Bhurin

Bhurin sighs, his mouth smiling, but his eyes filled with some sort of reminiscing sparkle... Oh Falcon.... You... Well shoot! Bhurin quickly hugs Falcon, then looks around hurriedly, brushing himself off and beginning to talk with his voice deeper and more mannish. Well, uh, yeah... Very good poem. Very good... All joking aside, though my friend, this poem is so heartfelt! You prick a nerve many other poets try to with song or verse, but often fall short in succeeding at. Is it not often I come across a love poem that succeeds in describing the depth or sincerity of the love spoken about (personally I almost avoid this genre all together, as I have yet to find a love that deep; and feel I have no bearing to express an emotion I fail to understand or have yet to experience). But all too often people fancy themselves love poets, and are not (I know that sounds cold, but this is my only pet peeve in the world of poetry. Do you know how many poems with the words "love" and "dove" or "above" rhymed I have read? Do you know how hard it is to find one that doesn't?!) Bhurin stops himself, becoming mindful of his increased vulgarity and volume. Oh, sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.... You succeed with immesureable success to describe your feeling in this poem. I know that sounds mushy and all, but like I said I don't often find good love poetry, and I did so today. Your work is parrallel with Elizabeth Browning's "How do I love thee" poem. I really like it. Good word by the way. Good choice. You threw yourself out there on that one (I rarely use the word perfect). Your feelings, quite obviously, are sincere. I thank you. Signed-

Bhurin stiffles a smile, as his eyes widen, and he covers his mouth with his hand. Excellant! Though I'm the last person to even think about mirroring or altering a work of great literature (not that you have, just a personal comment on my part), I really like this poem. Talk about old age raving at the close of day! (I'm actually a big fan of Dylan). You have almost created a medievel rendition of the poem, how very appropriate and fascinating. (I'm sorry, but you armed the poor man with a sword! I'm afraid I burst out laughing when you did. Forgive me if you intended this to have a serious atmosphere). You have forged a poem alike to the great work, and put it into context for others to enjoy who may never read (or understand) the author from which you based it on. Thank you, and bravo! Very well done. Signed-

Very whimsicle, my friend. Your language is playful, and your style in this poem reminds me of the innocence of a toddler (but please do not take that as a comment on your personal style ) You do not allow complicated language or style interefere in what is generally a statement that is sincere and genuine in its context, and generally doesn't need big works or metaphors to describe something that, frankly, is right there in front of you. I like this poem. Though I admit I'm not a big fan of the style, your message and similes are well appreciated. Thank you. Signed-

A joyful redition, my friend, and beautifully done. If I may say so, all too often do I read the work of others and find tinges of agnst and depression sewn into the framework. While this does not necessarily detract from the poem, it sometimes wears on my heart to absorb so much negativity. However, your work... Well, it sings really. I might have missed something, but I got general happiness and appreciation from your words, and was left very much pleased and contented. Bhurin sighs with relief. Yes, that one really hit the spot. Signed-

A... Very, very good articulation, my friend, of observations. I must say that your use of metaphbor is most impressive. If I may say; the shards of a broken heart simile is often over done, but this idea is fresh (I especially like the glue comment, as superficial as that sounds. I like the implied metaphor for grounds to re-base the relationship on), and your use of a flowing rhythm makes the poem all the more enjoyable. Also, as long as I'm bringing up rhythm, may I say that it is not often that I can read through a poem completely on my first try without stopping to examine a beat or change of metre on part of the poet. This was one of those times. your poem flowed with mercury-like smoothness. This is one that would easily commit to memory. My thanks. Signed-

Bhurin sighs, his eyes transfixed to a point in the distance. His voice seems distracted as he speaks... Hmm... The colors... The colors are very vivid to me. Bhurin nods Yes, that is what meant the most to me in this poem. Well done, my friend. A very well voiced poem. You have taken an old idea, and revoiced it elequently. the first verse and last were my definite favorites, however, for in the first first you begin by a somewhat common physical, even somewhat superficial, description of the land. Then you strike the reader with the comment in the fourth line. Very very effective. It's one of those poems that, if you weren't in the mood to read poetry, you would scan the first stanza, then become interested in reading poetry. The last verse, however, that one is my most favorite... The colors; and the simplistic description of their meld... Beautiful and dramatic. Definitely my favorite verse. Thank you. Signed-

Bhurin's mouth drops. Dear sweet mother of pearl! A sonnet! Do my worn eyes deceive me? I do believe I have here, before me, a genuine sonnet! Most difficult and prestigious of the poetic forms! Rushes over and kisses Signe's hand. My dear, you do not know how much this means to me! Sonnets are SO difficult to write, and they hold a special place in my heart. As well, this one was excellantly done (AKA forget the style for a moment, look at the content!). Wickedly dark, my dear. I believe it's a social comment, though perhaps too specific for my untraveled mind. It's strange, but I don't feel a hopelessness here, but something equally befalling. Depression perhaps? Fhew... You invoke complex emotions with your words, my dear. Thank you very much for this one. Well done. Signed-

Hmm... I think I could have a field day on this one, Seth; though for now I'll make my comments before I even attempt to critique. A most interesting work, my friend. Actually, I enjoyed the message far more than the style or rhyme. (You could have blatantly stated this point of view and I would called you brilliant). Point of view poems, especially alien ones or ones I have not yet considered, are fascinating. You depict an interesting force of the universe, and question its involvement in the grand scheme of things (whether it is the grand scheme, or indeed has become tainted by alignment and now serves another power). Few people quesiton fate, or bother to make observations on its various aspects. This is one of those poems I wish I had thought of first. As for rhyme scheme and structure, it flowed excellantly. Though I shall critique more indpeth later, my only comment would be not to force the archaic language too much, as to interefere with flow. If you wonder what I mean, re-look at the poem and ask yourself whether or not there was a spot where you sacrificed rhythm for use of language. (Sorry, I'm just an old rhythm stickler.) Well, I guess that'll do. Keep it up, your stuff is really good and unique. Signed-

