Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Greetings! Ah me, well, Christmas has come again to our Inklings town of Dale, and the fierce wintery winds are once again wuthering about our attic. Please forgive my long absence; our computer fried for about a week, I could do nothing! A virus stabbed it in the back. It got to the point where it was calling itself a Rebel Computer, but thankfully that is resolved.

I would like to take a moment and say...R.K. has disappeared for a while. He's only coming on late in the unholy hours in the nighttime when I can no longer control him to the fullest extent I'd like to. Please accept my pardon when I say that he was way too bold for a while and might have scared you off. Also, if you're considering getting a SAE...DON'T. It's copyrighted and NOT worth it. And please, when I'm not on, don't anyone pose as R.K., that's nasty!

You're probably wondering whether or not the Dungeon will be inhabited during Christmas. Christmas? NO! We serve cake in the Dungeon on birthdays (no guarantees are made that R.K. didn't make Ian's, ahem) but on Christmas everyone is out for the day. Jack, I have borrowed Maddock over the next few days (see how much I love you, that I will put up with The Sulk!!!) and for the day, those in the Dungeon will be released.

Thank you for reading this; now go and read Laura's most recent post, she wanted y'all to.

God bless and Merry CHRISTmas!!! 

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

*comes in with a red nose and a hot temper* IT'S COLD! Ian, git OUTTA mah chair, you bratty widdlw kid! Lucy, stop wrecking your unicycle and Johnson, for goodness's sake, stop wavin' those cream puffs under mah nose! I see them, I don't like them, so STAWPIT! Now. Ignoring the fact that Pip and Jules have started up a fight wherein Pip can stab Jules as much as she likes and Jules thinks it's because he's a so tough that he doesn't get hurt, we managed to write a Christmas story. This was part of an Advent thing we did last year (the one that flopped) and we jist recently got it out and edited it. *suddenly glares at Jules* It's yer turn to do Chapter Four and you ain't allowed to hug Pip!!!

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

This was one of my school assignments, to describe your favorite place with detailed descriptions. I call these lyrical sketches. Enjoy!

Oh, and before that: I think I must be out of my mind. I have decided to set a word count for my upcoming Advent book. I am going to wrote 2,000 words every day, and when it is done, I should have the equivalent of a NaNo novel in 5/6s of the time. Good grief! I don't even have a plot, the most I know is that it is to be an allegorical fantasy based on the birth of Christ. Hopefully we may go to the store tomorrow, I will need to load up on chocolate. I should also consider taking up coffee-drinking and managing my late nights and schoolwork better. But once I took a challenge, and wrote 1,000 words in under twenty minutes so I know something like this isn't impossible. If God inspires me, this is what I hope to accomplish. Therefore, both M'aine and Roh are going to be put off. Not only have I not been furtherly inspired but coming January, I hope to begin editing Heveria, my first novel, and serial-posting it. Thank you for your patience. The co-authorship with Jules won't be mangled, I will still be able to do that. Just please pray hard for me as I delve not onto into the beautiful Christmas season, but also into something unlike I have ever done. The Advent book will be posted at Inkstains and your feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Now that I've said my piece, here goes:

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

This is a tag I created at Islander Hideaway, that you may do if you want. My answers are in blue.

The Author Tag

Do you have a pen/pecil collection? How many of those are chewed? Oh, yeah; bout every one. I chew them to pieces!

Do you prefer handwriting or typing furiously? It depends on what it is; sometimes typing comes easily and sometimes I sound like an old man.

How often do you get inspiration? Whenever God inspires me. Usually a day doesn't pass when I don't write something...what's that? Blogging does TOO count!!!

Are you blogging this on a computer or laptop? Laptop! (I wish...) Naw, the family computer in the schoolroom.

Do you get inspiration more in the early morning or late at night? Usually late at night, but still, it depends.

Do certain movies/books/music inspire you? Humph, thas'sa wide question. Often adventure movies, one wid a lotta battles and weird characters! Celtic music, sure, and well-written fantasy.

How do you incorporate God into your stories? In my first novel, God was in like He is here in real life. In some other things, He is like an essence that is obviously Him.

Do you kill off your villains or make them repent? I wish I could say that all mah badguys died horrible and excrutiating deaths...but, sadly, I've found that I tend to make them repent. Not anymore, Arkae!!!

Is the majority of your characters magical beings, humans or halflings? Or something else? I work best wid humans, but I also love talking animals and in mah first novel, I have bunches and bunches of magical races.

What genre of writing are you most comfortable in? If you were to step out of your comfort zone, what would you write?  I am most comfy in Christian fantasy, because I tend to have a leadership personality and writing let's me have that authority. Sometimes. If I were to step from mah comfy spot I'd write historical fiction. Ugh! I wanna be able to create mah own worlds and no one would notice if sumptin wus historically accurate! Sure, I have a respect for history...I just like fantasy better!

