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Willom Wilde and the Cheese of Foreboding
Posted: 06 Aug 2005 08:04 PM |
It all started with the dress.
The cheese of foreboding would come later.
The dress was not a particularly attractive piece, and served the dual purpose of making him far too “hippy” and yet totally obliterated any sense of shapeliness. The lavendar pattern attempted a feminine mystique, quite the same way certain intestinal distempers attempt to arouse a floral bouquet.
Needless to say, it didn’t even come CLOSE to offsetting his deep hazel eyes, and that just wouldn’t do.
“Balto,” he stated with exasperation, “This dress is an abomination to my female delicacies.”
Balto, the corner of his mouth crimped shut around several seamstress pins as he worked to even the hemline of the dress, croaked sarcastically. “Willom, thine back hair does far more to sully your feminine graces than this dress ever would.”
Willom Wilde paled. “BACK hair?” He almost rung his own neck as he twisted it to catch his back in the act of offense.
“Hold still, ya beastly tart!” Balto cried. “I’ll skewer yer shapely legs before I've done with it!”
“Back hair,” Willom groaned with resignation. “I’ll be a spinster for life.” He shook his head. “Not even my respectable dowry would save me from this humiliation.”
Balto put the last pin in place and stood up. “Dowry, eh? Perhaps I should get upon a knee and pledge to thee.”
“Balto, my dear fellow, I would rather lick my own back hair.” Willom looked in the mirror, turning himself from side to side with a delicate grace. “So, what’s my cue again?”
“Yer cue? Ya ask me yer cue? Have ya yet AGAIN forgotten? You may tread the boards with the skill and grace of a master thief, but the trap of yer memory could not hold fast a mouse. Now listen up...”
“I am always upon my full attention to your captivating....”
“Shut up. Now, Lord Deastrundo will say, ‘But still and quiet now you must be, for approach us now a figure I see.’ You then enter from back stage left and say....”
“By the gods’ thunder, my arse looks HUGE.”
“That is absolutely NOT what you say, ya daft doorknocker! Concentrate!”
“Eh?” Willom looked away from the mirror and back to Balto. “Oh, my line. Yes. I then say, “A morning as this, ‘tis sweet to be, walking alone in love with thee.”
“Good. Now, pay attention, yer entrance is upon you.” Balto motioned to the stage, where Alturius as Lord Deastrundo and Segmo as Lady Askwipple were just finishing up their love tryst on the wooded path.
Willom puckered his lips to Balto. “A kiss for luck, you handsome hunk of man?”
Balto raised a brow. “I’d sooner lick yer back hair.”
........................................................................
The show was a success. A pity the audience couldn’t recognize that as they turned away with a mixed spattering of muttering, heckles, and a few polite claps. Still, no vegetables hurtled toward the stage. Actually, this was a pity of sorts since the acting troupe sold rotten vegetables at the back for the potential of hefty profit.
It looked like another night of choosing between a semi-decent meal or a decent flask of ale.
Willom took is final, albeit wasted, bow to the backs of the crowd. As he straightened up, he noticed an odd-looking old woman sitting toward the back, staring coldly at him with her single, milky eye. He had noticed her several times during the show, and each time this cyclopean crone transfixed upon him her singular ocular dagger of ice.
He hesitated a moment upon her before turning to leave the stage, finally dismissing her as a crazed old woman as he joined the rest of the troupe backstage.
“Well, a warmer reception one could not hope for...” Segmo stated, “in a BLIZZARD.”
Alturius chortled. “Ah, my fine Segmo, you must keep to mind that this village has completely flummoxed their taste by their own stench, a stench which would sour even the divine orations of the great Superbious himself.”
Willom’s grin was acidic. “Truly, Alturius? For I find the charm of this village positively delightful and I plan fully to retire to this utopian villa upon the very moment to bask in its refinements of culture and intellect.”
“You should certainly retire that DRESS to this wastepile of a village, Willom.” Segmo turned to Balto. “Where did you find that abomination?”
Balto frowned defensively. “I’d wish a challenge upon any of ya bloody scoundrels to be solely responsible for the props and wardrobe of this flammin’ theatre troupe and be as successful as I have. Ya proffer me as much a budget as ya do assistance, after all. And to gratitude ya leave me perfectly in debt.”
Alturius slapped Balto on the back. “Come, my under-appreciated friend. I am sure an ale or two will see our account settled and our disposition improved.”
“I will meet you there shortly,” Willom said. “I must first remove this offending garment from myself and regain my manhood.”
“It will take more than that to acquire that status, my good Willom,” Segmo remarked, then moved off laughing with the rest.
Willom changed, removing both dress and makeup, and redressed quickly. As he walked the steps down outside the stage caravan, he was stopped quite suddenly by the old crone’s presence before him, her one eye fixed to his pair, easily overtaking them.
“Pardon me, old woman,” he said with hesitant dismissal. “I have an engagement this night that I am already late for.” He tried to walk around her, but found it inexplicably impossible; the singular gaze held him like a vise.
Her mouth opened like a crumpled sneer, the whiskers upon her crevassed lip bristling. “You wear upon you a crime unanswered,” her voice grated.
Willom stammered. “Wha-“
“Though the blood be rung out of Serapha’s gown, yet the murdering deed still soak it through.”
He was becoming more uncomfortable by this woman’s inane babbling. “Well, old woman. So glad you enjoyed the show. Come back tomorrow and we’ll do it again.” Again he tried to walk away. Again the milky eye kept him at bay.
She raised a bony finger to him. “In three acts do you play a life, but by three acts can you SAVE a life?”
Willom was, and likely for the first time in his life, speechless. He stared at her stupidly.
“Play you now your most difficult role, or curse you then to live no more!”
“Old woman, this is a charmingly nonsensical tale you weave, but I really, really need a stout brew before me.” Maybe if he didn’t look at that retched eye, he could then get past her.
Nope. Not happening. He could not remove his gaze from the fouled pearl bewitching him.
“Act one will bring you to a traveller’s inn, aside a northern highway, near a Royal Port.”
“Yes, wonderful, well—“
“There to find a song not sung.”
“Sounds lovely, but—“
“Act two will have you seek the sacred trout...”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“...that will provide you with a truth untrue.”
“You’re a loony.”
“Finally, act three will lead you to the sandwich of the seamstress.”
“Completely crackers.”
She squinted her eye and jabbed her finger at him. “But beware you of the cheese of foreboding!”
His jaw found gravity somewhat challenging as it dropped heavily. He stared at her with befuddlement. Then, straightening up and closing his mouth tightly, he nodded curtly. “Well, right then. I’ll just be off now.” Move, dang it. Move!
A pox on these rooted legs! Why couldn’t he move!?
“Know this now, that in one year’s time, I shall return to you, and you shall reveal to me the secret of Serapha’s gown, or the curtain of your life shall close!” She cackled for dramatic effect.
He had to admit, it really WAS quite dramatic.
“Come now, just what is this all about now?” he asked with an uncontrollably growing trepidation that there was something to all of this.
She turned from him then, and he immediately found a freedom of movement that was completely useless to him as he was now ironically rigid with fear.
“Just remember your cue, Willom. Your role starts when the dwarf cries ‘Gravy and onions!’” She cackled again dramatically.
Now that, he had to admit, was a bit overdone. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: Willom Wilde and the Cheese of Foreboding
Posted: 06 Aug 2005 10:29 PM |
| ((*lol* excellent intro James. Welcome back!)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
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<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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LETTER TO BALTO
Posted: 08 Aug 2005 10:09 AM |
Balto,
How fair you, you smelly old ox? Likely pruning the branches of Alturius’ ego, as always, with that keen-edged dagger wit and sunny disposition, or sneaking a nip or two from Segmo’s secret stash of berry ale he keeps behind his collection of Trullio’s Sonnets.
I miss you all, which is just one more reason beyond the many of late to make me suspect my sanity. And I miss the stage! The road becomes the most incorrigible of companions when traveling alone; intractable to discussions of direction, temperamental to weather, stubborn to all subjects of discourse, and callous to the traveler’s condition. As a result, after the second day of travel, I aptly named my road Balto.
