dragonqueen

Debra Thompson, budding actress and Beatles fan. Trend follower, sweet, young; she's everybody's favorite and wouldn't hurt a fly. Naive, she does everything her agent tells her to. It's not much to go on, but I'm not particularly knowledgeable about 60's television. If anybody has any suggestions to fill out her character, I'd be very grateful.

I'm in on this one...things have slowed down, and a T.V. serial I think I can manage a bit better than StarWars. Character coming soon.

Somewhere, in a dimly-lit apartment a figure sits at a desk, pen in hand. Crumpled pieces of parchment litter the floor around her, but a single, smooth piece of parchment lies at her hand. As she pens the last flourish, Dragonqueen reads over her work gravely. Evincing that this parchment will be the last, the young woman signs her name in large, sweeping script. Then she removes the small metal key strung on a chain around her neck for the other part of her valentine. At the bottom of the desk, close to the floor, there is a locked drawer. A ragged photograph, a flimsy stack of letters, fine sable brushes, and a locket with just a hint of tarnish. Treasures such as these lay under lock and key. But on top of the letters and photograph sits something more valuable than the rest. Dragonqueen picks the roundish object up and sets it on the desk next to her while she writes the note to go with it. This letter requires less thought, and she soon sets the paper aside to dry. Holding the aforementioned object gingerly so as not to get any dirt or oils on it, she inspects the pocketwatch for any imperfections. However, this particular timepiece was made by the finest draconian artisans, and as such is absolutely flawless. The valentine gift is finally complete. Dragonqueen wraps the watch in the note, and ties it with a bit of string. Brown paper packages tied up in string... The resulting package has the appearence of something a lad might present to his sweetheart, but it is nothing so innocent. Placing the watch in the center of the parchment, the sender rolls the paper around it. A black ribbon provides the perfect tie, and lo, a valentine. Donning her cap, Dragonqueen leaves the apartment. Her route is unfamiliar; she stops several times to ask directions. In due time she arrives at Caryon Megata's street. Stopping at a street vendor, she buys a boquet of flowers. Why, she can't quite recall, but it seemed like a good idea. Flowers never hurt anyone, and the forget-me-nots she purchased seem appropriate. The girl slows as she approaches the steps of the Artificer's house, valentine in hand. Taking a deep breath, she places the flowers and the gift on the porch. But delivery alone is not enough; to complete her task, she must make the recipient aware. Towards this end, Dragonqueen knocks loudly on the door, then turns around and leaves quickly. One might assume giving a secret valentine would give one a warm and fuzzy feeling, but not so. Dragonqueen is slightly uneasy. The gift she had given was an odd one, but what does one get for a man like him? Making her way home, she can only hope he takes it well. Harken back to sweeter times, Before all was fated to end in sorow. Remember the fire in her hair Close your eyes and see the forest in hers. Recall the happy times. Forget, for a moment, what happened. Feel a ghostly embrace, Let the memory of light reclaim your soul. Life is dark now, without her. But she loved the light. Remember the light, Caryon? In the mists of memory, Yawgmoth cannot hold you. Bring back the memory of light, Ihlea. You will be together, when all is done. Can you live for that day? Stop your descent towards hell, For Ihlea does not dwell there. I cannot control the dead, but I can give you something almost as precious - Time. Wind this pocketwatch, and you may see Ihlea. But only until the watch stops, and only if both parties cooperate. I hope you enjoy the gift. Your secret valentine, Dragonqueen OOC: Wasn't sure where to post this, but here seemed like a good place. Wasn't sure about format, either, but this works well enough. Happy Valentine's Day!

