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Welcome to the Requests for Promotion page. If you wish to nominate a member, or yourself, to be a Staff Member, this is the place to apply. One of the Bureaucrats will review your nomination and pronounce their judgement. You can also request access to Intangir Bot, IRC rights and social media accounts here.

Nomination processEdit

How to nominateEdit

To nominate a user for promotion, add a level 3 header with their username and the proposed rank in parentheses (i.e. ===Name (Rank)===)to the Nomination section below. The nominator should provide reasons for their nomination and sign with four tildes. Evocative poetry is encouraged but not mandatory. Other users can then review and comment on the user by adding bullet points below the initial nomination with Support, Oppose or Comment.

A nomination will always be archived once a Bureaucrat has pronounced judgement, unless it is a blatant troll nomination.

Minimum requirementsEdit

  • Users must be editors on this wiki for a minimum of three months from their first edit before they can be nominated for any position.
  • Users can only be nominated for the same position once every four months.
  • A brief explanation of the user's deeds, why they deserve the position and how they would use the tools should be included in the initial nomination.
  • Qualities we look for in our Staff include: consistent activity, contribution to content (images, templates, mainspace), knowledge and/or participation in policy, trustworthiness and the ability to remain civil and cool-headed.

Social media requirementsEdit

Our social media accounts include Facebook, Twitter, Github, Youtube and Twitch. Social media account access is judged on slightly different grounds. The guidelines are:

  • The user must have a presence on the Final Fantasy Wiki to a degree.
    • For example, they have appeared in a Let's Play episode, contribute frequently to discussions, or are a regular on the IRC channel.
  • The user is a trusted member of the Wiki.
    • These users represent the Wiki on other sites, and thus have a great deal of responsibility.

Those who have been selected to host the Let's Play project will be given the YouTube password automatically, but must go through the nomination process for other accounts if they wish to access them.

IRC requirementsEdit

Promotion to Officer (IRC operator rights, +o up) can be requested on this page, but requires a two step process. Firstly, a user should register their interest here and garner support as usual. Qualities sought are experience with IRC commands, civility, and a cool head. Secondly, the user will have a short test administered by one of the Marshals on #wikia-finalfantasy. Promotion to Officer will be granted only if both components are passed.

Promotions to Sergeant (+vt) do not require a formal request on this page, but can be added if the user wishes to create more work for Scathe.

NominationsEdit

Miyuron (moderator)Edit

Ok, so I've been considering this for quite some time now.

The main reason why I would like to be a moderator is to be able to move files. Most of my work here focuses on the mobile titles and a big aspect of that is updating things for the global releases. For example, many files for FFRK (Record Materias or some weapons and armor) are still using the translated Japanese names which makes adding them to pages a bit inconvenient, but if was able to move them, I'd gladly do so.

I'm pretty sure there will also be many other instances in the future where I'd be able to edit more effectively this way. Thanks for your consideration! *fingers crossed* Gabranth-ffxii-ost Miyu PFF Chaos Blade Icon PFF Highway Star Icon 02:31, November 30, 2016 (UTC)

Support, Miyuron is an especially valuable user due to her work with obscure mobile games that most editors haven't played and don't contribute on. Cat (meowhunt) 06:18, November 30, 2016 (UTC)
Support. I was thinking about possible future staff members the other day and her name was one of the first to come to mind. Does a ton of great work, why not give her tools to help do that work more efficiently? --Leon95 14:00, November 30, 2016 (UTC)
Support.—Kaimi (999,999 CP/5 TP) ∙ 11:21, March 19, 2017 (UTC)

Kaimi (sysop)Edit

While the moderator rights cover pretty much what I need, I sometimes request files to be deleted. Probably the ability to lock vandals' editing rights would come in handly once in a while. Well, I've been doing quite a lot of work since becoming a moderator, especially regarding FFRK, but not as much as I'd like to.—Kaimi (999,999 CP/5 TP) ∙ 11:21, March 19, 2017 (UTC)

  • Support - Prolific editor for mobile and XIII content who does file maintenance often enough for sysop to be useful. Also, the only productive sysops right now are Xeno and Techno. Cat (meowhunt) 18:42, March 19, 2017 (UTC)

Closed nominationsEdit

The following nominations have been closed. Please do not add to these.

