Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Hansjet????!!!??? OH LOL LOL LOL!!! *rolls*
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Little Ole Me, Asthma Attack Included, - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 18:55:20 (PDT)

Correction made.
Ready to fly!
D.o.C.

DOC--Hansjet "at the ready". Merci. Mercy!
R
In cuffs, as usual! , - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 17:34:42 (PDT)

Scene: Hans. That doorway.

Essential to me. You are. And will always be.

Never for a moment has he fooled himself into believing that Renie would stay quietly at home, while events were unfolding at the Palace....

There has been a Hansjet at the ready since the proceedings began. Although he has not told her….

From her desk, Renie feels his eyes upon her. It seems a shame to break the spell of the moment, but there are things a woman must do . . .

Hans slides across the study floor, and she feels his fingers against her neck. His touch. His unmistakable presence.

Then, his voice. "Have you finished?" Vinished.

She is filled with love for this man, ready to forgive her for her paths of folly even before she is ready to run down them, heedless of the dangers.

"Meine liebe, is there anything you wish to tell me?"

She still has not turned to look at him.

"Do you mean, before I go?"

"Ja."

"Yes, Hans."

R
MA--LOL!, - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 17:33:07 (PDT)

Errrr . . . the whole THREAD was a real laugh riot . . .

MA
The insidious influence of The Interrogator . . ., - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 17:22:11 (PDT)

Hi, all--

This was over at Republic of Pemberley and I just had to import it here. Someone started a thread about how Jane Austen characters would fare as professional wrestlers, and here are the relevant portions:

"Colonel Brandon would be a force to be reckoned with, I think. Sure, he's getting on in years and has a bad shoulder, but he's a man of strict discipline and principles, and no doubt took his army days very seriously. No doubt he is still very much a soldier. A fiver either way on The Flannel Waistcoat."

[Insert--thirty-five or so is "getting on in years"?! Oh, well . . .]

"Willoughby is utterly out of his league. He's little better than Wickham in the personal character department, but he has no experience in this field. He's a poor little rich boy, and his social graces and knowledge of sonnets won't help him here. Also, there's a good chance he'll meet Brandon in the first round... He. Is. Toast. Five pounds on the Wildebeest, to lose."

The whole threat was a real laugh riot. "The Wildebeest . . ." *snorfle*

MA
Go choke on an ortolan, Mister I!, - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 17:20:58 (PDT)

And mine, as well . . . .
Mr. I
- Friday, May 31, 2002 at 16:49:30 (PDT)

Christopher, you know very well your wife knows her own mind....and yours as well . . .

Renie
Barbara---LOL!! *huge wicked grin*

, - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 16:48:32 (PDT)

FoF Sets
Day Five of the Investigation

A brief flashback continued ...
"Davin Wattson?" Claudia repeated. "Name doesn't ring a bell."

Keene looked up at her. "Wouldn't expect that it would, ma'am. He was employed here a few summers ago, as part of the Director's intership program for students."

"Soooo?" Claudia asked. Ed leaned over and whispered in her ear. She turned her head to look at him, eyes flashing. "That's him? That little rat-basta --" Ed covered her mouth with his hand and smiled at Keene.

"So why'd he steal from us?" Ed asked.

Keene smiled. It was an unpleasant smile. "I made a few phone calls before calling you down here. Seems our boy here works for Ellenef."

Claudia pulled Ed's hand away. "Ellenef?"

"L & F Studios."

Claudia scowled. "You mean he's working for the competition?!" Hands on hips, she spat up at the monitor, where Davin Wattson was frozen in black and white. "You -- you ungrateful, you --....." she sputtered.

Ed scratched his head. "Looks like he's been around a bit. Where's he been on set?"

Keene frowned. "Look what he's holding. He's been everywhere, even the new Hogwarts sets."

Claudia leaned forward eagerly. "Is he still here?"

Keene smiled, again, most unpleasantly. "Oh, yes. That's why I called you. He's up outside Barbara Vanders' office, trying to jimmy the lock." He grinned. "I keep sending someone through there every minute-and-a-half, but he keeps going back." He clicked a switch and the monitor changed to live feed. "Barbara's got something in her office he wants."

Claudia turned to Ed with hungry eyes. "Let's go get him," she said.

Ed grinned and nodded. They left the office, wind at their heels.

Keene chuckled. He picked up his radio. "Donut, Donut, this is Coffeepot, over."

"Reading you Coffeepot, this is Donut, over." The voice crackled from the radio.

"Donut, I've got two cups of coffee heading your way to pick up that Twinkie, over."

A second of silent appreciation. "Roger that, Coffeepot, two cups of coffee. Will they need cream or sugar, over?"

"Give them a minute or two with the Twinkie first, over."

"Roger that -- 60 seconds with the Twinkie. Out."

Nicholas Keene, Flights of Fancy security chief, put down his radio with satisfaction, watching Claudia and Ed make their way through the hallways to the Set Design department. He watched his officers pull away from the hallway, watched Wattson pick the lock on Vanders' office. Watched Claudia and Ed wait for Wattson to emerge and tackle him in the doorway. Watched the office door slam shut.

Then he cursed as he saw Barbara hurry up the hallway, pause to read the post-it and unlock her door. He reached for his radio and dialed the Director's pager number simultaneously. "Move in, move in," he barked to the radio. "We've got him, sir!" he said into the pager. Then he bolted from the room.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Renie -- where does it all lead? You know, I often thought that about the Egdon Heath storyline.... ;), - Friday, May 31, 2002 at 13:50:14 (PDT)

Bev, To answer your question, yes, anyone can write. I know I lurked for awhile first and its a good idea to check out the Who's Who that Claudia has put together. You don't want to accidentially steal someone's character. Welcome.
Cindie
- Thursday, May 30, 2002 at 19:41:42 (PDT)

He gathered his strength mentally and physically while standing up, trying to stabilize on the ground. After a slight wobble or two he picked the limp girl up in his arms, and groaned. I really should be working out more often, I don’t think I can manage this… Lucas lifted a foot and stepped forward, staggering, and took another step. He had no idea how he was to get home, and his mouth was leaking like a broken water faucet for a cool drink. His white shirt was now that of a pale brown color, smothered in dirt and sand. The two looked like shipwreck survivors placed on a deserted island, barely managing to keep alive. Poor planning was the major factor here, and though Lucas prayed that the soft trickle of a stream or riverbed would call to his ear, he found none to behold. One more step, then another. It was impossible to keep going. He dropped Diane with a THUNK to the ground and just stared at her for a moment or two before himself toppling over sideways.

" CUT!!!" yelled The Director from the sidelines. Diane squared open an eyeball to glare at a cheesy smiling Lucas.

" When The Director told you to drop me, HE DIDN’T MEAN THROW ME!!!" She stood up, brushing some of the dust from her clothes. " You have NO CLUE how SORE my back is now, thanks to you!"

Lucas ignored Diane, comb in hand and trying to fix his honey hair that had gone astray. " May I recommend some Tylenol then."

" Let’s just hope we don’t have to retake THAT scene mister, or else you’re gonna have to stuff me with a pillow!"

" Then we’d have to change your name from Diane to the Goodyear Blimp."

Diane’s eyes went from their soft gray-blue to a fiery blazing red. Hands on hips she marched right over to him and was about to retort when a tap came to her right shoulder.

" Ms. Ferra… someone is here for you…"

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Oblivious to the world, - Thursday, May 30, 2002 at 15:19:15 (PDT)

Colonel, what a terrible thing to say about your wife.

:D

Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Thursday, May 30, 2002 at 12:50:34 (PDT)

If it is any reassurance whatsoever, Mrs. Gruber, I would venture to guess, though not to much to say, that not even Mrs. Brandon knows what goes on in that pretty little head of hers. . .

Your servant and trusted friend,

Colonel Christopher Brandon
- Thursday, May 30, 2002 at 09:22:53 (PDT)

"Dearest, you did know what you were doing, when Mr. I was trailing those fingertips of HIS, along the path of Brandon's kisses, didn't you?.....*yow*."

Ummmmm . . . no, Dearest, what was I doing? ;-D

MA
I see that Hans is as scrumptious as ever. 8-9, - Thursday, May 30, 2002 at 04:27:55 (PDT)

Can anyone post a story?
Bev <Beverlydiane515@yahoo.com>
- Wednesday, May 29, 2002 at 14:50:46 (PDT)

Scene: Books.

Then, as we pull back, shelves of volumes, old and new, in English, French, Italian, and an extensive collection in German.

The volumes are not lonely parchment, however, as the three connected rooms of the Library are nearly filled with sculpture both European and American, textile pieces from Japan and Indonesia, and paintings of oil from classical to contemporary. The casual guest would find them interesting and lively; the art scholar would find them rare and exciting.

The Library of a sumptuous home.

And just off the Library, a doorway to a small study. Petite, but only by the standards of this house.

In the doorway of this study, a silhouette of a man.

The man of this house.

Lean. Tall. Shoulders. Powerful. His back to us, his dark grey suit set off by the sunlight from the study which edges its contours.

He does not speak a word. But looks. Silently, he loves her from the doorway.

Does every man wish only for a woman like this?

The woman he sees before him does not turn her head; she is busy writing. Her desk, at the large windows which overlook part of the gardens. Where she can enjoy the roses, especially transplanted from Delaford, under the detailed guidance of Chance. Hans remembers her conversation with the gardener, her scornful admission that she lacked any talent for tending. Standing amidst the flowers of Delaford, shaking her head in her self-scowl, her beauty had gripped his heart.

Sometimes, to look at her, fully in the face, or standing before him, was too much. Such moments are difficult to explain if you have never felt them. The feeling that before you is someone who is--separate from you, but also part of you. Essential to you. And that he, or she--is yours. The sheer miracle of it. Which comes upon you and stops time and thought. Leaving love only.

R
- Wednesday, May 29, 2002 at 11:11:53 (PDT)

"The pounce all in his posture." Yum, Cindie.

Dearest, you did know what you were doing, when Mr. I was trailing those fingertips of HIS, along the path of Brandon's kisses, didn't you?.....*yow*.

Barbara--where does it all lead?
R
- Wednesday, May 29, 2002 at 09:39:15 (PDT)

Okay, Barbara, I tried twice, with caps and without. If you don't get it, can you email me? Sorry to bother everyone with this.
Magda <mgrantwich@yahoo.com>
- Wednesday, May 29, 2002 at 06:59:21 (PDT)

Sure - I'll just copy and paste it from the archives - how many times have I told this story now? ;^D I should know it off by heart. OK, OK... if I don't post by the weekend - I expect you all to e-mail me with a telling off... or offer of bribes, whichever you think will work!
Claudia <claudia@paradise.net.nz>
- Tuesday, May 28, 2002 at 20:42:12 (PDT)

Somewhere in the Palace:
The TARDIS:

“What is he doing here?” Claudia demanded, one hand on a hip and one pointed at Anton Gruber.

