Venus and politely asked “Do you miss being human more than you miss being tiger?” One had to be delicate when asking these sorts of things. “Pardon me if I’m being a bit too intrusive upon our first formal meeting, such is my inclination I’m afraid.” He strolled idly around to the other side of the shack with his hands in his pockets, looking up. “Should you ever become overwhealmed with nostalgia, to whom would you return…” He trailed off, more as a question to himself. “…Or would you return?”

Icarus lay stiffly awake in bed on only his second or third night within the walls of The Pen. His inexhaustibility was only fueled by his view of the sky, at the turn of his head to peer out of the only window in his make-shift shack. He could never sleep when his view of Venus was so spectacular. Encyclopedias rounded the corners of his former rooms, with information about his many whimsical curiosities such as Venus. She is the blue sister, and the goddess of beauty, yet all pictures of her are murky, and volcanic. But how sweet and gem-like she appeared to him now, keeping him company in his familiar midnight peacefulness. Venus winked at Icarus, and he sighed deeply in tranquility. It never mattered how much he knew of Venus, as long as she was here for him now. Icarus was only unsettled by the rarely disturbed silence in The Pen. As if he’d only arrived as it’s inhabitants were preparing to move (as he did), or die, standing up, with their eyes open, and their hands creaked to a halt, mid-task. Icarus knew that he came bearing no such figurative oil can, or with myth of any such ‘savior’. He just wondered why he heard no one else awake, with Venus up there, waiting for them.

Well done. I hope that you are soon able to enjoy these sensations sans pain.

Dear Gwaihir, I do very much enjoy this poem, and the work of yours on The Pen that I have read thus far. Nyyark13 suggests that we have a great deal in common, and that topic is something I would be very interested in conversing with you on a more private occasion. My e-mail is AncientAutumn@opendiary.com, and I hope to learn yours sometime, but I must get back to my own devices, before returning to the room in which I left Nyyark13. I look forward to speaking with you. -Icarus Edited by: Nyyark at: 11/1/02 1:10:30 pm

OOC: Will I survive on this website for more than a handful of posts without knowing any of it's history, or characters? *he says, meanwhile scrambling to get to that IRC chat* IC: "My appologies. I meant no offense in calling Eleanor a peacock instead of a phoenix. It's been a long journey." He offered, shrugging. Edited by: SoaringIcarus at: 10/30/02 11:05:43 pm

"Pleased to meet you, Canid." Icarus said, feeling somewhat embarassed. "It's quite pleasant to have someone so willing to help someone as strange and terribly novice as I. My name is Icarus." Icarus noted the wolf's toothy grin with interest as it indeed was a strange sight. He wondered if the wolf had eaten anyone recently, or ever found reason to. He imagined the wolf sunbathing on the edge of the forrest, in deep summer heat, with Eleanor the peacock perched with an omnicient glaze to her presence, nearby. No, he thought... I really don't know... anything about this wolf or the bird. "What do I know of Eleanor? Little more than her appearance and companionship with you." He admitted, speculating their speculation. He really needed to cut that out. The only thing it ever accomplished was additional generalizations, useless theories and big fat lulls. Lots of blinking was accomplished during these lulls. Icarus noted that Canid never mentioned if she liked it here or not. He stored this information in the miscellaneous vault of his memory for trivial things. "And while I'm already professing my novice-hood, would you unabbreviate 'OOC' for me, please?"

Icarus' heart skipped a beat. Eleanor he thought..Eleanor is a name I havn't heard in a long time, much less suspected to belong to a bird, as well.. It's nothing. Just a cooincidence. He blinked. "Oh. I have been watching this place for some time now; I've seen you and your phoenix occasionally. I did not know her name was Eleanor." He hesitated for a moment. "She's very beautiful." And he trailed off, in distraction. "I forgot to thank you." He remarked. "For...not leaving me to sleep in the rain." "Think nothing of it." the wolf replied, cheerfully. For a moment he studied the room; slightly disheveled but forming some kind of chatoic order. Despite it's foreign personality, it felt comfortable, he decided. The lull in the moment grew too loud, so he ventured to break it... "How do you like it here?" He asked the wolf, feeling each syllable sound more ignorant than the previous one. He wriggled his toes in his boots, anxiously.

