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Plaza Rejects


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Plaza Rejects
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[21 May 2005|10:38pm]
Alright, gals. I finished the layout and banner, and it works on my computer. Does it work on yours?

Click here for what it looks like on my computer.

Questions? Comments? Problems? Let me know.
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unnamed [21 May 2005|06:20pm]
Chapter 1: Demon Awaken
Her gasp cut through the dark like a knife, and Jakob took a moment to admire the beauty of the girl. She could not see him, he knew that, but his night-vision was better than an owls, and he had no problem seeing the smooth curves of her body or the perfection of her Elven face. She was smart too, she did not get up and try to feel her way about in the dark, she felt her way to a wall and sat down with her back against it, waiting calmly until her captor chose to reveal himself. She did not have the strength to call up fire, he had drained her to make her more susceptible to his blood, and he watched as she noted this handicap with narrowed eyes. She will do well Jakob thought to himself, smiling into the blackness, This one will survive. As if she had heard him, her face snapped in his direction, and the smile became a feral grin, So you can hear me, can you pet? Good, my Blood is beginning to take you, you will soon transform into my kind. They will see that it can be done. The last bit he kept strictly to himself, remembering with a suppressed snarl how Sheyna had laughed when he proposed that it was not only humans who could be Turned. She said he was too young to understand such things, she had shoved the old laws into his face, harping about tradition and that no one had ever done it before, there must be a reason. So he had set out to prove her wrong, choosing an Elf from each of the five Points and Turning them. His Air and Water Elves had suicided as soon as they awoke, Earth had gone insane, Spirit had simply drifted away to starve herself to death.
This was his last experiment, Kalai, from the Fire Tribe, Drea’niyika, and he had watched her closely before choosing her. She was brave, but not stupidly so, realistic, already a warrior, she had no issue with death, he knew she would survive.
Of course, he had also chosen her for her appearance, for her knee-length black hair with its deep red highlights; for her slender, athletic body; for her dark red eyes. Those eyes, like a snake’s, could hold a lesser being in thrall if she chose.
He could Feel her beginning to change, he heard her breathing quicken as she fought to control the pain, then slow and stop as she died, he watched her carefully, noting in his mind every move that she made. But nothing could have prepared him for what she did then.
Trembling, Kalai stood up slowly, the black silk dress she wore falling softly into place, sliding seductively against her skin. Her eyes snapped open, glowing red like embers in the night, she raised one white hand, looking at it curiously, then without warning, flames sprang to life out of nothing encircling him and she was in front of him, without ever moving. Jakob did not have time to do more than register the fact that she was there before her teeth were at his throat, and he could not fight the pressure of her mind, it did not hurt, and if her were a mortal man he would have been aroused by the feeling of her lips and tongue against his throat. But Jakob was not mortal, and neither was Kalai, he knew that she was killing him, and could do nothing about it.
Kalai laid Jakobs body gently on the black marble floor, brushing a kiss across his lips, now truly dead. Turning to open the door, Kalai looked back once more on her maker, then turned away, as she opened the door the body burst into flame and she smiled slightly to herself before the door closed with a click and she went to explore her new surroundings.
The surroundings turned out, much to her delight, to be an elegant manor house in the deep woods near Lynae, on the border of the kingdom. The human servants had felt the death of their master, of course, he had bonded them to himself and now that bond was hers to use as she pleased. She did not intend to indebt herself to Jakob’s memory, however, so rather than take over the manor she helped herself to a pouch of gold and the life of his stablemaster, released the horses, dogs and hawks to the wilderness, locked the rest of the staff inside the house and burned it. The flames burned with an intensity that could not be replicated without magic, Fire Elves controlled their element completely and her own primal rage at Jakob and ecstasy in the burning only made them leap and dance higher.

Across the kingdom, in Throne City, Sheyna’s head snapped up from the would-be mugger she fed on. Her eyes narrowed as she Felt Jakob’s death. Foolish boy! Now you have created something no one can control! She cursed him mentally, damning him for bringing this upon her; for, as Jakob’s creator, she was responsible for his creations in the event of his death. She would have to find a way to destroy the creature if it began to threaten other vampires beyond a certain point. Rivalry and violence was to be expected with their kind, but too much was completely unacceptable.
She finished draining the body and dropped it irreverently, not caring who would find it, in this neighborhood nothing was unusual. She walked back to her apartment, thinking about what she would do about this unwelcome turn of events. Obviously he has changed something that was not human to begin with, something he could not hope to control. Human fledglings were weak at first; they needed their creators to survive. There were old stories of another who had attempted to Change an elf.
The fledgling had killed his creator as soon as he awoke, then proceeded to destroy more than half the vampires in the kingdom before several of the strongest banded together and hunted him down. The very fact that the strongest vampires had formed an alliance was frightening, vampires, by nature and necessity were solitary beings, especially the powerful ones, there were occasional pairs or even trios but for the most part they did not seek out the company of their own kind.
As soon as she stepped into the apartment, a servant was there to take her cloak and inform her that they had drawn her a bath and would she like a book to read while she relaxed? She declined but went to the bath, knowing she needed to relax; the hot water came to her chin, rose-scented steam rising from it. Tendrils of her honey colored hair stuck damply to her face as she willed her taut muscles to relax.

