Bhurin

Gyrfalcon, your sense of style is very innovative and honest. I think this is an excellant piece of work... Bhurin withstands admitting he wishes he had thought of the idea first, and now wanting to write one himself... ... Okay, I'm good. Signed-

I know this sounds very cliche', but your poem feels very much like work by T.S. Eliot. Very "Hollowmen-esque". I think that might have been the effect you were going for. (Though if I've guessed wrong, my apologies). The poem is excellant, and very emotionally charged. You pack many fears into few words. I saw my entire childhood pass before my eyes...

I like how it flows simply, with excellant wording and rhythm. I, personally, would not object to more, though know that it is complete in how you have stated it. Sometimes the greatest things are not complicated at all...

Just wanted to repost this here, just so that I know it's been through these halls. (I'm personally fond of this piece). Enjoy. Fearsome Streets As I stare into the dark, Like a powerful monarch, My eyes piercing, like a shark, Scanning the endless evening gloom. I pause for just a moment, Not seeking an opponent, Or to rustle what is dormant, Deep within the haunting doom. So then I look no deeper, For I might just glance the Reaper, And I don’t need some street sweeper, To make off with my watch or cane. So then I swallow, and I cough, And with my footsteps extra soft, I begin to quickly take off, Back down the route I came. But then I hear a sound, And I quickly whirl around, As my heart begins to pound, And my breath is held in fright. My eyes dart to walls and doors, And with results same as before, I see darkness, nothing more, At this ungodly hour of the night. So then I shake my head and laugh, For I’ve dealt with worse riff-raff, And now, ignoring the cold draft, I continue on my way. As I walk down the dark road, Convinced I heard a cat or toad, (All these thoughts a burdening load) “This place must look better during the day.” But then I hear the screech of Death, I jump, then gasp, and hold my breath, For it’s loud enough to wake Macbeth, Like a tribe of screaming Apache. Something flutters past my head, And, when I realize that I’m not dead, I look up, to see eyes of red, “’Tis a mere bat, not a banshee.” “Only a creature of the night, Out on an evening lunar flight, With a bark worse than is bite.” I nod to myself, and smile. But then it drops down from the sky, Lands, and gives me an evil-eye, As if it thought it were smarter than I, And the thought makes my skin rile. So I glance up, quick and brief, It’s as still as a dead leaf, And its gaze fills me with grief, As if I were its prey. “If so much interest to you I bring, May I comment on just one thing? Well, your voice was never meant to sing. That’s all I wanted to say.” But no retort do I receive. No snake tongued words, meant to deceive, But as I turn, about to leave, I look up, and the bat is gone. As fear begins to clutch my throat, I quickly clasp and close my coat. And plainly, as if said or wrote, I knew something was terribly wrong. I became exasperated, At what seemed was planned and fated, As if somehow it plainly stated, That, “You are going to die.” I began to hurry down the street, As if something possessed my feet, Starting to sweat from the cold heat, “I only imagined it,” I lied. My steps rapping against the stone, And with the thought that I’m here, alone, Chills me right down to the bone, And shiver as I sweat. Then I stop to calm my breathing, My head is spinning, like I’m dreaming, My heart pounds as I am seething, “How much worse can all this get?” My thoughts are swarming, like a riot. I stop to listen, but it’s quiet. All this silence, I don’t buy it, My eyes narrow, and I frown. I clutch my cane now, very tight, Prepared to defend my self or fight, For I’ll fear nothing more tonight! Within this darkness I’ll not drown. But suddenly I hear a howl, That’s so wretched, and so foul, That my face losses its scowl, And I drop my cane, than flee. As I run, I bite my lip, My legs burn, as if they’ll rip. But then I stumble, and I trip, And I scrape my hands and knees. As I slowly rise back to my feet, My hands bleed as my heart beats, But I will not accept defeat. I brush myself off, and press on. But my battered legs are sore, And I cannot run a sole step more, Because my skin has ripped and tore, And the cuts run deep and long. I rub the blood off, on my shirt, But this presses in the dirt, Causing my hands to throb and hurt. The sight makes my head light. Now I reach the long block’s end, My scattered thoughts begin to mend; For I find a trusted friend. Lines of lamp lights, shining bright. Now my heart begins to calm, As I slowly walk, and clutch my palm. “I must treat this with healing balm,” My words are confident and strong. But as I pass each dark, closed door, (With none of them I’ve seen before) I begin to wonder more and more, If I could possibly be wrong. I begin to scour for a sign, That one of these winding streets are mine, A simple street post would be fine, I only long to get back home. But then I hear a distant tapping, That wakes my troubled mind from napping, As if scampering feet were scampering, Against the cold cobblestone. Once again I gasp in fear, As the sound draws close and near. But without a single sob or tear, I ignore it, and press on. As fog rolls in, so thick and dense, I swear I’d pay any pound or pence, If only I could find my fence, And gate, and house, and lawn. Then, adding to my frightful toil, I bump into something, and recoil. But I find then it’s a stone gargoyle, And that, in fact, its mine! I suddenly begin to cheer, So all the whole city could hear, Because I lost my frights and fears, And that suited me just fine. And so I quickly rush inside, Laughing for thinking I might have died. I burst the front door open wide, And standing there, is my wife. “Where have you been? What did you do? It’s almost a quarter and a half past two! I was worried about what happened to you!” Shrieked my greatest love in life. “I got lost!” I almost cried, “I feared for my life, I almost died! I thought of you.” I quickly lied, “And got blood on my good silk.” “Oh my gosh honey! Oh no! I should never have let you go. But… there’s just one thing I’d like to know… Where exactly, is the milk?” Signed-

As movement happened all around him, the Dread Lord stood silent and alone within the confines of the tent. His form was folded inward, his arms crossed across his chest, and his head was down. Slowly, the sounds in and around the tent began to fade. They muffled together, as though heard through great water, and began to recede as if moving away. Slowly, the darkness was over taking him. He closed his eyes, and felt himself falling into it. Falling into a darkness that not even he, Dread Lord of Rekmor, could fully understand or withstand. On the outside, suddenly the Dread Lord howled, his body seizing, as if in incredible pain. Inside his mind, he had descended into oblivion. It seemed like hours, Marionus’ being violently torn across a void of intense fire and cold. Any other man would have cried in pain, but Marionus remained silent. Cast down he was, deeper and darker, until he was within the Midnight of Evil. There, he beheld his Master. “My Lord!” Called forth Marionus, his voice wretched with pain, “I am yours to command!” THE TIME HAS COME, LORD OF DREAD… The voice boomed like thunderous rage, rolling through Marionus like a blazing pain. KNOW NOT FEAR OR MERCY “I am a widower of whores, my lord!” Marionus replied, his own voice a murderous symphony, “They are vile to me! I shall not fail you!” GO THEN, THE TIME IS NOW. STRIKE THEM DOWN! GO… Go… go… go… Suddenly, Marionus snapped back to consciousness, waking to dozens of bodies over him, trying to revive him. At the front of them was Yar’cule, whose eyes reflected least concern and most knowledge of them all. “He spoke…” Yar’cule began, looking to Marionus for answers. Marionus nodded, then rose to his feet unaided. He towered once again above them, and quickly made for the side of the tent. Marionus reached for his Scythe, and turned to the others in the room. “It is time…” Marionus quickly made for the outside, all the others moving out of the way for him. Once outside, Marionus was met by a waiting army of Gorogs, men, and beasts. Marionus perceived them silently for a moment, turning and eyeing them all from behind his bone helmet. The entire company was dead silent, awaiting their Lord’s words with eager anticipation. Finally, as a cold wind began to blow through the camp, gripping each and everyone with an icy grasp, the Dread Lord raised his scythe in the air and howled with monstrous fury. Everyone else, especially the Gorogs responded with a bloody cry. The Blood Lust was in them now. It was time for war… ___________________________________________________ ***Alright everyone, time to move to the main thread. Please wait, as Broghamir will come and begin the next segment.***