Do you work better alone or with someone else? Probably alone...*glares at Jules*

Do your stories make sense, or do they ramble wildly? Erm...depends upon whom you're talking to. And whut mood I wus in. And whut the topic is. And who edits it.

Are your characters mostly Renegades, Peacekeepers or a mish-mash? Mish-mash. Mah kids are "wild as the wind but loyal to the end" which STINKS, but let it never be said that I was actually a decent poet. 

Are you a sucker for good grammar? I like pecking at people but I say weird slang all the time. The way I talk is a cross-between hick slang, Cockney and Redwall molespeech.

How is your handwriting? *silence* But I'm working on it!

How evil are your villains? EEEEEEEEVIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLL...jist ask R.K.!

Are you long-winded or succinct? Hahahaha, ask anyone who's read sumptin o' mine, I am incorrigibly long-winded.

Do you have typical "writer" traits such as inkstains on your fingers or a pencil behind your ear? A pen behind mah ear is as natural as breath in mah body.

Would someone walking past you on the street consider you normal? Les's HOPE not.

Do you write mostly poetry, stories, novels or a mixture? A mixture of short stories, books and extra stuff like blogs and reviews and articles.

Do your characters vary in accents, appearence and attitude or are they mostly the same? I had a time wid mah kids in Heveria, but usually they're good about being unique.

Do real people and/or places inspire your writing? YES! Jist whuteveh God sees fit to be His inspiration fer me, thas's whut Oi do. (OK, if you just read that, pat yourself on the back.)

How many blogs/websites/internet haunts do you have? *counts on fingers* I run three blogs, co-run two or so, and am a member of two. And mah kids run one.

What is your favorite character? Or do you choose to remain unbiased in case of a revolt? I have certain kids who never got anywhere wid me, but I hate taking sides and best friends and all thet junk, so les's say I know some of mah kids better than others.

Do you talk to your characters? Do they talk back? More like I pretend I am mah kids and make them talk. They don't mind.

Are you more comfortable with girl or boy main characters? I'm good wid both.

Do you follow basic overused plotlines with new twists thrown in or do you depart from the norm all the time? Usually I depart from normal situations. When I see or hear a good idea, I twist it around so it won't be stealing ideas (which is A FEDERAL OFFENSE, in mah mind) and make it into sumptin new and fresh. I'm ok doing that.

Do you feel God has called you to be a writer/poet? Will you grasp "the power of the pen"? When I was 11, I started Heveria and to my surprise, found befriending my "kids" and creating new worlds (and torturing them, muahahahaha) was my 'thing'. I prayed about it and decided that writing God-centered works was a good way to minister, especially after I'd read some of the trash those modern fantasy writers desperately crank out!!! I will indeed grasp my pen/pencil and attack Christian fanatsy/fiction literature as we know it!!!

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Greetings! This is actually Pip posting here. *shocked gasps* I wanted to draw your attention to the co-authoring Jules and I are doing. Due to the embracing of so many wonderful new members, it will be impossible for us to include you all in The Inklings: Book 2. The Inklings decided to write a series about themselves, but at this point, Jules and I are unable to go further than Lois and Johnson. Thank you for your understanding, and please know that while you may not make it into this book, you'll appear somewhere along the way! In the meantime, Chapter 2 is FINALLY up HERE and your comments have been a real blessing to us!

Also, about identities: At the Inklings, we try to create a God-honoring, friendly environment. If certain someones try to move in on a certain Semi-Alter-Ego's position as the Villain of this blog, events may occur which I would be most sorrowful about. We've had some defugalties in the past about who is who, but please know this: to avoid misunderstandings, please pick your own identity. We already have two ghosts, a dragon-rider *looks at Chris* and a Viking (Johnson). If you would like to pick a role for your own, as well as you yourself and your author's name, we welcome you to do so. But please do not copy other people's ideas. R.K. has rather forcedly made himself the Villain here. *looks suspiciously at Altariel* No funny business. We all appreciate your cooperation in this matter!

God bless,

~PIP~

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

*strides in, long black cloak snapping in the November wind* Greetings and all that stoopid stuff. *bangs down a pillow that says GET OUTTA MAH CHAIR* Loverly, huh? BTW, be sure to check out Johnson's All Nature Sings, which is gonna be the weirdest book on the market. If you haven't read the first parts of this story and are actually interested in it, PM Pip and she'll serial-send it to you. *pauses* Lucy, I know you make it a point to be strange...but must you do your hair like that? Makes you look like a frog. And Ian, DO NOT STICK YER TONGUE AT ME. Thank you. Yes, Jack, I am indeed as tall as your sword. And NO, Gaby, I am NOT an old man. *looks at the other members* Altariel was here last night and I would have killed her had she continued in that saucy manner. In am 20-sumptin, I am the oldest here, and I am not an old man. Neither am I a coward. Got it??? Good. Now. *groans* JULES!!! That root beer was supposed to be saved fer Thanksgiving!!!! Happy Thanksgiving, Pip says, BTW. *gasps* I think I've finally wasted enough of yer time. Oh, and mah pure-evil side is in this one! *wild grin*

Roh’s eyes pried themselves open and found themselves staring into a pair of piercing black ones. She yelped in surprise and tried to back away, but felt the hard tree against her sore back. A tall thin man was looking down at her with a sneer on his smooth brown face.

