Xaious, Master of Time

Heh heh... Lo and Behold, Soldier Tom. K. Spartan, Grand Marshall of the Divine Insurrection of Cat Kind, and Supreme Destroyer of Anything that Smells Remotely of Cat-Nip. As a kitten, and then a bit more grown And the obligatory picture of Soldier Tom's drug dealer. That cat's addicted to the 'nip.

Heh hah, yeah, my life lately too, much to my dismay. Yet another semester has begun, and with four full time schedules School, work, sleep, Warcrack), my Muse is trying to rear her misshapen head.

Split splat, split splat, split splat, mushiness, the sound of that. Once again creeps into me, and once again so blissfully. Joy and dreaming, hand in hand, and foot in mouth expected soon. But lips to cheek or lips again, the wants to make one swoon. Ethics, forget them! Needs, Who cares! But to this one, my heart, to bare. But yet this struggle is never new, never afar off, and never far behind. Yet ever so it keeps me up, to bid good morning to a goddess. Sleep, Never! Rest, Hah! I'll rest when I'm dead, and I'd sleep until then, Lest my Goddess approve for me to her. Oh mind, Be quiet! And heart, Be still! You are the ones who kill me. It is not what we need, but only desire, and forever in the dirt it will drag us. --------------------- *is still awake. Curses*

Ingredients: 1 pack Beef Flavored Ramen. Soy Sauce. Directions: Prepare the Ramen as you normally would, flavor, and then add Soy Sauce for extra chinese-flavor. Goes great with a good glass of Kool Aid. That's my typical bachelor chow meal, outside of work.

But wait, what's this, I sense there's something more. How now, and this? Oh you I do adore. My dear, my dear, will you not see more? Oh my, why cry, with tears can see no more! Your face and wondrous beauty be, that with those tears I cannot see. All of you my dear I see! But what that true, is in my dreams. Will ever then in real life be? What I have so longed to see? With who I do so long to be? Oh my words do comfort me. ----------------------------------------------- ---(Comments? Suggestions? Rar!)

205 Lashbrooke Once was with the lush green grass and some dirt what showed through. Once the home of most that I knew. Once the house where I did live. In the days I was a kid. There was that tree we climbed all day. Until the time we moved away. It was the place of my childhood. Remembered days that all were good. Tonight I went back to this place. Foolish me, I streaked my face. With that which doth disgust me. And yet I had to see. And then, I had to weep. For like those days of mirth galore, That tree's life, ancient lore.

Me? I am most inspired by my own feelings. My own feelings, and the energy in the music I am listening to at that time. When I write a poem, for example, whatever I was listening to whenever I became inspired, I listen to that one song (or more, but never more than three) until I have completed that creation. If I'm drawing, I'll stick to the band what sang the song I was listening to when I became inspired, and if for either of these cases there was no music, then I can promise you I'll find the band whose energy most closely vibes with what I'm going for. Best example: Any and every time I'm writing or drawing something heavily death-oriented (...Yeah...I'm quite obsessed with death...so shoot me..), I can promise you that at any time that's the case I'm listening to either Acid Bath, Agents of Oblivion, or Deadboy and the Elephantmen. All three good bands, but most specifically, all of them have had the same singer, one Dax Riggs. (Coincidentally, the man lives about twenty minutes from my house, and sometimes goes eats at the restaurant I work at...He eats a lot of salad....That being said, I didn't know he lived in this state until a good long while after I started liking his bands.) Enough of that tangent. So I'm inspired by the way I feel combined with the energy of the music I'm listening to at the time (even when it's only in my head.)

But I Think It's Blood How could I express to you, my dearest dear who just won't hear, For I can't speak or think but to shed a tear. For in my heart I feel this true, In my heart I see always you. Raining pouring tears and failure, I weep I cannot have. Always raining dreary and leery of asking you, And when this raining stops, no arch of color. My dearest deary how can I make you see? How can I for you to be, for you me and the inverse too. How can I say that I love you? To weep and weep days and their ends, to dream in day and night. Dreaming of you, wishing too. Why cannot we see this be. Simple desire you know in me, But why can't it be in you? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------(El Commentos c'est muy bueno!)----------------- -----------------(Yes, finally I make for me an official poetry topic!....

