Bhurin

A tall figure, clad in simple robes and graced with brilliant white wings, enters the room with seeking gaze and subtle stride. This place of fellowship is much changed since last his footfalls echoed in the timber lodge, though familiar banners and adornments docorate the walls. Out of place and yet comfortable, his face is as new, as strange, as those of many he now sees. Waving politely, the immense character, now before the bar, orders a decanter of ale and looks out to the general population of the tavern. Hello everyone. It has been quite some time since I have made my pressence known here, though often I have strode the halls of this place. Seasons have passed since my voice sounded, yet my eyes and mind have minded some of that which transpires here. Long since my words have found their way to light, though I have basked in the light of others. As a guest, I have looked upon these halls many times, though I could not find the gumption to sign the guest book and make myself known. Too little time with too much work and a lack-luster mind have leant me little inspiration to share. And yet, I have returned. Awakened by the words of the Polite Ancient, reminding me that I have always found inspiration and have shared good times in these halls. So here I am, long displaced but still possessing a great favor of this company and its art. Excuse the melodramatic entry, but it HAS been some time for me. For those who know me, I bear thee warm greeting (should you still remember me.) For those who don't, I look forward to becoming aquainted. The Pen has changed. The words it holds have not. And I have missed them. Signed with admiration and nostalgia- Bhurin Signature and titles withheld at present.

(Conversion Confusion, this is actually the original post for this thread) I was writing poems when this came to mind. I'm normally not a very good riddler, so I'm not sure if this is really easy or not. Enjoy. A riddle When you awake to shining dawn, I greet you with a mutual yawn And when the sun is up, the day ahead, The both of us jump out of bed, You go first, I follow suit, An unconditional traitional pursuit. When it’s time to leave you grab your things, I’m always there, behind the scenes. I go and wait for you outside, But we leave together, side by side. Then, on your left, the morning’s light, I’ll follow behind, just to your right. I’ve always preferred wake to the lead, But don’t let my preference mislead, For late at dusk, with sun at back, I go first into the black. And walk you home, till you’re secure, Then whisk about, as though demure. Then go with you back to your bed, But I don’t sleep, I skulk instead. And wait until the morn again, To show my face once more. Amen. What am I? Signed-

