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The Pen is impatient. Hear its cry


Partisan
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He stood; Clouds, dark as the heart of Banned, the wicked doomchild himself enveloped him. They were alive- supernatural organisms radiating an aura of despair. It was as if death itself had incarnated itself into solid matter. It was certain: The demon child Baltus' weaker brother, Banned, had reorganized his rag-tag group of scallywags and privateers into a more formidable grouping. These men and women were persona Non Grata in the civilized world, for they could find no peace in its social structures. They were outcasts. Expelled and shunned by even the most degenerate layers of society. Doomsquad. A new nemesis. It's purpose? Not even Banned himself was capable of formulating an answer to that simple question. Doomsquad thrived on chaos. It *was* chaos.

 

The Pen continued his musings as the aura continued to tighten itself around him; He could now feel its slow, rhytmic throb spreading through his very being. It seemed only days ago, that he had been awoken from his solitary slumber and departed his refuge in the bowels of her majesty's chimaera's service. The song of ink had commanded him. Inkblack tears had streamed from his eyes to form letters on the walls and the ground. The world has become a book ripe with the teachings of yore. Oh, how he recalled the blank, startled stares of the antlike crowd that had silently watched as he made known his intent. They would never be the same- the spirit of their community forever lost in the great war.

 

The trail of ink had led him to the Bear Cavalry: A grouping poised to become the bastion of order. Free of the shackles that once binded him, the Pen's powers had grown exponentially with time. The time had come for the first challenge of the holy quill. As was prophesized. As was promised.

 

Doom. Doomsphere. Non Grata. Pacifica. Umbrella. Yes, even MI6 and Polar. All had fallen to the clutches of the chaos that had filled the void of the first collapse. The Pax had long been driven away, and never returned. So the world found itself terrorized by a haphazard hegemony of Pacifican puppets. Mindless drones ravaging the world without true purpose or aim; or rather, without any objective known to themselves. For it is the strings that have become the end-all. Free will has become but a fairy-tale passed down from parents to children in midst of night.

 

It is the fallacy of men; to believe that power resides anywhere but where we place it. The followed becomes the follower when the follower refuses to follow. And such is the message he intended to send today, as the second wave of hegemonic minions would flood his nation.

 

A thundering excitement buzzing through is veins returned him to the world of the living. It was time. Thick drips of ink trickling down from the corner of his mouth slowly formed beneath him a pentagram. And in the pentagram, he stood. Silently observing his surroundings. The clouds began to tremble. The swirling intensified, the throbbing strengthening to the deep pulse he had become so familiar with. His eyes turned black, Ink rising around him to scatter the clouds, removing the barrier that had obscured his mind. And in midst of the carnage, three lines formed.

 

Beware the PigSword.

 

Unintended Machinations

 

Hegemonic Desperation

 

He closed his eyes and uttered a faint whisper: Show yourself. "The Pen is ready."

Edited by Partisan
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You gaze at the mountain, Children of Terra, you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters. But who dreams of the road that ascends the mountain side? The road to the peak is hard and murderous. It has broken countless Children of Terra upon its rocks. Their splintered bones lie scattered upon it, paving the way to the mountain top. At every step you will hear the bones crumbling under foot, and maybe you shall hear the wind-blown voices of the dead - guiding you forward or leading you to your Doom. Yes, my children, the way to the mountain is cruel and unforgiving. And of those who struggle their long lives, spending their energy and vigour in the climb, who then can taste the melt-water of the summit and say, 'Yes... yes it was worthwhile!'

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You gaze at the mountain, Children of Terra, you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters. But who dreams of the road that ascends the mountain side? The road to the peak is hard and murderous. It has broken countless Children of Terra upon its rocks. Their splintered bones lie scattered upon it, paving the way to the mountain top. At every step you will hear the bones crumbling under foot, and maybe you shall hear the wind-blown voices of the dead - guiding you forward or leading you to your Doom. Yes, my children, the way to the mountain is cruel and unforgiving. And of those who struggle their long lives, spending their energy and vigour in the climb, who then can taste the melt-water of the summit and say, 'Yes... yes it was worthwhile!'

Junka

 

Even in pointless prose you fail.

 

you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters

 

There is no free flowing water its frozen snow. :psyduck:  :facepalm:  :blink:  :wacko:

 

Dame Hime Themis

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Junka

 

Even in pointless prose you fail.

 

you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters

 

There is no free flowing water its frozen snow. :psyduck:  :facepalm:  :blink:  :wacko:

 

Dame Hime Themis

 

Silence heretic, I was quoting the Book of the Astronomican.

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you really ought to.

 

As the ink faded, his gaze fell upon a tiny animal squeeling in the corner. Its atrocious physique only trumped by its mind-numbing smell. Below the pig's teet, a shimmering blade rested. 

 

And so we meet.

 

Transform, Pigblade. Upon that we view your true nature, and drive it from this land.

Edited by Partisan
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As the ink faded, his gaze fell upon a tiny animal squeeling in the corner. Its atrocious physique only trumped by its mind-numbing smell. Below the pig's teet, a shimmering blade rested. 

 

And so we meet.

 

Transform, Pigblade. Upon that we view your true nature, and drive it from this land.

