Jareena Faye

I see your point. I still hold that giving up your life is the biggest thing, though... I mean, giving your life is giving *everything*. By staying alive, you get something out of it, too. Yours is much better when it comes to suicide, however. Suicide is really just selfish, if you ask me, and that's not what I was referring to. So in a sense we're both right. It depends on the situation.

The greatest thing you could do for a person is give your life for them, even when they don't deserve it. That's love.

Wow... some of that was uncanny! Are you a psychiatrist or somethign? Haha, makes me laugh... When I told Distarius about this dream (that's him up there, my boyfriend), he complained that I was in love with a ghost and wanted to be one. I said no way! It's just a dream! But now that you've interpreted, Jacko seems... kinda... like... Jared. Oh weird. I've lived in three or four places over my lifetime. The last place was my home for twelve years, before my dad got a job as a pastor in North Dakota. We've been here for the last two years. I was never a very social creature. Home schooled for one thing, plus I like to stay in and write. I'm sure a lot of us can understand that, hmm? Although I do manage to say something stupid when I *am* in public, I just don't feel a great longing to be there, anyway. I never wanted a boyfriend. It's all Distarius' fault. Hmm. No gangsters in ND. Or really anyone relatively disgruntled... druggies! We have druggies! But then again, I have a lot of friends on the internet and don't spend much time with my family. Which is weird considering we're six people holed up in the same building all day. Well that's scary... Dis, you a stalker? I play piano. The piano is your friiiend. So wow, your analysis was really good. I didn't even see all that. Teach me your awesome ways! It's only the last part that seems contradictory to me. Maybe I just don't want to think badly of the relationship I'm currently in. (Maybe I do subconsciously!) We're pretty serious, and don't intend to screw anything up. But on the other hand, maybe the dream shows a crossroads or a forewarning, and doesn't necessarily mean we have to end up that way. This is really interesting...

About it not being a "good ending," well I suppose that IS an opinion, but the main character dying at the end seems depressing. As I was going over this in halfway-awake mode, I wanted to figure out some way for her to survive. Maybe comatose and halfway-ghost, and she can be revived. *shrug* Oh well... Haha, well cool, you can totally use it! I too thought it would be better as a real story, but I have too many stories to write right now. Go nuts! I'd love to see what you do with it.

Hahahaha.... the Grim Squeaker... haha... I love the way your mind works!

