Horrify the Honorites - We DARE You!

[Dabria]

Honor members invite one and all to scare us senseless this Fall Fest! In honour (no pun intended!) of the season,( both in Trinald and that strange little planet we call Earth, which will soon be celebrating that strange tradition called Hallowe'en), we invite you to whip up your gruesomest, most horrific, gore induced fantasies in no less than five hundred words, but no more than one thousand.

Entries may or may not be written in character, and may or may not be in game related, or set in Trinald. That is your decision entirely. All we ask is that no more than one entry per player is submitted, and that all content is written whilst keeping Game Rules one, two and eight in mind, and conforming to them accordingly. (Please note, as in all good horror stories, there may be, at some point, the necessity for a character to engage in a fight sequence with the "bad guy" and we trust, should you feel that is necessary for your creative curve, you will do so appropriately. However, we must insist that the subject of "self harm" be not addressed at all.)

*The contest runs from now until Midnight GMT time (that is 7pm EST time, and I have no idea about anywhere else in the world, I am afraid!) on November 9th. Your entries may be edited as often as you like before then, but only those entries submitted before closing time and date shall be considered.

Prizes are as follows:
1st place shall receive 10 000 potions of their choice and 3 000 plat.
2nd place shall receive 5 000 potions of their choice and 2 000 plat.
3rd place shall receive 2 500 potions of their choice and 1 000 plat.

In addition to the above, all winners shall have a choice of the following items:
* A set of ten Weapon Primitives
* A set of three Invasion Ingots
* One treasure box.
* Reserve Stat +1 Scroll

The usual format for awarding these shall be followed. That is, 1st place gets first choice, followed by 2nd place, with 3rd place receiving the remaining item.

We hope you all have fun getting your creative juices flowing with this contest, and are really looking forward to seeing what the players behind the characters can come up with! If you have any questions, please feel free to either contact me in-game (char#:190200), or to post them here, and I shall do my best to answer them for you!

N.B: Those of you with characters guilded in Honor may not enter.

*Edited to extend the deadline, as there are a lot of forum contests running this Fall Fest, and we understand how difficult it can be to find the time to write for them all. Hopefully, this will give all those wanting to enter, ample time to do so.

[Kairiel Bosburn]

Cold Shores

Did you know Fartown's men and women, for all their brave and bold, have their childlike shiverings of tales? Heard one, passed to me by a fellow seemed old as the wind and creakier than mill rafters. Said that those strong would gather 'round wintertime fires. Share the fire's sparse warm, and one another's sparser. Tell tales to warm and chill, laugh and shiver. This was one.

There's a shore near Fartown that no one ever goes to. Some even'd rather walling off of it, and its accompanying grasses. The seas are rough there like the ferries could never run, and the grasses thick with smells that'd make a grown person lose their empty stomach. As legends tell, a retired adventurer used to live near there. Died with his blade in a demon's gut, and the demon's claws in his. Sea took 'em both away.

The grasses are ill there, like the shore, as I said. Those who brave to go find twisted fishy bits and cracked bones, sometimes. And every winter, on the eve' of that legendary anniversary of the warrior's death, an ill gale carries from there. Babes rouse from deepest sleep to dreadful wails, and 'venturers stir at a vivid rememberin' of every wound they've taken. Be it burning, scathing, blunting, or biting.

One of these nights, while babes and brave wailed as one, a young lad set out to that shore in determination. Hurried steps became slow ones, though, as he got nearer and nearer. But he took those steps, crushing over bone and dirt, and parted the grasses to the shore – waves en't yet reached for the evenin'.

Parted the grasses, and caught his breath. A slight, dark thing crouched on the shore there, with fishy-pale skin and a staggeredness like it might fall blighted any tick. Turned its head toward the fellow and bared broken needle-teeth in a smile. “C'mon, fellow,” it'd rasp. “Water's warmer than our blood will be.”

Fellow did what any fresh green lad would do. Ran like lightning-blazes. Murmurings followed 'em into the grasses. “C'mon, fellow. Warmer than our blood will be.”

Got turned about in the grasses. Those fields never end, eh? “C'mon, fellow. It's getting so cold.”

Came to a stop, breathless and heart a-drumming. “C'mon, fellow,” came the rasp from the grasses. “Water's warmer than our blood will be.”