This is the intro-poem I read to my players to illustrate some local histroy and the events that have lead to the present day problems in their campaign. If you want to get the full effect, listen to the song "Fade to Black" by Apocolyptica. They're an excellant classical band that provided the inspiration for this poem and the campaign itself. (Imagine my surprise when I should stumble upon this song with a similat title as my campaign). As well, the poem, if read aloud, is timed to the song (part of the effect I was going for). If you start the song right after the line, "Our story begins in former days, when still the lands were held in praise…" you should finish the poem JUST as the song is finishing. Let me know what you think. Enjoy. The Black Inquisition Prolog It is a time of great woe and unrest. Whilst the rest of the world lives in prosperity, These lands have become plunged in war. A century’s old conflict, with new protest, Against king and country. Peace, a rarity, Lost within the blood and gore. The land torn by kin and creed. Here our tale now begins, As those who have lain in wait proceed, And the world wavers on edge. A land torn by dread and sins, Falling into darkness. A growing need, For the brave to delve a sharpened wedge, At last, between the just and those of vile greed. Our story begins in former days, when still the lands were held in praise… Once, long ago, there lived a man who was King. He was just and true, a man of honor and nobility. Who yearned to unite his lands under one banner, and bring About a golden age, ending generations of hostility. He ruled his domain for many years, trying to end the vices Of invading threats. Of enemies from within. He tried all manners to accomplish this, all devices To end his country’s woe and chagrin. But, after years of gracious reign, civil unrest grew. Thousands saw him as no ruler, and rebelled. All of them swayed and led by silver tongued shrew, Who denounced the king, and would not be quelled. And so a civil war erupted. Kingdom against the King. The country delved into conflict, divided in twain. A costly war, between one people, of all things; The blood of innocence shed; a dynasty of pain. After countless battles and murders, the tide began to ebb, And victory seemed to favor those loyal to the throne. But, before he was victorious, the King was struck dead, By assassin in the night, whose identity was never known. The Royal Guard raised up in arms, enraged, By act most foul. They demanded retribution! And they wrought a bloody campaign, a rampage Against those against the king, to crush the revolution. Led now by the King’s first son, a mourning warlord, Barely two decades old, they cut a path of blood Through the lands. The king’s brooding ward, Took to murder well, and released a flood. “Kill the traitors!” came their cry, and soon, The rebellion was crushed by plunder and rape. Those who received swift resolution were receiving boon, As most died with pain. And none could escape. The silver tongued was brought before the Prince, Accused of treason, and the death of the Prince’s father. And before he or any could speak, without waver or wince, The king’s son dealt a bloody end to the “impertinent bother”. Then, still washed in the blood of his foe, the ward Declared himself the new lord of lands, and took the throne. And, knowing his courage, the people saw fit to reward The Prince, and make the crown his own. But, few knew truly of the prince’s blackened ways, How in past days, he perfected the arts of torment On pets and servants. Ill in mind, with thoughts ablaze. Who caused his mother sickness from lament. Few, that is, save the former King, who took sorrowful sight, Of his son’s masochism since his birth, and arranged With the trusted Priest to read, when time was right, The Final Declaration. And prevent a king deranged. The Kingdom watched as elder priest, with scrolls of yore Bearing crest of former king, stood before the bleeding Prince, And showed to him the King’s decree, and what it bore. And none had seen the Prince more enraged, before or since. The King, by full command, named not his first son heir, But rather his second born son, a child of soft spoken insight, Whom the King loved dearly. And so it was declared. The new King stepped forward, his eyes timid and contrite. The first born Prince watched with disdain as younger kin, Stepped forward to claim what tradition demanded was his own. Watching his birth rite stolen, a great madness welled within His breast, and burned within his blood and bone. Finally, in burning rage, the maddened Prince denounced His brother; denounced his name and right to bear the crown, Knowing the ancient laws that no new king can be pronounced, As long as kin of blood and name challenged his renown. The people and the royal court were appalled, disbelieving What they had heard, and still more as they watched the slighted Prince rise from the throne and proclaim as he was leaving, That he shall rise and take the throne, whether given or benighted. And the rightful king watched his older kin leave the court, And wept at his departure. A country wounded, a family torn, A Prince made Steward, and not King, for without support, Of living kin, a new dynasty could not be born. This is how it was, and this is how it continues to be. A family dishonored for greed and spite. A fallen crest. And no hope for future peace, as long as brothers disagree. And rightful heir to Vieon’s throne is in contest. And behind it all, behind the shadows and the fog, Whispers of blackened mentors seep across the court, Does amongst those most trusted walk traitorous dogs? And seek, for once and all, the royal family to thwart? This is how the story has unfolded, where we find ourselves, The die cast, the page has turned, all is in position. Step forward hero, step forward beast, step forward men and elves. Our story has begun. Welcome to The Black Inquisition. Signed-

Quick history lesson: It's been some time since I wrote poetry. Longer still since I've contributed to this board. However, I just recently finished a very long and thorough D&D campaign, and henceforth began work on a new one. My new campaign is entitled "The Black Inquisition", and will undoubtedly feature scores of poetry and prose. In any case, my explanation is becoming longer than my poem. What I'm getting to is that I will begin to post work with similar titles and themes, as most of it will be spawned from the sessions I have or prepare for. This first poem has no real title. It's a quote from a main character. When you read it, read it slowly, and try not to fit the rhyme scheme or beats. It's spoken by a not-good person, and shouldn't sound like a poem to the listeners. It's short, but enjoy. The Black Inquisition Eventually, all things will succumb to death. The flesh rots and falls from the bone. All things, in the end, fade to dust. When blood is spilled on virgin land, And the soul is allowed to fade alone, It is tragic, lamentable, but not unjust. For even Lords of men shall draw final breath, Whether reaped by time or mortal hand. For none are spared this iniquity. Signed-

Bhurin Rhymes with urine Draw your own conclusion.

