The Writing Group

Monisawa · 2005-11-01 19:46:28

Ygramul wrote:

If you give us your mission address we can write you to say hello once in a while.... and it will probably be once in a long while...

Hmmmmmm...........

blewjewl · 2005-11-01 22:28:20

pouting

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-02 00:56:28

Please? Monisawa, I wanna write ya! ^_^

Monisawa · 2005-11-02 00:58:54

I will post the address...except it will change as I go from the MTC to my mission and to my area....I might just have everyone wright the mission home for my mission in Eugene Oregon. -_-

goodnight.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-02 01:00:29

Wooooo! Have a good night...and yay!!!

Monisawa · 2005-11-03 19:21:06

Okay....in order to write in a writing group, people must WRITE!!!!! Where did everyone go? Did ya get burned out or is school and work taking over your time?

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-03 22:49:36

My brain has been focused on helping Justin with his story. Speaking of which, I feel like writing....Although I should pack more..but..um..that's okay....

Monisawa · 2005-11-07 15:52:05

The essence of life cooed as melodic chimes, and flowing water blew softly upon the wind.
Moving slowly the clouds drift as if among giants, and hide all of the canyon?s deep crevices from immediate view.
Pieces of darkness melted into the threads of trees and held captive the wispy grass beneath it.
Nothing is said, but voices trail among the mountains. Voices being heard in the silence, but never is a mouth opened.
Pieces of the sun sparkle as a drop of water trickles down a bamboo stalk and drips off of the adjoining leaf.
Spiraling slowly, the drop of water lands on a creature that is slumbering quietly, and the water is quickly absorbed into the animal?s fur.
Turning its lumbering body, as it stirred from its sleep, the panda scratches methodically his coarse fur.
Lifting its eye lid open, his focus blurred as his attention fell on the pond that was next to him.

Geez x_X where did all of the text go? Written out the whole thing filled one whol page. *Goes and looks at the paper.... Oh, it was wide rule paper. Either way, this is just a revisit of my panda story that I had written at work by hand.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-07 21:37:46

That Was Yummy.

Monisawa · 2005-11-13 21:56:25

I am going to family night!!! All who are concerned. Tomarrow will be my last day for it, so like Ygramul who lives in Warrensburg, I am going tomarrow and I can say goodbye to you people then.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-14 03:14:43

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Good luck! I WANT YOUR MISSION ADDY. Please? *begs* Want...please?

Monisawa · 2005-11-14 08:41:10

I'll get to it.

Monisawa · 2005-11-15 18:16:30

Here is the mission office address for me:

Elder Michael Gene Blake
Oregon Eugene Mission
55 W. 29th Ave., Ste. A
Eugene, OR 97405

--make sure to write everything there.--

Keep in touch everyone. Thanks for being great friends!!!!!
thanks and see you all later.
thanks
mike

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-16 00:11:39

We'll miss you---good luck!!!

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-16 01:54:21

Just a short story I'm working on....

