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Ceramic DM - Spring 2005 (Late Bloomer) - We have a winner.
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<blockquote data-quote="Speaker" data-source="post: 2388641" data-attributes="member: 6571"><p><strong>Gift of Life</strong></p><p></p><p>Ceramic DM Spring 2005 (Really, really late bloomer)</p><p>Round 2: Speaker vs. Berandor</p><p></p><p>Gift of Life</p><p></p><p>“Micheal. Micheal.” The voice, insistent, insipid, internal, eternal. Strange that the familiar might be made from something so strange, Micheal thought. Stranger still that all the events that had led to this place now seemed to rush back to him, as his consciousness teetered uncertainly, breathlessly, perhaps sometimes fading, sometimes spring back with its full force, the strength of sheer life seeking its own preservation – Micheal couldn’t tell, could barely feel his life pour away, as his memory reached back…</p><p></p><p>---------------------------------</p><p></p><p>It begun with the cat, of course. Cats know things. A mantra his friend, a strong rugged soul with a twinkle in his eye and a menagerie of animals to keep him company. Cats know things that we do not, they see beyond and this is what makes them so aloof, because they see those things which we all know are there. The shadow in the corner of the eye that moves of its own. The trick of the light that defies our expectations. And more grimly, the unseen attacks upon our mind that defeat so many and keep puzzled men in white coats, padding down hallways of padded rooms and barred windows, busy so.</p><p> And of course Micheal had wanted to know things as well. Perhaps a native want to all – to see things as they really are, not as they seem. No matter the cost, he had thought. No matter the cost, he had bought.</p><p> It had happened a lazy afternoon. The exact day didn’t matter, but he still remembered the rain. It had poured, streamed, sputtered the day through, and when Michael had returned home from the tedium of his job, returned home disgruntled, feeling hollow, wishing for more as so many do (except those who do see more, and wish they hadn’t) and that was when she had found him.</p><p> There in his bare living room, with its bar framed view of the city – this was the hard part of the town, where good men all lived behind bars in fear of the night – she stood, bending in a wind that did not exist, rooted in the earth that lay far below Micheal’s sorry apartment. A collection of branches jutted from her hair. How long before Micheal believed? It was too good to be true. She offered him the way, the path to see all that he had dreamed of, a gift given to few and offered freely to none. But that was why she was there. To offer him the ability to see things, to know things.</p><p></p><p>(Lady of Branches)</p><p></p><p> And finally, hardly waiting, he had said yes. Not listening to the cost, not listening to her as she spoke of duty and commitment and yes protection – none of that mattered, not when his eyes would clear and he would know! Or so he had thought. And the lady, she of many names and named only by the foolish and the careless, had bent her begrowthed head in the faded light of his barred apartment and suddenly the world was open to Micheal. He could see.</p><p> He had run out into the rain then, barely pausing for his umbrella. Ran free, down narrow streets and into something greater. Greater, yes, but also more dangerous then he could have imagined. The hook was always well hidden by the bait, lest the harvest be bare.</p><p></p><p>------------------------------</p><p></p><p> “Micheal. Micheal. Micheal!”</p><p> A rhythmic fading of mind and body, but then a wave of consciousness came to Micheal, and he was more aware then ever that his face was harsh against the cool floor and the blood warm on his side. He knew he should move, and the voice pressed him so, but he could not. Or perhaps he would not, too stubborn to rise, stubborn enough to die. Just to flaunt that voice.</p><p> But then the other voice came, stronger, harsher, and full of malice. “Ah. Micheal. We find ourselves at the end, my old friend.” And as Micheal vision finally swam to its fullest, he saw it before him, a collection of shadows, holding in a dark hand an orb, half filled with light and half filled with something that looked like water, but felt like something else. How had he found it, Micheal wondered as his strength and will seemed to slip way. Ah, yes…</p><p></p><p>-------------------------------</p><p></p><p>(Man in Rain)</p><p></p><p> So he had ran through the rain, jumping and leaping, because now that he could see the world was brighter, the sun seemingly stronger even as it fought to penetrate the clouds and bring an end to the storms conquest. And so he leapt and jumped with the joy of knowing. And all about him the world seemed full of strange and wonderful things, as he turned this way and that in his run. Over there something big and powerful swam through the cloudy sky. Here, a beggar was in fact robed in jewels, golden smile flashing in the rain. In a puddle he saw a tiny sylph, who paused in its revels to wave.</p><p> And then a harsher voice had broken his celebratory mood. Micheal's old friend of the cats, a strong rugged soul with a twinkle in his eye as he welcomed Micheal to his world. “Ah. Micheal. Cats know things, and I followed them here, Micheal. And now you have followed. Welcome to this world.”