Alaeha

Well, for my part, I had a rather awesome birthday... so I'd say your wishes worked. Woo for the Pen! *Hugs for all* And Happy Birthday to the other Birthday person/people. Happy Birthday Yuki and Ivorywolf!

*Big huggle for Rune*

In case you hadn't seen it... here's the deal on the Weenie Award: (Quoted from this thread.) Though I believe Gyr got stuck with the job. Anyway, that's what you need to know, I think. *Big Hugs* Welcome back!

However, the Space Ninja would be an elite hacker who shuts down the space pirate's piece of hulking steel. And, of course, prevents the Pirate's scanners from picking him up -- thereby eliminating any advantage the steel may have lent the Pirate in the first place.

"By the way, my new mood is manically happy. I kick the bucket." Amazing what happens when you're roleplaying a chaotic neutral halfling sorceror with a wisdom of three. Worst of it is that most of what happened that session is funny only if you don't take it out of context.

Hmm... well, getting kicked out... err... inhales profusely. Glad you're back, though. Don't blame you for throwing away the T-Shirt either, if they wouldn't let you stay. *Joins in mourning the loss of your hair* *Big Hugs Welcome Back*

Well, lets start by working off that Weenie award, eh? Welcome back!

In most cases, I think the Ninja would win because, as you said, Gryphon, you'd "cheat." And that's the essence of the assassin -- considered dishonorable, but highly effective. Pirates rely on the ability to hit hard enough that it hurts. That suits their lifestyle, because you can't achieve precision when inebriated. Ninja hit when and where they can hurt the most, because they adapt their lifestyle to their job, rather than becoming a pirate to support their lifestyle. It's less desirable, sure, but it's more effective. Which is why any Ninja who provokes a fight without having a clear and significant advantage (such as an arrow or bullet already planted between the Pirate's shoulderblades, or the opportunity to garrote him in the shadows,) deserves to lose.

Alrighty then. My apologies for the delay in getting this announced. Option One is our winner. This description was written by Tanuchan. Options Two and Four, tied for second, were written by Wyvern and the Quincunx respectively. Option Three was written by Orlan. So now you all know which version of the item we're auctioning off. Congratulations, Tanny!

Which is why the Pirate would never see it coming. Can't fight what you don't know is there. And Training and Discipline are very good for learning how to sneak up on/ambush/assassinate people. Or just poisoning their booze.

In a fight? Simple. Ninja are assassins. Pirates are drunkards. The Ninja waits until the Pirate is passed out, and slits his throat. Or plants an arrow in the pirate from a distance. Or tells the Depp fangirls that there's a pirate in town, and lets the stampede do his work for him. And then the horde of flesh-eating penguins kills the Ninja. And the fangirls.