I, personally, am more than happy with the system/organization around this place. Initially, I thought it merely a writing club for interested (and talented) writers. I get the feed back I expect (sometimes people just don't feel like commenting) and as for rank, I don't need a title to tell me I'm good (I let my publisher do that ). I joined this organization because a friend suggested I do so, and was received very warmly. Since then I've met some incredible people, all of whom share my interest in writing, and greatly appreciate the atmosphere of this place. (In fact, only my recent inhibitions have kept me from being hard core around here. I'll fill you all in when my life slows once more. ) Rounding out my thoughts on why I joined, I should also mention that I very much wanted to rub elbows with some of the more legendary Archmage personas I had only heard of and never met. (Bhurin throws Peredhil, Orlan and Gryfalcon a glance) Some of these people have been 'known' to me for years, but only here was I given opportunity to meet, greet, discuss and share work with them. If you want to know what I think needs improving, my answer is nothing. I love this place, and, should an innovative suggestion or serious complaint arise, I shall remain happy and contented. My only 'observation' would be that currently our format has us one half 'guild' and one half 'free gathering', and we should figure out if that's how we like it. Does rank currently entitle one to privilages? Not from what I've seen... Yet, just a visual confirmation of senority and recognition for talent. My suggestion for a solution: create a nomination system, or a more thorough review system, or something to reinforce the current system. In any case, in closing, I love you guys, and I wrote this post without having read thoroughly the previous posts, so if I've repeated anyone: Tough! Love ya guys.

Curiouser and curiouser... The first two passages are wispy and liquid-like at the same time. The description has great diction, and has been poised very... Thoughtfully... You disrupted my thoughts with the mouse, but a laugh it got none the less... I'm actually very much left wondering what happened... The keep was obviously interrupted from its usual happenstances whilst they happened... Things are left out in the open, even intact... The description is so mournful of the keep... Like a skeleton of a loved one... You did a little bit of Dickens there... You observed, then went into detail, and then further into detail still... You invented ideas we were expected to comprehend several times (names of people, their stations, etc.) and it was presented in a fashion that allowed one to flow through and past it as they considered it... You dipped into both humorous and serious memories... That helped to craft the versatility one is supposed to come to understand of the keep... Your descriptions realy varied... I didn't spot any redundant statements to interrupt the flow of things... You threw in the raven... A living symbol of death... An interesting metaphor.. Almost a paradox... You fragmented your sentences several times... This is exactly how my thoughts are often articulated, and it made for a dramatic read (drama is important) You refered to the keep as: A keep, a castle, a house, and a tower... Contrasting and complamenting... And you finished with a single bit of dialogue, which helped to close, as the idea was different in form and atmosphere than the rest of the work... All in all, I'm left feeling very sorry for this house, wishing I had a chance of learning about its former occupants, and the fate that eventually fell upon them. A good read, and mournful... Nothing like a little musically themed/inspired work to call to the surface the most foreboding of our thoughts or observations. Good story. (Word of advice: Suggest next time your readers to put on Moonlight, and make sure they don't have Louie Armstrong's "Wonderful World" rigfht after... It kinda.. Disrupted my thoughts... ) Thanks. It was a good read. Edited by: Bhurin at: 5/8/02 5:09:44 pm

Mina tori wa watashi no toriniku desu. (All birds are MY chickens) Watashi wa ookii na toriniku-sakana desu! (I am the big Chicken fish) Minasen! Tsukemono o tabetakunakatta o kudasai! Everyone! Please! Let us not haven eaten the pickles! Wakarimasen ka? Anata wa wakarimasu... Don't understand? You will... (Bhurin pays a small, Japanese dwarf, then continues eating his teriyaki...)

... The title does not prepare the reader... I allowed myself a deep-throated growl whilst I read. Black imagery my friend. In a world full of greyish tones, you hit a black note.