The soft snow fell through the woods, the wind whispering a music of its own through the branches of the stark white trees. In the snow, huddled in a dark green cloak, a creature plodded through the heavy snowfall. She looked up occasionally, searching, looking through the haze of snow. It was evening, the shadows turning from blue to black. She had no light, save for her excellent night vision.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her, head bent. In her palm she clasped a figurine carved of bone against her, its warmth comforting her. She brushed the flurries from her eyelashes and then began to walk up the low slope, threading through the trees in a zig-zag pattern, as if almost aimlessly, touching every tree with her golden paws.
?One last dying hope for my future,? she said and looked back at the road behind her, back where she knew the lost city of her ancestor?s home lay, back where she had grown up away from the world before the hand of greed and the beasts of primordial filth had come and destroyed her clan-people?s hearts. Back there, another time, a lost place, hidden in the shadows of her mind, where dark melodies rasped across somber thoughts.
She paused, closing her liquid amber eyes, brushing away frozen tears from her fur. She clasped her leopard paws together, bending her head, ducking away from the wind. A coldness had seeped into her, reaching down to the marrow in her bones, a sense of dreaded peace, like the blue hour before the sun disappears forever. There were no if onlys, no wasted dreams?only a sense that she must continue, holding fast to the carving in her hands.
The trees seemed to hold their breath as she passed, touching, feeling for the sleeping life beneath. Somewhere she would find this place they spoke of, where she might rest. No crypt could offer her such a place, no, but only a home where a spirit of love remained. Each tree seemed the same, though each soul inside different, until she felt the slender trunk where she felt the grooves where fire and claw had once slashed. She felt around the grooves, the taste of ancient pain still lingering softly in the air, like dust in a library long forgotten.
?Is this you?? she asked the tree softly, stepping around it. ?Though you sleep and cannot answer...I ask you, is it you?? she touched it again and again, feeling, listening. She dropped down to her paws and began to dig about where its roots were, brushing away the snow. She dug about it until her hands felt the rock-hard earth. She knelt and placed the figurine at the base of tree. One could easily see that it was the figurine of a wolf with a headdress draped in a heavy cloak. ?If it be you, then answer me with this. This night I shall rest by thee in thy shadow, wrapped in this cowl of winter and when the morning comes, let this figurine be gone and a snowdrop in its place.?
She curled up then, making a small bed for her in the snow to keep warm against the bitter cold. She closed her eyes and soon slept, for her journey had yet been hard and her heart wounded, the last melodies of hope softly fading away. When the pale hues of dawn came, she turned her feline head towards the tree and when she opened them, the figurine was still there. She curled her head down, ignoring the fact the storm had stopped and the breeze was warmer, a soft sob escaping her lips.
?Do not fear, little one, for I am here to save you...Your faith hath made your journey begin here again.?
Roweyna shot up and then immediately fell to the ground at what she saw. There stood a gray wolf, the Great Azures, the Dream Sleeper, Bringer of Hope. He was adorned with a simple headdress of blue feathers and a long, flowing cape. Behind him the forest was budding with flowers and the scents of summer a spring, delight, and sparkling beauty. A great light shone about him, pure grace upon his smile and deep within his azure eyes.
?The figurine is yours to keep, my dear Roweyna, for you have carried many a burden and walked many a mile to find me. You have given all of your heart, your mind, and soul, and now I bade you to enter in my rest so that you might begin a new life.?
?Is it long...is it hard?? Roweyna asked and stepped towards him.
?No, it is right here,? he held out his paw and drew her spirit from her body, curling his fingers tightly about hers. ?You need not fear, for I am here to help you, child.? With his free paw he covered the face of the body, and stepped away, where she had died during the night.
Roweyna stepped onto the spring grass, the softness of it pleasing to her once-aching feet. Around her the sunlight filtered through the gnarled golden trees. She could feel the warmth and the pleasure, and beside her Azures stood.
?Welcome to my woods, my home. You have earned your place here, daughter divine. Come and let us visit my gardens and tell me of your life.? In his paw he held out to her a beautiful snowdrop and placed it behind her ear. He unhooked the clasp on her cloak. ?You won?t need this here.? He took off her cloak and rolled it up.

jerbl · 2005-11-16 15:07:22

That was super neat, I'm glad I read it!

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-16 16:47:06

Thanks...it isn't over yet. ^_^

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-11-18 15:54:17

This one I'm working on for school....

