Finnius

Cracks knuckles, waves hands around in mock pain I am sooooooo in. And make no bones about it, I'll write about anyone. Actually, this is a great idea, if for no other reason than it promotes RL interaction, i.e. getting to know your Pen-pals. Dodges hail of debris after that horrible pun

2,1,10

Yui-chan: While I would like to discuss the matter of my brief relationship with Ms. O'Harpy; she has at her disposal an army of Undead Ninja Lawyers, not to mention a formidable set of mandibles. I have only Bob, and while he is a ninja, he is neither undead nor legally savvy. The contract that I was required to sign upon our 'dissolvement' prevents me from describing any and all details about the marriage. Several times in the past, I have attempted to find loopholes in the post-nup, but always I failed. Perhaps in another fifty years, when Scarl- excuse me, Ms. O'Harpy has decided to stop tormenting me, the full truth will be known. Until then, I'll have Bob bake you some peanut-butter and chocolate-chip twists. He's quite good at them, and tends to not poison anything with chocolate in it, as it is a particular weakness of his. Cincerely Yours,

For all of you out there who like the Matrix: Why, Neo, why… Why did you take the red pill? I mean, obviously the blue pill was the right choice. Think about it this way: what did the machines ever do to you? Oh, they ‘stole your freedom?’ They used you as a battery? Well whoopedy-freakin’ do! It’s not like it’s a bad deal, man. You get, what… a delusional life where you have at least a little thing called- oh I don’t know- THE SKY! You get something that might taste like an actual lobster every once in a while… oh God, save me from the evil computers. They’re giving me lobster. Just take the freaking blue pill and shut up, already. I mean, would you have taken the red pill if everything had been explained to you beforehand? “Ok, if you take the blue pill, then you can go back to being a corporate nothing, taking it from the ‘man,’ and occasionally getting thrown a steak dinner; or at least a reasonable facsimile. Now, the red pill… that’s where it’s at… take this baby and you’re in for a whole world of pain! First, we’re gonna pull all these wires and cables ‘n stuff out of you. Then, after a soothing coma, you get to vomit a lot, and get your ass kicked by a Samuel L. Jackson clone with no freaking inflection. Oh, yeah, and you get a chrome-plated hole in your head.” C’mon, Neo, take the blue pill… Seriously, I’m pretty sure Neo would have gone back if that had been an option. “Hey, Trinity… what exactly is this stuff we have to eat?” “Well, mainly it’s re-processed battery acid and old Elmer’s Glue.” “Oh… damn I miss my hair.” Take the blue pill, Neo, take… the blue… pill. Hey, so it’s not all bad… I mean, seriously, that whole, “I know Kung Fu” thing? Kinda cool… Except when you realize that he could have just saved some money and taken a class in the Matrix… and he wouldn’t have to get all pale and emaciated to do it. Really, I get that feeling every now and then when I pass a car… I think, hmmm, that might be sentient machine, but I neither know nor care, because I was smart and I took the blue freaking pill! All that is to me is Agent Smith, Lord of Rivendell, and Polite Ancient of the Pen, and he ain’t doin’ jack, because I’m just a sheep… a sheep who still thinks he has hair, and occasionally has a passable steak dinner. Not like you, ya bald, pill-poppin’ mook. Take the blue pill, Neo. I’ll use small words so you can understand: Blue pill good, red pill bad. And those two guys on the ship, the ones who were never in the Matrix? I bet they wish they had a blue pill. “So what if everything tastes like chicken over there, it’s better than battery acid and watery oatmeal.” “Hey, what’s a chicken look like?” “I don’t know, my parents took the red pill, dork.” Blue pill, Neo. Take it. Try it; you’ll like the faux steak a whole heap better than running from the killer robots with your hairless girlfriend. Oh, right, you can dodge bullets. Guess what, genius? If you’d taken the blue pill, you wouldn’t have to! If you’d taken the blue pill like a good little boy, you’d be at home, in a comfy bed. Or at least you’d think you were, and that’s good enough for me. In fact, you’d probably’ve gotten a promotion, and a few more steak dinners, or maybe a lobster, I mean, what’s the difference, it’s all ones and zeros, right? Tasty digits those are, Neo, but you took the red pill… And look where it got you. You can jump over buildings. Like Superman. I tell you, I’m really impressed by that. I’d be even more impressed if you maybe had hair. Here’s something else, Neo, something you might have forgotten to ask about. “Hey, what’s the fashion scene like in the real world?” “Well, we have beige, faded green, and gray. And that’s about it.” “Well… let me try that blue pill.” Good boy, Neo, good boy. Take the blue pill.

About two years ago, it seems, A gala ball was thrown. And still it wakes me from my dreams, Just how much goes unknown. Canid there in Hydrus-dress, A mowhawk in her fur, And I was present, I confess, Dressed up just like her! Too much scotch and too much fun, And many stories heard, But when my costume came undone, I was hit with HOLY WORD! Wyvern was possess'd by foul Fellorous, And Horiuchi bombed as Orlan, But he was still belov'd to us! And then the locust-swarms began... A Pekkle-demon did I give, To Cery as a gift, And Wyvern, mind quick as a shiv, Her pressies tried to lift! Amidst it all, O'Harpy grew, Exposing half her shank, And near-before any knew, O'Harpy... well, she shrank. The locusts kidnapped her, and we- Although 'twas a fool's quest- Silexion, Pekkle, and me; We journeyed there to wrest... Scarlett was their queen, the beast, And I feared for my life, I was, you see, to be the feast, 'Til I asked her "Be my wife?" To my surprise she said "I will!" And we were off that night, It gets at me, even still, How little we did fight. She said "You're sweet like cream!" And she said, "Oh, you're so yummy!" But still it wakes me in my dreams: How did I escape her tummy?!

Errrr... Pretty self-explanatory, but in the interests of prosperity... (Or something like that.) FiNN-EE-uhs Finn-E-us Finnius. Or, if you prefer the more traditional spelling: Phineas.

My screen's refreshed at 6-4-9, My mind is cold and numb, For in the Scarlet Pen, I find- That Pered's stuck his thumb! "What, how's this come? And what's next now to be? Has Pered gone 'adult' in some- Attempt to startle me?!" My crazed cry wakes- A sleeping Ball of Fluff, One of Canid's purple mates, Or something close enough. I hesitantly click the thread, My mind a tremble, but I wonder what sweet Pered's said, That in here could be put! And laughing, chuckl'ing to myself, And callin' curiosity a pest- I find in Scarlet: Moved here per request.