Aye, and may with age come wisdom, or at least the resources to fake it. -

The group remained obediently silent, each of them awaiting their turn in contemplation as Balladore’s eyes scanned his party. He paused momentarily, knowing that the decision was not a frivolous one, allowing his comrades to contemplate their decisions. His eyes wandered momentarily across the small, ill-ventilated room Millas had provided to them for their discussion. It was some sort of living quarters, though immediately one could tell it hadn’t been so always. The smell of mead and stale floor hung in the air, and the only draft that penetrated the room came from a chimney flume where an ancient stove sat. Balladore’s mind strayed as he superficially scanned the room, his mind lingering on his family. The more he allowed himself to think about it, the more he felt the desperation well up inside of himself. It choked his breath and sickened his stomach, but he remained vigilant in not allowing his demeanor to slip. Not only was it the Druid’s way of things, but he knew that, with an uncertain path ahead, an assured stride held moral as surely as any word or blade. Finally, as though the silence were shattered with due intention, Balladore turned his head and gathered his thoughts. His voice rang out his first decision: that decision being the first person he saw. “Bhurin, my friend, what say you?” Balladore’s eyes became fixed beyond the others, as the winged adventurer stood behind the rest of the group slanted against the wall. “And please, speak honestly, for I would you answer no other way…” The others jolted slightly from the sudden loss of silence; including Bhurin who perked at the mentioning of his name. He looked up slowly, his arms folded against his chest, till his grey eyes locked with Balladore’s. Bhurin’s eyes were contemplative, even distant, and when he spoke his voice was monotonous but firm. “The path ahead is one most uncertain, as others who would traverse the distance from our point of destination to here would go by the main Road that ropes around the mountains to the south… I have considered our progress since we set out, and have often wondered whether it would have been better to have added the weeks onto our journey and travel safely… But time is of the essence… And I regret not our decision. The only path to travel now is the one ahead of us, and I feel we should journey as quickly and efficiently as possible. So, if this Millas thinks he can delay us with some bravado show of arrogance, then he is sadly mistaken. I say we stand and fight, and demand they allow us to do so immediately… I fear no man with a blade…” The others all looked at Bhurin in both surprise and subtle shock. His normally diplomatic words and disposition were suddenly burning with a fire. His voice rumbled through their minds, and the look in his eyes became vivacious and passionate. Suddenly, the previous years of Bhurin’s past as an Archmage and Warlord flew through his being. Bhurin was roused to a cause. Balladore merely smiled subtly and nodded. Bhurin’s answer, or its delivery, had come as no shock to him. He knew his friend well, and also that Bhurin would neither abandon his cause or rest soundly until Balladore’s wife and children were safe. “A brother in arms,” Balladore, as he nodded with satisfaction. Then after a quick pause, Balladore turned his attention to his next companion…

Lol! Well articulated, Falcon! Though I possess a fondness for the classics, your point of view is both well understood and appreciated. Quote: ____________________________________________ "Meet, kiss, @#%$, and then die." ____________________________________________ That's almost poetry in itself. In any case, Andrea, may I ask why you selected this particular passage to share with us? Signed-

Bhurin starts to sing "If the sky, we look upon, Should tumble and fall. Or if the moutains, Should they tumble to the sea... I won't be afraid. I won't shed a tear. But just as long as you stand... Stand by me. Darling! Darling! Stand by me! Baby won't you stand, by me? Oh please... Stand by me." The bass line continues, But slowly begins to fade... Please tip your waiter...

Take it easy guys, Why can't we just get along? Nice Haiku Celes!

Carnies? Oh, I'm rather fond of these desserts too that they serve in Boston Pizza (a fav. restaurant of mine). They're called "Chocolate Explosions", and are a heavenly mixture of cheese cake, chocolate mousse, your choice of a berry flavor syrup, smothered in wiping cream, chocolate chuncks and hail, cookie crumbs, sugar and whipping icing, a thin vanilla exterior, coupled with a milk choclate exterior and crowned with cherries. It comes with a disclaimer that anyone who eats it probably will suffer several heart attacks and a stroke. (It's got like five billion calories), but it's worth it. Actually, I'm rather fond of Imps myself. Sadistic and immortal... And funny. Damn funny...