Anton stood up immediately upon Claudia’s entrance and executed one of his courtly bows, only somewhat abbreviated. “It is good to see you, Miss Claudia. I trust you are well.” The unspoken, And one might ask the same of you, hung in the air but was batted aside by the Doctor who managed to place Claudia in a chair and thrust a cup of tea into her hand before seating himself between the two potential combatants. Anton had no desire for tea but sipped it after resuming his seat and regarded the woman across from him over its rim. Her distrust was palpable and Anton wondered what he had done to deserve it or, perhaps more pointedly, what she had done that would render him a potential enemy. General guilt on her part seemed likely. In Anton’s presence perhaps a very specific guilt. The last association Claudia had with his family was her manoeuvering at the hospital. The test results. She had tampered with his grandson. Not literally, perhaps, but she had made a joyous but naturally somewhat worrisome time for his son and daughter-in-law more stressful and riddled with a pain they should not have had to endure. HE had no place in his son’s happiness. Anton thought in passing of his desk as well, sent to replace the one Hans had destroyed in a moment of vented frustration, but did not wish to dwell on that. It made him think of Cynthia and he did not wish to do that just now.

The desk. Hans was not one to do anything by half measures and his love for his Renie was an exceptional representation of that truth. Hans’ rage at the mere fact that HE had intruded again upon their lives was to be understood. That Antonia’s desk was the recipient of the violence and not Claudia was a fortunate result of the geography involved. Claudia had not been there; the desk had been. Anton quelled his own reaction, he was here to seek answers, not vengeance. He still hoped that she was not truly lost to them, yet Claudia had clearly done HIS bidding. The *why* was still the unanswered question and therefore he would suspend any action or reaction until it was answered.

Claudia seemed to sense his train of thought and her glance darted from Anton to the Doctor warily. The Doctor smiled benignly at her and sipped his own tea. Claudia attempted to appear nonplussed by the situation but her tea cup clattered violently when she returned it to the saucer.

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t hate me.” She couldn’t stand pretence and wasn’t about to sit here sipping tea and pretend that nothing was wrong.

Anton was as smooth as one would expect, “I’m not going to pretend anything. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“I’m tired of explaining myself, nobody listens to what I have to say anyway.”

At this the Siberian tiger unsheathed a claw. Just one claw, but it was enough to chill the room by degrees. “Your petulance has no effect upon me.” He leaned forward in his chair, the pounce all in his posture, “You switched the test results so that it would appear that HE was the father of my son’s child, my grandchild. You will tell me why.”

Cindie
Scraping myself up off the floor to post. A better offer, indeed. . .
CLAUDIA! (sorry about shouting but I want to make sure I have her attention) You do remember how to do this, don't you?, - Tuesday, May 28, 2002 at 18:06:21 (PDT)

Magda -- didn't get a thing.... try the one listed here.
Barbara the W <barbara(underscore)the(underscore)w (at) yahoo (dot) com>
- Tuesday, May 28, 2002 at 15:35:11 (PDT)

FOF set:

"If I may remind you, Mary Anne, this scene was your idea . . ."

Well, yes it was," admits Mary Anne as she continues to free herself from the fake restraints. "But I thought it was necessary. I mean, how are we supposed to know what is going through The Interrogator’s mind without a scene like this? Otherwise it’s just HIM lying on the bed with HIS eyes closed." A demure smile. "I hope you don’t mind, Mistral."

A raised eyebrow. "Are you suggesting, Mary Anne, that my dramatic skills are insufficient to convey what HE was thinking?" he teases. "As for whether I mind . . ." He rolls his eyes and Mary Anne cannot help giggling. "As if every man on the premises wouldn’t be beating down the door to do a scene like this with you. That CLOSED SET sign is out there for a reason, you know."

Mary Anne gives a little stretch, rotating her wrists and ankles as she basks in Mistral’s compliment. "Well, it’s not as if I’m not covered up." With a mischievous grin, she plucks at the stretchy fabric of her flesh-coloured body stocking. "Though I admit it doesn’t look it!"

"It most certainly doesn’t. Costume got a good match on your skin tone this time."

"Poor things. Most fabric shops don’t carry White As A Ghost, or Victorian Pallor . . ."

"Mary Anne."

"All right, all right." Mary Anne covers her face to ward off Mistral’s glower. "But Christopher’s not here-and he won’t know anything about it, unless you rat me out!"

"What if I told you he’s right outside the door?"

A look of dismay from Mary Anne, as she glances down the length of her seemingly unclothed body. "He isn’t, is he?"

"What if he is?" grins Mistral. "It’s not as if you’re not covered up."

"Not covered up enough for him," retorts Mary Anne, sliding off the table and hastily donning the dressing gown draped over her chair. "But seriously, is he--?"

Mistral leans against the table, his manner elaborately casual. "I heard he . . . took it upon himself to make certain this closed set remained closed, especially against certain cast members." A look. "Valmont was lurking around earlier."

"Oh." Instinctively Mary Anne tightens the belt of her robe and tucks the collar closer around her throat. "Well, that was very sweet of him, I’m sure . . ."

"So, would you like to see him? Are you covered up enough for him now?" Smirking, Mistral makes as if to move toward the set entrance, but stops when Mary Anne springs forward and grabs his arm.

"No, I am NOT covered up enough for him, you bad man, and you know it! Listen, if Cindie were in this get-up, do you suppose she’d think she was covered up enough for you?"

Mistral turns toward her, still smiling, but Mary Anne doesn’t miss the spark that kindles briefly in the depths of those golden eyes. "Sometimes," he answers, "a suit of armour wouldn’t be enough."

"You understand, then, why I don’t wish to make things . . . difficult . . . for Christopher?"

"I understand. You are not trying to drive him out of his mind-it just happens, doesn’t it?"

"Something like that." Mary Anne sighs. "Poor man."

Mistral is suddenly there, in her space, a hand’s breadth away. "He is not poor, certainly not for loving you. Stop saying those things, Mary Anne. Even if Brandon is not here, I am, and I don’t like it."

"I don’t care for it myself," puts in The Director as he passes by with a fistful of script pages.

Mary Anne waits until his back is turned before sticking out her tongue.

The Director’s voice floats back to them. "I saw that, Mary Anne!"

Instantly, the tension dissolves between Mary Anne and Mistral as they both fight to keep from laughing out loud. "How does he always know!" gasps Mary Anne, her face flushed with repressed giggles.

"He’s been dealing with you for a long time. He’s probably developed radar by now."

"Maybe." Mary Anne lowers her voice. "I tell you, Mistral, he’s been hovering over me ever since that bad spell I had in my cube."

"He was worried about you. We all were."

"Yes, but he’s still watching me like a hawk. He counts my work time to the second, I believe, and he wants to know everything I eat-why, just yesterday, I was in the cafeteria eating a salad and he came in and strolled over to inspect my lunch. You’d think he’d be glad to see me eating something healthy, but no, the man rummaged my lettuce like he thought I might be hiding chocolate chip cookies at the bottom of the bowl-"

"Good heavens, the woman has had her lettuce rummaged. Is nothing sacred?"

"Ha, funny man." Mary Anne takes a playful swing, which Mistral easily dodges. "I’ve seen the way you put together a salad. Why don’t I rummage your lettuce sometime, and see how you like it!"

"Now that," ripostes Mistral with a comical leer, "is probably the best offer I’ve had all week."

"Oh, is it? Maybe I should mention that to Cindie-I’m sure she could make you a much better offer."

"No doubt she could."

A silence falls. Mary Anne looks up into Mistral’s eyes, and they are as pleasant as ever, but somehow shuttered, guarding his secrets even from such pleasant banter as this. Feeling as though she has come very near the edge of something, Mary Anne turns and picks up her script, leafing through it. "So, we don’t work together again until the trial, do we?"

"Not unless you write another scene like this-hint, hint. Though I’m surprised at The Director doing this out of sequence; aren’t you supposed to still be shooting with Suzanne and Brandon and Rupert?"

"Oh, didn’t you hear? Rupert strained an ankle in rehearsal. He wanted to go on; he said it wouldn’t matter, since he’s supposed to be limping anyway. But The Director wouldn’t hear of it, so Rupert’s resting up with an ice bag on his ankle, and we-" A twinkle. "-get the honour of a closed set a few days early."

"It was my pleasure, Mary Anne."

"And mine, Mistral."

One corner of his mouth curves up. "Good . . . then my alter ego has done HIS job well, hasn’t HE?"

"Doesn’t HE always? And so do you." That smile, all sparkle and bewitching sweetness. "I’m quite sure you could have conveyed all this by just lying in bed with your eyes closed-but this is much more fun, don’t you think? I’ll see you at the dailies." And Mary Anne is gone, hurrying for her dressing room.

Mistral, watches her go, then turns back to the bustle of the set, deliberately keeping his eyes from the table and the set of loosened restraints, lying there empty . . .

A better offer, indeed . . .

MA--size XXL this evening. I got started and just couldn't stop!
Hope everyone has had a good Memorial Day., - Monday, May 27, 2002 at 19:59:40 (PDT)

I normally stick to the regular GB but thought I'd check this one out tonight. Haven't a clue what's going on here. Loved the segment narrated by the cat, though. Jutta, I'd really like to read your Snape thing straight through from the beginning. Please email me if you remember the dates you posted (but I'd settle for the date of the first installment). Thanks.
Anne/Manhattan <agilhuly@gibsondunn.com>
- Saturday, May 25, 2002 at 03:38:29 (PDT)

Dear FoF Members (yet again), I have made my decision: I will be staying. I apologize if I was offensive in any uncertain terms, for I did not mean to be. I understand that many of you are busy with your own plot lines and stories, and I accept that. I suppose I'll just wait a little bit more, or see what I can come up with. Thank you for your consideration.
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Dug Out of My Hole, - Friday, May 24, 2002 at 19:24:15 (PDT)

Barbara the W: I just sent you an email to your hotmail addy; hope it's still good.
Magda
- Friday, May 24, 2002 at 17:48:13 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Security Office
Day Five of the Investigation

A brief flashback...
Claudia stood, hands on hips, tapping her toe. "Nicholas...." she said, warningly. "What did you want to see us about?"

Ed stood behind her, peering interestedly at the monitors.

Nicholas Keene, the stocky little Security manager, held a hand up to her and finished writing in his book. "Had to log you into the room," he said, and spun the book around. "Please sign here." He pointed to an empty space next to Claudia and Ed's names. Claudia leaned over the desk.

