Patrick

Technology...wolves...can't keep me away. I'll play Slimmo, the newest generation, ultra-thin brain implant. Implanted in the brain of Fatso, a rather overweight, run-of-the-mill white lab rat. Roger doesn't really like having animals around, but Fatso is an exception. Only because of his brain implant of course...

I would. Probably would even have time to participate this time round.

All's well here. I write dark stuff even when in good moods.

Of the canopy of stars overhead Not one deigns falling - ungrantable wish The daily horoscope in the newspaper Holds no promise - hopeless wish Soothsayers, cheap fortune tellers Don't even bother - unfathomable wish You should know what you want Before asking for it - unexpressable wish Or you should just stop waiting For it to happen - unnecessary wish Weird, weird poem structure...somehow felt appropriate.

Take the knife Jump from the bridge Slash your wrists Lie on the tracks Kick away the chair Let the train come Aim at your head Take dozens of pills Pull the trigger Inspired by a tv series episode seen last night.

I'm sorry I'm going to have to withdraw from the game, unfortunately won't have time to play.

I most probably won't be able to post before late on Sunday. Sorry.

I'll try posting later today when the holiday cheer starts calming down.

For most people Christmas is about happyness, joy and seeing loved ones. For most people. For Grumpy Christmas is about overtime, overtime and overtime. Ever wondered how all of those presents wind up under the neat christmas tree all packed up with the names of who received them? Seek no further. A couple thousand of them are packaged and labeled each year by Grumpy. As a packaging elf working for the company that no one calls a company and just prefer to refer to by its director, Mr. Claus, Grumpy spends what most people call Christmas holidays packaging, packaging and packaging. Oh and drinking...without alcohol he'd never be able to get through the seventeen-eighteen hour shifts... Ever wondered how in the world you got a new bike when all you had wished for had been a new Playstation? Probably Grumpy mixing up the labels on two boxes. More than weird presents...alcohol induced ideas, which seemed fun at the time. Does Grumpy like his job? Oh no he doesn't. He wants to quit, he has tried to quit, but...but there is always a but. His contract is filled with nothing but buts. And without a labour union representative among the elves he has no chance of getting professional help. Don't even mention calling a hotshot lawyer from one of those big cities...One of those finding out about elves and the whole of Mr. Claus's company would be going down. There is a whole page in the contract detailing the punishments for contacting someone outside the company about pretty much anything. The only time Grumpy managed to quit, his cry of joy, "YES!!" was explained to him as being the answer to the question do you want to rejoin? So he had to...and then he signed a lot of papers he should never have signed. It was explained to him that in the current economic climate the number of new recruits was dwindling and in order to be able to hold the ever looming project deadline, otherwise known as Christmas, overtime and extra efforts were needed from all resources, otherwise known as packaging elves, in order to not be late, the penalties for which would be severe, both against the company and against its employees. It made no sense to Grumpy, but he was always told to sign what was put in front of him and so he did. It had been like signing away his soul to the devil. Longer and longer shifts followed until he felt as though he was single-handedly packaging all of the presents for everyone in the world. That might have been the alcohol speaking though. Ah the alcohol. Without it he would have burned out already. Due to a contractual oversight, alcohol was allowed on the premises and while a packaging elf was not allowed to be drunk...there were no rules against actual drinking. And Grumpy could always explain that he was not drunk, but simply tipsy. It made him forget all his worries and the working hours seemed to go by faster than ever. It even almost made him forget how he always got teased for his name. He almost hated his parents for giving him his name. Grumpy. Everyone teased him about it belonging to a dwarf. That blasted dwarf!

Put me down as "maybe"

At least Xander went out on a high... Thanks everyone for a fun game and thank you Mynx for moderating.

He had always heard that alcohol never mixed well with medicine. He had never cared. It just made his ideas wilder and his paintings better...in a kind of messed up way. Of course he hadn't had a drop for years. But thinking back to that drunk reminded him of the wild days when he would paint for several days, tanked up on drugs and alcohol. And then he sold the paintings to curious noblemen who didn't understand a bit of what the paintings meant, but who thought it they could impress other curious noblemen by showing them in their lavishly decorated houses. Ezekiel hadn't bought a single painting. At first it had surprised Xander, he had gotten used to noblemen jumping at the opportunity of haggling him out of his paintings. Those who had the most of the money had seemed to be those who were the most reluctant to let it out of their hands. But then, seeing how weird Ezekiel was in his other ways he was not surprised anymore and had just continued painting. He burnt most and kept only a select few. Meaningless to others, overburdened with meaning. Those which meant the most were those he could not bear to look at and those he had to burn. The most recent painting was no exception. It had taken over twenty hours and by the end he had been almost clean from the drugs slowly destroying him. He had had a smoke since and still couldn't decide exactly what kept him from burning the picture. He kept the picture on the easel. Should anyone enter the room it would be the first thing they would see. From a small pouch in a discarded corner of the room he took a needle. It had been a long time since he had injected himself...but now he needed it. He ground some of the herbs as he started the long process. Half an hour later he was out cold on his bed, dreaming the wildest dreams he had had in months. OOC: vote for Venefyxatu/Ezekiel.