..Hawaiian pizza...I make those..at work... Welcome aboard, dude. If in fact that is your real name.

How often have I been here? Driving not so far as far, in my car, so late at night? Thinking pondering to myself sometimes aloud, listening to music of adrenaline and relaxing simultaneous. Of life and work and school and such, of things of principle and what to do or would have dones. To think of people what ought to be dead, the immoral and the ignorant. Him what does with those of not the age, or him what needs know his place. That place is not with elbow to one else's throat. Ponderings on life and where is lived, and where to live and when to live in such a state. To ponder on him and those what would be boarding with. The road stretches on, curving some with lines and reflectors shining at me. The streetlights sparse, yet more numerous than the stars this night, and the sky aglow it's naturally abnormal viridian hue, bordering toxic green. I think of friends what receive no attention of mine, who give to me what less even. To him who I've just returned to his home temp, burgers and drinks us we have fed. How odd that we have the same hat? Steadily I come near to my house, and continue my musings. Dear friend who does not read this and never will, I think to myself. I think Dear friend, how I wish it could be just a little different. You may be surprised how good it could be. Push you I will not, but if you ever were to reconsider, it'd joy me. Oh how little some know of what I truly feel. But she does. Oh wait, but now I'm home. Is my door locked I wonder to myself, and of course it is, so through the garage with me. Into the house and to my room, but first to stop at the rest stop to the right. The seat and lid are new, it's a wonderful experience, and now to gather my thoughts. It was a wonderful day today, the writer thinks to himself, even with those negatives. How can he not think this? For sooth, Life is Beautiful. --------------------------------- ------(Not nearly as good as it was running through my head on my way home earlier. Commentos, yes?

After everyone had said what they had to say, the final event in the book of the Master of Time's life began. As everyone stood around the pyre, waiting for the clock to chime, the sky steadily grew dark, slow at first, then faster until it was a deep royal purple and then pitch. The clock chimed once. At least fifty faintly glowing lights appeared around the soon to be lit fire. The clock chimed again., and the figures began to come into focus. On the third chime, some of the figures began to look vaguely familiar, and on the fourth, they became recognizable as the man of the evening himself. On the fifth chime, these fifty Xaiouses (would it be Xaiousi?) drew forth unlit torches. On chime six, they raised the torches, and the torches caught fire instantaneously. On the seventh chime, they lit the pyre. Quickly and smoothly, the wood caught fire, and the courtyard was lit bright as day by the pyre. Al around, these fifty Xaiousi kneeled. These fifty Xaiousi were not all just the one before his death, but in fact were from fifty points in his life, through his younger years to his final. As the pyre burned on, they continued to kneel, but slowly began to fade out of sight. From youngest to oldest, they vanished, and as they did, so too did the fire burn out, more and more with each vanishing Xai. When the last was gone, so too was the pyre burnt-out, nothing left but ashes in a concspicuously neat little pile. Throughout the spectacle, Nickoli kneeled and watched, and when all was gone but the ashes, he got to his feet and walked to the ashes. As he reached them, he pulled an old and worn ceramic vase from his cloak. Kneeling down once again, he swept the ashes into the vase, and then stood to face the crowd. "On behalf of Lucius, Xaious, I wish to thank you all for your attendance. The event meant much to him, as we all saw, and I don't think it could have gone any better. Thank you." Slowly then he walked over to the stone that had been set beneath the tree, and dug a small hole. In this hole he placed the vase and then filled in the rest of the hole. Curiously enough, the opening of the vase was left above the ground, uncovered. Nickoli then walked back to the carriage, and returned with a small bag of dirt and some seeds. Nickoli placed the ground gently in the open vase, and equally kindly placed the seeds in the dirt. Producing a small flask of what appeared to be water, he poured it into the vase. Within three blinks, a small plant grew forth and a lovely purple lotus bloomed, and Nickoli kneeled once more. "This lotus will never die by natural means, and was secretly one of his favorites." "God rest ye, Friend."

Mmm Mmm Mmm, Zombies. Good one, yes.

