Patrick

I'm also in. I'll edit this post later with a character. I'll try out a female character for this one, as so far those seem to be in shorter supply. Jennifer Marrington A tall girl, she has long blond hair and deep blue eyes. Her friends usually call her Jenny. She likes guys who do a lot of sport. She doesn't have her own car, but she usually is in the cars of different guys being taken all around the place. She is a cheerleader for the baseball team.

OOC: Just a little idea of mine. I created a poem with five verses, each verse saying the same thing, but in a different language. I chose the title in english so that all understand it. If you are wondering, the first verse is in hungarian, and I only managed to make the rhymes work there. This is the first poem I ever wrote so all and any criticism is appreciated. Tavasztol nyárig or From spring to summer or Du printemps jusqu'à l'été or Vom Frühling bis Sommer or De la primavera hasta el verano A madarak vígan üdvözölték a tavaszt, Hangjuk elhallattszott egészen a szobámig. Gyengén feküdve betegágyamon, Néztem én is a tél-űző tavaszt. Tudtam, eltart majd nyárig. De akkor én már nem leszek itt. The birds happily welcomed spring, Their voice carried even into my room. Weakly lying on my sickbed, I too watched spring succeeding winter. I knew, that it would last until summer. But then I shall not be here anymore. Les oiseaux chantaient le bienvenue au printemps, Leur voix arrivait jusqu’à ma chambre. Couché dans mon lit de malade, Moi aussi je regardais le printemps succéder à l’hiver. Je savais que ça durerait jusqu’à l’été. Mais l’été je ne serais plus là. Die Vögeln begrüβten den Frühling, Ihre Stimmen kamen in mein Zimmer ein. Legend in meinem Krankenbett, Ich beobachte auch der Frühling den Winter folgen. Ich wusste dass es wurde bis Sommer dauern. Aber dann wurde ich schon nicht hier sein. Los pàjaros acogaban la primavera, Sus voces llegaban en mi habitacion. Echado enfermo en mi cama, Yo miraba también la primavera suceder a l’invierno. Yo sabeba que esto va a durar hasta el verano. Pero yo ya no voy a estar aqui.

@ Venefyxatu: Sure.

Well I wanted it to have a non-conventional ending, because otherwise it would have just been the same story of the kid suiciding himself at the end that happened in the real world cases.

Sign me up as teamless so far. I don't know many people on the Pen yet, but am interested in getting to know people.

Although I'm really bad at making well thought out comments about poetry, this poem felt pretty good to me. It leaves a lot of things unsaid, which the user shall have to put together for himself, like the two lines: Porcelaine and Words, where my interpretation is that silence is like porcelaine and words break it. The poem also reminds me of how many times miscommunication can cause problems in real life. Great poem in my opinion.

