Patrick

Day 3 Bloody rain. Soaks everything worse than...worse than...bah! Worse than anything. My mind doesn't seem to want me making any comparisons today. We made a good two miles before getting bogged down by the mud. Most of the peasants were still sleeping the last night off and the others did not want to pull without them. Disgusted, the captain had ordered us to camp. Of course that order woke everyone and soon after the drinking was well underway. At this rate my initial prediction will be too long. Innkeep's daughter sidled up to me last night. Seems that she wants to get away from her da'! And I was the lucky winner. Did not get much sleep last night and don't want to write much today. She still wants to get away from him after all...

Day 2 The plot thickens. That is if plot refers to the 'whisky' served by our dear innkeep. Almost half of the stuff has already gone stale and the rest was quickly gulped down, to "save what's left" as some had said. By my best guess this time tomorrow we'll be stopped a mile down the road and the ditch will be filled with what was left... We made six miles today. A great distance considering how drunk everyone still was. I sense a pattern here. Stocks of drinks dwindled by a quarter of the first day. By the time we leave civilization, we won't have any alcohol left. The commander of the soldiers, a lowly sergeant is not as stupid as I had thought. He wants us sharp by the time we reach danger.

Day 1 It starts in a tavern (don't these crazy escapades always?). A noisy, smoky and stinking watering hole, precariously perched on the lakeside with centuries of moss and lichen clinging to the walls. Its a decrepit place, worthy of nothing more than destruction, its only saving grace being the serving of ale. And it is this that brings the dozens of patrons, poor and poorer alike to come and drown their sorrows in copious amounts of the cheapest and baddest stuff available. Stuff in this case being any of the quarter dozen drinks on offer. Poor beer, atrocious beer or something which even in its wildest dreams does not envisage being called whisky but is sold as such. As I said, it starts in a tavern and a bad one at that. You might ask what starts? Well...how the hell should I know? This is still only the entry for day one that I write in this moldy journal. Note to future readers: if anyone finds this journal, mold does indeed indicate age, the age of the book, not that of the writing. The original text in this tome has disappeared, allowing it to be reused. Why do I write you might ask. Well, it's not every day that the king's men come barging in to a tavern, suddenly conscripting every able (and then some) man for an expedition. An expedition to where? How should I know? One thing's for sure, the tavern's supplies are coming with us and having almost everyone drunk all the time makes for slow going. Since I can hold a pen while belting out marching tunes, I was given the role of official chronicler of this sorry group. Two dozen soldiers and forty peasants. A formidable force. For drinking that is...

Anyone up for some RP? A WW game? Sword and sorcery? RP with Pen characters? Dark and gritty stuff? Light-hearted and cheerful?

Watch this space: http://files.themightypen.net/Patrick/ (and excuse the incredible uglyness, it only took five minutes...)

Cars from the left and cars from the right, This seems like a really strange sight. Chaotic movement in all directions! They drive on the wrong side! - would say the French, but the British would definitely not agree, not even to a small degree! Cars, rickshaws, bikes and cycles everywhere! A colourful panoply of two, three and four wheels. Europe does not compare.

The cow slowly walks along the road, tail lazily flicking flies from its body. A dozen cars wait patiently behind; this doesn't really bother anybody.

just tongue in cheek It is a strange thing indeed When honking becomes a creed Honk, honk and honk again Here it is just mundane