Greetings everyone. With all the other stuff going on, I figured I drop in with some poetry to sooth my soul (and give my prose muscle a rest). Just a little diddy I made. I thought it was funny when I first wrote it, but a friend said it was morbid and depressing (go figure). Now, I'm unsure. Let me know what you think if you wade through it. Enjoy. Not alone in my sinking boat At least I know I’m not alone, Here, within my sinking boat. As the waters of responsibility rush Up to meet me, I know I’ll not float Alone in the Sea of Misery, The Ocean Of Regrets. I see others who could not tear Themselves away from the joy Of life, for but a few moments, to Check their backs, and destroy The Marauders of Liability, Escape their nets. The signs were there. “Watch out! That’ll bite back!” And how! I did not take the advice of others, And just look at me now! With icy run approaching, My heart frets. Time was not a problem, though Quickly I discovered that “someday” Was not a day in the week. Hopeful Though I was, now I pay. Pay with woes and anguish, To endless debts. I look into the icy fringes, pleading, Begging for a way out! I can’t swim These waters! Too rough and violent Are its currents. I cannot win! I will not survive those cruel tides, Those hostile jets. But I do not pain in silence, and sufferance Shared is exhausted right? Oh woe Is me! A thousands wretched sorts Could not feel, could not know, The misery of wasted chances. My feet are wet… That polishes it. My time has come. But, though the others try to fight Against the inevitable, I know what Went wrong and what is right. I know from what I’ve seen, And who I’ve met. The only way to go is down, the only Thing left to put off can’t wait. I feel the cold rush encompass me, I cannot negate of my fate. Please remember my plight. I will forget. Signed- Edited by: Bhurin at: 1/17/02 9:05:49 pm

Excellant work, my friend. The atmosphere is almost whimsicle, but serious. I like the thought the most.

The group waited for roughly an hour before Bhurin arose. As the giant angelica rose to his feet, Balladore was about to protest, but stopped when he realized that Bhurin looked wide awake, even vigorous. “Bhurin,” Balladore began, looking him up and down, “You’ve been asleep for less than two hours. You should really rest…” “I am fine Balladore,” Bhurin said, stretching his arms and flexing his wings, “I shall manage on what I have had, and make up for it this eve. Until then, we must press on…” “Aye!” cried Justin, throwing down a stick he had been whittling, “the best news I’ve heard in days.” “Gather your equipment, and leave no trace of our presence here,” Balladore said, indicating to the fire and their various goods, “I should like to pass as discreetly as possible until we are out of the moors.” With that, the rest of the group set out to pack their things and make out for the day’s journey. As they did so, Jheric, as he busied himself, made his way over to Bhurin and said, “Thanks for the hand back there, friend. It would have been a very undesirable end indeed, were you not there.” Bhurin smiled, as he loaded a bag back onto his horse, “It was my pleasure, Jheric, though no thanks are needed…” “Ah!” Jheric said, raising his hand and waving it quickly, interrupting Bhurin’s words, “I owe you one, fair and square, and a mage always makes good for what he owes.” Bhurin chuckled a moment, before making his way over to another pile of goods and replying, “Then I shall sleep much better tonight, knowing I have the watchful eye of a mage over me…” Jheric smiled back, and returned to packing away his things. Within the hour, they had set out again, leaving only their footprints as evidence. And (thanks to a certain Druid) the footsteps, too, disappeared swiftly, and were gone. Forging their way ahead, the group was determined to leave the moors within the next matter of days. But, a heavy fog hung over them all, as they rode into the unknown, not knowing what to expect next…

Bhurin stepped forward, knowing that he was somewhat late, and his red face reflected his knowledge of this. "Hello everyone, sorry I'm late, but I just flew in and boy are my wings tired..." Somewhere from the back a roll of drums and a crash symbol rang in the background. No one laughed "Right!" Bhurin said, clapping his hands together, "Well, I guess it's time to call an end to this fasade! The first within the Pen's walls, but hopefully not the last. As I promised, I have a winner. And he or she shall receive a prize. I have the ballot right here... Now, can I get a drumroll please..." No drumroll ensued. "COME ON!" Bhurin cried, "I JUST HEARD SOMEONE PLAYING, LIKE, TWO SECONDS AGO!" Finally a drumroll came, accompanied by stiffled chuckles, sounding vaguely like a few elders... "And the winner is..." Bhurin said, ripping open the envelope and removing the piece of paper within... Drumroll Drumroll Drumroll Drumroll Drumroll Drumroll "ME!" Bhurin cried, waving the envelope in the air and yelling with excitment. A sudden, almost disgusted hush came over the crowd, as Bhurin reached behind the bar and removed a golden crown, only to place it on his head. Bhurin began to wave his arms in the air excitedly. Suddenly, a choras of boos erupted from the crowd, obviously unimpressed by Bhurin's show of self glorifacation. Bhurin, affronted by the boos, looks to the crowd with eyes filled with offence, saying only, "Well, I just thought that, since mine were the best, that I should..." The boos insued, light hearted of course, with only a few people actually throwing things. Bhurin, dodging a few of the sharper objects, quickly put up his hands and said, "Whoa! Whoa!! I'm just kidding guys. Come on! Give me a break! Yeesh..." Bhurin quickly reached behind the counter again, pausing only a moment to remove the crown reluctantly and shed a quiet teer, before removing another ballot and saying, "Alright everyone, for real this time. Before I announce the winner, know that it was a hard choice. Everyone who participated surprised me, so basically everyone is a winner in my heart..." "But", Bhurin quickly added, his eyes widening with excitment, "as I said there must be a winner, and to them go the spoils. So, without further ado, the winner of the Pen's first ever Druken Limerick fasade is..." "Wait for it..." "Foe Calibur!" A round of applause erupted from the crowd, as the limber elf (who had just recently become sober once more) stepped up to the bar and was crowned. Bhurin quickly picked up a mug and said, "Before anyone says or does anything, I just wanted to say that while Foe is my good friend, my choice of him did not lightly come about. I wish I had second or third place prizes, or could award ties, but a Drunken Limerick Fasade is an ancient tradition, and only one may emerge victorious." Foe received another round of applause, the bar filling with every voice, calling out in congratulation. Bhurin then reached behind the bar again, and this time withdrew a small box. He stood next to Foe, as the elf waved and accepted congratulations. When the calls were done, Bhurin said quite prominently, "Foe Calibur, it is my honor to present you with this..." At that, Bhurin grabbed the small bow with both hands and opened it. Reaching inside, he withdrew a golden drinking stein, polished and lavished, and sparkling in the torch light. "Foe, I present you with the Golden Mug award! A prize awarded only to those who emerge victorious from a Drunken Limerick Fasade! Take it, and may you never know the horrors of sober limerick composing." Foe took the mug, and nodded appreciately. "Thank you my friend," he said, his eyes smiling as widely as his mouth, "I shall bear this burden... I mean award, proudly. Never will my lips know another mug..." Finally, Bhurin grabbed a normal drinking mug and, raising it into the air, toasted, "To Limericks! Never mastered, never fumbled, and never appreciated by a clear mind!" At that, the bar raised their mugs, and toasted. Then they all partied well into the night. _________________________________________________ Thanks everyone, for participating. I hope we can do this again sometime. Until then, may the muse smile upon our doings, and visit us when we're in spirits...