Who is Prospero, thought Icarus. Perhaps that could be the name of the one who… “Follow me sir.” Said the wolf with the accent, leading him to what appeared to be a side-entrance. “Why not.” Icarus thought aloud. He followed the strange wolf, and glanced at the very large green bird, nodding his head in respect. He had seen this bird before. But he didn’t think the bird had seen him. Perhaps… "This way" said the wolf, as Icarus stepped up to a less descript wooden door. "This is it? This is the entrance to the city? To your city?" "Well, it’s one of many ways. This is how we’ll be getting in." "But I thought Wyvern or another Elder had to approve of this?” his heart accelerated for a moment as the thought of another bad start and another unclean slate entered his mind. He’d had enough of that, and it was time he had been able to live in peace. Then and only then… He palmed the crumpled list in his pocket. The sky let out a muddy but distinct groan of thunder, and everyone’s face flickered toward an instant of lightening appearing on the horizon, miles off. ”We’d best get moving” said Icarus. “And for my purposes, it would be pleasant to know whether I’ll be going in, with you, or...” He gestured to the forest. The chorus of grasshoppers etched a nightmarish undertone as the first pelt of rain hit his cheekbone emphatically. His face did not flinch. Edited by: SoaringIcarus at: 10/30/02 3:04:11 pm

Starting at the beginning would be cliché, he thought, as he approached the slightly daunting gates to The Pen; a place which he had heard much about. Perhaps too much… The beginning that most people wanted was a beginning filled with child abuse, secretes, isolation, and pain. A beginning they could sink their teeth into, and paint another tortured poet, a silent warrior. Someone who looked beautiful outside, and inside, due to his inner-pain. The kind of guy who, at the end of every hero’s film, RPG, and country-western either got the damsel, or became an evil overlord (Due to the lack of a damsel). Mostly, someone who wouldn’t get in the way too much, if he turned out to be merely the flavor of the week. Icarus laughed, shaking his head, allowing long straight locks to cusp his cheeks unflatteringly; veiling no mysterious scars, birthmarks, or remarkable eyes of any remarkable color. Alas, he was not born to superficial beauty. Those who did not know him, as was typical of most, saw him as one of an unimposing stature, yet the bearer of invaluable advice. They may have been right about his unusual trait, however they were gravely mistaken if they believed him to be some kind of quarter-machine prophet. To the best of his knowledge, he couldn’t advise a street urchin out of a paper-bag, and yet the friends of friends of friends never failed to frequent his door step. Over time, Icarus’ little quirk grew on him, and occasionally he would relish it, whetting it. It was only a few months ago that he aimed his unremarkable eyes with a rather poignantly piercing intention upon something. Someone. He examined the tall, but elegantly simple gates to the city of The Pen. The city he had stalked for weeks now like a beggar-mime and a forgotten spy. Before he ever wrote a word, he prowled these streets, the outstretches; watching and waiting. The nights were cold and solitary. He loved it. And yet, from these weeks of observation, realization, intrigue and confusion, he had learned nothing of the one he had been told about. The one who was slain by his own hand. The one who was exiled from this place. This place, beyond these doors, and within the hands and minds of it’s inhabitants. Who are they, he thought. Why was I sent here. Wistfully, and absent-mindedly he read the scratch marks on the large door with his fingers, just below the giant rusting knocker. The scratch marks began ferocious and desperate, but fade away, he thought, as if this beast or human fell to the mud in exhaustion, in forced retirement, to be swallowed up by any vile creatures of the filth who may find him. Laying here, less than dirt, less than weeds, and friendless enough to be buried alive; visible but ignored. Why was I sent here, he nagged himself. He roused himself back to consciousness by the sound of a crow cawing overhead, flying towards the forrest that lay several miles west of here. Another night of observation of the city from the outer walls didn’t excite him terribly, he wanted in. His purpose wasn’t so much to be heard as it was to get an insider’s view on the people here. From within his moth-eaten pocket, he conjured a list of names written on the back of a page torn from his old journal. He wondered if they were even still alive, much less living here. Here goes…everything, he thought, as he reached for the rusting gold ring that was the knocker. Let’s just hope someone’s home. Email: AncientAutumn@opendiary.com