Just wanted to tell you about this dream I had last night. A ghost dream. I really liked it, especially since I forget most of the dreams I have, so I'm going to do my best to explain it clearly. I've always secretly liked ghost stories, even though they're so theologically screwed. They're just so creepy, and... whispy and misty and smoky and cool. This is told from first person point of view. By "me," if you will, except I think I was somebody else in this dream. My father had recently located some sunken treasure, so the whole family was out there while he brought up the fortune. My mother asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I was all, "Whatever." Eventually we ended up at this abandoned house where the ghosts of some pirates had taken residence. You guessed it, it was their treasure my father had found. After their ship sank, their spirits had fled to this house. They wanted to hold my mother and me ransom, so my father would give them their treasure back. My subconscious apparently made up some new rules for ghosts. They either couldn't pass over water, or couldn't pass over rock. While my mother and I ran for them, I ended up taking refuge in the middle of this rock/water (which was it? Gah), but the ghosts usually figured out new ways to get to me. The one who usually caught me was Jacko, a rather scary guy who'd died young, maybe not even at twenty. He always laughed at me whenever he caught me. My mother escaped and went back to tell my father. (Wait, people will believe this story?) I was kept prisoner. It was scary, spending the night in some abandoned bed surrounded by pirate ghosts, just staring at me. At one point I woke up and there was the ghost of an old man sleeping next to me. I screamed, and he woke up, looking startled. I fell out of bed. Apparently the original owners of the house still lived in it, too, but they were "oppressed" ghosts. The pirates had taken over, and these other spirits rarely showed up or talked at all. We all know that ghosts are sometimes invisible. Anyway, after a while the pirates and I had gotten used to each other. They let me walk around exploring the house, and weren't particularly worried about my trying to escape. At one point I explored the basement. I remember fleeting images, and the voice, of a woman. Then there was a really deep, scary voice bellowing at me. No words, but I'm pretty sure he wanted me to leave. So um, I did. Quickly. Upstairs there was a piano. I tested some keys to see how in tune it was. Pretty bad. One of the "oppressed" ghosts showed up and scared me half to death. Again, she didn't say anything, but she seemed upset that I'd been touching her piano. I gave her room and she sat down to play. After she left I played around on it, and Jacko sat in the living room talking to me. We'd kind of become friends. He didn't even talk like a pirate, more like a modern-day guy. He explained to me once that when the crew had been alive, he'd always left them to visit pubs and the like. It was still that way today. Sometimes he left the house to watch the modern-day kids, so he understood a lot. This is how he knew I was unsulting them in slang, back when I didn't like them. (Apparently I know slang.) I asked him about the weird beings in the basement. Were they more oppressed spirits? No, he said, they were the first mate and his wife. They'd been married on the ship, and were having their honeymoon in the lower deck, when it sank. When the ghosts fled to this house, the bride and groom claimed the basement, which was most like the lower deck. These days the groom gets pretty upset if you get too close to the bride, so most people avoid the basement altogether. Another new rule my dream made up for ghosts, was that if they wanted, they could touch you and make you ghost-like as well. Jacko took me places now and then. Nowhere near civilization, but around the forest where the house was. We ran into some powerful ghost over there who made us turn back, though. My dream doesn't really have an ending, but near that end, my ransom was going to come soon. Their treasure. Jacko had decided he liked me, and wanted me to become a ghost to join the crew. I didn't want to. The crew didn't like it, either. While we were talking about it, he was still holding my hand, so I still looked like a ghost. Me: So you want to kill me? Jacko: Don't look at it that way. Think of it as becoming one of us. Well, I was already pretty mad at Jacko, so I yelled at him while the captain ordered him to let me go. Somehow I ended up breaking free of him (thus becoming solid), and stumbling back, into the wall. The whole house was pretty rickety. I fell to the floor, which creaked an awful lot. The pirates yelled at me to look out. I looked up just as a chandeleir fell on my head. In the basement, the ceiling broke open, and my limp arm hung through. That's not the end of the story, but that's just about all there is to my dream. Wish that had a good ending. That's the problem with ghost stories.

The Knights of Crystlin appear in full armor, giving formal salute.

Hey, Salinye! It's good to see you again! Ain't it great to be back? I'm just so happy to see you're still using my avatar.

I for one wasn't offended! And I'm a Jesus Freak. Go figure, huh? Congrats on all your views!!

Oooh! Oooh! I'll play as long as it doesn't get really crowded and random! Jareena Faye Evedaughter rode into town, looking at it as if in a dream. She had not seen the village of Penboard in nearly four months, having been traveling abroad on many ongoing crusades. Seeing Wyvern's Cabaret nearby, she dismounted to enter, wondering if Wyvern would be there so that she might say hello. Not to her surprise, Wyvern was absent, probably on another wild money-making adventure. There was, however, a half-Elven lady, most likely awaiting a meeting with the same person. Holding an open book curiously, she was speaking to Melba. "It comes from a reputable publisher," Melba was saying, going on to explain the book's uses. "If only I had some sort of guitar," Alaeha muttered to herself. "An electric guitar? From the Land of Things Explained?" Jareena asked, butting into another conversation where she was most likely unwelcome. At the stares of Melba and Alaeha, the lady knight smiled bashfully and shrugged. "That sounds like a worthy crusade to me!"

That was really neat. I like the way you wrote this! It seemed some time as if you were struggling to rhyme it without putting too many words in, but that's bound to happen in everything a person writes (at least I think so!). For the most part it was all real smooth, and especially in the first paragraph, I liked how you went back and forth between people! This seems more like something written five hundred years ago, that old women recite to their grandkids.

Wow! I wish I could have dreams like this! A very good poem. It communicates emotion. The shattering glass makes logically makes you think of what might have caused it to break, such as a heated, violent argument. Your description of the past and secrets also made me imagine rooms in the house. So... great job! You got the reader's attention and forced all that imagination to happen. Awesome!