(Conversion Confusion, this is actually the first post in this thread) Alright folks, it's lesson time. Take out some paper, cause there'll be a test after. This poem was written for - well, who knows - and entails, in graphic detail, the adventures of a Smartie through the human digestive system. Ooh! Fun, and educational! Enjoy! This poem is dedicated to Dr. Seuss. Master of the poetic form. Master of a town called Borm... Well, you get the idea. Smartie Party There once was a Smartie That came from the store, Who set out on a journey, That he hadn’t before. He was bought with the others, All glistening anew, With colors so dazzling, Of Red, Green, and Blue. His own coat was Red, The most glorious shade, And he felt that he was, The best Smartie made. So in their small box, They rushed home with glee. Not knowing what their fate Was going to be. They jostled and tosseled, In the small room of black. As they shook and they shaked, And went clickity clack! Soon the box opened, Each Smartie removed. Each waited their turn, To be selected, approved. But when Red was pulled out, He soon was put back. But what could wrong with him? What did he lack? He watched in dismay, As the others were all seized, The Red Smartie was sad. He meant only to please. At last he was left, All alone in the box. Discarded, unwanted, Like an old, dirty sock. But then, without notice, The hand grabbed him up fast. Red suddenly realized, He’d been saved for last. Red, now rejoicing, Felt honored and grand. And so took great care, Not to melt in the Hand. But slowly Red realized, Something amiss. For he was slowly approaching, A dark murky abyss. With a look of confusion, And a small, squeaky “Eep!” The hand threw him in To the dim, gloomy deep! Red had been eaten, A grim fate indeed. To have traveled so long, And winding up feed. And so there Red sat. Upon wet, slimy skin. And he heard a loud voice, Here, our story begins... “WHO GOES THERE” came a voice, That thundered with bass. “WHO DARES TO INTRUDE, IN THE LAIR OF AMYLASE?” Red Smartie called back, “Um, Please excuse me dear sir. I’ll leave in a pinch, And leave all as it were.” “I’M AFRAID NOT, DEAR PREY”, The voice said with joy. “CAUSE I’M AFRAID THAT YOUR STARCH MUST BE DESTROYED!” “My Starch!” Red cried out, As he drew back in fear. “But why must it be wrecked? Why now? Why right here?” “IT IS SIMPLE”, he scoffed, Drawing now closure still, “IT MUST BE DIGESTED, AND ABSORBED, IF YOU WILL”. The voice was upon him, Red knew he was done. “Fine, take my starch…” And the process begun. First Red was crushed, By the teeth, it was grim. And would have drowned in saliva, But he knew how to swim. And he heard his starch cry, As it was broken down some, Into fragments of maltose, And small, chocolate crumbs. “NOW GET GOING, BUDDY!” The voice said with a thrill, “DON’T WORRY ABOUT THANKING ME, I’LL SEND YOU THE BILL…” Before Red could answer, He was washed down, and pulled, Into a chamber then Pushed down a hole. There he was pushed, And pulled down by the walls. “Get going” said Esophagus, As he continued to fall. Swallowed and pushed by Peristalsis he was. He didn’t bother to ask why they did it, because, At this point Red felt Like sort of a wreck. Then straight up ahead of him He saw an end to his trek. He fell into a chamber, Which seemed calm and quite placid. But he began to scream, It was full of hot acid! Above him the sphincter Closed tightly once more. He couldn’t get out through That door anymore. Red could feel his proteins Beginning to melt. And his once proud bacteria Was dying it felt! “What’s with the acid”, Red asked in pain, “And why am I being Ground up again?” “Please don’t ask questions,” Came a voice midst the screams, “We just do what we’re told, And don’t ask what it means.” “Who’s there?” questioned Red, Looking all round the den. Came the answer, “It’s me pepsin, Formally pepsinogen! I too was changed when I came to this place. I once lived in glands but Soon was replaced. Now I break down proteins, It’s kind of a chore. But I think you’re all done, So proceed through that door”. Below him a sphincter, (Yes another) opened wide. And down went Red with A bunch of peptides. The next thing Red knew, He was in a small room. “What could be next?” he asked, As he peered through the gloom. He waited a short time, Just a moment or two. And was suddenly drenched, By some kind of goo. The goo was quite messy, “And sticky”, Red yawned. Suddenly he realized, “Hey! The acid is gone!” “It’s sodium bicarbonate” Came a voice from nearby, “Mixed with some bile.” And Red said, “Oh my.” “Who’s out there?” Red cried, “And does this do?” But the voice only whimpered, And cried, Boo hoo hoo. At last the voice said, “I don’t know what I am! But one time my name Was: Green eggs and Ham” “I made it this far, but I just can’t go on! I just can’t be digested, And I’ve been here so long!’ “Right…” answered Red, As he shuffled his feet, “You said this was bile? That sounds kind of neat.” “It emulsifies fats,” Ham said, unhappily. “What that mean?” Red asked. “Just wait, and you’ll see…” Red waited a moment, And gasped when he saw, That his fat was turning Into droplets. “Awww…” “What could be worse?” Red scoffed and complained, “Watch out!” Yelled some voices, “Cause here comes some pain!” Suddenly Red was Drenched in more stuff. “Stop this right now! I’ve had just enough!” “I’m sorry” came the voices, Now all around Red. “But we have a body that needs to be fed!” “Who are you?” Red asked, As he looked all about. “A couple of things To digest me, no doubt.” “Digest things- yes. A couple, why no… We’re the most powerful and Potent enzymes, don’t you know!” Red quickly said, His voice filled with fear, “It’s nice to have met you, But I was just leaving here.” “Afraid not”, came the voices, Red felt them close in, “Nothing escapes When digestion begins.” Then Red heard a voice cry, “On Trypsin, on Maltase! Go Pancreatic Amylase, Nuclease and Lipase!” Then the slaughter began, And the enzymes broke down Each last little bit Of the Smartie from town. His last bits of starch Were broke down to maltose, And down even more, Until they were glucose. His proteins into peptides, And amino acids at last. Fatty acids and glycerol Were derived from the fats. Nucleic acids into nucleotides (That’ll make your tongue twist). And that was the lot, Not a single bit missed. And all of Red’s parts were shipped right shipped right along. Red didn’t feel good: He was almost all gone. For all of his bits were Being absorbed by Villi. And he asked, his voice weak, “Will I make it? Will I?” “I don’t think so”, said Villi, As it munched up Red’s parts, “Why’d you get eaten in the first place? I though Smarties were smart.” But Red didn’t answer, He just let himself float. He was sad beyond measure, He had lost his red coat. As he floated down through, The large intestine, His water and salt were absorbed, “Hey, those are mine…” But they paid him no heed, And absorbed him until, There was no good stuff left. And Red found a bill. The last parts of Red, He guessed, were just waste. They had taken his stuff, His flavor and taste. He reached a dark place, Call the Rectum, “how vile! It’s as slimy as Amylase, And more sticky than bile!” He finally saw a sphincter, Which let him go pass. And suddenly fell out, As he came out the… End Signed in relative jubilation- Edited by: Bhurin at: 3/12/02 12:10:38 am