“Are you frightened?” he asked. His voice was sharp and rich. Roh shook her head stubbornly.

“Are you the leader of these marauders?” she demanded.

The man leaned on the tree next to her and sighed. His breath made a cloud in the frosty air. “Some have called me that, yes.” Roh detested the feel of his long black cloak against her numb shoulder. “Then I tell you, set me free. I have nothing at all you could want.”

“Ah, my brave shepherdess! You think me a fool? If you had nothing of value to me, why would I take the trouble to drag you here in the cold wintry winds, making sure no one damaged this?” Out from his shadowy black cloak the man drew her father’s fiddle. Roh gasped and leapt against the ropes. She would dream nightmares of her dear fiddle in the marauder’s spidery brown fingers. “You’ve no right to that!” she growled. The man’s black eyes flared and the clouds of steam around his mouth became thicker.

“What right have you to this fine instrument? A poor village girl with gall enough to fight against my strong people!” He hid the fiddle back in his cloak. What other treasures had he hoarded within those dark folds?

“That belonged to my father and you snatch it away!” Roh struggled in the ropes and tried to kick the man’s shins but he deftly darted away and stood laughing cruelly at her.

“What do you intend to do with it?” she finally calmed down enough ask.

“I find it quite fascinating that one whose life is in my hands cares more for the fate of her fiddle. Look at it, girl! Dented and worn. One can hardly tell what color is it now! What is the allure?” Roh breathed long and deep of the cold air. It shocked her lungs but somehow it felt good.

“My parents were killed by your people when I was but a little girl. This fiddle is my only tangible memory I have of those happy times.” Roh wasn’t about to tell him about her silver locket. It rested warm now inside her shirt. The man was laughing. It was not a chuckle of malice nor a howl of bloodlust, but a wild, throaty guffaw of pure pleasure. Had it been laughed by anyone else, Roh would have joined in, for it sounded somehow joyful. But she remained silent as he poisoned the air with his rippling laughter.

“Fine then. I shall not destroy it…yet.” He cocked an eyebrow. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and barked “Clovis!” A young man, a bit older than Roh, came from the shadows and looked up into his leader’s intense stare. His right arm was bandaged with a bloody rag. “Untie the girl.”

Clovis seemed stunned. “S-sir?”

“Do it! Or do you wish to feel my horsewhip?” The man seemed to possess a hot temper than was easily aroused.

Clovis has evidently felt the horsewhip before; he started and walked swiftly to Roh. The older man walked straight and towering over his people back to his tent, at the far end of the camp. Roh watched his black cloak billow over her fiddle until he ducked to enter his small tent. She then turned her attention to Clovis, as he was called.

“What does he intend to do with me?” She was almost afraid to ask. She’d seen the marauders part as their leader walked through them. This man must be capable of things she hardly dared to imagine.

“I cannot believe it!” Clovis muttered. “I thought we were to sell you as a slave to the Sankatties, but it appears Arkae has taken a fancy to you. That rarely happens, girl.”

“My name is Roh!” Clovis took no notice as he took a dagger from his shin-high leather boots and began to cut through her bonds. “He never spares a prisoner this long unless he wishes to make them one of us.” Roh’s heart burned within her and she spit on the frozen ground.

“I would die before I became one of you!” she cried. Clovis stopped gnawing for a moment.

“I wouldn’t tell that to him, if I were in your place. Remember, you are not exactly in a position to argue with Arkae’s commands.” He resumed his rope-cutting and they began to give way. Roh felt sick. It would have been better had she died in her village, surrounded by friends and her gentle sheep, than be succumbed to this greater torment.

Finally the ropes gave way and Roh fell to her knees. She saw leather boots beside her and looked up. Framed against the clear midnight sky, the young man called Clovis held out his good arm to her. Roh’s mind flashed back to the battle in the village. She surged up, grunting with the blazing warmth in her dead limbs.

“You are the boy I refused to kill!” she shouted. Several heads in the village turned, but she was beyond caution or public opinion. Her life was falling apart before her eyes. “Oh, how I loathe myself that I did not kill you then!” Clovis blinked. He had a thick thatch a reddish hair that hung over his face to hide his pale brown eyes. Roh glared at him and he sank farther into the shadows. “I thank you for sparing me,” he said, quiet and simply. “Come.” Roh’s anger fled in the onslaught of confusion. She fought aside the revelation that if he was not a cursed marauder, he might have made a decent man.

Clovis walked through the camp. Roh hated to follow in his footsteps but she did so with head thrown back proudly and forced her stiff back into a rigid line. She could feel a hundred questioning eyes on her as she moved behind Clovis through their warm camp. She could have gasped with relief when they finally reached Arkae’s tent. She waited outside, eyes following the boy she had granted life to just that evening until the clear, loud voice told her to enter.