By the time Nickoli had completed his tasks, he had erected a sizable mass of timbers and fuel for a rather sizable pyre. In the middle of the courtyard, away from trees and other flammable objects stood the small hill of combustibles, and upon that lay the still form of a figure familiar to all. Cloak, hood, and cowl still covering any details of this messenger from everyone, he began his discourse once the majority of the members of the keep were there. "Ladies and Gentlemen, and Wyvern. As I have said before, I bring to you news of a less than pleasant nature. As you have by now discerned, on the pyre behind me rests our beloved Master of Time, Xaious. As I'm sure it has to you, his death was a shock to me, and it wasn't until I arrived here that I was able to understand why he passed away. "Lucius never told me everything about his life, and even less of how he came to be what he was in the first place. He never explained many things, but he told me many stories. He told me of how many ages he had lived, how many revelations and revolutions of the multiverse he had seen. He told me many things even about you folks here. No, Wyvern, I will not be buying from you without first checking any and all papers and legalese at least four times. On the day he came to me for the last time, he told me only one thing. "He said to me, 'I feel so...old...' "The next morning, I found him laying against a tree in the front of my....ramshackle little home. The life was gone from him, but he had a small note clasped in his hand. I have followed the directions on that note, and here we are. "If anyone has any words to speak about our friend who is with us no more, please, come and speak them now. He has asked that the pyre be lit at the precise moment that the ancient godfather's clock in that carriage chimes for seven at night. Approximately four hours from now. "Thank you." With that, Nickoli stepped aside from where he had been to allow others to come forward. But first, he carted the ancient clock from the carriage and placed it off-center right in front of the pyre, so that it would burn too. -------------------------------------------- (Alright guys. I know this may be kinda odd, but....Work with it. I know you are well capable of pulling something out of your heads. I know I have left the details on Nickoli vague, You'll find out more in time about him. The pyre gets lit Friday night, where it's currently Monday night as I post this. Interested in seeing what you have to say.)

Leaving the carriage under the watchful eyes of the frail equestrians, Nickoli searched his way through the Keep to Xaious's old closet, a map in his old mind that had been memorized from the tales of his friend. Down to the deepest recesses of the Keep he went until he came to the creaky old door, and slowly pushed it open. Unwashed clothing and broken technology lay strewn about the place, and on the not-so-far far wall runes had been carved, runes informing of the portal's purpose, a trip to the Renaissance of the True Plane. Slowly he searched through the items what had been on the floor so long, Until he had found the one thing that would fit most suitably for display in front the tombstone: A pair of black, hard leather boots, steel toed with buckles up the sides. Though they had been the old magus's most favored pair, they wre the least worn for always being lost. Grabbing these and a free-range bottle of vodka from the room, Nickoli made his way back to the grounds and the carriage, where many pennites were still standing in confusion. Nickoli drew forth from the shadows of the entrance and walked clear and forward to a point in a corner, near a tree, where he planted the boots. Turning towards the crowd again, hje walked forth to the carriage and drew out a cleanly carved tombstone, carved from an enormous grey pearl. Carved into the front of it was a simple phrase: "Live in the here, Live in the now, You'll meet such a fate, anyhow." Nickoli set this gently beneath the tree, and placed the boots on either side, framing the peculiar headstone. As he walked back to the carriage, people were better noticing things about this person they did not know. His back had a fairly pronounced hunch, and no matter how heavy the stone had been, he did not seem to strain with it. His frame seemed frail beyond reckoning, and yet he showed a greater ability than would be expected. Nickoli pulled forth from atop the carriage a stash of sticks and oil, and began the setting of a pyre. He worked in silence, intent on following the orders of his old friend to the best of his ability. Then he turned to the crowd, and asked a simple favor in a raspy voice. "Can anyone giev me a hand with this next bit? That coffin's kinda heavy."

Nickoli wanders near the garden, fiddles in his pocket, and plants an old battered pocketwatch on a chain around the neck of a gnome. Smiling beneath the cowl, he walks away.

