Let's play 'Fill in the ___'

[Valid]

someone has to ____

“You hold your tongue because I tell you to. You do as I tell you because I’m bigger then you. And as long as I am bigger then you, I can kick your ass up and down the savannah however much you like, do you understand?” The youth was on her back, down, pretty little coat now dirty, dirty, but pretty little eyes still fierce, feirce. Our dearest was on top of her, the elegance of such unpredictable strength alarming. How her muscles were so taunt, how her body arched and reacted to her will… A fragile piece of artwork, she seemed, and was… to some degree. There was a distinct look on her face, her lovely face, her untouched, haunting, light, usually un-expressive face. You see, we can say just that, ‘Distinct’, and about sum it all up. The cold belle was what she was, and we can only envision with crystal clarity how she would be looking when she was mouthed off by a child not even half her age. Yes, yes, eyes nothing more then windows into an icy, murderous sea. Unrelenting, impassionate, and with a chaotic sort of control. Her mask was still there, oh, yes, very much so. Venetian, so pretty, hiding someone so ugly. Suiting it was… very suiting… But! Nonetheless… The rugrat was not in any position, or right, to use such, mhmm… hostile words, nor to use them at Asaki. No, but don’t be mistaken. Asaki didn’t give an ounce of care what this little young one said (though she was wrong to say it). Nay, be it truth or lies this brat was belching she was just that - a little brat and little brats don‘t live very long, and not only that, but what they say is very rarely remembered. Still it was principle, and it was her duty to correct when this one fouled principle. The young one was young… And calling out an adult on her faults was none of her business to tend to. Thoughts were good, as were questions… But the other was foolish, so foolish. So young, so ornery, so green. Intense eyes beat down into willful ones, and with loathing those willful ones were forced into submission, and looked away. Intimidation by part, and slight… confusion as to how to combat such vile ice, another. Asaki had more then age up on little miss Rosalyn, the better the other understood that, the faster this could progress and real teaching could begin. That was why she was here, did she not know? To be educated… and by her, no less, here she could laugh. Asaki, teaching? Ay, perhaps way back when, when she had some sanity and nerves she could bother with the practice but now… now? Ralos… oh Ralos you are something… else. She mused, but knew the others thinking. Flawed, but right, she supposed. Every painful story had a lesson, and perhaps… the lesson can be better learned by someone who hadn‘t experienced the pain. She was thinking that these young two could learn from Asaki, learn where she had gone wrong and… remedy it, and protect themselves against it. After all… the Ice Queen’s putrid ‘disease’ was both crippling and fatal. Happiness was murdered by it, as was join, and love… and sensitivity. And many other, good, ’wonderful’, things. Oh, but Ralos you are a fool. What makes you think I won’t teach them more then how to avoid heartache? Twisted was, perhaps a fine and dandy word for the Lemon’s perception but… if one was looking for personal gain and to make something of themselves, her perception was flawless. Every lie can be deciphered as a minute truth. And every agony can be made into fierce, undying passion. Where there was want there was will and thus a way. If one wanted, and wanted dearly, no price is too heavy, no consequence too malicious. There was more… to learn then just… how to murder someone, how to hunt, how to find someone to love and love you back. There was more to the world, more to the mind, more to the soul, more to… More to her path, then just… pain and dislike and hate and self-loathing and a death wish. As crazy as it may sound there was more, if one wanted there to be. And these two, if they could… wrap their little minds around it… Evil is what you make it. As was success. Just because others frowned upon this way did not damn it to failure. Anything and everything can turn putrid, even if the cause is noble… and can it not be said in vice versa? It could. But no one wanted to admit it.

Her claws were not exposed, her teeth were not barred, her ruff was not spiked, she was not bristling or saturated with rage. Annoyed, yes, but not angry. Annoyed that their lessons had been interrupted, but that was as far as any irritability would wander. The little fool would not have the pleasure of disturbing any peace (it was amazing how children managed to ’better’ her, it seemed. Thicken that tolerance and her ability to calm her tongue and whatever emotion she was thick in. They aided in this masquerade, this liar business. The perfect, perceptive, clever subjects for her to further her talent on.) the schoolmistress may have. So, as our little Asaki stepped over the dear (and thus off) she did nothing more then flick her tail. The tip lashing at the air as her stride remained even, relaxed, and floured dearly with that elegance and grace she was so prone to. “Go play Rosalyn.” She spoke in an amused voice, a smirk ebbing at her tongue at it tipped her lips. Eyes closing as she walked, fine-tuned round ears hearing the slight growl and snarl spouted from the youths mouth. It hadn’t been very long after they became her charges that she ‘knew’ them… Not that it wasn’t hard to figure what made them testy or smile, children are as children are and they had yet to learn the craft of hiding likes and dislikes seamlessly. Nah, not hard at all when they thought she didn’t give a shit and was more wrapped up in herself then anyone else, either. Smugness and amusement came from that, had them memorized for so long (memorized so much deeper then they knew, too) and they didn’t have that much of a clue. Yes, they had much to learn and much to discover before they were well educated and truly prepared. She hates being treated like a child but she acts like it… But far as the other one… “Be back here in three days. If you aren’t, I’ll have to look for you, and looking for little brats isn’t going to make me very happy, my darlings.” She spoke in a singsong, melodious voice. Not bothering to look over her shoulder as Rosalyn collected herself to depart and Morganna already began to pad away. Curious was the other one, the older Morganna. Peculiar… quite peculiar. But, that mattered the same way she didn’t bother to say ’stick together’ or ‘don‘t get into trouble’. They were Bordeaux children, they would find trouble… and they hated one another (or as it was, Rosayln loathed Morganna, and Morganna remained smug and teasing about it) so they wouldn’t be staying in each others presence more then they had to. So, you see, it didn’t matter if she said those things, they would do (to an extent) what they liked. Nor did it matter if one of the twosome was odd. Mhm… Still… Still the Fierce Tempered Rosalyn and the Peculiar Mannered Morganna…? Tut-tut. “Silly girl.” She spoke under her breath as she neared the tree still, rubbing her head against the knotted bark before running the full length of her slender body against it. The rough textured felt good… and it was evident the pussycat was in a state of mild bliss as her scent was dragged across the Okari. A laugh bubbled from this well loved throat of hers accompanied by a grin, too, as her eyes finally opened and she flopped down next to the twisted roots of the old, broad tree. It was funny to her how one challenged dignity, her dignity no less. How the other had thrown about the fact that Asaki mated readily with whoever came along, during certain times, variable times. Speaking so wrong, under her breath, about the darling teach and wondering to her beloved sister if they were sent here only to learn how to be a proper, dignified whore. But still our dear lemon giggled, how couldn’t she? Tisk-tisk, silly girl. Pretty little thing but so very silly. Such mean words, you might make me cry! Haha!

hint: _{starts with 'd' and ends with an 'e'.}

[Vox]

Oh, I know!