Awww... thanks all. And Pered, I call that artistic liscence. Besides, once the Terra Lost heresy started to spread, you were called back to active duty. Just in case anyone was wondering, Atrernex (Within this story anyway.) is 'borrowed' from the Exophek-possessed-Gyrfalcon that our Gyr defeated in an alternate dimension. So it wasn't just a last-minute story saver.

Ok, it's done. Read, critic, whatever. Little blue man need sleep badly.

The Bowels of the Pen's Keep Peredhil scuttled unseen through the dark catacombs beneath the Mighty Pen, searching for that one room... Deep in the earth, something had been hidden away. Something old, and evil. And now, it might well be the salvation of the Pen, if only he could... Ha! There... when Gyrfalcon found out about this... Well, truthfully, he'd probably be thankful, at least until this Exophek business was over with. Afterwards, though... A thick wooden door, bound in iron and magic and surrounded by stone made poor defence against the one who had carved it. Pered slipped inside and for a moment he stared. A simple stand, a simple sheath, a not-so-simple sword. Alternate dimensions had their uses, but this was not what Pered had envisioned upon mothballing this here. Step one complete, now for the fun part...,thinks Pered as he slides the weapon into his sword-belt. Making sure to bang the door behind him, Pered clomps down the halls to the tunnel. He soon has an escort of black-cloaked madmen pursueing him as he runs... Runs all the way... The Old Conservatory The troops are ready, the pieces set. The wounded have been tended, and those who can fight are prepared. Nothing left but to wait. Gyrfalcon, a leader once again, sits on his heals and thumbs the edge of Redemptio, remembering his last encounter with Exophek. The demon just wouldn't die! Wyvern, silent since the battle at the Hall of the Pen, crouches nearby with Minyex. Salinye, having regained consciousness, holds a borrowed blade in an unsteady hand. Stick clutches the pointed object that is his constant companion forlornely and looks around for Peredhil; who chooses this exact moment to burst, heaving and panting, from the tunnel exit. Pered shoves a wrapped bundle into the arms of Gyrfalcon, then turns to the exit. "Pered... this is your help?" Gyrfalcon looks untrustingly at the bundle. "...o..pe..n...it!" Pered begins weaving another barrier, as the first pursuers clear the tunnel. Tearing the cloth away, Gyr's eyes go wide. And he knows what Peredhil plans. "Pered, this is... no. There's another way, not this!" "Atrernex...," Wyvern breathes, breaking his silence. "How?" "Don't question, damnit! Just use it!" Pered gestures at the tunnel, where black-clad maniacs rend each other trying to get to the remains of the Pen. Gyrfalcon No'Dessu, Demigod of Vengence and Immortal Elder of the Pen... hesitates. And then nods. He steps forward, slices the barrier deftly with Atrernex, plows through the mages. Redemptio flashes in his right hand, its cursed counterpart in his left. He forces his way to the back, to where he feels Exophek's presence. There stands Finnius, grinning that mad grin, arms outstretched as if to embrace No'Dessu. And they do. Gyr leaps forward, into the embrace, sliding first one sword, then the other through the little blue mage's back, and into his own abdomen. Finnius grasps Gyrfalcon's head and squeezes with the unholy strength of a demon. The world goes black, and the last thing either of them hears is Exophek screaming. The Hall of the Pen, Early January Finnius sputters and wakes from a long sleep, rubs his stomach, and stops at two large, fresh scars. The room is white, the windows newly hung, and Gyrfalcon slumps in a chair on the opposite wall. "So the bigshot prophet is finally awake. And it only took Silexion's last crystal cufflink to do it." "Wha... ?" "What happened? You were possessed by Exophek. Happens to everyone eventually, so it seems. Anyway, there was fighting, and... I killed you. Sorry about that." "Err... ?" "Oh and Finn?" "Ya..." "Wyv says you still owe your dues."

Woot indeed... yeesh... must... finish... Story! need... cookies... This is becoming a regular (Pronounced reg-uh-ler.) OOC thread for 'Cold.' And in less time than I would have thought possible. Cool.

Outside the Hall of the Pen Exophek chuckles to itself as its black-clad followers engage the assembled Pen… and push them back. In the back of its head, Finnius railed and screamed, but to no avail. Exophek was just too strong for the pathetic creature. Inside, its enemies were screaming… Inside crimson flows ran, from the black-clad and the faithful alike. Exophek was… happy. Just like the old days. But something was wrong… it had been good to tear down the Pen from the inside, good to take revenge on the ones who had hurt it. Now that the battle was joined, the fun was going to be over. Maybe Exophek would keep one or two alive… as ‘toys.’ Inside the Hall of the Pen Gyrfalcon stood back to back with Stick, knee-deep in bodies. Wyvern had gone under some time ago, only to reappear with a black-clad form crushed between his jaws. The poor lizard had snapped. Likely, he’d have nightmares about this for months to come, if not years. As it was, Gyr was just as glad that Wyv had reverted back to his more primal nature. Pered stood over the limp form of Cerulean, backed up by a startlingly furious Scarlett O’Harpy. “Fall back! Fall back!” The sounds of fire crackling at the walls began to make Pered’s point for him. Many of these mages had survived the inferno at Cerulean’s party the last time Exophek had manifested. None wanted to go through that again. The Pen scattered, falling back, abandoning the very Hall itself to Exophek’s mad acolytes. Pered lifted Cery’s body and crashed through a window, running like the wind. Scarlett panted to keep up, followed by several of the Pen’s remaining Initiates. The group turned a corner and ducked into a large storage shed, empty save for a few rats. Tenderly, he laid the prone form of Cerulean on the floor. “Who’s here?” Scarlett’s usually harsh voice, now muted and weak-sounding almost startled Pered. Two of the Initiates made noncommittal sounds, the other collapsed. “Scarlett, see what’s wrong with Salinye.” The Usually Polite Elder crouched low over Cerulean’s still form, looking for wounds. He promptly found one, an ugly black bruise down the back of her neck, right where the spine joins the collarbone. A killing blow. “She’s lost a lot of blood… Pered, I don’t know if she’s going to make it.” “She’ll survive. We all will. Come on, we need to get moving. Harpy, take Sal and these two and meet me at the Old Conservatory. I’m going to gather the rest of the troops, although Gyr’s probably far ahead of me.” “What? Pered, the Old Conservatory… is gone. No… More. Period.” “Wrong. There’s a tunnel under the Hall. Take this,” Peredhil pulls a key from a hidden pocket somewhere and slips it into Scarlett’s hand. “Be careful. I’ll see you soon.” “Ok… you too.” And with that, Scarlett O’Harpy, the last person you’d want to trust with your life, hefts Salinye onto her shoulders and leads two Initiates on a suicide run into Cult-held territory. Pered is left alone with Cerulean’s prone form. “Sorry about this, Cery, but you’re safer here than with Scarlett.” Pered throws his cloak over the Incorrigibly Plural One’s still form, and casts a minor Illusion, making it all but invisible. “Now let’s hope no one trips over you…” The Old Conservatory Gyrfalcon stands over broken ground and up-shooting planks of wood and teeth of stone. Wyvern crouches near, blood still fresh on his jaws. Faces, mages, those still loyal and alive. Tzimfemme and Rydia, but not Rosemary. Minta’s face, Minta’s eyes… Scarlett, the prone form of Salinye. And Pered still off, ‘Gathering recruits,’ whatever that meant. Everyone who survived Exophek’s attack was gathered here; gathered in the ruins of the Old Conservatory. “What are we waiting for…” “What are we doing here…” “We’re all dead.” Gyrfalcon spun on the balls of his feet, amazingly quick even after such a long battle. “We are not dead until the last mage falls. And we have not lost. Pered is coming, bringing help,” Light, let that be true, “And when he arrives we end this. Exophek was defeated here last time. And will be again. You are not Initiates any longer. You are soldiers. Today, we write the last chapter of Terra Lost!”