OOC: Author's comment: this story is totally fictional, I only used recent events as inspiration. The rain poured as Peter made his way home from school. It crept into every possible hole in his raincoat and drenched him to the bone. He was now only fifty meters from the bus stop at the corner of Mason Street and Western Avenue. He might actually make it today. His hopes slightly rising he increased his pace. Then he heard the footsteps behind him. His heart sank and he broke into a run. He heard the footsteps also become faster, then he felt the hands pushing him in the back. He lost his balance and fell faceforward onto the wet pavement. His heavy schoolbag, which had been on his back slid forward and hit him in the head, knocking it into the hard concrete. Slightly dazed Peter got to his knees, but was then kicked by a foot in his ribs. He tried to get up again and again, but each time he was either kicked or punched to stay down on the pavement. Resigned Peter lay still and did not move. Yet the punches still came raining down on him. Then they suddenly stopped, and the footsteps started to move away. Still not daring to look up Peter lay motionless. Sure enough the footsteps came running back and he braced himself for the new assault. He was surprised to feel two strong hands grab his shoulders and pull him up from the ground. As the hands turned Peter around, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, but gritting his teeth he did not make a sound. A middle aged man was facing him. He had a large hat, which protected his hair from the rain. His expression seemed friendly enough. He held Peter, who could barely stand on his feet. "You were lucky I happened to be coming this way kid. That other one was giving you a pretty bad beating. If you want I can take you to a hospital or to the nearest police station. You ok?" Peter blinked at the man, still trying to clear his mind. "What?" The man let go of him and reached for a cell phone in his pocket, wanting to call an ambulance. But as soon as he let go of Peter, the boy grabbed his schoolbag from the ground and started running away. "Wait! Where are you going?" - he shouted at him, then broke into a run after him, while at the same time trying to put his cell phone back into his pocket. But Peter was running at his utmost and used shortcuts, he had learned of during his years of being terrorized by his own classmates, and friends turned enemies and easily lost the man. It took him another two hours, until he got home from school walking in the fields around the town. At home he spotted his uncle's car standing in the driveway. He entered the home and taking off his raincoat hung it up on the beg. He then went towards the stairs aiming to go to his room. "Peter! Thank God! I was starting to get worried that something might have happened to you too." It was his uncle's voice. Uncle Jeff was standing in the salon, a sad expression on his face. "I went to your school, but you were already gone. When the bus got here, the busdriver told me that you hadn't taken the bus. Where have you been?" He then noticed the bruises on Peter's face and that his trousers were torn. He walked over and put an arm around Peter, but Peter violently pushed him away. "Ok. Ok. I know you don't like me, but you'll have to listen to me now Peter. Peter, please!" - he said as the boy turned to go to his room. Peter stopped and turned, an unreadable expression on his face. "Thank you. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but a few hours ago your parents died in a car crash. A drunken truck driver crashed into their car. I'm sorry." Peter turned and ran up the stairs and went into his room, locking the door behind him. The day afterwards was his eleventh birthday... --------------------------------------- Five years later. "Peter! Breakfast is ready!" - it was Aunt July's voice. Peter hadn't slept the whole night. Ever since he had started taking anti-depressants after the death of his parents, he had had trouble sleeping. And his problems had never stopped. The other, stronger kids always picked on him, and even some of the teachers never left him alone. Peter looked at the gun in his hands. He had taken it from Uncle Jeff's room, while Aunt July was in the kitchen and Uncle Jeff had gone to the toilet. Uncle Jeff was an avid hunter and therefore had a lot of guns. Peter had taken the first he could find. It was a long, two shot hunting rifle. "Peter! Breakfast! Don't have me come and get you!" Uncle Jeff's voice was coming from the corridor in front of Peter's room. Peter took the cartridges from his pocket and loaded them into the rifle. Closing the rifle with a click he pointed it at the door. He only had to wait two minutes. "YOU WANTED IT!" Uncle Jeff's heavy footsteps came towards the door and then the door flew open. As soon as he saw the rifle pointed at him Uncle Jeff froze. "Peter. Don't do anything stu-" The sound of the rifle going off startled Peter. Uncle Jeff was hit in the stomach and flew back into the corridor. "What is going on up there? Jeff? Peter?" - Aunt July's voice drifted up the stairs. Peter stood up from the bed and walked over to Uncle Jeff, who was clutching at his bleeding stomach. He pointed the rifle at Uncle Jeff's head and pulled the trigger again. Walking calmly down the stairs he reloaded the rifle. When Aunt July spotted him she screamed and started running towards the front door. She never made it as Peter shot her twice in the back. He then went back up the stairs to his uncle's room and inspected what guns were in there. Even though he had just killed, he felt no particular emotion. He had been with his aunt and uncle ever since his parents died, but there had been no love between them. Uncle Jeff regarded him as an unnecessary burden. Peter took several pistols and an automatic rifle from his uncle's cache and stashed the pistols in his bag. He put the rifle inside his sports bag, which he needed for tennis class later that afternoon. He put his bag on the kitchen table and calmly had breakfast. When finished he left the house, carefully avoiding stepping in the pool of blood around his aunt's body. He took the bus as he did every day and sat at the back again, as he did every day. At the stop two stops away from school George and Harry, the twins who abused Peter the most got on the bus. They went to the back of the bus and sat next to Peter. "How you doing today Peter?" - asked George sarcastically. "Is that your sports stuff?" - Harry said pouring a bottle of water on it. Peter did not react in the least. This surprised Harry and George as at other times Peter had always tried resisting them. The bus stopped at the last stop before the school. Peter still did not react in the least. Harry and George sent each other quizzical glances. "You forgot to take your medication today Peter?" - they had found out one day, when they had emptied the contents of his bag in the toilet. "You know what I've been wondering about in the last five minutes?" - Peter's voice was cold and measured, nothing like the usual scared voice he had when speaking to the twins. "What? The meaning of life?" - the twins laughed. "I've been wondering why my uncle needs a silenced pistol so as to go on his hunting trips." Two soft thudding sounds were heard and Peter stood up. Half a minute later he got off the bus, leaving Harry and George in there. The police investigation later ascertained that they were both shot in the head with a silenced pistol from close range. Peter made his way towards the school gates. Since the incident at Columbine high school the entrance had been equipped with a metal detector. Peter calmly walked through the metal detector triggering off the alarm. The security guard, a fat, black man, called John in his fifties stood up from his desk. "How many times have I told you kids to take all keys, chains,-" BANG! The sound of the unsilenced pistol rang in the entrance hall. John, shot in the neck fell to the ground. Girls in the line behind Peter screamed and turned to flee. Peter turned and pointed the pistol at their retreating backs, and