Is everybody waiting to see whether Mynx reveals Hjolnai's role or not before posting/voting?

I'll have to admit...I don't see what you mean.

OOC: blame Tanny for the initial idea and the music I was listening to for the duck of doubt... See where the train takes you?! Such weird ideas! Xander didn't even know what a train was, but in his visions it kept spewing smoke and quickly coming at him, intent on killing him. It was a very weird moment. No...wait. Lately, it might...could just have been considered normal. For someone who had visions as lively as the best author's imaginations, a fifteen ton steel beast vomiting smoke wasn't that strange. The painting he had painted was...weird to say the least, the imaginative maelstrom of a maniac would have been closer though. It resembled nothing and then again was similar to a peaceful scene of death and carnage an idyll of destruction...a joyful massacre...a deadly celebration. It was horrific and at the same time brilliant. It almost ended in the fire. Then again...some crazy collector miles and miles away might pay for everything Xander could ever wish for in order to acquire the immense privilege of hanging a majestic bloodbath in his entrance hall. To burn the duck of doubt! All insecurities have to be dispelled and the best way to do so is to heartily throw them on a colossal bonfire of unwanted ideas. As if...he was doomed to live forever in an insecure world, assailed from every single side by his own subconscious. That is...if he survived to see the sun rise yet again. Some seemed to be constantly crying for his blood. People always seemed to go after those who were strange at first. Drug addicts, outcasts, alcoholics. Just because someone was down meant that they had to be kicked again and again and again. That seemed like a good idea. Thrashing mindlessly in his bed Xander felt like kicking Enipul. Drunk versus druggie. Would be quite fun to be watched! OOC: Vote for...surprise, surprise...Enipul Mai / Cryptomancer.

Let's just hope it's not an Almost Dragonic Halo™

Haha, that's ironic.

Xander hoped that he had given one of his pretty paintings to Millie. Not one of the dark ones. He tried to burn those whenever he got the chance...but lately...lately...sometimes he wasn't even sure of his own name. He only knew that he had to have his smoke, otherwise his mind would descend into madness. He realised he was stuffing his pipe with the weed. Here...in the middle of the tavern. He quickly stuffed the pipe into his shirt pocket, spilling half of the contents onto the floor. He was about to pick them up when Millie brought him a plate of food. He was ravenously hungry. It felt like several days since he had had something to eat and it probably was. The herbs muddled his mind, throwing even simple thoughts off track. His plate was suddenly empty. He checked the floor, expecting to see most of its contents there. But the floor was still clean from Preston's work of the night before. He needed to paint...needed to get his thoughts onto a canvas. He needed to...he needed to...he really needed to stop smoking his life away. But he was afraid. Afraid of the nightmares...of the visions. Afraid of the visions going away. They had become a constant companion...a faithful companion. Always there when he needed them. Always there when he needed a comforting soul. There in his darkest hours, guiding his hands which painted...which painted horrors. He shuddered. "Cathy, I need a drink," he said, lightly brushing the girl's sleeve. "As strong as it gets. I need to clear my thoughts." As strong as it gets was apparently the stuff that Enipul had whenever he could get his hands on it. It tasted foul, felt foul and made Xander cough after every swallow. But it helped clear his mind. At least a bit. Half-drunk, his mind was still sharper than when he smoked his trademark pipe, clearing his mind of conscious thoughts and relying on his visions. He wished he could help people...wished he could...but he was only an addict with enough problems of his own. How could he help anyone if he couldn't even help himself? The atrocious drink warmed him...it was an unwelcome feeling. How could that town drunk be used to drinking this every single day? Everyone had his own drug...for some it was a smile of a customer, for others it was a herb collected and then dried meticulously before being stuffed into a pipe. For others it was a disgusting liquor, taken every day in large quantities. Xander spat the rest of his drink back into his glass and withdrew his pipe from his pocket. He had his own drug and it was more than enough. He didn't need anything else. OOC: Vote for Enipul Mai / Cryptomancer.

I'll leave that up to you, Xander doesn't remember what he painted, only that it was pretty.

Long live mood swings...perfect plot device that allows you to play a character in whichever way you'd like to.

Millie looked up and was surprised to see Xander staring at her. He looked clearly troubled by something. After a silence of several seconds he spoke in a shaky voice. "I wanted to thank you for all the lovely food and your kindness," he managed to stammer. He then handed a rolled up sheet of canvas, about one foot long to Millie. Before she had a chance to even say thank you, Xander turned and very happy with the way he had for once managed to act sociably sat down at his usual spot in the corner. As Millie unrolled the canvas she could see that it was but a painting of a field of yellow flowers, with gentle puffy white clouds dotting the sky above.

