Patrick

Well, I'll go back into the past and comment on Final Death. Seeing that it's the first of the series, I read it first and just finished. Very interesting story, kept me reading even though I should be working on a project for uni. A couple typos here and there (mostly mix-ups between "to" and "too" and "were" and "where" and Rachel being called Rechel at times). The twist at the end was quite nice too. I also liked how you did not reveal what had happened the night when Taleth had killed the queen, instead leaving it unsaid. Now I'll have to resist reading the next thread tonight, because I really need to work on that project.

Michael cursed silently under his breath when the commotion broke out and then followed it up quickly with a loud "Ho-ho-ho!" in an attempt to mask the foul words he had just spoken. He looked around for Nick, but couldn't find his helper. Michael gently scooped up Bartleby from the floor and placed him on a top shelf. "Keep the kids entertained won't you?" He entered the personnel only toilets just as Nick emerged from his stall. Heading to the mirror the boy did not see Michael, who quietly stepped back out and shut the door behind him, the idea of smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves firmly gone after the sight of Nick's face in the mirror. He headed back to where he had left Bartleby and scooped up a terrified looking girl. "Don't be afraid child. Santa is here." OOC: Vote for Nick/Mardrax.

Wyv, the event wasn't in a stadium, it was in a normal concert hall, there were just lots of people. I was sort of in the middle, not too much in front, because I hadn't much been in a mood to be in the middle of the moshpit.

Well, I can't say much more than Yui...I'll just add one book: Name of the Wind by a first time author called Patrick Rothfuss.

I quite liked it.

It's a great time-waster. My best so far is getting to 43 once. Usually I average around 40-41.

The first line reminded me of "Once upon a midnight dready..."

"Ho-ho-ho!" Santa's laugh rang out as children thronged around him, one on each knee, one sitting in his neck and about a dozen sitting around him in a half-circle. As Michael asked the children what they wanted he could see several parents in the background scribble in notepads or whisper to their partners the answers the children gave. For them it was a great way of finding out what their children wanted. Above all, Michael needed to use the toilet. He had been sitting there, overwhelmed by the kids since midday and it was getting close to five pm. He really needed to go. He gently placed the five-year old girl, Sarah, who had been sitting in his neck down and then gently stood up, leaving time for the two sitting on his knees to slide off. "Santa needs to check on his reindeer. But I'll be back in a few minutes. In the meantime I'll leave you in the hands of my more than able helpers." He indicated Bartleby and Nick. "But Santa, can't we come and see the reindeers?" asked a young boy. "Well, you see," he replied, crouching down and putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, "the reindeer are supposed to be sleeping and I wouldn't want to wake them up by taking all of you there. And it would be unfair to take just a few." He winked at the boy and stepped through a door marked "Personnel only." Inside the employee toilets he blatantly lit a cigarette, defying the no smoking signs, took a nice long sip from his hip flask and released the contents of his bladder. He belched as he pulled up his zipper and brushed the ash from his white beard. He noted with satisfaction that he had not spilled any of the precious vodka on his santa outfit this time round. When he had done that two days ago he had gotten a scalding tell-off from the manager. He threw his cigarette butt into the bowl of the toilet and flushed. Popping some menthol chewing gum into his mouth, to take away the cigarette scent, he stepped back out into the store and was almost immediately overwhelmed by a group of kids asking him for mp3 players, laptops, and in one case for a tractor.

More info...let me see... Santa (alias Michael Short) Forty-seven years of age, playing Santa for the children of a toy store is the first job Michael has had in three years. Previously he had been a drifter, visiting the homeless scene of several major cities before being found by someone who was looking for men with sufficient facial hair to play Santa. The cash was also most definitely welcome, although most of it went to drinking after work with his other homeless friends. At least it wasn't the cheapest beer now and sometimes he even got some whisky...

The new webhost allows us the awesomeness of subdomains! Which means that the Mighty Pen Narratives has moved: The original can be found here: http://files.themightypen.net/Mighty_Pen_N...nNarratives.zip And the Epilogue EP here: http://files.themightypen.net/Mighty_Pen_N...ilogue%20EP.zip

If you can see this piece of news, then you are surfing on the new Pen webhost. Email notifications and emails sent through the board now work! Hip-hip-hooray for the new webhost.

