The light of a friend.

The shadows were coming, the shadows of trouble and pain. Emerging from their daily hidouts they began to hunt, to seek their prey. And after finding that prey they landed upon it causing pain and troubles.

From them noone is safe, there is no hideout to escape them. The scars left on the soul are the best reminder of what they are capable of, what they do from day to day, from year to year. And when the scars are to many, the person is transformed, from a free, happy individual to a zombie of thousand worries and fears.

In that only the light of a friend can penetrate that darkness. Only a friends can heal the scars preventing them to become to numerous to be healed again. So that light is ones most treasured possesion, most wonderfull thing he has in life. It should be defended and preserved at all costs, substained every day, to prevent fading of the light.

Remember only the light can cut through darkness. That is why friends are so precious.

The beauty of the lake.

It was the autumn afternoon. Maybe the day was like all days when autumn rules over the land, maybe it was not. The wind was light, carrying only the fallen tree leaves, that danced in the air. Clouded sky offered only now and then a gap in the cloud sheets, letting the sun to peak out from time to time.

The nature was quiet today, very quiet. Being in the mountains was often resulted in utter silence, but today the silence was even deeper. In the valley between the mighty tops of the mountains resided a small lake. It's surface was calms, only a little wave or two disturbed it from time to time. It's dark color reviled that the bottom was far down in the depth, down where only the fishes dreamt of the sun and the things they will never see.

One of the leaves traveling it's path to destiny passed over a head of a man walking the mountains scenery. The man looked old even if he was not. His mail was all battered and obviously used in many battles. It also showed that the man didn't care for it anymore. He carried an old sword in his right hand. He had come to the mountains to think. He didn't know what to do next. His life was becoming pointless and killing wasn't improving that.

Slowly he seated himself on one of the ancient rocks near the lake. Throwing his sword away he started tossing pebbles into the lake, thinking what to do. He knew now that he hoped to get killed in the mountains. They were dangerous and he knew now that he was looking for danger. Lowering his head he looked the stones on the ground as if they were able to give him advice. Being like this he suddenly heard a splashing noise.

He was ready in a second to defend himself, but as he raised his head he saw a white hand reaching out of the lake. Following the hand , the whole body of a beautiful white woman emerged from the lake. She flowed on water, smiling to him. Instead of being surprised, he smiled back.

Her smile was so reassuring and he felt better already. Then she spoke:

"My brave warrior, do not give up on thy life. You have done good in your life. Yes you have killed, but changes always demand some price. There is not absolute evil or good. You humans are beings created to have mistakes. Believe me being perfect is not good at all. You are better because you have both sides in you. You could not see the whole picture if that was not so. So stop grieving and start living again. You have so much to give and the world has so much to receive."

She was so beautiful. He was stunned, paralyzed. She was like a grace floating over the surface of the lake. The gods must have heard him, he thought. And she was right. He closed his eyes. And then he felt a warm touch. A hand touched him, sending warmth through his body. He felt younger and full of new energy. He opened his eyes again, but there was no one there anymore. Only the lake whispered it's ethernal song again as it always did.

He smiled. It is not everyday that he has seen such a grace. Even if it was just an illusion, it showed him the way.

The demons of writing.

The odor in the room was the smell of rotten wood and parchments. Weak shimmering light of a single candle was pouring over the desk. An old wizard siting behind it was writing on a piece of paper. The trail of ink made a funny sight, twisting, traveling across the paper, just to return to the start again. His old eyes were tense and concentrated on the ink path of words.

Then suddenly all was getting blurry and woven into thick fog. Darkness covered him for a few moments. When he came to his senses again he saw a dark pit beneath him. Standing on a cliff surrounded by nothingness was not the most comfortable thing in the world. The pit was like without bottom. But the sound, horrible sound coming from it suggested that the bottom was there.

He heard sounds of something climbing the cliff, scratching sounds, claws on bare stone. The wizard didn't know what to do. He didn't feel anything inside him, no magic was there. This was the place of magic itself so it was like a normal world to him.

