The labour that rebuilt Portus Magnus was that of soldiers from the breadth of Britain. But the plans, the improvements of fortification, were the designs of but men: High King Rokk, Sir Derek, Querl and Duke Kiritan. These minds planned a new wall structure that would better repel attacks from Khund, Frank or even Roman; Rokk would no longer let Britain’s second city be the most-oft seized fortress in his domain.
Meleagant, whose sway over Cornish and southern forces was vital, and Prince Pharoxx of North Cymru, who as commander of Rokk’s navy would be based from Portus Magnus, were of course consulted, and Rokk even managed to make them think that they had made significant contributions to the overall plan. But Derek was as surprised as anyone upon later reflection how Kiritan had gone from being leader of a defeated, distrusted faction to being a key defender of a vital British port. Necessity had turned Kentish Khunds from targets of occupation to a lynchpin in the island’s defenses, and part of Derek wondered if Rokk was only duplicating Vortigern’s failed strategy of decades agone.
The youngest, greenest companies in all British forces were Kentish Khunds, all the youngsters who had been too young to fight under Zaryan, combined with a handful of their surviving elder veteran peers.
Derek surveyed them with a caution too ingrained in his generation, who fought battle after battle with Khunds of both Britain and far-off Germania. Yet this week it was Latin-speaking Khunds toasting and feting a Roman-British king for besting a Frankish-Macedonian alliance. Rokk, who had personally bested Jormangund, a creature born of the Khundish gods, was now as much their king as any son of Britain or Rome. Derek was, in truth, not entirely pleased by this development at all.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Sussiah had been unaware of how deep her hunger had grown until she feasted at the grand table. This place, this castle, was a realm of miracles; everything gleamed of gold, silver and jewels of every hew in this warm, comfortable, beckoning palace where the breeze whispered song, the colours on the tapestries danced like a stalks in a field of grain, and an air of good humour permeated ev’ry corner. There was no palace staff to wait on them, yet the palace was sparkling clean, and the dishes gently floated toward them through the air like leaves upon a slow-moving river of the most soothing clarity.
The source of their feast was the Grail itself. Pelles’ prayers had cause it to brim forth full of fine stews and meats, wines and breads. They fed themselves and quenched the hungers of many days, yet as full as they were they could yet enjoy the next dish without bloat.
Carbonek, her host had called this place. She recalled an old nursery rhyme about a place of the same name (but could it not be this very place?), the magickal heart of Britain itself. She would have to take some of its gold with her, she absent-mindedly resolved; it was hard to concentrate here.
Sussiah knew she was giddy and light-headed, but resisted the overbearing spirit of goodwill that gnawed at her. Truly any other heart would be so overcome by these enchantments of good will as to give up claim to the prize which she had so rightfully seized. Surely Pelles was counting on the magicks of feast and castle to win her over. She could only giggle with joy at so fooling her host!
“I knew this… Grail… was good for healings. Yet how can it provide us with foods as well?” She finally asked.
The Cauldron, this Grail if you will, is the vessel of life. It may merely preserve it in a spot of difficulty, or it can bring one to the very pinnacle of life’s bounty, he replied without speaking.
“All pinnacles of life’s bounty?” She replied, tugging at his robes.
Did the magicks affect him as well? Could even a priest be as giddy and overtaken by these magickal euphorias as she was? His toothy grin answered her question as he pulled her close.
In the blissful throes of passion that followed, Sussiah was quite surprised at how Pelles’ mind seemed like a detailed tapestry to her. It was an ensemble of images from all his deep burdens of self-fear, hurt and loss that have accompanied him for all of his days. All his attempted and failed reaches for self-control – and the all too appealing juicy family secrets (oh, Queen Imra! What a plaything for many masters you have been!); they were all on display for the immediate world to see.
Fear overtook her that the reverse might be true and all her secrets would be unwoven for him… but no. It had been well over a decade since Pelles had last cast aside his shields with abandon; he was too deep in the experience – and the relief – just now.
If anything, if Pelles’ normal mind-magicks were like listening to the whispers within another’s ear, then Pelles himself was now shouting without scruple, completely unmindful and unheeding of the whispers of Sussiah.