It amused him, how they all ran from something as silly as this. It was, truly, diverting for the gentleman as he wondered why anybody woud flee from the sun. Afterall, did they not know that without the sun they would all be dead? Even he would be dead. And life, or what they called life, had long since proved that it took who it wanted and when it wanted to. Hell, it would even take him, and now we're on the subject...Life had also proved that it wanted him. Wanted him, lusted for him, desired him with unnatural passion. Or so it would seem, as he had asked for death so many times. Asked for it, had it nearly thrust in his face, and not fled. He was not afraid. He would not run. If something cannot die, it is not truly alive, one might say. Perfectly true, in a certain way. And absolutely false in another. Picture a Euler Diagram, oh now don't be so ridiculous I am not about to teach you geometry, just imagine one now, won't you? Thanks. Great, so we have our diagram now, with circle A inside circle B. It does not take a rocket scientist to state, with complete conviction, that to be in circle A, something must also be in circle B. A, therefore B. If something was to be B, it did not neccesarily have to be A. But if something was A, it needed to be B, unless you are completely mad. Which he very well might be...Hmmm...Yes, madness was a strange thing indeed. Was he mad if he was pondering this so rationally? It seemed rather irrational, and yet...She had called him that once. Delightful creature, really. He had missed her. But we come back to our original point. It has nothing to do with the way the diagrams work. That is flawless, that is perfect. There will never be anything wrong with saying, if A therefore B. Ever. No, our problem is not with Monsieur Euler's formula, but with the the subjects of A and B. Perception askew, if you see what I mean. If Life is A, and Death is B we shall set it up thus: If you are alive, you are dead. Does that make any sense? Not really. Though to the truly profound, it is. Let us make the converse, yes? To see if it is a 'good statement', you understand. If you are dead, you are alive. That is the complete opposite of our previous conditional statement, and yet...It is one and the same? Perhaps. If you are dead, all will agree that you are not alive. I in particular find it most tiresome when you find yourself in the company of someone who would debate that point. She lie there in front of his eyes, blood spurting from her wound, eyes glazing over, a look of terror and betrayal frozen on her mask-like face. Yes, she is dead, and she is not coming back. A terribly wearisome person, as I have previous mentioned, might take off their spectacles, polish them, and actually consider contradicting you. But, for the purpose of this study, we must hear this person's opinion, and consider it as rationally as if it had come from our own heads. Is one truly dead in living, and alive in death? In a purely metaphorical way, I might agree with that. We shall discuss it. Look at him, right there, that man. Yes, the one in the suit, with the coffee in his hand. A careful observation will tell you many things about this man. He is about to burn himself...Now. There he goes. The coffee will spill...yes, there it is, on the floor. Am I truly wise? Perhaps, but not in such a way. I know the temperature that the baristas heat the coffee to, lovely people really, very obliging. I also know the angle at which he tipped the coffee, but he did not, as he was busy reading his paper (or toilet-papers of doom, as I call them myself). He burned himself, as I said he would. His tongue was scalded, and I knew he would spill the coffee. Why is that? Some G-d-given gift? His arm was precisely three centimeters away from the table as he went to hurriedly put the coffee cup down and pick up a cool glass of water. That, multiplied by the weight per ounce of the coffee and the amount of steam trapped inside the cup, will tell you exactly how much liquid will spill out onto his poor trousers. I get up, help him with his caffeinated drink, smile, and speak. "Maybe next time you should consider leaving the travel-cap off." He nodded, and gave one of those smiles which said 'yeah, probably'. Now, in his mind, I told him that because the coffee was hot, and he burned himself with it. But I didn't. I told him that because if he had left the travel lid off for approximately four mintues, enough steam would've escaped and the equation that resulted would indicate that the coffee would not have spilled on his expensive, Armani, specially tailored pin-stripes. And he would not have burned himself, therefore negating any reason for him to put the coffee down. It is rather stressful, you could say, going through life with this flicking through one's mind, and I usually refrain from such useless mathematical studies. For the purposes of this study, I have observed and recorded to provide practical exampes. Perception, we find her again. Almost like a niece to me, the sweetheart of a most dear friend. The entire situation was governed by Her, being a powerful Lady of much influence and terrible beauty. Many have argued over Her, and none have won. She is many-faceted, and can never be understood fully, if you intend to keep your sanity. Those who have gambled with Her, for She runs a mad card table, lose their mind and gain nothing. Stupid, if you ask me, and I choose to observe Her, pretty thing She is. Was that man dead or alive? Dead of mind, that we may agree on, but of spirit? Of soul? Of the essence that truly matters? All will agree that what is inside is what animates us, not the rough hewn matter we wear as a flesh-suit. Why then, I ask you, are we so concerned with death? Are we so afraid to lose this said suit? Is it to be more alive when we are dead, maybe? Or is that madness? Is it to be freed, to die? If that is the case...Why do we live? I choose to believe that we live so that we may die, and in dying we may bring what we have learned here on this Earth to Above and continue our Education. My simple mathematics are nothing to what awaits, I know that. But it seems that nobody else seems to be so interested as I in these things....Hmmm. Perhaps I truly am mad. As mental as those I write about, in their own special way. Well...If this is to be mad, I would gladly choose it over being sane and trapped. Trapped in the cage that that man seemed to think was life. That sad, shadowy imitation to what life truly could be. Is there any way of knowing what is Death? Is there any way of knowing what is Life? How can something be explained, while we are still experiencing it? If you are alive, then you are dead. If you are dead, then you are alive. A paradox, and one which cannot be solved because of it's mere nature. But what is it with solving things, anyway? Why must there always be answers? We are back to the beginning. Is the opposite of Life, Death? Is the opposite of Love, Hate? IS the opposite of Good, Bad? Is the opposite of a Question, an Answer? Logical explanations were readily provided, and the council pretended to be unsettled by these comments. Definitions were produced, words were tossed about. But...What are words except for sounds we make, divine ones some are, and give meaning to? We are as apes, making signals with our fingers and grunts with our throats. Is the opposite of Ignorance, Intelligence? No my dear...No no. To say it had an opposite would be to acknowledge it's presence. And to acknowledge something, you must both truly understand it, and know it not at all. Which is impossible. Therefore, the solution is to think nothing at all. Which, aside from being perfectly wise, would be perfectly dull. To an untrained mind. Which we all are. For what is the mind of a child but one that has not been hardened by what adults call 'life'? A mockery, a sham, they go about their dance, laughing harder than they should at things which have no mirth to them. We strive to be infantile, as we once were, and we fail. Again. Again. Again. But is failure the true opposite of victory? What is to fail...But to suceed at something which you had not intentionally set out to do? A triumph, I would say, would not you? The best part, however. It was tragic, really...A converse does not neccesarily equal the original statement. Not always...Did it this time?

