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Old 08-12-2008, 09:33 PM   #1
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Trying something new... writing loaded like Ernest and Hunter. Thoughts?


“It’s said that life is a gift; that it’s too short… or it’s said life is a curse and that the road of life is long,” he said slowly, dragging out the last word. He dismissed either notion with a slight wave of his hand. “Of course these schools of thought are dependent on whatever fool philosopher, idealist, pessimist, poet, prophet, or other charlatan happens to be in favor.” He paused, slowly tapping his index finger against the heavy, oaken desk top, before releasing a long drawn out sigh. “Perhaps you can understand how you’ve become a personal source of vexation to me, Cagliostro?” Thoughtfully styled from trousers to tunic, matched by his neatly trimmed beard, and undercut by dull, brown and weary eyes, he slowly turned to level his gaze at the self-proposed “Master Alchemist”. “You see, Cagliostro, this world preserves a delicate balance of self-absorption. It’s this that grants us our,” he growled the word, “freedom. Sleight of hand on a massive scale… the poor tend crops, slave at the smith, die by the sword… for what? Sense of duty? Fear?” He paused, slowly uncorking a bottle of red wine, drawing the bottle to sharp nostrils which flared with his steady inhale. “No, Cagliostro,” he smiled, shaking his head slowly. “This ‘work ethic’… this ‘sense of duty’… it stems from inherit human weakness. Man can be pushed to slavery, so long as he is permitted scant hours of freedom and a sense of ‘culture’ at the day’s end, no matter the conditions that bureaucracy may place to rape his land and pride throughout the day.” The lips of the bottle ‘glugged’ as he poured himself a full glass, offering nothing to Cagliostro. “…And these ‘ruling elite’,” he mused with a smile. “These fools so blinded by their ‘divine right’ that they dare not glance outside their sycophant advisors’ opinions.” The smile that creased his face broadened ever so slightly, a rare flash streaking his boring eyes. He took a long drink. “Sleight of hand, indeed.” A groan of satisfaction escaped his lips as his tongue sought any refuse. “But, I digress. I’m wasting these insightful words on you, Cagliostro. A man who has witnessed, experienced, and taken full advantage of these secrets. You are my dilemma, Cagliostro. I despise your originality, inventiveness, and cruelty… yet, I respect it at the same time.” He slowly drew a chair from underneath the home laboratory desk, and sat, leveling his gaze at the “magician”. “So, tell me, what am I to do with you, Cagliostro?”
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Old 08-12-2008, 10:14 PM   #2
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I like it. You write very well....great discription without having to spell everything out for the reader...
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Old 08-12-2008, 10:18 PM   #3
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I like it. You write very well....great discription without having to spell everything out for the reader...
See they took me by the hand

And invited me right in

And they showed me something

I don't even know where to begin!

Really though, it's gonna be a fun story... it ends up being about the 2nd coming in modern times but he doesn't know he's divine. So he has human flaws and reactions and happens to be supremely powerful once he understands himself etc. Blah, blah, blah, I'm self-important everyone look at what I've wrritten!

...but when it comes out, buy 10, it'll make great gifts... especially to religious family members!
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Old 08-13-2008, 09:40 PM   #4
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post a note when it does come out...
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Old 08-19-2008, 10:29 AM   #5
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I just found this thread - and subscribed to it.
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Old 08-20-2008, 07:33 AM   #6
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Bah, just take the buzzed and writing in stride - everything in moderation.

- seriously - i really dig it - and i think it will fit really well into what i've seen before.

It's crazy - but you and i (reverend) sort of "see" the same way. I totally get what you are doing. So critical of writing style i may not be your "best" guest, but i can tell you if i think it's good. I do. (so far).
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Old 08-20-2008, 08:03 AM   #7
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I'll post up the first chapter in its entirety soon. More context than one paragraph will help.
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Old 08-20-2008, 08:05 AM   #8
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Ames, since you read the first couple hundred pages of this sequence in its entirety, I'll hit you up in PM/myspace or something to talk about organization and structure because I'm curious for a second opinion. (Thinking about putting this part before LotM)
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Old 08-20-2008, 08:08 AM   #9
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The night was sultry...

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Old 08-20-2008, 08:09 AM   #10
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Ames, since you read the first couple hundred pages of this sequence in its entirety, I'll hit you up in PM/myspace or something to talk about organization and structure because I'm curious for a second opinion. (Thinking about putting this part before LotM)
No prob man....so far today - looks to be a light day lol
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Old 08-21-2008, 01:25 PM   #11
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Bah, just take the buzzed and writing in stride - everything in moderation.