Will the stereotypes never end? Nope! I'm going to the max! My apoligies for the length. 1. Inhabitants of the Black Wood Billowing clouds hooded the stars. Lightening tore down the sky, illuminating for one moment the sprouts of rice planted across the farmland. Torrents of rain splashed on a cobblestone courtyard and the three-story cottage before it. On the lowest level, cold but secure in a dank and dripping cellar, slept the slaves. All but one. Shanai had taken her time in rolling out of bed, as soon as the rest of the household was most certainly asleep. She was barely a young woman, but her conduct made her seem much older. Her black hair had been carelessly chopped short. Her mouth was a dark, tight line, her face stony, her eyes full of disdain and distrust. She was changing into the trousers of a farm boy, the shoes of a small man, and a tough leather jerkin, all of them stolen. As she quietly slipped on the jerkin over her thin, threadbare shirt, Shanai took one last look at her only friend in the world. Adella. When she had first come there as a slave, everyone had been afraid of her. Most showed it by avoiding her--- the free men showed it by abusing her ---but Adella had been kind. Adella had given her a chance. Now, without a good-bye, Shanai was leaving her. Although there was not a place in that country where solemn, stifling rule was inflicted upon the weak, it was not so much a longing of freedom that caused her to go. In fact, the thought of her only friend would have been enough to make her hesitate; but the caravans arrived in the morning. With them came cloth, oil, riches, and numerous slaves, with nearly everything and every-one for sale. When the caravans left, they took with them different forms of art and different food, and different slaves. Shanai was destined to be one of them, to disappear into the desert lands. She knew she would never be able to bear it. Working here was hard enough on her stubborn spirit, but to be chained to a long caravan all day, walking, never to see a tree again and never knowing what lay ahead, would be enough to make her want to die. No one had ever shown her a better alternative, except the obvious: to run. Silently, for she was almost always silent, Shanai climbed the short, sinking steps of the slave quarters. Then the door opened and the air grew colder. She was charging through the rain across the courtyard. Slippery stones failed to hinder her. Ahead lay a dark building with firm walls and a curved roof. She could smell it already. The stable. Inside, the sweet scent of wood chips, spring rain, and alfalfa hay were mingled with those of wet fur and fresh manure. A leak in the ceiling dripped onto a pair of gray work horses, who blinked sleepily as Shanai lit a lantern. In a nearby stall was the hunting stallion, Brickets, who raised his creamy head and grunted, stomping his hooves. Brickets was a wild thing. Shanai had made him so. As a secret vengeance against her captors, she had always been spiteful to the expensive steed, abusing it when no one was looking until it was perfectly paranoid and very fidgety. Now, that act of treachery would backfire. A peal of thunder crackled outside. Brickets arced his neck and whinnied shrilly. Only the snarling sky could drown the enraged horse's scream. Hooves pawed the bed of his stall. Mane tossed indignantly. Shanai scowled at the animal and bit back a stern rebuke. She had always been frustrated by the fact that no amount of reasoning could get an animal to do what she wished. Tonight would have to be different, she thought, as she quickly scanned the stable for anything else she might steal away with her. Unfortunately, she didn't know how it possibly could be. When she had led Brickets to the door, saddled and bridled, he looked out at the storm and abruptly stopped. Snorting, he refused move any further, terrified of the lightning. Shanai pulled at the reins with all her strength, but he flattened his ears and stood his ground like a mule. Shanai sighed angrily and gave up. The horse proudly raised his head, fidgeting slightly as she climbed into his saddle. Bending over the horse's neck and trying to breathe evenly, she waited. The rain drummed on the roof, equally drumming on her nerves. Her hands gripped and regripped the reins. The horizon pulsed! Seconds later thunder reached their ears, and she plunged her heels into the horse's sides. It screamed, jolted by both the noise and the pain, and bounded out of the stable, into the downpour. Immediately they were at a gallop. The slave girl tried to move up and down rhythmatically, with the body beneath her, but still her inexperience left her brain feeling rattled in the wild run. Shanai could almost sense the animal's anger as he galloped across the cobblestones. Ahead stood a stone wall, quickly approaching. One pace away, the horse jolted to a stop, bending its front legs and leaning forward. Shanai was nearly thrown onto her head. She held fast, and with a jerk of the reins brought him to his feet. A dim light glimmered in the window behind her. The farmer had awakened. Shanai turned Brickets around, and he obligingly trotted toward the stable again. Then she stopped him, her heart beating, and urged him toward the wall. Her own fear of the slave master was enough to motivate him. He broke into a gallop. They gained speed. Moments away from the wall, the rider shifted her weight and urged him upward. He took the signal. He jumped. There was a rush of wind as they sailed out and upward. Shanai sucked her breath in sudden panic. The horse felt her fear and twisted in their descent, landing clumsily on the ground beyond the wall. The steed knelt in the mud. He snorted once more. Shanai, looking back, yanked the reins urgently, and he pulled himself together, skittering from side to side, rearing and snorting. Shanai knew that she was barely in control of him, if at all. Nervously he crossed the dirt road that led to the village, and were soon moving over grass. Shanai looked out at the muddy bog stretching before her. Barely visible in the darkness, a black line of trees awaited at the other side. She looked over her shoulder again at the plantation wall, still fearful that any moment some one would realize she was gone, and pursue. Then, resolving to never be afraid again, Shanai sat up straight and