He walked in his usual way, not in any way different than he did. A lion put one foot in front of the other, flipped them in that way, and picked them up again. Gracefully did he move, as most did in his species. The King's lightly muscled, large form moved at a slow, deliberate pace across the dry ground. It was not that he was looking for anything, not even water. His thoughts came, or rather floated, easily into his head. He thought about them in his usual way, not in any way different that he always did. The slightly musing smile was on his face, second-nature now. When his whiskers twitched, they knew he was thinking again. He liked his thoughts. They were peaceful, they were violent. He liked the way he walked. It was calm, it was infinitely prepared for attack. His eyes surveyed the land easily, resting long enough on each objects they met to call it an old friend, to greet it with that laugh of his, rich and pleasant on the ears. He laughed in the usual way, not in any way different than he ever had laughed. By now, most have gained the impression that our man has never changed. Which would be false. But as I am sure you are quite tired of hearing the incessant ramblings of an Old Man Deprived Of His Daily Bread And Water, we shall not delve into this particular discussion, of what exactly is Truth, and what exactly is Falsehood. The Elderly Sir, as one might call him, strode in all his glory, his age not yet taking from him the majestic glow to his healthy coat, slightly seeped in dirt from his travel, and his muscles not yet shrunken by the weariness he felt. The inner, mental fatigue, the sort that didn't ever seem to go away. The gentleman, slim and muscled as he was, carried himself with a seriousness, a weightiness in his graceful walk, a solemn air that indicated a pleasant, protective personality. He was not for fights, but if it came to battle, he had seen it, seen it all...The scars flecked his muzzle, crisscrossed his flanks, nipped his forelegs, constant reminders, as if the memories were not enough. But he was not a sad man. He was...Sorrowful. Deeply, irrevocably moved by some unknown thought, seemingly elsewhere, perhaps a little vague. One does not get the impression he is ever really concentrating on one's face or speech. In this way he walked, with his wide paws grasping the lands powerfully, chiselled form seeming to glide at a regular pace across the dry land, parched but growing ever so slightly moister. The dry, barren land was starting to blossom, starting to open up a little more. Underneath his strong, yet sensitive, grip he felt the trickle of life starting to come back into the hot, dead land. One had to look a little less closely to see how it breathed, how it moved, and there were more noises now. The birds, circled above far distant carcasses, or rode the zephyrs peacefully, hot updrafts keeping them afloat. Prey began to poke it's nose out of it's hole, sniffing the air, and hoping to find a touch more welcoming in it. The King's tail swished this way and that, slowly, aiding his balance and warning off audacious insects with the whizz-snap of it's fine, dark hairs. In body, he was still young. In fact, he was in his prime, in the very flower of his older stage of youth. But mentally...emotionally...he was old. Perhaps a little beaten back, by what he has witnessed, what he so wished he had not seen. He was not, however, finished, not defeated, not silenced. Not dead. He yet lived, and he yet walked, and he yet made excellent conversation. It was not the wars that had really made such an impact. He knew Death, he had walked, talked, fought, backed away, from Death. It was Misery that he could not abide seeing about her work. The stench of rancid flesh, the reek of irony blood-tinged water, tainted wells...Not sad faces, not melancholy, and not just pain either. Despairing expressions, agonised screams, the forms of men made to look like beasts, the shapes of soldiers and general and lords to appear as dogs. Misery did that, and Loss had aided her. The mud, he remembered it as clearly as he did anything, was not dirt mixed with rain, as he had seen in the sands by his childhood home, but vile earth contaminated with blood, sweat, tears and bile. He had shared in the donations, and he contemplated that slowly. He had exerted his muscles to just beyond their capacity, slit throats, been cut himself by the demons they battled, wept bitterly...Sobbed over the broken bodies of... A slow blink made the muscles in the lion's face move subtly, but he continued his walk, unrelenting, and his thoughts, unceasing. Cried over the wasted corpses of the children of his comrades, those of the fallen. It was kill or be killed, and have your family ripped apart. He had tried to reason with them, tried to explain that battle could be avoided. Truth was a man of changes, but not so great were these shifts that he went from bloodthirsty to peaceful. Even as a lad, when he had fought, had he been in favour of ending conflict. His father had been a proud man, he had hit his son, clouted his boy roughly about the ears with a mighty hand, when Truth had shown his defiance at the idea of battle. 'What was it he called me...? I seem to have forgotten--Ah yes! He said "Coward! Dog! Stand and fight, stand and fight for that which is ours!"' ... And the boy had stood still, face set, brow emotionless. Not a word passed between them for a solid quarter of an hour, in which they stared deep into each others eyes. Then King Adrian had spoken again, after a soft sigh. But Truth could not remember what his Lord Father had said... And perhaps it was for the best. The Council would not bend, no matter what the young man had said to them. He had persuaded, he had shouted over his opponents, he had broken out in a sweat, and he had even begged, but to no avail. Cronos, a boyhood friend of his, had questioned him outside of the House. "Why do you continue to fight it, Truth?! Why do you continue to battle the inevitable?" Truth had looked up at him, eyes sharp and wary of his companion's exhasperated tone. "People are rotten! You know that as well as I do, so let it go, man, leave it already! You cannot change everything and everybody in this world." Cronos stared at Truth with a pleading in his eyes, a deep affection for his friend. "I...Am not mad, am I? For wanting to make things right?" Truth had asked, his tone open, inquisitive, a slightly weakened by his trials agains the Council. "Mad...My dear fellow, what has that got to do with it?! Of course you're mad, we're all mad, hell, even I'm mad!" His last words had almost risen to a hearty shout, his mouth curling up in a disbelieving smile, but a single glance at Truth's expression kept him from his mirth. "I intend to make a change, Cronos. This world has enough people who sit back and do nothing, while horrors are committed!" Cronos had sighed at hearing his friend weighty tone, filled with a seriousness most felt he had not earned. "Now is not the time nor place to play Florence Nightengale, Truth. Now is not the time nor place to start helping, fixing, everybody you see. 'Restriction is as important as generosity', remember your father's words! " It had been enough, Truth almost smiled as he recalled how he had roared at his friend in his youth. "Then what would you have me do?! Stand and watch as our 'wise' Council makes a war we could avoid!?" His eyes were narrowed in fury, his jaws clenched in a snarl, and Cronos' shocked face, slightly crinkled in dismay was nearer to his than he had intended. Truth had shoved his friend away, saying, "It starts with this small act of bravado, and it ends in more death than we can survive. This will finish us, destroy our lands." Truth cast any angry look about and stormed off, attempting to wave away any more distressing thoughts. "Don't get yourself killed, all right! When--If! it comes to war." The other male had called after him, and Truth had turned about, and smiled, waving at his friend. They could never stay very angry at each other. Truth had always been the man in the shadows, the one with the careful tactics, the silent grace. Cronos was the popular, raucous, instant-success that seemed to make all the decisions, wrong and right, he fit the role best. The Prince's right-hand-man, inseperable, and a meticulous guard. It had been from him that Truth had learned his mechanical order, had been taught how to keep his mind in place. But Cronos...Like Hathor, and Lord Drako, and Taliesen, was dead. It was a dark day, the men were shivering, the soft scrape of somebody's retreating spear-head was heard, and one squire was fidgeting with a sword that was too big to be his own.