- seriously - i really dig it - and i think it will fit really well into what i've seen before.

It's crazy - but you and i (reverend) sort of "see" the same way. I totally get what you are doing. So critical of writing style i may not be your "best" guest, but i can tell you if i think it's good. I do. (so far).
That was Ambiensteven posting. I didn't remember posting those at all.

God how embarassing.

Sorry REV
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Old 08-21-2008, 01:54 PM   #12
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That was Ambiensteven posting. I didn't remember posting those at all.

God how embarassing.

Sorry REV
No need for apologies. If I didn't want input, I wouldn't put it up until it was done or in stores.

I'll have the full first chapter done soon. There's some REALLY good parts and I'm trying to bring the rest of it up to par.
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Old 08-22-2008, 01:09 AM   #13
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It was a dark and stormy night...
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Old 08-25-2008, 10:10 AM   #14
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Okay, posting up the full chapter one.

Anyone who posts things they feel aren't clear, what they feel should be expanded or cut out, criticism whether constructive or deconstructive, will be greatly appreciated.

Edit: Sorry about the odd format display... maybe a mod knows how to fix that?

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Old 08-25-2008, 10:11 AM   #15
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“It’s said that life is a gift; that it’s too short… or it’s said life is a curse and that the road of life is long,” he said slowly, dragging out the last word. He dismissed either notion with a slight wave of his hand. “Of course these schools of thought are dependent on whatever fool philosopher, idealist, pessimist, poet, prophet, or other charlatan happens to be in favor.” He paused, slowly tapping his index finger against the heavy, oaken desk top, before releasing a long drawn out sigh. “Perhaps you can understand how you’ve become a personal source of vexation to me, Cagliostro?” Thoughtfully styled from trousers to tunic, matched by his neatly trimmed beard, and undercut by dull, brown and weary eyes, he slowly turned to level his gaze at the self-proposed “Master Alchemist”. “You see, Cagliostro, this world preserves a delicate balance of self-absorption. It’s this that grants us our,” he growled the word, “freedom. Sleight of hand on a massive scale… the poor tend crops, slave at the smith, die by the sword… for what? Sense of duty? Fear?” He paused, slowly uncorking a bottle of red wine, drawing the bottle to sharp nostrils which flared with his steady inhale. “No, Cagliostro,” he smiled, shaking his head slowly. “This ‘work ethic’… this ‘sense of duty’… it stems from inherit human weakness. Man can be pushed to slavery, so long as he is permitted scant hours of freedom and a sense of ‘culture’ at the day’s end, no matter the conditions that bureaucracy may place to rape his land and pride throughout the day.” The lips of the bottle ‘glugged’ as he poured himself a full glass, offering nothing to Cagliostro. “…And these ‘ruling elite’,” he mused with a smile. “These fools so blinded by their ‘divine right’ that they dare not glance outside their sycophant advisors’ opinions.” The smile that creased his face broadened ever so slightly, a rare flash streaking his boring eyes. He took a long drink. “Sleight of hand, indeed.” A groan of satisfaction escaped his lips as his tongue sought any refuse. “But, I digress. I’m wasting these insightful words on you, Cagliostro. A man who has witnessed, experienced, and taken full advantage of these secrets. You are my dilemma, Cagliostro. I despise your originality, inventiveness, and cruelty… yet, I respect it at the same time.” He slowly drew a chair from underneath the home laboratory desk, and sat, leveling his gaze at the “magician”. “So, tell me, what am I to do with you, Cagliostro?”
“What are you to do with me?” Count Alessandro di Cagliostro withdrew with a flinch, visibly stung. This man who had been such a strong mentor and staunch advocate not twenty years prior, now seemingly leveling threats. With a groan, accompanied by creaking wood, Cagliostro rose to his feet and shook his head. In twenty years, this man had faded into anonymity and it was he, Cagliostro, whose mystique had begun to surpass the human existence. It was Cagliostro who had become a legend throughout Europe, and not his mentor. Yet, it was also this man who had unnerved Cagliostro with his mere presence, no matter the duration of their relationship.
Then, softly, his cloudy, green eyes lost their edge in resignation. After all, time had left it’s stain on his body. He thoughtfully ran a single hand over worn, wrinkled skin to his balding pate. What few wisps of hair that remained were now devoid of youthful color. But this man before him… he had not aged a day.
The great work. The philosopher’s stone. Lead to gold and the bounty of eternal life. Cagliostro dismissed the notion immediately, as none knew the clandestine metaphorical origins of the philosopher’s stone better than he. He let his arm fall back to his side as he studied the stoic and brilliant man before him. “Years I have studied at your side, and for years we worked hand in hand.” He exhaled slowly, struggling to find the words under this man’s steady gaze. “And those years saw not even the slightest glimpse into your person, your reality, or your soul. You, who taught me the ways of Egyptian Freemasonry and built temples at my side throughout this continent. You, who refined my mental perception with philosophy, ritual and alchemy. You who instructed me in the arts of grand deception. And still,” he began, shaking his head, “you are no less a stranger to me than the first time I set my eyes upon you.” Cagliostro released a heavy sigh. “’Holy brother’, ‘sanctus germanus’, Saint Germain… who are you?” His eyes narrowed sharply. “Are you the last scion of Rakoczy and prince of Transylvania? Are you vampire? Angel or demon, perhaps?”
“What am I?” the Count of Saint Germain scoffed, casually setting the wine glass back to rest upon the table top. “What are you? The Count Cagliostro, raised by the Sovereign Military Order of the Knights of Malta, master alchemist and magician, or poverty struck Giuseppe Balsamo, ignorant occultist and accomplished liar, imprisoned by his own shame?” The latter was highlighted with an evil grin.
Cagliostro pounced forward at the mocking figure, as gracefully as his aged body would allow, with a growl, but as he braced for impact, his body sailed uninhibited through the air where the Count of Saint Germain had stood a heartbeat before. Vanished. His body groaned in protest as he began pushing himself to his feet, and then his eyes split in amazement as he beheld the smiling figure standing casually in the back of the room. “How?” he breathed, paralyzed on his knees. “What are you, Comte?”
“Your parlor tricks and oblique understanding do not place you in a position to pass judgment on an immortal,” the Count of Saint Germain erupted. “What I am is none of your concern, Cagliostro. Rather what you are is my concern, and in such, has become your concern, as well.” He calmly walked past the prostrated Cagliostro to retrieve the wine glass.
Cagliostro swallowed hard. “Whatever it is you think I’ve done… whatever it is I have done to offend you or your affairs, I can assure you it was unintentional,” he pleaded, hands spread in a gesture of submission.