It was most comforting.
And now, I set myself to the task of reporting precisely what I had not expected to write. My long journey had often looked ahead to this moment with a deep longing as I would place quill to parchment and scribe those wonderful four words: “I am coming home.” For, what else would there be to write when I came to this distant land and, as you and Alturius and Segmo so confidently asserted, nothing would happen? It was my entire reason for this trip. I just had to know that the old woman was crazy, then I could return to my normally abnormal life of which I love.
Even now, my hand fights my reason with the muscle of my heart to form those words on this page.
But it cannot be.
Though you will take the next words I write as one of the fantastical plays we’ve performed for temples and faires, it is however as true as an historical tome, and as binding as a legal contract from a royal court.
You remember what I told you of the old woman’s words. You know what I was looking for (or more precisely what I was praying against!) as I journeyed north on the twisted prophecies of a mad witch. Well, believe if you can that I came upon a traveler’s inn on a stretch of road called “The Northern Highway,” which lies just outside of a large coastal city called “Port Royale.” I shrugged to these discoveries, for I imagined anyone with a good grounding in geography would be aware of this northern area. But, of course, I also knew that I must indeed enter and see this insanity through.
I lodged that night at this Four Winds Inn, and awoke the next day deciding to check the area out and put this ludicrous quest to final rest.
Entering the main room, would you believe that an odd bard of off-tune key was there, and furthermore engaged me in conversation. Could you now believe me when I inform you of this odd character, Popé, making reference to a certain uncomely dress? No? Then you certainly would not even entertain the notion that this sour-sung minstrel did then, upon request for a song, state that had within him an unfinished tune, A SONG BEST LEFT UNSUNG!
I barely had the time to slow my spinning, befuddled head when who should arrive but a dwarf of friendly disposition named Coruva, who had little more than bid a welcome to the area when he told a sad story of an abandoned boy with nothing to eat but “gravy and onions!”
At this point, I was almost undone by these events.
You can see now why, my friend, that I cannot return. Sadly, you must fill my position in the troupe, and I can only hope that, in time, I can rejoin you all, my fine friends.
The only good to come out of this is that I have met a most attractive woman, also recently arrived, who I know little about, but who has agreed to travel with me for a time while we learn the layout of the land. She is a ranger by the name of Iris, and by her figure and presence she suggests a certain prowess that any cutthroat or highwayman would do well to keep in account.
I have many things now to think about and investigate. This one called Popé the Bard. The song he left unsung he told me was about a gnome by the name of Scoopers. This Scoopers has apparently traveled south, and I feel I must seek him out. Popé also spoke of a seamstress near the area named Angel when he was referencing Serapha’s gown.
Coruva the Dwarf spoke of this boy, Nush, whose father is lost or has abandoned him. Is this Nush a part of the mystery of Serapha’s gown as well?
And finally Coruva himself. What is his part in this mystery? When I asked him about an old one-eyed woman, he mentioned an encounter once with a witch long ago. Could it be the same woman?
But Balto, most importantly, the time has come for you to let loose your tongue. You have dodged the question on several occasions, but now you MUST speak true:
WHERE DID YOU FIND THE DRESS THE OLD CRONE CALLS SERAPHA’S GOWN?
I now begin to believe that much, if not my very life, is dependent upon this question, and you must tell me, old friend.
Give my best to the others, and be well.
Your friend,
Willom |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: LETTER TO BALTO
Posted: 08 Aug 2005 10:59 AM |
| ((Great Stuff and Welcome back James :D)) |
Vives Screenshots!
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Re: LETTER TO BALTO
Posted: 12 Aug 2005 12:37 AM |
| **HA! Excellent stuff! So glad to see you and Mel back James...we missed you two! |
ONWARD AND UPWARD! |
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Random notes from the journal of Willom Wilde
Posted: 20 Sep 2005 02:09 PM |
I have found Scoopers, the subject of the song unsung from Popé that the one-eyed witch had foretold to me. Iris and I stumbled into him at McGillicuty’s (leading me to the irrefutable conclusion that, when in doubt, ale will guide you to the answer).
An interesting gnome, this Scoopers. He carries about him an apparently magical shovel (Model Number 3) of some intelligence, though it appears only Scoopers can it. Scant months ago, I would have laughed off this bizarre shovel and its friend Scoopers, but now....
I was disheartened to discover that Scoopers had no insight to give me regarding the witch, the ugly lavender dress the hag called “Serapha’s gown,” or any of the forthcoming prophesies (quests? clues?) laid out by her. I was quite a mess of emotion, and Iris and Nicodimus (who happened to be present as well) thought me quite insane. I certainly was not in the mindset to argue their point.
However, it dawned on me that perhaps I was not being directed to Scoopers directly, but to his wondrously magical shovel. So, requesting that Scoopers ask his sage spade about the hag’s second statement (this oddly sacred trout), the shovel replied that we should look either in the river in Brandibuck, or in the river running through Ferein near where Gasher lives. The shovel also mentioned the Great River, though the perilous nature of that trip implores me to set that possibility aside.
I asked Scoopers if he would accompany us to these locations, and he readily agreed, so soon, we will embark on the next act of this play of lunacy I seem to be playing the lead in.
And what of Coruva, the dwarf I met upon first arriving at the Four Winds? Was he simply the fateful flag that signaled the beginning of this mad adventure, or does he have yet another part to play in this? And then there is the abandoned boy he led us to, the one called Nush. I have yet to fathom whether he has any part to play in this.
And then there is this confounded Theatre production I am to direct and star in...and only three months to prepare! Had I known that this Mr. Jessup that Nico had spoken so highly of was actually some kind of crime boss businessman, I would have never agreed to this nightmare. Now, if Nico and I don’t get this play off the ground, I have been all but assured by this hulking half-orc harbinger of hurt Jessup that he will extricate my hands from the bondage of my arms.
We need a script, we need actors, and we need the favor and blessings of fate to somehow pull this play off.
And time is moving swiftly past me. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: Random notes from the journal of Willom Wilde
Posted: 17 Oct 2005 08:54 AM |
Why, why, why did I ever leave my old acting troupe? And why, why did I have to come here?
The old crone. That old, one-eyed damnedable crone. She is the reason. dang her! And dang that blasted lavender dress!
As if having a one year deadline put on your life isn’t enough, this confounded mess with this play is fast running to a dangerous and tragic end. And just when I thought I had everything solved! The idea of doing a play about the exiled paladins and representing Midor as the enemy did just what I had hoped it would: Jessup ate it up like a donkey to a carrot. And the Paladins were easy to convince. It was beautiful!!
Or so it seemed.
Jessup was so taken by my idea that he has demoted Nico from any active part of this play! I am the sole individual responsible now! Now normally, I would grab this opportunity and ride it to glory, but not when a seven and a half foot tall, three and a half foot wide half-orc threatens to remove my hands if the play fails!
But the play won’t fail. It’s will be a success. Well, if I can find the right actors (will Kalannar and Tyailin pull it off?), and if I can put a great script together with Lillian’s help, and if we can successfully promote it, and if a good crowd comes.
Oh, yes, just one other, tiny, little, insignificant detail may have a subtle effect on whether or not this play is a success: the issue of whether or not I am slaughtered and my ears lopped off and made into a necklace (why are my body parts always in threat of being removed from my body!!!!) by a rather large, nasty, bad-tempered half-orc called Grunge (and why in all the hells does it seem my demise is seemingly tied to half of the half-orc race???). It seems this Grunge is a “cleaner,” and I, most unfortunately, am “dirt,” to quote my good friend and bane to my existence—Nicodimus the Scribe. This Grudge works independently, but is often contracted by Midor, and now, it seems, he is after me. And so, if I leave the “safety” (safety? HA!) of Port Royale, I will likely be skewered and individual parts of me turned into Half-Orc jewelry. And all because I, who has had no true gripe or quibble with Midor, who has always avoided taking sides in politics and religion, am now—gods forbid it!—a rebel!!!