In a corner of the Woodsoul Milk Inn, a lone minstrel dressed in an icy blue, long-sleeved linen shirt and pants and a canary yellow cape played a lonely melody of the dryads of the wood. He played of the evening shadows falling through the leaves and the stillness of the Inn. As he plucked the familiar strings of his harp, he watched Andraya Woodsoul, the owner of the Inn, polishing the tables for the third time in an hour. She brushed back a few stray hairs into her pinned up bun. She stood, arms akimbo, holding the much-used rag tightly.
?It?s really slow, isn?t it?? he asked out of mere comfort, his slender hands plucking at the strings to make a sparkly melody to cheer her up.
?Business is getting so bad I don?t know what to do.? Andraya looked at him helplessly, smiling half-heartedly. ?It?s amazing we get as much business as we do, being this far north. The winter storms are about to begin and I can only hope we?ll make it through.? She touched a candle that was floating in rose water as the centerpiece thoughtfully. ?We?ve been here neigh two hundred years. I?m the only one left here to guard this Inn. I have no family, only...this place.?
Her eyes roved over the Inn. It was simple, homey, built in the branches of a gargantuan oak tree. The windows were oval with Elvish carvings around them. The tables themselves were crafted with tree itself and were, indeed, living, a part of the great tree. She walked over to a table where two customers had left to go upstairs to their rooms. One was still there, asleep, head on the table. Andraya laughed softly, the music cheering up her soul.
?Thank-you for playing,? the woman said, picking up the dirty wooden bowls and carrying them to the counter.
?It is my pleasure, lady,? he replied.
?Might I know your name?? she asked.
?Donivan,? he said, the soft notes accompanying his voice. ?Shall I sing you a song, fair lady??
?Well, if it will make this place a bit more lively, I don?t see why not.? Andraya spread her arms wide, gesturing to the almost-vacant Inn. Suddenly, there was a soft tap at the door. Andraya looked at Donivan, who had ceased his playing.
?Come in,? Andraya called and the door burst open, flurries of snow escaping into the warm Inn and melting on the spot. The room became staggeringly chilly. There stood an anthromorphic snow leopard, dressed in a heavy fur tabard of maroon with fern green trim and leggings. His boots were large and wet and on his bandolier several furs hung together. About his waist were several leather pouches and tools. He gave a courteous nod and a huff of satisfaction.
?Welcome to the Woodsoul Milk Inn. My name is Andraya; I?m the owner. We have hot cider to warm your belly and a good pot of stew if you would like to stay a spell.?
He smiled?a kindly smile, despite his rough appearance. ?I?d like that, ma?am,? he said gruffly, and stepped in. He closed the door, making sure it was fast, and stood dripping in the warmth, his icy green eyes penetrating the Inn.
?I?ll get you a few towels too, if you like, sir,? Andraya said.
?No, that won?t be necessary. Just some cider and stew, if you please.? Andraya bowed and went to the kitchen to serve up food for their guest. The snow leopard bowed back, brushing off his clothes and stomping his feet before selecting a table. He removed his boots, bandolier, and a few of his cumbersome pouches. Donivan walked over.
?I am Donivan. Have you a song in which you wish to hear, sir, while you wait for your food??
The snow leopard?s ears flicked back, as if he didn?t want to be bothered, but instead, he said politely, ?Sharard Maelstrom. A song, you say? Well, any mountainous ditty would suit me fine.?
Donvian, with a flourish of his canary yellow cape, backed off and went back to the corner where he once stood. He picked up the harp again and began to play, then began to softly sing.
?O?er the mountains, o?er the sea,
Is a little place all for me
Where sun doth shine and lilies play
And sunshine giveth her warm ray
O?er the rocks, o?er the rills,
There is a gentle home among the hills
Where children play in rivers clear
And mothers cannot fear
For here is naught but peace and love
For that, we must thank the heavens above
For where is home but in the heart
And that is where true charity doth start
So when you walk the long road,
And carry perhaps a heavy load,
Remember us o?er the mountains, o?er the sea
If it only be in your memory.?

?That was beautiful, Donivan,? Andraya said. ?It reminds me of where I used to live, far from here. But tonight is not a night of somber thoughts, though they have their place.?
She handed Sharard his food on a tray and he took the cider with thanks, gulping it down.
?Another fill, if you please?? Sharard asked.

Nabeshin · 2005-12-19 22:37:59

So, now that Mike's gone, I'm finally on. And looking over these posts, I can't imagine how I could help anybody at all. Goodness, some of you say all kinds of stuff that I wouldn't even be able to begin to mention. About all I'm good for is grammar and such and most of the time people who write (or in this case, type) hate it when someone corrects grammar when they are just looking for constructive criticism or whatever. I would pretty much just say, "Wow, that was great, you did really well but that one sentence..," not anything like, "Wow, Mike, you really created an awesome emotion there, and with your use of the words..." See? Ah, I'll try anyway, I suppose.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-12-20 15:37:38

Eh, you can be all grammar-y all yeh want.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2005-12-22 13:14:22

Sometimes life feels so empty that you forget to breathe
Choking on your our emotions until you need
To suffer no longer, to lift your head up high,
To thank God for all His gifts before you say goodbye
To hopes and dreams and bygone things
But not matters of the soul, which with patience brings
The penitent to rest in the arms of love
Grant from our loving Father from above
Perhaps thankfulness can fill regret and with patience our burden bare,
For we can think of other things than what gives us not care
We have the choice to loose our love and let it float away
Or we can anchor it so our soul so that it will stay
Our words can be of kindness, of love and repute
Or we may let our scathing tongue rebuke
Others who might have offended us this day
Maybe we could take our enmity and with the sword of truth slay
All that is ill that festers in our once-warm souls
Where now pungent decay fosters and rolls
On its dreadful way-or maybe, just maybe, we can look to the light to help save our day.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2006-03-02 13:09:10

"Mercy Displayed"

When justice rings upon the foe
Mercy, its law can be displayed
Yet for the ones who stand, immovable
Seal their fate to be ever dismayed

Looking into the mirror,
The past may rear and ugly head
Yet if you look further into the truth
You'll realize someone tread
along with you...