Way cool poem. A little rough around the edges, but love the catchy rhymes and the sort of off beat rythym and all that good stuff. Interesting and very valid subject matter. The first couple of lines caught my interest right away. Definitly some food for thought. Erm, sorry if this is out of place. You know, like just special Recruiting people are supposed to post here. Anyways, hope to see you around, NightFae. -Dragonqueen

Sign me up! I've seen pieces and bits of the old Star Wars movies, but never the entire thing. I love the new ones though. Character coming soon, as I've got a million and one things I should be doing right now. Hopefully my lack of knowledge won't inhibit me. *Remembers she has the entire collection* I'll have to watch those this weekend. Anyways, character coming soon and I love these games.

That came as a bit of a surprise. It's probably for the best as I'm afraid my posting has declined. It was a good game. Quincunx, I was particulary enjoying your posts.

Incidentally, I believe I also first discovered the Pen through a link in someone's gallery. So, thank you. I can't imagine how I would've found this place otherwise.

Brother Alcott is in his cell when news of Brother Gulzar's departure reaches him. Shocked, but telling himself he should have expected something like it, Alcott rises to his feet. He pads down the corridor and comes into the open air. Strangely, his heart is lighter and the monk thinks on this. Perhaps...I do not know. But I feel careless. My only thought is that this is coming to an end, and those dangerous sinners among us will be rooted out. Am I to play a part in this?... Guiltily he remembers Gulzar's absence, and thinks back on his uncharitable thoughts. But I cannot change what I have done, only try to do better in the future. So absorbed is he in his thoughts that Alcott scarcely notices Brother Mathieu until he has passed his fellow. Turning around, he hurries back to speak with Mathieu. As he does so, he identifies this strange lightness as a lack of timidness. I never realized what an inhibition it was. I suppose now, in such grave times, these trivial things no longer matter. There is a bigger picture, bigger than all of us, and we must devote all our attention to it... My eyes have been opened. "Brother, have you heard the news? I've only just heard it myself. Perhaps you know more?"

Brother Alcott walks slowly towards the scriptorium, marveling at how little his routine differs from yesterday and the day before and the day before that. But so much is different now. So many dead, gone, or shut away. Felipe, Francis, Adelmo, Benedicte, Adrian... Alcott tries to list the victims in his head and finds, to his shock, that he cannot remember them all. Dear God...we've taken many casualties. Too many... Though he wishes he could convince himself otherwise, the monk cannot shake the feeling that the Devil will not leave them just yet. He wonders if perhaps he too, should leave, for it seems the Abbey, always a place of peace and security, is no longer such. But was it ever, really? And didn't you jeopardize that when... No! Silence! I would never put the security of this monastery in danger! You say that, but perhaps, accidently, in your thirst for beauty, the beauty of the written word... Ah, yes. Perhaps I am too fond of my letters, but it is a harmless infatuation. It could never hurt anyone. Unless you love your letters more than you love God, and I think you know the answer to that... As he walks into the scriptorium the monk moves slowly, more slowly than he might have in happier times. He walks as if a great burden weighs upon his shoulders. Sitting down at one of many empty desks, Alcott picks up his pen. Gratefully he allows himself to take solace in the graceful forms of the letters and pleasent scritching of his pen upon the paper. His thoughts wander, and they are strangely, sadly peaceful. Whatever is happening, whatever has brought these terrible events, it is coming to an end. It must. Yes, I feel it in my heart. There have been too many casualities. It must end. In his heart, Brother Alcott mourns his fellows, lost to death and fallen victim to their brothers. But most of all he remembers Thibault, dead, and Felipe, under eternal penance. He was just a boy... Eventually, Alcott rises, and goes to seek out his fellow brothers. He is determined that the sinner must be caught. OOC: Hinting towards the forbidden act, the evil thought returns, accusation tomorrow. I'm still thinking.

Thank you for volunteering, everybody! To get a rough idea of what the final outcome will look like, you can check out my Results thread in the Banquet Room. The poems are coming slowly, but I intend to try and speed it up. Thank you all again! Participants Black9 cryptomancer Gwaihir Katzaniel reverie Salinye Tanuchan Sweetcherrie Peredhil Regel Pillow HappyBuddha -Dragonqueen Edit: Added new participants and the names in blue already have their poems up in the results thread.