Option #4 Avalonian wonder-workers call it Seranil and say that the lake which accepted Excalibur spit it out when a frustrated king tried to drown the evil spirit lurking within the lyre. Among the Vodaccé, it is Nero's Fiddle, and that it was a fiddle then, and changes shape to best serve its owner. Several years ago, its secrets were pierced by a Ussuran pyeryem, and she purchased it for a princely sum. . .which repaid itself within the year. Serafima perched on an overstuffed salmon-pink silk chair, her legs tilted up and out by the ridiculous contours of the cushions so that her feet did not even reach the matching footstool. Her host, Count Francois de Coratine of Montaigne ("I would call you by title alone, Serafima, but yours is unpronounceable by civilized man") reclined in a properly proportioned doeskin armchair with gilt embellishment on the crest of the chair-back. At Serafima's right hand, on a table inlaid with the de Coratine crest in rosewood, lay her opal-sheathed pencase and ink pot, along with prepared scrolls and dark green leather scroll cases. At her left hand stood the lyre, taller than tiny Serafima, painted over with traditional Ussuran themes along its frame, and a reinforced wooden crescent pegged onto the highest point. Upon this crescent, her prize gyrfalcon preened its back feathers, all the time fixing Count Francois with the same unwavering gaze as its mistress used. "My children, my passions," began Serafima, waving her unjeweled left hand. "She is Mother-bird-with-broken-wing, if you cannot understand her proper name, civilized man. He is Father-bird-ever-vigilant and he will not leave her side when she sings. Even if Theus should see fit to give me a husband, they will be first in my heart." The count signaled to his footman, who glided backward, bowing, and melted away from the room. "But of course you understand loneliness and the other diseases of the spirit--you are a doctor, are you not?" "Serafima, what a thing to suggest! In Montaigne, we leave such things to the idle philosophers," he replied. Lazily he imagined breaking her overworked beak of a nose with the bone-setting hammer--no, no, that chair wasn't entirely out of fashion yet, it would need to be burnt next season. "My uncle wished to keep certain infirmities within the family and had me educated as a doctor of medicine. It is, however, most fatiguing and distressing. Music is my solace." The footman returned to the room, followed by a page with two tall cut-crystal goblets and a pair of decanters. He directed the page to the count's rosewood table and blended the liquids in one goblet, then came to Serafima and reversed the proportions into her goblet. "Whisky and poppy-water, the wildflowers in the garden of liqueur. Now, Luca, to the lyre, and let us have music. To the wildflowers made tame, a toast," concluded the count, raising his goblet. As the footman seated himself at the lyre, the gyrfalcon cocked its tail and let loose a stream of droppings like musket smoke. Luca was too well-trained to brush away the mess from his sleeves, only pushing them back so as not to stain the lyre strings. Just as his fingertips brushed the strings, Serafima smiled a knife-lipped smile, then set her goblet of nearly pure poppy-water down, untouched. Francois set his aside also and started to rise, but the first few notes of the music drained him, and he sank back into the chair, eyes unfocused. Luca swayed imperceptibly back and forth and, once the first melody had been completed, began playing it again. Serafima slid out of the overstuffed chair and approached the count, peering carefully into his eyes, then carried his goblet back to her table and placed hers at his right hand after pouring some of it back into the poppy-water decanter held by the immobile page. From the other decanter, she refilled her new goblet to untouched levels, then returned to her chair and tilted her head to one side, listening to the music. When the second repetition of the song came to its conclusion, she met her gyrfalcon's stare. "Fly, and show off," she told him, mind to mind. He launched himself into the air with a scream, contrary to gyrfalcon nature. Luca jerked his arms fearfully away from the lyre to shield his head. The count, jolted awake, chuckled as the little Ussuran stood up on her chair, pulling a thick leather glove loose from between two cushions and burying her arm in it, then trying to catch her wayward pet. Serafima timed one swipe of her arm precisely, and the gyrfalcon latched its claws into the glove, instantly ceasing its wingbeat and allowing her to step cautiously down from the chair and replace him on the crescent. She pushed herself back into the silk chair and tugged at the glove, setting it by her side where it again slid sideways into the cushions. "He does not like your music, I think," she remarked, picking up her goblet and sipping. Francois' eyes brightened, and he also reached for his goblet. "Let us postpone the music and first discuss business." Most people had assumed that the lyre aided the player with deception, or perhaps influenced songs that were sung along with the music. Like most of what the lyre facilitated, that was a deception. Its sole purpose is to befuddle everyone who hears it, except for the person who wishes to deceive the befuddled people--and without putting a claim on the lyre, either by playing it or placing an object of great personal value on the lyre, the deceiver's actions are obvious to all observers. The lyre does not like to go unacknowledged. The Vodaccé also correctly guessed that it can mutate into nearly any stringed instrument; the Avalonians never learned anything about the lyre and only thought that corruption was suddenly flourishing, instead of being revealed, in the household of whoever took the lyre.

Option #3 Seranil was the beginnings of a great bardess. She was smart, funny, beautiful, and her voice was known to make men drop to their knees, but not out of a love of the music. She had a strong belief that all men were her play things, hers to do with what she wished and she’d never let anything like the truth stand in her way. She told men whatever they wanted to hear, simply to make them hers. Granted, she did not have to lie too often, but she was a genius at it. This was until she put her sights on the same man as Yelyun, Goddess of Love. Yelyun had won the love of a man through a year of hard work, for the greatest love takes time and the Goddess was the epitome of Love. Yet before they were to be wed, Seranil appeared, and though guile and deception, twisted the man against Yelyun and to herself instead. As punishment for this act, Yelyun revealed herself and confronted Seranil. The bardess was not taken aback, and when confronted by the great Goddess, her answer was simple. “I am but a liar, the man was weak to fall for me,” the bardess said with a touch of arrogance. Yelyun replied “So be it,” and Seranil became what she claimed to be, a Lyre. This Lyre, the Lyre of Deception, causes the player to become irresistible to any, but they can never tell them the truth, ever.