He ran further, and the grasses parted. To the accursed, empty shore. Heard a cry from somewhere behind him, like some poor person struck. Bravery's an odd thing, and it drove him back into the grasses. All quiet, now – no murmurs, nothing. Perhaps a pitter-patter of little feet.

The lad searched for near a marc into the night, until he tripped upon a broken off tip of a blade. Flicker of something in the metal, though it was dark. He looked up, and maybe saw two dark shadows – one humanlike, one en't – tussling with one another. Blinked, and nothing. A murmurin'. “C'mon, fellow. Aren't you cold?”

Turned and ran again, and again to the empty shore. “Aren't you cold yet?”

Next day, adventurers went out in search of the lad. The search came up with nothing. Nothin' but bits of fishy flesh and snapped bones.

[Dabria]

Just a reminder that this contest is still open, and shall remain so until Midnight GMT (that is 7pm EST)November 9th.

I know it has been a pretty full on and intense time in forum contest land, and that many of you may feel creatively wiped out, but we at Honor would really love to see what you guys can come up with!

Remember it doesn't even have to be DG related, so pretty much anything goes. All we ask is that you keep game rules one, two and eight in mind when writing!

[Frohste]

Come on, now. I know some of you have something laying around you're just dying to publish.

[Dabria]

What if we offer you Talisk as your own personal slave for six marcs, as a prize option? Or is that just likely to put you all off, completely?

[Frohste]

What if we offer you Talisk as your own personal slave for six marcs, as a prize option? Or is that just likely to put you all off, completely?

[Achelle]

Lol I'm going to write something up for it in a day or two, I had very busy week so far

[Dabria]

See? Oh, ye of little faith, Officer type person, Frohste!

[Sehdae Ly]

/Horrific/ you say? *lifts one feathered brow slowly as a smirk slides into place* Surely I can come up something suitably Gorious and Horror-ful. I too have been otherwise occupied of late. *her head cocks to the side* I will set aside a marc or two to focus my efforts on an entry. *her pale eyes slant faintly, lids lowering to half mast, as her lips purse in consideration* I do hope you don't mind a little blood, eh?

[Frohste]

W00t!

[Dabria]

/Horrific/ you say? *lifts one feathered brow slowly as a smirk slides into place* Surely I can come up something suitably Gorious and Horror-ful. I too have been otherwise occupied of late. *her head cocks to the side* I will set aside a marc or two to focus my efforts on an entry. *her pale eyes slant faintly, lids lowering to half mast, as her lips purse in consideration* I do hope you don't mind a little blood, eh?

The gorier, the gruesomer, the bloody thirstier, the better! Scare me witless . . . I want my hairdresser to complain I turned grey too fast and she doesn't have enough colour to mask it!
You know, that kind of idea . . .

[Thorne]

A Crow of Murders

“Caww!” “Cawww!!”

It’s said that crows possess a vocabulary almost as extensive as our own. They express emotions, convey complex ideas, and vary their tones to mimic other creatures faultlessly. At this precise moment, two crows are arguing. One, its reptilian claws gouging hair and flesh from my scalp and right ear, suggests that its size and greater maturity, measured by the lack of pigment in its wholly black and pitiless irises, entitle it to the delicacy before it. The other, young and energetic, hopping back and forth upon the face of a man whose diseased and shredded lips were only inches away from my own, counters that as it had found it first, it had the claim. The prize: My right eye, which, for fear of losing the capacities of the rest of my body as well, I dare not cease its incessant stare into the cruel beaks that soon would puncture it and rip it from my skull.

Krohfendt Prison had been intended as an enlightened institution for religious rehabilitation. The cells of the tower jutted out in triangles from the cylindrical base to mimic the clerical architects’ stylization of Sunrifter. So that the incarcerated might never lose hope, a small wedge of thick-paned glass in the ceiling of each cell invited in the healing light of day. It was only after it was occupied that the wardens learned that bright wedge magnified ‘rifter to such an extreme that a man’s flesh would be permanently seared if it unfortunately lay in the wrong position at the wrong Marc. Scraps of cloth or paper might even ignite. Few were the Turns that passed when an inmate was not burned alive in his cell before the disinterested guards responded to his screams for help. For this and a melange of other reasons, the pile of corpses outside the tower never lacked for fresh additions, and the ever-present murder of black-winged scavengers bestowed upon the place its more common name: Crow’s Feast.

