Triumphant Return (With a victory parade)

I'm back. Need more be said? I implore thee. All of thee and one computer extra. And any pets that you may own. Long has my absence been, and in that time, the online kingdom has run rampant. Why I was gone? Ye asketh of me? Tall, dark, and terrible am I, webmaster of many online provinces, and you question me? Speak now! Speak quickly! The comments inbox is a beast, a behemoth, a leviathan, its jaws drawn wide. It begs your comments! It chews them slowly and digestith them it do. Now! Before Those-Who-Walk-In-The-Night are sent! They will find you, and they will force respect upon ye! Lo! The Shadow-People are loose and the dogs of Hell and War have been unleashed! The four horsemen, famine, war, pain, and death itself are out! The online kingdom shall tremble and quake in fear, and all shall respect the long-gone webmaster. I, the ruler of this fine faction, do decree this. Amen.






*long silence*






*webmaster chuckles*







-011010010010-
{webmaster=good}
run program:[thethuthinnang+deathwriter_respect_]
result-10001011101001011011-
=latest respect software downloaded and installed
_error_thethuthinnang+deathwriter_not_listen_
_result=jokes_about_webmaster_and_grammer_lessons_
-1000101001111010100101101101-
{end[program]}\\.>>

Random Babbling

Hello, people. I'm done with my homework, so I can just randomly post things. Deathwriter, did you know that we have to learn spanish out here? Goodness! So annoying. Probably valuable, though. If you ever want to create a language, you have to learn Latin roots. Spanish has Latin roots. *SIGH* I've just read the Pendragon series 'till book seven. If you like sci-fi, Pendrgaon kicks butt. Of course, even if you don't like sci-fi and you don't even read the series, it still stays on the library shelf, kicking butt. And I know the library in your town has the series, Deathwriter, so don't tell me that you can't get it. By the way, where on earth are those traitorous Pageknights, Sam, Dylan, and Derek? Probably busy with sports.
Oh well. Read any good books lately? Put a review in the comments. Oh! I have an idea! I'll start writing a story, and write and write and write. Of course, it will have to be very to-the-point. Here goes!

Spy Guy
By Pageknight

One word passed through the spy's head as he snatched the plans, setting off the alarm. "Crap". Yep. That was the word. You don't believe me? Too bad. It was "Crap". The spy ran to the window as the guards poured in. The room was tall, and quite like a warehouse. But it was clean. And heavily armed. And employed by bad people. Namely, the Baron Von Brahtwurst and his goons. Yes, that was his name. Yes, was his name. He dies at the end. No,no! Don't leave! You don't know how he dies! It's interesting! Believe me!
Where was I. Oh, yeah. The guards firing, filling the room with a light cloud of smoke. And the precipitation from these clouds? Rain. A rain of bullets, that is. Sparks flew as the bullets slammed into the metal pillar Spy Guy dived behind. The plans safely hidden in his jacket, Spy Guy pulled himself up to the next catwalk. Then the next. All the while, dodging bullets. A bullet seared past Spy Guy's cheek, leaving a slight cut and a drop of blood.
Spy Guy was fed up. A bullet wound, angry guards, and a villian whose name sounded curiously like German poultry goods. Pulling out a vial from his pocket, the spy admired it, then tossed it into the fray far, far below. The second it shattered, a huge billow of smoke flew into the air, blinding all those who it came in contact with.
Putting his hands in front of him like a shield, Spy Guy took a running start, then smashed through the window. I know what you're thinking. Ouch. That has got to hurt, cutting himself on all that glass. But he didn't. Spy Guy was proffessional. Shards of supposedly bulletproof glass rained down on the docks below the window sill. In reality, the guy who sold them the glass was a cheapskate. Sold them ordinary glass windows. Lived to regret it, though. The Baron sent some thugs to his place. That window-seller sleeps with the fishes now.
Anyway, the spy flew through the air, forming himself into a human wedge. He hit the water with a perfect dive, cutting through without so much as a ripple. Thanking his lucky stars for his water-proof jacket pocket, the spy made his way to the other side of the river.
Once getting out of the water, the spy made for his pre-planned cache of dry clothes. Accompanying the clothes was a mini crossbow bow with 50 bolts. That would be useful. The spy's clothes also contained a key for his 2006 black Ferrari Enzo, specially souped up so that it could go from 0 mph to 150 in a heartbeat. The handling was great, complete with equipment that allowed him, if he wanted to, the drive on a 170-degree surface. Nearly upside-down. Any way, Spy Guy made his way over to this awesomely-sweet machine and hopped in. As if on a cue (or just because it's suspenseful), four sleek Mustangs pulled out of the Baron's parking lot, each car containing a driver and an armed guard.
Spy Guy smiled, then floored it onto the freeway, with the Mustangs in hot pursuit.

All I have so far. Bedtime. (too early)

A Ninja in London

Silence. That is all Tji heard, as he swept through the deserted, nighttime streets of London. Being a stowaway from Japan, this was a world very different from his old life. Being about 20, Tji was in his prime. His black hair swept back into his hood added to his ability to hide in the shadows.

Only a bit of wind rushing past his ears, barely detectable, even for him. And he was ninja. Well, not a proper one, actually. Most ninja assassinated people. Tji mostly saved them or snuck around seeing the sights and selling information. Tji was a sort of "good guy".

Tji thought of himself as a ninja, though. Such a rank was only given to those skilled enough to bear it. Tji's grandfather had taught him many tricks and skills. And his grandfather had told him the qualities of a ninja. Complete stealth, no sight or sound. If you were caught, you fought. If you were subdued, you tried to escape. Interrogation? No answers given. Torture? Even the weakest of ninja could survive days without food or water and could survive excruciating pain.

Before he had left Japan, his grandfather taught him the art of weaponsmaking. Tji couldn't make any but a shuriken, but that was all he need mass-produced. His grandfather had also given him the garb of a ninja. Clothed in black by night, with the long black shroud of honorable cloth, the shinobi shozoku. A black swath, the traditional ninja garb. On Tji's back was his ninja-ken, or short sword. With its biting blade, quiet as death, Tji could cut through metal. Hidden by his shinobi shozoku were three of his shuriken, or thowing stars. Tji crept along with one of these in his hand, making no noise.

And if anyone was listening, all they would hear or see would be nothing. Nothing. Silence. Such dead words. Emptiness, forever trapped by the barriers of those two words. The ninja were defined by these two words and others of the sort.

Scritch-scratch! A rat skittered by, making a huge racket, or at least to Tji's ears. Glancing down off of the tall, slanted rooftop, Tji checked to see if the constable on watch had heard. Tji's breathing and heartbeat was calm, but his thoughts were like a train, running quickly, here one moment and gone the next. Tactics and ideas what to do next were among the ideas. The night watchman had not heard, luckily.

Not that Tji couldn't handle a bumbling policeman.


This is all I have so far. Stay tuned...