I am once again driven to submit a work to the bardics. Perhaps once I have actually written this story it will stop keeping me awake at night composing in my dreams.

I am going to post it in small fractions updating as it grows. If you could do me the favour of commenting on each part, even if just pointing out my grammer errors. Really right now I want to see if I am being too obvious of the finale at the very start.

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I rest. I feel such peace. And while I slumber, my mind breaks free to wander, soaring softly from tree to tree, forest to forest. Enjoying the majesty of this flight, I am suddenly attracted by a sound in the distance, some great uproar. And thus I quickly float by to a tavern in the forest, simply slipping through the door as it swinged to allow entry to another, unseen to all gathered. Oh, what a great and clamorous din this is! This must surely be a feast, for there is food on every longtable that dominates the gathering space of this tavern. And such a vaste crush of bodies, ranging from those boisterous dwarfs, to gangly men and even those rajamalan Knights who have set aside their weapons for this event.

But what sort of celebration is this, for even with all of the loud bays of laughter, I can see tears on those dwarven eyes, and a trembling lip not well hid by flagons of ale. Something catches at my mind, making me think that I should recognize these people, that I should be here with them for whatever event this might become. Suddenly, as if on cue, a hush falls over this crowd, and attention turns to the stage at the far corner of the room. Surely this is a great undertaking, I observe as the candles in the room begin to flicker lower, shadows dancing along the roof, the quiet so odd to the previous clamour. As I made these little notes, I noticed a slight quiver in the back curtain and then strode forth the man of the hour, or so I thought. He is a younger man, firm of stature, his atavian wings gracefully folded across his back as he seemed to glide forward into the gathered attention. As he pulls his instruments forward infront of him, it is obvious that he was a bard, and one of some renown. He begins a prepared speech, going on about celebration of a life or some such, and again my mind struggles to place him and all of these people. So, this is to be a celebration he says, yet still I swear I can see sorrow in these eyes, and those smiles are all forced. What kind of celebration would bring such a response? But hark! I just heard that fine bard mention "Use his own words as proof of his life." Ah, so this is an award for another bard, I consider as I lean forward to pay attention to the tenor voice as it begins softly.

needz moar tattoos

Seems interesting. Post more.

Alright. On that first part, I was just worried about not having the right mixture of foreshadowing.

Lets see what have we here.

I rest. I feel such peace. And while I slumber, my mind breaks free to wander, soaring softly from tree to tree, forest to forest. Enjoying the majesty of this flight, I am suddenly attracted by a sound in the distance, some great uproar. And thus I quickly float by to a tavern in the forest, simply slipping through the door as it swinged to allow entry to another, unseen to all gathered. Oh, what a great and clamorous din this is! This must surely be a feast, for there is food on every longtable that dominates the gathering space of this tavern. And such a vast crush of bodies, ranging from those boisterous dwarfs, to gangly men and even those rajamalan Knights who have set aside their weapons for this event.

But what sort of celebration is this, for even with all of the loud bays of laughter, I can see tears on those dwarven eyes, and a trembling lip not well hid by flagons of ale. Something catches at my mind, making me think that I should recognize these people, that I should be here with them for whatever event this might become. Suddenly, as if on cue, a hush falls over this crowd, and attention turns to the stage at the far corner of the room. Surely this is a great undertaking, I observe as the candles in the room begin to flicker lower, shadows dancing along the roof, the quiet so odd to the previous clamour. As I made these little notes, I noticed a slight quiver in the back curtain and then strode forth the man of the hour, or so I thought. He is a younger man, firm of stature, his atavian wings gracefully folded across his back as he seemed to glide forward into the gathered attention. As he pulls his instruments forward infront of him, it is obvious that he was a bard, and one of some renown. He begins a prepared speech, going on about celebration of a life or some such, and again my mind struggles to place him and all of these people. So, this is to be a celebration he says, yet still I swear I can see sorrow in these eyes, and those smiles are all forced. What kind of celebration would bring such a response? But hark! I just heard that fine bard mention "Use his own words as proof of his life." Ah, so this is an award for another bard, I consider as I lean forward to pay attention to the tenor voice as it begins softly.

And this is what he said:

"Screaming agony tears through my gut, as the dark-hooded Knight withdraws his twisted blade with a snarl of triumph. That pain is soon but a small voice though, as a mammoth beast of such immense proportions renders my once strong and supple limbs into a mere mesh of dust and flesh.