TTFan, the ModestEdit

Judgement

TTFan has refused the position, so there's no point in us keeping this open. We can probably waive the four month rule if he changes his mind, but we can cross that bridge if we come to it.

Stamp of Disapproval

-- Some Color Mage ~ (Talk), kind of wishing we had a more polite rejection stamp, 11:26, November 3, 2016 (UTC).

Leon95Edit

Judgement
Stamp of Approval

Let it be done. ScatheMote 01:09, May 23, 2016 (UTC)

Some Color Mage, of the Dragon's NeckEdit

Judgement
Stamp of "Approval"

Cat (meowhunt) 22:53, February 21, 2016 (UTC)

Hexedy, the First RejectionEdit

Judgement

Probably picked teemo, got what was coming to him.

Stamp of Disapproval

Cat (meowhunt) 22:53, February 21, 2016 (UTC)

Technobliterator, the Title GainerEdit

Judgement

meh, screw it, I've had so many of these it's pointless, but basically Yuan gave me op rights, cool

I need to stop gaining titles now and hogging this page

Stamp of Approval

--Magicite-ffvi-ios Technobliterator TC 02:00, October 5, 2015 (UTC)

JBed, the long deservéd Edit

Judgement
Stamp of Approval
(if you want a judgement, request one and I will provide)-ScatheMote 03:53, August 21, 2015 (UTC)

Technobliterator, the Muse of the FrogbardEdit

Judgement


[23:37] <Technobliterator> ok if I forget bot jobs tomorrow
[23:37] <Technobliterator> yell at me
[23:38] <Scathe> it shall be done
[23:38] <Scathe> with great impunity
[23:38] <Scathe> there will be a yelling that stretches from coast to coast
[23:38] <Scathe> all the population with join in the yelling
[23:38] <Technobliterator> :c
[23:38] <Scathe> first, a small whisper from a small child
[23:38] <Scathe> "look at he who did not do the bot job.
[23:38] <Scathe> let us yell."
[23:39] <Scathe> the child begins to howl and scream
[23:39] <Scathe> he stomps his feet, he shakes his head
[23:39] <Scathe> others gather around the child
[23:39] <Scathe> "why do you scream, why do you shout?"
[23:40] <Scathe> but he does not respond because he cannot stop once he begins shrieking
[23:40] <Technobliterator> hahahahaha
[23:40] <Scathe> all the adults look down at the child and they begin to understand
[23:40] <Scathe> yes
[23:40] <SomeColorMage> I don't want to have to remember to yell at you :P
[23:40] <Scathe> they understand
[23:40] <Scathe> they begin to join in
[23:40] <Scathe> the deep shouts, the high pitched wails, the ululation reaches far and wide
[23:40] <Scathe> a real symphony
[23:41] <Scathe> the nearby village listens in
[23:41] <Scathe> "what is this that is happening?"
[23:41] <Scathe> They all run out of their thatched huts to the outside air
[23:41] <Scathe> they clamp their hands over their ears
[23:41] <Scathe> the sound is horrible
[23:41] <Scathe> but it is familiar
[23:41] <Scathe> then they remember
[23:41] <Scathe> yes
[23:41] <Scathe> they remember
[23:41] <Scathe> and they join in
[23:41] <Scathe> one more melody line
[23:42] <Technobliterator> now all this poem is missing is a title
[23:42] <Catuse> k
[23:42] <Scathe> the villages continue to sing and wail in one big group
[23:42] <Scathe> the nearby mountains begin to shake
[23:42] <Scathe> the snow begins to rumble
[23:42] <Scathe> an avalanche
[23:42] <Scathe> it barrels down
[23:42] <Scathe> as it should
[23:42] <Scathe> it is only right
[23:42] <SomeColorMage> poems didn't use to need titles
[23:43] <SomeColorMage> you just waited for someone to make a collection of your works and just number the things
[23:43] <Scathe> thousands are buried and crushed
[23:43] <Catuse> 400 years from now somebody will find Ark's IRC log
[23:43] <Scathe> but they keep shouting
[23:43] <Scathe> the trumpeting has been damped
[23:43] <Scathe> but still audible
[23:43] <Scathe> the few simple words
[23:43] <Scathe> "Techno, do the bot thing tomorrow"
[23:43] <Catuse> and Scathe's stories will be viewed as a sign of the trollingpeopleontheinternetism art movement that rose up that worst of times, the early 21st century
[23:44] <Scathe> end poem
[23:44] <SomeColorMage> Catuse: Yes, but the FFWiki IRC is less poetry and a case study into insanity
[23:44] <Technobliterator> wow that was
[23:44] <Technobliterator> beautiful
[23:44] <SomeColorMage> ...fucking beautiful, Scathe
[23:44] <Catuse> and the future people will think "huh, people used to use poetry to remind people to do chores"
[23:44] <Scathe> Technobliterator: alright, there's your admin poem
[23:44] <Technobliterator> :D
[23:44] <Scathe> you inspired me
[23:44] <Technobliterator> you have to put it on the page now
[23:44] <Technobliterator> and close my nomination