Well... jeez... that was quick. I didn't expect anyone to be on this late, more fool me. Anyway, this is my once-a-week writing binge. I'll probably be at it for the next few hours, so enjoy. Also, if anyone is reading this, contribute to the "Keep Me Awake" Fund, by IM'ing me at finnius1221. Much appreciated.

“This is the truth… what the Elders have told us is the lie!” The black-clad form a cultist blocks Stick’s way, blue paint peeling off his face, eyes alight with fanatical fury. Stick tightens his grip on his namesake. The cultist leans forward, beckoning. Several more silently ghost from alleys and from around corners. Stick begins to shift on his feet. “Join us… you could be a great leader! A voice for reason to all of us who oppose the Elders.” Stick glances around, looking for a way out of this. Black cloth shuffles against skin and ground. Wind passes by Stick’s ear. “Would you take no for an answer?” A rock joins the wind and Stick leaps into action. Thwock… crunch… two cultists go down, one clutching a broken arm, the other limp and unconscious. Stick bounds down the high street, towards the Hall of the Pen, where the sparse remains of the Mighty Pen are gathering. Rocks follow, as well as the occasional arrow and fireball. Stick dodges most with ease, only succumbing to an arrow in his right thigh as he ducks into the main foyer of the Hall. He pulls the shaft from his leg with a wince and surveys the room. The Elders mingle among Initiates as Cerulean takes Stick’s injured limb and begins to wind bandage and Healing. Canid is nowhere to be seen, nor is Rydia. Minyex hunches forlornly in draconic grief in an over-crowded corner. Wyvern argues over some matter with Peredhil, who looks decidedly thin. Who else… Minta had turned coat, so to speak, and it was rumored that Zool was acting as an advisor to the cultists. Whether this was because he came out of the Terra Lost heresy looking like a saint, or because his portrait was among the first captures of the crazed heretics had yet to be seen. Several of the Elders are missing in action, notably Lumpenproletariat. In the midst of this, a chime rings loudly and the meeting is called to order. “Friends, we gather here today to make clear the danger facing us all.” The voice of Gyrfalcon carries to the far corners of the Hall, weighted with authority. He holds up the infamous blue folder. “This is a copy of The Last Days of Terra Lost. Lies, all of it. But subversive lies, ones that have infiltrated much of the Pen. Many of you have had encounters with the… mages… who follow this book. And some of you have fallen to them, either willingly or otherwise.” Gyr glances at the empty spot on the wall normally reserved for Zool. “I-“ Gyrfalcon is interrupted here by a loud crash and the smell of smoke from outside. A distinctive voice… familiar and terrifying, booms through the repeated thunderous bangs at the front door. “Everyone come out and surrender! I have exposed your lies and will now take my vengeance upon those that stole my birthright from me!” Gyrfalcon, along with the assembled Pen, tenses. Swords are drawn, staves are made ready, arrows knocked, and spells prepared. Those that recognize the voice clench their teeth in fear and remembrance of a time when Terra was almost destroyed… Wyvern hisses and seems to grow much larger and more intimidating. Even gentle Pered bares steel. And to Stick’s eyes, everything becomes clear. The booming stops and the doors of the Pen lie broken on their hinges. A sea of black cloaks and blue faces confronts the Pen, headed by the Traitor Himself. Stick hadn’t believed it until now, but confronted by Finnius at the front of this mob… Arms crossed and eyes down, the little blue mage looked a lot more frightening than Stick remembered. The black cloak didn’t help much. Minta and Zool, born by two cultists, flanked the mage, and farther back in the crowd the forms of Degenero Angelus and Pered’s sons Elladan and Elrohir could be made out. Most of the rest were simply too obscured by their robes. A tear rolled down Peredhil’s cheek. “Well… is this all? Minta, tear them apart.” The girl cackled gleefully and started forward, only to run face-first into a wall of nothing. Gyrfalcon grimaced as Peredhil crumbled under the force being thrown against his barrier. But the wall held. Finnius threw his head back and laughed, exposing the redness in his eyes, the veins popping and bulging. Gyr stood adamant and clenched his jaw. Cerulean wretched. Wyvern roared wordlessly, on the verge of mindlessly. And still the little blue man chuckled. “That won’t hold forever. Well… good to see you all again. Wyvern,” he continues, tapping his skull, “how’s the head been feeling? Better since I left, or worse?” Gyrfalcon lowers his sword for an instant and spits one word at the mage. “Exophek.”

Woo hoo! Birfidy-days! Happies! Congrats!