Go take care of yourself...of yourself...take care...take care of yourself. Meaningless words strung together and somehow managing to still stay meaningless. Pah, thinking was especially hard today. His arm was still bleeding, washing it seemed to have opened the shallow wound yet again. He left the tavern blood slowly dripping from his arm onto the floor, leaving a red trail behind and hostile glances directed at his back. Take care of yourself...he repeated the words in his thoughts. He knew a perfect way of doing that and lifted his hand to light his pipe. But it was already lit. He sighed and took several long puffs. The damp and bloody rag fell a sickening splat in the dust next to him. He followed it, eyes glazed, already travelling in a vastly different world. OOC: looks like I'll have to vote for Chalice Tantrella/gabrielcharon for purposes of staying alive and all that.

Blood...paint...roses. He lifts the bloody sleeve, and with the obvious gash on his forearm confirms his own suspicions about the cause of his injury. Time to get more red paints...or find the ones that he had misplaced somewhere in his home...his mess. The cook, or some maiden looking suspiciously like her passes by. "I'll not want any food today Millie. Wouldn't want to meet it again like I did yesterday. This establishment does not deserve my vomit fluidly grazing its cleanly polished surfaces." He puffs on his long extinct pipe, bringing a small taste of herbs to his mouth. Are roses herbs?

Firm strokes by a heavily used pen. A canvas almost hidden in the fumes, which constantly permeate the air in his hut. A ghastly drawing slowly appearing on the no-longer immaculately white canvas. A masterpiece, which shall end its life amongst the flames in less than an hour. Figures from the worst nightmares, bringers of death. In a lovely field of yellow roses. The roses encircle a lonely figure, a bizarre expression...a mixture of fear and joy on his face. His blood a lake of red. The painting's but a pile of ash. None of Xander's paintings from the last three weeks survived his return to a semblance of consciousness. He's thirsty. Famished. Was it just the last day that he had gone to the tavern and then emptied his stomach of the lovely meal that delicious cook had served him. Or was it a delicious cook from a lovely meal. Thinking was hard, thoughts disjointed and a piece of the painting still survived. A blood red rose over a patch of yellow ripples. It was weird. Even for Xander who was way used to weird. He needed a drink. He filled his pipe and mechanically lit it as he examined the painting with his eyes which once could have passed for those of an art critic. It was beautiful. Useless. Masterful strokes of utter horror. It was only a bloody rose over a pool of piss. No artistic merit. He lights it from his pipe. The burning paint stinks. He collapses on the bed, but is up in a matter of minutes, frantically throwing bed sheets and clothes all over the place, cleaning before his mother comes to inspect his room. She's been dead only seven years. Or was it seventeen? His pipe has gone out. He lights it from the fire, but the fire is no longer lit. Disgustedly he kicks at the ashes, covering his clothes and face by the rising gray cloud. When he gets to the tavern he doesn't look much different than usual. Ashen face, disgustingly dirty clothes, paint all over the front of his shirt, mixed in with the remains of some sort of weird meal he had had the night...day...whenever before. And the blood stains covering his left sleeve. He takes his usual place, the farthest from the bright lights of the fireplace as possible. Someone mentions his bloody sleeve loud enough for him to hear. A genuine look of surprise fleets across his face as he glances at it. Could he have ran out of red paint yet again? OOC(ICishly): No vote...yet...too stoned to remember who lives in the town

Food. A hastily prepared broth that the kind cook at the tavern wouldn't have served even in her foulest mood. A bowl. Discarded container at the end of a trace of soup on the wooden floor. Footprints. Sticky reminders of the feel of the foul liquid. Smoke. Thick wisps of stench filling the room. A mess. His home was always a mess. Scented candles lay half burned over the floor. One of them had burned a small hole in the bedsheets. Herbs, which elsewhere would have a fetched a fortune from those who liked to soften their pain lay on the ground, trampled and sullied. There was always plenty more. The field was but two miles from his home. Life was good, life never had been so good for Xander. His dreams had never been so messed up either. For the life of him he could not remember painting last night. He could not remember the blurry strokes of a paintbrush, the dark shapes moving on the moon-lit field. He finished stuffing his pipe full of herbs and lit it from his tinderbox. Despite the shakes and the chills he occasionally had his hands still functioned well enough. But each day was worse, each day bringing closer the slow descent into his own personal hell. He had been at the gates for years, but he knew that he was slowly slipping out of control. Soon there would be no choice but to pass the gates, never to look back. The day when his hands weren't going to be able to hold a paintbrush satisfactorily weren't far away. A year...maybe three. Who knew? On a whim, Xander grabbed the painting and threw it in the fireplace. It caught fire fast and in a matter of minutes was reduced to a pile of ashes. The foul smoke the burning paints produced drove him from his home into the fresh morning air. It brought a minor coughing fit on him, which he cured with several long puffs from his pipe. He checked the pouch at his belt, but it was still half full. Still a couple of days before he had to refill. He coughed some more before deciding to make his way towards the tavern. It was the only place which seemed to have life this early in the mornings. And at least if he passed out there, he'd be put into a clean bed for a couple of hours. Lately, it was also part of the morning ritual in that place.