Lord Elijah's boy, taking his place in the field...Too young to be doing this, too small to even lift the scabbard that belonged to his Master, and Sire, who was gone. In essence, Truth saw him standing regally next to his only son, impossibly proud of his progeny's bravery, blind as it might have been. Just now, however, Truth would rather have had Lord Elijah's arm, than his soul, and he had plenty of time to think these dry, morbid thoughts while the sun set. The enemies camp was ahead, and they stormed it at nightfall. Life became a blur, and he was charging forward. His long, strong legs carried him to the very front, and he was joined at his side by Cronos before long. It might have brought a smile to his face in a skirmish, but this was battle, and it only made him frown. A friend at his side meant a friend that could be hurt in the upcoming fight. But he had little time for dark thoughts now, as a sharp pike came within inches of his right ear. Truth fought in silence, only allowing grunts of pain, and harsh whooshes of breath when he lunged and parried. This had been no exception. A tingle on his right leg came with the memory, and the older lion looked down at his inner foreleg, remembering how a sharp metal object, he never knew what, had bitten into his hide. Then it was all gone, all his distinct memories. It was all smells, colours, sounds, with the tang of blood in his mouth and the sting of sweat in his eyes. It was over, 12 hours afterwards. A long battle, by most standards... It ravaged the countryside. What had been green, was now gray, what had been brown, now smouldered with the fire from both their and the devil's torches and spilled oil. Something stiff, though rather soft, came under his foot, and he lifted it in annoyance, wondering why it was such a gut-wrenching experience. Lord Elijah's boy lie there, pale as a white lily, and blue-lipped. Truth closed his eyes at the memory, breathing deeply for a moment before covering it up. Now it had started, the recollection would not stop, no matter how he thought of anything else. Ah, there was a tuft of sage, such a lovely plant, really. Lord Elijah's wife Mary had used sage in all her cooking. The boy was dead, by his touch, approximately nine hours ago. Hmm...Such a nice tree that was coming up ahead, it was so large! The lad had been big for his age, rather ungainly, like a new colt in the autumn. Vomit had spilled all over the blood-stained grass he stood on, and as he saw the child's glazed eyes, he had fallen to his knees, so as to be able to pick him up better. He carried him as far as he could go, his legs shaking and his arms weary from battle. Familiar bodies, some ravaged, some missing identifiable faces, greeted him all around, wide eyes mostly looking surprised, more than angry or afraid. 'Death surprises soldiers as much as it does children...But the former at least have chosen this path...' William, had been the boys name, he knew that now. It was from the little tag at the back of his fighting smock. "Good Luck William Elijahson." From the look of the stitches, they had been made many times. Truth knew that tradition. It had been done for him, as well. The mother and her daughters would sew clothes for all the soldiers in the town, all the mothers and their daughters would. Each mother would write something to her son on the back, and each sister to her brother. The same message, the same colour thread. The tags on the back had originally been made to identify the woman or girl who had sewn the shirt, but nobody ever did that anymore. He collapsed half-way across the field, unable to bear the weight any longer. Clutching the cold, lifeless body of the child, he had fallen himself, and he had not woken until the day after next in the morning. But little was important after that, until that day. The savages from the West had taken Headquarters, and their small camp was captured during the raid. It had been a trap, and he had vivid memories of how he had enjoyed a sleepless night, tossing and turning, wondering why he hadn't fought harder to keep war from coming upon them. Perhaps...He hadn't done his best, maybe it was he who was to blame! Could he have stopped this futile, prideful attempt to become the greatest Kingdom about the land? All of them were taken prisoner, and the present-day lion's eyes skittered over the land as he recalled every detail with uncomfortable intensity. Those things...They stuck with you, they didn't leave with the dying of the day and the birthing of the night. He seemed to be stuck in twilight, a time when nothing moved, and yet pseudo-motion was created by memories of what action was supposed to be like. As in a nightmare that is more disturbing that horrifying, more of a lingering sense of terrible purpose and doubt in oneself than a full-out panicking riot. It drove one mad after a while, eating away from the inside, but Truth seemed to be able to fight it. He could very well be mad, but the wars had not affected him as they did others. The idea that his hands had caused a life to be taken, hundreds of lives to disappear off the earth had not sickened him so much as the results of the death. As they were marched, he with his men, he counted them, and wondered how many of the thirty score had survived. He saw thirteen in his group and about two dozen in the other collected knots of soldiers, being led like chattle. A stick slapped him about the neck and upper back, more like a crop than anything else, and a parade sergeant in coarse clothes smiled smugly at him, calling him a foul name and urging him back into a closer knit flock. His hands were not bound, his legs were not chained, but in spirit...They had defeated him. "Stop that!" The sergeant had snapped at him, snapping him a viscious blow across the cheek with his whippy crop. Truth had glared at him, cold superiority that was intended to wound clear in his face. It got him another two beatings, and special bad-favour with the man. Across the muddy ground the took them, plundering their camp, yelling and laughing in merriment as the officers led away the prisoners of war. Under King Adrian's reign, prisoners were treated as well as soldiers, though with less priviledge. They were honoured as living, breathing men who were simply at odds with the King's beliefs. It was wrong to expect the same of this lowly rabble, and Truth--as the Prince--was mocked and beaten worse than the others. A sharp wind blew across Truth's brow as he padded through Okari, remembering, remembering... Musing over the past, and pondering the future. Buffetting him slightly, it brought him to his sense for a moment, before he allowed himself to delve back into the pool of thought. He wondered how he had managed to live so very long, through all those 'events'. Cronos died in captivity, they kept them for the Wet season and part of the Dry, and William was not buried. None of them were, and Truth watched as the lesser soldiers carried off the bodies surreptitiously. He never found out exactly what they did to them, but the smell... He didn't eat for three days when it got overpowering. The Others did not see the children as any different than the men, and soon the families joined the warriors, but never together, always seperate. The numbers grew, and shrunk, and then finally, it ended. Word got around, and the Veritas family was not forgotten. It seemed Sileree had friends, the Foss's, and it appeared the Citsemod and Edutilos had married well. They had not lost all memory of their brother, their old home, and they returned. Citsemod had lent herself airs, as a widow, and Edutilos was still playing the part of the innocently pregnant virgin, but they were a welcome sight. His youngest half-sister was not allowed to come, it seemed she was travelling with some three ruffians these days. The prisons were broken open, and the jail-birds set free, blinking stupidly in the sunlight. 'It is enough for now. I have remembered...Enough. There is no need to continue.' Were the coherent, calm words his mind spoke to him. Truth let the remembrances slip through his fingers, and then they were gone. His feet carried him to the large tree up ahead, and he was close enough to it to notice the presence of a few others, before the thought struck him that he had not been in these lands before. 'Okari...That is what this place is called. The Place of Fables. How fitting, hmm?' He knew by the scent it was her, but so lost in his past was he, Truth had not given the thought much consideration. She remained in these parts then...It seemed so. Their last meeting had been an interesting one, to say the least. She had been injured, had she not? And Truth, being the man he was, could not resist butting in and assisting, regardless of whether the assistance was welcome or not. His cool eyes surveyed her overtly, wondering if she was recovered fully. The King managed to pick up the scrap of memory that she did not appreciate pity, and decided not to give her any. Compassion, concern, that would be enough. He would not have to dote on her, and that relieved him in a way. The journey had wearied him, and the memories were still in sharp, vivid contact with his mind. It would not do for him to be falsely pitying, and right now...He was not in a 'you poor darling, how is your leg?' sort of mood, and being a rather constant chap, he did not feel that that emotion would fluctuate much. His measured footsteps sounded softly, yet he did not attempt to mask the noise they did make. For a change, he did not speak when he saw her, merely pricked his ears, and watched the retreating shape of the youngster for a few moments. His stare was intense, almost as if he was attempting to cut through the air, thick as it was down in this flatland. A few snuffles were to be heard, as he rummaged about amicably in the sparse grass and foliage, looking for all the world like man who strolled through a park unconcernedly. Except...That this man was a King, with a long, dark mane of hair, fine features, calm gray eyes, and a masculine jaw. Not just any man, not just any lord. In a way, he almost looked as one might imagine Heathcliff, but without the demonish glint in his eyes. Dark, yet pale, golden, yet shadowed. Not so stern so as not to be considered graceful, but with enough sense to be one respected, and never truly understood. Perhaps he could have been a Heathcliff that was loved, and appreciated. Or maybe he was simply tamer, less ferocious. The ears of such a man flicked back to the lady, who had been so obsorbed in her face-rubbing, and he smiled almost impercetibly. Not his usual, benevolently infuriating grin, he was saving that for later, but an accepting, amused expression. Amusement directed at himself, not at her. He had long learned that though he had his strengths, he could not word, or mock his way around Asaki. Humble was the King, recognising an equal in many respects, a superior in others, and a subordinate in a few choice ways.