When Jheric had collapsed before them, Bhurin had observed his friends with concern but silence. He was not a healer, and knew little of human diseases as he was not susceptible to many. Though he bled mortal blood, Bhurin had never been sick nor intoxicated by outside agents, with the exception of magical plagues or poisons. So he remained quiet, knowing that his friends could solve this dilemma, and turned his attention to his own wounds. The lacerations on his torso were of no real concern -more scars to add to his collection- but the ones on his wings were sore and difficult to bound. He spent a while, while the others tended to Jheric, binding his wounds. However, when he heard Justin command the others to go, as well as Balladore’s strained words, Bhurin looked up once again in trepidation. Jheric was unconscious, and Balladore was slipping, his final coherent words telling of a plant with heart shaped leaves. Damienn immediately leapt to his feet and vanished into the woods. Bhurin quickly turned to Justin, saying, “Stay with them…” before vanishing into the forest as well. Bhurin searched for long minutes, agonizingly trying to decipher one plant from the next. Finally, from across the way, he heard Damienn call, “I found one!” Bhurin quickly unfolded his wings and broke through the forest canopy once again. He soared across the tree tops until he found his friends again, gently landing next to Balladore as he prepared the antidote. By this time Justin and Damienn were beginning to show signs of poison, Justin’s skin turning pale and Damienn sweating profusely. Bhurin quickly walked up to Balladore, who handed him a mortle and pestle, the cup filled with a grimy substance. “Bhurin... come administer this to the rest of the party, if you would...” With that, Bhurin took the small portions of medicine and set out to help his comrades… Hillcrest Oakwood Forest Ranger Training Grounds It was dark in the woods that evening, the stars blocked by a low hanging tide of clouds, moving against the moonlight. Though it was still sometime before spring would finally arrive, crickets already sang in the evening air, and the sounds of the forest were many, to the sensitive ear. They murmured quietly in the night, a quiet song in the background of a dark and obscuring wood. It took a focused mind to hear and see more through the night’s many tiding; which was precisely the reason hunting was conducted here. As a dark figure made its way through the underbrush of the woods, disturbing not a leaf or twig as it moved, it passed like a shadow against the trees. Draped in dark shrouds and a cowl to hide its face, the shadow was nearly completely invisible. With bow in hand, tarnished with ash to hide it from perceptive eyes, the figure already had a an arrow notched. It looked around every tree and bush, its vibrant green eyes searching tirelessly for something. Suddenly, the most subtle of whispers drifted through the woods. Quiet, but different from the other noises in the brush. The shadow figure, reflexively and with incredible speed and pose, drew its bow and fired, angled high. The arrowed soared through the thick foliage of leaves, but disrupted none of them as it passed. As though it had never been, the arrow disappeared and was gone. The shadow figure, quickly but silently drawing another arrow, turned to its left and fired again. Then it stood straight up, resting the tip of its bow on the ground, and lowering its head. After a few moments, a voice, almost musical in tone, said, “Enough…” The figure raised its head and smiled underneath its cowl as three other figures emerged from the woods. They were also draped in black clothes, but two now had arrows sticking out of their persons, one shot in the chest, the other the abdomen. The third figure, removing its cowl, revealed itself to be an Elf with deep brown hair and blue eyes. He stepped over to the shadow figure, who still stood unmoving, bow in hand. “Excellent job, Bladesong,” the elf said, his voice friendly and calming, “not one miss, and two direct hits. You’ve improved greatly since you’ve been here.” The shadow figure removed its cowl then, revealing an elven maiden with long beautiful hair and a white, pleasant smile. Bladesong gave her hair a shake, freeing it from its cloth prison, before saying with eager pleasure, “I thought I missed that first shot!” One of the other figures, with arrow sticking out of his chest, removed his cowl as well, revealing another male elf with short red hair and dark brown eyes. As he pulled the arrow from his chest, he said, “You surprised me! I was just getting ready to break away, and then I was shot. I thought you had gotten lucky, but when you shot Kyl, I knew I that was that.” The elf, as he spoke, also removed his black shirt, revealing the sheen of Elven chain mail. The arrow had done no damage to the beautiful coat, and pulled easily out of the tightly bounded silver rings. Kyl, the third elf, pulled the arrow from his abdomen and removed his cowl. His face was scrunched up, as if in pain, “I fell off my branch when you got me…” Bladesong smiled, obviously pleased with herself, and said, “Sorry about that.” The three talked for a while longer about the exercise they had just partaken of. However, just as they were about to turn back to camp, another voice emerged from the woods, “Evening…” Suddenly, fours arrows sailed from the trees, as though fired simultaneously, and landed right at their feet, nearly hitting them all. The four elves jumped, their eyes jumping from the arrows to the direction in which they were fired. With the grace of a gliding wind, the Rangemaster, Tarran Skyfire, stepped forward. He was wearing the clothes common to the rangers, a green and gray tunic with gloves and soft leather boots. His hair, a brilliant white, was loose upon his shoulders, yet he had remained unseen to them. And, though they saw him now, he still walked with uncanny silence. “What’s the idea?” Baldesong demanded, her voice becoming tempered with irritation, “What are you trying to prove? That you can scare the life out of us?” Tarren’s face, calm and almost grim with seriourness, turned to Bladesong sowly. When he spoke, his voice was calm and cool, like a rustling brook, “Whilst you are in Oakwood, you must remain on guard. This is not a private territory, nor are you the only ones using it. If you are not prepared, you would disrupt the work of others, or fall victim to real attack. You have been warned of this danger before…” The four young elves turned their gaze, realizing their error. Bladesong, though, narrowed her eyes with still continued irritation, her mind filling with troubled thoughts. “Make your way back to camp,” Tarran said, retrieving his arrows, “you have trained enough this eve.” With that, the Rangemaster walked into the woods and vanished from sight. The Rangers in training all quickly gathered their things and set out back to camp, Bladesong fuming quietly the whole way back. “Who does Skyfire think he is?” she asked, as she led the way back to the Ranger’s training camp out of the woods, “our King? I respect his title, but he’s far too condescending…” “Well Bladesong,” said Fireye, who had removed his cowl first after the excerise, “The Rangemaster cares deeply for us all. He only wants to make sure we come into our abilites safely…” “Bah!” Bladesong said dramatically, “He seems more concerned with showing off and trying to prove he’s better than anyone else.” “I think you’re too hard on him Bladesong,” Said Kyl, ducking under a low hedge, “Skyfire wouldn’t behave so childishly. He’s been Rangemaster of Hillcrest for over four hundred years. I do not think he would behave so…” Kyl stopped his sentence however, when he perceived the look Bladesong had stopped to give him. “Never mind,” he said quickly, turning his gaze away. Bladesong frowned, her lips tightening, before she turned and continued on. They didn’t talk further until they were out of Oakwood, and back in the camp. Bladesong, after returning her equipment, made her to her quarters on the far side of the camp. The camp was surrounded by large walls, a human design, but was filled with living and training structures noticeably Elven. The camp had been built hundreds of years ago by the First Elven and Human rangers, who protected the lands of Hillcrest in years past, and who still do to this day. Bladesong, as she entered the cabin her and Battlewrath called home, threw down her rucksack and said, “By Lor’eth, I grow tired of these