Stamp of Approval
-ScatheMote 03:53, August 21, 2015 (UTC)

Monterossa, the guy without a Scathe JudgmentEdit

Judgement

Look, I'm just gonna do this myself as I just found out Yuan promoted him back in May. You got your rights, yaaaaay.

Stamp of Approval

-- Some Color Mage ~ (Talk), about to be fed to the lions for his insolence, 11:05, August 7, 2015 (UTC).

BlueHighwind, the TricksterEdit

Judgement

On the first day, the crow was born. Naive and young, he used to play tricks on all around him. He came across a man who would juggle swords. While the man was giving a performance, the eyes of the crow glittered like the metal flying in the sunset. The crow threw a tomato at the man throwing the swords, and he dropped them all upon a small girl who was watching intently from the front row. As all held their breath in horror, when their averted eyes turned towards her. They did not want to see the horror of the red stained ground, yet like all humans, the fear (or was it delight?) of horror made them look. The only red was the tomato juice that had stained the front of the girl's blouse. All the swords were made from rubber and had bounced off her harmless. The girl, realizing that her brief brush with infinity had been only a ruse, began to laugh uncontrollably. And then all the adults began to chant, "You, swordman, were a fake; our hearts are harder than your swords. Be gone, and never be seen in this land again."

The swordman could only cry and cry, but his tears turned to rage once he saw the crow. "You who stained my hands red," he cried, "let your red add to mine!" He lunged for the bird's throat with his hands, but the bird deftly dodged. Three times he grabbed, and three times he missed. He, panting, said, "You have bested me crow. You are so nimble and strong. Let me give you this bunch of berries as a reward for your deftness." The crow, realizing the trick, said "I am full. I have eaten my fill of tomatoes today. I could not possibly eat a single berry."

At the mention of the tomato, the swordsman turned just as red as the object of his thoughts. Trying to calm down, he said "I have a great story to tell you about a cat and a village. Please come close to me so I can whisper it into your ear." The crow, catching on to the deceit once again, said "All children have heard this story before. It ends with the cat becoming the sun. It is why the sun is sometimes called The 'Great Cat.'"

The swordman began to heat up just like the Great Cat itself. Finally, the swordsman says, in a last ditch effort, "Come here, and I will make you a great leader of things. All will look up to you. You will be remembered forever, and a carpet of silk will be rolled out when you arrive at the world above." The crow was very tempted by this offer, and he almost swooped down to the swordsman. Three times he left his branch, only to return three times. However, just before he the fourth time, he said, "No, I do not need you to grant me power. I can get it myself under my own volition."

So the crow tried to become a great leader. He went too and fro, exhorting all to help. They laughed and called him immature and foolish, one who could never help or lead. So the crow did all that he could; he educated the young, aided the old, and sat with the middle-aged. But people still called him foolish and young. He grew older and wiser, but the same cries remained over and over. The crow almost gave up and went back to the swordsman, but in his heart, he knew that he could not. He kept going again and again and again until the cries turned silent and the anger turned to reverence.