Brother Alcott returns to his cell, and sits down heavily. Putting his head in his hands, he runs the dreadful events through his mind again. Brother Adrian, waiting for the Inquisitor...leaving with Rabano and Francis...Francis and Rabano dead...Brother Adrian, the murderer. Though he himself suspected Adrian, Alcott was not prepared for the brutal truth. Dear Lord, what will become of our abbey? Such a stain... Brother Alcott stumbles to his feet, thinking he must go to the chapel, and pray. But a thought sneaks into his mind, whispering sinisterly. You could've been such a stain. If someone found out, like they found Brother Adrian out, that could be you waiting for the Inquisitor. No...no! I confessed my sin, the Lord forgave me. I did my penance and my soul is clean now! But they wouldn't know that, would they? They wouldn't care, either. They'd be frightened, after they've already discovered so many sinners in their midst. Better safe than sorry, they'd think. The Lord would guide them! They would not! We are all sinners here. The monk shuffles faster, but he can't run away from his thoughts. Reaching the chapel, he gratefully sinks to his knees in front of the altar. Lips moving fervently, he prays for many hours, cleansing sin real and imagined from his soul. When at last he emerges, Alcott walks slowly to the dining room. He runs into Brother Gulzar leaving. "Brother Gulzar, good evening." Brother Alcott smiles and greets his fellow cordially. Gulzar appears deep in thought, however, and Alcott starts to move past him. Probably suspecting someone; that one's always been a little base. No, I mustn't think that. Lord, give me the strength to love my fellows as You do. Though he fights to keep his thoughts devout, Alcott can't help but feel, in the back of his mind, that Gulzar's never been as devout as his brothers. He is a little odd...but he couldn't have, could he?... OOC: Apologies about the lack of posting. The blue text here is used to distinguish the two thoughts in Alcott's head. Accuse Brother Gulzar/Sweetcherrie.

Alcott emerges from the chapel calmer and with a sense of purpose. The abbey seems to settle its usual peaceful business again, and his day passes relatively uneventually. Word of Brother Benedicte's departure reaches him, and he frowns. Sending a quick prayer of blessing upon his brother, the monk concludes it must have been the unfounded suspicion of his fellows which caused Brother Benedicte to leave. I can only pray our numbers will not be further depleted before this is over... Hearing his own thoughts, Brother Alcott wonders what 'this' is and when it became something with a beginning and end. He finishes his day with a devout prayer that this will indeed be the end. By the time breakfest has been served the next morning, news of the second death has spread like wildfire. Brother Alcott hears of it, and is deeply saddened. Brother Venancio...I did not even know him. Who among us is a killer? I hesitate to think it, but...surely Brother Venancio did not meet his end in such a manner without assistance. Slowly Alcott eats his breakfest, and thinks back on his reflections the previous day. But of course...it began with Brother Adelmo's death, and it could've ended with Brother Benedicte's leaving, though it saddens me to say it. Yes, that might've been the end, if it were not for this second death... If there had been any doubt in Brother Alcott's mind before, it is now clear that the Devil is at work within the abbey. Alcott trembles in his soul to think what the consequences will be, and reminds himself that a godly man has nothing to fear. Immediatly after the meal, Alcott heads for the scriptorium, intending to lose himself in work. Despite his intentions and his desire not to cast suspicions on his brothers, however, thoughts steal into his mind. Perhaps...the servants, they are not devoted. And Brother Adrian is always involved with his bees...there has always been something strange about him... OOC: Vote for Vahktang/Brother Adrian