walls! How much longer will they make us sufer in here while Mother’s death goes unavenged…” Suddenly, she noticed a figure sitting in front of the fire place in the hearth room. Her hand instantly went to the dirk she kept behind her back, and she cautiously said, “Who’s there?” The figure did not turn, but raised its hand and waved slightly. Bladesong instantly realized that it was Battlewrath, who was not common to sit still, nor enjoy the company of fire. “Battlewrath? What is it?” Bladesong asked, walking over to her brother. When he did not move or answer, her hand released the dirk and she knelt in front of him. “Battlewrath, what is wrong? Why are you just sitting here?” Battlewrath, who had much changed in the way of build and appearance his short time in the ranger’s camp, looked far away in thought. At first, he did not answer, his eyes far away and lost. Finally, he handed Bladesong a letter he was holding in his hand tightly. “Bladesong,” he finally said, “I received today…” Bladesong quickly took the letter and began to read it. As her eyes scanned over the words, her brother continued. “It’s from the Council…” Bladesong read furiously, her eyes eager with anticipation. Finally, she finished the document, and her eyes filled with the same distance as her brother’s. Finally, she looked again to his eyes, waiting for him to pierce the silence. “Battlewrath…” “We have our Bloodfeud,” he said plainly, his eyes filling with tears. Bladesong quickly hugged him, and said, “Brother, we shall have our revenge…” They sat there in silence for a long time, thoughts shared between them, though they did not speak. Finally, Battlewrath spoke again, “First we need to finish our trials, and be accepted as Rangers.” “We shall brother! We shall demand them to test us! We are ready!” Her voice was energetic now, filled with an unknown lust and power. Battlewrath nodded, knowing that if he were destined to avenge his mother’s death, he would accomplish the trails before him. “Bladesong,” he said, “we shall succeed. No matter the task, together we shall be victorious…” The two regarded each other, smiling and hugging. At last they went to sleep, to rest for the morn’s events and the challenges they would need to face. They slept under a starless sky… The Muckmoors Balladore awoke to the sound of a fire crackling beside him, his body warmed and his thoughts clear. No longer did his body suffer from the effects of the poison, and he felt his mind return to peace once again. When he sat up, he found that he was on dry, solid ground, a well tended fire burning brightly next to him. Around the fire he saw the other members of the group, lying down and sleeping soundly. He also saw the horses, aside the camp tied to trees, peacefully lying down. Finally he saw, leaning against a rock near the fire, Bhurin sitting up and writing something into a large book. Bhurin’s eyes didn’t venture when Balladore sat up, so Balladore said somewhat plainly, “Where are we?” “Still in the moors,” Bhurin said not looking up still, his voice calm and even quiet, “on a length of land not soaked to its bones.” “How did we get here?” Balladore asked, noting a plate of cooked meat beside him. “Damienn, Foe and I carried everyone here, or rather the horses did, most of the way at least.” Bhurin said, turning the page in his book, and continuing to write, “When we returned from searching for the Kimber Leaf, we found nearly everyone completely gone from the effects of the plant’s poison. Even Damienn, eventually, could not stay conscious, and the anti-poison you made needed time to work…” “How are the others?” Balladore asked, reaching for the food and looking to his sleeping friends. “They are all well and alive. Even Jheric, who was touch and go for a while.” Bhurin said, finally lowering his quill and closing his book. “All of them fed and sleeping. You, on the other hand, over exerted yourself, and have only now awoken. You are to eat your dinner, and return to sleep. I am taking watch.” Balladore began to chew the succulent meat, noting the taste of deer as he did. After he was done, he said, “What about you?” “Me? I’m fine…” Bhurin said, who had returned to writing, “Some bumps and scrapes, but nothing too life threatening.” Balladore reached for a waterskin by his things, and took a long drink of water. After that, he stared at the fire for long moments, listening to the crackling of burning wood and the scratching of Bhurin’s quill. Finally, after some time, Balladore said, “Bhurin? “Hmm?” Bhurin replied, his eye brows stretching up in acknowledgement, tough his eyes never leaving the page of his book. “Will you lead this party?” Silence returned again at Balladore’s question, Bhurin seeming to continue on as though he hadn’t heard. Finally, putting down his book next to him and turning to face Balladore, “I believe you already know the answer to that.” Balladore nodded subtly his eyes turned to the fire. “And,” Bhurin continued, “I think you know what I think of this leadership predicament, and the truth that lies before you.” “That I must lead the party,” Balladore said, his eyes finally turning from the fire to meet Bhurin’s. “But Bhurin”, he continued, his voice suddenly tinged with anxiety, “I’m no leader! I can’t do what is required…” “Balladore”, Bhurin interrupted, his voice assertive but calm, “You kow, as well as I do, that I cannot do what you ask, nor can anyone else that is here. We have come, following you without recourse, all of us pledging our dedication to your cause. YOUR cause, Balladore. Though I share your pain, my friend, I cannot bring myself to lead this quest anymore than I can turn from it. You must find the path, Balladore, for fate has brought this tragedy upon you, and your must answer it. Despite our greatest intentions, none of us have right to travel with you if we do not understand that this is not a struggle placed in your path, not ours. The plant in the lake was a test…” “One that I failed!” Balladore said, his voice filled with disgrace, “I nearly killed myself, and all of you with me, with my rash actions!” “Balladore, look around you”, Bhurin said, indicating to the other members of the group, “do you see anyone fallen?” “But if I hadn’t reacted so foolishly, none of this would have happened…” Balladore turned his gaze away from Bhurin back to the fire. Silence ensued again, but only shortly. Bhurin rose from his seat, and walked over to where Balladore was sitting. Kneeling down, Bhurin said, “True, my friend. But, if you hadn’t resisted the poison to make an antidote, what then? You saved them, Balladore; everyone of them. They do not hate you for your zealousness; they owe you their lives, and delight in that. You may not think it, but you have a great strength in you, my friend. I have known it as long as I have known you, and that is why I shall travel with you out of this moor; why I will be next to you when you speak to the council; why I risk my life to save your family. Why I follow you, Balldore… I have faith that you shall lead us to a desired end to this journey. I know that as long as you forge the path, I shall step on secure ground.” Balladore smiled then, and was silent for sometime. Finally, he took Bhurin’s hand into his and shook it. “Thank you friend”, he said, his eyes now filled with hopeful promise, “I shall take lead, as long as you and the others shall support me.” “Then you shall lead us to the end,” Bhurin said, shaking Balladore’s hand in return, “for none of us shall falter. And neither shall you.” Balldore hugged Bhurin then, then sat to finish his supper as Bhurin walked back to his seat by the stone. When Balladore finished, he asked, “What are you writing?” “A poem”, Bhurin answered, as he continued to work in his book. “Read it”, Balldore asked, as he lay back down on his back and gazing toward the stars. “It isn’t done”, Bhurin answered, scratching away at his pad. “Come on”, Balladore urged, closing his eyes, “read me what you’ve got.” Bhurin smiled, “Alright then. I shall read you the first verse, though I would warn you of the rough nature of this poem…” As Bhurin spoke, Balldore listened and began to drift to sleep. The last thing he remembered was Bhurin’s voice, mingling with the wind, as he at last fell asleep. Depart we must from safe abode, To journey wrought with peril. Face we now, a darkened road. Brimmed with toils of feral… Our will is strong, our hearts are set, We venture in the dark. Though uncertain, we don't regret, This quest we have embarked...