we all have to die***
^somewhere___ _{^^^s o m e h o w}

[Valid]

ah, a man after my own heart...

The problem with society was that there was soul. This was her stand, the one she occupied currently (for like all good beings she changed her mind. Often. Didn't she? Debatable… but for the sake of all that's worldly and good we won't argue it. Yet.). If no one cared all would be well in the world. The world would be a stoic, un-pleasurable place but it would be fair and it would be just and it would be a world to live in. There would be no emotion, but there would also be no wars. There would be pure, uncut acceptance. ‘I accept the world is as it is and there is nothing I can do to change it. But, I do not care about this world. I care not there is nothing I can do to change it. There is no reason for me to care… I care about nothing’. There would be no love, no affection, no pity, no sadness, no hate, no frustration, no feelings of inadequacy. The world would not be corrupt, nor would it be beautiful in its own, hideous perfection. It would simply be. But the world would be different, acceptable in its own way. If one couldn’t appease all, then why should one play favorites and appease any? A world that finally choose to show itself as it was - a hard, cold, unfeeling place - would undoubtedly be one relished. In one way… or another.
A world such as that would rid the plague of ‘morality’ (which, in essence, was simply glorified restrictions and sets of forbiddens) from the thinking-creatures as well. Rosalyn had assumed that she would be learning morals and social principles from her teacher… and such assumptions turned out very false. To teach, or not to teach - right and wrong and socially accepted behavior had left her curriculum (But won't we say good riddance? Those things, those wonderfully twisted things changed with the days. What one learned should, for the most part, stand the test of time. One should learn facts. Truths. Information that could be relied on, valued…) a time ago and had hence been replaced by the dreary (though fascinating) philosophies of death, murder, suicide, and the essence of ‘spirit’ and ‘soul’ (and whether or not there was a difference between them).
… Not that she didn’t teach them manners. Ah, it was a love of hers teaching courtesy and general respect for the living (and the dead. And those in-between). Etiquette, truly was her pleasure. Especially considering Miss Rosalyn and those like her, who insisted earnestly on their own ways of conduct. Stubborn those types were, very stubborn… but all things can be broken (she could name many who could stand as examples)… and all things have weaknesses. It wouldn’t be long before Asaki would find Rosalyn‘s (she found some, rest assured, but she was looking for that ‘one‘. The one that would do the most damage, have the greatest effect. Imagine every person as a sheet of two-way mirror. Every mirror had a weak spot, and though that weak spot is not very obvious when one finds it, and strikes it, ones notices it quite clearly.)… nor would it be long before the dearest Roz was putty in her hands for it. Still, despite it all etiquette was an interesting term that encompassed an interesting idea. Our lady did not have to teach kindness or love when it came to manners and tact, nosir, not at all, she had to simply teach ‘rules’. Simple rules. Important rules. Basic things to follow that furthered both oneself, and ones appearance to others. Asaki always had 'fun' with it, if 'fun' could be named her dark, worrisome humor when it came to ‘manners’ such as, ‘when being raped, dear ladies and gentlemen, scream… but never too loud. To wake ones neighbors is truly an appalling act, suitable only to barbarians and savages.’ Her sarcasm and ridicule for what she taught was always present, but teach she did, teach, teach, teach. You see if there was one lesson she prevailed in teaching it was to think for oneself. To accept everything Asaki said as truths and flawless perfection wouldn't get anyone anywhere fast. … But, if she taught them to doubt, everything, everyone, every resource - even their teacher… if she taught them that… she taught them an invaluable lesson. Strive to satisfy oneself, strive to know until you, yourself, felt it was enough. Not only that but if you believe, be prepared to fight. Arguing was a useful talent, if only because it brought reassurance, conviction, and confidence. If your convinced of anything, be convinced of yourself, she would find herself later recalling. Even if she didn't believe in it herself, she knew the merit in those words and how seamlessly and usefully they could be applied by others. … Still, the children… Despite her hesitation at first, she had suffered the two young gals for weeks now… and during the dreadful time Ralos had gambled daringly… and won. Hadn't she? Heh.

