Wordplay
Legacy Name: Wordplay

The Owls of Inspiration make their home on a little island with groves of olive trees and a massive stone chimney dotted with caves. The entrance to each cave is shaped in the form of a letter, one for every alphabet ever put to use by man.

The Genre Owls are always in motion, taking wing to bring their magic to writers all over the world. Poetess is a silent flier, listening for subtle currents that alert her to rhyme schemes heard only by the poetic ear. Drama is known to swoop suddenly in his flight, enacting death scenes that his playwrights scribble on creamy imitation scrolls as they envision their names lit on Broadway. Shakespeare didn't need a computer and neither do they! (Unless, of course, somebody of real importance requests a copy of their script. They secretly stash a laptop beneath their cheap paisley couch cushions for just such an occurrence.) Data's services are called on by reluctant technical writers instructed by sweaty bosses in ugly suits to draft a new manual of company policies. He is not a well-loved source of inspiration, but he is popular all the same.

The island is inaccessible to humans, hovering on a cloud bank that belongs to every part of the universe where writing takes place. Much like heaven or the underworld, it is a place almost impossible to define. Those few writers who caught a lucky glimpse of The Sanctuary in a dream spend the rest of their lives trying to plot a course to its misty shores, creating imagery that causes some to cry and others to drink until they pass out.

Writers wrack their brains at three in the morning in hopes of attracting a Genre Owl, but these are just the delivery birds. Not even the greatest literary masters are aware of the twins living on Sanctuary Peak.

Word and Play are the source of all writing inspiration. Word is the master of language who weaves threads of words into a rich tapestry that will ultimately become a text discussed for generations. Play is the lightning bolt of wit that does not strike often and often fails to strike twice, leaving lines that remain branded in the heads of readers forever and add another few puffs of air to the writer's inflated ego.

Together they shape the stories that bond scattered tribes into nations.

Impressive is the only fitting word to describe the cave of Word. The surface of his mahogany desk has the reflective power of a mirror, giving the appearance that the line of quills standing at attention on elaborate stands are double their actual number. Glow globes hang from the ceiling, casting the room into subtle light and leaving just enough shadow at the edges to give the cave a feeling of intrigue.

The quill feathers are gathered not only from the usual turkeys and pheasants but from the flanks of griffins, phoenix, and even pterodactyl chicks. The quill he uses to write with varies greatly. He may select a bone-tipped quill for a fictional piece about a family of mammoths struggling to stay alive through winter. Ten seconds later his talons grasp a blue jay quill with an outline for a real-life story about a racecar driver whose flashy fashions have caught the attention of a local reporter sick of covering crop conditions. All 1,564 of his quills have seen use though he never picks up the same quill twice in one hour.

His notes are written on cream cards on which an intricate golden W is embossed. This is the only feature that remains the same for each note he drafts. Though two notes may be flown to two writers intent on a child eating a plate of spaghetti, the contents of those notes are never identical. Much like a child's fingerprint, every writer's way of viewing the world is totally unique.

For the most part he is content to let the Genre Owls handle delivery. If there is one thing that will make Word screech, it is dirt in his feathers.

Tonight's first note contains a picture of an airplane as seen from the deck of a fishing boat. The writer about to be struck with inspiration is lounging on the deck of a yacht owned by his older brother. This man grows weary of listening to family complaints about how much he is missing in life. Why doesn't he get a real job and stop messing around? He shuts himself inside his cabin with a gasp of satisfaction as the note drops into his lap. Word watches from afar as the story of a fisherman's first encounter with an airplane begins to take shape.

The second note would seem like nonsense to most. The scribbles are senseless black smudges that vaguely form the shape of a black blob with two eye stalks. To the young woman living her life in an asylum, this note is a lifeline to sanity. The workers allow her scraps of paper only on rare occasions and are stunned that she can string two words together, let alone write stories that make their eyes widen. She is not aware that the director has been stealing her work for years, nor would she care much. It is the sweet release of creative freedom that gives this woman the will to live. Snippets of clean paper are all she asks of life.

The luckiest writers are those who receive a blank note. These are the rare few capable of drafting through their own inner inspiration, the ones whose colleagues stare at in disbelief when one night of writing produces a masterpiece.

Play's cave is a whimsical place that glows with the intense light of golden globes that reflect from the gaudy trophies she has gathered over the years. Her golden figurines make no logical sense. Who would think to pair a goose egg with lumberjack equipment and military combat gear, all coated in rich golden leaf?

If you tank too hard about it the yolk's on you and if you want an explanation of Play's specialty, all you have to do is axe.

Put simply, Play is very punny.

Her lines drift into the minds of writers like dandelion seeds, clinging to Word's fancy notes, often unnoticed in the initial excitement of inspiration's strike. Hers are the lines that come out of nowhere, the ones that cause even stiff-lipped dramatic tragedy writers to crack a smile.

Cheesy puns are gouda in her opinion, any way you slice it. She's nacho average muse but she is grate at what she does.

Word is confident her sunny personality has something to do with the little sun on her brow. She is always trying to convince her dear brother to lighten up and enjoy the feel of the wind beneath his wings though she rarely succeeds. She loves to be in the air, soaring high and dropping in complicated patterns that would make an air force pilot swoon.

Few of her fellow muses can stand concentrated doses of Play's wit. Orange you going to ask why? You're sure to find the answer appealing.

Play is the one who will ask water you waiting for when you claim your writing hopes are circling the drain. If you are a writer, I highly suggest you put pen to paper before another of Play's puns make you shore that her rain of terror will never end.

Too late.

*Story (Sanctuary, Word, Play) by Pureflower
*Minion Overlay by Tomorrow
*Profile, characters, photo of Mt. Rainier, and code by Flier
*Sun on Play's forehead by Flier
*Texture, Frame, Tree, Fonts