"Hey, how'd you get Ed's last name?"

That got his attention. "What?" Ed asked.

Claudia pointed to the logbook for the security room. "He's got your last name down." She glared at Nicholas. Ed frowned.

Keene glared back. "The Director gave it to me, when he told me to work with you two. He said you were investigating the thefts from the FoF side."

"Oh." Ed's quiet response mollified Keene.

"Sooooooo," Claudia said, "what did you want?"

"I want you to see who came in today," Keene replied and flicked a switch. One of the monitors cleared and a security tape began to play.

A skinny figure walked down the FoF hallways, his arms full set pieces. It was a random jumble, from just about every set currently active. There was a piece of Egyptianesque statuary, an Ormulu clock from the Palace, the Doctor's teapot, a Quaffle, and something else Claudia couldn't make out. She turned to Keene.

"Who's that?" she asked.

But it was Ed who interrupted. "How did he get in here?" he demanded.

"Walked in the front gate with an ID card and a wig on."

Ed looked amazed. "An ID card? What does it say?"

"Watson. Davin Watson."

Ed nodded. "How elementary."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
It heats up!, - Friday, May 24, 2002 at 12:44:39 (PDT)

To Magda- Thanks for the compliment.... But what I 'want' is simple: I want to be able to interact with the other authors. I've been trying and trying to be able to contact them, I even sent some of them e-mails!, but I never get a reply. And what is that? How about you tell me...
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Whoever just posted the 'audience' thing... maybe your right... , - Friday, May 24, 2002 at 12:27:25 (PDT)

To Diane: It seems you really need to lighten up and get a life. Many of the authors here have been going for years and know one another well. And even the newcomers can just accept the fact that either they need to write solos, or just be patient for a place to emerge. If you don't feel comfortable being the age that you are, then I say go away and find a place with people more your age. Stop trying to be someone you aren't, for, at least this is what I am interpretting from your recent posts. I'm sure there are many other places out there that would welcome you with open arms, but not here. Take your leave, or stay and shut your mouth.
Audience
- Friday, May 24, 2002 at 12:14:36 (PDT)

Diane: (the sequel)

Although I'm not sure why anyone who can write as well as you do when you're really cooking wants or needs help from anyone else.
Magda
- Friday, May 24, 2002 at 11:53:42 (PDT)

Diane:

Perhaps it would help if you gave us an idea of what you mean by "fitting in". We are not unfriendly to young people; we had someone else of your age here not too long ago and although we've lost her because she went over to the Dark Force (she saw Lord of the Rings and went orc-y), we gave her a lot of help and encouragement. But we had to know what she wanted from us first. We can't read minds and like most people, we're not too good at hints that aren't explicit. So tell us what you want from us and let's see what happens.
Magda
- Friday, May 24, 2002 at 11:52:23 (PDT)

Diane

I'd like to add to Chris' comments with a few of my own.

She's quite correct in saying that those of us who are new to FoF (comparatively -- May is my 1-year anniversary!) have to find our own way in. It's a slow and careful process.... I've found it's a lot easier to pick my own AR character and write a separate story.

The interweaving that goes on here at FoF has been quite un-intentional (except for the Missing Laptop and Files Investigation, which is a plot I'm running and everyone has been kind enough to refer to). I have my characters mention Mary Anne's or Cindie's or Sandy's and they write their characters making mention of mine.

Just seize your Muse from the available AR characters (see the list on Claudia's page) and run with him :D (no, that wasn't what I *meant*)....

We're not really writing a great big story together, for each author's work can stand on its own -- with the possible exception of Mary Anne-and-Renie's Egdon Heath storyline. It's just that together, it's richer and deeper.

Please don't think we're shunning you, Diane. We're not. I know I'm waiting to see where you want to run and see if I can run beside you.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Still working on the adventures of Barbara and Phil and Miles and Ekaterin, - Friday, May 24, 2002 at 06:46:14 (PDT)

Hi Diane, I understand that you're feeling a little down at the moment, but what you have to realise is that people aren't intentionally being difficult to you, they're just very involved in their own plot-lines at the moment. The ones that are working together have been doing so for quite some time, or have introduced themselves in the fringes of the main story and gradually become involved in what was going on.

Personally I thought it would be best to start off a lone story as an introduction to myself and my writing ability (or lack thereof), to see which of the others might be suitable for a collaboration later on, or to see where my story might take me one day. Not everyone has writing styles that merge well with everyone else, and it's important for me to find a collaboration that would actually work, rather than just collaborating for the sake of it. As we interact 'off-set', I don't find that this is limiting or lonely at all, although it might help if I actually posted occasionally! Sadly I have a real case of real-life-itis at the moment, and just don't have the time to dedicate to writing something that's worth posting.

Right, I shall get off my soap-box now, and go back to eating my lunch! Oh, and for those that actually enjoy my writing, I promise I'll get back to it soon. For those who don't, well, just keep scrolling past it :o)

Chris <why1040@aol.com>
Munching lasagna as I type, hope no one minds garlic!, - Friday, May 24, 2002 at 04:53:48 (PDT)

Dear Members of FoF,

It has come to my conclusion I am not welcome here. My writing feels less than appreciated. I love FoF to absolute death, and have even spent hours every night reading the back issues. What you don't realize how HARD I am trying to find a place to jump in, to meet everyone, to stop being alone. I don't know about the bunch of you, but I am SICK AND TIRED of being shoved away like a rock on the side of the road. I love Alan Rickman and writing fan fiction just as much as you, but when you try to be noticed and for months have not, you start to feel a little bit depressed. So here, I am saying it now. I am most likely going to leave FoF and rid you of me, since I seem to be so dispicable. Maybe it is just that you really didn't want a 13 year old in your group, but I thought you might have the kind heart to overlook that and see beyond. Like I said, I love this site with all my heart, all the characters, all the authors, etc. But I am sad, and once again, what ever I try to do, I'm always kicked aside. Claudia said to me, " Wait a little bit and see. Soon you'll fit in." Well, I've waited months, and not one thing is different. I know you all couldn't possibly understand what I am saying here, but whatever, forget it. And goodaye.
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
In A Dark Hole, - Thursday, May 23, 2002 at 18:53:23 (PDT)

Paragraph added.
I'm ready... I... I think...*trembling*
D.o.C.

Darn it. DoC, please put a paragraph break between the heading and the first paragraph. Thank you in advance.
Magda
- Tuesday, May 21, 2002 at 15:10:31 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

"Do try the pork, Lady Marion. I think you will find it most appetizing." Joya signaled to the serving man carrying the platter and he staggered up to the table to display the meat. "The marinade is a recipe of my own devising. It's one of George's favourites, isn't it, George?"

I set my knife down on the tablecloth and nodded. "It is indeed." Joya smiled approvingly at me and turned back to address another comment to Lady Marion.

I had to admit that the dinner was going better than I had expected. Joya was doing a superb job of keeping everyone happy, largely by keeping those likely to clash far away from each other. Locksley sat at the far end of the long table with Marion and Joya between the two of us. Lady Suzanne and Lady Christina sat on my left, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Between answering their questions, cutting their meat and keeping their trenchers full, I was too busy to pay attention to much else. The seating arrangement had another advantage as well: it kept Lady Marion's attention away from the Lady Suzanne.

It became apparent as soon as we were all assembled in the hall. The ladies from Poitiers swept into the room looking completely rested and quite lovely. As the only one in the room who'd met them it was up to me to facilitate the introductions and I duly escorted them around the room. The reaction of the Locksley's was most interesting. I realize he only did it to show me up but still, you would think that two people who could go on and on (and on and on) about their mutual devotion might have a bit of trust in each other. But apparently not. From the moment Marion laid eyes on the new arrivals from Poitiers and watched her husband bound across the room to bow low over their hands with a great show of friendship, she'd been in a state of heightened suspicion.

Lady Suzanne was everything that was noble and courteous, responding to Locksley's gesture with a deep curtsy and gracious thanks. Lady Christina followed suit. He beamed at both of them, smiling broadly and asking them several questions about their trip, their accommodations (as if I'd put them up in the stable or some such place) and their impressions of England. He'd kept up a stream of inanities until we'd taken our places to eat.

From where I sat I could see Marion darting pensive looks at our end of the table. I couldn't help but contrast her attitude with Joya's. Joya had greeted the ladies with calm serenity and regal bearing. She'd worn a most simple gown, a deep peach that emphasized the incredible blue of her eyes and gave a golden glow to her tawny hair. She looked magnificent and it wasn't just me that felt that way: both Lady Suzanne and Lady Christina were wide-eyed as they greeted her and Christina almost forgot to curtsy. Joya smiled warmly at both of them and urged them to consider the castle their home for the duration of their stay. They thanked her breathlessly.

"Tell me, Lord Nottingham. How does your pastureland drain in these parts? I had some problems with that in Poitiers last year and I am not sure that we arrived at the best solution."

I choked slightly on my wine, dragged back to the present by the question. Lady Suzanne waited for my answer with interest. I wracked my brain for a semi-coherent answer. "Oh, I have never heard any complaints from my herdsmen." That at least was true; I'd have had them flogged for bothering me with any complaint about anything.

"Really? You must tell me how your people handle the problem, then." She turned to Lady Christina on her other side. "So what did you think of my future husband, Chrissy?"

Lady Christina crunched her slice of turnip thoughtfully before responding. "He seems nice enough. But he already has a wife. Did King Richard get confused?"

"Well, to tell the truth," I smiled warmly as I topped up their goblets. "There are a few details King Richard didn't reveal to your uncle, Lady Suzanne."

Her eyes glinted and the polite visitor's smile vanished to be replaced by a slight frown. It was a little unnerving to see how fast she could revert to the de facto ruler when she wanted to. "What kind of details? Financial? Is it about my dowry? Or the settlements that I expect from my husband?"

"No, no, no. Nothing about money, I swear it." I waved her concerns away with my free hand. "In fact, it's nothing about you at all. It's Locksley's situation the king wasn't exactly forthcoming about. You see, Locksley is indeed married to the Lady Marion and he'd like to keep it that way. The two of you actually agree on that issue."

They both stared at me with round eyes. I sipped some of my own wine, considering how much to reveal. The danger of an international incident was uppermost in my mind. I decided to wait and see how Lady Suzanne responded before saying anything more. For some moments she didn't say anything. I got the impression of a powerful intellect being brought to bear on an unforeseen circumstance. I was reminded powerfully of my early discussions with Joya.

"So I am not to marry Lord Locksley after all?" Her brow furrowed, she gazed at me steadily. "I do not wish to be difficult but I must insist on some kind of explanation."