pulled the trigger repeatedly. Sixteen times altogether. Five bodies remained in the open space before the entrance to the school. All the others had run away. Several were already calling 911 on their cellphones. Peter was determined not to make the same mistakes as the boys at Columbine had. He planned to leave the school before the cops got here. Peter went towards the teacher's offices. It was still fifteen minutes till classes. Most of them would still be there. As he approached the offices he took the assault rifle from the sports bag and dropped the sports bag. A first grade boy looking out from his classroom spotted Peter and jumped back into the class. Peter did not take notice of him. He entered the teachers offices and emptied the assault rifles magazine at the teachers in there. He reloaded and made his way towards class B12, the window of which gave onto the roof of the caretaker's shed. That was his planned escape route. He heard the first sirens when he reached the classroom. The classroom, where his class was going to have history class was still empty. Nevermind. He could not wait. Anyway those whom hated him the most were already here. With a gun in one hand and the assault rifle in the other he entered the classroom. Disregarding the screams he started shooting. Some tried to escape via the windows, but none made it. All of them were hit. Peter making his way towards the window so as to escape. He then heard a voice from behind him. "Peter...why?" It was Susan, a girl with whom Peter had developed a sort of strange friendship. She had lost her parents by the time she was four years old, and lived with her grandparents. There were a lot of similarities between Peter and herself. Lately they had been spending a lot of time together. Peter pointed the gun at her, but then a tear appeared in his eye. "Goodbye Susan. Whatever the investigation shall bring I'd like you to know that I loved you." He turned and jumped from the window, landing on the roof of the shack. He jumped down from the roof and landed in some bushes. The rifle got caught in the branches of the bush. He wasn't going to need it anymore anyway. He still had three pistols and thirteen extra magazines. He made his way through the bushes towards the road. Then he spotted the police car just stopping on the back lawn of the school. Two officers got out, and Peter saw his opportunity. Selecting his silenced pistol he aimed for several seconds and shot one of the officers in the head, then rapidly fired three shots at the other one. He then took the ignition keys from the dead police officer and sat in the patrol car. Fifteen minutes later... "The suspect is in patrol car 4Y42 heading towards the south on the highway leading out of the town." Peter had never driven a car before, but he had been several times to game arcades, and managed not badly. Then he spotted the road block. He tried hitting the breaks, but his foot slipped off them and he crashed into the road block at full speed. Several seconds later he came back to his senses. He saw blood on the steering wheel. His own blood. His legs were stuck under the crushed instrument panel. He felt a strange pain in his lower back also, but turning his head was painful. They shall not have me and show me to the world as a lunatic. - he thought to himself and pointed the gun at his head. --------------------------------------------- From the police report on the incident: "Investigation has determined that the suspect, Peter Geary, aged 16 took his legal guardian's, Jeff Geary's hunting rifle and shot Jeff Geary, aged 47 twice, first in the stomach, then in the head. Going down the stairs he killed July Geary, born Oppo twice in the lower back. Both died before emergency services reached them. The suspect then took bus 12 at 07:43 am and at some point before reaching school shot and killed Harry Hunter and George Hunter, twins, both aged 17 in the head at close range with a silenced pistol."" "Security guard John Boltson was shot in the neck and remains in intensive care at this date, in critical condition. Several female students were shot in the back as they tried to flee. None of them died, and all are out of critical condition. The suspect made his way to the teacher's offices, where firing a rifle and a pistol killed Jonathan Kimble, 62, Angela Midson 34, George Thomas West, 27 and wounded Jack Able, 28, Pamela Kiddon, 45, Harold Harold Betral, 39. Jack Able and Pamela Kiddon died in hospital, Harold Harold Betral is still in intensive care, in a stable condition." "Continuing to class room B12 the suspect killed seven students aged between 15 and 18: Bill Young, Fred Treethorn, Kyle Midson, Claire Blaise, Anna Washington, Omar Ayal and Peter Frorn. Susan Michelson was spared by the suspect, having only received a pistol shot wound in her arm. In her witness statement she wrote that the suspect had confessed his love to her as a reason for not killing her. The suspect left the building via a first story window. His rifle was found caught in a bush just outside the window. Officers Jaskel and Fornetti were killed with a silenced pistol next to their police patrol car. The suspect stole the vehicle and after a chase lasting less than twenty minutes crashed the vehicle into a police roadblock along third highway." ------------------------------------------------------ Excerpt from the psychologist report on Peter Geary: "The subject was most probably acting under the influence of mind influencing drugs, including anti-depressants. He was clearly not fully in control of his own actions. Blood tests after the incident showed that he had a very high level of medications in his bloodstream." ------------------------------------------------------ From the award-winning autobiography of Peter Greary, the famed writer published forty-two years later: Chapter 3: The school shooting: "After the loss of my parents at the young age of eleven, I had to go and live with my uncle and his wife. I had to be put on anti-depressants and five years after the death of my parents something snapped in me. I went on a killing rampage, killing seventeen people and wounding several others. If any of the family members of those I killed are still alive I would like to present them my deepest regrets for what I did." "...After the car crash I tried to kill myself, but today I must say, that I am glad that the pistol did not work. I was taken to intensive care and had to stay there for three months under strict guard. At this time the anti-depressants were no longer administered to me and I realised what I had done." Chapter Four: The trial "I was put to trial and thanks to the psychological report I was only sentenced to thirteen years in a psychological institute, albeit a top security one. After ten and a half years, due to good conduct and massive improvements in my mental state I was released." Chapter Five: The years after I left the institute "...Two years later I met Susan Michelson the girl I had spared at the school again. At first she was much afraid of me, but in the end we had a very long chat. Turned out she had been on medications for seven years after the incident at the school, due to the shock. Yet she never accused me of doing what I did. She understood what had been going on with me at the time, and she was the only one to forgive me." "...We married when I was 30 years old and she 29. We've been happily together ever since. The same year we got married my first book on the effects antidepressants can have on young people got published. I had started writing the book, while still in the mental institution." Chapter Six: Epilogue "...At the current date I am 58 years old and am the author of two best selling novels. I still receive a lot of mail from people thinking I should never have been allowed to walk free. I have replied to all of these messages." "I know I shall not go to Heaven, because of what I did, but I'm trying to get my past amended for. Ninety percent of the profits I acquired from my books have gone to charity, mostly to the Fund for the Victims of the Hedgeton School Massacre."