</p><p> And then he and Micheal embraced, and the man of cats had promised to show Micheal around. The twinkle in his eyes a mask, though Micheal could not have known it then.</p><p></p><p>----------------------</p><p></p><p> And now here the Man of Cats sat watching Micheal die. Sat on the floor, catlike, and every once in a while when Micheal was almost dead, when he had just about given up and let the loss of blood do its damage Micheal’s vision once again passed into another world, a third world which he had never seen before. The world of death. </p><p></p><p>(Cat in Hat)</p><p></p><p>And in this world the Man of Cats became himself unveiled, a cat with a jaunty hat placed precariously upon its head, and the sight would jerk Micheal unpleasantly back into the real world, horrible on some level not visual but inside, and so the Man of Cats teased Micheal, playing with his prey. But on the inside, a voice continued to beseech: “Micheal. Micheal.”</p><p></p><p>------------------------</p><p></p><p> “Micheal!” sang the warm voice, as Micheal wandered through the Museum. Time had now passed, and Micheal had begun to feel the hook. Always she summoned him, always he went. This task needed to be done, always important, always vital, and with time for relief in between, yes, but never enough.</p><p></p><p>(Stone Fountain)</p><p></p><p> And so now as Micheal had taken his time walking through the museum, come on her summons, he was unpleasantly reminded of his promise to serve. And there it was. A fountain, carved from stone with bulls all around. From Spain, perhaps. And as Micheal watched his vision meant that he could see the stone animals all straining, straining against the stone as if attempting to lift the fountain out of the floor. And from inside this fountain, the voice came. So Micheal went to it, and climbed the stairs that rose up its side. And he stared into the water, as the lady, herself nameless, now made half from blue water and half from kelp green, rose to greet him. “I have a gift for you, Micheal.” She said.</p><p></p><p>(Lady in Water)</p><p></p><p> He groaned inside. A gift? She had already given him a gift, and now it was a curse despite all that it allowed him to do. To see. But still he waited. And she rose from the water and gave to him a glass orb, letting it float above her fingertips, half filled with light and half filled with something that looked like water. And all too often now she would give him an item that he would have to take elsewhere, sometimes just to throw into a lake, or thicket, or to deliver to some fantastic beast or being. Always with the warning to deliver it exactly and never let another have it but the intended recipient.</p><p> “The gift of life.” The lady intoned. “A trap, perhaps. You find yourself enmeshed in a solemn burden to do as I desire. So much so that you have forgotten what you have and what you know. So take this, and perhaps later it will give you more. As always, this is your gift alone. Let none have it.”</p><p> Micheal took it, of course. But all he felt was relief that she had not sent him on another seemingly useless mission, had not co-opted him as a pawn for some strategy or game. Another delivery. So he took the orb, and walked back into the world.</p><p></p><p>-------------------------</p><p></p><p> Months passed. And after one particularly grueling mission, in which Micheal had been required to traverse the sewers in search of a small puck, only to have the trickster being steal his wallet as well as the package the lady had asked Micheal to deliver, the Man of Cats had come to Micheal. They had talked, and Micheal had brought up the orb and how he had been given it. And the Man of Cats asked to hold it.</p><p> Micheal, weary, feeling his grip on sanity fade by all the mind-numbing seemingly useless tasks of the Lady, had handed it over.</p><p> And then the Man of Cats had smiled, and before Micheal could move he felt himself being flung into a wall, then torn through with claw and blade, as the Man of Cats discarded his guise and prepared to make off with the orb, the Lady’s gift.</p><p></p><p>-------------------------</p><p></p><p> But before he left, he waited to watch Micheal die. Toying with his mind, tossing the orb from hand to hand in a carefree manner. And Micheal lay there dying. The lady had been right; he should not have given up his gift. The Man of Cats, Micheal realized now, had waited all along to waylay Micheal on one of his shipments, to steal something of the Lady’s. A power play Micheal was not privy to, but now saw gathering force.</p><p> But this was no ordinary package run, Micheal reminded himself. This was a gift, from the lady to him. And then he smiled, because he suddenly realized the nature of the gift. A trap she had said, and Micheal hadn’t heard, or had interpreted it wrong. A trap for her foes, and this Man of Cats was one of them.</p><p> And Micheal reached. Up, and up from where he lay, his hand moving faster then even the Man of Cats could imagine, knocking the ball away from its flight even as the deathly Cat tossed it from one hand to another. And it fell, smashing on the ground.</p><p> The Man of Cats wailed! For a moment Micheal saw back into the land of death, where a bright light had burst and water that was not water leapt from the broken orb to clasp the Cat in its embrace – the embrace of life in the world of death. And then the Man of Cats was no more. And the remaining life descended on Micheal, knitting his side and thoughts. Bringing him back into the world.