The darling woman, bitter, mean, and vile had taken a personal challenge from the sisters. If… challenge was even the proper word. Asaki had seen something in them, an aspect of their creation that ignited a most vicious spark. They were confident and self-assured. Thinking they needed no one, nothing. For creatures so young they were so… mhm… so…
They would be her project, her fun, her enjoyment… her curiosity until they grew boring and dull. … Which would probably be in a few months (or less, most definitely less…) but until then she’d have something to do. Something to entertain herself with and pass the days by on. After that our Lemon wasn't sure (truly she just couldn't decide). She'd care for them as long as she was fascinated by them, but when her curiosity ran out, she wondered. Ridding herself of the hassle both sisters posed seemed like a lovely idea. Shoving them back to Ralos appeared to definitely be a plan. Yet, wouldn’t it be lovely to get back at Bordeaux, now? Ah… wouldn’t that be good fun… A smile that bore a wickedness appeared on her features, contorting them to a lovely (in the way only a succubus may be lovely. Dangerous, vile, and utterly lethal but in many ways as irresistibly pleasing as a siren's tune) yet precarious expression. Clever was her look as well as deviously amused. She was up to something, was thinking of something, and no doubt that ‘something’, from the looks of it, would undoubtedly leave someone with much… difficulties. But smile (as rare as it was for her to do so) she did, and as she did she inwardly chuckled (an even rarer feat! But given that it was a giggle at the evil she could do… did it really count?).
It had amazed her at first the naivety of the children towards their mother (after all some things were simply obvious…), yet, to stir them from the naivety? Wouldn’t Bordeaux be so very happy about that? And what would be more if Bordeaux blamed Ralos for putting the children in her care… now that would be lovely, lovely, indeed. To see them fight about it, and to see Bordeaux (or even Ralos, for that matter) bested would be an amusing sight to behold. And crippling, if one considered Ralos as the thin spider web that tied everything together. But, it would be interesting. Very interesting. It’d also be stooping to Bordeaux’s level of treachery and maliciousness… but since when did stooping ever concern our cold, animated corpse? Mhmm… it was a tantalizing possibility, one she entertained fervently in her peace and in her quiet. Despite all odds the day was fair and suiting… and its loveliness had won her over if only by the slightest, merest margins… margins that slipped and fell through with subtle ease as she was pulled, most rudely, from her conspiracies. She had noticed his scent a far, far distance away. Carried by lovely breezes to her, she had dismissed it at once and allowed herself to believe the wicked man who tortured her so, his scent was not the one that taunted her now. But, dream as she desired for it not to be, it very much was, and though it occurred to her that she could try closing her eyes and counting to ten, she doubted her nightmare would not be as compliant as to leave her.

A handsome nightmare he was, however, regal and fine looking… but he had a serpent’s tongue and a demon’s way which ruined him entirely. He paraded around under ever-changing flags to the point she was utterly baffled. Was he her enemy? Friend (notice the tentative voice she had when talking about friends. She believed in them not. Friend he wasn‘t. Coworker, colleague… perhaps)? Acquaintance? She had said it before and she would restate it now: she was use to being in control and use to knowing. A very curious woman she was, and that curiosity was basis for both insomnia and great discovery. Very few things evaded her, deceived her, or managed past her vicious, relentless scrutiny. It bothered her, very deeply then, when things did. Truth remained a riddle. This and that, this and that, but never everything she imagined him as. He dodged naming, avoided wording. She tried, once, to categorize him. But predictably he fit no where, ever, completely. I put you here and your arm hangs out. I put you there and your arm is off. She found herself raving time and time again for it. Bothered by his illusiveness and subtle contradictions that led him to be a most… bothersome contraption. Needless to say it didn’t please her at all. A very orderly, precise being she was… and he threatened that methodical way she had. Evil man, the term she coined for Sir Foolish now… as well as radical and disruptive and other hateful terms to describe what he represented in her life. A bother. And, regrettably, a bother that got under her skin. Cold and unfeeling she was noted for her callousness and heartlessness… but he was there to rebuke the claim of many and offer ‘exception’ to the rule. The heartless feel nothing, yet he was good at purposing new and draining emotions. Aggravation, annoyance, and on lesser, more discrete levels curiosity and remote interest. She found him in league with Joshua Norton. Deranged, yet handsomely so he was an interest to those like herself… while often, and consistently, being named mad and unbalanced.
Needless to say Asaki, with the absence of Mr. Veritas, had gladly distorted his image to suit her needs. He was now much more manageable in her ‘filing cabinet of all that is, was, and shall be’. And how was that possible? Oh, glad you asked! The beau was now a mad individual. Once a leading figure of modern society, picturesque, he had been driven to mental instability after the tragic loss of many of his family and now was, plainly speaking, stark raving mad. But such a cute, hopelessly insane individual. One couldn't help but humor him… right? So long as that ‘one’ remembered to mind her temper. He was a hopeless case. One couldn’t get angry over futility and hopelessness. Getting angry over that was very much out of style. Very much out of style and very much boring. Getting angry because of lack of progress was ridiculous. Things take time… life takes patience. … Right?