Congrats to the wolves! Now if only next time I am not the first one to be killed.

Chapter 2 Jerrick swept in an arc with his sword cutting off the leg of one of the piercers attacking him. He ducked a blow, twisted his body so as to avoid another and then somersaulted back several feet avoiding one of the creatures, which had tried to jump on him, aiming to simply crush him with its weight. Already several piercers lay around him, dead or severely wounded, yet ever more moved towards him, aiming to attack him. Once again Jerrick lept into the fray and wherever his sword went it left a path of destruction of severed limbs, deep cuts or decapitated corpses. The shrieks of pain of the creatures filled the night, yet they continued attacking him unrelentlessly. Jerrick was already wounded on several parts of his body, yet the wounds were only surface wounds. In a rapid movement he completed the manoeuver he had been making and turned in a full circle, Slicer extended outwards. Completing the arc he put the tip of Slicer on the ground and watched the three piercers just next to him collapse to the ground, headless. The remaining five piercers retreated back several feet. They now feared their opponent. Jerrick had already killed or seriously maimed more than a dozen of them. Yet they could not resist the command, nor could they resist the presence still near, which had them do its bidding. Cautiously they once again moved towards Jerrick who seemed to be already leaning on his sword, as if getting weary. When the foremost piercer neared him Jerrick lifted his sword and then stumbled, falling to his knees. The piercer leapt at him with its large claws extended ahead of it, intending to impale Jerrick, yet Jerrick brought up his sword and the charging piercer impaled itself on it. Jerrick whispered a few words and then rolled away from the falling body, with Slicer still inside the creature and jumped up. The five remaining creatures were rapidly advancing towards him, since they had seen that he had his sword no more. Jerrick crouched down and drew two curved daggers from their sheaths in his belt. Again acting before the piercers reached him he jumped at one of them and while knocking the creature back a foot, with his weight against its chest he agilely climbed on top of its head. While the creature tried turning around and flailing with its arms Jerrick held on and in a moment of calm between two arm movements of the creature he planted both daggers inside the head of the creature, one from the right, one from the left. The creature fell to the ground without another sound and buried both of Jerrick's legs under it. Struggling against the weight of the creature Jerrick did not notice the one approaching him from behind. He felt a sudden pain as one of the claws of the creature pierced his back low on the right hand side. Jerrick cried out in pain and tried whirling round to face the creature, but the claw still in his back did not let him move. Then the other claw pierced him and the creature drew him out from under the dead piercer and lifted him high in the air. Unable to cope with the pain Jerrick blacked out.

This was not how it was supposed to end. As he fell to his knees he felt blood coming up from his lungs. "God damn....the king." - he said and then coughed. A spray of blood came from his open mouth and he fell forward onto his face. He opened his eyes and looked around himself. He felt no pain anymore. He felt nothing anymore. So this was how it was to be a spirit. He looked down at his body and could barely see it. So there was life after death, and this was it. William did a somersault with ease, trying out what his new form was capable of. Turning back he surveyed the guards picking up his body and taking it to where they dumped all dead bodies. Having seen that his body got taken care of he explored the hidden corners of the island. He noticed the angry spirits, but their anger was not directed towards him, as he was already one of their world. Their anger was directed at the world of the living, which they loathed. William walked among them, observed them, observed what they did and how they did. Then he decided to return to the encampment. At least one killer was on the loose and just out of curiosity he was going to watch what events happened.

Well pretty short first game for me. But that's how it goes in roleplays sometimes. I'll get a spirit post done in a few hours time.

Thank you Cyril for having made me aware of this site! And thanks also for the great welcome poem!

The next day the guards seemed much uneasier and even among the prisoners the presence of a certain fear could be felt. This fear made the already strong heat seem as if it were even stronger. Some of the prisoners however did seem somewhat happy about the fate of the late commander. Seth had been especially delighted when he had talked about it just after they were sent back to their barracks. William needed to think. He needed some moments alone. His aim was to get off the island alive. And as far as he knew even he himself could be the next target of the one, who had killed the commander. William picked up his shirt and went a short way into the forest on the route they used to carry the wood for the construction. Once out of sight of the others he dashed into the dense undergrowth and bushes on the right side of the tracks and while walking his thoughts started racing. That arab fellow. He's pretty suspicious. I haven't seen him at the construction site yesterday, nor was he there today. Could he be the one? Or is it Seth, who was so happy about it? Or someone else? While thinking he passed Aimo, without even seeing the arab. He walked thinking for fifteen more minutes before returning towards the construction site. He arrived back pulling a long piece of timber behind him. "Anyone want to help me carry this? It took pretty long to drag here." He looked around, trying to see whether anyone wondered why it had really taken that long. OOC: Accusing Aimo / Sweetcherrie

Suits the bastard to die in such a way. He didn't care the least about the prisoners. Yet outwardly William showed a shocked expression and looked in every direction to see if he could see the one who had done this. Had it been one of the prisoners? One of the guards wanting to replace the commander? William was thinking fast while the guards led them back to their barracks, but all he could think about was that anyone could have commited the murder. Everyone had a possible motive, even himself. In the barrack he looked over his fellow convicts. Each of them was probably having the same thoughts as he was. William lay back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. "So, who do you think did it?" - he said into the air, directing the question at all the others inside the building.

Well that's only natural between guards and prisoners.