I've heard everything from Dream Theater. These Walls is indeed nice. My favourite would come off the Images & Words album, but I'm not sure at all, which of two or three tracks it would be.

Ooooh a game run by Tanny! I want to be in! I'll be the Santa Claus who entertains people in the store and gives candy to kids. Ho-ho-ho!

*steps in, a wolf costume draped over his shoulders* *puts on his best Wuffie impersonation* OOC: Despite me opening the sign up, Tanny is running this show. Seer and Baner might be someone from security on their day off, or an off-duty cop. Or an ex-soldier, etc, etc...it's up to whoever gets the role to come up with an explanation. Tanny would want at least 9 players. Quickly peeks in Thanks Pat for posting! A small addition: due to the season, I'll be allowing NPC posts from people who are not playing the Werewolf Game; only restriction for them will be that they cannot vote/interfere in the game, but they'll be free to RP and interact with the players. /Tanny

Chapter 9 394 years before Grimfalk's return "Tragedies have always shaped the course of history. A tragedy is always more powerful than a joyous event." – The Prophecy The mood was sombre at best, comparable to what one could find at a funeral at worst. For sixteen years this day had been dreaded, thoughts of it pushed back into a subconscious, but always present. And now the feared day had come and no one in the small suburban house wanted to see it unfold. The youngest three, my children, simply did not know why this day was so special. They did not know why their mother hugged them much longer than usual as they departed that morning. We had judged that telling them that their mother had died in a car accident was much easier than having to tell them the truth. Rachel, the youngest of the three had inherited her mother's eyes, but had pale blonde hair in contrast to Inya's soft brown locks. She was going to be six the next week and loved going to kindergarten. George Jr., ten years old a week earlier, was a dreamy boy, thinking about tales of adventure quite often. One time, several months ago he had gone into a long-winded speech about how he was going to be a writer when he grew up. He already had the names of his two heroes, who were going to fall in love and live happily ever after. They were to be called Inya and George after us. Fifteen year old Thomas, born from the first time we had made love, was almost an exact image of me. He had turned back and waved as he left the house that morning, suspecting that we were hiding something from him. The three of them were off to see Inya's parents, living in the countryside, for the weekend, to leave us some "us time" as we had put it. The door closed, closing a chapter of my life. I knew that my whole life was going to change after this day. Without Inya…I didn't want to imagine life without her. We had discussed this moment often in the last couple of months. Knowing that I was supposed to kill her, but not knowing how or why had been a terrible feeling for both of us. "Quick and painless," I whispered, holding the knife in a shaking hand. Both Inya and I had tears in our eyes, but we had agreed that instead of facing an uncertain death, Inya would have a fast death, one which brought her no pain. We kissed, and I placed the knife at her throat. "And he shall kill her in the worst way possible." The words of the prophecy flashed in my mind. Why had I chosen to remember half-forgotten words uttered thousands of years ago right now? My hand shook violently and the knife scratched Inya's neck. The sight of the small trickle of blood made the knife fall from my hands. It clattered to the ground with an absurdly loud noise in the sudden silence, rebounding multiple times until it settled on the cold tiles. "I can't do it; I can't become a willing puppet to this accursed prophecy. If it wants to get its dirty work done, it will have to do it itself." Inya reached up to brush away a tear from my face. The lovemaking that followed reminded both of us of the first few days after we had met. The fiery passion we had felt then was rekindled and magnified by the tragedy we believed we would witness that day. Laying on the bed afterwards, our bodies close together, we were both startled by the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen. By the time I got there, still fully naked, the three masked and armed men had already entered by the broken window. They had planned for it to be a simple robbery; taking the valuables they thought were present in the home and leaving. The appearance of our two naked figures did complicate things. "Don't you move," one of them said, in a voice heavily laced by an accent I had heard in my previous lifetime for the last time. "Don't you bloody move! Tie them!" While two of them kept their guns pointed at Inya and me the third went through the kitchen cupboards, until he finally found some string. He tied me to the pillar in the middle of the living room, taking care to tie both my feet and hands securely. "You look mighty fine, mighty fine," he said in an even more accentuated voice when he came next to Inya. Instead of the motions of tying up someone his hands caressed her body. Inya tried slapping his hands away, but was stopped by a gun shoved against her chin. Another of the three men had come up next to her. "Make it quick," the third, still brandishing his gun at me, told his companions. I could not move my eyes away. Both physically, tied up as I was, and mentally I was forced to watch as the two men took their turns raping her. Inya did not give in quietly. She struggled, she bit, she fought as hard as she could, until they had gagged her and tied her hands and feet. And through it all I was forced to watch. I watched on as my life was raped away in front of my eyes. Long forgotten words jumped at me from his subconscious. Words that I knew could kill the three men in a heartbeat. Words that I had promised Inya I would never utter. The gun going off made both me and the man pointing his gun at me jump. My world folded inwards, grief already threatening to overwhelm me. The prophecy had taken my challenge. It had sent others to do the dirty work. The prophecy always won. And I had killed her in the worst way possible, through not doing anything to save her. A gun being pushed against my temple had brought me back to my senses. Through a shroud of tears, through my heartbeat drumming in my ears I could hear the three men argue about whether they should also kill me, now that they had killed my wife. To be honest, I did not care. I wanted nothing more than to join Inya. But the anger welling up in me was too strong. I had made a promise not to use magic anymore sixteen years ago and I had meant that promise. But without Inya that promise was no more. The irony that the powers with which I could save her were only available after her death was not lost on me. The three men never knew what hit them. Never before had they, nor anyone in the entire universe heard about such power being unleashed. The resulting explosion wiped out more than ninety percent of the city, leaving only a naked man alive in the midst of the destruction. A naked man and the grief the prophecy had inflicted on him.