Sussiah found herself tempted to surrender herself into the blissful torment of coitus, but even more tempting was the prize that Pelles’ heart and mind was letting loose. She was well used to seizing physical trophies, but now she could pilfer this onetime prince for all his worth – even as her flesh quivered and danced with his. He has bottled up his man’s spirit so long he now spills it too freely for his own wellness, she thought, but the magicks of castle and touch could not let her hold him in the contempt she normally would.
Pelles had hoped to win her over with the magicks of Carbonek, that its purity would inspire a conversion within her. Had he been entranced by her beauty enough to hope to win her heart for himself, even while he had lied to himself that he was seeking to win her for Iesous? Aye, he had. But Sussiah had seized the courtship on her own terms. It was the secrets of his heart she would mine, steal and use, secrets that held together this kingdom called Britain.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Genni should have been on her way back ere now, and met us with the Grail.
Sir Berach fretted – with good reason. He had erred on the side of slowness for the sake of his charge, assuming the swift Moorish lass would be on the return by now.
Genni had been ordered to reach Avalon via the Priestess gate, the lake passage at Glastonbury, and return with the Grail – first to tend to the ailing Ulsterwoman Laoraighll – and then to the wounded at Portus Magnus. Berach’s mission was to slowly and safely transport Laoraighll toward Glastonbury, in hopes of reducing her suffering time; Querl insisted that every day, even every hour, was of the highest need.
The Ulsterwoman had been ill since not long after the dog plague had come to Londinium and the whole of southeastern Britain – yet she had insisted upon fighting at Portus Magnus. Now she gasped and spasmed like a dying dog, her skin almost appearing to bubble in places. Like the dog-poisons the Khunds had once used against her, this canine pox also afflicted her, perhaps more severely.
Grail healing or no, King Rokk had ordered Laoraighll to go to Avalon anyway, as Querl had linked her current ailment to the dog plague. The king argued and Querl concurred that she should spend her recovery time away from any dog in the land, and the mystical, otherworldly archipelago of Avalon held not one.
Querl was more and more frenzied by the half-day – the speed of travel could further injure his beloved, but so too could travel delays. The Greek scholar took out his own changing moods upon Berach himself; the knight tried to handle the scientist as best he could.
Like many, Berach had become overly confident in Genni’s swiftness – not mounted rider ran as fast as the lass. Thus he had his company move quite slowly so as not to add harms onto the Ulsterwoman. He had expected that they would meet Genni on her way back well before they would reach the great stones of Salisbury plain… but he was wrong. The hills just east of Cadwy’s Fort were now visible, and this close to Glastonbury there was still no sign of her.
Berach checked upon Laoraighll, and found Querl silent and paralysed in panick, staring with the eyes of a defeated old man. Laoraighll looked closer to death than any Berach had seen ever return to so much as speaking. He gave the order for the company to ride just a bit harder; they could make the lake’s shore by evening if the good weather held.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Sir James was grateful for the leave-taking. After all his time on duty while Rokk was in the North, it felt like years since he had visited his family. True, he would only be visiting his parents at Sir Derek’s villa north of Londinium, but for the first time in what seemed like years he felt like he could relax. If he gave any thought to the last time he felt like this – the ill-fated dragon hunt with Sir Garth – he let it not interfere with his spirits.
Along the road between Portus Magnus and Londinium, a patrol intercepted him – they reported a strange old man and his aide harassing soldier and commoner alike, looking for the ruins of some old Celtic hill-fort lost since Boudicea’s time. With a sigh, James made a slight detour and scoured a few hamlets looking for the duo. After all the hubbub, he found it to be Mordru and some manservant of his! Mordru told the Cumbrian knight he was looking for his wife Mysa, and declined the young man’s offer of assistance.
Continuing on through Londinium, he spent the night at Rokk’s fortress, and caught up on the news. Beren had sent word that L’ile had been sighted back on British soil, but had already vanished again. Sir Brandius reported an old hag harassing and attempting spellcraft against him. And Domangart of Dalraida had threatened and briefly imprisoned a knight of King Urien of Rhyged.
James summoned Sir Lucan, King Rokk’s butler. “As soon as Genni arrives from Portus Magnus, have her take these messages to King Rokk at Portus Magnus,” he ordered.