I’ve never missed anyone more than I miss that brigand whose bloated, bearded corpse had covered my own until a half-Marc past, when the peasant sextons had lifted it to their waiting cart. I had braced to be lifted next, willing my limbs to go limp, my breath nonexistent, when I’d heard the drawl of a passing, indolent guard sharing the scandalous gossip of the prison. For the night, that brigand had shielded me. Unwilling and unable to sleep in this decaying carrion bed, I’d listened to the crows tear each and every succulent morsel from his body. Rivulets of his blood and other fluids had run down to tickle at my flesh and I struggled not to shiver amid the cooling mound of humanity or retch from the mingling smells of burned hair and skin, evacuated digestive tracts, and open, rotting wounds. I cursed his soul then but now want nothing more than to feel his weight again as the crows savor the unearthed treasure of my untasted visage. Gods, not my eyes!

Thinking to myself that movement might attract their attention I dart out my tongue. The crow in front of me cocks its head following it in fascination. A tongue is muscle. Torn, it can heal. The crow on my head turns its attention to the conversation behind me, a rear talon finding a new soft spot on my unprotected neck to anchor itself. Yes, the sextons had heard about all of the guards’ throats being slit as they’d slept. Yes, they had heard of the fire. The dead prisoners were right here, weren’t they? No, they had not heard that the noses of the guards had all been cut off. Nor that the evidence was stored in the footlocker of the one called Pock, himself having lost his nose to a dog bite in his youth. He was missing too? Well, they speculated, it was an open and shut case right there. Plain as the… well, you know. The Imperial Guard would have him before too long.

Not so, I muse, pulling my tongue back from the thrusting black beak, bringing with it a fresh bouquet of decomposition with a hint of overwhelming repugnance. Pock, the sadistic brute had been in charge of my meals for Cycle upon Cycle and had never missed an opportunity to befoul them. I regret that his burned corpse was needed to occupy my former cell and therefore could not savor imagining his clumsy protestations of innocence as his former comrades, still burning with the mindless vengeance delivered to the land’s enchanters and their associates, crafted some creatively diabolical punishment for his savage crime.

Panic begins to swell within me as the crows’ cries crowd out the guard’s conversation. More feathered claimants arrive and a literal pecking order begins to form. How like the sounds of a mob they are, driven as mad as the insane enchanters who had terrorized and traumatized them all, pulling their own chosen victims into the streets for whatever pretense fit their rage. With one swing of my arm I can swat them away. Not my eyes! Gods above, please! But I dare not move or lose everything.

I feel it building inside me, my own protestation against it all, my fall from grace, my ultimate degradation. Louder than the incessant prattling of common gossip. Louder than the flapping wings now blotting out Sunrifter, my torturer and savior. Louder even than these black daggers, croaking their desire, closing in at last for my eye. Not my eye!

“CAWWWWW!!!”

The crows scatter at the intimidating bellow of the largest, most savage, and newest member of their murder in a confused flutter. Just as startled, the men cease their conversation. Muttering about wanting to be done before nightfall and away from here, they resume their various occupations, including lifting a hollow-boned scavenger into the back of their cart, both his eyes unblinking in search of the next opportunity.

(#74610)

[Frohste]

*peeks our from underneath her covers* Th..these t..tales have left me shivering with fright!! H...have we any m....m...more?

[Llyewell]

On Nightmares and Promises
from the private journal of Llyewell Loreweaver

Sometimes, even in these turns, I am asked for a tale. Someone will give me a thread, and ask me to weave for them. It does not happen even one eighth as often as it used to. Still, I have never turned a thread away, unless they ask for a true accounting of something I did not witness. I am, after all, a woman of my word.

Most of these tales have a lesson within them, some gem of brightness to be gnawed upon and savored. Something to bring joy to the turns and peace to the nights. Some small comfort in our lives; a talisman against nightmares, a seed for pleasant thoughts and pleasant dreams.

Nightmares are hardly scarce in Valorn. We battle walking horrors every turn, and see them again in our dreams when Demon Eyes keep watch over the lives of men. Some nightmares are universal, a shared fear deep seated in our hearts and collective conscious. Others are more personal, whether they are of feared futures or horrendous histories.