Roh pushed aside the plain canvas flaps and filled the doorway with her broad shoulders. She saw the black cloak thrown across a simple cot and nothing more.

“Feeling better?” the voice said behind her. Roh turned and saw the man they called Arkae move in the dim corner on his tent. She nodded curtly. “Come into the shadows, girl.” Roh took one step, halted and then backed away fiercely. “I refuse to become one of you. Kill me if you like, but do not suffer me to become one of your people.” Her voiced sounded anguished to her ringing ears.

Arkae came out into the middle of the small, stuffy space and sat cross-legged on the dirt ground. He peered up at Roh until she sat down as well.

“What is your name?” he asked roughly.

“Rohald Appichello,” she answered. Her voice sounded flat to her ears.

“That is a strange name.”

“No stranger than Arkae. What do you plan to do with me?”

“Rohald…I rescued you because I saw great spirit in you as you fought my people, and as you wounded young Clovis.” Blood rushed to Roh’s cheeks, much to her chagrin. “You have fire and I liked it. It had been my wish to make you one of us, but since you prefer death I suppose we should meet your requirements.” He sighed heavily. Roh took time to study him closer. He had a tangled mop of curly reddish brown hair, a long pointed nose and a firm mouth. He was clothed all in black, like the other marauders, and his face was browned by the sun. He looked at her again with his black, black eyes.

“But I want you to live. I see in you something that must live. So you shall remain my prisoner.”

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

I'm waiting until y'all have time to comment on Roh and/or M'aine, but while I'm doing that I have a surprise...*evil chuckle* WE HAVE REVOLTED!!!!!!!!! The Cat and I stayed up late into the night creating Renegades and Peacekeepers, a blog run entirely by Pip's kids (us). See it here and bring yer characters along!

In the meantime, The Cat found a much better picture of mah dungeon. Are you ready???

Envision rodents, and there you go!!!

MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

R.K.

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Hello! The Cat here. I am working on the computer on Pip's behalf, her still trying to raise R.K. from his gloom, the miserable...nevermind. Anyhoo, she asked me to post a few pictures of a few kids. Please realize, she must have about a hundred kids and all of 'em look different, and these pictures are rother mediocre so-and-sos of the real thing. The finished kid is up to you. (Man, that sounded wierd.)

Oh wait, before that, the above reminded us of an Inkling and his character.

*clears throat*

This is Sasha Jo from M'aine no. 1, and this is no.2:

This is Christopher Errol from M'aine...only he wears a black shirt. But nobody likes him, so let's move on...

This is a very poor rendition of Saffron from the as-of-yet unposted Heveria; we tried fixing him with Paint program, but it's my opinion that he's a lost cause. Laura protested, and Saffron himself came and found a "MUCH better one"; his eyes are hair aren't the same color *is hacked off* but you git a better idea: *is not impresses* WhutEVEH.

And that's the ever-popular freak, R.K., who is in Roh as Arkae and M'aine as Ian Jarvis and the currently-nameless man. His hair is swept back for some reason in this picture.

Oh yeah, and I found  kinda-sorta picture of Rohald Appichello from "Roh":

 Later: Aha, I've found more!!! For those of you who didn't know, I am a magic cat with rainbow eyes. *ducks* Hey, I didn't write it! And blegh to the human around the eyes; jist picture a cat!THIS IS MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! Although mah fur is actually darker, les's jist say it's the sun shining on me. Pip's widdle sister, Garbonzo Bean, inspired the dwarf twins Semper and Fidelis. But...*sighs*...Fidelis is a GIRL! One gits the general idea. This...I'm assuming...is Chris Errol again...*frowns* And this (dun-dun-DUN!!!) is R.K.'s Dungeon!!! Isn't it HAPPY??? Jist picture rodents and there you go. Sorry it's sooo small. I'm new to the blogging world.

HEY!!! Stop laughing! OK, jist to sober you, this is Arkae in M'aine (not Arkae in Roh...don't be alarmed, I'm confused as well) MUAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Sorry, I jist couldn't resist.

Regards and all that,

The Cat

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Please forgive the fact that I have not posted this story is so long; I've been posting Roh a lot, so please read that and ...ahem!... comment on both or either. R.K. has you at swordpoint, saying that if you do not comment, you are not allowed to leave. Gee, uh...hmm...

Chris unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, ran his hands through his dark hair and frowned. His inky pen was leaking all over his long fingers. The black blotches teased him, somehow laughing at his misery. The Young Man without a name as of yet was driving him mad. Nothing, so plots or new characters or anything, was coming to him. The writing earlier that afternoon had drained his mind and left it numb for want of something worthy to say. The messy writing was all squished and painstaking. Chris rolled up his black sleeves and wondered whether Caity would be able to read it.