“It shall be done,” the man confirmed. He hesitated before leaving. Seeing James’ nod as confirmation to continue, he said, “We have no word for certain, but merchants newly arrived from Colonnia are telling us of retribution by the Franks.”
“Go on.”
“Tis Prince Pharoxx’s half-sister. Elyzabel. She, so the merchants say, has been… imprisoned by Clovis for espionage. And Sir Bedwyr has been banished, on pain of death ere he returns.”
“I see. No doubt Clovis’ messenger is en route with the official notices and demands and the like.”
“No doubt, sir.”
James pondered for a moment. “We… cannot wait for Genni. Word must be sent to Rokk at once. Who is your swiftest rider?”
Sir Lucan paused. That would be… Dbron, I surmise.”
Dbron! What an oaf! “No, this is too important. I shall return to Portus Magnus at first light,” James decided. He could not enjoy his leave when his very gut told him there was more to the news than words conveyed.
And where was Genni? Surely she had been to Avalon, back to Rokk, by now and should have been here.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
“Do you like our lodgings?” The old man in truth cared not about his companion’s opinion.
“I’ve had better, but cannot recall when,” Iason confided. “The view’s not much to speak of.” He gestured out the window to the stone wall not 30 feet away, but continued to gnaw at the chicken in his hands, above his plate.
“That, my friend, is the wall of the palace of Londinium itself. Young King Rokk’s prize fortress, built by my own hands, stands right outside our window!”
“You sound proud.”
“Nay,” Mordru replied. “Not as you imply. Yet consider the temple we have observed right across the river from here”
“The Temple of Isis? Strange, how the Romans so welcomed cults of realms from the farthest reaches of the world.”
“Not so strange, in the grand design of all things. The Druids tell us that all gods are the same god, and all goddesses are the same goddess.”
“I have heard such said, but it means little to me,” Iason sneered. “Surely Ceridwen is not Isis nor is Cernunos Jupiter.”
“No, of course not,” Mordru smirked. “Yet let us consider our prize: Avalon. Druids and Priestesses are of a line that long predates the Romans on this isle, yes?”
Not even waiting for Iason’s nod, he continued. “The Druids are of the Celt, and share the bond of wisdom, lore and music with the Celts of other lands. The Priestesses are a far older order, left over from a people who were here long before the Celt. Ys, Hybrasil… these are but Celtic shadows of lore the Druids latched onto from their predecessors. Just as the Christians begin to borrow from the pagans.”
“The Josephites,” Iason blurted. “They too came to this isle – and to Avalon, as did the Druids of long ago.”
Mordru nodded. “As did others, long before, who are best forgotten and unnamed. Like the Josephites, the cult of Isis also came from afar. The Teachers have sought to blend the traditions of Britain, Eiru, Greece and Egypt. What is the pattern? What is missing?”
“The Romans themselves.”
“Aye.” Mordru took a swig of his ale. “Just as the Romans came with the sword, to rule, not to join, so too did their priests refuse to pay homage to the Dragon that is this isle. The Roman god Terminus is a particularly jealous one. Yet these Romans have provided us with the very tools we need. To save the heart of Britain from the sword of Rome, Avalon was removed from sword’s reach, and lies safely beyond the gates we have been visiting,” Mordru spoke softly, even though no one else was in earshot.
He pulled a sheet of parchment to the table. “Observe as I mark out on the map. The west Cymru grove here holds the very gateway that leads to the Druid’s Isle in Avalon. The ruins here in south Cymru lead to the Isle of the Josephites. The lake at Glastonbury leads to the Priestess Isle. The long-sealed gateway of the Tor Isle used to lead to here, to the great standing stones of the Salisbury Plain. That’s four out of seven.
“Now look again. At Londinium, the Path of Isis leads to the Teacher’s Isle. And at Camulodunum, the marshland gate now being built over by Rokk’s west magnificent tower leads to the Isle of Heath. Now tell me, Iason, what can you discern?”
“They are all spaced out in intervals along a curved line. But there is an uneven gap between the Salisbury Plain and Londinium? Thence is the hill-fort which we were seeking?”
