Date: 2/9/1998 3:41 AM Central Standard Time
From: TreeFellr
She awoke to the screaming of her children. High pitched shrieks that shattered the stillness of the air, replacing serenity with the cries of fervent primal desire. Annoyed, she rose, craning her neck and looking into the dawn sky. The sun had not yet risen but the light slowly crept over the hills, chasing away the shadows and creatures of the night, forcing them into hiding for at least a littlewhile. Resisting the urge to nip at the tiny forms next to her she quickly scanned the forest floor below. Her deep black pupils dilated, contrasting brilliantly with the golden yellow of her irises. Nothing. Had she known how, she would have cursed. Her head swiveled and she looked at her crying children, knowing the task ahead of her and debating whether it would be worse to make the effort to leave or stay and hear that horrible screeching reverberate through her delicate ears. She shifted, raising a leg and setting it down upon the edge of her home, her insatiable children screaming unmercifully. Definitely better to go. With a resounding high-pitched shriek of her own, she stepped off of the edge and began to plummet towards the ground below. Tucking her legs back, she gave another outcry, rivaling that of a thousand children. She enjoyed doing this, feeling the onrush of air in her face, the cold ether flowing over her streamlined body. She opened her mouth slightly, the chilled air brushing across her tongue and into the back of her throat. Faster andfaster she dove, the ground rushing up to greet her at an incredible speed. And still she waited. It was a game. A deadly game to be sure but a game nonetheless. One miscalculation and she would hit the earth below. And she'd never walk away. Almost all creatures had their quirks, their idiosyncrasies; this was hers, this dance with Death, played out every morning, just because. Thus far, she'd always come out on top. This time she felt it. She felt Death's grasp tighten around her, drawing her close. If she could have smiled, she would have. This was the moment, the moment she loved. The moment worth all others. She was a creature of instinct, a product of instinct, and she knew that instinct would keep her safe. In a way, she felt sorry for Death. For her instincts were keen, honed, and they weren't going to fail her now. Her golden eyes began to close; the air coming so fast it hurt to keep them open. Then, all too quickly, Death's hand squeezed shut. Upon nothing. In that split second, that instant, she had saved herself, robbing Death of another prize. Now she soared, the ground below streaking by, her now elongated form creating a shadow that danced between the trees and the forest floor, a ballad of symmetry and form orchestrated by music only she couldhear. Her children were far behind her now but their cries still rang in her ears, reminding her of the work to be done. It was simple really. All she had to do was kill. At least that might appease Death, not that she was concerned about such a thing. She directed her eyes below, detecting no promising movement and indeed, no movement at all. So she screamed. Still nothing. She screamed again, eyes darting back and forth, scanning. She foundonly stillness. She drove herself higher, getting a wider view of the area, crying out as she did so. After sustained minutes of no success, she changed direction for no good reason other than her instincts told her to do so. And then she noticed something, not movement, but something potentially devastating and dangerous. Something worse than Death, something that she had an innate fear of, something that could destroy her family, her home, andher essence in a matter of mere seconds. Forgetting about her hunt but remaining cautious, she moved towards the smoke. Resisting the urge to shout out a warning to whomever would listen, she drifted silently and with no effort, gliding easily towards her destination. Her beady beautiful eyes fixated upon the gray harbinger, seeing nothing else but the steady plume. The smoke drifted lazily into the air; it seemed to be contained to a very small area. But she knew that could changefaster than she could ever react. And then she noticed something else-a clearing where a clearing should not have been. Emptiness where just days before she had secured breakfast for her children. Curiosity overcame her fear and she continued on towards the smoke. Soundlessly, she moved through the column and over the newly empty region. What she saw confused her; her mind processed images that, while somewhat familiar, made little sense. Whatshe had dreaded was present directly below the slow downward spiral she had placed herself in. But the fire was contained in a circle of stones and not raging across the forest, as she had feared. Strangely, there was plenty of movement but it seemed purposeless to her. No scampering and running for survival, no obvious direction. What was wrong with these animals? They were much too big to kill, let alone carry back to her children. Maybe theywere diseased, gathered here to die. She knew one thing above all else. She didn't like them where they were. So she screamed, never taking her eyes from the forest floor. Ah-ha! That caused something to happen. Now they were all looking up at her--perhaps she could scare them away and get on with her hunt. But no, they continued on with their aimless wandering. In a controlled descent, the very antithesis of her earlier plunge, she watched and waited, repeating her cries first of warning, then of anger. But they paid no attention and heeded hernot. Minutes went by with no change and feelings of powerlessness and frustration surged through her. Then suddenly, as if at the push of a button, she ceased her descent and with a final piercing yell, began to make her way back towards home. As much as she wanted to stay, she knew she had to leave, to focus on more important things. Her children once again became her first priority; her curiosity would have to be quelled. The queer and foreign situation that lay behind her could wait. For now. (Author's Note: This is a continuation of the story originally started in the "Trees Fall Down, Go Boom!" thread. I'd like to thank everyone involved in that effort for giving me a place to springboard this character and for providing a platform upon which I could build a storyline. I chose to make a new thread because I think the "Trees" thread deserves to stand on its own merits and who knows, maybe it'll get restarted someday. Again, thank you to those who helped set me on this path...I hope you enjoy what you read.)