Option #2 Seranil, the Lyre of Deception Once upon a time, a long time ago, when witches were still using broomsticks instead of enchanted vacuum cleaners for cleaning, there was a young apprentice that went by the name of Heranil. He was a disciple of the high witch Necronuma, an absent-minded and thoroughly senile sorceress famous for her nasty enchantments. While Heranil often feigned innocence and pretended he actually had some vague interest in learning magic, he payed little attention to his studies and spent most of his time playing practical jokes on the witches. The locust stew incident at the Seventh Annual Witches Brew Cookoff? That was him. The itchy pixy powder placed in Grandma Hexi’s rocking chair? Him as well. Even the infamous incident of the piano wire broomstick was caused by none other than Heranil, the deceptive scoundrel and trickster voted “Most Likely to Annoy the Hell out of Satan” in Witches Weekly. One day in the Spring, Heranil was slacking off dreaming up his latest joke when Necronuma entered into her mansion with a frog in a jar, cackling gleefully and holding it high for her disciple to see. “Seranil” she said, for she often mispronounced names. “Lookee here, my young disciple, a prince trapped in the shape of a frog! He’ll make a handsome man slave, he will… but I must fetch some ripe fleas from the flea market before they close. Guard him while I’m gone, and I shall transform him later.” Indeed, Necronuma was well and truly senile, for she departed then and left the frog in the hands of the worst trickster that side of Satyr’s Grove. Heranil wasted not a second in her absence, of course. He quickly replaced the frog in the jar with a mere horny toad, and eagerly awaited his master’s return. When Necronuma came back to the mansion with a bag of fleas, she saw Heranil still holding the jar and said: “Seranil, have you guarded my prince frog well?” “Oh yes master!” cried Heranil, handing her the jar. “And by the way, my name is Heranil.” “Well done, Seranil” cackled Necronuma back, taking the toad out of the jar and kissing it on the lips. The elderly witch cried out in horror when the toad transformed into an orcish plumber, and Heranil found himself unable to contain his laughter. “Seranil” cried Necronuma angrily, pointing a gnarled finger at him. “You are a wretched liar! Where is my prince frog?” But alas, Heranil couldn’t respond. That’s right, boys and girls… if you’re a senile enchantress, it’s best not to point your finger at people when you get angry. Where Heranil once stood now rested a lyre, and a thoroughly wretched one at that. Necromuna considered transforming her disciple back, but decided that he’d probably be more useful that way. Besides, she had to stop the orcish plumber before he broke any major faucets. The lyre was named Seranil, and remains intact to this day. It is a beautiful instrument, certain to impress even the most ardent of bards and collectors. Appearences can be deceiving, however, and the truth of the matter is that the lyre will forever remain wretchedly out of tune. It often impresses its audience and bestows its owner with fame and glory up until the moment that it’s played.

Option #1 Seranil, the Lyre of Deception The lyre sits at the table, the simple beauty calling the attention of all who happen to rest eyes on her. Yes, her. Any Bard who has ever touched the lyre felt the clearly feminine spirit in the soft feeling of her wooden frame, in the way the strings trembled under deft fingers. And it has always been so for Seranil, the Lyre of Deception. Her origin is unknown, draped in the veils of legend. But it is said that once, long ago, a bard fell in love but, without a penny to his name besides those he earned by his performances, he knew he had no chance of winning the hand of his beloved. He traveled far and long, but his heart never gave him peace. Then, in a far land he happened to save the life of a Mage. As a reward, she wove her magic into the lyre the bard carried, in such a way that the music it played would move hearts according to the words of the songs he sang. What the bard didn't know was that the Mage had also fallen in love with him. When he left to pursue the lady who had his heart, the Mage cursed him; and, not being able to withdraw the magic woven into the lyre, she altered it subtly. Nothing is known of the fate of the bard and the lady of his dreams. But thus is the magic woven into Seranil: each word, each verse played upon her is twisted and changed subtly, influencing the heart and mind of those who listen. So, innocent words of love and peace could indeed lead people to become lazy and careless, and a war chant could make them kill their own brothers. Many had feared Seranil's power, until another bard came into her possession. And, being a cunning warrior and having a sharp mind, he learned to shape his songs and words to achieve exactly what he wanted. He prospered and learned even more on the power of Seranil, and at his death his sons inherited both the lyre and his father's knowledge on how to use her. So, Seranil got her full name: the Lyre of Deception, as no word played upon her should be taken at its face value.

I think voting ends then. I'm not certain as to the specifics, but we can edit if necessary. Anyways, submissions for possible stories are now closed. Thank you, those who participated. Voters: Read the descriptions below and decide which you think would make for the best item, using whatever criteria you will, and vote. This is to determine what the background will be, henceforth and forever, for this item.

*Translating the above post into a list of links for the sake of those without time to dig through archives* Ok... the Rooms thread is actually stickied in the Assembly Room. For the sake of convenience and continuity, it's here. Conversations was apparently also moved to the Assembly Room (bad Peredhil. I should shake my finger at you for that. ) Anyway, it's a rather old one, from back before the current incarnation of the Pen I believe -- as, at that time, Peredhil had different screen names for each character. It can be found here. And the dates with Ayshela, Alaeha, and Tanuchan are equally easy to find. That's it, I think. I couldn't find anything in the Greenroom's Index or the Piazza.