On the second day, the crow looked at his crown on his head. It was going to be a good day.

Stamp of Approval

-Let it be so. ScatheMote 05:32, March 1, 2015 (UTC)

Technobliterator, the Poetry PunishedEdit

Judgement

what the world wrought after spawning such life
sometimes I wonder, sometimes I wonder
but now I only have time to tell one such strife

it was the old winter storm, the silent thunder
made such by snow packed ears while frosted eyes
glimmer as the purpled bordered sky breaks asunder

covered in bread and beard, the man searched far off skies
he threw his sight to smell the great cat's heat
is it day or night or maybe time itself dies

and yet no matter how the whirling winds may sleet
and the windows may patter with stoney clicks
scrivener’s blood must be thus harder for this feat

he scratched and scribbled, pen swirling and swooping quick
a single flake of snow careened on his ink
a single spot at the end of lines like a tick.

he, surprised, at this strange addition, went to think
maybe writing is all that better this way
with symbols that can help the reader create links?

as he returned his quiver, the arrow in the melee
his oafish limbs smudged and smeared certain words
Into becoming larger than the rest that lay.

Aghast at the error, things took a turn more absurd.

The man stopped copying altogether in a fit of anger; he threw rhyming to the wayside, he broke line breaks suddenly stopped. He started to write how he spoke. Is that possible, he wonder, is that right or correct? Am I making a mistake to speak my mind and say what I mean in the way I speak? He looked at the flurry of the snow through the cracked window. And then he knew it was right.

He sent the manuscript to his editor, where it was of course questioned and attacked from all fronts. When asked to defend himself, the man only replied, “I had felt conned into copying what I had before. What I have created, I think is better.” And, according to this definition, people referred to his new work as “pros” and the old work as “cons.” While the latter name has fallen out of favor, the first name remains with us to this day.

Stamp of Approval

-I think I gave you something vaguely like you requested. Or something. Who knows? ScatheMote 04:06, February 9, 2015 (UTC)

Some Color Mage, The AchromaticEdit

Judgement

The Cat began to set over the sky, and the Penguin Ball began to rise. Five o' clock, the time of mystery and intrigue. The joyous daytime continues to smile while the morose nighttime starts to weep. However, the Night has not yet begun to wrest complete control over the Kingdom of Earth by banishing his brother Day to another land, only for the cycle to repeat in a few hours. At five o' clock, Day and Night can share the kingdom.

It was during this that all the most wonderful things in the world happened. Love, magic, high-speed internet, all the rarities of the world appeared at this sacred time. During this time, the whole forest would get up and sing and dance. The trees would sway their leaves; with ardor, the arboreal ones danced alongside the harbor. Some hit mushrooms as percussion; others would rustle and whisper a melody. All who had seen it said there was no sight more beautiful than the oaken dancing.

One day, a king heard that these trees would dance and sing and enjoy themselves in his kingdom. He fumed in anger at the very thought. "A group of trees enjoy themselves in my kingdom? Without swearing fealty to me? Will I, a great king, take such an insult?" The rhetorical question needed no answer, although the king decided to answer it. "No," he said solemnly. He moved his feet from the aide whom he was using as a footstool and motioned him to rise. "Go and find some brave knights who will threaten the forest into swearing fealty to me." The aide nodded and stumbled out quickly; this was the first time he had moved in seven months, as years of inbreeding had left the king unable to properly move his feet. One might think that the inbreeding may have impacted his judgement as well, but in fact his stupidly and brutishness came from when his mother accidentally dropped a lead plated omelet (a kingdom delicacy) on his head. His parents also died that day of a severe lead-related illness, and the trauma was too much for his poor mind to bear.