And now, of all times, I find the most significant clue to this mystery of Serapha’s Dress since first arriving here. A rather odd (by rather odd, I most delicately imply totally insane) lass by the name of Melissa came to me and, after spouting meaningless drivel about all varieties of lunacies, started sounding dangerously close to making sense to me. So, either I am insane (and there is mounting evidence) or she is the next, most important guide to solve the mystery of Serapha’s dress.
She knows of the dress. By all the gods, she knows it! I do not know why, but she is taking us to the Lynaeum...the same place Coruva brought us to the gates of when I first arrived here. I swear there is significance to this place. It is a vital part of this “quest” I have been assigned.
And then there is Iris. I have grown fond of Iris. We came together by happenstance, but she is a good travel companion, and has become an important partner in the business. Ah, dare I say it? Yes, she has become a good friend. She is horridly niave, however, to my constant consternation. Confound the girl, she would trust anyone! But I fear that now, I have become too dangerous for her to be with. I have told this to her, but she simply dismissed it, wishing to say. Obviously I have charmed the poor girl for her to stick with me like this, but I would truly loath the feelings of guilt I would suffer were she to be hurt on my account.
And that very well could happen, as we, very soon, go to the Lyneaum, to hopefully uncover a mystery. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Rising Action
Posted: 25 Nov 2005 11:48 PM |
Tomorrow he would meet a hero.
Well, at least, so he was told.
Lillian had spoken the world “hero” to him the way an actor would absently go over a troubling line before a performance. Willom was still having a hard time figuring out Lillian. If there’s one thing he knew, it was acting. The odd thing about Lillian was that, if she was giving a performance, Willom had the strongest impression that it wasn’t he who was the intended audience, but herself.
This, of course, fueled the flames of confusion that have consumed Willom ever since arriving at the Four Winds all those months ago. And he finds himself futiley prodding this crackling, dancing fire with an iron cold question:
How did I get myself into this colossal mess?
This blind stab into the embers sends up only sparks for answers.
Well, he’s an actor. So, take it one act at a time.
Act I. Scene One. Willom is traveling with Balto, Alturius and Segmo bringing theatre to each village they come to. He is happy and content. That is, until he puts on the dress.
Act I. Scene Two. Willom is cornered by a mysterious one-eyed crone after a performance. She tells him he has one year to solve the mystery of Serapha’s Dress, or he will meet his doom. So, by her words, he travels far to a distant land, arriving at a roadside Inn, and his world is changed forever as her prophesies begin to come true.
Act I. Scene Three. A whirlwind of events overtake Willom. He is wrangled into producing a play to be financed by a criminal underlord that, if it fails, will cost him his hands, and if he succeeds, will likely cost him his life by the vengeful arm of Midor. He also meets the mysterious Melissa and her phantasmal shadow, who lead him through bizarre visions and dangerous lands to deepen the cryptic complexities of Serapha’s dress and the thread of his life stitched within its seam. She tells him a journey awaits him to a river in a distant land of gray and black.
Act II. Scene One. As if it isn’t enough that Midor should threaten him directly, a horridly huge, miserably odiferous Half-Orc by the name of Grunge is sent, supposedly by Midor, to kill him. Grunge’s appearances from Port Royale to Buckshire suddenly make nowhere safe. Willom also meets Lillian, an exiled Paladin who helps him with the background for his play, and gives him the name of the play’s hero—Byron Lorian, Herald of Aristi.
And so, tomorrow, Act Two, Scene Three. Willom will meet face-to-face with the most important role of his career. He will look into the eyes of the man he will become upon the stage. He will learn this man’s story. Then, he will write the play. And thus, the rising action shall end. Thus, Act III can begin.
More questions to toss to the fire: Will he survive the play? Will he make the journey to the River Vandavian in the land of gray and black, where the story of Serapha’s Gown might be revealed? Will he find this Avadielle, and the mirror, and the fish? Will he learn about the captain? And what of the significance of the black shield with the red circle?
His life has become a series of concentric roles layering each other as he performs to a script already written, yet not revealed to his eyes. But, like all scripts, he knows it leads inevitably to two words.
He has never feared these words until now.
He has never dreaded their coming until now.
Those two, absolute, final words that, for him, insinuate his fate.
Curtains close. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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The Forge of Fate
Posted: 04 Jan 2006 05:59 PM |
Willom found it quite amazing how he inadvertently found himself thrust onto yet another dangerous path. And, as the arrows from the hostile centaurs of Buckshire Wood flew past him and the magical lightning peeled from the sky by the magic-user's call, the all-to-familiar phrase pressed against his lips:
"This is NOT the life of an actor."
Of course, when the bolt struck him, only the "Th" had come out, and although no one likely noticed, Willom ended up doing a perfectly unnecessary sound effect of getting struck by lightning.
"THHH-THHHH-THHHH" went the lightning.
"THHH-THHHH-THHHH" went Willom.
Had the life not been zapped out of him, Willom might have wondered if the summoned lightning was actually trying to declare that "This is NOT the life of lightning," but was prone to a similar static-electrical stutter.
It really didn't matter, however, to the now smoking remains of Willom Wilde's body.
............................................................
So this is really it, huh? Willom's transcendental consciousness thought regrettfully as it traversed the ethereal plains. No solution to Serapha's dress, no play, no loosing my hands to Jessup, no torture at the hands of Midor Justification, no death at the hands of a one-eyed hag, no...
Wait a minute! Willom's spiritual essence thought, this means NO solution to Serapha's dress, NO play, NO loosing hands to Jessup, NO torture at the hands of Midor, and NO death via the one-eyed hag!! Ha-ha!!
He really wished he had a hand and a nose right now, for he would have joined them together--thumb to nose with fingers wiggling--in a magnificent mocking display back toward the land of the living.
Of course, he would miss his friends. Fell and his bold, youthful enthusiasm to drag Willom and Iris into the dankest, darkest places in Vives. Fell’s somewhat stoic but good-natured friend, Jakad, whose relationship to Fell often played out like an affectionately bickering brother. There was the frustrating Nicodimus who, though that little gnome was infuriating and the primary instigator to many of Willom’s problems, Willom posthumously reflected that he really kind of liked the little bugger. And he thought of all the others he had met and enjoyed the company of, and he even thought with a sour fondness of Marrya (perhaps an eternity in the ethereal realms would bring some resolution to his relationship with HER).
And Iris.
If a spirit could sigh, Willom must have done so. Thinking of Iris gave Willom, or whatever Willom had become, a sharp tinge of regret. He had gotten so pleasantly, comfortably used to Iris being by his side that he had never bothered to realize his growing affections for her. And how would the poor girl survive without him? She was so naive, so blindly accepting, so childlike in her view of the world! He could only hope that she could one day overcome what would most certainly be insurmountable grief for his passing and move on. Poor girl. To lose me like this.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. He was off to his next and most grand adventure. What marvels awaited him? What splendors would he...
Yipes! What is THAT? He was abruptly distracted from his thoughts by a tug of irresistible force. He fought the brutal yank, but it could not be resisted, and he was hurtling back, back, like a leaf in an autumn gale. He could just make out the thin, distant sounds of a woman’s magical chanting. Radra? He sailed inexorably backwards, toward the sound of that voice.
Until something seized him with a buckling counterforce. It sucked him in and engulfed him, and he was at risk of losing himself completely to its dominant presence. His scattered essence thought with frustration, “Oh would someone just make up their minds already?”
And then, he was within an indescribable, palatial workshop. Within it, every tool, and every piece of raw material, gleamed with potential. Every raw gem, every lump of metal, seemed to sing with its desire to be more than what it was. And Willom reverberated with his own song. Ideas, once unfathomable ideas, now coursed through him in a wash of ecstasy.
Willom stood (oh my, my legs are back, and my arms, my everything!) before a large, magnificent anvil, its metal translucent with prismatic colors. On it rested the most beautiful rapier Willom had ever seen, which surprised him since Willom usually had never found weapons the least bit attractive. Gazing upon it’s edge seemed to split Willom’s very sight, it was honed so perfectly.
