Elfen High 2 (OOC 9, Closed, Hodor)

[Rupudska]

Did that ball hit him in the ass?

[Constaniana]

I'm having trouble finding anything about various criminals dumping radioactive waste in those places.

There's a difference between dumping waste and being waste.

Being waste, like the global capital of corruption?

[Agritum]

Lol.

[Rupudska]

I'm sorry, what was that about crushing Italy, Cons?

[Constaniana]

I'm sorry, what was that about crushing Italy, Cons?

One game.

[Agritum]

I'm sorry, what was that about crushing Italy, Cons?

One game.

I can't hear you. Tune down your crying.

[Liecthenbourg]

That was a really intense game, good football played.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

In an entirely unrelated note...

Oh god, where'd he hide that laser? >.>

[Constaniana]

One game.

I can't hear you. Tune down your crying.

I'll be sincerely cheering for every single team your country subsequently plays. Hell, even if it's the bloody Germans. Then again, if there's one thing Germans are good at aside from cars and beer, it's making Italians their bitch. They crushed Rome, they broke the Vatican's spiritual stranglehold over Europe with Martin Luther, and then they made you their bitches again in the 2nd World War, so it's not like they're going to need my support in crushing you.

[Rupudska]

I can't hear you. Tune down your crying.

I'll be sincerely cheering for every single team your country subsequently plays. Hell, even if it's the bloody Germans. Then again, if there's one thing Germans are good at aside from cars and beer, it's making Italians their bitch. They crushed Rome, they broke the Vatican's spiritual stranglehold over Europe with Martin Luther, and then they made you their bitches again in the 2nd World War, so it's not like they're going to need my support in crushing you.

I will be fine if the Germans win. They often do, even if it involves steamrolling America.

[Astrolinium]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

[Nude East Ireland]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

I thought the title said "Backshot One-Story".

Which is, incidentally, the title of my autobiography.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

Will read only if you read the ones I linked you to.

[Astrolinium]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

Will read only if you read the ones I linked you to.

I did and I'm mad because I want to know how Grandma's story ends.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Remember when I say that Nine didn't look the way I expected the Doctor to look, even taking into account the whole regeneration thing?

Well, this new guy's worse. What the hell?

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Will read only if you read the ones I linked you to.

I did and I'm mad because I want to know how Grandma's story ends.

Good. I'll read yours now. Get your friend to read both too, to further his Oberon hate.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Remember when I say that Nine didn't look the way I expected the Doctor to look, even taking into account the whole regeneration thing?

Well, this new guy's worse. What the hell?

Oh, you're at David now!

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/C ... vidTennant

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Remember when I say that Nine didn't look the way I expected the Doctor to look, even taking into account the whole regeneration thing?

Well, this new guy's worse. What the hell?

Oh, you're at David now!

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/C ... vidTennant

That's him?

Well then.

I'll continue some other day. The show's been pretty epic thus far.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Oh that page spoiled me something.

I won't complain, I'll just stop.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Oh that page spoiled me something.

I won't complain, I'll just stop.

If it's when he regenerates, I assure you that knowing when a Doctor regenerates does not even count as a spoiler anymore.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Oh that page spoiled me something.

I won't complain, I'll just stop.

If it's when he regenerates, I assure you that knowing when a Doctor regenerates does not even count as a spoiler anymore.

No, no, the part about his daughter.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

Peter, that poor bastard.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

If it's when he regenerates, I assure you that knowing when a Doctor regenerates does not even count as a spoiler anymore.

No, no, the part about his daughter.

That's literally the whole plot of the episode, inherent in the name.

And the episode's events are never mentioned again.

The Whovian community takes an...unorthodox approach to spoilers.

[Astrolinium]

Will-O'-The-Wisp

The wind whipped about, rustling Peter's golden-brown locks for a moment before it settled, leaving the bog still. A mist had rolled out over it, a foggy gray blanket, and the warm light of the lantern in the young man's hand did little to dispel the cold, dark mask it used to conceal the terrain stretching out ahead. In the west, many miles away, a great pine forest stretched outward, and there were mountains, once high rocky things, razor-sharp peaks hoping to make the sky bleed, but now little more than glorified hills. They were so old. The sun had already sunk behind them, but the sky was still painted in reddening hues, startling golden strokes of the cosmic paintbrush. It was not yet dark, but it soon would be.

Peter Altier shivered. It was not cold -- quite a warm night, humid. It was June, and there were fireflies behind him. They stopped at the bog, though. His skin felt clammy, cloying, coated in Deep Woods Off. The scent of it was noxious, but at the same time, it gave him a certain satisfaction, a certain heightened feeling. He inhaled, letting the bugspray sting the interiors of his nostrils, letting the stink of the bog waft into his mind. It stank of living things, of stagnant water, of rotting wood. Somewhere, a cricket chirped and then was silent.

In a strange accent, something that smacked of his Mainer heritage, but with a hint of the Mediterranean to it -- the therapists had tried for years to figure out where he'd acquired that and what it might be indicative of, to no avail -- he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The bog answered with only silence.

Peter Altier stepped forward, the ground squelching under the heel of his boot. Three days ago, he had been in a mental hospital in Louisiana. Now he was here, he wasn't sure where. Somewhere on the east coast, he thought. Those mountains must've been the Appalachians, perhaps. Truth being told, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten here, but here he was, and he was a man with a purpose. Peter Altier was now thirty years old, though he looked not a day over twenty. He had been blessed by the Lord with the fountain of youth, the staff had always said, to make amends for how fucked up his head was.