See the Ozyman See Ozymandias Rhyme Rhyme Ozyman, Rhyme! - Edited by: Bhurin at: 3/12/02 12:01:02 am

Just looking for another opporutnity to run off my mouth. Bhurin looks at Orlan. I like Pie too. And cheese cake. Mmmm... Cheese cake....

27. He is NEVER without his patented bottle'o Moutain Dew ©. (Rather classy, I might add). 28. He has a gift for poetry seldom seen in the living (all those dead poets get all the credit). 29. He's got SO many posts on this message board, I feel like vomiting every time I see the total (I'm allergic to dedication ) 30. He works for the Military in RL (Hey, to a dumb kid like me, that IS cool, and a very nifty contrast to his online persona). 31. He's not TOO polite not to burn you, and not mean enough to mean it. 32. He's an official bard of Terra (Hail!). 33. He's RL name abbreviated is Law. (Oh cool is that?!) Bhurin does his bestest Judge Dread Impression, "I am the LAW!"

Hmm... A most interesting discussion... The relative merits between Elves and Humans... An endless debate, really. As lengthy and enduring as the physical duration of elves, and as complex and powerful as human passion. Though a worthy topic, by any definition of the phrase, I believe both of you somewhat missed a certain... Elequence, in your words. First off, Gwaihir, let me start off with what will undoubtedly turn into a long rambling of my own observations, by saying that, automatically, you are predisposed to a certain disadvantage. The elements of your society and race are very foreign indeed to the minds of humans, and henceforth cannot really express fully the importance of your race's advantages. I am, of course, talking about your immortality. Immediately, it is a concept beyond the comprehension of mortal man. Think about it for a moment. Man, within his own society and right, has attached certain faiths and ideals to qualities such as that; normally attributing said qualities to the divine or greater beings. When they observe, amoung themselves no less, beings of such obvious beauty that effectively can live forever, it can be very confusing and upsetting. You are, after all, not Gods. I doubt any Elf or Drow would make the blasphemous err to refer to themself as one. However, there you stand; and there you do not age. Beautiful forever... Henceforth, men will be men, and fear what they cannot fully understand. Now, to comment on your discussion on the beauty of both races, history, unfortunately, is against you both. It is known to all who observe the fundamentals laid forth by our Lord and Master, Tolkein (May his Words resonate for all time) that elven beauty is, without doubt or recourse, almost sublime. The Lady of the Wood's beauty is very renowned indeed, as any who have heard of Lothlorien and had pleasure to dwell there will attest. However, I cannot agree with you that humans do not possess incredible beauty of their own. For instance, I never heard of the Lady of the Wood launching a thousand ships with the beauty of her face alone. Mortal humans also have legends of refined beauty. Helen of Troy, foster daughter of King Tyndareus, was told to have such incredible beauty that all the world knew her as the greatest. Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Mistress of femininity, was even told to have taught Helen the very elements of love and beauty, henceforth making her the most beautiful creature to ever be born to the Mortal Plane. Of course, as long as we discuss beauty, I might add that both of you lose when compared to Nymphs, whose very beauty will kill a man... (Rumors say, from loss of blood ) And, also remember that no one can comment on the collective thoughts of both races. There are, afterall, HALF-elves (or half-humans, if you prefer) alive and breathing under the sun. Besides, Gwaihir, are you saying that the Humans possess no beauty or grace in the things they do? Is there no beauty in the tilling of land? It is true that the very language Elves speak is melodious, and even mesmerizing to the unwary. (I could never get the accent quite right), and that, compared to the lanky, almost clumsy posture of the humans, elves do all things with woodland grace and dexterity. Still, to me, the down-and-dirty grace of a human farmer, or the almost eccentric refinements humans take in their nobility is both attractive and pleasing. In comparing song or verse, I must admit that the elves hold sway for me. The elven tounge is almost tragically beautiful, and Elven Bards have become so good at their craft that human word-smiths seem as jesters before them. Still, the humans have many advantages in this field. First of all, know that the aspect of comedy is one well forged by the humans. Some know and understand the subltites of comedy or interpretive dance. And please, Gods willing, remember this: The Elves are master of the harp, lyre, and lute; but Gwaihir, have you ever heard the humans gathered in Choir? I have never heard or seen an Elven choir in my travels, but I have seen human ones. And, if you have not heard or see one in life, seek one out. I have never wept at music until I was before what could only seem an endless infinity of power, all joined in praise of God or the wonders of art. Hundreds, even thousands of Men, women and children, acting