Dawn of the New
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Ancient Cries
Date: 3/3/1998 12:35 AM Central Standard Time
From: TreeFellr
Night rain reluctantly gave way to morning mist creating a shroud, a veil over the forest. The nebula of masking clarity slowly expanded over the timberland, enveloping the intricate web of plant, animal, mineral and foreigner that somehow managed to keep from tearing itself apart from within. A source of beauty, a lure, an entrapment filled with treasures of innumerable value and certain death to those refusing or neglecting to show proper
respect; this and more found itself blanketed with morning dew, unable to resist and not wanting to do so. For in mystery lay survival and life, insurance of continuity.
The forest itself was still dark, the sun obscured by the stark overcast sky. The heavenly vault offered no joy or sense of security but only neutrality--uncomfortable silence revealing nothing of what would come in the next twenty-four hours. An observer might have claimed the forest to be somber and gloomy at this moment, grayish nothing surrounding everything, offering only silence to starving ears. The trees formed the only contrast, the
only defiant voice in the whole of the forest. The night rain slowly dribbled from their branches, from the deep dark green needles that stood out against the gray
sky forcing color and life upon the essence of pallidness. Each saturated branch rose towards the heavens, refusing to buckle or yield under the weight of the rainwater. They stood tall, proud, poised and defiant, rebelling against the lackluster morn. These were
the ancient, the last remaining evidence of days, years, millennia dead and gone. They served as evidence--evidence of the days that used to be, proof that there should be, deserved to be history. For they remembered what once was; how could they forget? They told their story with each sway, each movement in the breeze, each shedding of bark. They never ceased. Relentless in their desire to explain, to share, they recounted their tale over and
over again to deaf ears, to ignorance, to unwillingness to understand.
It was on mornings such as this that they ceased speaking and began to scream, to beg for something, anything to listen. They were crying, grieving, singing a song of mourning because they were dying. Fallen brethren lay among them; dead corpses littered the ground below unburied and rotting, their mission failed and their story untold. Those that remained stood as a testament to the eternal, living orators of an unfulfilled and unheard promise, a
legacy of what once was and what could be again.
To all this, Layne Jenkins was oblivious. He cut through the morning mist as if it did
not exist, his eyes selecting, his brain marking. Apathy was a weapon the forest could not fight, something it was unprepared to deal with. Layne cared not about stories and ancient tales, history or promises. What he saw now was what would not be in another day. He was the bringer of death--the onset of failure. He destroyed eons in hours, lifetimes in moments, all without a second thought. Now, he chose who would live and
who would die, unaware of the awesome power he wielded, not knowing what he was destroying.
This would be the final day at this site; tomorrow they would move the encampment deeper into the forest where older, larger, more profitable stock resided. Layne needed
to ensure that his men put out enough effort today to clear this area of as many trees as possible to meet the new company goals. Dawson's desire for a triple-yield crop more than annoyed the foreman but he and his men had been able to produce the necessary results thus far. How long they'd continue like this Layne didn't know, and that was part of the reason for the move. He needed to find the best of the best and he knew these specimens were far
from that. But they would do for one more day.