 

Partisan studied the man's shape and form intensely.  He tried to memorize all the lines and curves; the firm and masculine definition of his being.   The essence of manliness.

 

One one hand homosexuality was a sin; on the other was Porksaber's buttocks.

 

Partisan moved around with a sense of excitement, exhilaration, and intrigue as Porksaber leaned forward and whispered in his ear:

 

"Go on, the legendary power is now easily within your reach."

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Along with the pink and azure rays, the sunrise brought a strange feeling that was both full of anxiety and peace to the barely waking Partisan.  The covers were still warm where the Porksaber had been laying; the  linen thoughtfully pulled back and folded on top of itself.  Had he left?  Was what happened wrong?  What would the happen now that everything had changed from the way he'd been accustomed to living?  

 

In the distance he heard an egret cry, and smelled the familiar scent of morning coffee.

 

The only hangover he felt was one of emotion.  He thought he should be ashamed, but why wasn't he feeling that way?  The social foundation upon which his very being was built had been compromised, and for some reason he just assumed that he should be feeling some sense of impending doom, but it just wasn't there. 

 

His unease was quickly quelled when he looked to the door and saw the familiar essence of masculinity come walking daintily into his chambers.

 

Porksaber stood with arms akimbo in the doorway wearing a lovely Indian sarong.

 

in that familiar voice he began to feel so much comfort in he hear him speak softly:

 

"Cappuccino?"

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He stood; Clouds, dark as the heart of Banned, the wicked doomchild himself enveloped him. They were alive- supernatural organisms radiating an aura of despair. It was as if death itself had incarnated itself into solid matter. It was certain: The demon child Baltus' weaker brother, Banned, had reorganized his rag-tag group of scallywags and privateers into a more formidable grouping. These men and women were persona Non Grata in the civilized world, for they could find no peace in its social structures. They were outcasts. Expelled and shunned by even the most degenerate layers of society. Doomsquad. A new nemesis. It's purpose? Not even Banned himself was capable of formulating an answer to that simple question. Doomsquad thrived on chaos. It *was* chaos.

Have we met?

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Junka
 
Even in pointless prose you fail.
 
you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters
 
There is no free flowing water its frozen snow. :psyduck:  :facepalm:  :blink:  :wacko:
 
Dame Hime Themis


This is terrible news for the billions who get their drinking water from glacier fed rivers.
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With winter came discontent.

 

The cold walls of the condominium echoed with voices of  the ghosts of happier times.  Porksaber remembered the weekend get-aways to go antiquing, to the bodegas for late brunches, and frivolous times along the promenade wistfully watching the handsome young men pushing carts of steaming dim sum.  It had been a few days since he last heard from his beautiful Partisan, and he slipped into despair that he'd not hear any more in the days to come.

 

What had started off so powerfully and passionate now seemed to vanish like summer bubbles. Where was he now, and why had his flame burned out so quickly?

 

He turned up the thermostat and cursed the empty box of k cups - knowing no matter how warm it was inside, he'd still feel chilled to the bone.

 

Outside the window he saw children playing.  It reminded him of happier times.  Times that have passed.  Times that he'll never know again.

 

He sobbed into the emptyness.  Alone.  With his back against the stainless steel of the refrigerator.  Filled with cold duck.

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This is terrible news for the billions who get their drinking water from glacier fed rivers.

Berbers

 

Brilliant how many get that water at the pinnacle???? :facepalm:

 

you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters

 

Glorious ineptitude +1

 

Dame Hime Themis

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Berbers
 
Brilliant how many get that water at the pinnacle???? :facepalm:
 
you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters
 
Glorious ineptitude +1
 
Dame Hime Themis


Or you know the snow capped peak i am looking at out my window that has an unfrozen river running from probably not quite the pinnacle but close enough for your argument to be worthless.

Or does all water flash freeze in the first snow of the year where you are from?
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Or you know the snow capped peak i am looking at out my window that has an unfrozen river running from probably not quite the pinnacle but close enough for your argument to be worthless.

Or does all water flash freeze in the first snow of the year where you are from?

Berbers

 

 Nice try arguing something completeley stupid. Even you admit that the pinnacle is frozen and there is no running water.

you see its snow-capped peak and the clouds upon its slopes. You dream of reaching that pinnacle and drinking the cold waters

 

Odd that quote did not say you see the rapidly melting snow and you dream of reaching a point some 2000 ft near the pinnacle and drinking the melt water. :facepalm: 
 

Close enough is not the same as IS and frankly is nonesense anyway close enough as in what a 1000 ft, 2000ft. 

A simple "oops misread it" would have been fine now you are going for compound stupid. The pinnacle of a peak not a glacier as you also stupidly suggested, does not have running water on it. It snows.If it is raining you get running water odd that quote did not mention drinking the cold water in the rain. It then pushes the snow down the slope where it meets a warm enough temperature to melt and form what we like to call water.

 

What snow capped peak do you claim to look out on that has an "unfrozen river" near the pinnacle? Again you really do not understand the language no mountain tops have unfrozen "Rivers" on them. I am going to guess you would write in the same pathetic fashion as that great writer.

 

riv·er/ˈrivər/

 

noun

a large natural stream of water flowing in a channel to the sea, a lake, or another such stream

 

 Well done.

 

Dame HIme Themis

Edited by Hime Themis
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