"As to the possibility that poor Brother Adelmo was indeed murdered. I fear that he was. I have not heard that it was his practice to take walks along the cliffs at night so I fear he had help in his demise. I am afraid that I am without direction and not wanting to be influenced unduely by the rumors circulating I have decided to go to the chapel to pray for guidance. Will you join me?" "Gladly, Brother. Though we are all servants of the Lord here, we are not without weaknesses. I cannot help but think Brother Adelmo's death is not the only sign of the Devil's influence among us. In a state of uncertaintity such as this, I feel the only choice I have is to turn to the Lord for guidance, and have faith." Brother Alcott speaks slowly, still straightening out his thoughts. The two monks approach the chapel and Alcott stops, just before the doors. Brother Caire halts a step ahead and looks back at his fellow monk. "Why do you hesitate?" Alcott opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it. Shaking his head, he says "Nothing. It is nothing. Please, let us continue." No, I cannot voice my suspicions. It would be better to wait until I have received the Lord's holy guidance. Who I am to turn away from God and place my faith in my own thoughts? No, I am but a humble sinner, lost without the Lord.

Though he tries to focus on his beloved manuscripts, Brother Alcott feels restless and his thoughts refuse to settle. At last he gets up and leaves the scriptorium, since there seems to be no help for it. As Alcott leaves the scriptorium, he spots Brother Thibault walking forcefully towards the scriptorium. He steps aside to allow the older monk to pass. Someone must have ruffled his feathers....is it just the usual fussiness or something more? Continuing his path, the quiet monk sees the abbey is busy as usual, but it seems to him there is a more sinister air. Passing through, he hears quiet conversations,and wonders at what he hears. Accusations, suspicions...when did they decide it was murder? And Brother Benedicte... Alcott was reluctant to believe the culprit, if there was one, was a monk, and especially a scholar. He had always respected scholars and their thirst for knowledge, and Brother Benedicte, if a little enigmatic, did not seem like a murderer. But even you thought there was something more going on than just the accidental death of a brother. So...who is it, since that is the most accepted reason? One of the servants...they do not serve God as devoutly as we do... The monk's thoughts trail off, and changing course, he heads for the chapel, intending to pray. Ahead of him he sees Brother Caire, and Alcott quickens his pace to speak with him. "Brother Caire!" Catching up with the other monk, Brother Alcott gladly seizes the chance to discuss the supposed murder. "If I may ask, do you truly think it was...murder?" His voice drops on the last word, for to speak it aloud seems to sully the air of the abbey.

Brother Alcott takes his time walking to the scriptorium, enjoying the peacefulness of the snow-covered monastery. So absorbed is he in thoughts of his work, he scarcely hears the conversation of the monks and servants around him. That is, until a word catches his attention. Alcott stops on the path in mild shock. Dead...Brother Adelmo? How could this be? He was so young, so gifted. Why would the Lord take him from us? Still reflecting on Brother Adelmo's death, Alcott slowly resumes his walk. As he enters the scriptorium, his thoughts turn to the consequences. There wil be suspicion. But we are all servants of God here. Who among us would have done such an evil deed? Who among us is masquerading as a holy man? The troubled monk seats himself at an empty desk, and sets out a quill and ink, but his movements are slow and dreamlike. It is difficult to bring himself to believe such an evil has truly been visited upon thier abbey. As he begins his copying, Alcott voices his thoughts. Murmurring distractedly to himself, the time passes slowly as he scribes, all the time waiting to hear of the reaction to Adelmo's death.

"Brother, do you know at which desks the visitors will be working?" The words startle Brother Alcott, and he stop his work to peer bemusedly at Brother Thibault. "Vistors?" Visitors, visitors. There are always visitors, and they never tell me where they'll be working... He glances over at Brother Caire, hoping he knows anything about these visitors. "Newly arrived, brother. They must not have been escorted to the scriptorium yet," Brother Thibault answered in a voice that could be heard in all the room, "if they have even met one of our own scholars at all. I have brought extra vellum before they have required it, now which one of you keeps records of the quills and inkpots?" Alcott looks down at the page before him, and remains silent. Oh dear, the records. I do hope Brother Caire has been keeping them. I'm afraid I've been a little lax lately. The monk says a silent prayer asking for forgiveness for his forgetfullness...