urged the horse forward. Another flash of light illuminated them. Then, as they moveds, darkness swallowed them again. THE NEXT MORNING was cold, gray, misty, and where there was enough light, just slightly gold and green. Rain water still dripped from the tree branches, cold like everything else. Pine and cedar and fir grew all around, their dark branches wound tightly together. There was hardly anything that could be considered colorful, save the patches of moss growing here or there. The Black Wood was very old, and almost everything was dead. Few of the original inhabitants still survived there. Some were monsters. Some were the monsters' prey. And two were a pair of old hermits. One of these hermits was awakening now. Raising his gray head to yawn, Ashlang Akeb blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked at his surroundings, instantly alert. The previous night he had been forced to seek better shelter from the storm, and now found himself in a small cave created by several old boulders that had fallen just so, he didn't know how many years ago. A curtain of moss and vine hung over the entrance. Making his way outside, he couldn't pass them without getting wet. When he had done so, however, Ash stood perfectly still and surveyed his surroundings again with the slow, careful gaze of one who had plenty of time. All was as he had expected it to be. There came no birdsong, no sound at all except the occasional wind breathing on the trees. The last of the mist was melting away. Sniffing the air, he could detect no hint of smoke. That was good enough for him. Ash set out to find his companion, Webki Deniwa. For the last ten years, they had been friends. Neither were very opinionated or vocal, and that was what they liked about each other. Sometimes they spoke of the old stories of their people. Sometimes they went their separate ways to find food. And sometimes they were content to simply sit together, looking out at the trees that had grown so fast, and remembering. It was hard to believe this tree was only ten years old, Ash admitted, as he came upon the towering, twisted fir, the branches of which Webki could often be found in. Having not heard his friend's call of greeting, however, Ash surmised that he was not there, and traveled southward, toward the edge of the forest. Very soon he could smell the distant mud of the swamplands... and something else... and there came noises, as well. A deep foreboding swelled in his chest as he drew nearer. "Ash. I was about to fetch you." Ash could not see source of the whisper, but he knew it had been Webki. Crouching low, he wound his way through the thick brush silently. He did not ask what was wrong. He knew. Soon he found he was under the low-hanging branch on which Webki was perched. Directly before them was a horse, muddy, too tired even to graze the sparse grass sprouting at its hooves. Beside it was a small pile of provisions, and beyond that a girl in men's clothing. She was trying, despite her obvious fatigue and the dampness of their surroundings, to start a fire. As the last guardians, Ash and Webki knew it was their responsibility to keep unworthy outsiders far away from the Black Wood. It was why they lived so close to its edge. And as the last guardians, they remembered the fire. They knew that whenever the men beyond the swamps grew so afraid of them so as to become brave, the men would come, and burn their land again. It was all they had left now, and they were fiercely protective of it. They did not care who it was who sat before them. It did not matter if she was a woman or a man, or a child, a slave. They were to either frighten her away, or kill her, whichever she made the easiest. "The unworthy tread upon our grounds again," Ash whispered gruffly, confident that he wouldn't be heard. His fierce eyes were fixed scornfully upon the muddy creatures before him. "We have been preparing for this moment," Webki said. He shuffled his feet, edgy. "We often made plans. Which one shall we put into play?" "Perhaps---" "It senses something. Stay hushed." The guardians fell silent as they watched the girl. She had given up on the fire rather abruptly, and her eyes lifted to search the forest, wide and fearful. She barely even seemed to breathe. "It's afraid," Webki said. "Perhaps it can hear us through magic," Ash suggested. Shanai spoke then. Her voice was wobbly at first, then forceful, though the forest, like a blanket, seemed to swallow her voice. "Who's out there?" "It cannot see us," Webki said confidently. "I can hear you fools talking!" Shanai cried indignantly. "Show yourselves!" Ash and Webki looked at one another, dumbfounded. This was the last surprise they would have expected, that she could hear them. They could hardly believe it. Finally, it was Ash who made the first move. Striding forward on all fours, he passed gracefully through the thorns--- a giant gray wolf with white markingss. Strong, majestic, calm. Dangerous. "You can hear us?" he asked evenly, with a level of surprise most would not have detected. “A guardian!” Shanai sat stiffly with her back to the tree, her mouth hanging open. "But you're dead!" she breathed. Webki fluttered into view, circling down on the silent wings of an owl. As he descended, colors of brown and cream and gold flitted in and out of the light. He landed lightly on Ash's head, and craned his neck at Shanai with a pair of round eyes. "There are those of us who still survive to fulfill our purpose!" he said. His voice was soft, rich, and creamy. Only one who knew him could hear the anger in his voice. "But..." Shanai began. "How can your hear us?" Ash interrupted. "I remember living here. Long ago," Shanai declared. "The guardians said I had the gift. I learned to recognize your voice, and..." Ash's eyes lit up with recognition. "Shanai!" "Yes!" He recognized her scent now. "I am Ash." The wolf bent one leg as if to bow. "And I am Webki," said the owl, spreading his wings. "We were both very young when the men came. When you were taken back to them." "I was very young, too," said Shanai. "But I've returned. To fulfill my purpose, like you said." Webki nodded. It was his and Ash's way of expressing their gladness. "What other guardians have survived?" Shanai asked. Another silence followed, this one heavier. Ash sat, his eyes downcast. "None. None at all."