Slowly and carefully, mournfully even, a creaky old carriage pulled by three black horses struggled along a mud-filled path to the Keep of the Pen on a stormy day like had not been seen in months. Few Pennites who ahd looked out of the windows would have seen the ancient hearse, and even fewer would have recognized the significance of it. Slowly it trudged up the path until it came up to those large wooden gates that had welcomed many, but now seemed wont to discourage travelers. Nevertheless, the figure what drove the carriage pulled himself down from the seat, and walked up to the door. Cold and deathly was the manner in which he rapped on the door with his bony knuckles, and patiently as death waited he for the gates to open. Slowly they creaked open, and into the courtyard he led the horses. Some had gathered to witness this even, but little could be told by merely looking at the parade of gloom. It was an ancient black carriage of wood with silken black curtains hiding it's occupant and large, mud-covered wheels that creaked almost saddenly, being pulled by two black horses that had once been strong and healthy creatures, but were now little more than skeletally gaunt harbingers of despair. Leading this vehicle of death was a figure cloaked in a fading black robe, cowled and hooded so that all any could see were faintly glowing yellow eyes set into a pale and shrunken face. On the wind came the scent of death, and the man's rasping voice failed to be pleasant. "Good evening,' He jested to those gathered 'And my sincerest apologies for not arriving in better conditions." "Now, before you start inquiring about this little debacle, allow me to somewhat introduce myself. My name is Nickoli, and I am pleased to be here, though certainly the circumstances could be better. A great friend of mine recently came to me and told me it was time that I head over here and make your acquaintances." The cloaked man emphasized the word 'Time'. "I knew the man by the of Lucius Meliamne, but he tells me you all knew him as Xaious." At this point he hung his head, and spoke a few words too soft for others to hear. "I'm afraid I bring news of a less than pleasant nature on this evening. In this carriage rests a coffin. In that coffin rests..." The man broke off, and stood silent for what seemed like ages. "I'm sorry folks, I wish I could have done better than this. I wish I could have brought him here sooner, I wish this could be different." He raised his head to the sky, raised his arms and screamed agony and despair into the night sky, his voice raspy like the voice of death itself. ----------(please continue)-------- (also, on second thought, probly the wrong forum...Feel free to move it to the RP'd section....)

Heh heh, another Friday woo! Sadly enough, Monday's my favorite day of the week... (Friday business gets slammed, monday we can run the place with half the people missing...) But it's still Friday, and another weekended. VV00T!

So hard to forget those dreams old, with glory much and feels so true. That ancient dream, wed with the blonde and the blue. Rarely and yet comes back to me. And it makes me wonder what did it see? Fairly faint fondness for that shade. Why do I let my memories rape Me, my mind, my heart like this? God damn it all! I don't need this! Give me rest, I want my peace! Sooth my mind and let me be. I do not want to think of that, Or even less than what? Bloodyhell, this is tormentuous! I like to think but can't get my rest from these thoughts I need to kill, Perhaps with Captain I should swill? She is right, the thoughts must perish, rebuilt myself but a hole exists. To fill this hole I cannot seem, and yet till then will be no team. I know what I want, and what to do. And yet I think it requires you. But not right now, and not right here, Though I'll tell you when the time is near. Now inwardly I'll flush these things, and outwardly I'll soar on wings. You'll understand and I'll tell you this, that ancient dream I do not miss. And old flings can be dismissed. Just don't bring up rememberances too much, and then you may not know how much I want to tell you so, tell you of how I feel, and what I think, whose heart I'd steal. Something so different and never the same As any of my ancient flames, except but light and airy there and flights of fancy to neverwhere It's nice and happy and I think it's true, But don't you know, I thnk I think That I love you. ------------------------------------ ________________________________________ Please, tell me what you think.

Eighty four years she walked the earth, Until she passed, with constant mirth. And many years before, it was well known, Edna danced on feet her own. In the church they'd sing and pray, And she would dance in her own way. And on she danced for many years, But then one day there were some tears. One good leg she had to give, Her one and only way to live. I was only seven then, A time before I could remember when. And yet for all of my short life I always saw her gracious smile. Edna and Elmore, my great-grand, Were not that castle on the sand. That castle built upon the rock, Their daughter leads the sheep, their flock. Pastor Meryl, whom we love, Tells us words from God above. And then her son my father is, And for himself his three kids. My brother, sister, and myself, And rest of family, many else. Tuesday we gathered, most on time, And for our loss we all did pine. The preachers spoke and the misician played, And, yes, to tears the crowd was swayed. Edna's daughter, the youngest one, My nanny, oh, she cried the most. Pawpaw Elmore, must grieve the most, But sat there somber, like a ghost. Eighty-six years, he's been around, For sixty-seven, was with her found. And everyone did cry, we did, Even some of the youngest kids. But Edna is much better off, Indeed again she'll never cough. And the singer sang the truest words, Through the chorus, after verse. He sang of sights that we long won't see, And spoke of things to one day be. And the thing with God is you never lose, For today Edna's got new dancing shoes. -------- R.I.P. Edna Chauvin ___________________________________________ Self Explanatory. ...A sad past few days.