Humming quietly to himself, Brother Alcott completes the last flourish of a line. He inspects his work carefully for any blots or errors, and finding it satsifactory, sets it aside. The copyist picks up his pen and begins the next page, carefully copying every curlicue of the aged calligraphy exactly. Though there are many works he wishes to copy from the great library, it would not do to rush and ruin the elegancy of the ancient words. Loud voices sounding outside interrupt Alcott's painstaking work. He pauses and lifts his head, then smiles to himself. Ah, yes. Poor Felipe. He really ought to know better by now... Clucking his tongue at felipe's foolish ways, Brother Alcott continues his work. He takes a moment to admire the statuesque words before setting pen to parchment. As he copies, the brother allows himself to think, for a moment, of other monks, years later, copying his own copies, and feels a taste of pride that they will find his work everything they could ask for. Only a moment thought, before he quashes the thought, reminding himself that pride is a sin.

Brother Alcott of Lilbourne, copyist. He was one of many children and his parents were peasents who couldn't afford to support all their children. **Need a way for him to get to the monastery - any suggestions?** Though he came from an impoverished background, Alcott took to the educated life well. The quiet atmosphere suits him, as he usually says as few words as possible. He is a peaceful man who, while he mightn't have originally been possessed of a desire to become a monk, has come to love God and be satsified with his life. He spends most of his time copying old manuscripts, and years of peering at faded words in dim light have ruined his eyes. These manuscripts are his passion, and knowledge and learning are valuable as gold to him.

I'm definitly in for this one, and I'll try to do a better job of posting....No real opinion of themes, but I do happen to have The Name of the Rose sitting on my bookshelf.

It would be so easy to stop. Stop breathing. Stop looking. Stop living. So easy to just decide I don't want to anymore. Don't want to breath. Don't want to look. Don't want to live. So easy to float, in nothingness. To surrender myself to God. It would be easy. But...I don't want to. Tell me not to. Convince me. Give me a reason. Rescue me. It would be so easy And it would mean so much. Incidentally, a status report. Midterms are quickly approaching, and this might be the last you hear of me for a couple weeks. After that, with luck you'll see progress on my QQ. Hope you enjoy the poem. -DQ

The style of this poem seems very modern to me. The stark simplicity of it, how it sits alone on the page, waiting to be read, demanding little, but simply expressing its sentiment. If that makes any sense at all. And of course, I love the poem. I like the way you stuck to one word a line, and as I read it it seems very real; I can see the emotions, or images, or whatever, in my head. An unbelievably cool poem. Of course, this is just what I got out of, muddily expressed as always. Very beautiful and something I could read over and over and never get tired of.

Very nice. Sweet, simple and elegant. A pleasing read. The only thing I could say is that in the middle of the poem, the format makes it a bit choppy. On the other hand, it really works in the last four lines. Lovely poem.

This could be an interesting way to get to know people...count me in.

If you were falling, who would catch you? Have you ever asked yourself that question? Maybe you should. I didn't. At least, not until it was too late, And I was falling, harder and faster than I thought I ever could. My life was spinning out of control, Unraveling much too quickly. It was like some horrible nightmare I couldn't wake up from. Until I hit the bottom, and faced cold, hard reality. Like some sort of fallen angel, I guess. Only my fall from grace was a fall from sanity and any illusion of normalcy. A fall from everything I thought I had going for me, Everything I thought my future would be, Everything I thought my life was. I guess I thought I led a charmed life. It couldn't happen to me. I expected someone to be there to catch me. So, Who would catch you if you fell? Maybe you ought to ask yourself sometime.

I've no idea what most of those words mean, and if I didn't know better I'd swear you made half of them up. Once you've defined them all, the poem does make sense, right? Splendid poem!