Bhurin stands silent for some time, his eyes full and round, seeming to blind over as he thinks over the words... Dragcor Warwick... A truly amazing and interesting piece. Beg your pardon if my responce is somewhat un-articualte, but you surpised me just now. That sudden jump from free/blank verse to intense and repetitive rhyming caught me completely off guard. I felt a surge of emotion... Like a climax building in a song... And, if I may make an observation, I made special notice of how you capitialized the names of the qualities you were describing, as if they were living things and you were, in fact, addressing by name. Was this intentional? Beg your pardon, but sometimes grammar forces me to notice things like that. But please forgive me for rambling. Bhurin shakes his head, as though knocking dust from it My thoughts aren't clear right now and obviously my words must suffer for it. An excellant piece. Signed- Edited by: Bhurin at: 2/14/02 10:13:05 pm

How quaint! The structure of the poem dances! It danced as I saw the butterfly dancing (at least to me). Most pleasing. The structure and diction of the poem come together well in this piece. I don't know if this was intentional, but I loved it. A beautiful work. Signed-

Bhurin frowns, a subtle expression of sadness coming to his eyes. It is an excellant poem my friend, and I, too, shall have to get back to you are far as critiquing goes. It's an unfair play on emotions, however. A set up so merry, then a quick fall. The idea is mournful, but the execution both articulate and well done. Thank you. Signed-

A nifty little diddy, pleasing to the the ear. The atmosphere is almost dream-like, but I get that sensation one has when they're really tired but not asleep when I read it. You've certainly posted a lot of work since you joined. Keep it up. Signed-

An Imp, small and demonic, laughed hysterically with a high pitched voice as he rode on the front of a massive machine of war. “Oooh, lots of fun I am having! Can smell burnt flesh EVERYwhere! Veeeerrryyyy appetizing!” Another Imp, from the top of the war machine, looked down and scowled, “Abe! Very stupid your brain is! Sit in front of Ironfist’s mouth is veeeerrryyyy brainless!” Abe the Imp, his opal eyes becoming sorrowful and his voice meek, only said, “Yous is right… Abe not want to be barbequed! Already had bath this month!” With that, the small devilish Imp jumped up from his spot on top of the magical siege-craft. The Imps, small but practically invincible, were the minions who controlled the two massive siege-crafts named Ironfist and Dreadmetal. The machines, though sentient with the minds of spawned demons, required an incredible staff to direct and fire them. Though the Imps were small, and even somewhat lacking in intelligence and foresight, their knack for mechanical things was impressive, and they wielded their weapons of war with wanton fanaticism. Hundreds of Imps rode atop the forty-foot plus mobile siege-craft, both visions of demonic power. The siege-craft were so massive, they left trenches in the earth as they rode, and needed to be drawn by giant beasts of shadow. “Halt position!” Cried an Imp with a green skull cap on his head, decorated with a single gold star at the front. “This be good place to roast many people!” “No! Roll Ironfist over THERE!” cried another Imp, his voice a slightly deeper pitch than a piglet’s squeal as he pointed across the way, “Can shoot even MORE!” “No!” said another Imp, climbing to the top of the craft, “Let’s turn Ironfist around and shoot own forces! Will GREATLY confuse enemy!” “You stupid ‘twip!” cried a squirrelly voice, “That will not work!” “Yeah!” cried another voice, “Ironfist cannot be turned round fast enough! Will take many hours! Too long!” “Quiet!” yelled the Imp with the green skull cap, “Felbin is leader, and Felbin says fire here! Felbin is smartest and most attractive, and has the chief helmet! Now, lower Iron feet and prepare to fire!” The Imps set to work, some leaping to large cranks and cranking, others to ropes and pulling. Underneath the massive frame of Ironfist, large anchors fell to the ground (some with Imps attached) fastening the massive siege-craft to the ground. Other large iron planks fell from the sides, stabilizing it. The weapon made fearsome noises as it was handled into position, while further down the hill, Dreadmetal unfolded with uncanny silence. There the Imps were darker, and more accustomed to Dreadmetal’s Necromatic atmosphere. Once Ironfist was anchored, the Imps all gathered up top again. Once they were all there, Felbin adjusted his green skull cap then leapt into a seat mounted on the very top of the machine. The seat was rigged with large handles and a spy-scope with crosshairs built onto it. The Imp laughed with glee, as he said, “Felbin get ready to fire! Everyone else must adjust aim!” The Imps all moaned, many of them kicking Ironfist’s steel frame and scoffing. “Felbin ALWAYS fires Ironfist!” “Why can’ts we pull firebar?!” “Blobby never gets to fire… (Sob!)” “Felbin never shoots straight anyway! Last time he hits General! Blames us!” Felbin quickly shouted, “My heads’s greatest! No talk of leader like that! You all can’t shoot because Felbin has the hat! Now get to crank and shut squeaking holes!” The Imps all protested, until another Imp leapt aboard the machine and yelled, “Dreadmetal already turning mouth! Prepares to fire!” The Imps all became silent and suddenly determined. Their mouths all frowning in defiance, they looked to Felbin and nodded. Felbin saluted them all with a gangly hand across his forehead, then sat back in his seat. It was a matter of pride for the Imps of Ironfist to beat the Imps of Dreadmetal, of whom they detested with deep running resentment. They now united in their cause to show up their fellow Imps, determined to be the superior siege-craft. Felbin gripped the levers in front of him and looked through the cross hairs of Ironfists’ scope. He moved it about, observing the combatants on the battlefield before him. Finally, his scope rested on a mounted rider, who was fighting valiantly against the forces of Rekmor, outnumbered but refusing to fall. Across the battlefield, Gyrfalcon suddenly felt like he was being watched… “Ohhh! Very pretty target!” Felbin cooed, his tongue salivating outside his mouth, “All metal like! Turn Ironfist now! I have found silly horseman!” Obediently the Imps complied, as they began to turn dozens of cranks and levers. Slowly, as many gears and parts moved within its massive husk, Ironfist began to pan and tilt, every part of its frame moving except for the scope Felbin held. The machine turned until it was directed where the scope was aimed, a boggling feat for any manner of mechanics. “READY!” Felbin yelled, a demonic smile on his face as he gripped the levers that would fire the incredible siege-craft. He licked his purple lips with anticipation. Within the bowls of Ironfist, Abe the Imp sat solemnly on a box as he heard the other Imps worked furiously elsewhere. Of all the hundreds of tasks needed to be done in order to fire Ironfist, he had the most boring of all. He was the “Pin-watcher”, the most boring and otherwise unrewarding job in the company (Imps prided themselves on work ethics and productivity). Abe scowled slightly, as he heard the words of his orders run through his mind again and again. He heard them repeated everyday: “Watch the Pin! Do not touch the Pin! Do not talk to pin! Do not leave post! Bathe more often!” The words caused a frenzy of emotion to swell up in Abe. Every day of his life he had been ordered around. Finally, his day of reckoning came… “Stupid faces!” he cried, leaping from his seat, “I’ll show them to boss Abe around! Abe not listen today! Abe going to break rules! Vive le Abe!” With that, Abe grabbed a hold of the pin. “Abe show stupid pin! How important can be anyway?” Abe began to pull. The pin, at first, resisted Abe. But, quickly, it began to give… Directly above him, Felbin gripped the handles to fire Ironfist. Felbin laughed hysterically, and cried, “DIE, PUKEFACED PEOPLE!” With a subtle “ting”, the pin came free. Suddenly, Ironfist let out a horrifying cry, as dozens of iron and wooden bars split under massive weight. A main support structure deep within Ironfist had come undone, causing the whole front end of the siege-craft to fall and point down. Just as it fell, Ironfist’s mouth shone with deadly light, and let loose its deadly power. A beam of incredible, fiery energy, spat forth from the belly of Ironfist’s form, spewing out the front end. The beam, now horribly misdirected, soared but a few feet before finding a target. Dreadmetal. The Imps aboard Dreadmetal began to scream in a mix of hysterical pain and laughter. They leapt from Dreadmetal’s bone framework as their bodies burned and the land around the Necromatic siege-craft combusted into a hellish fire. The Imps abandoned the craft, as Dreadmetal let loose a bloody moan of pain, as terrible and mournful as a beast of the sea. Aboard Ironfist, Felbin looked upon his work with sudden anxiety. His eyes were the size of dinner plates, and after long moments of silence, managed a small squeaky, “Eep!” Within the folds of Ironfist, Abe also squeaked a short answer to the mishap. “Ooops…” Abe said, looking at the pin as he sat amongst wreakage and steaming pipes, his face covered in char, “Maybe Pin was important…” On the battlefield, all that was known was that Ironfist fired upon Dreadmetal, none seeing or hearing what had occurred. Few afforded a laugh, while others took no note of it. It was unimportant, really, as the battle was about to draw its conclusion…