Chapter 1 Jerrick woke with a start. He recalled the vivid dream he had just had. Along with his best friends he had been for a trip to the river side, when some of them had started screaming and the whole scene had turned into a nightmare. Jerrick wiped the sweat from his brow and sat up in his bed. The faint moonlight entering through the curtains dimly lit the room. Jerrick smiled as he looked at Olira sleeping peacefully next to him. They had met two months ago and a very close relationship had developed between them since. Tonight was the first time she slept at his place. Jerrick lay back in the bed and closed his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. He was just about to fall asleep again when he heard a scream coming from outside his house. He jumped from the bed and looking at Olira saw that she had also heard it. The sudden realization hit Jerrick, that the previous screams he had heard in his dream might have been reality. Another scream sounded, coming this time from closer to this house. Then came the roar. It had been more than five years since Jerrick had heard this sound for the last time. And he had hoped to never hear it again. "Get up Olira! We need to flee now." - he said in a dry tone, almost as if he were giving orders. "Why? What's happening?" - terror was visible in her eyes. She was still only twenty-three years old. "Piercers have come." It took several seconds for Olira to realise what Jerrick was talking about. But then she acted fast. Grabbing the first clothes she found she pulled them over her nightgown, not bothering to dress properly. In the meantime Jerrick had gone over to a large box in a corner of the room and opened it. Ever since Olira had known him Jerrick had never told her what was in the box. Jerrick looked at the contents of the box. He saw his old sword, Slicer. Slicer had served him well, yet Jerrick had hoped that he would never have to use her again. He called the sword a her, since it had been his only companion for several decades, and he had taken a liking to her. The blade, even after five years in the box looked sharp and did not show a single speck of dust. The ancient swordsmiths had created a masterpiece long ages ago. Jerrick wasn't the first proprietor of Slicer, as the blade had been handed down from father to son in his family for ages. Jerrick hoped to, one day be able to hand the sword to a son of his own. He picked up Slicer and hefted the blade. His muscles still seemed to remember the weight of the blade. As a new roar came from outside Jerrick turned back to the box, putting Slicer gently next to the wall. The only other content of the box was a small package, wrapped into some paper. Jerrick took the package and place it next to Slicer. He then quickly grabbed a pair of trousers and a shirt and dressed. Olira was already ready and watched Jerrick preparing. She had only heard of Piercers in legends, yet even those legends were enough to plant a deep fear of them into her heart. Piercers were creatures, which had originally been created as a magical experiment from bears. But during the ages, they had been modified and did not resemble bears at all anymore. A piercer had a distinctly humanoid shape, yet its sole function was to kill at its master's bidding. In place of hands the creature has a single, long, tusk shaped claw, for which it has been named. The skin of the creature is extremely solid and resists heat and cold. Jerrick finished dressing, put the package into his pocket and picked up Slicer. "Come Olira!" - he said gently and taking her hand walked towards the front door. He held her back with a hand while he opened the door and took a look outside. He immediately closed the door though and backed away. It only took Olira a few seconds to find out why he had done this. Suddenly the door shook under the impact of a blow and the claw of a piercer swept through it in an arc. "They are too big to get through the door." - Jerrick said, speaking fast, in a hushed whisper. - "But we still need to leave the building as soon as possible." He ran to the back of the house, while blows kept falling on the entrance door. Olira followed him. Jerrick opened the kitchen window and looking out was relieved to see that there weren't any of the creatures here. He climbed out the window and then turning back helped Olira out. Around them, chaos could be seen in the small village. Jerrick's home was at the top of a small hill, and looking down he could see villagers running in different directions, trying to evade the piercers. Holding Slicer in his right hand, Jerrick took Olira's hand with his other hand and they started running towards the forest. It took less than a minute for several of the creatures to spot them and give chase. With their nearly eight foot tall bodies the piercers moved surprisingly fast. Reaching the wall of a house Jerrick suddenly stopped and turned to face the close to dozen creatures chasing them. Olira saw a flame in his eyes, which she had not seen before. The creatures slowed as they saw that they had cornered their prey. Jerrick lifted Slicer with his right hand high above his head. He could count eleven piercers within fifty meters of him and several more were approaching further away. They seemed to have lost interest in all the other villagers and were all coming at him. "Stay at the wall!" - he said to Olira behind him. Jerrick then started murmuring in a tongue unknown to Olira and as he did so Slicer started to glow, at first with a dim light, but steadily the light got stronger and in the end it lighted up the ground around Jerrick for several meters even. The piercers seemed to hesitate at seeing this, but then one of them leapt at Jerrick. Having anticipated the move Jerrick sidestepped and brought down Slicer at the fast moving creature. The momentum of the sword and the creature together were more than enough for the blade to slice clean through the arm of the piercer. Still using the momentum of his strike Jerrick turned and swung Slicer once again at the creature, this time severing off its head. The large body fell with a crash to the ground, and the head rolled back towards the other piercers. A drop of thick black blood fell from Jerrick's blade, joining the small pool of blood already gathering around the dead creature. Jerrick turned back towards the remaining piercers and prepared for the next one. Yet the creatures did not move. They weren't used to being resisted. And they were even less used to being successfully resisted. They just stared at Jerrick and for several long seconds no one moved. But Jerrick could see that slowly the creatures were gathering their courage. He knew that soon several of them would move against him, and even Slicer would not save him then. He needed to act fast, and use his opponents' surprise to his advantage. In a sudden motion he leapt at the piercer closest to him.