Valdar/Astralis, I like what you're saying! I totally agree... any church that preaches all hellfire, or all heaven, is a fraud. I also feel the anger of BlackCagedHeart. Anyone here read "The Visitation" by Frank Peretti?

Those guys at Yahoo have got to do something about their run-on sentences. *man... are people that bored?*

Hahaha, es la diversion para decir. Excusa mi mal espanol.

Oooh... sorry....

Hey guys. Um. I need constructive criticism. And I feel like a real jerk asking for it, because I've been gone for months. And have I helped any of YOU in the time being? I think not. Ergh. But, here's the introduction, on my blind hope that you'll read it. In early spring on a moonlit night Wandered the she-wolf alone, When there appeared in her sight A baby, chilled to the bone. Weakly it cried, for it had no food, A lonely two-year-old child Who had seemed of slow wit, so her parents did choose To leave her alone in the wild. Many a convict, orphan and outcast Had been left in that wood, For the men of the village thought no one could outlast Its treach’ry, like the animals could. However, the beasts were not all really beasts But creatures all their own, Who, created to look like their dumb counterparts, Were more than flesh alone For this she-wolf and all of her fathers before Were bearers of the tale That one would come from the desert so scorched, And he who followed would prevail Against all villains and forces and powers, Against the world's most evil core! He would flatten the mountains and raise up the valleys And draw back the sea from the shores. That night, there was something about the young child That she hesitated to devour her. Perhaps 'twas her look, or her scent, or the wild Stubbornness in her nature. But the wolf was determined to go tell the fowls, The cougars, the rodents, the bears, The last of the wolves, and the last of the owls, To come, to see and to share. Long did they hope, and wait, and watch While their livelihood dwindled away. They spoke of the stories and spoke with the child, As their elders died day by day. Years later the men came, the men came again, Setting fire to their forest land. Out of fear they wiped out the last of the guardians, And took the child back again. A sad, sad song still moans through the pines Of the black wood, the song of the chosen Who died as, even then, they sighed For the power that could never be broken.