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Old 08-25-2008, 10:11 AM   #16
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The Count of Saint Germain raised the glass to his lips and took a slow drink, torturing Cagliostro with every prolonged second of his tranquil composure. “You have done nothing to offend me, Cagliostro. In fact, you’ve been an admirable, if unwitting, servant.” The Count of Saint Germain waved his tension away with a dismissive flip of his hand. “If anything, dear Alessandro, I have been meddling in your affairs.”
Cagliostro said nothing, returning only a blank stare etched in confusion.
An ominous smile crept over the Count of Saint Germain’s lips. “You’ve been a useful tool, Cagliostro. You’ve become a mystery to the people. An enigma of fame and infamy in unison. Chaos…” The Count of Saint Germain blinked once, sincerity washing over rigid features and his tone becoming patronizing. “But I’m building a new world from the ashes of this stale… pit.” He turned, calmly leveling his gaze at the aging man before him, and said, “I had you arrested for Marie Antoinnette’s gaudy necklace.”
Cagliostro grimaced, pained by betrayal’s revelation. The affair of the diamond necklace, a vast ruse a skilled forger and swindler had invented to amass wealth, status, and cement public opinion against the queen, had become a catalyst to this French revolution now in it’s infancy. Cagliostro, himself, due to his dubious past, had been arrested on suspicion and exiled despite his apparent innocence.
The Count of Saint Germain only shrugged. “Had the French tribunal performed to expectations, we wouldn’t need to be having this discussion, but, alas, here we are.” He sighed. “This emerging new world is mine, Cagliostro. I no longer have a use for a man of your notoriety. No, Cagliostro, your purpose has run it’s course. So, again, tell me, what am I to do with you?”
Cagliostro stood rigid, jaw tight with defiance despite his uncertainty and fear that echoed inside him. “You would betray me with a smile?”
The Count of Saint Germain shrugged. “’Asher eh asher’; ‘I am that I am’. Such is my nature. Time is supposed to be our ultimate equalizer. What becomes of fear without the threat of retribution and consequence… without death? To stand unmovable throughout each epoch is a remarkable experience, but to bend history itself to your will… this is the power of the gods.” An imposing half smile crept slowly across his lips. “Because of my gifts, I have seen and experienced beyond mortal dreams. To stare entire armies down, blade drawn, without fear. To learn and debate firsthand with history’s greats… and then to surpass them.” He took one final drink as the remains of the wine glass slid down his throat, then paused to collect his thoughts. “Ego is beneath me. I have learned from my mistakes as one must to reshape the world in their image.” His head cocked to the side inquisitively. “Should I have pity on the sheep that must unwittingly surrender their lives for my dream? Does hunter pity the creature that he takes in sport?”
He shook his head softly. “No… men die enslaved by their surroundings, Cagliostro. Such is their nature. Most are no more than beasts of burden, slaving without complaint… to wring use from such pathetic animals you must speak to the soul to electrify them. As you are aware, manipulation is an art, and to this end, I am a true master. I have cast you aside, Cagliostro, as I will Bonaparte when his course has run.”
The Count of Saint Germain sighed once more. He produced a dagger with one free hand and set it upon the laboratory desk top with the empty glass simultaneously. With a glance over his shoulder as he made his exit, he said only, “Captivity or the afterlife.”
The local Roman constabulary was waiting outside as the Count of Saint Germain exited. In stride, he said, “The Count Alessandro di Cagliostro has confessed to be a practicing Freemason. Take him to Castel Sant Angelo. Any heartbeat of daylight he sees diminishes a score from your life.”
The constable nodded and waved his men forward as the Count of Saint Germain slowly melted into the night.