Watching the Imps move the crates across the room, turning into a hallway, and disappearing; Bhurin watched with keen interest. He noted, most specifically, the XXX on the side of the crates, indicating the strength of the alcohol being crated toward his room. Bhurin turned bright eyed toward Ozymandias, a smile worn prominently on his face. "Thank you, dear sir, from the bottom of my mighty heart. Thank you very very much. It is not ofen I am graced with such a gift..." As visions of whiskey bottles danced in his head, Bhurin smaked his lips and remained silent for a while. Then, realizing he had left three periods on the end of his last sentence, figured out he implied that he had more to say. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Bhurin bowed slightly to the Elder and said, "As for your invitation, I must relunctantly accept. Though I have been accussed of being talented, I shall show you of said 'stuff' I'm made at your leisure. I cannot guarantee a formidable opponent, but I can promise an eager and passionate one." With that, Bhurin bowed again -more deeply this time- before rising to his feet and saying, "Well, if those Imps are going to deliver that to a room, I guess I must have one ready and built for them when they get there. If you'll all excuse me..." Tossing a bag of gold onto the bar, Bhurin straightened his clothes, and made for the assembly room to "create" what were to be his quarters in the Pen's mighty Keep. And, possibly, sample some of the former King's whiskey while he was at it...

As the others were talking, Bhurin knelt on one knee apart from the others, trying to catch his breath. He was an excellent flyer, but mostly as a long distance glider. Hovering and short altitude maneuvering took a lot out of him, and, having needed to break through the forest canopy twice in his rescue, he was considerably fatigued. His wings and arms bled from cuts torn by the gnarled trees, soaking his torn shirt. Currently, he was trying quietly to catch his breath, while ripping the remainder of his shirt to bound his wounds. Once Justin was finished speaking, and the others began to move, Bhurin rose and said, “Wait a moment, everyone... I can carry all of you across, but I do not believe I can lift the horses… Or at least mine. I would rather they not be let loose in the moors for fear of injury or attack. However, those are my own feelings. They are robust animals, and may leave the moors without difficulty.” At that, Bhurin pulled out the break away cape he wore over his wings, which had been frantically stuff into his belt, and began to fold it. “Perhaps going around is best, but what are all your thoughts. I should like to know before we continue..."

“Indeed,” Balladore said, his voice slightly overcome with eagerness. It was obvious that he was pressed to continue forward, his eyes shrouded with concern. “Alright then,” Bhurin began, his voice calm but his eyes sharing Balladore’s concern. Turning to Justin and Damienn, Bhurin continued, “Before we leave, we must allow Foe’s horse a moment to find its breath. In the meantime, I shall quickly catch him up on our movements and decisions thus far. Begin to strike whatever supplies we have unpacked, and prepare to move out.” “Ifm noftm dofmne!” Justin said, his mouth encumbered with bread and cheese. “Then hurry and chew my friend. We leave as soon as possible”, Bhurin finished, leading Foe aside and explaining what had been discussed so far. Justin swallowed his mouthful, looking rather confused. “How did he know what I said?” he asked, looking to Damienn who had already begun to wrap their belongings back into their allotted cases. Damienn smiled, “I don’t think there’s a lot you could have said…” “Besides, your rather articulate with a face full of lunch…” Jheric chuckled, closing a book he had been pondering over while the others had been talking. Shortly after, when all their supplies were packed neatly back onto their horses and Foe and Bhurin returned from explanation, Balladore asked, “Ready?” “Aye,” Bhurin nodded, remounting his horse, “Foe will be a good set of eyes to have in the night.” “And a good ear,” Foe replied as he mounted his horse with elven grace, several meters from where they were standing. Balladore nodded, his smile returning to his face, “Yes, he shall.” “Well sirs,” Justin called, mounting his horse with knightly boldness, “I reckon our chances are improving all the time. Hate to be the guy who wants to tangle with us…” Ballador smiled, then turned to the others and asked, “Ready?” Everyone nodded, except Justin, who said with a friendly glee, “Yup!”, and Jheric who said plainly, “But of course…” “Right then,” Balladore began, turning toward the road again, “to the Murkmoors. If we ride hard, we should reach them within five days ride.” At that, Justin leaned closure to Jheric and said, “I still say the Murkmoors and Millas’ kingdom are well out of the way. We could shed off a week, maybe two, minimum if we went through Timberoak.” Jheric smiled, bringing his horse to a trot as everyone else began to guide their steeds to ride, “True, Justin. But nothing slows a journey quite like dying…” “Hmm…” Justin hummed unimpressed, “I still don’t see what the big deal is… There’s nothing in these territories worth getting nervous about except maybe the odd Dragon. I’ve traveled darn near close to Timberoak before, and never saw anything I needed to draw my blade on.” “Perhaps you will still have your way,” Damienn said, as he rode past the two making his way forward, “If Duke Millas doesn’t give us passage through his kingdom, we’ll have to either follow the moors further east and into the Ironforge mountains, or make our way into Timberoak…” Justin and Jheric watched quietly as the man rode forward, away from them. Casually, Justin turned his gaze back to Jheric and said, pointing his thumb at Damienn, “I like him.” Jheric laughed, “Of course you do…” A few moments later, with their mounts’ tendons warmed, they brought their horses to a full out gallop, and rode across the rolling hills toward the lush green forests just beyond the next knoll. Four days later The sun had disappeared again behind a somber mask of clouds when they reached the edge of the Muckmoors. They were a dreadful place, with the smell of rotting clay and vegetation putrefying the air. Here the trees grew in wide, sporadic proximities, but created a lush and stagnant canopy that blocked out most of what little light there was. Though the trees were separate enough, the way was not going to be easy going, as assorted bushes and hedges with spiked thorns and putrid buds created random nets that needed to be cut away. This meant the group had to lead the horses on foot, until they were through the denser patches at least, but this complicated the matter as the trees were all encircled by bogs and marshes. However, the worst antagonizing factor to slow their progress was the namesake of the Muckmoors; and that was the rotting wet muck that clung to their boots and equipment as they went. With each passing step. They retracted a foot weighed down by the sticky mass of dark gray clay and rotted vegetation. The smell was horrid, and the horses became difficult to lead. On more than one occasion, as they made their way through, Balladore needed to calm the horses with his animal-sending abilities. With calm voice and soothing touch, Balladore would rejuvenate the exhausted animals, who could not keep up with the building load of clay on their legs. Consistently the group needed to stop to break away the larger chunks so that the animals could walk in comfort. Finally Jheric could take no more. With a robe caked in mud, and an unforgiving horse, he finally broke the stillness with a shout of frustration. “That’s it!” he cried, throwing down the reins of his horse, “a mage can only take so much!” Foe, who had been making his way the easiest of the bunch with his elven sense of step and balance, turned to Jheric and said, “Jheric, please. Your shouts will only serve to bring unwanted attention…” “Well, I’ve had enough,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his robe, “and I think it’s time to do something about this…” “No Jheric, don’t”, Bhurin cried, raising his hand. Jheric suddenly spoke forth a string of phrases illegible to the untrained ear. Suddenly the smell of baking clay filled the air, and a path suddenly formed beneath their feet. The clay became hard and brittle, and broke from their feet. When he was done, Jheric regarded the group, all with looks of surprise. “Come on, give me a little credit. I’m no novice, you know…” Jheric said, retaking the reins and beginning to walk on his newly formed clay path. The others, seeing no problem and only a solution, shrugged and continued forward. As they reached a wall of thick, lethal brambles, Balladore stepped forward and said, “One moment…” He then placed his hand against the wall, and chanted a few words. Slowly, with agonizingly speed at first, then accelerating into a frenzied withdrawal, the tightly netted plants released one another and opened before them. Turning a moment to smile at Jheric, Balladore said, “There are less conspicuous ways of navigating the forest…” Jheric frowned for a moment, looking down at his filthy robes, “You wouldn’t say THAT if you only brought one set of clothes…” For many long moments, they made their way through the moors. Bhurin, who seemed to be the most afflicted with his size and general inclination to get himself caught on things, mumbled the odd time about the wonders of nature, but otherwise the group was silent. Just as late afternoon was descending upon the moors (though none of them could tell the time of day, due to the decreased light and absence of distance reference to mountains or other land marks), they reached an area where the land was no longer flat, but gave way to sudden declines and inclines to swampy banks. Justin, who had been following in behind everyone else, suddenly called out in surprise, “Whoa!” The group turned, but only saw Justin’s horse. After a moment, Foe pointed down the slope and said, “Look! He’s slipped down an embankment…” Quickly tying their horses to the nearest trees, the group made their way over to where Justin slipped and looked down. The embankment, which was hidden from view but actually quite steep, went down about twenty meters. Balladore called out loudly, “Justin, are you all right?” “I fine! I just fell into some kind of pond!” Justin voice came back, slightly frustrated but otherwise casual. “Hold on a sec,” Bhurin called back, “We’ll get something to pull you out…” And with that, the group set out…