Hahaha. Yeah, what they said! Happy birthday! ...Sorry I'm such a dork who's been gone forever, yet again.

Why am I the first to comment on this?! It's been here a while! Very cool. I like how each important mark in her life was started with "The first time Ariella..." This made me want to take up my old, abandoned assassin story. I hope you'll find more time to dedicate this. I also liked the way you made the little kids talk... it was precious! Is casted a word?

I'm 100% sure that Tolkein converted C.S. Lewis. I read it in a special issue Focus on the Family released on Lewis' life. On top of that, while Tolkein managed to bring his friend to Christianity, he couldn't make him Catholic. (My Catholic friends like to laugh about that one.) Yeah, I actually did get that backwards. I knew that at one point, but then I forgot it. No, Tolkein was not trying to relay one specific message in his stories (unlike C.S. Lewis with Aslan). He merely incorporated his beliefs into his stories while having fun writing them. I think we can all relate to that. Fun fact: Tolkein was always teasing C.S. Lewis about confining Jesus to "the skin of a lion." I suppose Saruman could be another Judas figure, although most of the time he was just a character. I personally think he was more like Satan, as in RotK when Gandalf returns to break Saruman's staff; just as Jesus, upon his resurrection, broke Satan's power. Elves, like wizards, are usually angelic figures. Sauron--- evil guy trying to take over the world? Let's say Satan. (All the time.) I never really thought of Gollum before. But now that you mention it, there are a lot of parallels between what the ring did to him and what sin does to us. We so often worship it, calling it "precious," despite the bad affect it has on us. But yeah, like you guys said earlier, Lord of the Rings isn't necessarily saying that all the time. They're just insight into what Tolkein believed. (As my brother blurted, "Tolkein's a GENIUS!")

*Jareena is at the far end of the room, leaning tiredly against her lance, thinking to herself* What beautiful music. That is what music should be... something that appeals to the soul. How talented is the bard who makes it so. *AWESOME description, dude!*

A while back, Discovery Channel did a special on this topic, depicting Tolkein as some kind of humanist. This isn't the case. I find this topic very interesting, and personally, very fun! So here it is for your consideration, the real message. Tolkein was actually a... *dramatic underscore* born-again Christian. He's responsible for the conversion of C.S. Lewis (Narnia), and infused every inch of his writing with his beliefs. Even Gandalf's phrase "all that is gold does not glitter" is actually a backwards Proverb. I won't go on about this too long, but here are a few of the allegories that can be seen in LOTR. THE ENTS symbolize Christ in the sense that they are shepherds. And though they appear very simple and harmless, they were filled with righteous anger upon the massacre of their trees. GANDALF symbolizes Christ because he was once the Grey (lowly in appearance like Jesus as man, and close buddies with the lowlier people), he died, and he returned glorified as Gandalf the White. You may recall him saying in Return of the King, "Saruman, your staff is broken!" Speaking of Return of the King, ARAGORN is also a Christ figure, because he finally returned for his throne. (Something we're waiting for Jesus to do.) He also returned for his bride, as Jesus will return for the Church. FRODO is a Christ figure because he was betrayed by a patriot (Borimir/Judas). He carried a great burden for the world, against strong temptation. And he had to do it alone. SAM is a Christ figure because he's such a faithful friend. He carried Frodo when he was weak. HOBBITS in their turn symbolize man. They're weak and don't like leaving their comfort zones... but they were meant to be much, much more. There it is in a nutshell! There's a lot more, but I won't bore you with all of it unless you ask. Have a happy, guys!

Well-written poem. I think we always write best when we're upset over something. But hey, I too have been there. As humans, we always do something wrong... as God, He always helps us start fresh!

Welcome, welcome! Brute has a reputation of being a pretty cool guy, so even though I myself have just returned from a long journey, I'm pleased to see you here! *spear salute* *wow that was fun*