Willom looked about him, to see who resided in this most splendid place and made this most spectacular blade. At first, he could find no one, and yet he could hear the beautiful ringing tone of a hammer striking metal in the distance.
“Hello?” he called out, and walked toward the sound.
He came to a forge, glowing warm and radiating a clear and pure light. Before it, a shadowed figure stood, holding a golden hammer and working a glowing hot metal with apparently obsessive attention.
“Greetings! I am Willom Wilde, actor of great renown, playwright, and proprietor of Wilde’s Vials, leatherworking, indentification, alchemy and songs for b-“
But he was cut off. “I know you well,” the figure stated distractedly. The hammer continued to fall in measured, deft strokes.
“Oh, you do? Well, of course you do! I am quite famous, of course.”
“I have watched you long, Willom Wilde, with much disappointment.”
Willom was struck oddly speechless by this statement.
“You are the cut jewel that does not glimmer. You are the keen edge that does not cut. You are the virile elixir without potency.”
“I’m sorry?” Willom replied with bruised ego. “I really don’t know what you’re—“
“You are potential unfulfilled.” The hammer rang again, a ringing toll that resonated Willom’s soul. Then, the hammer was set down and the cooled metal blade was set back into the forge. The mysterious figure finally looked into Willom’s eyes. “It is time that the tool stopped thinking itself the masterpiece.”
By the gods, this is like listening to Melissa, Willom thought with frustration. “I’m not sure I’m following you completely.”
“Does the quill ever understand the words of the author? Does the chisel ever realize the intended shape of carver? No. That knowledge is for the hand that wields it. The instrument merely performs.”
“I get the distinct impression you are trying to tell me something. I don’t suppose you could do it in a bit more straight-forward manner?”
“It is time for you to return.” With these words, the imposing figure drew the white-hot metal out of the forge and began once more to strike it, turning it with each blow.
“Back? What do you mean? What are you talking about? Who are you? Is this about Serapha’s Dress? What am I supposed to do?”
The craftsman did not look up, focusing on his work. “The trials you now face merely stoke the fires of the forge that tempers your steel. A greater role awaits you, Willom Wilde, when you are ready.”
Willom didn’t like the sound of that. “Um, perhaps you’ve mistaken me with someone a bit more heroic. You see, I’m an actor, not a hero.”
“You are a pivotal ingredient to my design. Now go, You will remember little of this now, but perhaps you may realize more clearly from whence your inspiration comes, and to whom your creativity serves. Let this knowledge be the whetstone to the edge of your character.”
And before Willom could respond further, the forge surged with flame, illuminating the room, and Willom saw the face of the one before him, and though never seeing this face before, he knew absolutely who it was, and perhaps, for the first time in Willom Wilde’s life, he was humbled into silence.
......................................................
“He’s alive!”
“Oh Willom, I thought we’d lost you!”
“Does this mean Mr. Wilde’ll be a’right now?”
He heard the voices, voices that seemed like forgotten companions from long ago. Fell. Iris. Sampson. But this meant little to him for the moment. He had been somewhere. Something important had happened. But what? His memory was fast fading, replaced by pain and fatigue.
An anvil. A rapier. A forge. A...
Gone. It all melted away from him.
He opened his eyes, and he saw Fell, Nathan, Sampson, and Iris looking to him with concern. Radra stood apart, looking pale and weak herself. There was blood on the corner of her mouth. He stood slowly, Iris helping him up. “What happened?”
“You fell to the Centaurs in the wood,” Iris explained. “Nathan put you on Blue’s back, we brought you to the sisters, and they revived you!”
Willom struggled to find a voice and some coherent thought. “I-I remember falling. I remember passing on. Then, I was being pulled back, but something stopped me, something kept me from returning, something...” Images flickered to the pounding of a distant hammer, but he was too tired, to weak, to think about it now.
Radra spat blood to the floor. “I don’t know what happened. I had brought you back. I had successfully drawn the magic from the scroll, but then...it all went wrong.”
Sampson stepped up to him. “I was gonna finish your play for you, Mr. Wilde, if’n you died for good. Honest. Well, after I saved th’ port, that is.”
Willom tried to smile. “I’m sure you would have, Sampson.”
Willom tried to focus on their continued conversation, but his head was swimming. Finally, he bid his friends goodbye and retired to the bed the sisters had given him. Iris helped him lie down, and he closed his eyes, and hard as he tried not to think, a name kept sounding in his head, like the clang and echo of a mallet against an anvil. And with the name, there was the sense of some purpose, but he was too befuddled to remember or to understand.
The hammer fell, and the anvil rang...
Vastaldoriun. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: The Forge of Fate
Posted: 04 Jan 2006 11:03 PM |
| ((Here's a screenshot of Willom in Serapha's Gown)) |
The subculture of my dreams
Is waiting for me to fall asleep.
I know you're scared—you should be.
I know you're scared. |
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Re: The Forge of Fate
Posted: 04 Jan 2006 11:47 PM |
| ((there are spies everywhere!)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Re: The Forge of Fate
Posted: 05 Jan 2006 01:01 AM |
((Well, now. That was a very singular experience.
The dress is...oh my...the dress is...um...*gags*...Oh, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth)) |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: The Forge of Fate
Posted: 06 Jan 2006 11:44 PM |
| ............... |
ONWARD AND UPWARD! |
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Re: The Forge of Fate
Posted: 06 Jan 2006 11:49 PM |
...............
Well, all was absolutely worth it if for no other reason than to make Chief speechless. Amazing!!!!! |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Please Hold the Pickles, I'm Off to Maldovia
Posted: 08 Jan 2006 11:56 AM |
Willom stared at the lavender nightmare draping the chair across from him. The chaos of patterns was hypnotically nauseating to him, but no more so than the dread he felt over where this dress would take him next.
But he had it now. For good or ill, he once again had Serapha’s gown.
But how did it get here? How in all of the realms of Vives did it get into Angel’s hands?
A hooded stranger, quite keen to be rid of it, Melissa had said. Who was this hooded stranger that had sold the dress to Angel? Could it have been Balto? Or had Balto pawned it off onto this hooded stranger?
And then, having to actually wear that monstrosity again at Armani’s! Certainly Willom had no qualms over wearing a dress for the art. He had donned many a dress and gown for a role in a play—it was simply the nature of the business that not many females were attracted to the acting trade—but wearing Serapha’s gown again was like slipping into a dirty secret. And an extremely ugly one at that.
He thought back to Juylina’s words that night, of who Serapha was. He had, until now, imagined this Serapha to be some innocent victim. To find out that she was the maker of the dress, and furthermore had sent several people to their deaths to gain the materials in which to make it, only deeped the confusion Willom felt over the dress and its owner. Was this the blood on the dress the old hag had spoken of? These deaths that were stitched into the very seams of the repellent dress? Or was there some other, darker crime yet to be discovered? Could there even be a crime greater than the lavender dress itself?
Melissa, vague and cryptic as usual, had spoken of Valinor having a captain of his guard when Willom showed her his shield. She said that this captain, a woman, was ‘angelborn’ (whatever that meant) and had been banished to Aristi. This same captain had been welcomed by Maldovia, and that now she “lives but does not live. Walking hunger, walking pain.”
Willom, becoming more frustrated by the confusion of his thoughts, grabbed the dress and threw it into a corner. Why can no one simply tell me plainly what this is all about??
He shook his head to clear it, trying to get back onto some straight-running track.
Let’s see now: Serapha ended up going to Maldovia herself, and it seems she did not return. This exile to Aristi went to Maldovia, a captain of Valinor’s guard. The shield Willom now carries hails from Maldovia, and could likely be of Valinor himself. The Great Maw, where this sacred trout supposedly is located that he must chuck a wineglass at to discover a truth untrue, apparently resides somewhere off the shores of Maldovia.
Willom was beginning to get the strange idea that he just might have to go to Maldovia.