Bhurin, rising slowly from his seat, suddenly raises his arms into the arm and lets out a Homer-style: "Woo Hoo!" "Thanks guys, and congratulations to everyone promoted. It is a great honor, and I deeply appreciate it. More notably, however, I'd like to congratulate those who made Quill-Bearer, a particularly note-worthy title. Good job guys, all of you desearve it!" Bhurin rushes off to get his new sig...

A most excellant piece my friend. Sometimes there's nothing like a little angst to inspire emotions. Just a quick question: What style of music would you set this to? Normally I try to fill in the blanks, but nothing I could think of fit properly. Again, a most excellant piece. If I had but an ounce of talent to critique this style of poetry I would, but for now I can only enjoy. Signed-

Bhurin sat quietly upon a large sandbar in the ocean, overlooked by the Pen's keep, the bar having risen high enough from the ocean floor to make a small island. In a few years it would be a paradise (undoubtedly taken over by certain Pen Elders for quick money-making ventures), but for the moment, Bhurin appreciated the silence. Only the sound of the tide coming in and out, and the occasional gull overhead penetrated his sensitive ears. Bhurin was aware of the commotion going on up in the Keep, he himself the victim of such an attack. Two things had been swiped from the winged writer: his Grand Piano, and his L.A.R.T. (Large Attitude Readjustment Tool). Both incredibly valuable to himself; both his oldest possessions. And, like the others, he had found no clues; no mistakes or oversights on the part of the theif. Bhurin had come to the small island to think, his mind baffeled at how the theif had climbed into the clock-tower where he called home. Bhurin sipped from the vintage Ozymandis had given to him when he had joined the Pen, the draught burning as it slid down his throat. "Smooth..." whispered Bhurin, cringing as tears formed in his eyes. Finally, knowing he was getting nothing acomplished sitting and thinking, he decided to make his way back to the Keep. He took off shortly after, riding an updraft back up into the air, then glided overtop the Pen's Keep, made to fly to the Cabaret to hopefully get an update of what was going on. Suddenly however, like the slightest of whispers, Bhurin's eyes perceived something amiss. A tiny flash of silver light had caught his eye on the ground. He immediately descended, diving from nearly two kilmeters in the air. Finally he touched down, walking the few feet where he had seen the flash. At last finding what he was looking for, Bhurin knelt down and picked up a single, silvery high-E guitar string. Bhurin's eyes flashed for a moment, knowing he had found a possible clue. "Perhaps this theif is not as skilled as we thought..." Bhurin took flight again, seeking out the other members of the Pen to share his finding...