Layne moved through the camp, past the small cooking fire where Josey, Braxxx, and
a few of the other men were beginning breakfast. The generator thrummed quietly in the background, powering the lights and perimeter defenses. The tree-huggers still worried Layne and he hoped that the move would ease his mind. His thoughts began to wander, jumbled images of the past suddenly rose up, springing forth from the depths of his memories and he stopped moving. Later, he could not recall what he remembered or why, he just knew something
quite strange happened for reasons unknown. He never noticed Josey nudge Braxxx, he never heard the two men sling their snide comments his way. He remained as he was, timeless and almost supernatural, until his reverie was shattered by a primal animalistic scream. Layne immediately whirled around to face his men only to see they were as confused as he. The outcry sounded again, seeming to come from everywhere at once and then it was gone,
overpowered by steadfast silence. The men were confused; some were scared as they piled out of their tents, awoken by
the reverberations. Layne quickly barked orders, sending the men to work before they
let their imaginations get the better of their judgement. His eyes scanned the surrounding area but found nothing. Looking to the sky proved just as fruitless, a distant eagle the
only thing standing out against the colorless vapor.
First tree-huggers and now this. Layne frowned as he stalked over to the command tent. He'd have to try and not worry. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. The external would just have to wait. Twenty-four hours from now this place would be a distant memory--one of many Layne would love to forget. Bursting through the door, Layne picked up the microphone connected to the PA system and began to speak, issuing directives and
reminding the men to keep their mind on their work. Only a few hours old, this day was already too long for Layne's peace of mind. But he was here for work. Peace of mind would come later along with plenty of cash in the bank and ancient promises be dammed, he'd make certain he got what he deserved.
From: TreeFellr
Night rain reluctantly gave way to morning mist creating a shroud, a veil over the forest. The nebula of masking clarity slowly expanded over the timberland, enveloping the intricate web of plant, animal, mineral and foreigner that somehow managed to keep from tearing itself apart from within. A source of beauty, a lure, an entrapment filled with treasures of innumerable value and certain death to those refusing or neglecting to show proper
respect; this and more found itself blanketed with morning dew, unable to resist and not wanting to do so. For in mystery lay survival and life, insurance of continuity.
The forest itself was still dark, the sun obscured by the stark overcast sky. The heavenly vault offered no joy or sense of security but only neutrality--uncomfortable silence revealing nothing of what would come in the next twenty-four hours. An observer might have claimed the forest to be somber and gloomy at this moment, grayish nothing surrounding everything, offering only silence to starving ears. The trees formed the only contrast, the
only defiant voice in the whole of the forest. The night rain slowly dribbled from their branches, from the deep dark green needles that stood out against the gray
sky forcing color and life upon the essence of pallidness. Each saturated branch rose towards the heavens, refusing to buckle or yield under the weight of the rainwater. They stood tall, proud, poised and defiant, rebelling against the lackluster morn. These were
the ancient, the last remaining evidence of days, years, millennia dead and gone. They served as evidence--evidence of the days that used to be, proof that there should be, deserved to be history. For they remembered what once was; how could they forget? They told their story with each sway, each movement in the breeze, each shedding of bark. They never ceased. Relentless in their desire to explain, to share, they recounted their tale over and
over again to deaf ears, to ignorance, to unwillingness to understand.
It was on mornings such as this that they ceased speaking and began to scream, to beg for something, anything to listen. They were crying, grieving, singing a song of mourning because they were dying. Fallen brethren lay among them; dead corpses littered the ground below unburied and rotting, their mission failed and their story untold. Those that remained stood as a testament to the eternal, living orators of an unfulfilled and unheard promise, a
legacy of what once was and what could be again.
To all this, Layne Jenkins was oblivious. He cut through the morning mist as if it did
not exist, his eyes selecting, his brain marking. Apathy was a weapon the forest could not fight, something it was unprepared to deal with. Layne cared not about stories and ancient tales, history or promises. What he saw now was what would not be in another day. He was the bringer of death--the onset of failure. He destroyed eons in hours, lifetimes in moments, all without a second thought. Now, he chose who would live and
who would die, unaware of the awesome power he wielded, not knowing what he was destroying.
This would be the final day at this site; tomorrow they would move the encampment deeper into the forest where older, larger, more profitable stock resided. Layne needed
to ensure that his men put out enough effort today to clear this area of as many trees as possible to meet the new company goals. Dawson's desire for a triple-yield crop more than annoyed the foreman but he and his men had been able to produce the necessary results thus far. How long they'd continue like this Layne didn't know, and that was part of the reason for the move. He needed to find the best of the best and he knew these specimens were far
from that. But they would do for one more day.