The centurion stood akimbo, cursing under his breath, weathered and tanned skin stretching to accommodate his wide grimace. So many factors had come to pass to land him in this predicament, like so many ripples on ocean of life creating a violent whirlpool that threatened to tear his existence apart. However, his apprehensions were not selfish in nature. Rather, his only fears were in defense of his ideals and what he held dearest, the Roman empire.
The cries from the assembled crowd, whether in support, mock, or desperate plea, were constant and the threat of riot and revolt were ubiquitous. Softly, the centurion cursed again, this time directing his disdain at Caiphas. After all, it was this man who had brought this mess upon him. This heretic, this blasphemer, that they had brought to his door seemed innocent in his own ways. This situation had become volatile quickly, and it was that volatility that tugged at Caiphas’ political strings, given that every breath this “criminal” took threatened Caiphas’ position and his prosperity.

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Old 08-25-2008, 10:14 AM   #17
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It seemed the sun was in protest as well, steadily pummeling the earth below with heat, unorthodox for the season, as it continued it’s ascent, matched by their own scaling through the outskirts of the city to Golgotha, the “place of the skull“. The centurion’s eyes squinted sharply as he tried to make sense of the situation, those monotonous eyes barely visible under his plumed helmet’s visor. Whether there was cause in this man, whether his punishment was justified, matter little. No, despite his peaceful nature, this man’s life had proven to be incendiary to his very surroundings. Everything he touched sparked with dissonance, and passion, but dissonance of this potential scale could not be afforded in the empire’s borderlands. If it was the centurion’s duty to maintain the order and security of the Roman empire by executing this man, this messiah, or whatever he may be, then so be it, whether guilty or blameless.
Jesus of Nazareth stumbled to his knees, the heavy, wooden cross, mockingly labeled with his self proclamation, “King of the Jews”, burdened upon his back falling to the ground beside him and snapping the centurion from his preoccupied reverie. No god, the centurion softly mused to himself in pity of the defeated character before him. After all, what sort of God could be prostrated before all to see, scorned with his briar crown, beaten and blood drenched from scourge wounds and tortured to near death by wretched, mortal man?
The crowd that thickened with every moment cheered at this blatant sign of weakness, cursing his arrogance and mocking his mortal frailty.
“Help him!” the centurion barked, pointing to the closest guardsman, interrupting their own ridicule of this apparent false prophet. “Can you not see that he can go no further?”
The centurion grit his teeth, frustration evident upon his face. These borderland “Romans” were devoid of discipline. Briefly, he longed to be back with the Legion, among true men made of sterner stuff, where life, death, the rush of adrenaline and the stressors of combat came hand in hand in honorable service to the Caesar. But, after all, it was the Caesar, himself, who had sent him to this pious pit at the world’s end. His decree came following several mishaps the prelate, Pontius Pilate, had made in his dealings with these stubbornly devout people, and though it had been disappointing, the centurion had accepted without hesitation, for his service was unconditional.
Pilate, himself, had preferred to release this delinquent from punishment. For all their findings, this man was guilty only of unwittingly ensnaring himself in a political, religious power struggle… and of insanity, of course. Regardless, Pilate could not afford discontent from the Jewish temple among such a devoted people, knowing an incident of such a profound scale would force the centurion to take his head at the behest of the Caesar.
Why would this man refuse to withdraw such claims when he was given such beneficial contingency? Why would this man force his execution for his foolish pride? This man that stood defiantly before the Roman prelate, Pontius Pilate, and asserted his own position in the kingdom of Heaven! Could anyone invent such arrogance! The centurion grit his teeth and approached this deity now struggling to stand. Man or god, this man would die by his hand before dusk. The indignant glare or superiority this beaten man had directed at Pilate only hours before, now aimed at the centurion. The messiah’s bravado was returned with a mouth of spit, stinging as it slid awkwardly down hemorrhaging wounds, but this man’s body was now numb to pain on such a dull scale.
Despite the affront, his face never flinched, his glare remained steel, only his mouth moved, showing blood stained teeth as he mouthed the words, “You shall wait here until I return.”