"Of course you must. But unfortunately we're going to have to wait until the king gets here since he's the only one who can provide one." I gave her my most sympathetic smile and inched my chair closer to hers. "I would advise you not to worry about it for the next few days. In the meantime, there are other things you should think about. After all, you're getting married. You need someone sympathetic to take you firmly in hand and train you in your new responsibilities. And I am the perfect person to educate you on those - as well as on other things."

"What other things?" Lady Christina leaned across her friend to ask.

I settled myself more comfortably in my chair. We were completely ignoring the rest of the room by now. "To start with, there are many local customs and activities I would enjoy introducing her to."

"What kind of activities?" They chorused in unison. Marital matters seemed to have been suspended for the moment.

"I was thinking in particular of those activities that she would meet when she became the wife of one of our local magnates. After all, marriage is a big step. Lady Suzanne will have different duties to perform than she's accustomed to." I topped up their wine again; they didn't notice. "I'm not sure exactly what King Richard has planned but we'll assume for the moment that she will indeed be marrying somebody."

"You are all that is kind, Lord Nottingham, but surely we cannot expect you to take time out of your day to cater to my education." Lady Suzanne smiled.

"On the contrary, my dear lady, there is no one in this shire better equipped than me to teach you everything you need to know." I leaned forward, they followed suit so that the three of us huddled as if to impart great secrets. "I can impart the benefits of my years of experience so that you'll know how to conduct yourself as befits a lord's wife. To some extent it's all a matter of social give and take. You have to know when to take the initiative and when to lay back and let someone else have their way. And even in those contexts, there are a variety of techniques that can be utilized to ensure the greatest possible satisfaction to both parties."

"You are so right, Lord Nottingham. Isn't he, Chrissy?" The ladies exchanged quick glances and returned their attention to me. "I am sure there will be a great adjustment. I was really the ruler back in Poitiers and it will take some getting used to when I'm simply a wife. I suppose you did the same for your own lady wife?"

"She already had a great deal of experience when I met her." I slid my finger up and down the stem of my goblet. "But I think it's fair to say that we've pursued further studies together since our marriage and to our mutual benefit."

"Then I am most delighted to accept your offer." Lady Suzanne beamed at me. "I have no doubt that I am putting myself in good hands."

"You are indeed, my dear." This was going splendidly.

"That sounds just wonderful." She glanced at her companion and back at me. "Can Chrissy come too? We do everything together and if I'm going to learn new things then she should be there too. She'll get married some day as well, if we can find a good man."

I admit that I had to pause to make sure my voice didn't tremble before I answered. "Lady Suzanne, I can truthfully say that there is nothing that would bring me more pleasure than to have Lady Christina join us. I believe I can handle both of you. So by all means, let her be present."

They clasped hands happily and smiled at each other and then at me. I smiled back and congratulated myself on a successful plan. Joya would be proud of me, I was sure. An image of the three of them flashed into my head; I closed my eyes and fought the rising heat.

"Can we start right away? I'm sure there's a lot to learn." Lady Suzanne's voice broke through the haze in my brain.

I opened my eyes again, blinking in the candlelight. "That is a good idea. Perhaps we should have a further - private - discussion later tonight so I can fill you up - er, fill you in on how we're going to proceed. In your room? Just the three of us?"

"Yes!" Lady Christina nodded vigorously. "Right after dinner?" Lady Suzanne added hopefully.

"As soon as we can slip away after dinner," I raised my wine in salutation to both of them. "We'll shut ourselves in your chamber and get started. I won't pretend it will be easy. There's a lot to learn and by tomorrow morning you will both be completely exhausted. This I promise you."

Magda
Get ready to tingle, Suzy, - Tuesday, May 21, 2002 at 15:09:26 (PDT)

Uh... was that Mary Anne who just posted? (not mine, the one before) Or, someone else? *goes instantly red*
Little Ole Me
*the famous cheezy smile*, - Sunday, May 19, 2002 at 20:27:16 (PDT)

With a lurch Lucas fell to his knees, white shirt and black coat tampered with sand and dirt from the wild ride. The top button popped off, placing itself right upon Diane’s neck. He placed a finger down upon it, to pull it away. Then, smiling, he thought of a rather amusing idea. (At least to him.) Sleeves rolled up and hair flinging in all the directions, Lucas bent forward and kissed the button, and, her neck. He ran soft fingers through her hair, and traced one all the way down her cheek. But, she still did not awaken.

Lucas pulled himself up, and bought out the canteen again. It was empty, at least almost, but used the last few drops to pour down her throat after opening her mouth. He even poured a drop or two on his pinkie, and in bringing it down, ran it along the line of her chapped lips…

Diane still did not move, and at once he was alarmed. He was sure she was only just sleeping, but gasped at another more horrid thought. He took her hand and checked for a pulse. Sighing with relief, he kissed it. She was still alive. Weak maybe, but alive. But without food or water, things could be as dark as a thundercloud over the Pacific Ocean…

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Mary Anne- Velecroe (ok, so what I don't know how to spell it?) manacles??? But... anyways... to your recent post...LOL, - Sunday, May 19, 2002 at 20:24:18 (PDT)

The Interrogator’s dark fantasy . . .

Through HIS eyes: Mary Anne, wrists and ankles immobilized in heavy restraint cuffs, lies helpless before HIM . . . helpless, but obstinately silent. She will not yet give HIM the satisfaction of whimpering and struggling.

Yet.

HIS gaze lingers on her gleaming skin, her body draped here and there with a few wisps of gauzy fabric that lure and beckon even as they conceal. In time, all shall be revealed for HIS delectation. But for now, HE is content to contemplate the white curve of a shoulder, the shadowed hollow at the base of the throat. Oh, and there, that agitation that betrays a frantically beating heart.

Those defiant eyes of blazing blue.

HE can no longer resist the impulse to touch.

One fingertip only. Then, two, sketching a pattern across her face in deliberate parody of Brandon’s kisses-a touch first upon her forehead, next brushing across her eyelids before travelling lightly to her lips . . .

The Interrogator frowns at her, shaking HIS head in silent rebuke, until she stops biting her lip-but now that mouth is set in lines more challenging than ever. Not being a man to resist that sort of challenge, HE resumes HIS explorations . . . until Mary Anne can no longer keep silent . . .

The Interrogator leans over her, filling her vision with HIS fierce golden stare, and her eyes close-whether in terror or abject surrender, or both, is anyone’s guess.

HIS fingers sink deep into her soft, perfumed hair as HIS lips claim hers . . .

"Cut!"

At the signal from The Director, Mary Anne raises herself on the table, rolling her eyes as she flexes a wrist and rrrrrrrrrrips herself free from a velcro manacle. "Mistral, I think you were enjoying yourself way too much!"

"I?" Mistral grins back. "If I may remind you, Mary Anne, this scene was your idea . . ."

MA--following up a mischievous idea. ;-) Borrowing the velcro manacles from Therese . . .
Poor Phil! If he loves Barbara, he'd better speak up. And way to go, Claudia and Ed!, - Sunday, May 19, 2002 at 19:43:14 (PDT)

A soaring hawk landed, perching upon a rising red rock cliff. The stallion had slowed greatly, and both rider and beast were panting heavily, tongues hanging out the side like two dogs on a summer’s day. Lucas’s canteen is now dry, and he has been riding all through the night, and now, it is the dawn of the new morning. He was so exhausted that he leaned to the one side, eyelids half-way shut, and an arm reached over down so far it was only inches from the sandy outback floor. His mind urged to stop for a rest, to sleep, but his heart told him to go on. Something said that he was near.

And he was.

There was no greater site than the picture he saw of a limp fragile body cascaded on the sand, a silhouette before the morning sun floating up from the east. He faintly smiled, and dismounted, stumbling greatly. He had found her. He had found her at last.

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Uh.... sore from rollar coasters and go carts... uh..., - Sunday, May 19, 2002 at 12:38:43 (PDT)

FoF Set
An Employee Lounge:

“What are you going to do now that you’ve got my character having tea with the Doctor and an unsuspecting Claudia blithely walking in?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea, Anton. I’m all up for suggestions if you have any.”

“You’re the writer.” The Germanic tones wafted over the newspaper he held neatly folded in front of him. Cindie had watched him read the newspaper for the last ten minutes, completely absorbed in his technique. The man could fold a full sized paper down to a manageable size and manoeuver its folded incarnation so as to read the thing without any of the sprawl she always found necessary. Besides which he looked extremely appealing peering at her over his silver framed reading glasses.

“Not today. I haven’t an idea in my brain.” Actually, there was one niggling idea that had formed itself, but it had nothing to do with work. Not the work part of work anyway. “Do you have any plans for this evening?” The nonchalant tone she was hoping for didn’t come off and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular.”

“Liar.”

Cindie chuckled. “As a matter of fact, yes. But you’re not supposed to notice.”

Anton smiled, “You are asking me to go too much against type. Who is she and have you asked her about me yet?”

“No. I haven’t, that is phase two of the operation. I’m not match-making you understand.” At his look she continued, “Just a date, you know, talk, find common ground, have fun. . .”

“You know,” he set aside the paper, folded his glasses, placed them in his case and slipped them into his breast pocket, “it doesn’t seem that long ago I was watching two co-workers of mine and speculating on their romantic futures. Perhaps its only fair that I allow one of them to have a go at mine.”

Cindie listened placidly until his meaning sunk in, “Oh!” After a moment’s pause, she said, “you were speculating, eh? And what, pray tell, did you conclude?”

“Merely that it is always intriguing to watch two people dance around what seems so obviously right to an outside observer, and,” he continued candidly, “that it is especially intriguing when one of them is not exactly known for their warm nature.”

“Shows how much you know.”

“I said known for, not unpossessed of. Besides, maybe I was talking about you.”

The pillow sailed into his chest with a nice thump but did no damage. “So, with whom do you think I should go out, talk and find common ground?”

“Barbara. She’s wildly talented, interesting to talk to and very lovely.”

“You don’t need to convince me, Miss Vanders is assuredly eye catching. But isn’t she with the hair dresser fellow?”

“Phil? No, I shouldn’t think so. She’s been trying to fix him up with every eligible female she can think of. I think they’re old friends but it doesn’t seem romantic.”

“Isn’t it terrible the way people try to engineer dates for every unattached co-worker?” His mock serious tone earned him another pillow in the chest.

“Should I ask if she’s interested or not?”

“Not that I am incapable of asking a woman out on my own accord, but heaven forfend I should deprive you of your attempt at match-making. By all means talk to her.”

“Just keep your dance card open.”