But, it had been so long! So very, very long. … He couldn’t possibly be, could he? Still? And surely if he was, still, surely he didn’t remember her. Surely he wasn’t coming towards her. Surely, heavens above and all good and holy, surely! Imagination, her fantasies gone awry! He was a figment brought about by lack of sleep and (or) some awful bug she had captured. Unquestionably that was this, even if her logic was most certainly repulsed by the accusation it had misinterpreted the information on display. Again, her nightmare was not easily thwarted… and sadly she was much too composed for insane hallucinations. She recognized the scent that littered the fragrant air and knew the way any other person in her position would, concerning who it was. It was, indeed… Truth. A memorable character if only for all the wrong reasons. … Modestly proud, collective-appearing and dapper, he had filled the shoes of a King a long, long time ago but she could pretend otherwise. After all, pretending was her forte, lying was her gift, and acting was her trade, wasn't it?
Besides, it had been so very long. Many days had passed, many, many days. Events had conspired and fate had so decreed. Couldn’t he let history rest? Or was he truly as stubborn as she remembered him as? Relentless in his pursuits? Or maybe simply bored, her mind mumbled with exasperation.
Still… had he become tender over the years? Had he softened? Had the world worn him down and weathered his bones, and if that was true was he truly daring to seek her? Did he remember her? If he didn’t, he would. She refused change and she dismissed time. They passed her by unharmed, if anything bettering who she was. Asaki was the same shrew he remembered. Deceiving, lying, savage, ruthless, critical, all the same and all the more if he was diluted now and torn down and was looking for an “old friend” or a pep talk he was sorely looking in the wrong place. Yet, he didn't seem so torn down or haggard, did he? A little worn about the edges, a little sadder, a bit more somber but not quite the crumbled ruins of a once great civilization, no, no, not yet. Alive and well, then? Her mind inquired with detached amusement. Even if that was the case did he think he'd get by her without the dame checking, thoroughly? She learned a long time ago never to take anything at face value… and new, very well, that though his face appeared so open and benevolent it very much was as deceiving as any of the other masks the masses wore.
Still, how would he feel about being forgotten? How would he act? Even if he did not believe she had misplaced his imagine and her memories of him how would he entertain the idea? Was he so haughty as to presume he deserved memory? (She didn’t deny the moment that thought crossed her mind she was brought back to their day with their stars. Irrational Truth and Cold Rhetoric… ah, it pleased her to think he grew out of those wild tales.)
She wondered… the way any predator would. Anything that would wound her prey was what she was interested in… anything to get the blood flowing, anything to open an old wound, anything to exploit or cause an injury. She did not know if he was friend or foe, he danced on the line like a wonderful wee faerie, but until she did she would take no chances. Though Asaki would never fear him (She remembered their history together. There had been a time when she was wary of him but it had quickly been defeated. He would pose no threat to her. Something about his demeanor told her that… and her intuition seemed to gauge it as true. Still, she knew she should be more… technical. She never knew, did she? He could change… as people tend to do. Though, on a different note… though he didn’t press her into fear, and though she would never admit it, it was obvious he excited other ’manners’, both pride and competitiveness among them) she‘d never turn her back on him, either. She doubted not he had dark secrets, doubted not he had his own slither of evil and malevolence. Trusting demons, was what one called trusting people… and if she did not know the extent of the demon she was trusting, here, how could she trust? It was foolishness. Moreover considering she had no faith in anything, ever, completely. Nothing was true, nothing was forbidden. He could do anything. Everything. It was in his - and anyone else’s - ability.

“Is my curiosity warranted or is this a hobby of yours, my most cherished Asinine? Gaping and grinning at strangers? I don’t want to be the bringer of bad news but it’s not very becoming of you, Your Majesty…”

Her voice inquired now, testing the day’s air with its low, smooth tone. A voice as tantalizing as any forbidden fruit… a voice as vicious as any blade, her words were baited as she eyed this man who smiled so. You look like fool, her steady, murderous eyes reprimanded as her once lax form became rigid. Still, stretch she did, claws exposing and raking the ground, leaving rows in the dirt as she brought a bundle of earth to her before rising from whatever luxurious lay she had entertained herself with. Formality gripped her, embraced her, and cherished her figure like nothing else. Tall and lean, slender and feminine she filled the role of an elegant, though quite difficult, creature of society very well. The jagged pieces of ice in her eyes, the gaunt features and the acidity of her demeanor. Truly she was as bitter as any lemon, and as hostile as any shrew. … But won’t we be the ones who say so endearingly?
To be honest her wound had healed with time. Sore for days and ugly to look at, but she was a lucky sort of gal. Her skin was tough, she was both hard to bruise and difficult to maim. Scars were few and rare, though rest assured those that did litter her figure were truly horrendous events. But, alas, the hyenas did not get the best of her and she was not terribly disfigured. A scar was still there to be seen for those who studied her flesh… but whatever limp she would have had was worked out with relentless, forced-to-remain gait. She refused the idea of hobbling around most distinctly. A walk such as that, pah, wouldn’t work well would it? Long, limber legs and a classy look… her stride has always been long and graceful. Always. Even in her moments of utmost shame.

“Or is looking more like a fool then usual the result of our vacation from one another? … Here I was thinking I had made some progress with you…”

Asaki surveyed the enigma that had produced itself before her remotely. Vicious yellow eyes scaling him, criticizing everything from his appearance (it seemed he had a few grey hairs now?) to his posture (was he slouching?!), to his smile (how dare he just be silent and grin at her like that!), to the glint that resided, consistently, in his eyes (as infuriating as ever). He incarnated everything (or close to it) in the world that bothered her, and for it he was named annoying, argumentative, vile, hateful, wretched… and all other words that followed that scheme. A darling creature to behold, Truth followed his bloodlines the same way she did - closely. He was muscular but never excessively, trim and tidy he was pleasing to the eye and graceful… by masculine means. A fair specimen, she was now comfortable to admit to herself… until he opened his mouth and spoke. His voice was pleasing to the ears but what he had to say was obtrusive and hostile. If he was a good boy he’d serve his looks, legacy, and family right and wave and smile, wave and smile. He was free to be the ‘learned’ man that he was… but he was also just as free to only chat about those things he ‘learned’ and ‘knew’ and ‘felt strongly about’ with other ‘learned’ men. Men like Charles would have undoubtedly been Sir Augustus’ most favored comrades. Men such as Charles, ah… Men like that would always leave a woman with a foul taste in her mouth… but to their friends? To the friends that Charles and men like him would have, those men would think the world of him. Would envy his power, his wealth, his intellect, his tact, and the numerous things in his possession. … Of course men would never know men like Charles as intimately as a woman would, nosir, no. Men would never know the dirty secrets or horrid truths, or ever be truly as familiar as the fairer sex in the idea that all great men have as equally great, and equally dark, shadows. Yet, the same could be said for Truth, couldn’t it? No one would know him as his wife had… his intimate little pixie he had so faithfully loved and cherished. Still, he should serve his family better. He should ignore the ravings and contempt of the common folk, of those angry and bitter. He should nod his head and smile that smile… that would still coax her wrath but that wrath could easily be capped. She would have understood that he was one of those ‘learned’ men who sit in the other room. They were untouchable and no concern to her. But she would act kind to him, kindred. Ladylike and modest, she was taught well, indeed, on how to act and act she could do if he would ever be a proper audience to her. … If only he acted like those of his rank and status normally did, all would be right between them. She could pretend to be a kindred soul, mild mannered and appropriate. She could be decent. She was good at being decent. Never friendly… never caring… never compassionate or loving but decent. … But he seemed not a very good service man, did he? He was incapable of following tradition. Of protecting his wife in her moment of utter need (the way he reminded her frequently of her inability to act out her desires, she would remind herself, frequently, his inability to act out his duty. He failed as a man and a husband… which counted them even, didn‘t it? Considering she failed as a scholar and a person with beliefs and standards, yes, even is what she‘d leniently name it…)… and in humoring those who should simply be humored. Never talk to hate-filled women, was he ever taught that? He should have been. It’s in the etiquette books.

“You are truly an awful ache… as bad those children I tend.”