as one voice. For one purpose. It is a glorious thing... A Terribly beautiful, and humbling experience... Now, for the unfortunate aspects of war. As far as the craft of war goes, Elves seem to be predominant. Elven steel, and carved weaponry more than rival any work that could be done by man. Or do they? I'm afraid most everyone is predisposed to a very bias frame of mind, as the quality of elven ware is never low; and, quite commonly, that is the oppostie case of humans. But before one can dismiss their work, one must take into account ALL their achievements. I have heard tell of stories of human smiths who can take regluar steel - not the Gold of Moria, mind you, as Elves are quite famous for - but normal steel smithed from iron, and forged into blades of incredible power. So sharp are these blades, it is said, that one can take a slip of silk, toss it into the air, and slit it by allowing it to drape gently over the blade. So sharp, that they can cleave through iron-root trees; and so quickly so, that they suspend in air momentarily before sliding along their severed parts. The humans' technique is told to involve folding the metal over and over; sometimes a single blade being passed down to new generations of their offspring before one can be finished. Techniques more art than anything. My final comment pertaining to war is this, as I would rather not dwell upon it. The Elves are fearsome and deadly warriors, there is not a doubt in my mind that would say otherwise. (I would rather stare down the barrel of an Aquebus than an arrow held by elven hands). But no one, not a creature in the world, can compare to the warfare of humans. Perhaps their skill is not reknowned, but I have heard of Human tacticians diabolically clever, and willing to sacrifice country-men as cattle to obtain their objectives. It is their more potent greed, you see, that drives them in this field. No creature, not orc, dwarf, or goblin can compare to the purity of human greed. It is said that it is this greed that allows the humans to reach such high supremacy in their fields of interest. (As, according to the rules and Fundamentals laid forth by the Company known as TSR - May their influence stretch to all things- that within the confines of a D&D universe, only humans can excel to any level they wish to, as well as switch to any class, without restriciton. (With the exception of Half-elves being bards.) That is a fundamental rule, and one of the human's greatest advantages.) Finally, there is the aspect of straight combat. Whether tis' nobler in the heart to stand ground upon the field before thine enemy and do battle with digit and limb provided by Maker; or to slip as shadows within the cloak of nature, as all warriors and creatures of the woods, and strike at the enemy like a storm. Unstoppable and powerful. I'm afraid that I cannot discern a side or base of reasoning on this one. This is based solely on the cultures of Men and Elves, as I know of individuals from both races that prove the opposite. I've seen a human notch and fire an arrow with such form as to split the arrow of his competitor at five hundreds yards. I have also seen Elves march upon the field of battle, swords in hand, and fear cast out like so much rubbish. Both sides can both prove and discount this area of the arguement. Sorry, but I can be of no help here. Finally, last but not least, please remember that the fundamentals of both races, for some reason, seem to differ within contexts to different lands. Under the laws of Tolkein (May he watch upon us from the Havens of his own creation), elves are exactly as you say they are. Nimble, beautiful, endearing; as well as fearsome foes and masters of the written word or spoken verse. However, under the laws of Terry Pratchet (Creator of the Disc-world, and a very noteworthy bard, may his wit never cease to flow), elves are condescending, arrogent, somewhat petty aristocrates that can neither sing nor forge their own music, and generally are pains in the neck. And, under the apprenticeship of one Christopher Cringle (The Santa Claus, ruler of the North Pole, rider of the lighter-than-air sleigh, able to squeeze into small spaces despite a massive girth, and other wise Saint and generous guy), elves are three foot tall craftsmen, who specialize in toys and wear jingly shoes and keep his production plant going. (Though, personally, I believe that, in fact, they are Gnomes, who fit this description much better than Elves according to the rules laid forth by TSR, May their Books always be in print). Well, that's that. I thought this post was going to get rather long. I hope I haven't seen one sided, Gwaihir, as I agree very much so with a lot of what you said. I just wanted to convey both sides of the arguement, as I threw in my own observations and opinions. Besides, there are even better races out there, with cooler advantages. Bhurin stretches his arms, allowing his wings to do the same, before yawning and smiling Right, well, that should just abot do'er. I hope I haven't antagonized anyone... Bhurin looks at the Guild full of Elves and Half-Elves. After all, not all of us have the patience of elves... But I'm sure, deep down, all of us are, at least in some way or another, a little human... Good day all.