Susie came up and rubbed against his ankle. He absently reached down to pet her silken fur and she purred audibly. Perhaps he should put a cat into his story? Yes, that was it, a talking cat that looked just like Susie…

Chris suddenly realized what he was considering and threw down his notebook in disgust. He looked at the unevenly-ticking clock on his bare walls. Almost midnight. A strange hour, some folks called it; to him it was death. For They roamed about at midnight. They who sought him. His mind swirled and his stomach lurched so that he nearly dashed for the bathroom. But then his terror passed and he was able to look at his spiral notebook again. Inspiration slowly began to leak back, but he needed a break. Two hours, and he’d only stared at the same stupid paragraph. What was wrong? It was as if something evil had poisoned the air. He shivered and Susie suddenly stopped purring. A weird feeling had invaded the midnight mists. Chris slowly got up and looked around his slum. The cats were huddled into a corner, mewing quietly in distress. They never did that. Something was very wrong, the very air shivered with a disturbance. Chris wondered whether he’d ever be able to step outside without terror. He wondered whether a day would come when he could watch the stars blaze into the sunny horizon and fill the heavens with its light. Was it possible to have a life after what They’d done to him?

***

The tall man strode out of the grocery store, carrying a bulging bag. His nose was sharply pointed and his eyes were black. They glittered as wispy clouds began rolling over the winking stars. A young woman, about 16, came out of the store and stood looking at the sky with him.

“Have They found her yet?” asked the girl. The man nodded wordlessly. He wore a long black cloak that snapped in the sharp wind as he and the girl walked to a little car and got inside. The man started the engine and the girl blew into her hands. “What do They plan to do? Surely, these guys are supposed to be on our…I mean, my side. You don’t take sides.”

“I take my own side,” the man said as he pulled the car out. His voice was low and harsh but the girl just laughed.

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten. What shall it be tonight? Rack, thumbscrew…the whip…” The girl yawned and her breath made a cloud on the cold window.

“Whip,” said the man with a delighted shiver. His long fingers curled around the steering wheel twice. “I love that-”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Whuteveh, you do it. I don’t feel like it tonight.” The girl sighed and didn’t try to keep her eyes open. The man nodded and they drove quickly along the abandoned side roads.

Chris froze. Someone was driving up their road. He gently moved Susie out of the way and fled to the window, standing stiff against the wall. He peeked through the dusty shades and saw a small car drive up to a slum next to his. His heart beat madly and sweat poured down his back as a tall man in a black cloak got out. It was Them! They were coming to get him. After all these nights of fear, his worries had been proved well-founded. They had come; They would bring him back to Their hideout and try yet again to force the truth from him. Oh, but what HE had promised for his fate if he failed to keep the secret. Chris was shaking like a leaf when he saw a tall slender figure get out of the other side. Chris blinked and stared. It was a girl. They were never girls. Perhaps this was not the last night he would stay in his slum. Chris shifted his weight carefully and peered at the strange couple.

The man went to the trunk and got out several packages. Groceries, one looked like, but the other was a thin black bag and Chris’s heart almost stilled. But no, they walked towards the next slum across from him. He was fascinated as the girl drew from her pocket a glinting key and opened the slum door. Why were they going in there? The man followed, slamming the trunk door and nearly spilling the parcels. He shouted something to the girl and she shouted saucily back. The door was slammed and a blanket of snow fell onto the dirt ground. A dim light, looking as if it came from a lamp, wriggled out of the cracks in the houses and onto the fallen snow. Chris was relaxing when all of the sudden the girl’s shadow came to her window and pulled up the shades. Chris could have fallen down from surprise as the girl seemed to look right at him. He closed his eyes, not daring to breathe. Finally his mind’s eye saw the girl come away from the window, carefully pulling down the shades again.

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Roh’s eyes pried themselves open and found themselves staring into a pair of piercing black ones. She yelped in surprise and tried to back away, but felt the hard tree against her sore back. A tall thin man was looking down at her with a sneer on his smooth brown face.

“Are you frightened?” he asked. His voice was sharp and rich. Roh shook her head stubbornly.

“Are you the leader of these marauders?” she demanded.

The man leaned on the tree next to her and sighed. His breath made a cloud in the frosty air. “Some have called me that, yes.” Roh detested the feel of his long black cloak against her numb shoulder. “Then I tell you, set me free. I have nothing at all you could want.”

“Ah, my brave shepherdess! You think me a fool? If you had nothing of value to me, why would I take the trouble to drag you here in the cold wintry winds, making sure no one damaged this?” Out from his shadowy black cloak the man drew her father’s fiddle. Roh gasped and leapt against the ropes. She would dream nightmares of her dear fiddle in the marauder’s spidery brown fingers. “You’ve no right to that!” she growled. The man’s black eyes flared and the clouds of steam around his mouth became thicker.

“What right have you to this fine instrument? A poor village girl with gall enough to fight against my strong people!” He hid the fiddle back in his cloak. What other treasures had he hoarded within those dark folds?

“That belonged to my father and you snatch it away!” Roh struggled in the ropes and tried to kick the man’s shins but he deftly darted away and stood laughing cruelly at her.