Shimmering and reeling
Memories fade, distance grows
Yet it would take a small moment
To bridge the gap between the rows

Emotion sleeps, deep within a dream
Silent upon soft winds of thought
Until the bell of truth will ring
And wake piercing that wrought
truth

Liquid sand, molten silver, each action
Displays its royal color
The black and blue, the crimson dark
That smears the wisdom, replaced by cunning art

Do not dream, do not sleep
Along sharp cliff faces
Heed the warnings, look to signs
Don't just go through the paces

With all the craft that men do see
With rapture in their eyes
Is only poison, beguiling to the heart
And nothing but a nest of lies

Are you watching who's jerking you about
As though a puppet upon flaxen strings?
Or are you in the hands of the Maker
With peace and gentlesness and string obedience brings
you safetly home?

Open your eyes...

Awake from that deep sleep that catches you with its lazy fingers

Slowly, sublte, it will catch you...

Cradle you...

And then crush you in its everlasting death.

So lift up your eyes to the Savior...

'For though your sins be as scarlet, they may be white as snow...'

And remember the past is never the end, the future is your choice.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2006-03-09 23:36:29

I was originally just going to post about sound and then..this came out. Snow, winter, night, rain...weather...water...seems to make my creative senses go BOOM. I am debating about starting a sci-fi storyline.

-----

Silence. Silence. Outside the snow falls quietly, the hush of the quiet fog rolling across the landscape. The sound of my computer humming quietly and the tappity tap of my new keyboard. I shall open my window and see if there are any other sounds to hear besides these normal household ones...

Stillness and a chill takes the senses and clears them. The light of the streetlamp is hazy and the world seems to take a breath in the night time harmony of the once-blizzard. Still within a moment the world stops, an edge before the end of a waterfall, the spyglass of illusion casts its mysterious gaze upon the wintery village.

Yet there is no danger but a sense of frigid peace. Ahh! Winter, my beautiful friend, soft yet harsh, thy hand an iron fist of frozen lakes and sparkling snow, thy heart a wonderland of beauty--a time for rest, for plants to say goodnight and reach up with the yawning beauty of the spring where the world wakens again. Sweet night, sweet winter, thy draughts bring a bitter chill. I pass downstairs, the safe, reassuring warmth away from winter's bliss. I open the door and step outside. The concrete does not seem so cold. The world...is so misty, so still that if I did not know the world did turn I would think that it had stopped. Yet as I walk out, barefoot, upon the snow and feel my warmth melting it, the snow falls ever so lightly, almost like a rainshower and yet...it is snow. Snow falling, softly, wetly, melting instantly at my warmth. I step back, watch, and then run inside to the warmth of the house. Yet, the beauty of the snow and my senses beg me to yet again return. So I return, but this time, the house seems chillier and as I step out over the threshold, the world takes on a eerie sense--that sense that though this place in beauty wonder, iniquity still thrives. Something inside me awakens, as if from a light sleep, and I feel the world turning yet again.

A winter bird, it chirps but once and I trot out down the porch, scooping up the snow and tasting it. But all too soon, the seconds make me realize how cold the world is yet again. I take a bite of that delisious snow and discard it like a rag and bound into the house, back into the warmth of this abode. I am tempted yet to run through the grass, and I know the snow is good packing snow. Shall I make a snowman, then, though the clock wanes to nine thirty?

Hark! Let me taste the world again and see what it has to offer...

I jog downstairs, telling my mother that I might build a snowman. There I am--shorts and a red t-shirt-and boots, big black snow and mud boots, with the warm fleece but absent of laces. I unlock the door and step out, wondering of the chill, but knowing that I shall not stay out long if it gets to me. The second thing I notice is the drip, drip of the faucet outsid and I know that should it be cold enough, that there will be ice to take pictures of in the early hours of the morning.

I trot around to the back of the house, disturbing nature's glory, calling out for my blue and white, four-legged friend that rests in her small house. The snow runs heavily against my glasses and my forehead, shoulders, but it does not trouble me. She pokes her head out and I reach down to scoop the snow out of her bowl and set her free. We dash around, the musty scent of wet canine running into my nose. We run around and around in circles, kicking up the snow. She smiles--playtime!

We chase each other and I run over to the fence that used to be our horse pasture and look at it thoughtfully before turning, snow cascading into my boots. We skid back and forth and my friend slips on the ice and tumbles over. I call to her and place her back on her hook and tread back inside, stomping my boots.