Some mornings when I wake, my mind is fogged with agony from my leg, rather than sleep. My thigh throbs in rhythm with my heart, so that my very life is measured in pain. Mornings like these, I know what I have dreamt, even if I do not remember dreaming it.

It means I have dreamt of a sound so loud it could be heard through my skull, rather than in it, drowning out even the terrible thunder that crashed all around us as if the world were ending. It means I have dreamt of watching my blood surge towards the rising water, mixing and swirling in a macabre maelstrom of claret and salt. I have dreamt of lightning turning the world white, as white as the rain-washed bone that thrust from my thigh. It is a selective club of us who can say they know the precise color of their own bones, some small few that knows what truly lies within.

If I have not dreamt of these things, then it means I have dreamt of the heat that imprisoned us after the storm, when every breath felt a struggle hard won and harder hauled. It means I have dreamt of puffy flesh, swollen and angry as it tugged and shrank back from the rudimentary stitches holding my leg closed. It means I have dreamt of the gagging stench that clung to my throat as I smelled my own limb rotting, watched green slime seep from my ruptured flesh and black disease work its way up my veins, branching out in deadly siege.

Some turns I wake up and my leg is quiet. Then I face a different sort of nightmare. I throw back my coverings and see the stunted ruin that is my leg, and know that I must once more ask it to support me as I rise. I will pull a dress over my head and strap my armor over it, gird myself for battle in the defense of my land and my people. I will ensure no one ever sees the disparity between my limbs, that no one will ever have cause to look from one healthy leg to its one-time twin, now grown withered and twisted. And with every hitching step, I will promise myself better dreams in the coming night.

I only ever break my word to myself.

#9772

[Achelle]

The Mistress of the House

She'd never truly love him.

He could see it in her eyes as he pulled the veil back and saw the bitter tears that threatened her eyes. It was no secret to him that her father had pressured her because his family was prominent but he never imagined to see her in tears so suddenly. Her lips were cold and lacked any reaction at all to his as they sealed their vows.

No matter, he thought harshly, She doesn't need to love me, she's mine now.

A mockery of a celebration followed; he knew that the guests knew that she didn't love him. They could see it as plainly as he could. She half-heartedly thanked everyone for their presents and presence before the 'celebration' drew to a close.

During the cycles that followed he was intent on ignoring how miserable she was and she was just as intent on suffering through it all with as few spoken words as possible. She was left to her own devices for most of each turn, losing herself in the books in the massive library in his family home.

The servants whispered, as servants do, that the new Mistress of the House was miserable with her situation. The first servant that spoke too loudly of it within earshot of the Master of the House was whipped. Forty lashings: a punishment that only the oldest servant in the house could even remember having ever been dealt before.

Fear hushed the servants quickly as the young man was dragged out to the stables and stripped of his shirt. The stable master sputtered at the orders his Master gave him and, even under threat of forty lashes himself, he refused to mark the skin of one of his fellow servants.

Unfortunately for the stable master, the Master of the House wasn't one for empty threats. The crack of the whip brought the sound of screams and ripped flesh to the once silent morning air. The sounds carried as far as the house where the servants huddled and shook, afraid to leave their stoop until the lashings stopped.

Eighty were dealt in total with the help of a cruel and miserable old sod who so with glee that even made the vengeful Master of the House shudder in appreciation. He had never seen such life in the old man's limbs as when he split open the skin of his fellow servants. The miserable old sod practically jumped in the air with glee and squealed in delight as he dealt the eightieth with as much vigor as the first. The miserable old sod hung the whip up reluctantly and hobbled back to the house as if the life itself in his bones were exhausted.

Hushed words were spoken again among the servants, this time of the lashings two of their rank had endured. This time they were so concerned with not being heard by the miserable old sod and their Master that they hardly noticed the Mistress of the House turning an ear their direction as she read her books quietly.

The young man that had been taken to the whip was so freshly marked that it wasn't difficult to see it from the way he slumped as he worked in the library. The pain could be see flickering across his face with every heavy tome he lifted as he cataloged and sorted.

They had spoken a few times before, mostly about books; and the young man was never as hesitant to speak to her as he was that time. She had to invoke the power of her title as Mistress of the house for him to speak to her of what happened and why he slumped so.

Despite the fear that gripped the young man he couldn't deny the Mistress' request to look after his wounds. A clean cloth, a gentle smile, and kind words were all she knew how to use to try to ease his suffering.