But I digress. Three knights were collected. The first, Sir Palamon, was an oafish fellow. He could only grunt, a sound very similar to the sound that an old bearded yak makes when his feet are massaged by a gaggle of geese on Thursday. The second, Sir Charles, would spend hours waxing his mustache in order to make it as appealing as possible. Unfortunately, due to a batch of bad genes, his mustache ended up being a mixture of green, blue, and purple while his head had only three wispy hairs on it. The last knight, Sir Achromatic, was a veteran of the great Penguin War, in which he had lost an eye a well as his ability to see color.

The three knights came to the dancing trees at precisely five o' clock. Palamon grunted loudly. The trees looked up, as it was Wednesday, and thus they did not expect that sound. There was a small bout of silence as the two parties stared each other down.

"Treefellows," cried Sir Charles, "What have you! We come to ask but one favor; that you swear fealty to the, uh, great king of this land!" The trees looked shocked at this statement; however, as they, being trees, did not speak human languages, so they did not actually understand what Sir Charles had said. "If you do not swear fealty, you know that this means war!" screamed Sir Charles, his voice cracking at the most embarrassing possible moment. No response. "Well, uh, I guess this is war now." Sir Charles shrugged.

And so there was war. Sir Charles rode in first alone, chopping up the confused and terrified trees. Sir Palamon, a great lover of violence, followed Charles into the fray, but he was stupid to realize what is going on. Sir Achromatic, having already been paid in advance and could not care enough to help, quietly slipped out. Charles and Palamon butchered and destroyed thousands and thousands of poor trees.

One tree remained. He was huge and older than the kingdom itself, but it only took one swing from each to fell him. However, these swings was both of their last, as the tree fell upon both of them and crushed them.

The king saw the entire forest felled and was giddy with joy and bloodlust. He put on a jousting match to satisfy this lust, a tradition that would continue for generations to come. Meanwhile, the corpse of the last tree began to groan strangely. Suddenly, a strange four legged animal rose from the center of its trunk. Men would call this animal and its descendants the "Dogwood," which would be shorted to just "Dog" as people got lazier, which is generally true of successive generations. Its noises were the last remnants of the trees' language, and so men called it the "Bark."

Stamp of &quot;Approval&quot;

-Congrats on getting something that you already had anyway! ScatheMote 22:49, December 10, 2014 (UTC)

Mecorx, the Tentacle ToasterEdit

Judgement
Take it all in all, I do not believe anybody on earth has a worse time than an Emperor penguin.
—Apsley Cherry-Gerrard
The End of an Empire, or, The Penguin Tragedy

In the depths of the Antarctic, a blistering blizzard sweeps across the colorless plains. In all directions, a white whipped whirlpool wounded the once virgin ears of a small black penguin, which the legends call Mecorx, all alone in the endless eddies of ice. Shivering, the penguin looked up at the great Cat in the sky. "I wish I was strong enough to fly to you," murmured the penguin. "I wish all my kind could fly, could soar in the air, feel the taste of air on my throat and on my wings. The sickly slime of water would never touch my down again, nor would the insults of all the other birds who exiled us to this cold waste because we could not fly." The penguin's eyes grew hazy as the world around her, and sense began to slip from her body. Three times she tried to move her leg, and three times she failed. Collapsed in a heap, her consciousness slipped away.

The Cat in the sky, who had grown kinder and gentler in the millennia of isolation in the cold unfeeling realm of space, took pity on all penguinkind. He turned to his friend, the well frog, who could hear all of time and space because of the good acoustics in the well, and asked for another wish.

"Since this wish is selfless, I will grant it to you," croaked the frog contently. "I will modify these flightless birds to have greater powers than they did before. Let there be flight." With a single ribbit, it was done.

The penguin awoke to find the storm to have passed. How did I live? Where did the storm go? She stood up to find that the world around her seemed more airy. Did it really happen? Can I fly? A single flap of her wings propelled her high into the sky. It happened so fast that even the Wind did not have time to catch, and He was left sputtering on the cold ground. Another flap, and the penguin fired herself faster than sound through the featureless air.

The feeling of flying was ineffable, like the misery from a child lost or the joy of one regained. Even the very taste of flight was unlike anything one could describe. The clouds, whose tiny droplets kindly greeted the new arrival, the ground so far away, weeping for its child lost to the mischievous air. Eventually, the penguin returned to her colony. They all looked up and gasped at the one whom they thought lost now slipping through the air. She dove down and skimmed the earth, and her wicked grin told all. Soon thousands of black bodies began to rise into the air.