*apologises for stealing the limelight from Wyvern's regularly scheduled news show* The Pen website shall be moving to a better webhost this weekend. Down time may be experienced as files and databases are transferred and there may be some access issues while the domain name is made to point at the new server. Hopefully by the beginning of next week these issues shall be gone and we'll have a more reliable webhost (this should also solve the email issues we have been experiencing). Techily tinkering... EDIT: moving as soon as I can grab hold of Zool

American Gangster - went to see this at the cinema last Saturday with some friends. Russel Crowe and Denzel Washington both deliver great performances and the film is altogether very well done. I'd definitely recommend it.

The stuff can be removed in the skin options (editing template HTML). For the moment if I remove something it just removes the text and leaves an empty line, but I'm looking into it in more detail.

I'll have a look at the PHP files Katz.

A mysterious sighting in the Recruiter's Office! Through careful observations we have learned that feathers of a mysterious origin have turned up in Wyvern's office. While this strange happening is no cause for concern it has piqued our curiosity to know who or what these feathers come from. We accept any and all wild theories, educated guesses, Almost Dragonic Brand Theories, etc... you get the idea. Strangely the note isn't signed. OOC Thanks to Guinea Pig and The Researcher for allowing me to grab a small idea they had had and turn it into this activity. Basically the idea is, using characters, pasts of characters, happenings in the past of the Pen, etc...to make up a story of how the feathers ended up in Wyvern's office. The more interesting, the wackier, the more believable it is, the better. The objective is to have fun! Exercise particually well suited to the many feathered Pennites we have.

What about getting rid of join date?

Nice shout-out at the end there Wyv. One more review from me: November 14 - Lyon - Sonata Arctica This was definitely the biggest crowd I have seen at a metal concert in Lyon. When I got there the queue of people waiting to get in stretched from the entrance to the corner of the parking lot, which is about 200 meters. Naturally all the waiting made me miss half of the first opening act, a band called Ride the Sky. I had never heard of them before, but the short part of their set I managed to see was pretty good. Second opening act was Epica. I've already seen them playing a main act of their own in Lyon. They played a great set, only problem with it was it being too short. Then came Sonata Arctica, whom I had never seen before live. Hugest crowd I had ever seen provided quite a nice mosh pit on occasions, add to that the great performance the band had put in and it was a pretty good evening all in all.

Heh...I totally hadn't noticed those anagrams.