And what then (if he didn’t die a horrible death, or undeath as the case may be)? What about the strange “sandwich of the seamstress” the old hag warned him would be the third act to this nightmare? Is the seamstress Serapha? Is she still alive?? Is she undead??? Why would she have a sandwich???? And, most importantly of all, did she hold the pickles??? (By the gods, he really hated pickles.)
And then, the question that Willom continually tried to avoid, for it sent the coldest of chills down his spine.
The last warning of the old hag.
The lurking menace of his fate.
This terrible, nigh-unspeakable horror of homogenization.
This doom of dairy.
The Cheese of Foreboding.
“A bloody pity,” Willom mumbled, picking up the dress and draping it back over the chair. “I’d always been particularly fond of cheese, really.” |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Re: Please Hold the Pickles, I'm Off to Maldovia
Posted: 08 Jan 2006 02:08 PM |
| (*lol*) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
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"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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5 Things That Will Either Get Me Killed or Make Me Wish I Were Dead
Posted: 26 Jan 2006 02:56 PM |
Willom had always thought he was at his best when under pressure.
Looking at the list he had just composed for himself—a list he entitled “5 Things That Will Either Get Me Killed Or Make Me Wish I Were Dead”—he began to seriously consider whether he in truth had fatally misunderstood just what pressure really was.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Death-Bringing Item #1: Jessup and the Black Hand
When the Black Hand had seemingly been thwarted, Willom had been elated. Could it really be so easy to escape the clutches of Jessup, Nico, and their dreaded organization—one that had plagued him with sheet-soaking nightmares? Apparently not, as his last meeting with Nico had proven. And, considering the bleak news of this newest interested party in the play, a name that shriveled Willom’s bowels if he even attempted to speak it, Willom was quite certain that Lillian was correct: there seemed to be no way to severe this tie with the Black Hand without serious sacrifice. All Willom could hope was that maybe Byron had an answer.
Death-Bringing Item #2: Midor
Yes indeed, this was a dangerous game Willom played. Just how long could he throw off Sir “Persistent” and his insistence that Willom meet with Vidus and show him the script of the play? Willom had been working feverishly on the false script for months—it was the reason why the real play has been taking him so long to write—but would Vidus buy it? Certainly, it was a brilliant play in its own right, replete with juicy Midor propaganda that he was fairly certain Vidus would gobble up like Dana ravaging a juicy fresh goblin hand. But if Vidus didn’t believe it....well, these are the times Willom wished he didn’t have such a vivid imagination.
Death-Bringing Item #3: The One-Eyed Hag and Serapha’s Dress
Every step closer to the mystery of Serapha’s Dress has brought him one step closer to a dreadfully messy demise. Already, it had thrust him into the nightmarish realms of the Lynaeum and Maldovia. What was next? He had found and spoken with the Sacred Trout. Now there was only this sandwich of the seamstress between him and his salvation from this cursed story. Perhaps he would feel better if that even meant anything to him, but it was as perplexing as Melissa’s riddles. And let’s not forget this cheese of foreboding, looming like....like....well, he really didn’t know how exactly cheese loomed, but something told Willom that this particular cheese loomed quite menacingly. He was almost certain all of this was somehow related to the elusive Avadeille, but as to how, he had no clue.
Death-Bringing Item #4: Grunge
Willom was fairly certain that, after convincing Sir Percival that his play was a pro-Midor play (for that metal-clad, monotoned Midoran was like red putty in his hands) he and Iris have had no encounters with Grunge. Yet, Willom could not stop thinking that the psychotic half-orc was still a threat, lurking out there somewhere.
Death-Bringing Item #5: Dana’s Stew
Yes. Last but certainly not least, the diabolical feast. Of everything he has faced and may yet face, this horrendous stew was perhaps his greatest fear, his greatest threat. This killer cuisine was quite simply the boiling kettle of doom to Willom. In comparison, Midor Justification was a mere setback. The Black Hand was only an annoyance. Grunge was just a smelly bother. Serapha’s Dress was simply a fashion faux pas. But Dana’s stew? Just to be in the presence of this unholy horror of a concoction would surely make a hill giant whimper.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As utterly frightening and disturbing as this list of death was (5 Easy Steps to Suddendeathitis, Miramil might call it), what perplexed Willom more than anything was the two absolutely foreign motivations driving him as he considered the variety of ghastly deaths he faced. Both were rooted in a very basic instinct he was quite familiar with—the intense urge to survive. Now that he could relate to. What confused him were his reasons for wanting to survive. First was this annoying sense of obligation he felt to the Heralds of Aristi. It was as if somehow, like so many characters he had played on he stage, he himself could actually make a difference. When he had traveled to Maldovia and stumbled upon the amazing discoveries he had found there, he had become swept away by this feeling of duty, honor, and service to something bigger than himself. Strangely, this didn’t make him feel diminished, but rather more grounded in his footing upon this world.
And then there was Iris. His business partner. His friend. His... He wanted to live, if for no other reason than to just have one more day with Iris. To gaze into those innocent, unquestioning eyes one more time seemed as worthy a cause as the Code of Aristi itself.
His thoughts slipped through the cracks of his worries to deeper ponderings. This odd dream, this vision he was only just beginning to remember back when he had fallen in the Buckshire Woods. Of meeting someone, of talking to them. Was is Vastaldurian? That name had rested upon his tongue when he had awoken at the sisters. But what did it mean? He could remember virtually nothing about it, and yet its importance prodded him incessantly.
Perhaps he should seek out Laura. She, a cleric of Vastaldurian, might offer Willom some insight, or even simple solace, to his confused and struggling mind.
He drew his quill from the ink well and forced himself to get back to the duty at hand—writing the play. He pushed back thoughts about the imminent dooms he faced. He cast aside the recent complication of Lillian's disturbing request to him and Iris that would necessitate a meeting with Sir Percival very soon. He refused to think about what they had (quite accidentally, of course) discovered when they listened in on her conversation with Markus. And as he began to script out Act II, the only thought to momentarily betray Willom's concentration was a weak hope that Laura might have a protection spell available to save him from Dana’s stew. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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The Proverbial Slap to the Face
Posted: 12 Feb 2006 02:27 PM |
Willom swore that if he heard one more person bestow the blessings of Midoran upon him, he was going to lose his breakfast upon their robes. He stepped out of the room at the Unicorn that had been provided to him as a “guest” of Midor and descended the steps to the main public room. Iris was at a table waiting for him, as she has done every morning for the last week that they had been there.
“Good morning, Willom,” Iris greeted, and though it was delivered in her usual good spirits, he could see the strain of effort in her eyes to make it so.
“It is certainly another morning, Iris, though its qualities have yet to reveal themselves to me.” He sat down by her. There were several tables occupied by patrons, though the Inn seemed terribly sparse and quiet compared to what an inn in a large city should be. “Have you ordered yet?”
Iris shook her head. “I was waiting for you.”
Willom flagged a waitress and she approached in a few moments. “Blessin’s of Midoran be upon you both,” she greeted, and Willom turned a shade of green. “Dear me but you don’ look well, sir.”
Willom pursed his lips into a taut smile. “It is nothing, dear lady. Fetch me whatever the special is today, please.”
“Make that two,” Iris chimed.
She smiled. “’Course. Anythin’ else?”
“I don’t suppose the Chef could whip up a nice magical portal to whisk us far away from here-“
The kick to his shin from Iris quieted him quickly. The waitress just stared at him blankly, gave a fractured smile and, turning, stepped away.
Willom let out a long, sighing breath. “We shall be here for the rest of our days, Iris.”
“Oh, Willom, have some hope.”
Willom’s smile was a tangle of sarcasm. “Well, yes. There’s always the fervent hope of having one of those red-clad Inquisitors coming to our beds in the middle of the night and putting us out of our misery.”
Iris shook her head. “Willom. Don’t be silly.” Her voice fell with her eyes. “If that happened, I doubt they’d offer us such a mercy.”
Willom’s voice lowered as he leaned in to Iris. “Every day, it’s the same thing: Go to the temple, ask we can see Vidus, and be told to come back tomorrow. What is he waiting for? Are we just prisoners? If so, why not just throw us in jail?”