Cindie
Yessss! Don't let him get away guys..., - Saturday, May 18, 2002 at 18:28:38 (PDT)

O’Hara sweated profusely as he shouldered the wagon for the third time out of an overlarge drainage hole. His boots slithered on the loose shale sending a shower of stones over the edge. Aware that Sinclair hollered for more effort, he had ceased to listen but moved rhymically with the sway of the wagon.

One .. Two … Three Arm muscles tighten hard against the roll of his shirtsleeve before he allowed the energy to burst forth with the final HEAVE. For some reason in the light headiness of overexertion, the loose fitting tweed suit, the Missouri train ride and the steer on the line came to mind. He was shouldering the animal and worrying about his clothes.

The Conestoga lurched forward.

O’Hara let out a loud bellow, “Tomorrow’s dinner” and fell to his knees, much to the amazement of Dana and Claire who were intent on securing the wheels against more slippage.

Claire looked into the blue sky. Having first consumed the morning mist the sun had reached its pinnacle, boring down pinning them under it’s rays, busy ants under a giant micorscope.

“Dana, fetch the water. I’m calling a noon stop before PL hallucinates more meals.”

Claire
- Saturday, May 18, 2002 at 06:19:50 (PDT)

Diane’s eyes suddenly flutter open, and rubs them swiftly to clear her blurred vision. But the picture does not barely break into clear… it remains fuzzy and unsteady. She shifted to the side, but let out a small woe of pain. She does not try to move again. Diane can scarcely turn her head to the side, and touches the ground. It is not sand. A faint clicking is heard in the background, or we should say the foreground, because it came from in front of her. Her eyes grew wide and dark, mouth formed round as a cylinder, and tried to let out a gasp. Nothing was said. For there, standing before her, was a figure. All she could make out was one smooth h*nd, and a silver thermos…
The-Now-A-Teenager <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Ok, now, don't freak out, it isn't what you think..., - Friday, May 17, 2002 at 17:12:12 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Four of the Investigation

Barbara pulled the post-it note off her door. Call me ~ Cindie She stared at it a moment, puzzled, then shrugged. With a rattle her keys, she unlocked her office door and flicked the light on. And stared.

A familiar skinny blonde boy was pinned to the floor. She'd last seen his face on transparencies the two detectives had shown at the General Meeting. Two adults held him down, as he bucked and writhed.

"Claudia?" The woman turned her head. She was sporting a bruise on one cheekbone. "Ed?" He looked up -- there was a contusion starting on his chin. "What the hell is going on here?"

Barbara the Wallpaperer
*maniacal laughter*, - Friday, May 17, 2002 at 12:41:26 (PDT)

Robin Hood : Prince Of Thieves "I'll tear your heart out with a spoon!"
Bee <ye_eejit@hotmail.com>
My fav line ever!, - Wednesday, May 15, 2002 at 03:06:21 (PDT)

Hans Gruber, after falling from the window of the sky scaper, picks himself up, and wipes the dog cack off his expensive suit. Brushing the broken glass out of his beard, he stands upright and smiles malevolantly. Walking slowly, he gets into an abandoned police car and drives away. However, the car is completely out of petrol by the time he reaches the edge of the car park! the End
Bee <ye_eejit@hotmail.com>
- Wednesday, May 15, 2002 at 03:02:30 (PDT)

A trio of fat gray squirrels hit the hard packed ground with a soft thud. PL accepted a cup of coffee and Dana's good morning kiss with a self-depreciating shrug. "Not much to show for over an hour of bushwhacking. I've never seen undergrowth so thick."

"Never mind. We have carrots, potatoes and onion; it will make a fine stew." Cold biscuits with honey joined the cup of coffee in PL's hand as Dana spoke.

"Did you see any bigger game out there?"

PL's pride in his tracking skills and ability to provide fresh meat had suffered today. He blew out a sharp breath. "There's plenty moving around in those trees but I can't see any distance through them. It's like hunting in the dark once you step off this trail."

It was a dim, filtered excuse for daylight through which the two wagons lumbered forward that morning.

Dana
- Monday, May 13, 2002 at 06:39:52 (PDT)

Imperial Palace, The Interrogator’s cell:

She is gone.

After Mary Anne had made her departure, The Interrogator had moved back across HIS cell-almost stumbled, deserted by HIS customary grace-until HE had struck the bed and half-fallen onto it. Neither sitting nor lying, HE had remained there, rigidly propped on HIS extended arms, for what seemed . . . An hour can seem like a century. She never spoke a truer word . . .

Except, perhaps, for the ones she had spoken to HIM, just now. And that she had won the battle with HIS own words-it is from this The Interrogator recoils, drawing a deep breath and tightening HIS muscles, as a man might flinch from the flick of a whip.

One hand on HIS chest-yes, the heartbeat has slowed to normal. Her Majesty will not be cheated. The Interrogator’s fingertips pass back and forth over those thin white scars as HE settles back on the bed, thinking on what has passed between HIM and Mary Anne. Her news had been a surprise, though HE had suspected something of the sort-the transfer gone wrong explains a great deal. Gone wrong for me, but not for her. She had the Timelord’s help.

A considerable shock, to be confronted with her abilities. HIS own abilities. What she had done with her voice-it was beyond anything HE could have expected, and judging from Mary Anne’s response afterwards, it had come as a bit of a surprise to her as well. Her sharp retort-"But now, I can"-a disguise for her appalled recognition of her . . . potential.

HE smiles thinly. And potential is what it shall remain. She lacks the necessary ruthlessness to hone that potential to the deadly weapon it could become. HE, on the other hand, is trained. Practiced. To strike with VOICE alone . . . to call on reserves of speed and strength, using various muscle groups at maximum efficiency . . . maintaining stamina with conscious control of breathing . . .

Ha. If you are so well-trained, then why is your heart beating so fast? Again?

The question is easy to answer. None of HIS training, thorough as it has been, can quell HIS imagining of what it would mean to have Mary Anne completely within HIS power. HE has had such opportunities in the past and foolishly wasted them, allowing them to slip away . . . but suppose, just suppose, HE should be given another opportunity. To have her with HIM, trapped beyond hope of rescue, hidden from all who would interfere, Brandon safely dead . . .

The Interrogator’s brow creases. No. Not dead, for then she would despair. And HE would want her to care what becomes of her. HE revises the thought. Brandon locked away, perhaps, and this time there would be NO opportunity for the Colonel’s escape. So long as Brandon lived, Mary Anne would hope . . . and hope is something HE could use . . .

The Interrogator settles back on the bed, closing HIS eyes, giving in to the fantasy HE is so carefully constructing. It will help to pass the time, at least.

Mary Anne. Restraints? At first, perhaps. Let her lie helpless as HE examines HIS prize. Let her wonder, as HE looks at her, whether HE intends to take vengeance for The Valley of the Moon. Let her see HIS face, and be able to make nothing of HIS expression . . . a sort of wistful pity, for HE would know what is going to happen to her. (homage) One corner of HIS mouth lifts in a cruel smile. It would drive her frantic with anxiety-and that, before HE even touched her.

Touching her. All in good time, reaching out to caress that white smoothness with no more than the tip of a finger . . .

Again, The Interrogator refines HIS speculations. Some few garments there must be. Leave something to the imagination. And something to . . . take away . . .

MA--one whole, functioning, deadly unit, indeed. Looks as if HE is about to be very rudely interrupted!
Good to see you, R, dearest. And Cindie--told you I'd get into mischief; hope I'm not carted off by the D.o.C. (Assuming the D.o.C. is still breathing, that is . . .), - Sunday, May 12, 2002 at 08:02:41 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace--sometime in the small hours

The black garbed figure moved soundlessly down the carpeted hallway, then crossed the tiled flagstones, moving steadily closer to his destination. If there had been anyone to observe his advancement, that witness would have seen only sheer, unstopable purpose.

He'd memorized the floor plan of the main palace and grounds long before, when it had never occurred to anyone that he might wish to access such sensitive information. It was a habit, this means of planning ahead, one that garnered frequent useless information, and as in this case, the occassional significant and essential piece of data he required. This tendency had served him well in the past, and he'd counted on it this night as well.

When he'd progressed from the personal quarters to the more integral areas of the palace, he began to use evasive maneuvers, soundlessly avoiding the standing guards in the dimly lit passageways. He remembered once when a particular article in a Dublin newspaper had accused him of "Adroit and clever management of affairs, often using trickery and deception," and thought yet again how succinctly that phrase described his tactics. He wondered if the reporter had ever received the brief thank-you note he'd penned, and what his reaction might have been.

A slight sound made the hair at the nape of his neck stand up, the hyper-sensitivity that he'd always possessed in such situations keen as ever. Scanning the immediate area he quickly ducked into a shadowed alcove, his slender form allowing him to blend into the surroundings.

"Final rounds complete for your shift, McDonnel?"

"Yes sir, Lt. Sifuentes, all is in order."

Dev groaned inwardly, though he did not allow himself the luxury of sound. Sifuentes, of all people. Still, he'd long ago learned to ignore any personal feelings that might interfere with his plans. The fact that he respected, and even liked the other man would not deter him in any way. He knew what his course must be.

When the men had passed he eased himself from the safety of the doorway, his silent, gliding footfalls carrying him ever closer to his goal. Weaving a complicated pattern through halls and passages he slowly, gradually drew near his eventual target.

The main doorway to the lower level was heavily guarded, which was only to be expected, but he'd carefully studied this area of the blueprints, and knew that there were two other routes to the cells where prisoners were held. Stepping back into the shadows he carefully considered his position, gathered his bearings, and continued along his silent path.

The alternate entranceway had one lone guard, though the fact that even a single person stood watch over a door that was not commonly known to exist showed the attention to detail of Her Majesty's security force. Eamon knew his approach would be precarious, and though he was capable of rapid movement without sound, the bare coridoor offered no cover. He would rely solely upon his stealth, and hope that the guard wouldn't turn to see him until it was too late. He knew that the guard was highly trained and likely heavily armed.

Like the great cats, his prey never knew what was upon him until it was far too late, and Dev gently propped the unconscious figure up against the wall. He had a brief moment of uncertainty as he considered the securely bolted door, but a quick search of the guard produced the necessary key, and moments later he began the last leg of his journey.

It was almost too simple from that point. The rows of cells stood vacant in the dull sheen of the auxiliary lights that patterned the ceilings, and he hurried down the walkway, his urgency growing now that the moment he'd waited for drew near.

Pausing near a cell that stood slightly ajar he quickly gathered his impetuous thoughts, reprimanding himself for allowing personal feelings to intrude. He'd almost missed this important turn, and having looked at the schematics of place he knew he'd better not allow himself to make such errors. One wrong turn would mean he'd wander the passageways endlessly rather than exact the justice which was so richly deserved, and he'd not risked everything for such an unsatisfactory result.