The day now waned across the rolling lands and temperate forests, the afternoon sun now far fallen from its once high throne as it began to slip into the reaches of early evening. Though the sky should still gleam with the light of sunset on any given day, now it still was filled with the darkened clouds of a waning storm, reaching hundreds of furlongs in all directions. The screams of battle were now not so vicious or strident, and slowly the cries of bloodlust began to be drowned by the yells of pain and the mournful murmurs of mercy and dying breath. The stalemate that had held the field, at last, would need to wear thin and break. The air became cold… Unnatural and troubling for the observant… Marionus, Dread Lord of Rekmor, sat upon a bloodied horse, still cleaving through the throngs of men affront him like a reaper of crop. The inner defensive line proved to be more resilient than he had initially anticipated, and even now, though dozens of their brothers lay fallen before him, soldiers rushed to affront the still mounted Dread Lord. Marionus hewed at them with zealous accord, seeming not to have tired in the long moments he had already spent battling. Slowly he grew closure to the iron heart of the Confederacy, his scythe singing death. Suddenly, Marionus felt a surge within his being, like a cold chill through his blood, searing his mind and gripping his blackened heart. He paused momentarily, swinging once more at a charging soldier before rearing his horse and paying full attention to all his senses. With a call in his mind, Marionus turned his horse as he scanned the battlefield, the beast whinnying with confusion at its masters forceful orders. As he turned about the field, Marionus saw many sights, most of which he could afford no attention. Something was amiss upon the field, and he needed to find it… Soon, his eyes came to rest on the Arioch, and the fleeing riders of Shadow. Without warning or consideration, the Dread Lord broke his forward advancement, turning his horse East and charging full bore toward the protectors of Cioden. Now, though many men stood between him and the escaping riders, Marionus moved with demonic speed, rushing upon their position. As Arioch, Lord of Death Knights, followed his men in their task of removing Coiden from the field, a wave passes through him as well. He could sense with demonic prowess the nearing malice, and he turned to affront it. Immediately perceiving the Dread Lord, Arioch narrowed his burning eyes and said, “Protect Cioden at any cost!” Arioch then held his axe above himself in drawn attack, and kicked his horse to a gallop. Coiden, still weak and wrought with murdering pain, looked up one last time to see Arioch tearing back toward the field. He made to say something, then fell into a painful, unconscious dream. At any cost… Fearsome as any apocalypse, the two riders bore toward one another, weapons drawn. Directed straight toward one another, they paid no heed to any other manner of life, below or before them. Men caught in front were trampled underfoot by the fearsome steeds of the demonic riders. They drew closure, now little else was between them. An arrow flew and struck Marionus’ armor, shattering and falling without acknowledgement. A Gorog leapt at Arioch, and was decapitated with bone shattering force; the cut so swift that no blood seaped from the wound until the Gorog lay at rest upon the ground. They were mere yards away then, Arioch roaring in rage and Marionus remaining deathly silent. Both drew their weapons and, as they were upon one another, struck. Suddenly, both riders fell, as their disemboweled horses fell beneath them. Arioch had struck true, embedding his axe in the chest of Marionus’ horse and then dragging it free. Marionus had swept low, removing Arioch’s horse’s two right legs, Arioch’s axe dragging over the shaft of the scythe as they passed. The two horses cried in pain as the riders passed, falling to the ground in a bloody fit of death. Marionus landed upon his feet and sprawled forward, rolling forward and ending on his back. He instantly threw his feet up and leapt from grounded to standing. His scythe had landed upon the ground, and now lay several feet from him. Raising his hand, the scythe leapt to it with violent speed, the Dread Lord becoming instantly rearmed. Arioch, meanwhile, had landed hard upon his side, never actually having fallen off his horse. As he came down with the massive beast, he had threw one of his hands down to save himself, and had successfully rolled from the saddle as the writhing horse struck the earth. Arioch, took a moment to rise to his feet. Slowly walking over and claiming his axe from the ground. There they stood, two massive titans amidst the battlefield, now facing one another with malicious harmony. Arioch spoke first. “Marionus! Wretched lap dog of a mortal King! I knew your filth was upon these lands the moment your treasonous hide left scent upon the wind! It has been a many turn of years since last we met!” Marionus spoke, his voice echoing like a struck anvil, “Arioch… At last your ignorance has brought you before me in battle, so that I may smite you and forever rid you from the same world as the Lord… Blasphemous follower of those who walk in light.” “Fool! I serve no one but my own dark tiding! These mortal dogs serve my own interests! Look at how they perceive me as leader, though I threaten them with death just as surely as their enemies! You, however, serve men who perceive to rule the darkness! If only they knew! Darker forces rule the shadow, and even now rule over your wretched Lord like puppet-masters over playthings! Who do you truly serve, Marionus! A man who could never been birthed from hatred as you or I!” Marionus bellowed, his voice ripping through the air as a cannon shot, “Fool! The Lord brings despair as only a festered malice could! Greater than the pigs of the halls of the Abyss or Hell! He shall descend upon all things and bring to them a cleansing oblivion! And I shall ride affront the hordes of a new darkness, his banner in my hands as surely as any blade! And you will beg of me to end your suffering!” Arioch roared, his own voice becoming layer with hatred and discord, “Ignorant wretch, I shall tear your cursed flesh apart, and feed upon your blackened soul!” With that, Arioch raised his axe into the air, and roared as a demon of scorn. “DIE!” Arioch charged suddenly, and Marionus raised his scythe. Arioch struck first, his axe bearing down upon Marionus with hasted speed. Marionus deflected the blow with an armored forearm, striking the axe on the flat before it could bite at him. Marionus then returned the attack with one of his own, swinging his scythe with one hand, almost plainly and without passion. Arioch dodged, turning his back a moment and coming about again with another axe swing. Marionus deflected this shot with his scythe, halting the deadly edge of the axe with the pole of his weapon. Marionus swung now, and then again when Arioch dodged. The second shot, a sweeping uppercut, caught Arioch by his armor, and dragged up the interwoven steel with a scream of sparks. Arioch, unafflicted by the blow, brought the back of his hand across Marionus’ face. He struck, but the Dread Lord seemed to shrug off the attack. Marionus backed away for a moment, then began to swing his scythe with deadly speed and grace. Arioch deflected right, than left; before leaping backward in a display of demonic dexterity, the stained scythe missing him just barely. Arioch knelt for a moment, then charged at the Dread Lord, screaming with rage and fury. He was able to strike Marionus before the Dread Lord could sting with his scythe. The Death Knight gripped Marionus by the waist in a bear hug, dropping his axe momentarily to grip his hands together. In a frightening display of strength, Arioch roared with rage and began to squeeze Marionus, lifting him into the air Marionus’ black armor began to bend beneath Arioch’s incredible strength. Though Marionus was larger than Arioch, the Death Knight seemed to lift his massive form without difficulty. Marionus hung for a moment, his face hidden from view by the demonic helmet but his body telling pain. Then Marionus, struck Arioch in the face with his spiked gauntlet. The blow was enough to rip Arioch’s face, but still the Death Knight continued to squeeze. Marionus struck again, and again, in faster increments. The blows could be felt from afar, as they struck with loud crashes. Marionus’ armor continued to buckle, but still both demons did not subside. The sound of bending metal was met by the sound of buckling bone. Finally, Marionus gripped Arioch’s head with both hands, piercing his spiked-thumbs into Arioch’s eyes. The Death Knight screamed with pain, as Marionus’ hands began to burn with black power. Finally, Arioch released the Dread Lord, and staggered back, his hands covering his face. Marionus landed upon the ground with a sickening thud, and he did not move immediately. Finally he rose, his movements now hindered by some unseen wound. The Dread Lord made to his feet, as Arioch began to remove his hands from his eyes. Arioch was injured, but his sight remained. As the blur finally ebbed, he regained his sight just in time to see Marionus upon him. Arioch made to dodge, but he leapt to miss a blow. Marionus, instrad, leapt atop the Death Knight, his massive weight pinning Arioch to the ground. Marionus began to strike punching blows to Arioch’s face, again and again with blurred speed. Marionus’ attacks were violent, and soon drew demonic blood. Arioch’s head split open, and fiery blood began to pour down his face. Arioch roared, plunging his hand against Marionus’ abdomen. The Dread Lord waned for a moment, seeming to lose his strength, and Arioch capitalized on this opportunity. The Death Knight immediately threw Marionus off of him, his other hand flying toward his discarded axe. He gripped it, and sent the axe flying at Marionus. The Dread Lord was struck suddenly, the axe lodging itself into his back. Yet, no blood spilled forward, and the Dread Lord only staggered for a moment before righting himself. Arioch looked upon Marionus with enraged horror, as Marionus turned back to him, his form once again powerful and commanding. The Dread Lord reached back and dislodged the axe from his back, gripping it tightly and looking upon it. “Impossible!” cried Arioch, “That blade is tempered with the blood of the Demon Svargor! All are slain under its assault!” Marionus held the axe for sometime, seconds passing as hours, before he took it into both hands and looked to Arioch. “He feeds me power, Arioch. Power you cannot imagine… With that, Marionus gripped the axe, and forced his massive hands together. Instantly he shattered the steel head into hundreds of fragments, all of them exploding out from him like deadly shrapnel. Arioch shielded his face, the shrapnel bouncing harmlessly off his armor. When next he looked up, Marionus had retaken his scythe, and was now slowly advancing on him. Arioch stood silent for a time, then narrowed his gaze and roared with incredible rage. Reaching behind himself, he pulled two dirks from behind his back; long, shard and black daggers, and cried, “Curse your treacherous flesh, Marionus! I shall drink your blood yet!” Arioch charged then, the daggers like snake-teeth before him. He leapt. Marionus swung his scythe. Steel rang and blood jetted forth. When the movement ceased, and time seemed once again to continue as it had, Arioch was directly in front of Marionus. Both his dirks had penetrated Marionus’ armor, and now were stabbed into his chest plate; one at the heart, the other through where the lung would be. Arioch stood there for a short time, his eyes still burning with hatred, his hands still locked onto the dirks. Marionus, whose scythe now was stabbed into the ground, gingerly reached up and grabbed Arioch’s hands. After a moment, Marionus threw them off, tearing the blades from his armor. As he did so, Arioch fell. He had been cut in two. The Death Knight fell to the earth, his corpse beginning to burn with dark, pulsing flames, as Marionus took up his scythe and looked forward. Around him men, who had been fighting, now gawked in horror and disbelief. The Dread Lord raised his scythe, and roared with terrifying accord. The men then either dropped in fear or continued to fight. Marionus, turning from the seeping remains of Arioch looked toward where Cioden had vanished from the field, then toward where Alexander now stood. With determined stride, Marionus began his way to his next target. The Heart of the Army.