What a beautiful winter night.

Seraphim Moonshadow · 2006-03-12 01:48:26

"Reconciliations, Part One, the Gathering, Chapter Eight-The Waking Dream, (C) 1997-2006 by J Lynn D"

?Greetings, fair knight,? she greeted him, her voice melting like honey.

    Brain?s eyebrows furrowed. A fair knight? Why did she have to be so generic? He was sure his mind was more creative than that.  Perhaps all of Analora?s cooking was sucking out his creativity? No matter. This was just a dream, so he might as well as have fun, so he replied, ?Why can?t I be a guy with a long, flowing cape??

    He looked down at his drab green tunic that was burlap textured and wished for a cape. The Draggen Foremaster snapped her fingers behind her back, a smooth smile replacing any sign annoyance with overwhelming ardancy.

    ?Oh my!? she clapped her hand over her mouth, ?but sir, thou dost have a cape! And it is so dashing and mysterious, too. It sweeps my heart away.?

    Inside the Draggen Foremaster could have smacked herself, groaning inwardly in disgust. Was this what people meant when girls were air heads?

    Brian?s eyes lit up with mock delight and he smiled graciously at her. ?Well, isn?t that just dandy. Now, if only I was rich...? he looked expectantly at her. The Mistress of Snakes tossed back her hair coyishly and smiled back at him just as expectantly.

    ?Who needs to be rich with your great swordsmanship? I know you are rich in talent.?

    Brian tossed back his head. ?What are you, some kind of spy? How do you know I have swordsmanship talent? I demand my attorney!? 

    The lady?s eyes turned slitted, snake-like, but she turned away before he could notice.

    ?Oh, the fair lady turns at my remarks?? Brian said, dramatically placing a hand on his forehead. ?How cold!? He paused for a moment and then asked thoughtfully, ?I don?t suppose I could sue for this??

    Brian walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. ?I suppose I could. Please, lady, I?ll need your name and address and no, that?s not a horrible pickup line. You may make your payments directly to Master Brian Ferrall, Lead of the Clowns. I?ll keep quiet for just 20 gallors a month. It?s a bargain price! I?ll even toss in a free throw rug with the package.?

    ?What, so you can wipe your dirty boots on my heart?? the Draggen Foremaster cried out, trying to sob. ?I thought you were a kind, fair knight.?

    ?Well, that?s your fault for thinkin that!?

    ?Can?t you see this place is merely an illusion and I?m stuck here? Haven?t you ever been told to help maidens in distress??

    ?No.?

    The Draggen Foremaster wiped away her tears, her lips puckering.

    ?Look, lady, you got something I want. Cash. So stop crying. Besides, your tear-streaked mascara looks ghastly on you.?

    The Draggen Foremaster shot up and pointed a finger at his chest. ?You think I don?t know that? I?ve practiced getting it in the right place! I?m trapped here and there?s nothing to do but sit around and hope some gracious knight unlike you comes along and save me. Young men are supposed to have some kind of a heart, unlike yours, apparently.?

    Brian leaned back and pushed her finger away. ?Surely your captor has some horde he or she keeps around. Money jingles; insults do not. Pay up, lady, then I?ll get you out of this joint and secondly, I will be the dashing, cape-wearing knight you can show off to all your friends.?

    The Draggen Foremaster growled and pulled a purse off of her belt which contained 120 gallors. Brian took the pouch, counted them, and then flashed her a smile.

    ?When can I start?? he asked.

    ?Now.? she said. ?Grovel.?

    ?What!?? Brian asked, taking as step back. ?But that wasn?t part of the deal!?    

    ?I never said it wasn?t. Now do you want me to take that money back??

    ?Oh, no, I?ll grovel.? Brian dropped to the ground and crawled towards her.

    ?That?s not groveling!?

    ?No, but it?s close. Can?t I do it this way? It?s ever so much more comfortable. Besides, I?m a lowly peasant. We don?t know how to grovel correctly anyway. Only minions know how to do that properly.?

    The Draggen Foremaster considered tossing him in the fountain for a moment but responded, ?You?re a knight! Knight!?

    ?Oh, but I thought I was fair, too!? Brian replied, dodging her foot. ?Alright, alright, I understand. Knight. I?m a knight. A fair one. With a cape.?

jerbl · 2006-03-14 17:03:20

?Greetings, fair knight,? she greeted him, her voice melting like honey.