The centurion only stared as a chill wind ripped through his insides and shivers tickled their way up and down his spine. His silent and reflective stare continued as a man was pulled from the crowd to assist Jesus, the anointed one, with the burden of the cross, and through their final ascent to Golgotha. As if entranced, the centurion could not hear the cries of agony from sects of observers or from the prophet’s own mouth, instead his ears trained on the pounding of iron and the snapping of bones as iron nails were driven through the Savior of Man’s hands and feet. The wind that ripped through the place of the skull was thick with the scent of blood, but only regret touched the centurion’s sharp nostrils.
Hours of this black day steadily melted away, but nothing dulled the meditative state of the centurion as the words of the martyr echoed through his ears and his mind’s eye. You shall wait here until I return.
He knew he could stop this. To cut this man, spirit, or god from his cross and execute Pilate in the name of the Caesar. Such was in his power. Instead, he did nothing, trapped outside his own body and paralyzed as a spectator to the cruel atrocity before him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to end this. But he stood motionless and staring, powerless even to form words.
Then, with a deep exhale, all remaining life and spirit fled from the body, and the now vacant head slumped forward. This criminal, charlatan, madman, martyr, priest, prophet, king, messiah, deity, or any combination that he may truly be, was now dead.
The centurion stirred, snapping from his trance with a shake of his head. He waved his hand, signaling the guardsman to proceed with their mauls to hobble the legs of the accused, expediting their grim demise. They halted before Jesus, glancing back to the centurion and somberly shaking their heads, reaffirming that life had already fled from the empty body.
“Show me,” the centurion growled, effortlessly tossing a spear to the closest man. There was no tensing or reflexive reaction as the spear drove effortlessly into the holy corpse’s side, only a violent spray of blood. Then, as if mourning, the earth itself trembled, and spasms came in deep sobs.
And as the centurion turned and began his retreat back to the prelate, quietly and to himself, only two words passed through his lips.
“Hail Caesar.”

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Old 08-25-2008, 10:38 AM   #18
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Better. Still, my apologies for the walls of text.
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Old 09-04-2008, 03:33 AM   #19
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Saint Germain certainly was extraordinary, but I doubt he was at Jesus crucifiction 1500 years earlier, or did I miss something?
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Old 09-04-2008, 04:03 AM   #20
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Saint Germain certainly was extraordinary, but I doubt he was at Jesus crucifiction 1500 years earlier, or did I miss something?
You missed the "fiction" part of it, apparently.
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Old 09-04-2008, 04:43 AM   #21
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Even fiction has to have a coherent timeline.

No biggie, you certainly have the gift of description, very impressive..

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Old 09-04-2008, 04:55 AM   #22
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Even fiction has to have a coherent timeline.

No biggie, you certainly have the gift of description, very impressive..
Sigh...

So the legend in the pre-revolution France was that he was an immortal man. Some people he told he had mastered alchemy for that gift, some he told he had studied the pyramids for it, and one of the legends was that he spit on Jesus and was in turn cursed by him.

Regardless, thanks.
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Old 09-04-2008, 05:01 AM   #23
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So the legend in the pre-revolution France was that he was an immortal man. Some people he told he had mastered alchemy for that gift, some he told he had studied the pyramids for it, and one of the legends was that he spit on Jesus and was in turn cursed by him.

Regardless, thanks.
I like the stuff where he was the mysterious figure that gave..was it jefferson - the great seal and stuff like that -
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Old 09-04-2008, 05:04 AM   #24
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I like the stuff where he was the mysterious figure that gave..was it jefferson - the great seal and stuff like that -
Or that he was Adam Weishaupt who was in turn George Washington.

Or that he was Vlad the impaler.

Or that...
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Old 09-04-2008, 05:07 AM   #25
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Or that he was Adam Weishaupt who was in turn George Washington.

Or that he was Vlad the impaler.

Or that...
Well, i can see how he was Weishaupt... But i've never heard the vlad stuff.
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