Scene 5 The winter before the Great War The chill winds had swept in from the south, bringing heavy stormclouds burgeoning with snow during the night. Chandri Lake, the central jewel of the sprawling park it gave its name to had frozen during the night and its shores would not be an idyllic setting for evening strolls by young couples for months to come. Winter had been late to come this year, graciously allowing several additional weeks of growth for the tall oak trees neighbouring the lake. The viciously sudden arrival of winter had caught many of the majestic, eighty-ninety foot tall, oaks by surprise, with some autumn leaves still desperately clinging to their branches. It was still too early in the morning for young children, overjoyed by the sudden liberty of cancelled classes, to descend in hordes to the lake, to enjoy the snow and the ice. Unfortunately for them, their were certain things that not even the weather could stop. Plans which had been set in motion months, maybe even years earlier. Plans which could not be cancelled for to stop now would be catastrophic. Plans, which threatened peace in the entire Empire. As snowflakes started drifting down from the thick layer of grey clouds, dampening the pre-dawn light, dozens of military troop transports left the barracks on the southern outskirts of the town, accompanied by an even dozen tanks. Reports of an attempted coup had reached military command in the hours before dawn and they had decided to act. Hundreds of miles to the north-west, but fast approaching, a new prototype aircraft, carrying weapons which should never have been developed, flew under the low cover of cloud. Its theft, during the previous day, had still not been discovered. Next to Chandri Park, in a totally average apartment building an antique alarm clock rung five minutes before six. Grimfalk, the Empire's most wanted fugitive since his escape a year ago from the imperial prison planet, stifled a yawn and slowly got out of bed. The phone in the small apartment rang less than a minute later and only a few words were exchanged. Grimfalk dressed faster than usual, even with the added winter clothing. By six he was outside of his apartment and on the deserted street. The snow was starting to fall in earnest. That would complicate things. Setting his hat against the wind he set off at a brisk walk across Chandri Park and soon disappeared in the developing blizzard. Private Vilkashondar, or as his comrades called him, Villy, had been on night-time duty and had been looking forward to sleeping at dawn, when the general call-up had come. No one it seemed had any idea of what was going on, but one thing was certain, they had to move into town and take up defensive positions around key installations. Crammed into a troop transport made for twelve, with fifteen of his companions they had set off at great speed, their target Chandri Bridge, the only bridge across Jerul River since the terrorist attacks fifteen months earlier. The tension inside the cramped quarters of the troop transport was palpable, only made worse by the fact that they did not even know who they would be facing. The squad's corporal had come down with some kind of flu a week back and still was not well enough, so the task of leading these recruits had fallen to Villy, the most senior of the privates. All the sergeant had told him was to hold the bridge at all costs, along with the other five squads and two tanks detailed for them. Against whom or how many, no one seemed to know. Most of the displays and controls were unintelligible even for a pilot with twenty years in the air force, like Captain Ferr. But he could fly the aircraft passingly well and most of the specialized controls he would not need. It had been a long path to treason for a veteran like him. The long years of low pay and no recognition for his bravery and skill, not even when he shot down three rebel aircraft in one engagement. He did not know, nor did he care, how this aircraft had been stolen. All he cared about was what he had to do. He would do it and then disappear forever, significantly richer than before.

1. Name of Pennite - Wyvern 2. Plural Noun - toads 3. Adjective - bulbous 4. A Shape - double-helix 5. Noun - feather 6. Noun - book 7. Adverb - coldly 8. A Profession - telemarketer 9. A Material - broiled-leather 10. Noun - order 11. Verb, Past Tense - hustled 12. Dining Utensil, Plural - spoons 13. Nonsense Word - globlaghart 14. A Color - blood-red 15. Adjective - porous 16. A Plant - Wyvernous Devourus Grandus 17. Part of Body - tongue 18. An Exotic Food - Wyvern feet 19. Name of a Group - The Bards 20. Name of Another Pennite - Peredhil 21. Article of Clothing - socks

16/11/2009 a glimpse into how others might see me nowadays A soft rustle as a page is turned Only four hundred more to go A recomforting weight in the hands As the eyes devour the letters From the corner of an eye Furtive glances are detected Passers-by trying to see What is this tome he reads? He looks captivated by the story Flicking page after page Just twenty minutes the journey On and on he reads

Wednesday 4th November 2009, Epica, Lyon The show started with a group called Sons of Seasons, who gave a show reminiscent of my feelings when listening to their album the only time I did...forgettable. Not a very strong showing from the band. Next came a group called Amberian Dawn, who while having great music, don't have the best of stage presences. Compared to the last time I saw them the show had definitely gotten better though. The highlight of the night was Epica. Already seen this band quite a few times in concert and I'm starting to get used to the quality of their shows being awesome. They did not disappoint this time either, despite the singer having been sick and the group having to cancel a different concert just a few days earlier. Great show, the songs from the new album worked well alongside the older ones and a fun evening was had.