As soon as Jamison looked away William pulled a face at him and then returned to his job. He couldn't see what the problem with the old barracks was, even less why they needed new ones, but during his years here he had gotten used to not asking questions. The less contact he had with the guards, the less possibility there was for a confrontation. A bird flew overhead singing happily. William started thinking about the freedom the bird had. If it wanted it just spread its wings and made its way towards the mainland, which was so unattainably far for him. Silently he cursed the bird for its freedom and then looked around. He couldn't help but notice that at times one of the prisoners was missing. Well maybe he is working somewhere else. - he thought to himself. He once again wiped his face with his shirt, which was also drenched with sweat. Damn this heat. And damn these stupid guards. All he wished at the moment was to return to nice cool England and live the life he had lived there.

William wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. It was a hot day. As nearly every day was here. As nearly every day had been in the thirteen years since he had been here. One would think that he could have gotten used to it, but no. He would never get used to it. His hands and body had gotten muscled and used to the work on the island, but his mind and soul would never change. He would always be the revolutionary. As he moved a timber he shot a glance at one of the guards surveying the work of the prisoners not far away. Bartholomew Jamison the guard was called, and ever since the man had been here William had watched him. It had been close to nine years that Bartholomew had gotten stationed here, and the prolonged stay on the island could be seen on him. He sometimes unnecessarily punished the prisoners and at other times a fear could be seen in his eyes. William had never been able to find out what this fear was about, but nothing hurried him. He was still going to spend another four years under the burning tropical sun.

OOC: Author's comment: Any comments and criticism are appreciated. The general outline of the story has already formed in my head, and I shall be working out the details as I'm going along. Prologue Excerpt from the Book of Prophecies, Vol. III: "...and thus it shall come, that two hundred and fifteen winters after the fall of the kingdom of many races the reign of terror of the three shall be established. Many shall be those whose lives become constant terror and suffering. Many shall be those to oppose them, yet none shall prevail. For the fate of the three has already been decided. Growing ever stronger they shall eventually turn against each other, while in the end only one shall remain. Then truly shall the curse of the Kiriati become fulfilled." Excerpt from the Book of the History of the Kingdom of Kiria: "Rich had been the inhabitants of Kiria, known as the Kiriati, yet in their quest for ever greater riches, they disturbed that which should not have been disturbed. The ancient demon laid a curse on the people and their kingdom fell during the next decades. Other, lesser races invaded their lands and the Kiriati were dispersed throughout the world, spreading the riches they had ever thinner. Yet rumors always said that the curse had never been fully fulfilled and that the worst was still to come."

William of Humperton Son of Sir George of Humperton young William lived the life of a spoiled brat until his early twenties when he got involved in a secret group of republicans. The aim of the group was to get rid of the king and make a republic of England. However they were betrayed by one of their own and captured by His Majesty's men. William's father, using his political influence managed to avoid William being hanged, but still William was sentenced to eighteen months in prison. Yet he was not the type to be caged. After merely two weeks of inprisonment in Newgate prison he escaped mortally wounding a guard in the process. He lived as an outlaw for seven months, robbing food and money when he needed it, until he was finally apprehended in the forests around York. During his capture he killed two of the sheriff's officers, but was himself also badly wounded. Again due to his father's influence he managed to avoid the death penalty, but this time he was sent to His Majesty's Penal Colony on Annisberg for a sentence of seventeen years. He has already served thirteen years of his sentence, yet his views have not changed. He still vows that when he returns to civilized life he shall campaign against the monarchy, and he is ready at any time to debate his views with any of the guards or fellow convicts. Before his first capture he had been pretty much the perfect english gentleman, looking nearly always exactly as etiquette demanded it, but since he had become much more dishevelled. In the time he spent on the island he let his hair grow and grew himself a beard. William is relatively tall, measuring over 6 feet 4 inches. He has a hair, the colour of which is a mixture between blond and red, and his beard is of matching colour. He has eyes, which sometimes seem to be greyish blue, but at other times show some green. He has a slender build, but during his life on the penal colony he developed the muscles needed for the work. He has a complex personality. At times he shall be willing to discuss nearly any subject, but then there are the times, when he becomes really closed in on himself and disturbing him is a bad idea. OOC: I might add a bit more info later, but for the moment this is what I have come up with. Tell me if it is missing something.

Patrick turns to reverie, whom he had only noticed after four days (OOC: sorry about that) and nods his thank you's. "Your kind words are welcome and I hope I shall one day be able to reciprocate them."

I'm relatively new to the pen and I have a few questions about the Werewolf games and this seemed to be the right place to post them. Are there any prerequisites to join the game, or is being an initiate enough? I've been in previous roleplays on other sites before and I have played a real life version of this type of the Werewolf game, where there was a game master, criminals, normal people and one or several policemen. The players sat in a circle and during "night phase" everyone closed their eyes then the game master told the criminals to wake up, who by pointing chose victims, then the policeman woke up pointed at someone and was given the answer by the game master whether the target was a criminal or normal. Obviously the objective in this version was to do things with the least possible sound during night phase. And then during day phase there was a lynching. I've been reading the recent game somewhat and it looks pretty similar. The inclusion of the baner is new, but apart from that are there any differences from the version I described?

Patrick beams with a happy smile on his face when he sees the lizard reach for the acceptance stamp. He takes the stamped paper from him a bit too fast, nearly tearing it apart in the process. "Thank you. No one is perfect." - he says with a smile then turns to leave the office and to check out the rest of the Keep of the Mighty Pen. OOC: thanks for the acceptance.