Every day was now spent in the air. Sleeping, eating, talking, laughing. Why go to the dirty and unloving ground when you can float in the embrace of air? Never before had the penguins ever felt so much joy in their lives before this day, and for many days afterwards the same joy coursed through their wings.

However, like all joy ever experienced, soon it turned to hatred and jealousy. Those other birds who mocked and threw us into a cold frigid hell still breathe and live. They sing and laugh and dance and fly just like us. But they have not suffered like us. They have not felt the feeling of their eggs freezing, their loved ones dragged away by the maw of a seal, the indignity and ignominy of Antarctica. So let them suffer too!

And suffer they did. When the Cat was covered in eclipse, all the birds, nursing their young, playing games, telling jokes, looked up. Suddenly, the dark mass swooped down. Can you blame the ducks for fleeing beneath the water? Can you blame the sparrow for hiding his young? Can you blame the gull for begging for forgiveness? Can you blame the robins for weeping? But none of them was spared.

The Cat looked down on the great battle below, he was sad that his wish had gone so horribly awry. And so he began to softly Tweet, just like how the penguins Tweet. They all stopped their assault and looked up to the sky. They, one after the other, rushed up to reach to the top of the world. All climbed the ladder of the clouds. They fought and bit and attacked and clawed, and so many tumbled back to earth, never to fly again, their necks scarred and yellow, the only reminder of their former glory was the Imperial title. But the rest continued to claw and fight their way to the Cat in a great big ball.

Eventually, they reached him. However, but this time, they were so tangled together that they could not separate themselves. They, like the great Cat, began to orbit around the earth, and this Penguin Mass is what we now call the moon. They spin around the earth in hopes to catch the Cat, but they never will. To this day, when the Penguin Mass passes in front of the Cat, every bird still cowers in fear from the memory of the great Empire.

Stamp of Approval

-Time to forge your empire! Just make sure there are not too many causalities… ScatheMote 05:13, December 8, 2014 (UTC)

Hexedy, Prettiest Princess of MetalEdit

Judgement
A Test of Metal and Mettle

Once, in a faraway place, in a faraway time, all the knights were preparing for the great jousting festival. This was a tournament that drew hundreds of competitors from all throughout the land. A sport of guts and of blood thereof, a true test of glory. And so, hundreds became tens, and tens became two. The two who won were called in front of the king in the main square for the final showdown.

Almost immediately after they were called, the one named Sir Arcite arrived, the great and noble knight. He was clad in full armor from head to toe, and he gleamed in the setting sun. His horse was massive, its mane a veritable forest, its dim bitter eyes the recipient of hundreds of dead. "Greetings, fair knight," bellows the king. "Thou hast done well so far! Thou hast served thy kingdom with all these deeds."

Arcite replied softly. "Opponent?" His voice could curdle milk and pickle old women, and often his enemies would die after two words; today, luckily, as only one word was spoken, it only greyed the tips of the king's mustache and jiggled his bloated belly.

"I am unsure where thy foe might be," replied the king meekly as the few remaining hairs fell off his head. "But certainly he shall be hence soon." He stares nervously at the knight, an act that would make the king nearsighted for the rest of his life. The foe does not arrive. The king turns to one of his peons. "Silly and ignoble peon whose feet certainly smell, where exactly is this doomed opponent?"

The peon attempted to stutter out an answer. "W-w-w-w-e-l-l-…" The king was having none of this. After a quick public execution, the next peon stepped up to the feet of the king. This one, having a firmer grasp of his tongue, replied, "Well, my king and lordship, I hear that that a strange knight named Hexedy is the opponent."

"Oh?" The king raised an eyebrow so high and so dramatically that many onlookers, much later in life, would swear that it had extended to the reaches of heaven itself, "But where is this Hexedy?"