Brain?s eyebrows furrowed. A fair knight? Why did she have to be so generic? He was sure his mind was more creative than that. Perhaps all of Analora?s cooking was sucking out his creativity? No matter. This was just a dream, so he might as well as have fun, so he replied, ?Why can?t I be a guy with a long, flowing cape??

He looked down at his drab green tunic that was burlap textured and wished for a cape. The Draggen Foremaster snapped her fingers behind her back, a smooth smile replacing any sign annoyance with overwhelming ardancy.

?Oh my!? she clapped her hand over her mouth, ?but sir, thou dost have a cape! And it is so dashing and mysterious, too. It sweeps my heart away.?

Inside the Draggen Foremaster could have smacked herself, groaning inwardly in disgust. Was this what people meant when girls were air heads?

Brian?s eyes lit up with mock delight and he smiled graciously at her. ?Well, isn?t that just dandy. Now, if only I was rich...? he looked expectantly at her. The Mistress of Snakes tossed back her hair coyishly and smiled back at him just as expectantly.

?Who needs to be rich with your great swordsmanship? I know you are rich in talent.?

Brian tossed back his head. ?What are you, some kind of spy? How do you know I have swordsmanship talent? I demand my attorney!?

The lady?s eyes turned slitted, snake-like, but she turned away before he could notice.

?Oh, the fair lady turns at my remarks?? Brian said, dramatically placing a hand on his forehead. ?How cold!? He paused for a moment and then asked thoughtfully, ?I don?t suppose I could sue for this??

Brian walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. ?I suppose I could. Please, lady, I?ll need your name and address and no, that?s not a horrible pickup line. You may make your payments directly to Master Brian Ferrall, Lead of the Clowns. I?ll keep quiet for just 20 gallors a month. It?s a bargain price! I?ll even toss in a free throw rug with the package.?

?What, so you can wipe your dirty boots on my heart?? the Draggen Foremaster cried out, trying to sob. ?I thought you were a kind, fair knight.?

?Well, that?s your fault for thinkin that!?

?Can?t you see this place is merely an illusion and I?m stuck here? Haven?t you ever been told to help maidens in distress??

?No.?

The Draggen Foremaster wiped away her tears, her lips puckering.

?Look, lady, you got something I want. Cash. So stop crying. Besides, your tear-streaked mascara looks ghastly on you.?

The Draggen Foremaster shot up and pointed a finger at his chest. ?You think I don?t know that? I?ve practiced getting it in the right place! I?m trapped here and there?s nothing to do but sit around and hope some gracious knight unlike you comes along and save me. Young men are supposed to have some kind of a heart, unlike yours, apparently.?

Brian leaned back and pushed her finger away. ?Surely your captor has some horde he or she keeps around. Money jingles; insults do not. Pay up, lady, then I?ll get you out of this joint and secondly, I will be the dashing, cape-wearing knight you can show off to all your friends.?

The Draggen Foremaster growled and pulled a purse off of her belt which contained 120 gallors. Brian took the pouch, counted them, and then flashed her a smile.

?When can I start?? he asked.

?Now.? she said. ?Grovel.?

?What!?? Brian asked, taking as step back. ?But that wasn?t part of the deal!?

?I never said it wasn?t. Now do you want me to take that money back??

?Oh, no, I?ll grovel.? Brian dropped to the ground and crawled towards her.

?That?s not groveling!?

?No, but it?s close. Can?t I do it this way? It?s ever so much more comfortable. Besides, I?m a lowly peasant. We don?t know how to grovel correctly anyway. Only minions know how to do that properly.?

The Draggen Foremaster considered tossing him in the fountain for a moment but responded, ?You?re a knight! Knight!?

?Oh, but I thought I was fair, too!? Brian replied, dodging her foot. ?Alright, alright, I understand. Knight. I?m a knight. A fair one. With a cape.?

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Re: The Writing Group

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#166 2005-11-16 15:07:22

Re: The Writing Group

#167 2005-11-16 16:47:06

Re: The Writing Group

#168 2005-11-18 15:54:17

Re: The Writing Group

#169 2005-12-19 22:37:59

Re: The Writing Group

#170 2005-12-20 15:37:38

Re: The Writing Group

#171 2005-12-22 13:14:22

Re: The Writing Group

#172 2006-03-02 13:09:10

Re: The Writing Group

#173 2006-03-09 23:36:29

Re: The Writing Group

#174 2006-03-12 01:48:26

Re: The Writing Group

#175 2006-03-14 17:03:20

Re: The Writing Group

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