The sounds were getting closer, he could see the first shapes of things climbing the cliff towards him. He was scared, terrified, but there was nothing to do, no escape. Bodies, horribly twisted and misshapen were starting to appear from the dark pit. They were screaming, ugly high pitched screams. He listened and then; he realized � they were calling his name. The things, the demons knew his name. He was petrified by now. What did they want. They were just a few feet away from him, trying to climb, with the claws scratching on the rock.

Behind them more and more were coming, abominations that he couldn't look at. Suddenly it struck him. He closed his eyes. One of the creatures reached the edge and grabbed his leg, trying to pull him into the pit.

But all was going dark now, even darker than the pit was. After a few moments he was back behind a desk as he was before, with the peen still in his hand. He knew, the creatures he saw were his demons. He had to set them free. If not, they would pull him down, suck him into the pit and tear him apart.

He started writing again, putting demons out on the paper. He was feeling instant relief as they were pouring from his soul.

Yes, the writing is the releasing of the demons inside.

*The Wizard of Old smiles,...

comes solemnly to the Champion forum wearing his robes for the special ocasions. The long robes float around as he walks making an impresion that the old wizard is walking through the air. Then he stopes in the middle of the little clearing. He takes his old magic staff in his hands and looks at it with a long transfixed look.*

"I have this staff since I became an aprentice. And that is so long ago that I cannot remember how it was back then. I was young, hard to immagine but I was. Now I stand here 4000 years old and with all that is left from old days in my hands."

*then he takes the staff and with all the strenght he has stabs it in the ground.*

"I want that from now on my staff lies here. The piece of wood made of magic that saw what generations couldn't see. I want that it reminds all what today I will say here and that it becomes and example to others."

"Today my honored champions I wow before you and wow before my maker. I will strive only to make good in this land. I will only defend the poor. My knowledge will not be my sword, but a sweet pillow for those who need it, to put their tired head onto it. I will not argue anymore. My strenght, or at least what is leaft of it, can be put in better purposes. Whenever I will be needed I will be there. The messanger of justice and the voice of sanity.

Let the maker mark my words and if they are not true, may he take what he created back. With his own hands he made me and with his own hands can he destroy me.

From this day on the old Smile is dead. I mean dead in a way to make myself a better person. From this day on I will only be the hands of my creator, the hands wich will only help and the head that will never judge again. That was not my job earlier and it is not now. May the creator forgive my actions that were made before in ignorance. I Lared "Smile" Thornfinger wow to this."

*With this words he turns to others and speaks.*

"I hope you all are true to yourselfs. This staff witch has served me well will from now on be on this sacred field for everybody to wow upon the virtues. It will be a symbol of forgivenes, as I hope I was forgive."

*Then he slowly sits on a stone nearby deep in thoughts*

The forrest of Whitchery

Long forgotten lies the vast forrest, full of diferent fauna, on the verge of dreams. The forrest where morning haze greets only the dreams that are made there to haunt the living. The forrest that haunts me in my dreams and brings my longings from the depest pits of forgivenes and redemption.

The forrest in which I was born, the forrest of Whitchery.

Where dreams live all the time and where animals are better than humans. The humans, that lived there once were the children of magic, who were children of nature also. The bond was strong but their dreams left them, so they died. Now only their dreams roam the forrrest, the forrest of Whitchery.

The colors there are the chaos of thoughts that live in that dreams. Whispers can be heard by day and screams by night. Whispering, screaming to be released, to go home. But forrever will they roam through the forrest, the forrest of Whitchery. Condemned to eterntity and to the chaos of their own dreams. So colors are people there and they manifest in such feriocity that cannot be seen by an ordinary eye. The eye that can see there, is the eye of the gifted, the eye of the person who still has it's dreams and understands them.So it is and will be in the forrest of Whitchery.

Rain never falls for the grounds to drink and the sun is only a reflection under the tree-tops changing the colors to continue in their chaotical dance ....