(OOC: Sorry guys, I had some internet problems... Refer to OOC thread). Horror clasps and terror grips, When faced with power twixt darkening fold. With halting breath pass ‘fore red lips. When burning courage slowly slips, The soul burns hot, and blood ice cold. Failing willful spiritual hold. Now slips loose the beasts of war. Two now push, but one shall win. The heavens shake from bloody roar, The tides now swiftly washing in. The steel bites, and scarlet seep, Pronounce the end of mortal keep. And wrought forth now, to nth degree. A sea of crimson tragedy. The armies clashed for what seemed to be hours, compressed into quick, fearful moments and images. The sight of blood was everywhere; both the deep crimson hue of man-blood, and the white seepage of Gorog. Everywhere, corpses littered the battlefield; former comrades slipping underfoot, mournfully never to rise again. The war was wretched, and it was to grow worse… Arioch, eyes burning with bloodlust and battle-rage, swung his axe with vicious accord, cleaving down the ranks of men and Gorogs with almost casual execution. Though his axe flew at mortal speed, its impact meant a savage blow; sending many men flying as their insides became exposed. The demon laughed as he encountered the ranks of Rekmor’s soldiers, whose blades were far more skilled than the Gorogs. “At last!” He cried, pausing a moment to allow several soldiers to collect before him, “I face opponents, and not a defenseless wall of flesh!” As Arioch struke, a few of the Rekmor soldiers dodged while others deflected. Those that deflected were suddenly without blade; and those who dodged were suddenly without limbs. Arioch grimaced, his eyes still burning from an unquenchable lust. “The souls of men taste but bleak to me,” Arioch thought, he himself deflecting the assaults of the Rekmor blades, “the hatred and fear of the Gorogs be much sweeter…” Thunder struck in the sky, then descended onto the ground. A large group of Antaean Calvary was suddenly blasted from above, lightening rupturing the sky and ground as though divine tribulation were upon them, sending many to the ground convulsing. The charred flesh of horse and rider twitched violently for some time, before coming to rest and dying. Yar’cule, his eyes shedding scarlet tears, bore his teeth in difficulty as he summoned forth the bolt of lightening. Turning his stance ever so slightly, he bowed his head, his eyes never opening. Another crack of thunder echoed across the field, and lightening descended once more. A large collection of Confederate archers suddenly were torn from their position like rag dolls, the lightening setting them both ablaze and soaring through the air. Their bodies were ravaged by the immense power, many falling, never to rise again. With still greater intensity, Yar’cule cringed, grinding his teeth, as the powers of tidal magic continued to flow through him. His body became physically weak, bearing the forces of elemental power with mortal form. He turned again, now toward the collections of spent Antaean mages leaving in the distance, arms rising once more… However, as he was about to finish the semantics of his deadly spell, a beam shot past overhead the crowds of soldiers and struck him in the chest. The beam, a simple manifestation compared to what Yar’cule was wielding, still struck its mark true to form, and caused the Infernal Sorcerer to seizing momentarily before he fell to his knees. “Master!” Zakuro cried, rushing to his side. Yar’cule quickly recovered, but as he slowly rose to his feet, the intense rainfall began to subside into a light drizzle, though the clods remained swirling in the air menacingly. Zakuro knelt by his side, as the Infernal Sorcerer could barely stand, his face adorned with bloody tears. “I am alright,” Yar’cule said, his voice weak and his eyes weary, “The interruption of my spell sent it forward into my own form. That beam struck at the most awkward of times. I… I am all but spent now, my apprentice.” But even as Yar’cule spoke, he fell once again to his knees. Once there he dropped his staff and hugged his stomach as though in bearable pain, his voice never crying out. Finally he fell unconscious, his being wrought with powerful magic still attacking his body. Zakuro cried out in an enraged voice, her eyes becoming hot with rage. She quickly walked to the edge of the hill and cast her arms into the air. Her scars suddenly burned once more, though her body was still exhausted from her previous attempts. As the burning pain scorched her living form once again, she cringed under its onslaught for but a moment, now accustomed to its searing protests. As she bore the pain, she cried forth incantations, her voice both fearsome and painfully beautiful. Erron Aurron Meulle Yarran As Coiden fought with devastating skill against the Rekmor soldiers, even their potent training was not enough to defend against the terrifying battle mage. He laughed wantonly, his voice zealous in the slaughter as he sent his opponents to fates worse than death; oblivion. However, as he turned to engage a new batch of the fearless droves, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks; a look of confused anger came over him. He could feel something wrong building around his form; a rift in the veins of magic. He looked with intense anger toward the hill where he knew the magic-bearers stood, and could barely make out the form of a woman with her arms raised in the air. Instantly, coiden reacted, his arm cast out in front of him as another beam erupted from his hand. It sailed toward the beautiful sorceress, crackling with malicious purpose, quickly seeking out its target. Zakuro, tears pouring from her eyes, and her voice quivering from the incredible pain, spoke forth the final incantations of her spell. Suddenly, a fiery pillar of light erupted from the ground beneath Coiden, his eyes widening in enraged surprise. Before he could react, the pillar flashed with power, then erupted as a jetting flame. Coiden was suddenly overcome with incredible power, as he roared in pain, his body rising into the air. However, just as soon as the spell appeared, it disappeared, leaving Coiden to fall from the air. The light vanished, and Coiden’s form sizzled and smoked from intense heat. As Coiden’s beam came to Zakuro, she raised her arm weakly in defense, but could not invoke protection. She was struck, and was sent to the ground. She whimpered in pain, as Shadows approached with supplies to aid the mages. As Coiden rose weakly, a Rekmor soldier charged at him loudly. Coiden slowly raised his hand in defense, deflecting the blow. Before the soldier could react, Coiden thrust his other hand and took the soldier’s life. Coiden rose slowly, his head slumped but his body flexing with power once again. His vision was blurred, and his body pained from the incredible blast. He scowled coldly, his body still shivering from the pain, and turned to slay more men… Thunder bellowed again, roaring high above...