“What do you intend to do with it?” she finally calmed down enough ask.

“I find it quite fascinating that one whose life is in my hands cares more for the fate of her fiddle. Look at it, girl! Dented and worn. One can hardly tell what color is it now! What is the allure?” Roh breathed long and deep of the cold air. It shocked her lungs but somehow it felt good.

“My parents were killed by your people when I was but a little girl. This fiddle is my only tangible memory I have of those happy times.” Roh wasn’t about to tell him about her silver locket. It rested warm now inside her shirt. The man was laughing. It was not a chuckle of malice nor a howl of bloodlust, but a wild, throaty guffaw of pure pleasure. Had it been laughed by anyone else, Roh would have joined in, for it sounded somehow joyful. But she remained silent as he poisoned the air with his rippling laughter.

“Fine then. I shall not destroy it…yet.” He cocked an eyebrow. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and barked “Clovis!” A young man, a bit older than Roh, came from the shadows and looked up into his leader’s intense stare. His right arm was bandaged with a bloody rag. “Untie the girl.”

Clovis seemed stunned. “S-sir?”

“Do it! Or do you wish to feel my horsewhip?” The man seemed to possess a hot temper than was easily aroused.

Clovis has evidently felt the horsewhip before; he started and walked swiftly to Roh. The older man walked straight and towering over his people back to his tent, at the far end of the camp. Roh watched his black cloak billow over her fiddle until he ducked to enter his small tent. She then turned her attention to Clovis, as he was called.

“What does he intend to do with me?” She was almost afraid to ask. She’d seen the marauders part as their leader walked through them. This man must be capable of things she hardly dared to imagine.

“I cannot believe it!” Clovis muttered. “I thought we were to sell you as a slave to the Sankatties, but it appears Arkae has taken a fancy to you. That rarely happens, girl.”

“My name is Roh!” Clovis took no notice as he took a dagger from his shin-high leather boots and began to cut through her bonds. “He never spares a prisoner this long unless he wishes to make them one of us.” Roh’s heart burned within her and she spit on the frozen ground.

“I would die before I became one of you!” she cried. Clovis stopped gnawing for a moment.

“I wouldn’t tell that to him, if I were in your place. Remember, you are not exactly in a position to argue with Arkae’s commands.” He resumed his rope-cutting and they began to give way. Roh felt sick. It would have been better had she died in her village, surrounded by friends and her gentle sheep, than be succumbed to this greater torment.

Finally the ropes gave way and Roh fell to her knees. She saw leather boots beside her and looked up. Framed against the clear midnight sky, the young man called Clovis held out his good arm to her. Roh’s mind flashed back to the battle in the village. She surged up, grunting with the blazing warmth in her dead limbs.

“You are the boy I refused to kill!” she shouted. Several heads in the village turned, but she was beyond caution or public opinion. Her life was falling apart before her eyes. “Oh, how I loathe myself that I did not kill you then!” Clovis blinked. He had a thick thatch a reddish hair that hung over his face to hide his pale brown eyes. Roh glared at him and he sank farther into the shadows. “I thank you for sparing me,” he said, quiet and simply. “Come.” Roh’s anger fled in the onslaught of confusion. She fought aside the revelation that if he was not a cursed marauder, he might have made a decent man.

Clovis walked through the camp. Roh hated to follow in his footsteps but she did so with head thrown back proudly and forced her stiff back into a rigid line. She could feel a hundred questioning eyes on her as she moved behind Clovis through their warm camp. She could have gasped with relief when they finally reached Arkae’s tent. She waited outside, eyes following the boy she had granted life to just that evening until the clear, loud voice told her to enter.

Roh pushed aside the plain canvas flaps and filled the doorway with her broad shoulders. She saw the black cloak thrown across a simple cot and nothing more.

“Feeling better?” the voice said behind her. Roh turned and saw the man they called Arkae move in the dim corner on his tent. She nodded curtly. “Come into the shadows, girl.” Roh took one step, halted and then backed away fiercely. “I refuse to become one of you. Kill me if you like, but do not suffer me to become one of your people.” Her voiced sounded anguished to her ringing ears.

Arkae came out into the middle of the small, stuffy space and sat cross-legged on the dirt ground. He peered up at Roh until she sat down as well.

“What is your name?” he asked roughly.

“Rohald Appichello,” she answered. Her voice sounded flat to her ears.

“That is a strange name.”

“No stranger than Arkae. What do you plan to do with me?”

“Rohald…I rescued you because I saw great spirit in you as you fought my people, and as you wounded young Clovis.” Blood rushed to Roh’s cheeks, much to her chagrin. “You have fire and I liked it. It had been my wish to make you one of us, but since you prefer death I suppose we should meet your requirements.” He sighed heavily. Roh took time to study him closer. He had a tangled mop of curly reddish brown hair, a long pointed nose and a firm mouth. He was clothed all in black, like the other marauders, and his face was browned by the sun. He looked at her again with his black, black eyes.