Outside the Hall of the Pen “Thus do I say to you, and thus did he speak to me!” The speaker, face painted blue, hair dyed black, and wrapped in black cloth, waved a now-familiar folder furiously as he preached to the assembled crowd. “Terra Lost, chapter 3, verse 10: It was in those times, those hallowed, darkling times, that the seams of society came loose. Gyrfalcon had willingly embraced the dark once more, and so we gathered ourselves together to combat him. Chief among us were Peredhil, armored and resplendent; Wyvern, humbled and laid low; and Cerulean, though her mind was near-destroyed by the deaths of so many. Behind Peredhil’s banner did I ride, and this did I see: Wave after wave was sent, but all were torn apart. Gyrfalcon was a demon, and none could stand against him. The very sun blackened under the rain of stones and hail, and from the tower of Watch, where No’Dessu had stationed the night before, my former wife laughed and hurled down the corpses of children. Scarlett had defected. We broke and scattered, fleeing their wrath. “Can I get an amen?” The crowd answered in a voiceless roar, and hurled rocks at the Hall. Inside the Hall of the Pen A rock crashes through the large picture-window, accompanied by a rolling cry from the mob assembled outside. A circle of chairs, most unoccupied, takes up much of the room. In the center of the circle is a stone table, empty save for a blue folder, titled in reflective black ink. The Last Days of Terra Lost “I want to know where this thing started, and now!” Peredhil’s voice, raised in agitation seemed to punctuate the terse nature of the Pen’s travails of late. Several mages shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Gyrfalcon fingered the hilt of his sword and stared at the broken window while Wyvern held one hand to his head and pinched his eyes shut. Cerulean and Scarlett tried not to look at one another and failed miserably. Tzimfemme, Rydia, and Rosemary tried not to notice that Minta was not present. Almost as soon as the fighting started, the girl had donned a black cloak and painted her face. And that was all. Wyvern opened one eye, as if noticing the others for the first time. “Pered, we’ve been over this… and Finnius really is looking, it’s just… hard. We shouldn’t rely on him this much, but he’s the only one who can walk outside the Hall these days without having something thrown at him.” “Let them throw…,” grumbled Gyrfalcon, hand on hilt. “Let them try…” “Gyr, we don’t want to hurt anyone, just-“ Begins Cerulean, who’s cut off as another rock hurtles through the window, nearly catching Scarlett in the right temple. Gyr draws his blade and bolts upright. “Well, obviously they don’t share that sentiment! And if we sit cloistered up here for much longer while… he… fumbles around in the dark… it’s as good as giving the Pen to the mob.” “Say his name Gyrfalcon. I know you’re still a little…,” Peredhil carefully sidesteps the word ‘mad,’ instead coming up with, “Upset with him… but this isn’t his fault.” Scarlett cuts in from her seat, “Are we really sure about that? I mean, you read all that stuff about me… who else can describe the inside of my stomach that well? Or Cerulean’s party… especially the little demon-girl. I mean, did any of you even *remember that?” Eight mages share seven-and-a-half glances, Wyv having only one eye open. The almost-dragon completes his half-glance and speaks softly. “But he wasn’t there… he wasn’t even there…” “Finnius has gone unremarked before…” “Stop it Scarlett, that trash doesn’t even sound like him… and you know it.” Cerulean meets O’Harpy’s gaze full-force, defying the hedonist’s response. Scarlett gives none. Instead, protest comes from the least likely source. “She might be right.” All eyes turn to Peredhil. “Not about Finn actually writing this,” he gestures towards the table, “but about this being his fault. Whoever wrote it knows our blue bard very well… and wants to discredit him. Whoever it is was present at Cerulean’s masquerade, where this thing starts. And it is only logical to surmise that the author is still watching him. We can’t leave this to Finnius. One of us, or more likely, all of us have to do something. We have to stop this thing.” Silence spreads to each of the mages as they contemplate this turn of events. Outside the Hall of the Pen “…’til time itself ends. Saint Wyvern, throughout the whole, hid himself. And to the peaks of the roofs, to the highest towers, the huddled masses rose against those who had gone before. This did I see: Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, whom I called Master, and Scarlett O’Harpy, whom I called wife, were pulled down by the very ones they had raised up. Lord Peredhil died that day, reborn in his own tears and blood. And forsaking the light, he called us all together one last time.” The speaker slams the folder shut, going on from memory. “But I knew that he was lost in his grief, and so did not attend. The story of that day I have told to you. I hid myself in the bosom of the darkness, as Master had instructed me. I took my solace in the embrace of the one true Lord. Praise be to him. Lift His name up, and tear down the ones who tore down our home. “There ends the lesson for today.” The speaker takes a torch from a waiting black-clad acolyte and turns toward the hall. He lifts it in a mocking salute to the form of Gyrfalcon, scowling down at the assembled crowd from a shattered window. “For today.” The crowd departs, and the Mighty Pen, once a bustle of activity stands silent for several breathless moments. Slowly, mages poke their heads out of various doors, making sure that the crowd is gone. Gyrfalcon turns from the window, and back to the tense knot of mages.