The storyteller looked at the one, who had adressed him and smiled. "It is an interesting question that you ask indeed since I parttake in telling fictional stories, but I also imagine myself in the skin of others for gaming purposes. However the story I have just told here is purely fictional and was not created with a character behind it." OOC: if you want to see some of my roleplaying then there are currently two active roleplays on a different forum going on. I'm dm-ing one of them and playing two characters in the other. On that forum I use the name of dplax. http://www.ironworksforum.com/ubb/cgi-bin/...18;t=000541;p=8 http://www.ironworksforum.com/ubb/cgi-bin/...18;t=000534;p=5 You might notice that Cyril Darkcloud who is also a member here plays in those roleplays. It was him who told me about The Pen.

Off the coast of the kingdom of Lamiria many dangers lurked. Yet none were greater than the shores of a small island five miles from the portal city of Gazul. The island known to the locals only as the Dreaded Island carried the official name of Gazul-Tirion. Named so after the city close to it, and Tirion the first man to ever survive putting his foot on the northern shores of the island. Whenever a stranger mentioned the island in one of the many taverns of Gazul a hushed silence was all he got as a reply. Rarely was the subject talked about and even rarer were the occasions when information was given about the island. A paranoiac fear of associating themselves with anything going on on the island seemed to seep through the otherwise normal town. As a mayor of Gazul had once put it several decades ago, the island was of a certain tabu. Yet at a first glance there was nothing strange about the island. Standing in the port of Gazul the island looked like a lush paradise of green vegetation. If one would hire a boat to go closer to the island his initial analysis could be confirmed. A slowly rising beach reached the treeline after about a hundred and fifty meters and amongst the trees the songs of many birds could be heard. This side of the island was a popular destination for the rich and sometimes even the citizens of Gazul could be seen relaxing on the beaches. It was the other side of the island which was the subject of nightmares. The tales, although rarely told were enough to scare away even the bravest adventurers. One only had survived setting his foot on the shore at the base of the cliffs. Thousands of small openings could be seen in the rock face yet only one hundred of them were large enough to be classified as caves. Exactly one hundred. The caves looked to be natural, but in reality they had been crafted ages ago by a race long forgotten. It was the hands of time and the forces of nature which then enlarged the caves and made the precisely dug tunnels look as if they had originally been a work of the waters of the sea. Tirion, the one, whom they call the one who survived landing on the shore had lived two centuries ago. Of course he was not the only one to have stood on the shore and return, as others had done that, but he had been the only one to have entered one of the caves and return. He passed more than two months in the cave and he never spoke about what had happened with him during this period. He had been thought long lost when he returned to Gazul. But not even to his wife did he speak about what had happened to him in the cave and when he died in an accident three months later he took his secret with himself to the grave. And the secret was thought lost forever. But a mere two weeks ago the shrine containing Tirion's ashes had been defiled, the guards slaughtered and the urn stolen. The council of Gazul feared that using dark magics evil mages would try to summon the spirit of Tirion and pry his secrets from his spirit. Indeed such was the case as necromancers of a cult from the far north had discovered information in ancient tomes, which should have forever remained hidden. The tome, known as the Tome of the Seven Spirits of Nezarbul had for long been undecipherable. But two months ago the necromancers had begun to understand the writings and once they learnt the code used by the ancient scribes the rest of the tome was quickly decoded. Nezarbul was a name, which even fifteen decades after the demise of its carrier brought a shiver to every mortal's heart. The man, a simple mortal by birth had at the pinnacle of his power challenged the gods and won. His reign of terror and suffering lasted more than a milennia and profoundly changed the world. Yet he could never overcome his mortality and although he greatly extended his normal lifespan eventually he was going to die. His closest followers were known as the seven acolytes and sensing his death approaching Nezarbul entrusted an artifact to each of the seven acolytes. As soon as the artifacts left his hand Nezarbul died as the artifacts contained his very essence, and all the power he had gained during his rule. The acolytes were supposed to resurrect their master through a ritual he had devised but it was at this precise moment that the gods struck back and in an epic battle they defeated the acolytes. The gods killed six of the acolytes, but one of them escaped mortally wounded. He hid the three relics of Nezarbul he had managed to gather from the ruins of the battle and with his last breath wrote the Tome of the Seven Spirits of Nezarbul, which contained, using a complicated cypher, the locations of these three relics. Although all the seven relics would be required to resurrect the spirit of Nezarbul, the control of even only one of these artifacts would bring power unimagined to any mortal. The rumors had proven to be true. The island indeed contained an unexplainable presence. Through the torture of half a dozen townsfolk Gern had learnt what he wanted. The artifact he and his fellow necromancers had come for was most probably in the depths of one of the caves of Gazul Tirion. Knowing of the fear of the locals towards the shore Gern had not even bothered looking for someone willing to take them there. They had stolen the biggest ship at the docks and had reached the northern shore of the island an hour before daybreak. That was when strange things started happening. The ship although, but a month old started taking water and although no visible hole could be seen started rapidly sinking. Abandoning ship Gern and his two dozen companions swam to the shore. Three of them never made it through the waters and mysteriously drowned. All of them had been excellent swimmers. Daybreak came and the caves were at last revealed. Here, a mere five yards of sand seperated the cliff from the seas. The Tome spoke of the forty-seventh cave counting from the rising sun and this was where the group, of now only twenty-two, entered. The