*huggles* Happy Birthday, belated as it might be or so. =)

Friday! Rah! *Xaious Dances around kicking things with his gian clod-hopping manager-stomping face-kicking boots of awesomeness* Glee and joy!

The scents of smoke and cat most readily call to mind for me my current abode, my home of fourteen years. Much more enjoyably, however, is the wonderful smell of coffee, reminiscent of my grandmother's house, with a fresh brewed pot at two o'clock daily, and in the morning too. Oaks. Oaks remind me also of my grandmother's, as they have an enormous oak, about fifty years old, which I have spent much time climbing.

Have you ever had a dream, and then three years later have another dream that started as the middle of the first dream, and continued the story? And did you have a similar thing happen with the second dream another three years later? Have you ever dropped one class three times?

Heh, enjoyable. Makes me think of all seven times I donated blood...Specifically the last time. The nurse stuck the needle a little too far in, then pulled it back enough to get it back in my vein...so I bled a good bit into my arm (six inches from my elbow in both directions was nothing but bruise...for about a week.) Good story, I especially enjoyed the part where they chop off the fingre tip... It's the only part I really dislike about it. (And every time I donated, they always managed to get that same little sot on my finger..I have a little permanent mark there...)

It started simply. He had procured and already stolen pair of combat boots from his brother. More than a year, even two had passed by, that he wore these every day, and eventually acquired a long, dark green trench coat. Shortly thereafter came the beret. The image of tyranny had placed itself upon him, without much thought on his part. It didn't help that his friends declared him Official Dictator of the local mall. Humor him as this did, there was little response he could come up with the day the head boss at his place of employment spoke "Heil" and saluted. The fry-cook joined in. Leaving work that day, it clicked for good. Five years after that night, at the age of twenty-six, the young man placed himself on a boat bound for Africa. He brought along twenty loyal friends and followers, an all the supplies they could afford after saving for five years. There was a large quantity of non-perishable food items, but more important were the tractors and equipment in the cargo bay. It was a nice trip filled with the finishing of his plan, and eventually they set down in Egypt, and transported themselves and their supplies to Ethiopia, where they set about their work. His plan was simple, though costly: Feed enough people to build up a small work force able to operate the machinery; dig irrigation canals and begin farming what vegetation they could grow, ship in what food they could. There were a few minor complications, and shady removals of rivals is never easy to shake, but aftersome long years, His plan had brought the poor country from starvation to moderate health. As the population's health improved, so too did their work, and the quality of the land. All of these things steadily improved, and eventually the young man was recognized for what he had done for that country. Having saved the country's population from their horrible plight, this man began spreading his helping hand to other countries in similar conditions. By the time this hero had made forty, there remained no hungry culture in Africa. In his time as Official Dictator of a third-world country, he had gone through a good number of boots, and decorated his coat with many medals, even acquired a high quality beret, but had failed to achieve one thing: Love. He had the love of nations and the world itself, but the love of another had eluded him. Or rather, he had eluded Love. The ruler of a nation, especially such a young and handsome leader as he, would not have any trouble finding someone to be with, it is true. Most misfortunately for this man, he found it true that having someone there to give his affection to was a distraction: It is more fun to behold a beautiful face than it is to till a field. So this man evaded it when he could. Nevertheless, he ached inside more and more, every day the pain grew. One morning, when the Head of Procuration went to check on the Dictator for their weekly meeting, he discovered the ruler was not to be found. The imperial room had been left as normal, with nothing amiss, save for the man of the times. Some children reported having seen their king walking into the sunrise that morning, but he was never seen again. Without his leadership, the economy of his country slowly crumbled.