Now I slowly lift my pain-filled eyes, my sight dimming ever faster as I see my foe's hand encased in silver light. There is no pain in my death, not even a hint of agony as my heart is ripped from my chest.

This is my duty. This is my destiny.

The battle moves on, other warriors to trap and slay. My body now only ashes, softly fluttering from the shrine of an altar.

With a soft sigh, my lonely soul gazes upon the now peaceful devastation of the battlefield. Oh! How I long to stay here, where no quarrel rises and no anger cries.

But this is not my calling. There is still a battle to fight, an innocent to save.

So with a last long searching glance, my soul lifts his head to the Great Mother above. His mouth moving slowly to form the words to ancient prayers.

The noise, clamours, and desires of this world slowly fade away, as my soul softly wanders through the doors. And thus, yet again, my soul shall walk these Halls.

And soon my blades shall flash once more."

As the words slowly fade away into the air, they seem to resonate through the lofters of the building and something clings to my heart for just a moment. Shocked by the somber tone, I turn my gaze to the audience and see fresh tears, not hidden this time, as well as a seeming nod of recognition and even sympathy for the writer of those words. I quickly turn my eyes back to the bard, hoping for an explanation. He simply sits there, his hands softly stroking his mandolin as he seems lost in space. A sudden motion attracts my attention as a scarred dwarf angrily slams his mug on the table a low growl setting the whole table into sudden motion. Stumpy legs become a blur as every flagon in the place is filled to and sometimes over the brim. Almost as if choreographed, every single person in the tavern lifted a toast at the same time, though I could not possibly understand it through the tears and choppy voices. This is quickly becoming a madhouse, I decide and have just turned to flee back to the safety of my normal dreams when that voice rings forth again, in a chant that simply commands atttention. And this is what we all did hear:

Thanks for the PMS! I wrote this in one shot between 630 and 730 am last night, or rather this morning. So now I need the help in making it make sense. Hehe. That and I am using this on notebook, and have to format by hand.

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I rest. I feel such peace. And while I slumber, my mind breaks free to wander, soaring softly from tree to tree, forest to forest. Enjoying the majesty of this flight, I am suddenly attracted by a sound in the distance, some great uproar. And thus I quickly float by to a tavern in the forest, simply slipping through the door as it swings to allow entry to another, unseen to all gathered. Oh, what a great and clamorous din this is! This must surely be a feast, for there is food on every longtable that dominates the gathering space of this tavern. And such a vast crush of bodies, ranging from those boisterous dwarfs, to gangly men and even those rajamalan Knights who have set aside their weapons for this event.

But what sort of celebration is this, for even with all of the loud bays of laughter, I can see tears on those dwarven eyes, and a trembling lip not well hidden by flagons of ale. Something tugs at my mind, making me think that I should recognize these people, that I should be here with them for whatever event this might become. Suddenly, as if on cue, a hush falls over this crowd, and attention turns to the stage at the far corner of the room. Surely this is a great undertaking, I observe as the candles in the room begin to flicker lower, shadows dancing along the roof, the quiet so odd to the previous clamour. As I made these little notes, I noticed a slight quiver in the back curtain as the man of the hour strode forth, or so I thought. He is a younger man, firm of stature, his atavian wings gracefully folded across his back as he seemed to glide forward into the gathered attention. As he pulls his instruments forward infront of him, it is obvious that he was a bard, and one of some renown. He begins a prepared speech, going on about celebration of a life or some such, and again my mind struggles to place him and all of these people. So, this is to be a celebration he says, yet still I swear I can see sorrow in these eyes, and those smiles are all forced. What kind of celebration would bring such a response? But hark! I just heard that fine bard mention "Use his own words as proof of his life." Ah, so this is an award for another bard, I consider as I lean forward to pay attention to the tenor voice as it begins softly.