Stepping into the cell he moved to the back set of bars, seemingly as immobile as all the rest, and gently pushed them forward. The well oiled hinges moved easily, and he found himself in a second level, the rooms here were self-contained, and capped by huge iron doors. Stepping up to one tiny window he peered inside, his eyes barely discerning the long, blonde haired woman resting quietly on the narrow cot.

It would not be long now.

****************************************************

Stunned, his senses still reeling, the young guard reached deep into his uniform, and extracted the tiny emergency radio that each member of the AR Personel carried with them at all times. "Intruder alert, inner cellblock," he said, his whispy from his loss of consciousness. "I repeat," he added, his senses swimming from the force of the blow he'd received, administered with direct and specific intent to key pressure points, "intruder alert, inner cellblock. This is not a drill."

The last emphasis was too much for him in his present state, and he slumped to the ground once more, the tiny radio sliding from his fingers. Still, the young guard had seen to his duty.

Therese
Renie--good of you to drop in (hey, an unintended homage) and far be it from me to be responsible for an imploded Eamon. I much prefer him in one whole, functioning unit. . ., - Saturday, May 11, 2002 at 22:22:25 (PDT)

Er... just dawned on me... would a guy really wear colone called spring flowers? *puts another check mark on my embarrasing moments list* *throws up hands in the air and calls out " Ooops!! Oh well... wait, DR. PEPPER PLEASE!!!
Roller-blading girl (yes, that is right, I am sore...OUCH) <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
*yet another cheezy smile* , - Saturday, May 11, 2002 at 19:48:56 (PDT)

(Sorry it has taken me so long to write this next part, I have a lot on my mind, but my creativity seems to be at square 1, nada, zip, nothing... *sigh* *goes off to go find a cure for Writer's Block...* Maybe I'll watch GQ again...) (*erhem, cough, anyways...*)

Lucas has just stumbled in upon the scene of the Diane and Jamie hiding under the blanket (by the way, I drew an AWESOEM pic of this with pencil shading! *giggle...SOO cute*) and was not too pleased. Jame and Diane, however, were not aware of his appearance in the scene... (*yum, thickening plot...*)

Diane: You smell good... is that colone?

Jamie: *growling* Yesss.... spring flowers, I believe.

Diane: My birthday is in spring (you just guessed one thing on my mind folks).

Jamie: Oh? What should I get you...

Diane: *pausing* Well... how about... a party?

Jamie: I meant the gifts, idiot!

Lucas: *simply screws up face, not at all pleased, but eavesdrops anyhow*

Diane: *blushes, though no one can see it* Oh... how about some popcorn? Oh, yes, and Dr. Pepper! (*Diane's trademark alert, Dr. P*) (*yes, I had two larges at Classic Skating today*) (*no, it is not what you are thinking*)

Jamie: THAT would be your gift?

Diane: *defiantly* It COULD be.

Jamie: How about... I know... *growls again, toils with Diane's hair*

Diane: *shrieks with delight* Oh???

Jamie: I'll take you to a theme park... (Rickmaniacs, be aware, ALAN AND I BOTH LOVE THEME PARKS, THE MORE DANGEROUS, THE BETTER, AND THOSE ARE WORDS RIGHT FROM HIS MOUTH! *cough, sorry... *) (Now you know WHERE I am going for my B-day...)

Diane: *gasp* Lagoon???!!!???

Jamie: Why, of course. And it would be just you and me... the two of us...

Diane: Jamie, where did you learn to get so ROMANTIC???

Jamie: I've been watching Sense and Sensibility. The Colonel can teach one a thing or two...

Lucas: *at long last speaking* DIANE ISN'T GOING ANYWHERE WITHOUT ME!!!

Diane and Jamie instantly whip off the blanket. Diane has run pale, and 'this much' close to fainting. Jamie is simply standing there, wide eyed, as the blanket descends to the floor from the air... Lucas is not a pretty site to be seen...

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Feeling a bit depressed right now... could someone write something with comedy??? :( , - Saturday, May 11, 2002 at 19:46:27 (PDT)

Scene: A small, well-worn box. A hand removes a lid, then unties a ribbon of letters.

The sound of a door. Opening.

Quietly.

A sheet of paper. A woman's hand. A desk.

The pen.

Mont Blanc.

Conced il pity su me...perché ho amavo...e perché il mio amore non morirà.
- Friday, May 10, 2002 at 18:34:46 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Hogwarts Sets
Day Four of the Investigation

"Who was telling you that?"
Her reply was almost too quiet to hear. Indeed, if he hadn't been watching her lips flex with the puff of air, he likely wouldn't have heard it at all. "Bernard."
Phil's world suddenly tilted, and rearranged itself on an entirely different axis. (homage) He had never thought that Barbara had been unhappily married.

"He was wrong." Phil's mouth clamped shut on the phrase. Too late. It was out.

"No, he wasn't." The retort was automatic, without passion.

"Do you want to be defending words that are making you smaller?"

She stared at him, wordlessly. (homage) A few eternal seconds passed before she cleared her throat and said, somewhat hoarsely, "I never thought of it that way."

"The world'll be making us small enough parts of it. We don't have to be pounding ourselves flat to be fitting into it."

Barbara nodded slowly. She tentatively met his eyes. A long white hand gently touched his bare forearm. "Thank you," she said quietly.

A lurch under his ribcage. His breath caught. He covered her hand with his own. "M'pleasure," he said.

*******************

"M'pleasure," Phil said, and laid his warm hand over hers. A shuddering ran up the inside of her belly and her blood inexplicably pounded against her eardrums. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

She swallowed. "So --" she croaked out "-- any recommendations?" Her voice squeaked slightly at the end (homage) and she gestured around the sets.

"Fog?"

Barbara saw the word slide out from beneath a rounded upper lip, slowly, in three syllables. She watched the lip flex and arch, tracing the curve of it with her eyes. She shook the sensations off. "Fog?" she asked.

"'Tis mysterious, you're knowing."

She had to allow the justice of that. "True," she said, nodding. "I'll mention it to the Director." She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye. "Anything else?"

Phil was looking around the sets, his lips slightly parted, shaking his head slowly. "'Tis lovely, you're knowing."

She felt a rush of pleasure. "You like it?"

He tilted his head downward, looked at her blankly. "Aye. Were you not realizing that?"

She stared at him a moment. "I thought you were just trying to be kind. You know, along the lines of If you can't say something polite, don't say anything at all."

He stared at her. A faint look of distaste crossed his face. "I'll be sure you're not thinking that anymore," he replied, a shadow of warning in his voice.

She met his eyes, shyly. "No," she said, "not anymore."

*******************

They walked back from the sets in companionable silence. At the doorway to the cutting rooms, Barbara suddenly touched Phil's arm. He looked down to see her long white fingers against the muscles in his forearm. He looked up.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

She searched for words, the tip of a pink tongue peeking out between her teeth. A slight smile softened the confusion on her face. "For being my friend," Barbara said. "I don't think I could do it without you." And she kissed him -- a peck on the cheek, but a kiss, nevertheless.

Phil said some nonsense; whatever it was, it pleased her. She smiled at him, a full smile, white and generous. He felt the soaring delight start just behind his navel and grinned back. They parted.

Phil watched her walk down the hall, leaving him in the cutting room doorway. He traced the moulding with idle fingertips and turned into the room. He saw some grinning fool in the mirrors, some happy man who wasn't Phillip Allen of Keighley. He saluted the fool, who tossed the courtesy back at him. It was enough.

Barbara had kissed him.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Carmen! Don't stay away long! .... Sandy -- ewwwwwww... :) .... Valmont Get your hand outta there, - Friday, May 10, 2002 at 12:31:25 (PDT)

Somewhere in Egypt, present day:

"Where's some wasabi and soy sauce when you need it?" David joked wearily. He took another bite of the raw fish and his face wrinkled up in distaste.

"I don't think *that* even would would hide the taste of this," Alexander replied. He took another bite and shuddered slightly. "Still, beggars can't be choosers, I suppose."

"I guess not," Jack agreed unhappily. "It wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't this *oil slick* feeling left in your mouth after swallowing." The others nodded in agreement.

"What I wouldn't do for a toothbrush right now," Roberta sighed, looking down at the piece she held in her hand. She visibly had to steel herself before taking another bite.

"That and a good night's sleep in a sleeping bag. I've heard of roughing it, but this is ridiculous!" Melanie grumbled. She yawned loudly and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. "A bit of a wash-up would be nice too, but I suppose that's asking for too much at this point."

The rest of the party mumbled in agreement before falling into an uneasy silence as they attempted to eat their meal. Roberta suddenly stood up and threw the rest of her fish into the water. "I'm sorry, but I just *can't* eat any more of this! I don't think my stomach can handle it." She sat back down and sighed loudly.

"You *are* looking a little green around the gills, Ro," Jack observed, to loud groans and eye rolling. "Sorry." He took another bite of his meal and grimaced at the aftertaste.

Alexander gazed down at his 'meal' and contemplated it for a moment, frowning fiercely. He looked back up and saw Melanie gazing at the dark part of the water, right in the exact spot that she had gone down. "Melanie, are you all right?" He frowned. "Melanie?" he repeated, his voice a little louder.

The redhead jumped and the glazed expression disappeared from her green eyes as she turned to face him. "Professor, I know this sounds weird, but I have the strangest feeling that we're being watched," Melanie said finally. "Crazy, huh?" She laughed hollowly. "Maybe I'm starting to hallucinate from lack of sleep." She took another bite of the portion she held and shuddered after swallowing, sticking her tongue out.

"It's possible," Alexander reluctantly conceded, stroking his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "We're all pretty tired."

"Uh... Mel?" David spoke up softly.

"Mmmm?" She turned in David's direction, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"You're not the only who feels like that. It's just... creepy... here," David said, waving his half-eaten meal around to emphasize his words. "Plus, with all that's happened to us..."

The rest nodded in agreement and fell silent once more as they attempted to eat the rest of their hard-earned food supply. Roberta amused herself by throwing small stones into the water and watching as they skipped across the surface until they sunk underneath.

One by one, the group eventually gave up eating the fish, throwing the uneaten portions back into the water. "Well, that was definitely something I'd recommend to all my friends - not!" Jack growled as he stood up and stretched. He hissed under his breath as sore muscles screamed in protest.

The others rose to their feet slowly and stretched. Melanie's eyes darted back and forth as if she was searching for something. Finally, she shook her head and smiled in grim determination.