Coming back to Steven Erikson (reviewed above), I have now read 7 books from the series and all I can say is "wow". George Martin not only has a competitor when it comes to scope, complexity and gritty realism, but he might have been outdone. An awesome series.

Welcome back!

rip

metamorphosis

years

Let's extend this dayphase by a week then. I want votes!

Hmmm...I'm half-tempted to let this die quietly. Anyone still interested?

TM

non-thread-necromancy

Cheese

vast

Scene 4 I had always wondered what it would be like when I finally received my punishment. Would it be quick - a merciful bullet through the head - or slow - a hanging or torture preceding a gruesome death. I was well placed to know which of the two I really deserved. I guess it all started about thirty years ago. I must have been six or seven at the time, I can't really remember. My mother had taken me shopping with her, subjecting me to interminable waits while she tried on robe after robe. I was bored to say the least. My mother had always liked shopping, to be more precise she enjoyed spending money. Money that she did not earn. I never understood until much later how my father had enough money to allow his wife to keep up her lifestyle. It had been a nice sunny day and I remember fuming at the fact that I had to spend it in designer stores and clothing outlets instead of enjoying the fresh air and playing as any young boy of that age is wont to do. It was on the way home from shopping that it happened. I don't know why my mother chose not to have the chauffeur drive us home as she usually did. Instead we walked down the main pedestrian street. It was just a ten minute walk to our downtown home. Those ten minutes changed my life. At first I did not notice the old man lying in a pool of his own vomit. Not many did. The contrast between opulent riches and stark poverty was not unique to my hometown, every great city was afflicted by it. He still moved then, arms slowly flexing, trying to lift his weight from the hard cobblestones. I only spared him a glance, being the ignorant young boy I was back then and thought no more of him. To me he was just an old homeless guy who had had too much to drink. The social values hammered into me since birth stopped me from showing any compassion, stopped me from even sparing him a compassionate glance. He stared back at me, not much present in his bleak eyes. I never learned who he was, or how he had gotten to the crowded street where he died half an hour later. But it changed me. I still remember walking past the same spot an hour later with a group of friends and seeing his motionless body being dumped into a black plastic bag. Punishment. The act of meting out justice for an action perceived as a crime by society at large. It was such a relative term... A few days shy of my twentieth birthday I was taken to prison for a stint of three years. It had been a stupid mistake. A single moment of explosive anger. It was all that was needed to change a life. To my mother's greatest dismay I had enlisted on my eighteenth birthday. I never told her, but I could no longer stand the life I was supposed to live. All my father had given me as a reply on that rainy night when I had walked out of the door was a mysterious smile that he never managed to explain. His cancer took him away two months later. I discovered a passion for boxing while in the army. Internal competitions were organised once every month and I found I had a talent for knocking the living daylights out of others. I did not always win, but I was the victor more often than not. I killed a man in my seventy-ninth boxing match. A captain none the less. I kept pummeling him after he had yielded. He shouldn't have insulted my father. And I shouldn't have killed him. Prison didn't really change me. The only thing I really learned while in there was that I never wanted to go back. Strange thoughts to have. I did not think I would recall these two events. The priest leant slightly closer to me and murmured something. I could have sworn that he was at least as nervous as I was. "The wind is fifteen miles per hour west. Make that west-north-west." I made a minor adjustment to the angle of fire. "Distance?" "5-5-6 yards." The echoes of the shot rang loud in the small ravine. A few hundred yards away a deer drew its last breath. "You were great son! Let's go see what we've got." I said tousling the hair of the youth next to me. The binoculars looked very big on him. The priest was staring at me. Had I missed something? I sighed, thinking of my son who had died three years earlier in a car accident. "I do," I finally said, lifting the veil from the face of the woman who in a few seconds would be my wife. Punishment was sometimes bittersweet...

Kudos