Bhurin walks triumphantly forward, standing firmly in the middle of the crowd. Suddenly he throws his arms out and shouts as loud as his mighty lungs could bear; "KABOOM!" Bhurin nods then, obviously satisfied with his action. Slowly he receeds back, satisfaction dancing across his dark his and white smile.

Tsuki Konban wa Fushigi de kirei na Yoku no ou Good evening moon, You are wonderful and beautiful King of the night... (Forgive me, that one was from memory. I wrote it some time ago, and it may not be completely correct...) Signed-

I'm afraid adjectives fail me... Very enriched word play; you seamlessly sew together multiple metaphors and observations into an almost erratic pattern. It's very beautiful... It sounds like you're providing personal insight into many aspects, most prominently aspects of religious faith. You mention the symbols of crosses and what I can only guess are strengths and weaknesses of said faith. (Going back for a second, I must say that your seond verse is very insightful. I won't pretend to comprehend it, but it seems as though you pack satire relating to human "advancement", the loss of faith and religion, and a swift rush of movement described as "tragic". That immediately swept my thoughts from the moment into the work). And the structure! Dear sweet bagles, this was extraordinary! (I greatly apologize, but I'm a structure-maniac, and quite often allow a certain amount of superficial interest into the form of the poem). Repeated verses; shifting style and rhyme scheme (I liked how you excentuated "We're dying" by giving it it's own line); and varying rhythm and diction. This poem almost hurt to read! I couldn't possibly sit here and attempt to disect this work. I'm afraid it will take some time and a few more reads before I can even fake a grasp on it. The only thing I'm left wondering about is the title of the thread... However, this work is superb, at the very least by my own personal standards. Thank you. Signed- >Edited by: Bhurin at: 2/18/02 9:07:35 pm

LOL! Word up hommes? How's it kickin' on the Pen's side? That was tight! Rapping is a whole other breed of poetry, and it's amazing sometimes not only what people can just pull out of the air, but the rhythms that can be born from their work. I tip my hat. I couldn't do what you have done, at least that well. Bhurin begins to make scratch noises, as he goes to read the thread again...

Here's an oldie but a goodie. It's actually the first poem I basically ever wrote (one that I sat down to actually write), and this was some years ago now, as I was rather young. It's a little rustic, but I think it'll fit in around here nicely. Enjoy. Dragon Warrior A knight, mounted on his steed standing tall, With one thought in mind; "Will I stand, or will I fall?" And with this thought in mind, he rode up to the cave, While the villagers thought, “He’s either dumb, or he’s brave.” Upon reaching the cave, the knight then dismounted. He said goodbye to his friend, every last moment counted, Then taking out his shield, and unsheathing his sword, Thrust it into the ground, and prayed to the Lord. Then taking it out, he walked into the Abyss. Hoping the monster’s sight he would miss. Then the battle begun! And there was yelling and roaring, And these horrible sounds to the town, they came soaring. Then all grew quiet. Everyone was tense. The only sound was sheep, baaing from their fence. Every maiden grasped her kerchief, every man clasped his flagon. Just then the knight stepped out… He had slayed the dragon. Signed-