“But I want you to live. I see in you something that must live. So you shall remain my prisoner.”

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

Greetings in God's name!

Over the past few days, the chocolate box on the sidebar has been hopping with a swarm of activity. We've had our characters coming in and running wild, an evil Semi-Alter-Ego who has found the secret of tormenting poor members beyond sanity and various stabbings. We've decided to clean it up; it won't be so messy, it won't be so violent. This blog was created for young writers to get and give feedback on each other's work, but first and foremost to honor God through our abilities. We have decided to set a better example for each other, younger members and renegade characters. Will we slip up? Sure, but "to err is human". We have also decided to develope a sort of sibling-like friendship between each other. So from here on out, we must first make our presence known to each other and no Spies are hereby allowed.

Now, to the hard part.

The evil in humanity can be seen shining out through a snappish remark, a hasty word, an angry act. What I did with my evil is I put it together in a likeness of a tall dark man named R.K., whom you all know. I was only playing, I didn't think it would hurt anyone, but due to circumstances I feel the dire need to apologize. My friends, R.K. was created in fun but eventually got out of hand. I have banished the semblence of pure Evil, Arkae, from the chocolate box and onto the page, but someone got frustrated with R.K. himself and thus we are confessing. Please accept my humblest pleas. I did not mean to hurt anyone. R.K.'s over-violent nature was sure to catch on sometime, and that time has come. I am writing him into a story, as kind of a way to vent hard feelings I might have inside at a given moment. Yes, he is still the villain but he is just now. After all, he's only semi. Members sent to the Dungeon will have offended someone or misused their membership, and they can delcare a silly ransom still, just for fun. But from now on, we will love each other and tell each other if there's anything the matter.

As for involving characters: some of our characters are like real people to us. Indeed, I call mine "my children" and know them all like the back of my hand. When a member was physically suffering I was able to use my characters to comfort her. These precious inspirations are a good tool, but we musn't let them get out of hand. I once said of them "my children are wild as the wind but loyal as anything". Yes, we can joke about ghosts and sardines, pond-pushers and even use Evil to give depth to our works and counter-Evil to give depth to ourselves, but our characters should also be able to accept each other. That's alright if you have a renegade; many of mine are! But we should grasp the power of the pen strongly enough to rein them in from hurting our dearer friends, our fellow Inklings.

This blog was created to honor God; I again extend my apologies if  was straying from the lighted path. Thank you to all the members that are helping each other rise the bars for a higher, better standard.

God bless,

~PIP~ 

Posted in Posted by Rudyard Kipling

MUAHAHAHAHAHA, this doesn't have Arkae in it yet!!! I shall keep you in suspense!!! *twirls long black cloak and runs outside into the swirling snow*

Thring knew he did not wish to wake up.

Warmth was all around him and the most wonderful homey smell tickled the inside of his usually runny nose. The purring of a large cat thrummed in his right ear and, moaning softly, he turned over. He felt the cat jump from her perch beside the huge bed he was snuggled into. Thring tried to fall into that delicious slumber again but it was useless. Slowly he allowed his tired eyes, now soothed, to open and take in his surroundings.

Any other time, the weak little boy would have been terrified at what he saw.

He was in a dim, cozy cave. Dirt walls sagged in curving mounds above him, and from these sloping ceilings there hung strings of onions, drying herbs and flowers that smelled sweetly musty, and long strings of sparkling beads. Thring peeked over the side of the tall bed and saw a side table, where the cat had been purring, and a rug on the floor. He sat up and looked about the rest of the room. No one was there except the big brown cat, who paid him no heed but washed herself before a snapping fire built into the side of the wall. Over the fire there hung a little bubbling black cauldron. Steam from a savory stew was mingling with the cheery red embers and the sight of it made Thring’s heart give a happy jump. He slipped out of the bed and buried his toes into the fluffy rug. The cat meowed and twined around his skinny ankles. Hand shaking, Thring slowly, ever so slowly reached out and just touched the cat’s silky brown head. To his amazement, the cat stayed put and did not try to bite him, as other cats had done. It mewed like a kitten and stretched its neck for scratching. Thring sat down on the rug and let the cat climb onto his lap. He peered into the smoky dimness and saw shelves and shelves carved into the other walls. All of these shelves held a strange mixture of intricately carven potion bottles, heavy dust-laden books with strange scribbled titles and a mess of outside things such as tiny bird’s nests, oddly shaped rocks and growing things standing green and pretty in clay pots.