“Well observed. We can presume seven gates, one each for the seven isles of Avalon. Clearly that lost hill-fort must be the entry to the Forbidden Isle, somewhere not far off of the very road to Portus Magnus.
“But despite our best efforts these past few weeks, another task now takes precedence,” Mordru said, his voice lacking any pleasure.
“So are we to finally enter Avalon and attack? Via the Path of Isis, here in Londinium?”
“P’fah!” Mordru scoffed. “Of course not. Your lacking memory clearly recalls not our military campaigns together. One does not invade when your enemy can gain reinforcements from many different fronts. For right now, we need to be able to close all doorways to Avalon when we are ready to strike.” He snapped his fingers for effect.
“Our allies, wittingly or not, have been placing my specially prepared charms near each of the gates. With demons out to get the Druids, they needed military escorts. Our Cymry prince, of course, led this very protective effort, and visited Avalon via the Druid gate. He also personally helped see Rokk’s magick cup returned to the Josephites, and thus planted my charm there, too. The Tor gate is already sealed, and while few mortals are privileged to come and go to Forbidden Isle as they choose, I dislike chance and would seek to charm that gate too. Sir Reep was kind enough to carry my charm through the Camulodunum marshland gate. Thora has unwittingly placed her charm near her own island’s gate, although not the charm she thinks she has. Governal has had Cador deliver the charm for the Teachers’ Isle. That just leaves the entry to the Forbidden Isle.”
“So what now? Why have we then given up?”
“We are not giving up. We are waiting for the one who can find the last gateway for us.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Imra’s unique ability to interrogate prisoners made her an invaluable asset at Portus Magnus – she even foiled three escape plots among the prisoners. But now as summer days slowly shortened into the warm rains of August, she was as relieved as any to be leaving the battleground coastal city.
Rokk had withheld word of Elyzabel’s imprisonment (especially from Pharoxx) until verification could be achieved. He dispatched a royal messenger to Paris, and sent James back to Londinium in his stead. Sir Brandius was a different matter, one he would see to personally. It had been too long since he had spent time with the man who had raised him, and any alleged witchery against him was a good excuse for a visit.
The royal party, complete with retinue, made decent time along the Glastonbury road, yet Rokk was of ill humour – his instructions to be informed of Laoraighll’s healing had come to naught. At Glastonbury, the ensemble would turn north, but Rokk resolved to make inquiries with the Priestesses since they were so close to his route. As he largely expected, Azura, the Lady of the Lake, awaited his arrival and anticipated his queries.
“My liege, the Lady Laoraighll is resting with all comfort and being treated will every available herb, spell and prayer. The Josephite brethren most deeply apologize that the Cauldron is not in their keeping to-day.”
“Where is it? Has Dindrane been summoned back to Lothian?” Indeed, the king had wanted her and the relic in Portus Magnus to attend to the wounded – once Laoraighll was healed. “And where is Genni?”
“The brothers believe that one of their own, Pelles, received a sacred vision and took the Cauldron with him. None have seen it since he left Avalon in a haste. We have told Genni the location of the Josephites’ gate into South Cymru, so she could to find Pelles ere he travels too far.”
Pelles. Imra’s heart felt the jab. The father she had no memory of had been in Avalon – her Avalon – the whole time she grew up – and she had never known. It was both a joy to know he had probably kept an eye on her all those years, but also a wrenching pain that he had never eased her fears and loneliness at the same time.
“My liege?” the Queen asked her husband. “As much as my heart yearns to see Sir Brandius again, perhaps I would be of better use tending to Laoraighll.”
Rokk nodded. With MacKell still gone, Laoraighll was his best fighter, yet through his loyalty to his friends and fellow warriors he wanted to see her restored to health even if she never fought again. He found no fault with hid bride for the decision, nor in truth with Genni. Anyone could run messages to and from Londinium, but if she could find Pelles, her efforts could yet save many. Indeed, she had anticipated the decision he would likely have made, and all too often he had been faulting his own knights for doing such.
Presently the royal entourage divided, largely by gender, with Imra’s ladies either accompanying her to Avalon, or else waiting for her under Luornu’s watch at the nearby Glastonbury convent. Brother Jan, Imra’s primary confidante, remained at Imra’s side, while at Azura’s urging, Rokk took her aide Thora along with him. If spellcraft was afoot Rokk would not be without an aide.