“He hasn’t told us that we can’t leave Midor, Willom. No one has told us that.”
Willom’s laugh was dry and coarse. “’Guests of Midor,’ he said. You know as well as I do what that means. We step one foot out of the city gates, and we’ll have Sir Persistent on us like a cat on a mouse...or worse.”
“I didn’t get that impression from him when I had dinner with him.” Iris’ voice tightened as she finished the comment.
Willom glowered at Iris. “Yes. An entirely different trouble there, thank you so much for bringing it up. How about some lemon juice on this hang nail I have as well?” He picked petulantly at a loose thread on his shirt, sending a button dropping to his lap. Perfect, Willom wallowed to himself, One more reason for Vidus to put me on the rack.
It was Iris’ turn to scowl, and being that she didn’t do it often, it had a tremendous effect on Willom, who dropped his gaze shamefully from her. “Willom Wilde, how dare you throw something like that in my face as if it were my fault. Do you realize just how miserable that was for me?”
Iris held her razor-edged glare on him in silence until Willom looked back up to be cut by it. He flushed and slumped into his chair. “I’m terribly sorry, Iris. I’m...I’m not myself, and not thinking before I speak. I just simply must get out of this place.”
“Fine. Let’s leave then.” She delivered it in such a matter-of-fact tone that Willom was already pushing his chair back to get up before he caught himself. “Iris. What are you saying? We can’t.” Willom tugged at his beard, thinking. “I mean, can’t we?”
Iris straightened herself resolutely in her chair. “We will. Right now. Let’s find out just what kind of ‘guests’ we are. They didn’t say we couldn’t leave, so what’s the harm in leaving as long as we return? I mean, the worst that will happen is that we’ll find out that we really can’t leave, and then we’ll know where we stand.”
Willom tried hard to refute this logic, but he was having difficulty coming up with any counter to Iris’ argument.
“Besides, Willom, I’m simply bored. I’m not used to doing nothing for such a long time. Wilde’s Vials has been terribly neglected. I’ve got ingredients to collect, potions to mix....and we’ve not seen Fell for weeks. The poor guy probably thinks we’ve fallen into a bottomless hole.”
Willom muttered, “Not far from the truth, really.”
Iris stood, shoulders squared back and hands firmly to her hips. “Willom Wilde, pull yourself together! And if you can’t do that, at least pretend to do so. You are an actor, aren’t you?”
The words struck Willom deeply like a second act closing monologue. The fact was, he had done little but bemoan his situation instead of focusing on staying the course to resolve it. He has relied far too much on the strengths of others to draw him from his troubles; Iris and her optimism, Fell and his strength and confidence, Lillian and her regimented cold logic, Byron and his leadership. He was tired of letting others carry him. The fact was, he got himself into this mess, and only he could get himself out of it.
It was time to take on the lead role in this drama. He was Willom Wilde, after all! Time to act like it!
He stood up, smiling at Iris. “My dear, precious Iris. Had you slapped me upon my face, you could not have jarred me more from my torpid state.” He moved closer to her and kissed her on the cheek.
Iris smiled somewhat confusedly and shrugged. “Um, okay.” She gave a devilish smile. “I can certainly still give you a good slap if you need it.”
“That won’t be necessary, Iris, but I’ll keep that in mind.”
The waitress approached with two plates of steaming food. She looked questioningly at Willom and Iris as they left their table and walked past her. “But...your food...?”
Willom smiled broadly and put up a halting hand to the waitress. “Thank you, my dear, but we’ve found ourselves quite full to the brim with the blessings of Midoran! I’m afraid we’ll have to pass on the meal.
The waitress blinked and stammered. “B-but....who’s gonna pay for this??”
Willom laughed as he exited the Inn. “Quite taken care of, my dear. Haven’t you heard? We are Guests of Midor!” |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Dinner with the White Bishop
Posted: 12 Feb 2006 09:01 PM |
The couple were only feet from the inn's door, and freedom, when a young man in a fashionable red doublet strode resolutely inside. "Ms. Iris Tammarack?" he announced to the room, his gaze searching. It landed on Iris, and he strode quickly to her. "Mr. Iris Tammarack, I presume?"
She nodded, surprise on her face. The man continued, either not noticing or not caring at her hesitation. "I have a message from the White Bishop. Dinner will be this evening at seven o'clock sharp in the Temple Vestry." He quickly withdrew a package he had been carying under his arm and handed it to her. "A gift from His Grace. He bids you to wear it tonight."
Without waiting for an answer, the young man spun around and walked out of the inn, leaving Willom and Iris alone with the odd package. |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Iris' decision
Posted: 13 Feb 2006 08:45 AM |
Iris sat in her room in the Vestry in Midor with tears rolling down her cheeks. She could hear the guards moving around outside her door. A guest of the White Bishop indeed. More like a prisoner. She had to give His Grace an answer by morning. For the first time in her life, she hoped morning wouldn’t come.
When the man gave her the package as they were leaving the Unicorn Inn, she was a bit taken aback. What could be in this package? She stuffed it in her pack and forgot about it while her and Willom went to do some hunting to take their minds off of things. They returned a short while later so she could get ready for her dinner with the White Bishop. She opened the package and stared inside in shock. The package contained a red mini-dress. Barely enough fabric to cover her decently and definitely not enough for her tastes. Yet, she wore it because she felt she had to.
Sir Percival led her and Willom to the White Bishop where Willom was dismissed and was led away by Sir Percival. Iris was alone with His Grace, Vidus Khain, in the dining room. The table was filled with all sorts of food, but Iris had no appetite. She was too nervous.
Dinner went well at first, she made small talk with Vidus and did her best to eat and drink a little. Then Vidus told her that he was intrigued by her. The walls started to close in, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She had suspected as much with all of the attention he gave her and the gift, but was still shocked to hear him say it. A few moments later, Iris’ world came crashing down on her. Vidus told her that if she stayed in Midor, by his side, he would release Willom from his bond. She couldn’t speak, when she tried she just stammered. Finally, she was able to gather up enough nerve to ask for some time to think about it. She was told she had until morning. Dinner ended and the White Bishop left.
She wandered around looking for Willom and finally sat down in the entry room, unable to walk any further. Finally Willom and Sir Percival came out. Willom looked about as bad as she felt. She wondered what he and Sir Percival had talked about. She never got a chance to ask before Willom was whisked away again by Sir Percival.
Iris asked someone to show her to her room. She entered and sat on the bed, alone. Ever since she met Willom, he was never far away. Either in the next room or on a bed roll next to hers if they had to sleep in the open. She felt his absence like a piece of her had been ripped out and she missed him terribly. If only she could talk to Willom. He would know what to do. He was the idea man, the smart one. But, it didn’t look like she would get a chance to talk to him before she had to give Vidus her decision. She was on her own.
She knew that she would be miserable in Midor. The city made her nervous and she would miss being able to go to the woods whenever she desired. She had to say no, didn’t she? What would happen if she said no? Would Vidus kill her, kill Willom? She couldn’t let that happen. She loved Willom and could not be responsible for his death. She had never realized it until now. She did truly love him. How could she live never seeing him again? Having to look at Vidus every day, longing only to be with Willom? If she stayed, Willom would live and find someone else and she would die a little each day not being with him. Is it worth paying that price to keep Willom safe and alive? |
-Melina Danicelven-Songsinger, Fighter-Druid
Life is pain, you just get used to it.
-Aimee Victory, Rogue
Be excellent to each other.
-Iris Tammarack, Ranger
I'd have been here sooner, but I was busy coming up with that ham on rye line. |
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The Flight From Midor
Posted: 18 Feb 2006 12:06 PM |
Twenty-Four Hours and Counting
A caged cat will pace its cell with incessant determination. Does it seek a possible means of escape? Is it simply in its nature to keep moving? Does its muscles bloat with nervous energy that forces the cat to motion with restless insistence?
No.
Iris knew why the cat had to keep moving. Even were she not a ranger, and attuned to the nature of such beasts, she would now know.