Chapter 8 17 months before Grimfalk’s return “Hell on earth can be cold. Extremely cold.”- The Prophecy Day after day of artillery shells smashing against the fortifications had achieved the desired effect of playing with the defender’s nerves. The fact that no one had deserted was a clear sign to the influence and the respect that the rebel leader evoked in his men. Jorgen was as unlikely a figure as one could find to lead a rebellion. Married, father of six children he had everything to lose. His whole life he had been an engineer building things. Yet when conflict called he had been ready to destroy. Ironically the first bridge he had blown up during the rebels guerrilla campaign had been the first one he had designed. In his own words, it had helped to know where he had to place the charges. When the first rumours of the Imperial Army being called in had reached the leadership of the rebels, Jorgen had been named the commander of the northern sector. It was barely more than a strip of land connecting the two great landmasses of the planet, but, strategically, no other sector was more important. Almost the whole sector’s defensibility depended on Halmand Castle. The rebels knew it and the imperials knew it. Three thousand defenders faced off against a full Imperial Army of twelve thousand men and their superior equipment. Being one of those three thousand had introduced Sean to a life different in many ways than the one he had been used to in the comfort and warmth of his home. Meals were never in regular times for fear of imperial shelling, it was almost never warm, even with all the measures taken to keep the defenders out in the cold for only the necessary time. Once his hand had sufficiently healed he had been transferred to the messengers. His youthful speed and his wounded hand together had been enough to keep him out of fighting duty, much to his own chagrin. Little did he know that he’d very soon have more than his own share of fighting. “Sean!” came the voice over the wire transmitter in his quarters. The rebels did not use any wireless communications, knowing full well the imperials prowess in intercepting and decrypting those signals. He did not need more than that to know that he was needed. Reluctantly scrambling from the relative warmth of his furs and covers he put on the warm clothes given him after his arrival and ran the short length to the dispatch room. “Message for the Northeast Tower,” the same voice as over the transmitter greeted him and Sean took the data unit from his superior. “Be careful,” the elderly man cautioned, “Sniper activity is high around the bridges today.” Halmand Castle had been built in a very peculiar way. Sitting on an island in the middle of the Halmand River four artificial islets were raised in the river surrounding it and its four towers were built on these heaps of reinforced concrete. The towers were connected to the castle itself by thin, fragile bridges. In case of destruction of the bridges, new, temporary ones made of steel, could easily be deployed from the castle. In peacetime there were three ways of entering the castle. The castle itself was connected to the west bank of the river, joining the main North-South road about half a mile from the river. The two eastern towers were connected to the eastern bank of the river, by sturdy bridges. At the beginning of the siege Jorgen had ordered those two bridges destroyed. Their slabs of concrete still littered the frozen river. The Northeast Tower had been given particular attention by the opposing artillery. Merely two days after the beginning of the siege they had scored a lucky hit on the bridge connecting it to the castle. In the three weeks that had passed since then seventeen temporary bridges had been also hit. Sean accepted his assignment without complaining. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that he had to take a message there. He never knew the contents of the messages he transported, but he could guess that the rebels were having troubles in the Northeast Tower. Getting to the north-eastern corner of the castle was easy. Hundreds of shelters existed where one could duck when hearing the whistle of an incoming artillery shell. The difficult part was getting over the bridge. Getting there he saw that there was no bridge. The engineering crew next to the opening had however been waiting for him. As soon as they spotted him they started deploying the temporary bridge. Almost immediately artillery shells came raining down. Two bridges were wasted before finally the third reached the tower on the other side of the gap. “Good luck,” the leader of the engineers whispered to Sean. “Nice kid, hope he fares better than the other messenger two hours ago,” he added as soon as Sean had set out at a sprint across the bridge. He just made it. Seconds after he reached the other side of the bridge an almost direct hit on the fragile steel structure sent it tumbling down onto the hard ice to join many others already down there. Watching it fall, Sean noticed the body of a messenger he had come to know, who had not been as lucky as him. Frozen traces of blood showed that he had not died a quick death. As Sean handed over his message tube to the Sergeant in charge of the tower he heard retaliatory artillery shells, fired from the castle courtyard fly overhead. It was the first time that the defending artillery had opened fire. Ammunition was short and only the surest shots were taken. That day they hit fourteen of the high-technology pieces of artillery the opposing army used. “Well, well, well,” the Sergeant said upon reading the letter. “My name is Jack Brown. It seems that you shall be staying with us for a bit, my boy.” He handed the message to Sean for him to read it. Losses in men, equipment too high to resupply NE T. Evac judged too risky. On your own. Best of luck. – J.

At the start of the piece the phrase "aching acuteness" painted a very acoustic picture with its alliteration about the cold. I really liked that. The piece as Silver Wind has already said is pretty vivid and I'd also add very sad.