StuartR

The world of Lonne is deeply old. The Druids of Akabar say the earth remembers much, though they tell little. Lonne is separated into three distinct continents and on each continent lays a small remnant of civilisation. The Druids say remnant, not I, and when asked a remnant of what they merely smile sadly, like an old man or woman pitying the road a younger relative must soon take. These three continents are home to eight Kings, and three Senates and a multitude of tribesmen ruled over by brutal Warlords whose reign is inevitably short. Each distinct country has its own way in culture, in language and other aspects, often only colliding in b

 The bridge from High School to university and the ‘real world’ known as Sixth year is a journey of discovery for many. From the famed Young Enterprise Company, to actually learning to drive, Sixth Year can hold many notable experiences, and there is no doubt I have grown as a person; in confidence and hopefully in stature. There is no doubt that the Sixth Year is an integral part of the school, in some ways the student life of the school revolves around them. When you first enter the school as a lowly first year, you would never dream of even speaking to a Sixth Year, and you would be petrified if you had to! (Something which a

I think i've always been an idealist, since i was tall enough to stand. I'd tell the truth to a fault, put secrets in a vault, And keep trust as beffiting a man. But i think to be an idealist, one must always remain naive. In a childlike way, lest the world have its say, And lay you low as one of the bereaved. For i fear i'm becoming a realist, of most bitter and twisted bent. As the world trudges along, and i fight to cling on, I can't help but feel innocence rent. For it seems to get along in this world, one must compromise or one must die. "Only the good die young," is a truth thats well sung, And those who live long live ou

Of uncertainty that rose 'Neath my liveried breast I did try to compose My swiftly falling chest And looked not 'pon the men Gathered at this spot But at the far distant hem Of the horizen where we fought For closing fast it seemed 'Pon this field, 'pon this day O'er that horizon where i dreamed Suddenly so very far away.

 As is true of many cities, the waterfront of Asheron was ruled by an underground hierarchy. The Law had no real place on the waterfront; here the beggars walked the streets like kings, and the policemen skulked. During the early hours the district was often soaked in a dense fog, a symbol of the unknown acts perpetrated on such nights, and only the most foolhardy or inebriated walked the streets alone. The entire city itself was in uproar, the old King was dead, and civil war looked inevitable. Yet the waterfront remained unnervingly still, tucked away in its dense cloak of mist, apart. Lucius observed Ridante from his place at the drawing

Step by wondering step Were walkin' down this track I look across at you An you keep looking back Sometimes we might veer of Sometimes theres a rose to smell So i guess we'll keep on walkin' Keep on walkin' parallel I suppose it makes me wonder Question if i dare Cross over their and meet you But all i do is stare I cant help but feel That i'd be a tough sell So i guess we'll keep on walkin' Keep on walking parallel As the trees obscure my view On this isolated road All ahead is wrapped in darkness Like an enigma within a code And my one comforting thought Is to know that you are well So i guess we'll keep on walkin' Ke

A picture paints a thousand words Yet remains but a symbol An image is but a suit of armour A shiny, prickly thimble We build it up and give it breath And let it speak out for us A projection of our deepest fears As we drown them out with chorus We cower behind this flimsy demon And must walk in its shadow This structure we maintain with fervour Is but a ripple in the shallows We build it right, and maintain it so And make sure it is mended The irony is that in the end No one sees it quite as we intended

 The evening light struggles through the dirty window half-illuminating the dilapidated interior. The front room of the old house sits in a state of abandon. A chair lies by the stairs near the back, the fireplace is black with soot, as is the large, once majestic rug, and only an old oak table stands in seeming defiance to this state of affairs, almost barring entry through the front door, not that many would. The house sits on a hill overlooking the small town laid out before it- as of course all old, abandoned houses must. The front door swings open and judders back as it meets with the old oak table, prompting a muffled curse from the i