It was then a fairly hairy man with a small flower in his hair leisurely strolled into the chamber. "Ah," said the king, retracting his eyebrow from the stratosphere, "He is here. Let the match begin, we have waited long enough. It does not matter that this man has no lance nor horse; those things would not have helped him reach victory anyway. He is hopeless."

And so they took their places: Hexedy on one side, Arcite on the other. Arcite began to charge on his horse, going faster and faster and faster and faster. Hexedy did not move. Arcite drew his lance. Hexedy did not move. The snot and spit from the horse was inches away from Hexedy's face. Hexedy did not move. Then suddenly, Hexedy gave Arcite a great headbutt, or should I say, headbang. Arcite was tossed flying through the nearby palace wall, causing the majority of the building to collapse. Arcite continued to fly so fast and so far; eventually, he slammed into a great landmass so hard that the world would become clouded and dark for hundreds of years. This is how the dinosaurs became extinct.

Anyway, the king turned to Hexedy and asked "What dost thou want, o noble sire, for thy great deed."

Hexedy, as all reasonable people would, replied as so: "I want to disseminate very small amounts of information to thousands of bored and stupid people who will not really listen nor care about what I have to say."

So it was done, and the first university professor was born.

Stamp of &quot;Approval&quot;

-Shine on, you crazy diamond. ScatheMote 05:25, December 6, 2014 (UTC)

Catuse167, the Luminous FelineEdit

Judgement
The Pied-Tweeter

A quiet breeze blows through the center of the quiet hilly town. All the people are asleep, their snores adding a percussion beat to the guitars of the crickets. On top of a small well, a Cat looks sadly at the trees, its slanted eyes wistful. Suddenly, a silent ripple rustles the well water. Then, a great bubble. Now, a torrent! Water rushes in a massive blast out of the dark well and flies into the sky. The Cat, reasonably afraid, jumps and skitters away behind a barrel.

A small green head pokes over the well wall. "So," croaks the frog spirit of the well, "why do you look so wistful, Cat?"

A soft meow comes in reply. "I look up at the birds in the trees and envy how they can sing songs so melodious that even humans, whom everyone knows to have terrible taste in music, come and listen, petrified by song. Even the chickens, who cockle and doodle so loudly, have a certain kind of beauty behind it. I want that power: when I sing, women and children scream, and the men get out their shotguns to silence me."

The frog looked him deep in the eyes. "You may have what you wished. You may Tweet like the rest of the birds, just as you asked." The frog returned back to his well home, satisfied with a job well done.

The next day the Cat Tweeted all day, happy at the sound of his new voice. However, he became happier after the real reason for his wish came to him: all the birds, fooled by this song, came to investigate. There was never any easier prey to catch in his life! One by one, songbird, chicken, turkey, kiwi, and ostrich alike came their doom at the paws of the Tweeting Cat. The Cat became so fat that he could not move; however, he had no need, as all food came to him.

The villagers, whose livestock quantities had been significantly decreased, decided to band together to remove themselves of this menace. Yet, what could they do? They could not stop the birds following their doom from flute-like melody? Soon, the cat would eat all the birds in the world; as he became larger, the louder and more bellowing his voice became. So the village, talking for many days, finally decided on a plan.

At sunrise, the whole village gathered below the cat, and all of them were completely covered in shade, as people were wont to be this days with such a large cat there. They pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. First, a movement. The cat Twittered in shock! This had not happened in many years! Movement was completely unfamiliar to him. The sweating villages did not give up the effort; they kept pushing and pushing and pushing. Suddenly, the Cat began to roll. A Tweet of anger was the last thing the villages heard before the cat rolled down the hill.

His mass made him roll so fast that, upon hitting the bottom of the hill, he rolled so quickly up the next one that he was launched into the air. He kept traveling on and on, crying and Twittering all the way, until he had flown so far that he began to orbit around the Earth.

This is where what we now call the sun comes from. It is also the reason why birds fly so close to the sun; they want to come in contact with the great Cat, who still Twitters out there, but they cannot fly high enough.

Stamp of &quot;Approval&quot;

-You can have what you have earned. Just don't kill any birds. ScatheMote 05:37, December 3, 2014 (UTC)