As Jadus receded back to his former position, before Yar'cule could continue, the silence was once again pierced by the voice of Ghorn of Yain, his voice insolent with restrained disgust. “You speak words vile to me, former Confederate!” Ghron’s eyes locked where Khimeira was standing, though shadows draped his eyes and Ghorn could not be sure where their attention lay. “You speak of your former ties with questionable respect… Do you require…” “Enough…” The voice cut away Ghorn’s words like a tide of infinity, acting also as a herald to a sudden drop in the room’s temperature. The voice, calm and composed, rolled like a church bell, echoing even against the flimsy walls of the tent. The voice resonated softly after as well, and sounded as if there were many voices overlain, talking at once, when it spoke. The various occupants, cringing from the surprising sound, turned to perceive the throat from which it was spawned. Eyes turned to the front of the table, now quietly perceiving the source of the church bell voice. With his hands griped on the sides of the table, the Dread Lord Marionus stood unmoving, hunched over and silent. As the whispers still fluttered in their ears, Ghorn finally spoke, “My lord, I…” “I shall not have words of treason spoken before me…” Marionus’ voice was cold and emotionless, but held an intangible disgust somewhere within its somber tone, “Not whilst the Lord has given them His acceptance and reliance…” Slowly Marionus rose, as though he were taking a long breath in. Soon he stood at full height, his form an impressive sight in the dark. The Dread Lord stood above them all, his form unnaturally tall and monstrous. He was clad in black armor, black as soot, which covered his body almost completely. With chain mail guards and deep leather boots, the entirety of Marionus’ form was hidden from view, save his arms; which were revealed from the armor as incredibly muscular but pale arms. He wore spiked gauntlets that clicked softly when he moved his hands, adding bladed tips to his fingers. His face was hidden by a fearsome helmet, comprised of a bone skull visage and crowned with curved horns, lending a demonic appearance to the Dread Lord. He wore a deep gray cloak over top all his armor, linked together by a broach of unfamiliar design. Marionus was most favored by the Darkness, and had served the Lord of Nightmares longer than any could remember. He was a moving nightmare, let loose upon the world… “My words were only in the interest…” Ghorn tried, his voice quivering from hesitation. “Silence…” Marionus spoke, his words now holding force behind them, “He does not give his trust nonchalantly… Your words do you harm now, Commander of Yain. Speak no more…” “Yes my lord”, Ghorn said hurriedly, his voice broken with fear and tears slowly building in his eyes. Marionus moved his massive frame slowly, almost gently; turning to observe the occupants of the room. “You all are most loved by Him…” Marionus’ figure stopped finally toward Khimeira’s form, “Know that, in all you do…” “All of you must adhere to the task at hand, and worry your thoughts only with the defeat of our enemies, and your honoring of Him. Nothing else will matter in the days to come…” With that, Marionus looked to Yar’cule and nodded slightly, before returning back to his position at the front of the table. “Alright everyone,” Yar’cule said, his voice, too, shaken from suppressed emotions; suppressed fears, “you are all considered the greatest that our Order possesses. We need to organize our efforts, and quickly; and all of you are going to accomplish this. Before you begin, I have information that shall be vital to your initial successes. First off, know that the Confederacy IS a formidable opponent. With our forces spread to five fronts now, we cannot expect to overwhelm these adversaries; as in fact the opposite is true. From what my spies have been able to acquire, the Confederacy has an army reserve near double our own, and they know well how to use the terrain to their advantage. We are within their boarders, within their fields and woods and hills, within their home. Hence we cannot afford to lose our line to the West, as it will act as our source of life in this land. It is IMPERITIVE we not loose the Gorog city of Grengarl, for its fall will herald our forces stranded in enemy territory. The Gorogs will defend it with their lives, but that does not guarantee its safety…” Yar’cule took a moment to sip from a glass on the table, his voice was returning to normal but now was cracking and dry, “That is why I shall remain there. All of you will be needed to forge ahead into Confederate lands, and I can and shall reinforce the city more efficiently than any other. This means that Zakuro, my dear and talented student and peer, shall be your War Sorceress. Her magic will serve as a most potent weapon in your war…” Yar’cule smiled then, his gaze turning to the Lady of the Burning Scars for a moment. Zakuro, her face calm and expressionless, merely nodded slightly at Yar’cule’s complement. Yar’cule turned then, his attention upon something in his cloak. Finally, with a look of satisfaction, he produced a large parchment and rolled it open onto the table. He then began to paw over it as he continued, “This day we shall take advantage of an excellent opportunity. The Gorogs have been burning the lands here for days, and have attracted the attention of Confederate forces. They rode out four days ago from the Fort city of Iscot, 'they' being a formidable but relatively small sized Confederate army to stop the Gorogs. When they march upon the fields this afternoon, as I have predicted, we shall move all our available forces against them. This will lend us the weapon of surprise, and our success. Victory would mean an unprotected Iscot; more then an adequate stronghold to begin our assault into the East.” Nodding to himself, pleased with his work, Yar’cule returned his gaze to the other members of the table and added, “Any questions? If not, then prepare your plans for today’s assault, and the orders you shall give to our waiting army. We have…” Yar’cule turned, looking at his palm for a moment, then finishing, “two hours until we commence our attack.” “We offer no terms of battle today, only an advancing force. They can either engage us or flee, but today we spill the blood of our enemies…” Marionus added, his voice rippling in the air.

As Bhurin begins to sip his drink, he quickly stops and catches himself, nearly spilling the contents of his cup. Coughing once, he raises his eyebrows in surprise before turning his gaze toward the old mage. "Hello, friend and Elder, well met..." Bhurin said, extending his hand to shake. After casually gripping and shaking the mage's hand, Bhurin smiled meekly and said, "It is a pleasure, dear sir, but forgive me if I know not - and ask you what- you refer to when you say 'my kind'. I have been refered to as a gentleman, scoundrel, servant, lacky, master, cohort, lord, Dungeon Master, chicken, angel, loud mouth, friend, amigo, toriniku san, ignorant wretch, anti-social backwater hillbilly, Bhurin Schmurin, the mighty winged wonder, Urine (rhymes with Bhurin), and an opinionated such and such. When you say that you expected not my kind to enter here as a colleague, I must beg you to be more specific in your observation." Bhurin, taking a quick sip from his drink, turned back to the old mage and smiled. "But, despite my confusion, it is good to meet you, Elder of the Pen, and thank you for your kind words."