They move to evade the one thing left to haunt them in their prisons.
Themselves.
For it was only within them that the horrible truth of their situation could be realized. The truth, that every reason to live now existed just beyond their bars.
And so, Iris paced her room, fleeing herself and the awful truth she knew she could not yet bare.
She was a prisoner, and all that was worthwhile to live for was soon to be gone.
..........................................
“I cut my finger off...I cut my finger off....”
He wasn’t aware he was muttering out loud. The pain was a blaring din around him now, like a screaming storm of pelting agony. The shock and the domination spell that had muddled his senses were past. He could only stagger now, his four-fingered hand stuffed into his coat, pumping his blood out into his saturated clothing. Those on the street, seeing this pale, mumbling, blood-soaked figure walking toward them, moved hastily out of the way, some speaking a hushed oath to Midoran.
His mind was sluggish and mired in the terror and confusion of his meeting with the inquisitor. He was desperate to believe in the hope that was left him. But his despair was doing an exceptional job of smothering this hope’s gasping breaths.
Why? Why did that behemoth inquisitor do what he did to him, only to plant this seed of escape in his head? Mercy?
Seek Father Gregory Teluvion. He may aid you in fleeing the city. Tell him to speak with Seyon, who would be the only one to help your woman friend. They are your only chance for freedom. You must get to the Mirguil Forest Trail. This is all I can do for you.
A chance? A hope? Willom didn’t even think he could believe in such words again.
A horrible thought clamped onto Willom: What if this was still all part of the interrogation? Sending him away, maimed and distraught, but with the smallest shred of hope to cling to, only to walk into the hands of another inquisitor, where the tortures would be even greater?
His stomach lurched and he froze in place. I can’t. I absolutely can’t face more. No more.
And then, he thought of Iris—trapped, facing a dismal and wretched life in Midor with Vidus.
All because of him.
His foot dragged against the ground, lifted, and moved forward. He straightened his back the best he could, and he strode slowly toward the infirmary. And though his mouth was too dry to whistle, he could still hum, and he did so with a wry smile.
And the tune he hummed was a Midoran funeral dirge.
.........................................
“Justice’s blade can cut deep, can it not, my son?” Father Teluvion gazed down at the bloody hand and the stumped digit where the bard’s index finger had been. Around them were the mostly empty beds of the Midor infirmary. It was quiet, as it had been for some time, and the cleric was still disturbed by this stillness. Yet, he thought with a tepid distain, it’s queerly apt in a city now determined to mete out justice, not mercy. “I must say, I rarely tend to anyone returning from Justification.” Teluvion’s voice faltered. “Those are usually serviced by Prolesty.” It was an aside to himself, as this poor bleeding fellow would certainly not know of High Cleric Prolesty, who was in charge of incinerating all the victims of Justification to insure no chance of resurrection.
“It must be my winning personality,” the bard remarked weakly.
“Well, I suppose it is time.” Teluvion stood, adjusting his robes slightly. “It appears Midoran has some plans in store for you yet. Let us put your suffering to an end, yes? Just relax and be still now.” The aging cleric reached out for the injured bard, ready to begin his prayer of healing. He was interrupted, however, by the man flinching in his chair and drawing away from him, body trembling convulsively.
Father Teluvion grimaced. “My son, calm yourself! I certainly mean you no harm!”
Willom looked to him with a bitter scrutiny. “Really? Well, you’ll excuse me if I rush to judgment, father, but I have experienced a rather ample quantity of Midor hospitality and, frankly, I’m quite overwhelmed.”
Father Teluvion’s gray-blue eyes, lined now not just by age but by the strain of the weighted times around him, met the sheer terror of the bard’s face with appalling shock. Not at this pathetic man, but at the situation. Father Teluvion was a cleric of Midoran, a healer. His life was devoted to bringing ease and comfort to the suffering. Now, it seemed, his visage would bring fear and trepidation to one in need.
By Midoran, this is all wrong.
Teluvion sighed and moved slowly toward the wounded man. “What is your name?”
The bard gave a submissive response. “Willom Wilde.”
“Willom, be comforted, please. I swear to you before Midoran, and by all I cherish in this world, that I only wish to mend you...if you’ll allow me.”
The bard stared for a long moment more, clinging to his slick, crimson hand, and then finally relented. He placed his hand back on the table.
It was not long before the bleeding stopped, that bone reformed, vessels webbed around bone, to be covered by muscle, tendon and finally skin. When he was finished, Father Teluvion sat down and expelled a heavy breath. “Midoran’s will be done. Do you feel better?”
The bard nodded, trying to move the index finger that had not been there five minutes ago. “There is still...pain. And the finger is quite stiff.”
“The pain is a phantom sensation. It will pass in time. The stiffness is because you have never used that finger before. But it will not be long before it will work as well as the other.”
The bard grinned. “As long as I can play the lute, Father.”
“You play?”
A tentative chuckle. “No.”
Father Teluvion could not help smiling back. Like this finger of Willom Wilde’s, he realized that his smile was stiff from lack of use. “Will you be staying in Midor for a time, then?”
This new laugh from the bard was hollow and sharp. “As I said, Father. I am a ‘guest’ of Midor. There will be no leaving for me.” His voice weakened to a forlorn lilt. “Nor for Iris.”
“Iris? Your...wife?”
“No, Father, though at one time I may have hoped. There is little chance of that now. She has caught the eye of His Grace, you see. And she is to suffer because I foolishly thought I could play a hero as I might don a costume. I had thought I could make a difference.” Willom’s shoulders slumped and he sighed, though his eyes never strayed from Teluvion. “He holds her now—locked away, guarded, imprisoned.”
Teluvion, shaking his head, stumbled to his feet. “What are you talking about?”
The bard leaned forward with desperate intent in his eyes. “Father, if it is truly your calling to save those in need, those who are innocent, then you must help me!”
Teluvion scoffed. “You? You dare to say you are innocent?”
Wilde paused a moment and then shrugged with a smirk. “I? No. I am certainly not innocent, father. But Iris is. And that madman—“
Teluvion could restrain himself no longer. “Bite thy tongue! How dare you—!”
The bard stood. “Yes, father! How dare I, that I have stood by for so long, full of the monologues of heroes and the deeds of the weak. But that is expected of one like me—a minstrel, a fool. But what about you, father? What would you dare, were you to know it to be right in your heart?”
Teluvion was enraged, but he was becoming more and more uncertain as to whether it was at this impetuous man, or by the stabbings of truth. “You know nothing about me...”
“No, I don’t. But somehow, some way, I see in you a desperation to do good. If that’s true, then this is the moment that, if you turn from it, will turn you in your grave for the rest of eternity. Now, I was sent to you, by someone who seemed to think you would help me. This person said that you could lead me out of the city. He said that you must talk to one called Seyon...that he could get Iris out of the Vestry. He said we are to all meet on the Mirguil Forest Trail, where we would be led to safety.”
Teluvion sputtered for words. “W-who sent you to me??”
Wilde raised his hand to the cleric, isolating his index finger. “The same jovial fellow who seemed to take offense to this.”
......................................
Eighteen Hours and Counting
The door to her room unlatched and the two Righteous Swords guarding her room entered. “His Grace, the Lord Bishop of Midor, Vidus Khain, to see you, Miss Tammarack.” They slammed their staffs to the floor, separated, and Vidus Khain stood before her. Iris’ heart crystalized.
Vidus raised a hand to the guards, keeping his eyes on Iris. “Leave us.” The guards stepped away promptly, shutting the door. “Well, my dear. You have had more than enough time to decide. Have you an answer for me?”
Iris struggled with weak knees to bow. “Your Grace. I- I have.”
“And what is it?”
Iris fought to keep her gaze on Vidus, but his presence, and all the consequences of her answer, forced her eyes to the floor. “I am flattered by your offer, but...I must...decline.”
Vidus’ expression did not change, but instead intensified. “I see. You are certain of this?”
Iris nodded slowly. “I am sorry if I disappoint you, Your Grace. It is not my intention.”