Imra reentered Avalon for the first time openly as both herself and the queen – no more deceptions to any. With Britain as united as any could imagine, not even the most pious Christian would dare rebuke her now, or so she chose to believe.
She and her ladies settled in among the priestesses and the maidens-in-training; it alarmed the Queen how many fewer students there now were compared to even a decade ago. She would make a point to address recruitment to Azura later on. Perhaps it was time to bring in Picts, Scots and Kentish Khunds.
Imra visited Laoraighll as soon as she could. The Ulsterwoman remained unawares, and Querl and the senior priestesses cared for her as best they could. Querl’s eyes asked the question she couldn’t answer – she knew not her father’s location at any time in her life, save for her grandfather King Pellam’s funeral. Ordering Querl and the others to allow her the privacy, she reached out to the ailing woman’s mind, and offered her own will toward the woman’s fight for her life.
That evening, Azura welcomed her with a sparse priestess meal – indeed, she would have been disappointed with anything else. She and Azura had known each other all their lives, yet now neither were mere girls who aspired to be priestesses – they were priestesses, and in their own way both were queens. Azura welcomed her suggestions on recruitment, but bristled more at the notion of Picts than even of Kentish Khunds.
“There have been prophesies, even within the Picts themselves,” Azura warned. “The Olde Ways as we know them might be more threatened by those who will rule the Picts than by all the Vidars in Christendom.”
Imra nodded, and seized upon the opening. “The sway that one such as Vidar held, and may yet again, needs to change. I… had it in mind for Brother Jan to establish a chapel in Avalon. On the Isle of Heath, as none have used it in many ages,” she told her hostess.
Azura was taken aback. Yes, she knew Jan had become a close and trusted advisor of the queen but still---
“You do not think it to be wise? Please, my friend. Speak your mind freely,” the Queen invited.
“I am surprised,” the priestess said slowly as she gathered her thoughts. “You know well that it is not my word alone that is needed. The others will ask, I am sure… are there not Christians here enough, with the Josephites?”
“The Josephites are a sect of Christians unto themselves. Over time they have les and less in common with the Christians of the outside world. There are two strains of Christendom I see in Britain, and neither resembles the Josephites in anything but name. There are Christians who act as soldiers of Rome and of Clovis, who would use their Iesous as a banner for war and conquest, and there are Christians like Brother Jan for whom service and kindness are the tools of their Christ-god. If we do not welcome the latter into the very heart of Britain, I fear we will see more and more of the former.”
Azura nodded. “I have seen the duality you speak of. You know… as queen, as a priestess and as royalty of the old line, your word will carry much weight throughout Avalon. I pray that you are certain of what you ask before the others hear of it.”
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
in all honesty, I've been fairly disappointed by most Arthurian movies I've seen. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is probably the sole exception - and not for its faithfulness to the mythos, of course.
I've just started watching the TV adaption of Mists of Avalon and so far it's not too bad (aside from the standard historical deviations and anachronisms).
posted
I'm ascared of this thread, but as a fan of Arthurian related things, I'm going to dive on in...tomorrow night.
From: Turn around... | Registered: Jul 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Dev, it's well worth it. I'll be catching up some more with it this morning.
Kent, I might watch Mists of Avalon, too, although I don't like the lead actress. Monty Python and the Holy Grail is, of course, a delight, and I think Graham Chapman actually gives Arthur some honest-to-goodness gravitas (all the more remarkable when one considers that Chapman had hit rock bottom with his alcoholism at the time of filming.) As for other Arthurian movies, I agree most of them don't cut the mustard, but I think John Boorman's Excalibur, despite many goofy moments, does at least capture some of the magic of the legends.
posted
I found Excalibur to be an unwatchable piece of crapola, but I do realize it has many fans, for reasons that escape me. It makes Clive Owen's recent King Arthur look good in comparison (I could actually sit through that, and admire the attempt to put it in late-Roman times).