</p><p></p><p> Micheal stood. He looked about him, at the colours his gift painted on a world that he now remembered had been drab before he could see. At the fantastic that surrounded him at every turn. And he walked away. Micheal knew things.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Speaker, post: 2388641, member: 6571"] [b]Gift of Life[/b] Ceramic DM Spring 2005 (Really, really late bloomer) Round 2: Speaker vs. Berandor Gift of Life “Micheal. Micheal.” The voice, insistent, insipid, internal, eternal. Strange that the familiar might be made from something so strange, Micheal thought. Stranger still that all the events that had led to this place now seemed to rush back to him, as his consciousness teetered uncertainly, breathlessly, perhaps sometimes fading, sometimes spring back with its full force, the strength of sheer life seeking its own preservation – Micheal couldn’t tell, could barely feel his life pour away, as his memory reached back… --------------------------------- It begun with the cat, of course. Cats know things. A mantra his friend, a strong rugged soul with a twinkle in his eye and a menagerie of animals to keep him company. Cats know things that we do not, they see beyond and this is what makes them so aloof, because they see those things which we all know are there. The shadow in the corner of the eye that moves of its own. The trick of the light that defies our expectations. And more grimly, the unseen attacks upon our mind that defeat so many and keep puzzled men in white coats, padding down hallways of padded rooms and barred windows, busy so. And of course Micheal had wanted to know things as well. Perhaps a native want to all – to see things as they really are, not as they seem. No matter the cost, he had thought. No matter the cost, he had bought. It had happened a lazy afternoon. The exact day didn’t matter, but he still remembered the rain. It had poured, streamed, sputtered the day through, and when Michael had returned home from the tedium of his job, returned home disgruntled, feeling hollow, wishing for more as so many do (except those who do see more, and wish they hadn’t) and that was when she had found him. There in his bare living room, with its bar framed view of the city – this was the hard part of the town, where good men all lived behind bars in fear of the night – she stood, bending in a wind that did not exist, rooted in the earth that lay far below Micheal’s sorry apartment. A collection of branches jutted from her hair. How long before Micheal believed? It was too good to be true. She offered him the way, the path to see all that he had dreamed of, a gift given to few and offered freely to none. But that was why she was there. To offer him the ability to see things, to know things. (Lady of Branches) And finally, hardly waiting, he had said yes. Not listening to the cost, not listening to her as she spoke of duty and commitment and yes protection – none of that mattered, not when his eyes would clear and he would know! Or so he had thought. And the lady, she of many names and named only by the foolish and the careless, had bent her begrowthed head in the faded light of his barred apartment and suddenly the world was open to Micheal. He could see. He had run out into the rain then, barely pausing for his umbrella. Ran free, down narrow streets and into something greater. Greater, yes, but also more dangerous then he could have imagined. The hook was always well hidden by the bait, lest the harvest be bare. ------------------------------ “Micheal. Micheal. Micheal!” A rhythmic fading of mind and body, but then a wave of consciousness came to Micheal, and he was more aware then ever that his face was harsh against the cool floor and the blood warm on his side. He knew he should move, and the voice pressed him so, but he could not. Or perhaps he would not, too stubborn to rise, stubborn enough to die. Just to flaunt that voice. But then the other voice came, stronger, harsher, and full of malice. “Ah. Micheal. We find ourselves at the end, my old friend.” And as Micheal vision finally swam to its fullest, he saw it before him, a collection of shadows, holding in a dark hand an orb, half filled with light and half filled with something that looked like water, but felt like something else. How had he found it, Micheal wondered as his strength and will seemed to slip way. Ah, yes… ------------------------------- (Man in Rain) So he had ran through the rain, jumping and leaping, because now that he could see the world was brighter, the sun seemingly stronger even as it fought to penetrate the clouds and bring an end to the storms conquest. And so he leapt and jumped with the joy of knowing. And all about him the world seemed full of strange and wonderful things, as he turned this way and that in his run. Over there something big and powerful swam through the cloudy sky. Here, a beggar was in fact robed in jewels, golden smile flashing in the rain. In a puddle he saw a tiny sylph, who paused in its revels to wave. And then a harsher voice had broken his celebratory mood. Micheal's old friend of the cats, a strong rugged soul with a twinkle in his eye as he welcomed Micheal to his world. “Ah. Micheal. Cats know things, and I followed them here, Micheal. And now you have followed. Welcome to this world.” And then he and Micheal embraced, and the man of cats had promised to show Micheal around. The twinkle in his eyes