She said this with a sigh, rolling her shoulders and allowing her eyes to wander from his own. Viewing the area around them she noted what she had previously. The lovely weather, the comfortable environment. Okari was beautiful, as was the day… cool, but also warm it was truly… serene. Relaxing. Before and after Truth’s arrival? The question had yet to be answered. Was he looking for a conflict today? Was she looking for a bout herself? She could never decide… but they’d find out soon enough, wouldn’t they? But, until then she could take in whatever changes were to be found, couldn’t she? Asaki was allowed privy to that, wasn’t she? Mhm, she supposed she was but wondering if he had changed would make it seem like she was interested in what had transpired over the months… and wouldn’t that be a horrible stroke to his ego? The icy, savage queen found herself smiling despite his presence. Rising to her limber limbs she seemed to retreat, lazily. Her tail lashing at the haphazard air, her ears tilting to the caws of birds and her nose twitching to the scents of all that found itself in the are, her senses were buzzing - the lands were alive. Yet ever single thing that was very much alive this day had been founded on something that was now very much dead, deceased, gone. We live on a kingdom of bones and defeated dreams, you know, was what she would coolly say if given the chance. Though, admittedly, what would be the use of talking to Truth about that? He already knew her disposition and stand. He knew her side of the debate, even before she spoke it. Which only furthered the point of why he was here and why her persisted. He knew her so well, he could imagine her in that noggin of his and substitute a fantasy for the real thing. … Or were they strangers, still, despite it all?
The problem with society was it thought too much. It cared too much. It was governed by nonsense and it was too restricted. The problem with society was, exactly, what it was. Society. An organized (oh, here was the kicker. Organized. That made them dangerous. But that also made them a unit. They were no longer individuals, were they?) group of persons (oh, heavens, people? People?! Dare we say ‘people’ was the doomsend of it all.) associated (associations were dangerous, we leave it at that.) together for various (Various, lovely word.) purposes. Society was a gathering of people, then? If that is so and none will contend otherwise then the flaw in this, is people. People are sheep. They follow a leader and lose whatever individual thought and personal perception they might have had. And then it’s just a group of like-minded beings. Like-minded beings are problems. They are similar but they are not exactly the same. They have the same wants, but do different things to acquire those desires. A society is dysfunctional, oppressive, destructive and terminal at best.
The thought that being on ones own, being solitary as wrong was erroneous. An erroneous, idiotic ‘concept‘ brought together by that ‘organized group of persons‘. As hard as it was to believe a person could learn more from oneself then others. That was a fact… and the moment she managed to teach that to her pupils she had succeeded in working her way out of a job. The moment they understood her role in their life as a teacher was ridiculous at best, was the moment they understood Education. But if you want to know a dirty little secret she had kept all these years…
You know when you die it doesn’t matter. When you die you die and that’s the end. Nothing else so why bother? Education is good for the moment. Useful during life and possibly a key in surpassing the expectations and limitations of the moment. But the dirty secret is when you die, you die. Your food for the maggots, everyone you love will forget you, and… what’s more is everything you’ve ever done will unravel. The good secret is that you’ll be dead. You won’t see it happen. You won’t feel anything about it happening. You’ll just be dead. No more. Ceased. Expired. And someone will found their dreams on your corpse. They’ll live out their days on top of your grave. Use you as a foundation. And then they will die… and then comes the next generation, then the next. Shoving the previous into their graves, hurrying the never-ending cycle along. Asaki was becoming more confident in this idea. This idea that she had hoped and dreamed and put so much faith in at one time but had always been doubtful about. But she was almost there, almost. Almost entirely sure… almost.
Almost.

“Do you know the story about the Desert Rose?”

Was her sudden, somewhat abrupt inquiry… not that those well-trained and finely used vocals of hers didn’t turn the question into the seamless beginning of a conversation. Looking over her shoulder at him she tilted her head only a degree, a black widow smile to be found as she turned back to the grand old tree. It was unusual that he came so quietly, without spouting out some nonsense and teasing her into an argument as he entered the scene. Very odd, very odd indeed. Her excellent memory recalled he had never done that before. Whenever he came he came with words at his beck and call… perhaps not the words he was dying to say but words all the same. Was Truth being coy? Suspicion made her wonder what he was up to, but… she’d find out soon enough, wouldn’t she? A patient being she could be when it concerned her opponent, so until he found himself right fine and ready to cease the preliminaries and begin the real reason for him moseying this way, she’d entertain herself with the recollection of a story. And so, after speaking and after taking a peek at the man that was now behind her (the dame was retreating closer to the tree, towards the shade that prospered in its shadow) she nodded to herself as she conjured at will the memory of the delicate, detailed story quite well. It was very old and but moderately known. The true story, or at least the story that had been founded in the Desert (there were many stories about this Rose, but sadly many other lands adopted it to their pleasure. The swamps had their story, as did the mountains and plains... adaptations to the "true" one, to the origin as she liked to say.) might not have been as wide-spread as the ones by the other regions but… it was a good story, old, have you, but it taught something or another while embedding it in a romantic, yet somewhat tragic tale. In its own way it was also a historic account, however, little did people know. The names were different and fantasy was thrown here and there as well as embroidered but, what legend didn't? Still there was basis for her inquiry. Not only was the rumored child of the Rose born here, and not only were her homelands in a war again over the idea… but…

“The real one? All stories begin with a seed of truth or so I've heard. But speaking of I've heard a rumor concerning you. A rather nasty rumor it was, I wonder what part of it was fact, before the mass contortions…”

She mused quietly, a smirk tracing her lips and curving it to suit. Remembering that rumor she couldn’t deny that when she had heard it first she laughed. It was a very ridiculous word-of-mouth story but one that was… interesting to hear nonetheless. Fascinating, as a matter of fact and very imaginative. She’d had never thought of Truth as that sort of creature but… as many also say once something is in a person’s head it will rarely remove itself… and needless to say the image was very, very much there. It amused her and tickled her chin. Laughable, if only to her. Many others were taking this rumor very seriously and because of it, were utterly baffled when she burst into giggles and fits of heehaw! It made her look right fine ridiculous (as ridiculous as his silly smile and standing there like a dolt, dare she say it) and right fine mad (as mad as he undoubtedly was, and as mad as she made him to be) but the chuckles were truly unstoppable. She had never before heard of something as ludicrous and preposterous, just when she thought idiocy was at it’s height…[/font]

but I was thinking more 'disagree'.

[/font][/right]

Still, not what I was expecting from you. So negative, mhmm?
Perhaps you'll be the first to live forever. Or, at least not die.
Besides, so forward, such an obvious answer. I expected more effort...
Tut, tut, your grade is in, Mr. Veritas! Can you guess what it is?
D -

[/font]^{would you like some extra credit work?}[/center]