“I wonder where I am, and how I came?” Thring asked the cat, who purred up at him and tried to lick his chin. The cat’s tongue was rough, not at all slippery or wet. It made him remember Roh’s old red vest and with sudden jolt that upset the cat, Thring wondered what had happened to Roh. He recalled her words to him in parting, that last frantic squeeze she’d given him and his mother’s harsh tugging as she dragged him father and farther away from the only life he’d known and loved. A sudden bustling sounded from outside the cave door and almost before Thring could scramble back onto the high bed and pull the warm blankets over his head, the cedar door creaked on its leathern hinges and a shadow fell across the dirt floor. Thring began shaking but could have cried out in relief when he heard a clucking voice say, “New then, yer awake, air ye?” Thring peeped above the covers and saw the jolliest little woman he’d ever seen. She was short and round, and she was carrying a hand-woven basket filled with mosses and molding leaves on her plump arm. She grinned at Thring and her teeth were very white; he could not help but smile faintly back. The little woman, who could hardly be taller then him on tiptoe, set down her basket, stroked the cat, and made to move the cauldron off the fire. She wore coarse homespun and a kerchief around her wild curly straw-colored hair. Her eyes were beady and piercing emerald green as she watched Thring observe her movements, but they were not unkind. She had a hawk nose and a ready smile. Thring was struck with the notion that if he had been given the chance to pick his mother, he would have chosen someone just like this funny old woman.

“Well then, wot’s yer name, laddie?” Her voice lilted roughly and something in his past tweaked at Thring’s memory, but it vanished as he told her his name. “And what is yours?”

“Moi name is Lorrin MicAplin,” she replied. Thring couldn’t help but smile at the strange name. “Ye may call me Lorrie,” she winked. “Air ye ready fer sim stew?”

Thring eagerly slipped off the high bed and sat down at a little wooden chair she pulled out for him. Lorrie watched with satisfaction as he gobbled up the herb and meat stew from an earthenware bowl. She peered at his lank hair and dark-rimmed eyes and stroked the big brown cat with gnarly fingers. “What dew ye make o’ ’im, Dandelion?” she murmured to the cat. Dandelion cocked her head and meowed for her own stew. Lorrie laughed as Thring’s head bobbed up at the sound.

“Och, thet’s mah lazy kitty, ‘at is!” She poured another bowl of stew for the cat, who lapped it up with purrs abundantly. Lorrie finally poured herself a bowl of stew, along with a second one for Thring, and sat down on the bed. Her feet did not touch the ground and she wiggled them in the air to make Thring laugh.

“Roight then, tell mah yer story,” Lorrie directed once the cauldron had been emptied of all its goodness.

Thring spread his little palms. “Not much to tell. My village was set upon by marauders and burned to the ground, or so it looked when my mother and I fled for the woods. My sister Rohald stayed behind to fight them off with the other men.” Lorrie raised her eyebrows and looked at Dandelion, who mewed in question. Thring bowed his head. “Miss Lorrie, my mother hates me. She told me not to come back unless I found firewood. I ran through a thorn bush and lost my way, and fell asleep in the cold woods last night.” Why was he telling her all this? Perhaps Thring felt he could trust someone other than dear Roh. His troubles weighed down so fiercely upon his soul! A tear slid down his pale cheek and he made no move to wipe it away. Lorrie clucked her tongue and moved to his side. She embraced him and Thring let himself melt into her warmth, her herby smell. He sobbed wrenchingly and his eyes swum with salty tears as Lorrie murmured soothing sounds in her strange dialect. Finally he had no moisture left in his body and gave a sigh. Dandelion was looking at him, big-eyed, from the sidetable.

“Dearie, ye must know that whatever happens to ye, ne’er give up hope of bein’ loved. Love is forever in the warld, and tho’ we must search fer it and sometimes give air lives fer it, we will find it.” Thring looked at her and smiled. She patted his small back and nodded briskly.

“New then!” It seemed to be a favorite phrase of hers. “ ‘At’s much better, ain’t it, luv?”

“Thank you, Miss Lorrie.” He leaned back, exhausted. “How did I come here?” he inquired, almost embarrassed for his frenzied outburst.

“Eh, Oi found ye last night while Oi was walkin’ Dandyloin ’ere; ye were sittin’ shivrin’ an’ asleep on the forest floor. Natchrally, Oi couldna leave ye thar! So, Oi brought ye here to mah house. What be ye thinking’ o’ it?”

Thring had a difficult time deciphering Lorrie’s words but he caught the basic meaning.

“I think your house is lovely!” Lorrie’s pink cheeks dimpled and she giggled at Dandelion.

“Didya haer ‘at, ye ungrateful darlin’?” Dandelion purred and rubbed against Lorrie’s skirt.

“What is to happen to me?” Thring asked. “And Mother is still out there, somewhere.”

“Oi daresay a cold soul like that un cen take care o’ herself,” she whispered to herself. Aloud, she said “Oi’m gonna keep ye haer, wi’ me, until ye’ve a mind to go! Yer mother may be found by one o’ mah critters, dinna ye be worryin’ aboot thet.”

“Your critters?” Thring rolled the funny word inside his mouth like a piece of hard candy.

“Aye! Come, ye must see ‘em, they’ll be thrilled.” Lorrie moved to a rich tapestry Thring had not seen and shoved it aside. There was a little door behind it, in the wall, and Lorrie turned the burnished knob and beckoned Thring to follow her down a flight of stairs. Dandelion went first, saucily looking back as if to say, “Well? Are you comin’?”