While Khimeira spoke, Ghorn's eyes slowly narrowed upon him. They danced with silent thoughts, burning with an unrest... Quickly, he was losing his patience, and neared breaking point with each spoken word...

After Bhurin finished the remains of his drink, he sighed casually, looking at the bottom of his cup, before placing it on the counter and turning toward the general direction of the new voice. "Greetings Belizean, or KriNistakleperosYYnlO if you prefer. (Forgive me if I didn't pronounce that correctly). It is good to make your aquaintence." Reaching for his wallet, Bhurin slowly pulls out a manuscript while continuing, "The reason for my expression of surprise was actually a look of pleasantry. When you mentioned your other title, I immediately thought you were a member of the BFLN association..." Bhurin finally withdrew a card, labeled with the words 'Big Friggen Long Names Association, Official member.' Bhurin then tossed it into the air somewhat hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure the card would find the voice's eyes. "The actual pronounciation of my name is TopenulupandleDitholinacTricepotineBrigintine, but my friends call me Bhurin for short. Then again, they also call me 'Heyou' and 'Yo, wings boy!' so feel free to call me whatever you like." Bhurin chuckles softly, returning his wallet to his pocket, "But in all seriousness, it is a pleasure, Belizean. Well met friend..."

Next stepped forward Ghorn of Yain, a well known soldier to them all. He was clad in gray armor, adorned with a winged helm and a charcoal sword always in hand; never sheathed. He stepped forward, his eyes a piercing blue, regarding them all coldly, as though they were wretched to him. His face seemed perpetually in a cold rage, his mouth a thin slice across his youthful face. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with an enigmatic anger, though still it contained trace amounts of a young voice, not yet fully grown. “I am Ghorn of Yain, Field Commander of the Rekmor Armada. These men that have followed us to the field of battle are my own. I have trained them with blood and sweat, and they are a killing machine.” Ghorn paused for a moment, his eyes quickly scanning the room seemingly searching for opposition, “It is they who will win us this war. No party of men or women will topple these confederate dogs! It will be the blade of Rekmor’s invincible army that will strike down these wretches! And I shall lead them to victory…” Ghorn slowly rose back to full height, his eyes still dancing with thought, as though he waited for some other reply. When none came immediately, he smiled and added, “With all of your help, of course…” With that, Ghorn swept his hand in front of him, as though inviting someone to take his place as the center of attention…

Bhurin smiles, and nods... You are not the first to ask. Please do...

This poem is neither medievel nor lighthearted in nature. I wrote this some time ago as a personal attestment to those who served their countries and paid the ultimate sacrifice. This poem has taken me places I never dreamed I would be. Perhaps I shall entale those places someday... Though older then some others, I still consider this my best work. Enjoy. Remember To fight in a war is a very strange thing, For it's both tangible and not. And, in rememberance, we should think not why, But who it was that had fought. A young man so happy, full of hopes and ideals, Hears of the enemy's threat. The next thing he knows, he's taking up arms, With people he's never met. But he thinks it's right, to go train and kill, For his leaders have said it was so. His pride leads him through, and he does not think, That it might just be best not to go. He arrives fresh to battle, and he is struck dumb, To enter this strange, new land. But he is snapped straight, for soon he will fight, As they search through the swamps and the sands. But things are cut short, as they're attacked from behind, Have no chance to use the guns in their hands. Where were their leaders? Who all spoke of glory? As this young man's blood soaks the land... Back at home as they wait, the family wonders, And then there's a knock at the door. A letter is given, but not held long, For soon it is dropped to the floor. Tears are shed, as comfort is given, But it is not taken to heart. The father curses the enemy, but his son contradicts, That it's not only they who took part. The young son yells that his father's at fault, "My brother was killed by your pride!!" His father insists that his son is a hero. He not so much yelled as he cried. The family is torn, and then it soon splits, As everyone mourns for the dead. But those who sought power, are still cheering loud, And not one tear from them has been shed. And that young man's hopes, and all his ideals, Shall never be fulfilled. For his ultimate sacrifice, he receives naught, Even though all his blood has been spilled. Signed- Edited by: Bhurin at: 1/11/02 8:30:16 pm

Tick tock tick tock, Slowly ticks the contest clock. What poet will win? For time now wears thing... Whose poem, in other words, rocks? Three days remaining...

As the company made their way across the winding paths that led to Pen’s gates, all the while their home looming over and shrinking behind them, the sun slowly began to burn through the sky over head, though the fog remain stubbornly around them. The air was cool and crisp, and left a blanket of dew over the cloaks of the adventurers as they went. Looking into the sky, Balladore seemed to sniff thoughtfully, before announcing quietly to no one in particular, “The skies speak of early spring… Odd weather for these territories…” At this, Jheric chuckled, his face hidden underneath a hat common to traveling wizards. “You don’t need a Druid’s nose to know that, Balladore. We haven’t had sun for weeks, and a sudden burst of sunshine is a rare and welcoming sight indeed…” Jheric paused, as though a thought were being completed in his head. “Though the spring still is early, even for this tempered clime…” Bhurin, quietly but awkwardly fidgeting on his horse, pulled up to Balladore’s side with relative difficulty trying to lead his horse. His wings were hidden once again underneath a blue cloak, shrouding the near luminescent limbs with practical simplicity. As he rode up next to Balladore, the Druid turned to his struggling friend and asked, “Can you manage…” Bhurin scoffed, his voice somewhat irritated, “If this horse would just learn who was in charge…” From behind them Jheric piped up, “I think he has, Bhurin. Though I agree SOMEONE is in denial…” Bhurin narrowed his vision momentarily, glancing at both Jheric and his horse, who was aptly named Bolshie, before turning to Balladore and smiling subtly, “A spirited animal, you have found Balladore…” “I told you, Bhurin,” Balladore began, stifling a chuckle, “you needn’t ride the length of our journey…” Before Balladore could answer, Bhurin raised his hand and said plainly, “We need to keep our presence a secret, my friend, and a flying companion is just that… If I have learned anything from my travels, it is that one cannot outrace a wildfire of gossip. And Mind you Balladore, though our intent is just, we come not on this expedition pure. All of us have our enemies…” Balladore nodded knowingly, “I understand Bhurin.” Bhurin, nodding as well, turned his gaze toward the lines of trees ahead of them in the distance and pointed. “It is many days journey to Hillcrest, my friend. Even weeks… We should plot our course for speed.” “Aye, I was thinking of cutting across the Murkmoors, into the Kingdom of Millas. However…” “Now just a moment there,” Justin Silverblade spoke up from just behind them, “now I don’t mean to pry, but crossing across Millas’ land will add days to our journey, assuming those bloody tax hounds don’t interrupt our way. Besides, the Murkmoors aren’t easy traveling as well. Why don’t we follow the most obvious route for swift travel and make way through the Timberoak Forest?” At the mention of the dreaded name, Jheric laughed, his voice echoing around them. “Justin, your courage is admirable, but perhaps you haven’t heard the latest news. Timberoak is Durluk territory. Full of Trolls and Hobgoblins, and Gods know what else…” Justin shrugged, his face unimpressed, “Nothing a bright fire and a quick blade can’t frighten away.” “Trolls aren’t the only thing in those woods, my friend,” Jheric’s smile was wily, even daring, “There are things that don’t fear steel, my armed companion. Things that don’t fear magic neither…” “Justin’s right.” All the adventurers turned to Damienn, the source of the voice defending Justin’s suggestion. They all became quiet, as they perceived Damienn’s eyes looking out toward the rolling hills and forests ahead of them. “Timberwood… It is swiftest… I do not fear what it’s shadows hide…” Justin nodded approvingly, looking to Jheric with confidence returned to his eyes, “I believe it is the most suitable course of action.” Balladore pondered this, looking to the course ahead, and turning the options over in his head. While he thought, Bhurin spoke again, this time his voice void of emotion, “These are not our only choices, my friend. We could venture further south and catch a galley from Kingsport into Borobay. That might cut our journey in two…” “Assuming there are any Galleys into Borobay,” Jheric added, his voice still confident and assured. "The choice is yours, Balladore," Justin finished, "You know these paths greater than all of us" Balladore thought out all the courses thoroughly, remembering his many journeys from the past. Finally, knowing their press for time, he made his decision.