As she tended to the young man's wounds, across the house her husband was furious. The miserable old sod had chanced across the Mistress of the House tending to the young man and was more than eager to twist what he saw. To tell him how she was smiling, for the first time since she entered the house, as she spoke to the man.

The Master of the House had contented himself with the fact that she would never love him, that she would live in his house like trophy on the wall. But the miserable old sod knew how to spin a deceitful tale and by the time the Master of the House reached the two of them he was blind and deaf with rage.

The miserable old sod's tongue and mind were both sharp and quick, but paled in comparison to the Master's dagger. As he stormed into the room he drew the blade and as the Mistress of the House turned to him, he drove the blade straight between her ribs and pierced her lung before he set upon the young man.

The Mistress of the House could taste blood and she felt as if she was slowly drowning in the taste. The miserable old sod's gleeful laughter rang in her ears and the Master's blade glistened with blood as he slit the young man's throat, letting his body crumple to the floor.

He turned to her and leaned down, raising a bloodied hand to brush her hair from her face as he spoke to her. “I knew you'd never truly love me.”

[Skyelark]

My entry is written in similar rhyming style to The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe.


The Fey

Walking late upon this night, endarkened moon a frightful sight,
Paying no heed to shadowed obstacles along the worn pathway,
Upon a branch I stumbled and fell, upon the ground to wait a spell,
And heard by chance the moaning, groaning coming from skies so grey.
"Only the trees" I thought, "bowing in the winds fearsome display-
Only the trees, and nothing more fey."

Bitter chill clung to cloak and hung in my throat to choke
Away the warmth of the tea from the cafe,
And as I stood and stumbled along peering about for some hidden wrong
I wondered what chance had led me so far astray.
Unusual, for me, to take the less traveled way,
Hopefully, this decision brought nothing more fey.

Shadows leapt and curled, as around me darkness swirled
And I stumbled - no I ran - like the lions prey.
Uneasiness morphed to fear and struck my heart like a spear,
And without notice from the path I did stray,
While to all known gods I began to pray
"Please, please don't let me be taken by the fey."

Then mocking laughter rang aloud while painfully my heart did pound
And I stopped, and ungainly my knees did splay.
I whipped around my head, pushing away the sense of dread,
Looking around for the figureless voice their presence to betray-
While deep inside I quaked and hoped this wouldn't be my last day,
That I wouldn't become a sacrifice for the fey.

But no apparition showed and no further laughter crowed
And I began to hope this wouldn't end today.
Suddenly, looking around unsure, my location I tried to secure
Determine where I'd gone so far astray-
Figure out why the land was darkened with decay,
Hope I wasn't in the hills of the fey.

With a tentative first stride, then growing desperation with no guide
I tried to find my way out of the clinging grey.
But there was no road, panic did my confidence erode
And I whimpered, with dread the unnatural silence did convey.
Eerie, unnatural silence, as I wandered like a stray,
A dinner beacon for the fey.

With a sudden flash of white I turned abruptly to my right,
There! Pointed teeth sparked bright as day!
And hovering over that jagged grin, in the darkness green eyes lit from within,
And the outline a shadowy shimmer of the fey.
Oh how I wanted to run away,
But I was pinned in the green glare of the fey.

And then my panicked heart, did betray and fall apart,
Mocking laughter, my soul to flay.
Darkness enshrouded, my mind crowded,
Crowded, full and ringing with the feys delightful soiree
I could do nothing but to the laughter obey
And faint upon the ground before the fey.

To warmth I woke, confused by the smell of smoke,
For some reason the scent a welcoming bouquet
But soon with remembrance I jumped, opening eyes and peering stumped
At what looked like my humble home down upon the bay.
"Rest easy now" a kindly man, gently did he say.
"Found you wandering alone in the hills of the fey"

Still with fright I let him soothe, drank the tea and told the truth
About the frightful night within the grey.
Soon enough he safely left, my heart thumped as I bereft
Of human comfort, huddled, falling to sleep halfway.
Trying, mostly failing, to not replay
My worrisome venture with the fey.

Lightly as my eyelids close, suddenly my mind was froze
When by my bed a bright green glimmer did I survey.
Fear crawled up my spine, unable to move laying supine
I could not push the lowering teeth away.
So sharp the pain as I watched my own red spray,
Watched my own bubbling life feed the bloodstained lips of the fey.