The Estate of Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, Early Morning A crash from outside, and the sound of shattering glass. Inside, the front foyer window caves in a spray of glittering shards. A delicately arranged display of flowers, resplendent gifts from one of Gyr’s many fans topples to the floor, ruined. And on the table where it stood, an inconspicuous blue folder, titled in reflective black ink slides to a halt. With commendable speed, two small fuzzy creatures sweep into the room, assess the damage, and then whirl about, cleaning and repairing. The folder remains on the table. Finished with their labor, the fuzzies begin to exit. Ink sparkles like purest diamond. And the trap is set, as one turns back, and snatches its bait. One Month Later, The Halls of the Pen A little blue mage stalks a corridor, manuscript clutched to his chest, looking for the one being in this place that he knows beyond all doubt he can trust. He stops in front of a door marked “Elders Only,” then hesitantly knocks. There comes no answer, not unlikely at this hour, just before dawn. Finnius has been up late, of nights. Half relieved, half-afraid, the mage turns to try another room, then starts at the large form which has materialized behind him. His heart races for a moment, trying to find its paces, then slows as Finnius recognizes the form of Gyrfalcon. “Gyr… almost gave me a heart attack!” The little blue mage wipes his forehead, even though it’s dry, as if to symbolize his startlement. “What are you doing up and about this early?” “Looking for you… I’ve heard you keep strange hours lately.” “Looking for me? Err… wha…” Is as far as the mage gets before noticing that Gyr is most definitely armed. He throws a familiar folder at Finnius’s feet, and thunder sounds out of a clear sky outside. “I found this circulating through the fuzzies I’d hired from Canid. They cringe behind my back, and more than once, I’ve caught the servants listening to their endless chatter. If you ever pull something like this again, Finnius…” Here, he unsheathes his blade with a sound like flowing sand. “I don’t think I need to tell you… but…,” and sweeping the blade across the floor, Gyrfalcon neatly opens, then bisects the folder, spearing a page on the end and handing it to Finnius. The little blue mage glances at the page, then winces. … and in those days, Gyrfalcon the Mad returned, laying waste to those around him. Mount Tyrant exploded in his wrath, and from it, Redemption’s black edge tore the flesh of the righteous. Laughing and swinging wildly, he cut down fully half of the good mages sent against him. “Never gone, only hidden, neither here nor there. Bring what you may against me, I will rend you limb from limb!” Thus was he spoken, and thusly prov’d right. “Gyr, wait, I can explain…,” but it’s too late. Thunder crashes again and Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, Elder of the Pen, and one-time scourge of Terra Lost departs. The Recruiter’s Office, Late December Wyvern sits at his desk, again ignoring the piles of applications which promise entombment. Instead, reports cover his desk, neatly penned in the same hand that graces the pages of the Terra Lost heresy. *…nothing to report. *…no further progress. *…possible connection to Nanotoknonnen death-cults. *…Grim Squeaker encountered, dismiss previous missive. The Elder of Recruits sighs, cupping his head in his hands. Too many copies, not enough leads… The blasted manuscript had managed to circulate through the ranks of the Initiates, infecting many with its ideas. Already, several bards had disappeared, only to turn up later, preaching the Gospel of Terra Lost, denouncing the Elders for hypocrites and charlatans. Finnius, supposedly the author, had had no effect at slowing the progress of this disease when he tried to explain matters. In fact, it had only made things worse. And things were starting to get violent. Pered had been near-mauled by a group of cultists quoting Terra Lost 4:34:21; …having at last forsaken the light, the Lord Peredhil did raise his fist, and in his fist was the forsaken brightness of the sun. This he rained down on his acolytes, burning them where they stood, drinking in their deaths with his parted lips and open nostrils. The sky rained black soot, and all knew that he had fallen. Luckily, Pered had escaped into the Assembly Room, where Gyrfalcon was holding a seminar on how things really went down. A disturbingly small seminar. “Melba! Get me some aspirin!” Finn had better figure this thing out soon, thought Wyvern, or there may not be a Pen for much longer.

The Recruiter's Office, 9:oo am Wyvern sat, rubbing his temples, hunched over his dusty desk; even though piles of high-stacked applications threatened to topple and bury the almost-dragon. Normally, he'd be asleep by now. Normally, piles of geld would be dancing merrily around his fog-wrapped brain. Last night, however, he'd binged on Ol' Peculiar and, stumbling back to the Office, had nearly tripped over a manuscript lying in front of the Pen's Banquet Hall. Sealed and stamped, and addressed to the Mighty Pen. All of it. By name. It was this manuscript which had kept him pacing frantically all morning, until finally he'd collapsed into his chair in a cloud of cobweb and mildew. A simple blue folder... politely tied with cerulean string... maddening. If anyone had read this, or if it fell into the wrong hands, even now... Well, that would never happen. Not now, not ever. Lighting a match, the scaled Master of Recruits said a silent thanks to the God of Money, and lit the manuscript, forever destroying the contents thereof. The Mighty Pen's Banquet Hall, Two Months Later "You're counting character before characterization, which isn't necessarily bad, but isn't really... polite... in a collaborative story." The speaker, a notable bard and Elder of the Pen, motions for parchment; which is quickly brought. "See, if you changed this line... just so... and now it becomes a statement of intent, rather than a declaration of action. Understand?" A little blue head nods absently at the far table, while Pered's newest apprentice bewilderingly puzzles over the Elder's advice. In the background, a door opens, admitting a chilly blast of November wind and the tall form of one Wyvern, Elder of Recruiting. The little blue head lifts for a moment, then ducks under its table. Snickers are heard from several corners. Wyvern strides to the far table, where a little blue head has just disappeared, and peers under. Extending a clawed hand, he extracts the little blue head, along with its little blue body. "There you are! Been looking all over for you, Finny-boy... you're short on dues again, but we can discuss that later. There's a little... matter... we need to go over. If you would be so kind as to follow me?" Reluctantly, the addressed semi-mage shakes himself off, and follows Wyv out the door. "Wonder what that was..." The Recruiter's Office, Ten Minutes Later "... about?" Begins the little blue mage, settling into a somewhat dilapidated chair, directly across from Wyvern's desk. The Recruiter walks around the desk, but does not sit, instead he looms over it like an angry schoolmaster. "I think you know what this is about, old boy," replies Wyv, all traces of joviality expunged from his normally sly voice. He proceeds to pull binders out of the tall stacks surrounding the perimeter of the office, defying gravity to bring one down. "These... are your work from Terra Lost...," He struggles with one particularly thick binder, nearly catching gravity's wrath at his earlier defiance. "Saved, catalouged, and stored here." "...how... who? Thank you... Wyv, I didn't know you cared..." "Don't thank me yet. The thing is, Finn, you can't have them back. Not until you do me a little favor." "Of course, anything. What do you need?" Wyvern chuckles evilly, a momentary glow crossing his eyes. He produces a blue, tied folder from beneath his desk, flopping it in front of the little blue mage. "Tell me a story. Where did this come from, who wrote it, and how many copies are there?" Finnius hesitantly stretches a hand forward, gently picks up the folder, turns it towards him, and gapes in astonishment. Six words, deftly penned across the front in black reflective ink. Six words, and suddenly things become clear. The Last Days of Terra Lost "Wyv, I didn't have anything to do with this... not a thing..." "Of course you didn't. You weren't even around for most of what's written inside. But someone wants me to think you were. Flip to the last page." The stunned storyteller complies, struggling with the knotted string. And there, plain as day, apparently in his own handwriting; Finnius Mustardio Jalopini Canard O'Harpy. "Take it somewhere and read it, Finn. See if it doesn't curdle your blood a little. The whole thing... is a lie. But a lie wrapped in truth, one so deftly interwoven with the facts that it might well be more accurate than the records we have. It can't be allowed to circulate. For posterity, you understand." The little blue mage hugs the folder to his chest and nods, then straightens to leave. "And Finn?" "Yes." "You're still late with your dues." The Room of one Finnius Jalopini, etc, etc. Late that Night The little blue man reads until morning. He reads of Peredhil and Gyrfalcon, Cerulean and Scarlett, Tamaranis and Wyvern. Recorded here are tales of heroism, of struggle, triumph, heartbreak... and ultimately of failure, of downfall. Amidst the imagery, something else floats. Whoever wrote this was present at the end. And was... happy... to see it. The text is subversive, drawing the reader to the conclusion that Terra Lost is better lost. "Wyvern was right... This can't be allowed to circulate."