As Bhurin made his way across the halls of the Pen's keep, he softly talked to himself, allowing a poem to form in his head. Suddenly, as if waking from a deep dream, the winged man raised his head, his ears perked from some distant sound. A voice... A familiar voice... Suddenly Bhurin made off, running through the halls till he was outside, where he spread his wings and took flight. After only moments of travel, the winged giant reached the application hall, close to Wyvern's quarters and a still familiar sight for the initiate. Bursting through the doors, Bhurin's eyes scanned the room. Across the way he saw two men, Justin and... Another... "Who..." Suddenly, Bhurin's eyes widened, and when he next spoke his voice was filled with mirth and surprise. "Seth Exodus! You old Artisan you! I haven't seen you for ages..." Before Seth could answer, Bhurin held up his hands and said, "Wait just one second! I'll be right back!" Bhurin rushed out of the room, leaving the two men perplexed at his behavior. When he returned, he rushed across the room to shake his old friend's hand and pat him on the back. "It's good to see you!" Bhurin said, looking his friend up and down, "Are you well?" "As well as to be expected," Seth said, looking to Bhurin with satisfied joy. "A quick question though: why did you rush out just then?" Bhurin, eyes becoming wider with confusion, quickly snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, I went to fetch this..." Bhurin quickly held up a plate of steel, formed into a plain mask, that came to a point and was adorned with only one dark, visor-like eyehole. "My old face plate! The one you used to draw me in. As you can see I have little use of it anymore, but I always perferred your pictures of me with me wearing it. More dramatic I suppose..." Bhurin then turned dramatically, and said, "Where's Wyvern? Let him know that here stands an artist deserving to join..." Bhurin paused a moment, seeming to remember someting. "Wait a second..." he said, turning back to Seth, "Do you still have those old Bhurin cartoons?" Seth nodded, a smile on his face, "Yeah." "The one where I got fried by the electrical pole?" "Yup." "The one with me moalting?" "Uh huh." "The one with..." "Yes sir, my friend." Bhurin paused again, looking at his friend with sudden quiet and seemingly frightened contemplation. "Oh, well... That's... Good... Yeah... Well, it's nice to see you... Just remember that the Pen is quite prestigious, and not EVERYONE gets in... some people don't even bother trying, and..." Slowly Bhurin stopped speaking, and waited to see what Wyvern would say. (OOC: Seth, it's good to see you! I haven't seen you on the Internet for months! Good luck, my dear friend! )

Bhurin observes Peredhil's words with depressed regard. Sighing, he turns to Lumpenproletariat It is unfortunate that the calls of RL can take one away from this online world of friends (and possibly well thought of enemies). I regret you must depart, and echo everyone else's responces in urging you to return when life permits (should it ever). Goes to shake Lumpenproletariat's hand, then turns to Peredhil and says. Truly unfortunate, when we are called to leave...

An truly interesting time this is... The higher ups appear to be either leaving or making a return. My heart is both joyed and saddened with these happenings... It is good to meet Arawn. Welcome back. Signed- Bhurin