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
It has it's share of groan-moments, but it tries to recast the essence of the mythos into a period-appropriate setting, with no magic (except for typical Hollywood shortcuts of story trumping physics) and only a handful of anachronisms.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
The witch-woman had convinced many of Brandius’ tenants that she was a priestess and of royalty of the old lineage, but unlike her efforts on Brandius, she never tried to convince them that she was the king’s sister. Her sudden disappearance, the very morning before Rokk’s arrival, angered the king. If some old woman wanted to claim false kinship among the gentry, he wanted to make an example of her, and he told this to the man who raised him.
“You care more of someone using her name than you do of her very absence?” Brandius probed.
“I… I know I do not recall her as fondly as I should. I but rarely can recall our moments together,” he confided a truth he rarely let on to himself.
“She left court right after having words with your bride. Do you think yon Imra’s gifts may be influencing your heart?”
“Mayhap. I sometimes know not who I am any a more.”
Brandius nodded. Young men change as they become young men. Even if they are not kings.”
“Tis as if something has crawled inside my gut and drives me to be something other than as I am,” Rokk confessed.
“You’re not the first to say such,” Brandius commented. Seeing Rokk was looking for more, he continued. “Mordru. When he was Constanz, he was a kind and trusting king. Poisoned by a Pict, he was closer to death than even Sir Garth or Sir Andrew were, ere their returns. When he came back to us… he was still as he was, but he had changed. The joys he once held now showed themselves when he pained others.”
Rokk absorbed this. “Am I doomed to walk my uncle’s path? Poisoned by fact or by heart? Mysa feared that t’would be Imra and Garth who would poison this land, and myself.”
The elder nodded. “Perhaps. But none can carry your burdens but you. You walk your own path. Let not Mordru, Mysa, Imra or me steer you to a place you know is wrong.”
“Reep often said as much. I miss him.”
Brandius nodded. ‘I pray you find him soon. Mayhap he is to be ransomed by some blackguard.”
“Mayhap.” Rokk recalled his own time imprisoned in the faerie realm Annwyn Annowre. If Reep was lost in some magick realm, it might be impossible to find him.
Late that evening, Rokk wandered out into the gardens where he and Reep so oft played. The forest insects of August serenaded all who would listen, and Rokk let the sounds lead him out into the fields.
“She’s scared, you know.” It was Tenzil.
“Who is?” He couldn’t picture arrogant Thora to be scared of much.
“The old woman calling herself Mysa.”
“You spoke with her? When? Where?”
“She called to me, not long after we supped. An aged old crone she is, in truth, so withered she could be an aged visage of most any woman. Yet she knew me by name and by sight. Many of us. Those Mysa would have known, she knew. Those who have joined your company since Mysa has been gone, she seemed not to know.”
“Sayest thou you think itwas her?” Rokk felt he had been quite tolerant of his beefeater’s quirks, but now his irritation was returning.
“I say only that she seems to truly believe so, and she knew things few but Mysa would.”
“Witchery.”
Tenzil nodded. “Verily the best of wagers, some form of it. She… she asked me to relay something to you, and if I did so, she vowed to bother Brandius no more.”
“Speak, then.”
“ ‘My dearest brother-’”
“Surely you might sever those words of merit from those without,” Rokk snipped.
“My liege,” Tenzil apologized. “She said that she was ambushed leaving Avalon by Thora, that Thora and Mordru conspire against you, and that plenty still loyal to the Olde Ways yearn for your leadership. She fears that the Pictish bear-king has bespelled you-”
“ENOUGH!” Rokk was almost angry enough to pummel Tenzil. “Where did you two meet?” Rokk demanded.
“By yon pond,” Tenzil jestured. No pond was visible in the night, yet Rokk’s feet knew well the way even without illumination, and stopped two feet short of the water.
“Witch!” he called out. “Witch, I know not who you are or what plot you follow. But know this. Bother me, bother any member of my court with your presence or your lies, and I will gut you myself, if I have every priest, Druid or soldier on this isle hunt you down! BEGONE, whilst you still can!”
Rokk would never be certain whether or not he heard or imagined a muffled sobbing between the notes of the crickets’songs.
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
Hyperpath: Email this page to someone!
Printer-friendly view of this topic | Subscribe To Topic
![[Wink]](wink.gif)
![[LOL]](graemlins/lol.gif)
