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From: c9412707@alinga.newcastle.edu.au (BASTIAN B C)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [Wordcraft] A beginning.
Date: 23 May 1995 04:19:08 GMT
Organization: The University of Newcastle
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 "There must, I suppose be a beginning to each story, although life is
merely a continuation of thousands of stories all woven together by a
greater creator than you or I.  Human stories have a beginning and an end
although the end may be sudden and unexpected, by the author as well as
the listener, and the beginning may start with a bang or may be merely
the continuation of other strands, coming together to form a whole.
  "Our stories may be long or short, but this is irrelevant for a good
story lasts forever, although it seems like a scant moment from it's
conception. What IS important is the Flavor and feel of the craft woven
by an expert wordscraftman.
  "I myself claim to be no genius when it comes to such a quiet art. My
tounge slips and the words, those magical words, bounce and clang when
they spill from my lips clumsily. But I shall try to make my way and
create, like the masters before me, an enduring piece.
  "For those that do not know me. We may not have met before, however if
we have met... Then You know me as Grays.
  "However my name isn't important. Respect is earned, not bought, and
the story, the dream, the journey is all...


Light and shadow danced a lively step, each speck swirling quickly away
from its nemesis as they played across his hands. Quietly he gazed at
them, for these hands were of the kind that tell a story.Fighters hands,
with callouses and chipped nails from hours of practice at swordwork,
bow work, knifework and fistwork. Now they were Ex-fighters hands, and
the stories that they told were whispered quietly to him alone when he
stopped to hear them, for no-one else wanted to know the woes of a
veteran. His Hands now creaked with pain on the cold winter night, and
the callouses watched whilst the rest of the body grew soft, and the
flesh beneath them became thin and stretched.
  But what else was an old fighter to do? There were no more wars for
him. No more battles or tourneys or barroom brawls. Just a slow quiet
death.
  Or so he thought...