And this is what he said:



As the words slowly fade away into the air, they seem to resonate through the lofters of the building and something clings to my heart for just a moment. Shocked by the somber tone, I turn my gaze to the audience and see fresh tears, not hidden this time, as well as a seeming nod of recognition and even sympathy for the writer of those words. I quickly turn my eyes back to the bard, hoping for an explanation. He simply sits there, his hands softly stroking his mandolin as he seems lost in space. A sudden motion attracts my attention as a scarred dwarf angrily slams his mug on the table a low growl setting the whole table into sudden motion. Stumpy legs become a blur as every flagon in the place is filled to and sometimes over the brim. Almost as if choreographed, every single person in the tavern lifted a toast at the same time, though I could not possibly understand it through the tears and choppy voices. This is quickly becoming a madhouse, I decide and have just turned to flee back to the safety of my normal dreams when that voice rings forth again, in a chant that simply commands atttention. And this is what we all did hear:




Now even my sickened gasp is lost in the emotion that swells through this room as the last chant seems to echo accusingly back at me. This is a celebration? What could possibly be celebrated with such words I ask myself in disbelief. This is growing entirely uncomfortable, and not just because the room suddenly feels as if there are forges under the floor, but because something is growing in my heart. This does not feel right, this does not feel free. I am dreaming, why can my dreams not be pleasant and happy. All of my grumbling is silenced by one small sound. Slowly I turn my eyes gently towards the center of the room, unerringly tracking to that very tiny gulp of a sob. Until that one slip, this mighty Xoran had completely escaped my notice. She sat there, surrounded on all sides by warriors and people from every tough and hardened corner of the world. Yet there was such strength in her gaze, such beauty in the steel shining from her eyes. So rapt was my gaze that I nearly missed the single tear brimming in the corner of her eye. Sudden anger makes me step forward from the wall, intent on putting a stop to such acts of misery and demand that these people grow up and go home. Suddenly my body simply stops responding, locked into place, because she is rising. With a deep breath, this beauty that can exist only in dreams marches stately down the row between tables as people make way. Lifting her eyes to the audience, she slowly explains that she will be doing the final honours, in reading the last work of this cherished man. Something presses firmly into my forehead, causing an ache that I can not possibly bear. I do not want to hear this, surely it will be more agony. But I can not tear myself away from her eyes, from that slight tremble in those lush lips and so I listen as she begins.

Her low alto voice spreads slowly through the room, pearling tones singing these words:



At this, the very earth trembles at the fluctuation of some powerful force. Yet, even then, every eye in the room remain locked on those of the speaker and something deep within you struggles mightly for release. You feel as if you are mouthing the very words as they continue:



Something snaps in the very fabric of the room, everything blurs and I wonder if I am waking up just when things got interesting. A pearling screech rings against my eardrums, as I remain floating in rapture of those last verses. All of the horror I had heard before is washed away in the simple and honest truth of that poem. Something within me resounds deep, echoing through the core of who I am. My vision is clearing, though it must still be behind. For everyone seems frozen, attentive faces captured in the magic of that final moment. I am frustrated now, shaking my head because the faces nearest me are losing focus while everything else is getting sharper. Surely its time that I woke up, I have been sleeping for sometime. I know I have a great duty that I must return to, everything in my life has always been on that focal point. But my mental commands just are not working, as I slowly glide forward towards the stunning visage that just gave me the most fitting eulogy I could have asked for. As my legs steadily move me onwards, I long only to plant one last kiss on those tempting lips. I wont though, you see, because that tall and powerful man standing and staring so lovingly at me, well, that is my Father. And His falcon is watching me with respect, and oh, oh I simply can not continue. Goodbye my friends. Enjoy my wake. My peace is here. I finally shall have rest.


Now, for the advice. Is centering working? Or should I just align to the right, to seperate into blocks? How to I make the entire 'poem' portions all look the same and differentiate? I had the idea in my head of everything being separate as in old tomes, when switching from narrative to poem or song.

I was going to updated version here, now making more sense. But screw it. Its hard enough to gain any interest and lack of people posting shows me how utterly boring my composition is

So I am just going to flutter along and submit to bardics in all of its failed state. If it wins, then you can read it, otherwise I wont bore you.

Since it did place, WITHOUT tattoos , I am going to update just to show you the link to the cleaned up and streamlined version for the oh.. 4 people that pretended to care

http://www.achaea.com/irex/artbard/view.php?id=00004183

Hey. A quick question. So we can make a story based on Achaea without fear of getting in trouble for doing so?

As long as you don't try to sell it, and if you post it outside of Achaea you'll probably need the proper legal notices that they own the copyright to the characters. I'd ask permission if you're going to write a story based on Achaea for anywhere else but in-game or the bardics (they're fine with you hosting your bardic elsewhere though if you want)

Sad to break it to you, but poems win most of the time. Easier to read, more impressionable.

I got Bardic Merit once for a rather lengthy dissertation on Chaos.