"Everybody ready?" Alexander asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand. There was a chorus of assent in reply. He nodded, stretching one last time. "Well, onward then," he said, biting his bottom lip. "We're probably better off keeping as close to each other as possible."

The rest nodded in agreement and took one last look around their temporary rest spot. "David, do you still need some help?" Jack turned around and walked over to his friend.

"No. I think I should be good to go if I walk slowly. Not so sure about any running though," David admitted with a sheepish grin.

Jack returned the grin and suddenly sneezed loudly into his shoulder, blinking hard as the sound echoed through the area.

"Bless you!" the group chorused.

"Thanks. Damn it! I had stopped for a while. I thought it was going away," Jack mumbled, wiping away the wetness that had sprung to his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh, great!" he sniffled miserably.

"No such luck," David replied, shaking his head. He cautiously took a couple of steps forward, wincing slightly as he applied more pressure to his injured ankle.

"Are you *sure* that you're all right?" Alexander asked, his left eyebrow rising in concern.

David nodded. "Let's go," he answered, voice slightly strained. "I'll be fine."

Alexander pursed his lips together in a thin line and exhaled softly as he turned around. "All right," he said with a nod. He gazed down the path, frowning slightly. "It looks pretty smooth and even from what I can see," he continued, hiding another yawn behind his hand. With those words, he began walking, Melanie and Roberta joining him while David and Jack followed a short distance behind.

"At least we still have light," Melanie said, looking around the passageway.

"The power of positive thinking," Alexander murmured sarcastically.

"What did you say, Professor?"

"Never mind. Just thinking aloud," Alexander replied quickly. Whoops.

"Okay," Melanie said, eyebrows rising and sighing. She turned around for a moment. "You guys all right back there?"

"We're fine," the two chorused and chuckled softly at the fact that they both answered at the same time.

"Tired, but fine," David added in and rolled his eyes as a sneeze exploded from Jack. "Bless you!"

"Thanks," Jack sniffed. "Hey, what's that?" he pointed ahead to a wall facing them as the path split in two directions. "You don't think it's more of those fake hieroglyphics, do you?"

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we'll find out shortly." The group approached the wall and Alexander's eyebrows rose at the faded image of Anubis guiding a soul in the Underworld. "It's not a fake this time."

Melanie shivered. "Death..." She gazed at the others uneasily. "This place reeks of it." The group stared back at her, shocked. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me," she apologized. "Maybe it's the sushi," she joked weakly.

The others laughed, but the laughter was strained as they gazed at the images. "Maybe we've managed to stumble upon the ruins of a temple dedicated to Anubis?" David asked.

"Possible," Alexander nodded. "But I want to find out who made those fake images. Something smells rotten here, and I'm not talking about our meal. Uh, let's go..." he paused for a moment before pointing to the right. "...that way for now. I'd suggest splitting up, but with everything that's happened so far, it's not worth risking." The others nodded silently and began walking in the direction he indicated.

Sandy
Hope that things go better for you, Carmen!, - Thursday, May 09, 2002 at 18:27:20 (PDT)

I feel like such a downer for having to say this. Unfortunatley, Erika will be taking a leave of absence for some time to catch up on her mental health (as well as her v. tired author) and will be returning hopefully soon. Until then, Jaques will be taking over any work she had. :) Sometimes you just need a little mental health time.

Hope all is well!
Carmen <Jaina34@aol.com>
Just when everything is getting so good...., - Thursday, May 09, 2002 at 07:37:58 (PDT)

Worried about l'il ole me? Dearest, whatever for? As for "I shall keep my hand in . . ."--Just what were you planning to keep your hand in, Monsieur?!

The Lady of Delaford
Eyes--and Aurientine--flashing!, - Wednesday, May 08, 2002 at 20:16:37 (PDT)

Blah! Discreet is what I meant! Another lesson in spell check will only get you so far.
Cindie
Renie, it's always so good to here from you. , - Wednesday, May 08, 2002 at 10:27:07 (PDT)

"Though I shall keep my hand in"; "grows tiresome with nothing to punctuate all that goodness"; and es-pecially "Discrete women are so tantalizing as their indiscretions are all the more colossal."

Discrete and discreet.

You have our attention, Cindie, as surely as you-know-who has Valmont's.

And Therese...Dev looks about to explode or implode---I'm not sure who is going to be in a "thousand pieces" first, he or HIM....
R
(Speaking of a thousand pieces, dearest, I'm very worried about YOU...), - Wednesday, May 08, 2002 at 09:21:26 (PDT)

The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil:

It may come as a surprise that I have taken up ink and paper to write to you after so much time has passed. Rest assured that it is not in any attempt to rekindle that which you so carefully destroyed. Rather, being the vain creature that I am, I find that I crave an audience who can appreciate the arts which I ply so well and you are well situated to perform that role. I think you will not object to being placed in such a position.

At first I thought that the proceeding at the Palace were destined to be tedious. Perhaps some diverting encounters with the Lady of Delaford - it is always enjoyable to cause those blue eyes of hers to flash. But that is merely my ego refusing to give up on what is a cause long lost - though I shall keep my hand in - the Lady may find the marital state with the self-righteous Colonel grows tiresome with nothing to punctuate all that goodness. So you see, I refuse to admit that any cause is lost.

Certainly the one that I have embarked upon shows great promise. I was enjoying a luncheon the other day with some persons of your acquaintance. You no doubt recollect the Compte de Gercourt and his young bride Cecile? They are at the Palace with friends of theirs and it is with them that I was seated. Cecile continues her lessons with me in the Latin tongue and hints that her friend may share her interest in languages. I feel quite able to tutor two young ladies simultaneously.

But I digress - suffice it to say that it was in the dining salon that I first laid eyes upon my latest contrivance. She is no less than the personal assistant of the distinguished Herr Anton Gruber. Knowing your mind you will wonder as to the extent of her duties and thus you arrive at the reason for my interest - for her position seemingly involves only business! This oversight of the obvious pleasures is one I intend to rectify in good time. The lady is a bit of an enigma and has apparently been kept tucked away by Gruber as she was not at the wedding in Delaford. I have made her acquaintance and have already enjoyed an unescorted walk with her. You know where such rambles may lead. Unfortunately, her maid has attached herself to Gruber’s valet so my man will be unable to secure intelligence in that manner. It is of no import as you will see however, for it is about this morning’s events that I write to you.

I was seated in the East dining salon and had observed Anton Gruber come in and leave in something of a hurry. My quarry came in, scanned the room and took a seat with a view to the stables out the window and the other occupants of the room, only barely concealing her agitation and annoyance at not finding her intended partner. She eyed the room carefully and I felt her eyes upon me but was carefully engrossed in my book at the time. It was not difficult to contrive to exit the room just before her and when I was nearly out of the door I recollected that I had left my valued novel at my table and returned to retrieve it. The resulting collision was most satisfying.

We ended up taking yet another walk and I dare say that her excited state was not due entirely to her having misplaced her employer. Naturally I sympathized with her without indicating any knowledge of the situation and she was really most circumspect when I enquired after her business at the Palace. Discrete women are so tantalizing as their indiscretions are all the more colossal. I have secured a promise to see more of her when her schedule permits. I will not make haste, but will keep you informed of my progress.

Yours etc…

Valmont

Cindie
- Tuesday, May 07, 2002 at 18:53:17 (PDT)

There was no doubting the hint of autumn at first light. As if the earth breathed the cold air, a pale mist hovered in the unprotected spaces where the Douglas firs had been cleared for the trail.

Claire struggled to focus beyond the vaguely smouldering hearth to identify what movement had caught her eye. Never had she imagined trees growing so tall. The mist wisped and curled at the natural barrier. So close together did the trunks stand sentinel no shaft of light illuminated their individuality, instead they seemed an impenetrable mass.

Perhaps it was the cold vapour dampening the sound, but it was eerie to wake to silence rather than life. No call of bird, rustle of wind, or clink of pans. She turned to see if Sinclair was breathing.

He was. In the rhythm of deep sleep, the bearskin rose and fell.

Therefore, it must be O’Hara up foraging for the meal for there was no mistaking the human outline disappearing into the gloom.

Claire
- Tuesday, May 07, 2002 at 15:37:02 (PDT)

Just as long as you're not getting cold feet.
Magda
- Tuesday, May 07, 2002 at 08:33:02 (PDT)

Correction made.
A chill ran up my spine, too!
D.o.C.

Darn. DoC, please change to "I mean that if a woman is not a virgin, the king would notexpect a man to marry her." Thank you.
Magda
- Sunday, May 05, 2002 at 10:44:52 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

For a long moment I stood on the staircase, thinking. Of course, seducing Lady Suzanne would not in any way be a hardship; just the thought of that slender, green-eyed nymph lying in my bed with her wavy blonde hair cascading over the pillows was enough to heat my blood. Before the events of the past year, I would have undertaken the effort without a moment's hesitation. But things had changed in the last twelve months. I was no longer free to do whatever (or whoever) I pleased anymore. Any actions would have consequences.

And no one in the kingdom had more talent for inflicting consequences than Joya.

I drummed my fingers against the stone. Of course, she'd find out eventually; the whole point of seducing Lady Suzanne was to render her unfit for matrimony and that would have to be brought to public notice sooner rather than later. Joya would have strong opinions on the subject then and I'd have to deal with them. But that was inevitable. The more important thing was to make sure she didn't find out before everyone else did.

Then, if I were lucky, the king would clap me in a nice, sturdy dungeon so that I'd have some protection from my wife.

Well, there was no help for it; it would have to be done. I resumed walking up the staircase. Better give Joya the results of my abortive conference with Locksley so we could talk before the evening meal.

There was a bit of a crowd when I entered my bedchamber. Two maids were folding gowns and placing them in one of the four huge chests reserved for Joya's apparel; another stood in the background holding her jewel casket carefully in both hands. Joya sat at the table, hands folded in front of her as yet another maid fiddled with her hair. Two ivory combs inlaid with lapis lay on the bench beside her and I caught a glimpse of gold glowing in the candlelight. Joya was taking extra care to look beautiful tonight.

I strolled over to my chair by the fire. The maids folding the clothes cringed away to the farthest wall as I passed. I ignored them. Someone had set out a flagon of wine and I helped myself to a goblet. Joya watched me out of the corner of her eye, the best view available if she were not to move her head. I saluted her with my drink and relaxed in my chair, hoping it would not be a long wait.

But possessing a fearsome reputation can be an advantageous thing at times. Especially when you want to clear out a room full of silly females who are preventing you from talking to your wife. I had not disposed of more than half the wine in my cup before the door was shutting with a muffled thud behind the last servant. Joya and I were alone.