Layne moved through the camp, past the small cooking fire where Josey, Braxxx, and
a few of the other men were beginning breakfast. The generator thrummed quietly in the background, powering the lights and perimeter defenses. The tree-huggers still worried Layne and he hoped that the move would ease his mind. His thoughts began to wander, jumbled images of the past suddenly rose up, springing forth from the depths of his memories and he stopped moving. Later, he could not recall what he remembered or why, he just knew something
quite strange happened for reasons unknown. He never noticed Josey nudge Braxxx, he never heard the two men sling their snide comments his way. He remained as he was, timeless and almost supernatural, until his reverie was shattered by a primal animalistic scream. Layne immediately whirled around to face his men only to see they were as confused as he. The outcry sounded again, seeming to come from everywhere at once and then it was gone,
overpowered by steadfast silence. The men were confused; some were scared as they piled out of their tents, awoken by
the reverberations. Layne quickly barked orders, sending the men to work before they
let their imaginations get the better of their judgement. His eyes scanned the surrounding area but found nothing. Looking to the sky proved just as fruitless, a distant eagle the
only thing standing out against the colorless vapor.
First tree-huggers and now this. Layne frowned as he stalked over to the command tent. He'd have to try and not worry. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. The external would just have to wait. Twenty-four hours from now this place would be a distant memory--one of many Layne would love to forget. Bursting through the door, Layne picked up the microphone connected to the PA system and began to speak, issuing directives and
reminding the men to keep their mind on their work. Only a few hours old, this day was already too long for Layne's peace of mind. But he was here for work. Peace of mind would come later along with plenty of cash in the bank and ancient promises be dammed, he'd make certain he got what he deserved.
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Words wasted?
Date: 3/3/1998 3:47 PM Central Standard Time
From: TreeFellr
((Author's Note: This letter appeared in The Duely Noted this month. It is not a post on the Board itself, but is placed here so those of you who do not read the paper don't miss out on anything.)) To the Editor-- I am writing to you against my better judgement. I know how you townspeople think, and it tends to be opposite that of the way my mind operates. Add to that the fact most beings I have encountered down there are so full of themselves that they could never possible be wrong about anything, and you can realize why I don't really want to do this. (I call them beings because some of them look like they came out on the wrong end of agenetic-splicing experiment). But I need to speak (write) my mind and this is the best was I have come up with to do just that. I work for the multi-million dollar Graf Corporation. Perhaps you have heard of it, perhaps not. It really doesn't matter. Anyhow, in order for me to do my job properly, it takes quite a bit of time and effort on my part to ensure that operations run smoothly and without incident. When this does not occur money is lost, time is lost, and unfortunately, people get hurt. And whose fault is it? Not mine. It's the dammed tree-huggers. What is it about the tree-huggers, anyway? I mean, ok, I understand that trees are nice to have around, I know they provide oxygen to the air and benefit the soil and landscape in ways I won't even bother getting into. But what do you think wooden homes are made out of? Malleable rocks? Sorry, wrong answer. How about paper? (And yes, I know all about recycling but think about what you're recycling…paper is paper no matter how you look at it). Scrolls? What do most people burn to make fires? These, and dozens of other things come from…that's right, you guessed it! Trees. And what's my job? I'm a foreman. I oversee the cutting down of trees so you people in that town can life out your lives in what some of you seem to call comfort. Now, I know this doesn't make me the most popular man in town and I could really care less. You people can yell and scream and hate me, that's fine. What's not fine is these little vigilante groups some of you have formed. And these are the people of whom I speak. You have aproblem with my work? Write your local magistrate or whatever it is you call those kinds of officials down there. Don't come up here and attack us and expect nothing to happen in return, like you have been doing. I have learned all I can thus far about one nameless group in particular, a group operating out of RhyDin, specifically from the Outback, the place where something called the Duel of Fists occurs. This little group, led by a big oaf of aman who has not yet mastered the art of speaking correctly (which, in my view just proves how low the intelligence of his followers are), has attacked my men not once but twice. The second attack left one of my men near death, not like any of you probably care about that. I won't hide my feelings. I hate the tree huggers. I think they're a bunch of extremist terrorists and I can't stand the lot of them. If people like me die so they can save one precious tree, well, suddenly that's ok. Murdering becomes part of the job and the end justifies the means, almost always in the name of justice. If that's the system you people operate under, I feel even sorrier for you than I already do. I have had men under my command die because of the tree huggers before and I refuse to let anything similar happen again. We are not bothering anyone; we are not harming anyone. If there was no demand for wooden products I would be out of a job and