a mask, though Micheal could not have known it then. ---------------------- And now here the Man of Cats sat watching Micheal die. Sat on the floor, catlike, and every once in a while when Micheal was almost dead, when he had just about given up and let the loss of blood do its damage Micheal’s vision once again passed into another world, a third world which he had never seen before. The world of death. (Cat in Hat) And in this world the Man of Cats became himself unveiled, a cat with a jaunty hat placed precariously upon its head, and the sight would jerk Micheal unpleasantly back into the real world, horrible on some level not visual but inside, and so the Man of Cats teased Micheal, playing with his prey. But on the inside, a voice continued to beseech: “Micheal. Micheal.” ------------------------ “Micheal!” sang the warm voice, as Micheal wandered through the Museum. Time had now passed, and Micheal had begun to feel the hook. Always she summoned him, always he went. This task needed to be done, always important, always vital, and with time for relief in between, yes, but never enough. (Stone Fountain) And so now as Micheal had taken his time walking through the museum, come on her summons, he was unpleasantly reminded of his promise to serve. And there it was. A fountain, carved from stone with bulls all around. From Spain, perhaps. And as Micheal watched his vision meant that he could see the stone animals all straining, straining against the stone as if attempting to lift the fountain out of the floor. And from inside this fountain, the voice came. So Micheal went to it, and climbed the stairs that rose up its side. And he stared into the water, as the lady, herself nameless, now made half from blue water and half from kelp green, rose to greet him. “I have a gift for you, Micheal.” She said. (Lady in Water) He groaned inside. A gift? She had already given him a gift, and now it was a curse despite all that it allowed him to do. To see. But still he waited. And she rose from the water and gave to him a glass orb, letting it float above her fingertips, half filled with light and half filled with something that looked like water. And all too often now she would give him an item that he would have to take elsewhere, sometimes just to throw into a lake, or thicket, or to deliver to some fantastic beast or being. Always with the warning to deliver it exactly and never let another have it but the intended recipient. “The gift of life.” The lady intoned. “A trap, perhaps. You find yourself enmeshed in a solemn burden to do as I desire. So much so that you have forgotten what you have and what you know. So take this, and perhaps later it will give you more. As always, this is your gift alone. Let none have it.” Micheal took it, of course. But all he felt was relief that she had not sent him on another seemingly useless mission, had not co-opted him as a pawn for some strategy or game. Another delivery. So he took the orb, and walked back into the world. ------------------------- Months passed. And after one particularly grueling mission, in which Micheal had been required to traverse the sewers in search of a small puck, only to have the trickster being steal his wallet as well as the package the lady had asked Micheal to deliver, the Man of Cats had come to Micheal. They had talked, and Micheal had brought up the orb and how he had been given it. And the Man of Cats asked to hold it. Micheal, weary, feeling his grip on sanity fade by all the mind-numbing seemingly useless tasks of the Lady, had handed it over. And then the Man of Cats had smiled, and before Micheal could move he felt himself being flung into a wall, then torn through with claw and blade, as the Man of Cats discarded his guise and prepared to make off with the orb, the Lady’s gift. ------------------------- But before he left, he waited to watch Micheal die. Toying with his mind, tossing the orb from hand to hand in a carefree manner. And Micheal lay there dying. The lady had been right; he should not have given up his gift. The Man of Cats, Micheal realized now, had waited all along to waylay Micheal on one of his shipments, to steal something of the Lady’s. A power play Micheal was not privy to, but now saw gathering force. But this was no ordinary package run, Micheal reminded himself. This was a gift, from the lady to him. And then he smiled, because he suddenly realized the nature of the gift. A trap she had said, and Micheal hadn’t heard, or had interpreted it wrong. A trap for her foes, and this Man of Cats was one of them. And Micheal reached. Up, and up from where he lay, his hand moving faster then even the Man of Cats could imagine, knocking the ball away from its flight even as the deathly Cat tossed it from one hand to another. And it fell, smashing on the ground. The Man of Cats wailed! For a moment Micheal saw back into the land of death, where a bright light had burst and water that was not water leapt from the broken orb to clasp the Cat in its embrace – the embrace of life in the world of death. And then the Man of Cats was no more. And the remaining life descended on Micheal, knitting his side and thoughts. Bringing him back into the world. Micheal stood. He looked about him, at the colours his gift painted on a world that he now remembered had been drab before he could see. At the fantastic that surrounded him at every turn. And he walked away. Micheal knew things. [/QUOTE]
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