The rain fell coldly now, mixing with blood and clay, mixing into a deep, crimson mud… The Gorogs were fleeing… Their hearts no longer filled with the lust for blood, but for the love of survival. As they fell back, against the cries of their chieftains, slowly they revealed lines of Confederate soldiers; battle scarred but determined… The forces of Rekmor were finally upon the field. They moved with disturbing efficiency, lines of men moving as one. Ahead of them their leader, Ghorn, still called with brutal satisfaction at his fallen opponent. The forces of Rekmor were far better clad than their Gorog counter parts. All of them, without exemption, were clad in Brigandine plate mail, all wielded blades that shone with deadly edges, and none of them knew fear. They had been brought up in the shadow of His service, and fear was like wine to them. The more terrible their plight, the more they understood Him, and the more they wished to please Him. The Confederate army, drenched in blood but still with battle hardened looks upon their faces, drew forward slightly before stopping and rejoining into a powerful defensive wall, awaiting the tide of Rekmor with fearless abandon… “Prepare yourselves…” Said Ghalin, Champion of Rekmor’s siege-craft and commanding his archers. He watched momentarily, noting the reassembly of the Confederacy’s ballistic line. “Amazing… Thrown magic and steel, and they continue to fight. These Confederates are worthy opponents indeed…” “SIR! THEY DRAW TO FIRE!” Cried one of Ghalin’s lieutenants, as he indicated toward the lines of Confederate archers. Ghalin watched calmly with narrow eyed determination as the Confederate’s line of archers made to fire. He watched them take aim, toward the heavens, and fire. As they released their deadly bolts, Ghalin said, “They make to fire at us…” He said with near fascination, “Surely the realize we are out of…” But before he could finish, the deadly rain, as sure as the falling shower of water, descended upon their ranks. Just as they reached, Ghalin cried, “Cover!” Instinctively the bow-bearers raised the shields mounted to their backs, creating an artificial armor to protect them. Though many were spared, Ghalin was too late. Dozens of Rekmor bow-bearers fell suddenly to the blade tipped bullets, falling to the ground either diseased with pain or death. Ghalin raised his eyes again, now with mixtures of rage and fascination dancing in his eyes, “They have reached us… This storm effects the wind more than I judged… We shall prove no match for them…” Quickly Ghalin turned and ordered, “Bow bearers! The enemy possesses a range beyond ours! Retreat back, and await further orders!” Instantly the lines responded, gripping their bows, the archers of Rekmor quickly retreated. In their stead they left corpses of their fallen, some still screaming for aid… “What now, sir?” One of Ghalin’s Captains asked, his voice strong but his eyes concerned. “Move in the siege-craft!” Ghalin said, his voice now filled with scorn and sternness, “Fire full bore upon their archers. Bring me Dreadmetal and Ironfist now! I shall show those mages and archers the power of Rekmor’s craft!” The Captain paused only momentarily at the mentioning of the only two siege-craft with names. Dreadmetal and Ironfist were magical siege-craft, born in the shadows of Shadowkeep. They were dealers of death like none had seen before: Ironfist firing waves of flame and magma, while Dreadmetal fired bullets of necromatic energy. Both were indestructible and terrible. “Aye sir!” Nodded the Captain, who made for the ranks of siege-craft behind them. The rain fell now steadily, pouring upon the armies with vicious accord… Behind the far back forces of Rekmor’s troops, the sound of approaching men and monsters filled the air. Many of those who stood behind, lining the background of the army just in front of the forest, turned to see fearsome opponents emerging from the woods. The back rows of the army consisted of many fearsome monsters, such as trolls and giants, and all these turned now, without order, to face this surprise enemy. Among the sudden fray amidst the reinforcements, Yar’cule lowered his arms and stopped chanting his spell, turning to see Zakuro between him and the new enemy. “What manner of treachery is this?” Yar’cule demanded, raising his staff into the air defensively. “Master! Foes emerge from the wood!” And with that, Zakuro shot a ball of fire toward the new opponents. However, just as the fire ball reached the opponents, it passed through them and continued until it struck a nearby tree. “What?” Zakuro demanded, “They are as ghosts or phantoms!” Yar’cule snarled, his eyes suddenly filled with rage. He shouted, “Do not engage! They are only illusions!” But the forces of Rekmor did not listen, turning instead to fight, scrambling their outter lines. Yar’cule shouted once more, but was not heard. With a cry of fury, Yar’cule turned to the battlefield. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to relax suddenly, his shoulders dropping and his face becoming calm. Where… Yar’cule’s form became rigid again, becoming large and menacing. There! Raising his hands into the air, Yar’cule shouted forth words guttural and wretched to the untrained ear. Arnnon ennule gurrol tenaah At last, Yar’cule raised his hand quickly, pointing it toward the battlefield. Suddenly, on queue with Yar’cule’s gesture, a large and bright bolt of lightening struck from the sky. Across the battlefield, the bolt struck somewhere behind the lines of Confederacy militia. Where it struck, only meters away Matthew, apprentice magi of Cioden, was suddenly flung from his feet, falling to the ground. He was uninjured, but his body was buzzing with electricity, his hair standing on end. It took many moments before he rose to his feet. Where he did, he heard within his mind but few words… Your magic betrays you, little one. Do not poke a sleeping bear… As Matthew lost his bearings, the phantom forces began to disappear from view, fading with his concentration. However, their intent had been well met. The reinforcement squadrons of the Hand were suddenly in disarray, confused and agitated from battle preparation without cause. “Reform the ranks!” Yar’cule shouted, his voice strained, as he fell to one knee. A crew of commanders instantly went to re-gather their troops, but without the word of the Dread Lord, it was difficult. “Master!” cried Zakuro, looking at him with determined visage but angered voice, “Your strength leaves you! Do not tarry from your purpose.” Yar’cule nodded, his eyes matching Zakuro’s in exhausted determination, “Aye, my apprentice. My carelessness reflects badly on us. I shall not make the same mistake again…” Yar’cule rose again, looking to the battlefield. Slowly he raised his hands, and began to repeat the spell that had called forth the lightening… The rain was relentless... Marionus had now overtaken Ghorn and his men. As they battled furiously below him, lines of Confederate men stood before him. With blinding speed and soft movements, the Dread Lord waved his scythe with deadly accuracy, and began to mow down the lines of men like grass. Their blood ran quickly, as man after man fell before the fearsome rider with the Black Scythe. Many men wept or cried in terror in when facing Marionus. Their screams drowned the air. The Calvary, true to form, ploughed through the ranks of Confederates like an unstoppable blade through flesh. The riders were too powerful, and could not be stopped, as the pikemen of the Confederacy had more than been dispersed or crushed by the Gorog rush. What few were left could not hope to reorganize to fend off the mounted fighters. Now the riders were free to cut their way into the heart of the Antaean armada. However, as the riders pushed forward, Marionus paused momentarily and looked around him. Finally his eyes found two targets. This one reeks of the Antaean ways… This one, of malicious accord... Slowly Marionus watched the movements of Alexander, Duke of Dainlock, and Arioch, Lord of the Death Knights. His mind was torn between his vows to destroy the ancient enemies of The Lord of Nightmares, and to fell the lords of the remaining force against Rekmor; those that ruled the Antaean Confederacy. To smite the false shadows, or crush the light. Marionus paused a moment, swinging his scythe smoothly through the body of a rushing soldier. Finally, he knew his course. He turned his horse, and made for the lines of the Confederacy’s Generals, slicing his way toward the heart of his enemy…