[Dabria]

Just a reminder that there are only four and a half hours left until this contest closes (and none of you, thus far, are making it easy on us, thanks!).

[Frohste]

Oh my gods, so many fantastic writers! This will be a tough decision, indeed. You guys rock!

[Pallas]

Evil 'midst the Trees

On dark nights when people gather at an inn or around a fire to pass a few marcs telling tales, you might sometimes hear whispers of an abandoned cottage in Verthedge forest. You may be fortunate enough to hear someone relate the full tale ( I've written below how I heard it told ) of a cottage which is sometimes there, other times not to be found. Not all who roam the forest see it, not all who seek find it and gain entry... and those who fail are the fortunate ones.

Long time ago this was, long before there were so many people about. Two brothers - don't know the names, those are lost in the past - roamed the lands for a while and eventually decided to settle in Verthedge. You have to understand the forest then was even wilder than now. Wolves roamed, hunting other creatures to be found there, and vultures fed on the remains. Bushes and weeds grew all around, strangling the trees that tried to burst through to meet the light of the 'rifter. And everywhere, massive stands of thistles grew.
The brothers built themselves a cottage, and took to caring for the forest. They looked after the trees, thinning them so that some could grow straight and strong and tall, and they cleared the underbrush that tried to hinder the trees' growth. Under their care the forest flourished. They worked with plants and flowers, breeding the best and most beautiful, experimenting with crossing different ones to produce ever more exotic blooms.
I can't say what happened to those two men. Over time their minds ... changed. They saw the forest, the trees they'd nurtured, the blooms they'd created, and it must have seemed they hadn't done enough. For cycle on cycle of the 'rifter they'd worked looking after, and experimenting with, strains of plants and flowers. Maybe it was solitude. Maybe it was some influence from the Dead Zone, or the baleful effect of increasing numbers of demons infesting the forest. Whatever the reason, their thoughts and their work took a darker, more evil direction as they changed their experiments, turning their attention to other creatures that made a home among the trees.
You can maybe understand why they'd want the thistle banks to just move away of their own accord, to save the work of cutting them down and so on. But how can a plant walk unless you breed it to have legs? Or you maybe somehow join it with another being that already has legs ... and why, as the forest got busier with more adventurers exploring were there so many reports that some just disappeared? And the wolves - they just got bigger and bigger. Smarter too. Almost as if they'd been given a better brain than a wolf should have. They hunted the forest more cunning than before, catching demons and dragging them back to the cottage to feed, once the brothers had taken what they needed. And the vultures grew too. Maybe because they had more to eat. And maybe for other reasons, who can tell?
Anyhow, what with the breeding, and the demons taken to the cottage, the disappearance of adventurers and the ever-wilder experiments, that part of the forest changed to a foul, blighted place. The brothers rarely left, staying inside and working - always working. Their minds lost touch with reality, and the reality they made for themselves was dark and twisted and evil, full of blood and torment.
One day a traveller- scared half out of his wits he was - came to Dundee, telling wild tales of a cottage in the forest filled with rotting body parts, the walls spattered with blood, and two bodies inside. A few brave souls went to investigate, admitting on their return that what they'd seen left them retching and trembling 'til they gathered the strength to run. Those crazed brothers must have tired of experimenting on animals and whatever adventurers passed by, and each seen the other as a good test subject - and during whatever confrontation had ensued, they'd hacked each other to pieces.
Since then the cottage seems to have faded from the sight of most, but from time to time people report that they've seen it, and tell of dark mists, and screams, and a crushing feeling of sheer dread. A half-dozen people thought to find the cottage, burn it down and put an end to things. After a cycle of the 'rifter they'd not returned, and a second party set out to discover what had happened. They found the cottage ... and they found just a hacked-off hand holding a quill, resting on a piece of parchment on which was scrawled 'gods help us ... they're here ... '

They say that those two brothers, whose work began so well and gave us the magnificent forest we now see, became turned and twisted somehow. They're not remembered for the gift they left us - only for a cottage shrouded in darkness and doom, thankfully rarely seen. And they also say that the good a man does dies with him - but evil acts, and their consequences, can remain with us. Forever.

[Frohste]

*wonders how she'll sleep tonite after reading the rest of these tales* "Not peacefully," she says aloud....