Upon my acceptance, four stanzas and scotch, And Wyv to the left, so my wallet I watch, Down the hatch with the first, now up with the second, Raise a toast for the third, and the fourth it has beckoned... When into the tavern, should a fair maiden enter, With a bow on her back, and a murderous temper, Then I spin 'round the bar and I slur "Hey, who's she?," And my good friend Pered responds, "It's Yui." I hide 'neath a barstool, I look in the mirror, I make for the door, 'cause good-lor' I fear 'er, Bu' mah brain's not qui' workin', an' i's cause for alarm, Whe' in drunken stupor, Ah fall in 'er arms! Mah face burnin' brigh' an' mah legs goin' jelly, Ah feel somethin' comin', flowin' up from mah belly... The next thing I knew was she said it was over, Then I was out cold, but suddenly sober... When I woke in the morning, and the sun split my eyes, Face down in a gutter, and buzzing with flies, There's a crimson-scaled demon in front of the hall, it, Looked just like Wyvern... and holding my wallet! He tossed it back down, and chuckled a bit, And said to me, "Finn? Jeez, you look like [Editted by Bob the ], "But there's just one thing, then I'm gone in a flash, "Didn't you say four stanzas?" "Well, I'm not good at math..." --------------------------------------- What can I say? It ain't Keats, that's fer darn-tooting.

"Errrrmmm," begins a sentence, which quickly realizes that 'errrmm' is not technically a begininng, so much as an expression of hesitance. The sentence then gets to the point, that being, "Why Wyv, thanks for the dusting, and for the speedy, although somewhat premature, acceptance." Having completed itself, the sentence proceeds from the little blue lips of a little blue man, realizing only at the last second that it has far too many commas, and should correct itself. The little blue man, for his part, tries to look a bit embarassed for the sentence, but only ends up turning purple. "Hey, nice color change," replies Wyvern, "is that something you picked up from Peredhil?" "...," quips Finnius, not quite over the shody one-line literary device. "Hey, good Mr. Bunny impression! You should take that on the road, maybe add a few more, you could make millions!" A sly look materializes on Wyv's face. "I could be your agent, (and cheap at only fifty, no better make that sixty percent.)" "Thanks, but no." Our indigo protagonist glances at the starving peasents, who are starting to share glances in his direction, and realizing that, as Little Blue Man Under Glass has already been on the menu once, Finnius couldn't be that bad. Also, he's probably a bit more tender than almost-dragon. "Terribly sorry, must be going. Still, thanks 'n'all." ---------------------------------------- Outside the recruiting office, Finnius stops to catch his breath, and remove the remaining dust from his person. After having cleaned up appropriately, our little blue mage heads over to the Tavern of the Quill, where he proceeds to buy a round of scotch for all. OOC: Sorry about the long delay, work got baaaaad. Anyway, I'm still working on the Basic Laws of the Universe. Up to 14, and still going strong. That will, of course, be posted as soon as possible, but not before it's finished. (Or is that Finnished?) Also, seeing as you requested it, my e-mail address is ninja_bob212@yahoo.com; send me as much as you wish. I like's the mail!