Kalai’s black mare trotted along the packed dirt road happily, her ears and tail up, quite happy with her new master. She had picked this gentle pony out of Jakob’s stables and saved her, now the pair were on the road, riding towards Throne City where, Kalai knew, the most powerful vampires made their homes. She had already made a stop at the nearest elven village where she had bought decent clothes, elven silk and velvet. Now she wore a scarlet dress with belled sleeves and gold embroidery, a braided gold belt and ankle-length black boots. Her mare wore a soft saddle blanket and a light saddle of soft leather, certainly an improvement over the uncomfortable affair she had taken from Jakob’s stable.
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Song of Wolves [21 May 2005|06:20pm]
They called her Song of Wolves, because the wolves howled with her mother through her birthing, and howled afterward with the new baby. For most of the year, she was a young maiden the same as all the other young maidens in her villaga. In the spring she wove flowers into her hair and sang songs with them, in the summer she planted and tended fields of wild rice and corn, in the fall she harvested and gathered nuts and berries. It was wintertime when she became strange, when the sun shone bright on the snow she worked with her mother and grandmother, sewing clothes for the rest of the year. When the sky was grey she sang to the children in her strange, spirit-like voice that rose and fell like the song of the wolves. When the snow fell she clothed herself in thick furs and went into the forest, armed only with a knife at her ankle. At night when the rest of the village slept, a few sleepless souls could hear her voice mingling with that of the wolves as they taught her their songs. When the morning came, she would be found on her pallet, often in such a deep sleep that she could not be wakened until the sun was high in the sky.

They called her Song of Wolves, though she was no longer a maiden, but a woman with a family. Her husband was well respected in the village, for he made beautiful carvings of wood and bone and horn, and he was inventive and thought of a water wheel turned by young boys that would bring water to the fields through a trough. So her waginogan was more luxurious than many others in the village and she never lacked for skins to sew into clothing for her family. Now there were white men who came to the village who spoke like bears but acted like snakes. Within the village there was dissent, some wanted to ban the white men, killing them if they showed themselves in Ojibwe land, others wanted peace with them for they were powerful and had many wondrous things to trade. In the winter, she spoke to the wolves, but their numbers were growing less and their songs were marred with an undercurrent of disharmony that echoed that of the tribe.

They called her Song of Wolves, but the wolves no longer came and sang with her and she was too old to go look for them. The white men had driven them away, as they had driven away everything that opposed them. She had seen what the white men did when they conquered and she grieved for the land, her face lined heavily with sadness that had nothing to do with the death of her husband. The white men had moved the Ojibwe to a Reservation in the dry plains. She wondered why the earth did not fly up to meet the sky without the trees to hold it in place. She wondered how people could live here where the sun turned everything brown in the summertime, where water was scarce and where the blizzard winds swept across the plains in the winter with nothing to stop them. She wondered why the white men had made her come to this place when her people had always treated them kindly; she wondered why they had taken her land and her livelihood. She sewed beaded patterns into a dress and looked out across the bare land, wondering if she would ever see her wolves again.

They called her Song of Wolves, and she limped slowly away from the village in the reservation until she came to a small spring with trees around it. She seated herself beneath one of these trees and began to sing as the wolves had taught her. She sang until the sun had slipped beneath the horizon in the west and was beginning to rise again in the east. There was mist here beneath the trees and as her song finally wound to its close, a familiar grey form manifested itself from out of the mist. It trotted up to her, alert and friendly, nuzzling its greeting. She sighed a final note and her song stopped forever.

They called her Song of Wolves, and they found her beneath the trees at the spring. Poor old woman, they said to themselves, for they were young and did not remember the wolves or living anywhere but the reservation, Poor old woman, she came out here to die, all alone, poor old woman. But as they moved closer to retrieve the body, they saw that she was not alone, there was a wolf draped in her lap, as dead as she was. Look at that, they said, Maybe her stories were true after all. They bent to pick her up, and one of them picked up the wolf, tossing it over his shoulder like a sack of flour, They should be buried together, he said, She would have liked that. In the distance, they thought they heard the sound of wolves, but maybe it was just the wind, blowing across the empty plains.
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Ghosts [21 May 2005|06:19pm]
Distant memories from a distant past
Fade into vision
I catch myself remembering voices
Words like whispers, murmur through my head
The breath catches in my throat
As the ghosts escape
And I speak the things they want to hear
These ancient ghosts, for I know what they want
This face I know so well, I hate so well
Calling up reminders of sorrow
I cannot escape it
Imprinted forever in my mind
What they told me, all the things that they said
And all the things that they did not say
Fits of jealousy, left over from my past
Moments of drowning sorrow
The knowledge, sure as the sun
I will never be good enough for them
I am not strong enough
To be loved
I hear it in my mind
Whispers through my head
Dance across my vision like black stars
As ghosts return to me like vultures
My unheard screams racing through the night
Unseen tears that never fall
Gathering below me
Visions of the past clouding my eyes
Till death do us part
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