Nine days ago, a word had popped into his head. A simple phrase, the sort of thing you hear about in a fairy story. But then it had stayed there, intensifying. By day three, it was a constant chant -- if he hadn't already been in a mental hospital, he would've thought he was going mad. But no, he wasn't. He was already mad, and he knew what that was like. This was a throbbing, a pounding in his head. It was nothing short than a message, divinely inspired. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it would grow.

And so, on the seventh day, he had left. Taken a leave of absence, he had, not that any of the staff had been notified. That had been quite a night, chased by dogs through the bayou, emerging covered in mud and sopping wet. Funny, that now, here was in a bog, sensing the journey was coming to an end. Or perhaps, he mused, it was only a new beginning.

He'd only committed three robberies since then, which was good. In his youth, when he'd first run away, he thought he must've killed people, people in huge numbers. He distinctly remembered the joy he'd felt from crushing an old man's windpipe under his heel. The man had been grocery shopping and Peter had needed to eat. He'd tried to only target the elderly for such things -- he couldn't let them live, you know, and the elderly were going off to Heaven or Hell soon enough anyway. The Lord would punish Peter for his crimes, but all men were sinners, and so Peter did not mind the extra punishment if it meant he would live to make something of himself.

The first robbery had been the gun store. So easy to get guns in America, even today. He'd done that one at night, under cover of darkness. The headline had been great. 'Local Gun Store Robbed, Escaped Mental Patient Prime Suspect'. He often wondered why he'd never been caught, but he thought he must have Divine Providence on his side. He was a Religious man in the Atheist Western Civilization. The next two robberies had been armed, of course -- that had been the point of the gun. First was a department store, to dress himself appropriately. White dress shirt, black vest, black slacks, knee-length brown boots. Blue greatcoat. Cufflinks.

The second had been the general store the next town over. There he'd found himself the lantern and enough food and money to last him over to the next town. He floated along conspicuously, relying on the Grace of God -- if He willed his mission to succeed, then nothing could stand in Peter's way, ever. And if his mission failed, well, then, who had it been in Peter's head? Clearly someone trying to lead the young man astray. And we couldn't have that, now, could we? So Peter floated north and east in a haze.

And now he stood in this bog, taking steps forward through the mud and water. The sky was not yet dark, but soon it would be. Soon, he was engulfed in the mist, a world of white, the only thing grounding him in reality the squelch of mud underfoot. And then, there it was.

A light, in answer to his own. Peter blew out the flame in his lantern, and suddenly everything was cast into the silhouette of late evening, dark but not impenetrable to the eyes, the only clear figure the ghost light up ahead. It was... beautiful to behold. A glowing orb in the darkness.

"This little light of mine," Peter sang out softly as he stepped towards it.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

He stepped forward, again and again, but the light never seemed to draw any closer.

"This little light of mine," he continued.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

In fact, it almost seemed to be receding. Taunting him. Toying with him. He quickened the pace of his footsteps.

"This little light of mine," he sang out, louder.

"I'm gonna let it shine."

Will-O'-The-Wisp. That was the word. The word that had brought him here. He broke into a run.

"Let it shine."

He slipped, dangling for a moment in the air before falling face first into the stagnant water of the bog. Grunting, he pushed himself up and stood, front caked in mud and slime.

"Let it shine, let it shine," he continued, hardly missing a beat, as he found the light directly in front of him, glowing as bright as the moon.

And quite suddenly, he fell to his knees, dropping the unlit lantern in his hand. He clasped his hands to his ears, trying to contain the awful tintinnabulation inside them. A thousand bells were pealing inside the head of Peter Altier. He rolled onto his side, shaking his head back and forth, chanting, "Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine." His consciousness faded into blackness.

When he awoke, the day was hot, and the mist had been burned away from him. Next to him, the lantern had been mangled by some ferocious beast. The side of his face was covered in scratches, and his clothes were coated in mud, absolutely saturated with water. Off in the distance, some sort of heron stood, the absolute picture of majesty.

Peter rose to a sitting position creakily and ruffled his hair.

He paused, at that. It was curious... he'd thought he'd felt... in June?

No, his hair couldn't have had snow in it. That was stupid, crazy talk. (But, well, if you're talking crazy, Peter was your guy.) He stood slowly, a crick in his neck and a kink in his back, and looked upward at the blue of the sky. There was a name, on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't quite think of what it was, but he knew the Lord would not steer him wrong, that he would remember in time.

Months later, he woke up in a motel room, a twenty-two-year-old by the name of Robb beside him, the smell of semen and lube and latex wafting over from the bedside trashcan. It was a faint smell, but Peter had always had a sharp nose.

In the darkness of that room, the window blinds and streetlights conspiring to paint his bare chest with horizontal stripes of gold, he whispered softly, "Elfen High."

Peter, that poor bastard.

A short synopsis for the one-shot for when you put it in the OP with the others:

"Will-o'-the-wisps are atmospheric ghost lights seen by travelers at night, especially over bogs, swamps or marshes. They resemble flickering lamps and are said to recede if approached, drawing travelers from the safe paths. In European folklore, these lights are held to be supernatural beings or spirits such as fairies, attempting to lead travelers astray."

[Zarkenis Ultima]

No, no, the part about his daughter.

That's literally the whole plot of the episode, inherent in the name.

And the episode's events are never mentioned again.

The Whovian community takes an...unorthodox approach to spoilers.

Ah. Well I haven't checked the episode names so yeah. .

And, I bet that's because of the whole timey-wimey nature of the show. -Nods-