cave looked perfectly natural and it was only after several hundred meters that the original carved passage became visible. In the dim light created by their torches Gern inspected the passage. The thick layer of dust betrayed the fact that no one had entered here for decades, maybe even centuries. The spirit of Tirion had refused to reveal its secret to them the night before to much of Gern's surprise and dismay. Never before had a spirit of a mortal managed to resist to him. All he had gotten from the spirit before it evaded his control had been a warning not to enter the caves. A cold breeze could be felt from the passage ahead of them and as they advanced soon each of them started feeling cold. The passage seemed to follow a twisting spiral downwards of about one hundred and fifty meters diameter. After five hours of descending the monotony of their footsteps was broken by the sound of running water and a few minutes later they reached a source of water breaking through the inner wall. Before Gern could warn against it two of his men drank from the water. They died bare seconds later, with expressions of intense pain on their faces. Leaving their bodies where they lay the group continued on. An uneasyness was starting to spread among them and were it not for fear of their leader some would have turned back. The source of water flowed as a small stream along the inner wall and over the centuries had carved a foot deep gully. Strange creatures seemed to be in the water, yet whenever a member of the group tried to inspect closer the creatures seemed to disappear. The last of the torches was used seven hours after they had entered the cave. Gern then selected two members of the group to light the way with their staffs. After the eighth hour of their descent they reached the first cave. Gern estimated they were now three miles underground. An inspection of his group revealed that Heseliga, the youngest of them had disappeared. Only nineteen remained as they entered the only other passage leading from this cave. Here the air was unnaturally warm. Gusts of hot air at times nearly blew them off their feat and a glow could be seen at the end of the straight corridor. The source of the heat turned out to be an open flow of lava in the next cave. A treacherous bridge led over the flow and towards the continuation of the passageway. It was when they were moving over the bridge that they were attacked. As if the rocks of the ceiling had come to life mythical creatures rose from their resting places and assaulted the group. Some remained fixed to the ceiling and hurled stalagtites at them, while others, having a greater freedom of movement grew wings and tried pushing the intruders into the flow of lava. The necromancers unleashed their magic and defended themselves yet whenever a creature was destroyed a new one detached itself from the ceiling and running through the cave seemed to be the only possibility. Only eight of them reached the arch on the other side of the hall. The tunnel only lasted two hundred feet before reaching an extremely dark cave. Not even their magic was enough to light it up. A single stone stood in the middle of the cave. The inscription on it was in the same language as the Tome. Gern translated. "Only seven may continue. Fire shall choose" As he pronounced the last word the cave lit up and a fiery creature appeared swirling on top of the stone. "You" - it said pointing at Gern. A tight lump formed in Gern's throat. Then rage entered his heart. This was not going to be his last hour. He prepared to cast a spell, but was interrupted by the fire elemental. "You choose who does not continue life in this world." A coolness washed over him as he realised that his life was to be spared. Not even hesitating he pointed at Faffa the oldest of the group. The spirit made a movement, which could be interpreted as a nod and then as fast as lightning moved to where Faffa was standing. Faffa did not even have the time to gasp as the fire consumed him. As soon as the deed was done the spirit disappeared, yet the light remained. Softly at first, but then getting stronger and stronger a rumbling sound could be heard and was accompanied by a shaking of the ground. The stone was slowly lowering itself into the ground and seven small stones were rising around it. The whole spectacle took but a minute after which the chamber went suddenly silent and a complete darkness replaced the previous light. Nothing happened for several long minutes and then the stones started glowing and revealed a geometrical shape on the ground. A heptagon with a number written next to each side. Guessing at what needed to be done Gern ordered his companions to stand on the vertices of the heptagon and he himself stood at the one with the number seven. As soon as his foot touched the vertex all went dark again, and then six screams were heard at seven second intervals followed closely by the sound of bodies hitting the ground. The seconds passed slowly after the sixth scream. One. Did retrieving the artifact require all seven of them to die? Two. Surely not. Three. Who would retrieve the artifact then? Four. Gern was not willing to sacrifice his life for the return of an ancient spirit. Five. He tried lifting a foot, but found that it did not want to budge. Six. Frantically he tried to break away, but it was as if he had been glued to the ground. He closed his eyes and prepared for death. Seven. Light erupted from the ceiling and lit then center of the heptagon. At first Gern could not see anything, but then he spotted a small cross. Trying to move he found that freedom of his legs had been given back to him. He walked to the center of the heptagon and stooped to pick up the cross. He never made it. His hand had nearly reached the cross when he felt a sharp pain in his back and looking down saw a foot of steel sticking out of his chest. Falling sideways his eyes widened in shock as he spotted the one who had killed him. The eyes were the same as the eyes of the spirit of Tirion had been. And the smile was the same smile as the one with which the spirit had defied him. And then darkness descended on Gern and he knew no more. Tirion picked up the cross of Nezarbul. Such a small thing. During the two centuries that he had been the protector of its ancient power he had never understood the full power it held. When two hundred years ago he ventured in the came he met the previous protector. Through a complicated spell his body had been duplicated and the clone sent back to the real world to live its normal life, but he took over the duties of the previous protector. He placed the cross back in the center of the heptagon and the cross seemed to fuse with the rock. Once again the ancient evil had been stopped from returning to haunt this world.