You won't let players start new religions? My current D&D character's long term goal is to found a church of Olidammara in Eberron. Just because, because of the way Divine Powers work in Eberron, it would work. Anyways, with that offtopic aside, sure, I'll take a shot at the riddles.

Short (Or Long) Stories go in the Assembly Room. I'm thinking that's your best bet.

Hmm... I suggest that your story take place on a giant (planet-sized) Jelly Donut. Preferably of the raspberry variety.

Alaeha had noticed the small booth earlier, but had been wary at first -- guinea pig kisses (even giant guinea pigs) were known for tickling, and one would have to be quite mad not to be wary of Elladan -- but Elrohir... while not harmless... was comparatively safe. She tossed a single geld from her small pouch into the bowl as she approached, smiling as she saw Elrohir look up at the clink, and dropped four more in as she passed the bowl. She sat down next to him, planting a small kiss on his cheek with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She winked at his confused look and reached into the folds of her cloak, withdrawing a sapphire pendant she was certain he would recognize. "So, I never got a chance to ask... just how often do you go about meddling in the affairs of Burnt Gods and Tyrants?"

Wyvern ~ Afraid I haven't talked with you much, but when I've logged into the IRC channel, you've always been one of the first to greet me, when you're there. I can't really express how much a simple acknowledgement is worth, but I thought you should know that I appreciate it. And, of course, you have my respect for the time you continually spend reading and responding to every application to join the Pen. That, alone, is simply amazing. ~ Alaeha

A large blue tent arose, easily within sight of Peredhil's Kissing Booth and Wyvern's Game. This one, though, wore a different banner. In bold blue letters, the banner proclaimed that this was the home of Fractured Carols. Alaeha waited inside, sitting next to a small sign which, she imagined, would explain everything. The sign announced, in the same flowing, blue script as the banner, "Try and write a parody or comic remaking of any of the classic holiday carols for this time of year. (Example below.) The first two songs will earn ten geld each, but there is no reward for any further songs. The examples below were all written, based on the same song, by Ayshela." Here, the script changed slightly, and the text turned black. Kid version: Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til we get out! Five more days of this routine Not long now until we’re free! No more crowded halls to fight No more homework every night! Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til we get out! Teacher/Staff version: Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til they’re all out! Five more days ‘til they’ve gone home No more through these halls to roam. No more silly tales of woe No more having to say NO! Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til they’re all out! Parent version: Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til they’re all out! Five more days of blissful quiet All that’s left before the riot! Then there’s endless children’s fights Through the days, into the nights Hark! The herald angels shout Five more days ‘til they’re all out!

Alaeha steps into the conservatory, and smiles as she spots the flyer. Then, as she reads the deadline, she frowns. She was almost too late. She hastily jotted down her name, and left to find out what else she might be behind on.

A young man with thin blonde hair walked onstage, on hearing his cue. "Well... my tale is a bit confusing, I'm afraid, but I'll try to make things clear. "A couple of years back, I was traveling across some country or another... I forget which, exactly. Anyway, that's not important. I was sitting in the common room at an inn when a man walked in with thick black hair past his shoulders. He carried a lute, and his eyes were the most fascinating shade of green I've ever seen. He sang a few songs -- The Yellow-Bellied Half-orc is the only one I remember offhand -- and then he told us a story. Two stories, actually." The young man paused for a moment, looking out at the audience. He smiled briefly at the silence, and continued. "He said, 'Long ago, I met a lizardman. He claimed he was a dragon, but I've spoken to dragons, and none of them hissed so much as this one did. He had gleaming red scales, I'll give him that, but to this day I can't figure out why he wore such outrageously gaudy clothes.' "The black-haired man said that the lizard was honest, otherwise. 'Oh, I made a few bargains with him, sure. I was a bit careful at first -- you have to be careful when dealing with a snake -- but he never once cheated me, or even tried. Why, I bought this lute from him, and it's served me well fifteen years now.'" From somewhere in the audience, a few snickers erupted, but the youth did his best to ignore them. "And then the storyteller told us of a man he'd met. He pointed me out, saying that the man looked like me. 'A man looking much like this boy, though a bit older, spread word of me in another land once. He told people of my dealings with the Lizard. I know because I was told when I traveled there that I was completely insane. They had been told so, or so it seemed. It took me a week to find out the truth of what had happened.'" At this point, the audience broke out into such laughter that the youth's nerves broke, and he fled offstage turning beet-red. "Well, sorry about that, kid." The announcer called, regaining the stage again. Turning to the audience, he said "Well, we know he wasn't talking about Wyvern... we'll just have to wonder who it was, then. Won't we? Next?"