this letter would not be present in this publication. I merely help supply what the rest of you desire (and yes, I also know I am not speaking about every single individual…the "you" I refer too is a general "you"). If approached by rational people acting in a rational manner, we will respond in kind. If approached by violence we will also respond in kind. The forests of RhyDin belong to nobody…record checks have revealed that and believe me,we checked thoroughly. There are no pink slips, deeds, or other documents stating that the forest belongs to any groups or individuals. Therefore, our corporation has every right to its use as the rest of you. If you are not happy with this, that's fine by me. Stop buying the products. No more paper, no more fires, find a new way to construct your homes, it matters not to me. But don't go blaming us for providing what you use everyday without thought or question. I have a job to do, and not any one of you is going to prevent me from doing it. I simply won't allow it. That's not a threat, it's not a warning, it's a statement of fact. Do with it what you will. Sincerely, Layne Jenkins
From: TreeFellr
((Author's Note: This letter appeared in The Duely Noted this month. It is not a post on the Board itself, but is placed here so those of you who do not read the paper don't miss out on anything.)) To the Editor-- I am writing to you against my better judgement. I know how you townspeople think, and it tends to be opposite that of the way my mind operates. Add to that the fact most beings I have encountered down there are so full of themselves that they could never possible be wrong about anything, and you can realize why I don't really want to do this. (I call them beings because some of them look like they came out on the wrong end of agenetic-splicing experiment). But I need to speak (write) my mind and this is the best was I have come up with to do just that. I work for the multi-million dollar Graf Corporation. Perhaps you have heard of it, perhaps not. It really doesn't matter. Anyhow, in order for me to do my job properly, it takes quite a bit of time and effort on my part to ensure that operations run smoothly and without incident. When this does not occur money is lost, time is lost, and unfortunately, people get hurt. And whose fault is it? Not mine. It's the dammed tree-huggers. What is it about the tree-huggers, anyway? I mean, ok, I understand that trees are nice to have around, I know they provide oxygen to the air and benefit the soil and landscape in ways I won't even bother getting into. But what do you think wooden homes are made out of? Malleable rocks? Sorry, wrong answer. How about paper? (And yes, I know all about recycling but think about what you're recycling…paper is paper no matter how you look at it). Scrolls? What do most people burn to make fires? These, and dozens of other things come from…that's right, you guessed it! Trees. And what's my job? I'm a foreman. I oversee the cutting down of trees so you people in that town can life out your lives in what some of you seem to call comfort. Now, I know this doesn't make me the most popular man in town and I could really care less. You people can yell and scream and hate me, that's fine. What's not fine is these little vigilante groups some of you have formed. And these are the people of whom I speak. You have aproblem with my work? Write your local magistrate or whatever it is you call those kinds of officials down there. Don't come up here and attack us and expect nothing to happen in return, like you have been doing. I have learned all I can thus far about one nameless group in particular, a group operating out of RhyDin, specifically from the Outback, the place where something called the Duel of Fists occurs. This little group, led by a big oaf of aman who has not yet mastered the art of speaking correctly (which, in my view just proves how low the intelligence of his followers are), has attacked my men not once but twice. The second attack left one of my men near death, not like any of you probably care about that. I won't hide my feelings. I hate the tree huggers. I think they're a bunch of extremist terrorists and I can't stand the lot of them. If people like me die so they can save one precious tree, well, suddenly that's ok. Murdering becomes part of the job and the end justifies the means, almost always in the name of justice. If that's the system you people operate under, I feel even sorrier for you than I already do. I have had men under my command die because of the tree huggers before and I refuse to let anything similar happen again. We are not bothering anyone; we are not harming anyone. If there was no demand for wooden products I would be out of a job and this letter would not be present in this publication. I merely help supply what the rest of you desire (and yes, I also know I am not speaking about every single individual…the "you" I refer too is a general "you"). If approached by rational people acting in a rational manner, we will respond in kind. If approached by violence we will also respond in kind. The forests of RhyDin belong to nobody…record checks have revealed that and believe me,we checked thoroughly. There are no pink slips, deeds, or other documents stating that the forest belongs to any groups or individuals. Therefore, our corporation has every right to its use as the rest of you. If you are not happy with this, that's fine by me. Stop buying the products. No more paper, no more fires, find a new way to construct your homes, it matters not to me. But don't go blaming us for providing what you use everyday without thought or question. I have a job to do, and not any one of you is going to prevent me from doing it. I simply won't allow it. That's not a threat, it's not a warning, it's a statement of fact. Do with it what you will. Sincerely, Layne Jenkins