Deep within the lands of Rekmor, where the land festers and rots from a wound in the earth, a great darkness stirred. In the heart of those lands, storms ravaged the heavens each passing moment, and below most all creatures suffered. Only those that found wanton joy in pain could survive in the depths of the Fallen Kingdom, for it was here that the Lord of pain endured. The Lord of suffering. The Lord of Nightmares. Known in the West as the Nameless Emperor, the Lord of Nightmares began his treachery out from a citadel deep in Rekmor known as Shadowkeep. Within a matter of years, the forces of Rekmor had manifested from out this “wound”, and a vast empire had arisen, stretching now throughout the Western lands. A force, known only as the Hand of Rectitude, was spreading like a plague and wreaking destruction in the West. Those that did not surrender were invaded. Those who did not comply were butchered. However, though they had begun to spread to the North, attacking the tribes of North Men and Ice giants, South into the rule of the Lizard King, and deep in the heart of the earth into the Underdark, the Hand knew no influence in one place: the East. For, though no one spoke directly of it, many believed the Lord of Nightmares was afraid to challenge the power of the Eastern power, the Antaean Confederacy. Many who were safe behind walls of stone and under watchful eyes scoffed that the Hand’s forces were too thin, its armies none the match for Confederacy might. And so the Hand could not push past its boarders into the East, the darkness was contained. It was time to change that. The darkness called out into the night, summoning its champions. They gathered in the heart of Shadowkeep, where the Lord of Nightmares dwelled in perpetual darkness; the warriors of the Hand, loyal and powerful. It was in a throne room where they received their instructions from the Lord himself. He appeared to them as a man, plain to the eye though clad in shadows. When he spoke, he moved not his mouth, but the words emerged from his throat, and his voice echoed like a struck anvil, tearing at their souls with each word. “MINIONS OF RECTITUDE, KNOW MY WORDS. HEED THEM AS LAW.” “MY INFLUENCE IS NOW FELT THROUGHOUT THE WORLD. THERE IS NOT A SOUL THAT DOES NOT FEAR MY NAME. THE HAND IS FELT LIKE A SHROUD OVER ALL LANDS, YET STILL THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO CHOOSE TO DENY ME. TO DENY THE RIGHTEOUSNESS I CAN BRING TO THEM. THEY HIDE IN LIGHT, AND REFUSE TO BELIEVE IN MY INFINITY. BUT NO LONGER.” Slowly, almost gently, the Lord raised his hand and a dais in the middle of the room rose from the floor, showing an illusion of the Eastern Continent. “THE GREAT RULERS OF MEN HAVE MADE THEIR MISTAKE. SO ENSURED ARE THEY OF THEIR POWER, THEY ALLOW THEMSELVES TO MAKE ENEMIES IN THEIR OWN TERRITORIES. THE ‘JUST’ AND ‘NOBLE’ HAVE AFFORDED US AN OPPORTUNITY. THEY HAVE OPPRESSED CREATURES WITHIN THEIR CONFINES, DENYING THEM, SUBJUGATING THEM. ANGERING THEM. NOW THEY HAVE SOUGHT US OUT, SWEARING THEIR LOVE, AND OFFERING US A WAY INTO THE EAST.” Suddenly, a creature stepped forward from the darkness. He was a wretched creature, a Gorog, with misshapen body and terrible features. “THIS IS GROMUL TREL”, the Lord of the Iron Crown continued, “LEADER OF THE GOROG TRIBES. HE WISHES TO BE EMBRACED BY THE HAND, AND HELP US BRING OUR INFLUENCE TO THE WORLD. HE SHALL PROVIDE ALL INFORMATION YOU WILL NEED. AND, TO ENSURE VICTORY, I AM SENDING MY RIGHT HAND, LORD MARIONUS, TO AID YOU IN THE CAMPAIGN. HE SHALL BE MY EYES AND MY HAND.” From beside the Lord of Nightmares’ throne, out stepped the Dread Lord, a massive giant clad in demonic armor and clutching a scythe. “NOW GO, AND ACHIEVE VICTORY. YOU ARE CAPABLE OF NOTHING ELSE.” With that, the doors of the throne room opened, and the gathered champions bowed before their Lord and withdrew. __________________________________________________ Five Regiments of Rekmor’s army now follow the Champions of the Hand into the lands of the East, with promises of more in the days to come. Seige craft, Hoards of Fallen, and vicious, lethal soldiers from the Camps of Rekmor, all moving like a wave across the lands of Rekmor and adjoining Dornikul, the first country to fall under the Hand. Villagers from farms and cities rushed into their homes as the nightmarish tide washed over them as it had years before. Nightmares moving across the kingdoms to slaughter. And, leading them all, the nightmarish band of the Hand’s Champions. Here rode the Mages and Generals, the tip of the blade of the Hand’s forces. Those most intimate with darkness. Four weeks later They rode into the encampment early that morning, when the skies were already dark with the Gorog’s work. Now the infernal armies of Rekmor could battle under shroud of synthetic darkness; more driven for blood and victory. Without word or warning, they dismounted and disappeared into the folds of their tent, with the exception of Ghorn of Yain, who gave call to the Gorogs to continue their Howls of War. Once within the walls of the tent, Ghorn of Yain spoke. “You have all been chosen for this hardship. All of you know what it is that must be done. We must strike, against all who oppose us, and wound these wretches so that they shall crumble. We have been chosen, so that victory will be inevitable…” Before he could continue, however, another man stepped forward. His name was Yar'cule the Infernal, and was known as the High Sorceror of Rekmor. He was clad in black and red robes, fitted to his frame like a uniform. His eyes were yellow and bloodshot, his skin a sickly pale white, and his hands were gnarled, with one always adorned with a scarlet glove. His voice was old but zealous, and was tinged with veiled power. Rapping his staff, a single shaft of dark wood crowned with a red jewel, against the ground, he spoke. “Know this, Minions of the Iron Crown. The Lord expects our victory, but not our survival. None of you can be spared from death should they succeed on any front. If our deaths, however, bring forth the Hand’s conquest, then our blood shall wreak a new order to the world. All of you have been summoned from the Four Fronts for your efforts in the war against ignorence. Stand forth and be named, warriors of the Hand…”

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This is just a short didy that I wrote for fun. (It's medievel satire) It's also supposed to be sung to an Irish-style jig. (So go ahead and fake one...) Enjoy. Epic Journey? You search the world for the sacred hero, So you can learn from him. The battlefield does not him yeild, Nor the unholy dark places of sin. You search the skies with eagle's eyes, And the wide sea waters you sail. When you sit to think, your heart almost sinks, For he's right there, drinking an ale. Edited by: Bhurin at: 1/5/02 3:48:17 pm