There was no point prolonging the suspense so I gave her a complete description of my meeting with Locksley. She listened in silence, an occasional grimace or eye-rolling the only signs of her feelings. After I finished, we sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

Finally she lifted her hands and let them fall with a slap on the tabletop. "I just cannot understand that man. Doesn't he realize that we're trying to help him?"

"Obviously not." I shrugged. "So we're on our own."

"Yes." Joya stood up, her chin lifted high. "Well, then we'll just have to come up with another idea."

I looked down into my cup to avoid her eyes. She had to remain unaware of my own plan. It was for her own good, I told myself; it was her feelings that I was protecting. Still I kept my gaze averted, not interrupting as she paced the rug from the bed to the hearth.

"Since Locksley refuses to take part in a perfectly rational and intelligent plan, which by the way -" She paused in her perambulations and smacked the mantel over the fireplace for emphasis. "Would not have been in any way detrimental to the reputation or honesty of the Lady Suzanne since no one would hold her responsible for the machinations of her kinsman. At any rate, since Locksley refuses to help, we'll have to get more creative. Is there anyway that Lady Suzanne could do something that would cause King Richard to call off the wedding?"

I chanced a quick glance at her face but she was on her way back to the bed again and I couldn't see it. "Like what?"

"Good Lord, I don't know." She flopped down onto the bedfurs. "Perhaps she could be induced to write some correspondence to the French court. Or we could forge some letters from the French court. Either would have the same effect. Would she be seen as a credible spy, do you think?"

Before I could answer, a loud knock hit the door and it swung open immediately to reveal Bertha holding a large bundle swathed in layers of cloth. She waddled across to Joya, a beaming smile wreathing her face. I looked at her sourly. Anyone would think that she was in some way responsible for the perfection of my daughter. She laid the bundle on the bed and began to unwrap the covers. Periodically she paused to indulge in demented cooing in Richard's face. To my disgust, Joya smiled tolerantly at this idiocy.

"Thank you, Bertha. You've done a fine job. She'll make a splendid impression on the guests tonight." Joya fumbled with her gown. "Provided of course that she's fed in advance. I will not vouch for her temper if she has to wait for sustenance. Too much her father's child for that, I'm afraid." She put the baby to her breast and smiled down at her as she fed.

Bertha smirked and bustled out the door again, shutting it with a soft bang behind her. Not once had she made the slightest obeisance to me. But that was not what grabbed my attention. I sat bolt upright. "What's that? What impression?"

Joya pushed her braid over her shoulder and switched the baby to her other breast. "Our daughter is going to come down to supper tonight. Marion will bring her baby down too. I want our Poitiers guest to realize how determined we are to fight this. It's not just us and our affections; we have children to consider as well."

"I see." I sat back again but a sense of unease welled up in me. I was not sure that I wanted Joya and Richard to be out in the open like that with this lunatic still at large. On the other hand, Leofric was tripling the security around every room that Joya was likely to enter and he was certainly more protection for Richard than that foolish nursemaid.

"You know, George, there's another way we could prevent this Poitiers marriage from taking place." Joya kept her gaze focussed on the baby; I got the impression she was reluctant to look at me directly. "It will be dangerous and there will be additional problems as a result. But we could ensure that there would be no marriage between Poitiers and Locksley."

"How's that?" I frowned.

Joya fidgeted with the baby's blanket. "You have to understand, if we undertake this new plan, you have to do it entirely alone. Neither Locksley nor Marion could help, and not even me. Especially not me. But the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that it's the only way."

A chill ran up my spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if a woman is not a virgin, the king would not expect a man to marry her." She sighed deeply and finally looked up. Her eyes were expressionless. "You will have to get Lady Suzanne alone somewhere and seduce her."

Magda
- Sunday, May 05, 2002 at 10:42:54 (PDT)

Almost forgot to say -- Yay! Snape is back!
Cindie
10 points for Slytherin, - Friday, May 03, 2002 at 18:46:22 (PDT)

When Cindie arrived home she heard her telephone from the hallway. Its harsh hollow tones demanded response and she hurried with her keys to open the door. Closing the door with her foot she reached over the counter for the wall phone in the kitchen and said her enquiring hello in to the mouthpiece.

“You’re home safe. Thank goodness. Look, I know I was abrupt, I ought to have given you a lift home -- it is after dark.” His voice rang with apology and loss.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It isn’t that late and I took the tube. You know I like to go for walks anyway.”

“Yes.” There was a long pause and Cindie was just beginning to wonder if he was going to continue, “Did you lock the door behind you?”

A chuckle floated through his receiver, “No! I barely got in and answered the phone.” Suspicion. “How long had you been calling?”

“Never mind that. Go lock your door.”

“I will.”

“Right now.”

Cindie held the handset out and made a face at it but carried it over while she locked the door. “There. Satisfied?”

“Hardly, but its good to know you’re home safe.”

“And you, are you home safe?”

Another long pause. “You keep me safe.”

“I’d like to.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

Cindie
- Friday, May 03, 2002 at 18:44:09 (PDT)

(Diane and Jamie are no longer crouched around the TV and Diane has decided to check her e-mail)

Diane: *shivering* Urgh... why is it SO bloody cold in here? *turns around at the sound of footsteps* Oh, I should have known...

Jamie: *screwing up face* If I am not welcome (said haughtilly) then I will leave. *faces the door*

Diane: No, oh, please stay! *runs up and hugs him* Why don't you go get that blanket and bring it over here?

Jamie: Sure... *licks lips, rubs hands together, and grins silly*

Diane: *cocking eyebrow* OH, NO NOT THAT WAY MISTER! NO NO NO!

Jamie: Ah... Diane you ALWAYS have to ruin my fun!

Diane: *grumbling* It is my job.

Jamie: *walks over, and hugs Diane tenderlly, and kisses her sweetly on the cheek* Don't be such a grouch, please...

Diane: Jamie... *blushing deeply* If Lucas was to see you and me this way... well... he'd...

Jamie: He'd just have to deal with it. Why don't you say we cuddle up by the fire, eh?

Diane: *takes blanket from his hand and throws it over his head* *laughs softly* There!

Jamie: *muffling through blanket* And WHAT EXACTLY is this for??? *sits down on bed*

Diane: *evil grin and giggling* For THIS! *pulls herself underneath the blanket with him, all you can see is two figures standing up, a giant lump under a pale blue sheet.

Then Lucas walks in, yawning...
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Ahhh. there is Snape at last! And by the way, this story is inspired from a recent talk in the chat room...hehehe, - Thursday, May 02, 2002 at 20:54:34 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
Ten thumbs? Might I suggest you ask Professor Snape for a potion to fix that?
D.o.C.

DoC, I´m sorry, really I am!! The italics should end after *Especially asking nice.*
It´s 40 min past midnight here, if that´s an excuse...

Jutta
Two left h*nds and ten thumbs..., - Wednesday, May 01, 2002 at 15:39:02 (PDT)

Flashback, a few days ago:

Snape followed the doctor, feeling very pleased with himself. This could turn out to be an interesting morning.
She had told the guard at the front doors that he was to be a regular cast member and the guard had taken down his name and had given him a small plastic card which he could clip on his clothes. The doctor had one too, but as she explained to him she was already so well known to all the security men that she didn´t need to wear it anymore and soon he would be, too.
She´d put a new dressing on his eyebrow and they had chatted. Snape gritted his teeth, but it was an adequate description. Just because he hated and despised small talk as a waste of time, he was nontheless good at it. He was perfectly able of chatting with someone for - if it had to be - hours, he could be charming and seem like an open book and completely harmless. The essentials for a good spy. And he had been a very good spy.

You were never good at asking. Especially asking nice.

Nonsense. The Dark Lord hadn´t noticed for years that he had been a spy, that his mind and heart had already been elsewhere. He could socialize with people he hated and detested and yet seem to like them and chat and laugh with them, no matter how he felt inside. He was good at hiding his feelings.

But he was always underestimated. Story of his life. Sometimes it was absolutely essential to be underestimated. Voldemort had done so and it had been lifesaving for him. Even now. But even people who should know better underestimated him. Like Dumbledore: he had always been afraid that Snape would do something that was too risky and dangerous. Everytime he came with new information he´d gotten a small thank you and long harrangues about how dangerous it must have been to get that information and that he should have been more careful and that a dead spy was no good at all, as if he was a little boy who had to be taken care of. One day he´d completely freaked out: Adam Prittle, who Snape secretly nicknamed Little Idiot, had told him about a secret project Voldemort wanted him to do. Little Idiot had been so proud about that obvious amount fo trust Voldemort put into him that he coudn´t keep quiet about it. Snape had simply expressed admiration and Little Idiot had happily told him all the details. It had been simple and absolutely undangerous. But Dumbledore had again told him that he should cut back on his spying and that he thought Snape was too careless about the whole thing. Snape had been yelling at him for several minutes, calling him an old idiot who had no idea, telling him that he, Snape, knew the people and the dangers better than anyone and that he was able to judge how far he could go all by himself. He´d also called him a number of names he blushed to remember. Dumbledore had listened quietly, then apologized and never mentioned it again, but he still managed to express his worries about Snape´s work in a more moderate way.

Being underestimated by idiots like the people at the Ministry Of Magic on the other hand was intolerable. They had no idea how many Death Eaters had been in there, in the Ministry itself. He had told them, they wouldn´t believe it, their problem.
After Voldemort was gone, everybody who got caught claimed to have been under the Imperius Curse. He did so too, officially. Nobody really believed it, but he didn´t care.

You wanted power, being respected, feared and admired. You had that when you were with me.

Yes, he had it, he mused while he followed the doctor down a flight of stairs. And it still lasted on, even though Voldemort was long gone. Knowing that he had been a Death Eater made people uneasy in his presence. They were careful and reverential to him and he liked it.

But you threw it away and settled for less. Now you will have to settle for nothing.

Not so fast, Voldemort, he thought, he was on his way back. And not even that: he had an opportunity to practice potions. The chat with the doctor had revealed that she had a little laboratory in the cellar of the studio building. She´d said that she just made body lotions, creams and soaps for people with allergies and she did a few things for a professor who worked at the university she´d been to. He could hardly hide his exitement and had asked to see the lab. She´d told him that it was small and not really a lab, but she´d said he could have a look anyway.

"Here it is." she said while she unlocked the door, "but I hope you´re not dissapointed. I´m sure you have bigger and better one´s at your school."
She opened the door and they entered the little room.

Severus Snape looked around and felt at home.

Jutta
I tried to email Julie, but it bounced back. Please Julie, if you read this, email me., - Wednesday, May 01, 2002 at 15:35:53 (PDT)

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