Another installment of my application process: The Truth About Magic Not being the most talented mage in Terra, and not really being able to accomplish anything greater than occasionally setting a rug on fire; one begins to ask oneself if this "Magick" stuff is actually real. So I decided to ask several well-known mages for their opinions, and the results were quite startling. I present them to you in chronological order. First, Wyvern: The scene is just outside the Pen's Recruiting office, where Wyv, true to form, is shaking down an old lady for her grandson's lunch money, while somehow managing to come off as a charming gentle-creature, so as not to upset her. F: Hey, Wyvern, how's things? (Notice how the reporter eases his subject with a little small talk.) W: Wha? *Drops Old Lady. Oh, it's you... hey, could you do me a little favor? See, I'm a tad strapped for cash, and since you haven't paid your membership dues yet... F: Umm... *Tries to remember the Old Wyvern; promptly forgets. Sure, what do you need, three, four thousand geld? I might be able to spot you a little, assuming you'll pay me back. W: Oh, of course, of course! *Extends scaled claw, takes money. Thanks a heap, this should just about cover my boo... I mean, the Pen's... umm... paper inventory! Yeah, paper. F: No problem. Hey, could I ask you a few questions about magic? W: Love to help you out; gotta run. Can I take a rain check? F: I guess... This conversation led me to believe two things: 1. Either Wyvern's brushed up on his Mind Alteration, or 2. That I am a tremendous fool. I believe the evidence speaks for itself. On to the next interview, Gyrfalcon: The scene is the interior of a large stone sitting room, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of various tomes, elixers, etc. Many and varied weapons sit in decorative positions in glass cabinets, all polished to razor sharp sheens. Gyrfalcon reclines in a comfortable red velvet armchair, Finnius sits cross-legged on the floor. F: *Squirms. So, Gyr, I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me? (Note the lack of small talk, as it did not work with Wyvern.) G: What?!! No 'hello,' no 'Hey Gyrfalcon, how's life been?' *Sighs. Really, I expected more. But fine, go on, ask away. F: Umm... sorry. Anyway, I was wondering how you would go about, oh say, creating matter from nothing. G: ... G: Well, first you need to prepare your work area, tools, formulae and such, and then you would cast the appropriate spell, depending on what you wanted to create. F: Of course, but how exactly does one cast a spell? Aside from the tomes and powders and bric-a-brac? G: I think I see what you're getting at, and I'll do my best to explain. *Motions for servants to bring in sevaral chalk boards. The rest of that week was spent puzzling over numbers, abstract ideas, and concepts so ludicrous that this reporter was loath to try them. Try them he did, however, and at the end of the week, all he was able to do was make his brain hurt from exhaustion. Gyrfalcon, for his part was quite patient. He only hit me twice; once to demonstrate the radical shift in perception necessary to perform feets of sorcery, and once because I broke an antique vase while practicing levitation. I flew quite a good distance however, so it might have worked. Or maybe he was just really mad. In any case, I came to the following conclusions: 1. Under the correct circumstances, anyone can be taught to fly, 2. The correct circumstances usually involve breaking something, and then trying to run as fast as possible, and 3. Chalk is evil. My third and final destination was Peredhil: The scene is a comfortable gazebo, secluded in a copse of trees. The remnants of a meal adorn a small, but elegant, hardwood table. Peredhil, having fed his little blue friend far past capacity, is beginning to look a bit worried about the unseemly bulge in Finnius' dark violet robes. A fuzzball, camoflauged in the hem of our reporter's sleeve forlornly looks for its cohorts. In the distance, a wolf howls. F: urp... Excuse me, Pered. What a wonderful dinner! But truly, it wasn't necessary. I was wondering if maybe you could help me out with something, just a little project I've been working on. (Notice the subtle way the chit-chat leads into a request for information. Our reporter has learned his lessons well!) P: But, of course, chum! Oh, wait, you seem to have one of Canid's fuzzies trapped in your sleeve. *Gently removes the odd little creature, dusts it off. Why you must have been stuck in there for days! Poor thing, it must be famished, here, have some leftover blueberry pie. *Begins feeding. F: *Clears throat. Pered? My question? P: Oh, yes, go on. F: What would you say is the most important aspect of the casting process of any good spell? The most fundamental principle of magic, so to speak. P: *Thinks for a moment, feeds more blueberry pie to the fuzzle. Just be yourself. F: That's it. Just be yourself. P: *Nods. At this point, a largeish canine head emerges from the bushes and swings towards Peredhil. Pered, recognizing Canid, waves her over, returns the fuzzy critter, and offers rest and food to all. Our reporter accepts, as does the lupine Verdant-par-excellance, and revelry commences. Which leads me to the following, final, conclusions: 1. While I was not able to specifically ascertain the truth behind magic, I was able to bum free lodging off two out of three of my interviewees. And what could be more magical than free stuff? 2. Wyvern was not one of those two, leading me to believe that some laws of the Universe cannot be broken. Gyr and Pered are basically decent, giving folks, whereas Wyv is a little more... self-oriented. 3. Magic, if it does exist, is more a flexing of the afore-mentioned rules, rather than an outright breaking of them, as demonstrated by Wyvern's ability to get me to loan him money, even though it was somewhat out of character. Hey, at least it was for a good cause, right? The Pen can always use more parchment... 4. The Basic Laws of the Universe might be a good Part Three to my application, but I must get some rest before attempting to interpret them.

And a very happy birthday from... Waitaminute... Cookies!! /me gets hand slapped before Cookies gets eaten Happy Birthday!

Well... having been so greeted, how can I not offer more explanation? Like this: At Master Pered's genteel prodding, I've put in my application. It struck me as a bit short, however, so I'll be adding to it at my earliest convenience store. Or something like that. Honestly, it might be tomorrow or next week. In any case, this is why I did not include my e-mail address within the body of my effort, as Good Sir Wyvern so demands of his approachees. I'd also like to open up the door to some collaborative writing, one of the things most missed about the old AM UBB's. Any interested parties should please e-mail me at ninja_bob212@yahoo.com, or just drop me a line here. We'll work something out, just be warned of my somewhat erratic schedule. One more thing before I go... Patron Saint of Haikus, Terra Lost? Why do I smell Pered in that? Could be wrong... it has been a while. Either way, it's a touching little thought, and I thank whomever is responsible. Until next time, I remain:

"Yui-chan, of course I...," was as far as the little blue man got before a large plate of steaming somethingorother and a sheef of paper were quite politely placed into his field of vision. Giving half a glance backwards over his left shoulder, and trembling with antici..............plagiarism; Finnius catches two-and-three-quarters glances of Peredhil. (Which is quite good for only half a glance. The glance, feeling over-wrought, promptly collapses on the floor.) But before our tired and travailed traveler can properly respond, he's knocked off his feet by a swarm of little purple fuzzits. And one large puppy. "Canid? Wha?! And I thought you had been talented before... but this... this is just... Waitaminute. You... bowed?" Shocked beyond belief at this display of canine acrobatics, the bewildered indigo semi-mage nearly misses Gwaihir's Wiggly Cabbages and the innane (Did I miss an 'S?') Lord of the Gay. But alas and forsooth, the biggest, greenest shock is yet to come. "Finnius! This is one heck of a pleasant surprise! I'm very glad to see that you've managed to return to writing and have found the Mighty Pen," rumbles the voice of many a poor mage's financial ruin. A somewhat-scaled and almost dragonic claw then inserts a glass of what is possibly the only liqour Finnius does not imbibe on a regular basis into his hand. "Sorry to hear you've been through some hard times... It seems your quality of writing hasn't changed in the slightest... it remains excellent!" "Errr... thanks... who are you again?" An eye already the size of a well-ripened apple widens to comic proportions, then shrinks again, as Wyvern laughs. And for an instant, thinks the little blue bard, I had him fooled. So off hustles the party, or entourage, or whatever; into the Recruiting Office. All settle into their big comfy chairs, the little purple fuzz-balls disappear, and we once again gather 'round the fire for a tale. Only this time there's no fire-place. -------------------------------------------- Finn's First Love, A yarn of college romance... ...or, How to Whip a Dead Horse It happened towards the end of my freshman year at the Terran Institute of Miraculous Events that I meant a young she-person. This person was in my Liberal Arts and Philosophy course, which meant that we had lots of free time. As anyone knows, philosophy is pretty much a bum class, useful for sounding nice and teaching Philosophy, but not much else. In any case, we'd both went to the same high school, but had never really met until now, mainly because she'd had the good sense to run when Mr. Toknonnen had burst, in all his Unholy Glory, from the gym room floor at graduation day. But that's a different story. It was good to see that some of my old school memories were still around, though, even if I didn't exactly remember them; so I made myself available. It didn't hurt much that she was a stone-cold fox either. ------------------------------------------- Peredhil shifts a bit in his chair, and very un-rudely clears his throat. The diminutive aqua storyteller then grins a bit and addresses him. "Yes, Pered? Do you have a question?" "Not to interupt, but... aren't you leaving something out? Something... important?" Finnius chuckles and turns a somewhat uncharacteristic shade of violet. "Like a name? Well, if I must. Gods forgive me for this but... *sigh it was...," at which the little blue mage makes a gargled sound, like a chicken choking on a frog-leg; and points towards none other than Yui Temai. There's an awkward moment of silence, shattered by raucous, almost dragonic guffawing coupled with a little scandalized "Hmph," from Yui-chan. "Not that we ever... dated... or...," begins Finn, trying to take a stiff drink of Bruteweiser while simultaneously explaining the situation. "It was more of a... like a..." "You had a crush on me?!" The inept adept hangs his head in his little blue hands and softly mumbles, "Thanks for bringing that up Pered, consider us even for me telling all those high-school stories about your girl-of-the-week." And out loud; "Could I please continue?" Peredhil the Impeccably Polite snickers and motions for the story to continue. ------------------------------------------------- Anyway, Yui was good to talk to during the long hours between rantings. She always had interesting views on whatever our topic might be, and never really managed to insult anyone while disagreeing. How was I not to become a bit smitten? So one night I tried to ask her out. The conversation went something like this: Me: Hi, Yui, what's up? Yui: Oh, Finn, guess what? I just met the the greatest guy! And I think he might like me, too! Could you do me just the teeeeeeensiest favor? Me: Errrm... yeahiguess... Yui: Just talk to him, y'know, find out for sure, ok? Me: Absolutely... There was a little more, but you get the idea. Anyway, I spent the next week getting to know this "guy" for Yui. He wasn't too bad, and no I can't remember who he was, all right Pered? It turned out he was interested, so I relayed the information to Yui and withdrew my attentions. I've never been one to stick around where I'm not wanted, after all. Shortly after, I switched my courses to Creative Spell-casting, at which I managed to fail miserably. Never did get the hang of all that on-the-fly mana handling. ---------------------------------- The room stays quiet for a moment, some contemplating the story, others contemplating their navels. For his part, Finnius takes another stiff drink and puts out the carpet-fire.

Out of a stormy night, or maybe a clear one, or quite possibly it was even day; with light cloud cover and a warm, jaunty breeze, and through the door of the assembly hall of the Mighty Pen, pops a little blue head. The head is soon followed by a neck, after which comes a body. The head, neck, and body stand nervously in front of that great and hallowed (And long-sought-after.) organization previously mentioned. And when the collected... beings... that make up the Pen's membership have turned, studied, gasped in surprise, or delight, or righteous anger at the intrusion; and when some have snickered, sighed, yawned, or thrown things, the head, and indeed the person; begins to speak. ------------------------------------------------- *cough... Hello. Some of you know me, some of you might even remember me. Greetings to those I recognize, and salutations to those I don't. By way of introductions, my name is Finnius. Or just Finn, or Finny, or "That dirty bastard." People call me a lot of things. I'm sorry to intrude on what was apparently an assembly of some sorts, although, not knowing what it was, I'm not quite as sorry as I should be. For which I apologize. But apologies aside, I've got news. Not big news, or grand spectacular warnings of impending doom. Just news. And the news is this: I've been wandering down that endless road, searching, trying, and I've somehow found my way back. Like I said, some of you know me. And I've come back to you. *Looks around, surveys the room... Of course, you realize I can't just let it go at that. Endless road, wandering, whatever; you want the meat. The whole shebang. And that's what I intend to deliver. So without further ado... Ok, maybe just a little ado... could someone get me a drink? Scotch... thanks so much. Wonderful. Here it is: ------------------------------------- So there I was, happily plugging away at some piece of work or another, when disaster struck. Isn't that always the way? Calamity strikes without warning, because if it warned you, you'd duck. Anyway, it was about two years ago, and I was stable. The geld was flowing, the taxman paid in full, and I had work. Not steady work, mind you, but work none the less. Mainly playing music for the overly-religious, and doing temp work for sundry individuals and/or conglomerates. I was expecting good things out of life. Well, let me tell you, good things DO come to an end. Namely, the work ran low for a few months straight. Needless to say, my bills did not. Something had to give, and the first thing was correspondence. So I left, without warning or goodbye. Zool would have been furious. At least he had the decency to warn us. The following year would see me cold, hungry, and in the dark more often than not, but I did not despair. That didn't happen until the second year. To make a long story... well, not so long; a good bit of time went by, pretty much staticly. I got up in the morning, headed out the door, and literaly walked myself pretty much to death, looking for a break. By which I mean selling little soul-chunks for the chance to work. It was fun, in a weird sort of way. (Hey, I got a good story out of it, right? Show of hands, how many of you can honestly say you've slept on a public bench? Ok... never mind.) Eventually, one of my wildly thrown lines started tugging. I, of course, did not reel it in. I sprang on it like a shark onto a bloody piece of chum. That was about three months ago. In that three months, I have discovered the joy of savings, and come to the shocking realization that my former town square had been napalmed into glass, destroying most of my belongings. (Thanks so much, by the way, to whom-or-whatever saved Cerulean's Masquerade.) And all the people, every last one... were just gone. So I set out again, high and low. I found Tamaranis by sheer luck and asked if anyone was still around. He directed me here, but I lost the instructions. Oh well, at least I had a hint. The Pen; beacon of literary light that it was, still lived. The Pen proved much harder to track down that I had origionally thought. In fact, between work, something called real life, and the fact that I still don't have a good way to gain access to any kind of information, it took me a solid month. But one dark night, I stumbled off the road, and saw a door. There was a familiar light on inside so I took a chance and poked my head inside. And the rest is history. -------------------------- OOC: The preceeding is pretty much true, just (Lightly.) modified to fit the character. It's been a long time, but here I am. I still don't have a PC, although that is likely to change in about five or so months, but I can check sites, and post replies once or twice a week. I can check my mail, and do so on a regular basis, and I will respond to anything sent me as soon as I get it. The point is I'm back, if you'll have me. Either way, this is at least a hello.