As the shroud of darkness was torn from the sky, and the land was once again bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, a great cry was heard through out the battlefield. The Gorogs, severely allergic to the suns rays, became horrendously agitated at its sudden return, losing morale and fleeing from the waves of Antaean blades. At that precise moment, many things occurred at once. Marionus, from atop his black stallion regarded the sky with sudden, frenzied movement. His helmet looked to the sky, and paused for only a moment, then he reacted. He turned in his saddle, as a sudden barrage of worried faces with sudden concerns looked to him for guidance. First... Marionus turned to his right, his eyes suddenly locking with Yar’cule’s. The Infernal Mage, dropping all manner of work he had been doing, merely nodded at his Lord’s gaze. Next... Next the Dread Lord looked ahead of himself, toward the furious visage of Ghorn of Yain, commander of the Rekmor Armies. Marionus raised his hand palm first toward Ghorn, outstretching it and finally closing it into a fist. Ghorn began to turn… Finally, the Dread Lord raised his scythe, and looked to the battlefield. His gaze wandered the field, before coming to rest on Arioch. Then Marionus screamed with sudden, incredible force. “YYYYYAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!” His voice tore across the field like a hurricane, drowning out even the sounds of warfare occurring before him. Finally Marionus pointed his scythe forward, signaling the charge. At that moment, Ghorn raised his charcoal blade and yelled, “KILL THE BASTARDS!” And, like a plague, the true forces of Rekmor rushed the field. Ahead of them, leading a charge of Dark Calvary was Marionus, scythe in hand, bearing down upon the battle with nightmarish speed. At that moment, Yar’cule turned to Zakuro. “My dear, the enemy has struck at a tender nerve, forcing our hand. I shall replace the shadow, but remain watchful! That mage that removed it did so with almost casual intent, and I felt powers near equal to my own. Should I be assaulted, you must protect me! Understand?” Zakuro, nearly exhausted from her earlier spells, instantly rose up, appearing to gain youthful vigor once more. “I hear, and I shall obey, master.” With that, Yar’cule descended from his mount, a staff in his hands, and walked till he was at the edge of the hill. Raising his staff into the air, his moustache-less beard hanging grimly on his face, he spoke, “I AM YAR’CULE THE INFERNAL, CHAMPION SORCEROR OF REKMOR! HEED MY WORDS AND FEAR ME!” Suddenly he raised his staff with one hand, while raising the other into the air. When he spoke, his word echoed across the battlefield, though not as prominently as Marionus. Annon ennera facule meurny Slowly, dark clouds began to fill the air, as the sounds of thunder echoed in the distance. A storm was forming, as menacing clouds began to enter the sky. They did not immediately cover the sun, but the little initial protection they provided was enough for the Gorogs to regain some of their composure so as not to be slaughtered without recourse. Yar’cule’s eyes eminated yellow as he spoke the words, repeating them over and over, gripping his staff and shouting with rage. Across the battlefield, nearly perfectly opposite to Infernal Mage, stood Midicus. The potent mage raised his head, still shrouded behind a cowl, ever so slightly at the taste of magic in the air. Behind the Rekmor forces, massive siege-craft and rows of Bow-bearers halted and began to load their weapons. The bow-bearers, mixtures of men and beasts, notched poisoned and flaming arrows and began to take aim. The siege-craft, incredible constructs of power, began to load ballista missiles, boulders, and from several siege-craft, hideous machines of demonic design, the sound of charging magic began to emit… The first blade of Rekmor to reach an Antaean soldier was Ghorn, who shoved his sword into the face-visor of the Antaean’s helmet, running the steel into his brain. Ghorn quickly removed his blade, regarding the red blood for a moment with zestful intrigue, before shouting, “KILL THE BASTARDS! KILL THEM ALL!” and continuing into the fray. Slowly, it started to rain...

As the Gorogs rushed the fields, the remainder of the army stood motionless, waiting for further word from their masters. “Sir?” Said a field commander of Calvary as Marionus rode up next to him, “Why do the Gorogs rush the field without support?” Marionus calmly positioned his horse in front of the other Calvary, looking coldly into the distance. “The Gorogs make up a large majority of our soldiers. Despite their loses at the blades of projected weapons, they shall reach our enemies defensive line. Once they have, and pined down their anti-calvary units and long ranged craft, we shall move our kindred in to offer reinforcements. The Gorogs shall scatter the enemy, and offer us a breaching wall to invade…” “Brilliant sir!” cried the General enthusiastically. Marionus turned to watch the battle unfolding. “It shall not be long. Prepare to advance our Calvary and main infantry. Pull the archers and siege-craft as well. Show them only an advancing tide…” After another moment, Marionus turned his head subtly toward an unknown destination, and nodded. Across the way, behind a solid defensive line of Grol Giants, Yar’cule returned the nod, then turned to Zakuro, Lady of the Burning Scars, and said “My dear, prepare yourself. The enemy is armed with magik, and our skills shall be invaluable in suppression and elimination of that threat…” Zakuro nodded, and returned to motionless silence. Yar’cule, meanwhile, raised his hands and began to chant softly to himself, his form becoming somewhat distorted and wavy in the presence of building magic. Ghorn, meanwhile, stood impatiently but obediently silent at his post in front of the General Infantry, waiting for his orders to charge. He watched with vague interest as the lines of Gorogs fell to the Confederacy’s weapons. “Well this is rather pointless…” “Sir”, came a Captain, running up to Ghorn. “What is it?” Ghorn said with bored digust. “Lord Marionus gives order to prepare to rush upon his command!” “Good,” Smiled Ghorn, turning and whispering under his breath, “It’s good to see a brain under all that shadow and religious rubbage…” As Gorogs fell to a hail of arrows and siege weaponry the other Champions of Rectitude waited or made their way into battle with terms and agendas of their own… (OOC: All right everyone, take it away. Have some fun with it, and remember: a killed NPC can alter plot / a killed player can ruin fun, at least at this stage of the game…)

... Bhurin is visually shaken by the poem... Very personal, Gwaihir. Thank you for sharing it...