A slow, measured breath passed between thin, tight lips. “But I am disappointed, Iris. Though I am not surprised. After all, too long have you been corrupted by the heathen influences of Mr. Wilde. Your soul teeters upon a moral precipice. But you are fortunate, dear Iris.”
Iris looked up with confusion. “Fortunate, Your Grace?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It was replaced almost immediately by a gentle, yet stern, gaze. “Indeed so. Had you not been introduced to me, you may have been damned.” He walked to where she was standing and placed a cold hand on her shoulder. “However, if you can withstand the cleansing of Justification, redemption can still be yours.” Vidus’ smile was an absurdity of mercy.
Iris’ heart pounded. “But you said I had a choice!”
“Every sentient being has choices in this world, Iris. That does not always mean they make the right one.” Vidus laid his other hand on her, and his eyes glinted like a blade in the light of the sun. “That is why I am here, my dear. It is my duty—my destiny—to guide all to the path of righteousness.”
“No! You can’t!” Iris pleaded. Her vision was clouding with dark plumes of terror. “What about Willom?!”
“My dear. I have the pathetic little man’s play. He has a small measure of talent, but without a clean soul, what more use is he to me, or to anyone?”” He smiled. “You will be grateful, Iris, when you are basked within the light of truth. Perhaps, if all goes well, you may even yet stand by my side one day. It will be a pity, of course, that you will not be there tomorrow when I give my most important speech to the people of Midor.” He turned to leave. “Greatness is upon me, Iris, and awaiting this great city. You may yet be a part of it. Sleep well, dear Iris. You will have a trying day tomorrow.”
.................................................
Sixteen Hours and Counting
Lord Bishop Kruvious Seyon could not believe what he was about to do. His life had always been devoted to the order, to fealty, to obedience. Hadn’t these things defined him? Wasn’t this the stitch-work to the fabric of his very soul?
And yet, talking to Father Teluvion and learning everything about this bard and the woman ranger, he tried to imagine not doing it. The omission of justice—true justice—was beyond him to comprehend. Had it been anyone but Teluvion, he would have likely refused. But the old cleric had stirred a passion and fervor in him that, sadly, too many other atrocities should have done long ago. Teluvion’s words were still prominent in his mind.
Do you not remember, Kruvious, when our hearts were enough to keep us upon the truth path? But we have long ago bound and gagged our hearts, and consoled our consciences afterward. Free your heart, Kruvious, and let your conscience find peace.
And he had not realized how taut those bonds were, until he had loosened them.
He took the vial he held in his hands, the potion given to him by Teluvion, and slipped it into his cloak pocket. He would have only seconds, and the risk was still great.
Inside the Vestry, outside the locked room, an acolyte approached with a tray of food. Seyon called to her. “Young lady, your hair has come undone. It is quite unbecoming within these sacred halls. Has this been how you are taught?”
The young woman blushed and turned to him. “I- I am sorry, Lord Bishop. I did not realize. It has been a busy day.”
“Now, now,” he calmed her. “I understand. But His Grace may not. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Here, let me help you.”
She curtsied before him and he took the tray from her, setting it behind him on a table. “Thank you, Lord Bishop.” She hastily tended to her hair as Kruvious quickly poured the vial into the bowl of soup on the tray, hiding his actions behind his flowing cape.
Having wound her hair back neatly into place, she took the tray back from him. “Make sure Ms. Tammarack eats all her dinner. She will need her strength tomorrow.”
“Of course, Lord Bishop.”
....................................................
A Message arrived to Willom at the Unicorn. Its words were succinct, and perfectly clear:
Tommorrow. The Western Districts. The gate. Noon.
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Fourteen Hours and Counting
“How long has she been like this?”
“About an hour, Your Grace. We think it a rouse.”
“Do you.” Vidus bore his eyes down upon the writhing, sweat-drenched body of Iris Tammarack. She made no acknowledgement of his, or anyone’s, presence. “Fool. Look at her. This is no act. Hasn’t your training taught you by now the look of one in pain?”
The guards stepped away. Vidus expelled a rumbling breath. “This will not do. I want her well before her appointment with the inquisitor tomorrow. I have no time for this. I have much to do to prepare for tomorrow.”
Lord Biship Seyon stepped forward. “I will fetch transport at once, Your Grace, and escort her to the infirmary personally.”
“That is unnecessary, Bishop Seyon,” Vidus replied absently. “Summon Teluvion here to tend to her.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but we could save much time to bring her to the infirmary where Teluvion will have his full resources at his disposal.”
Vidus paused with impatient consideration. “Fine. Do it quickly, Kruvious. She must not miss her appointment. Bother me no more with this. Just get it done.”
Lord-Bishop Seyon bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
..............................................
Twenty Minutes and Counting
It had been a restless sleep for Willom, who had been plagued by images of the dagger in his hand, of him lowering it to his finger and....carving. And that woman Inquisitor there the whole time, watching him, eyes cold and emotionless and empty, as if she were watching him slice bread.
As he stepped out of the Unicorn Inn into the approaching noonday sun, he was balancing dread against hope as he navigated around the thrall of Midorans moving toward the Western District.
This was indeed the moment, then. Their only chance to slip out unnoticed. He kept walking, dressed unassumingly as a normal Midoran citizen, feeling as if every eye were upon him.
..............................
Ten Minutes and Counting
“Come, Iris. It is time. We must leave now. I trust you are feeling better?”
Iris nodded to Kruvious as she finished assembling her things in the Infirmary. “Yes, thank you. Teluvion seems to have taken care of the poison.”
“Again, I apologize, Iris, but it was the only way to get you out of the Vestry.”
Iris nodded, but her expression was still confused. “But why can’t we meet with Willom and Teluvion and leave together?”
Lord-Bishop Seyon, feeling uncomfortable and exposed in his civilian attire, shifted in place. “We can take no chances, Iris. The smaller our numbers, the less chance we will be noticed. Now, come, Iris. We must be on our way. Vidus will be beginning his speech and...” Kruvious’ voice deepened ominously. “...I do not believe we will wish to be anywhere near Midor by the end of it.”
....................................
Out of Time
“...And this is the weapon of the enemy!...”
Willom was already panicking. The crowd he stood before was growing incensed and volatile, and there was no sign of Teluvion. He would wait another minute, and then he would make a break for it himself.
“They seek to undermine everything it is to be Midoran! They seek to destroy our way of life!”
The crowd was chanting now, and what they cried sent a quivering chill down Willom’s spine and into his gut. They have gone mad, he thought with numb shock. The whole city has gone insane!
He was just about to turn and begin walking north toward the city gates when a hand grabbed him by the arm. Willom jumped, and it took all his willpower not to scream out. “Father!”
“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to retrieve as much of my writings as I could. Come. Let us go now!”
Willom didn’t even waste time to nod. He turned on his heels and began to walk for the City Gates.
....................................................
Borrowed Time
When Iris saw Willom approach with Teluvion on the Mirguil Trail, her heart that had pounded so fiercely with fear and anxiety now pounded just as intensely with joy. “Oh Willom!! Willom, I am so happy to see you!!!” She ran to him and flew into his arms, grabbing him tightly and not ever wanting to let go. Willom sputtered and coughed, and his breath was shallow. Oh, gods, what did they do to him?? Iris thought with growing panic. “Willom? Are you all right? What’s wrong???”
His voice was thin and weak. “....Iris....you’re....squeezing...me...to...death!”
She let him go hastily and he panted for air. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m just...I can’t believe...I never thought I’d...” And she grabbed him again.
Kruvious cleared his throat impatiently, though he could not suppress the warmest grin he had worn upon his face in longer than he could remember. “I think there will be time to be thankful later.”
Father Teluvion nodded. “Yes. We are still thick within Midor influence. We need to be far from here. I think this is where our ranger friends come in.”
Iris separated from Willom, and Willom looked ahead to see what at first he had not seen at all: three rangers (Mirguil Rangers obviously) standing in the distance, blending in with the trees beyond them. The first Willom recognized as the proprietor of the Mirguil Rangers Lodge, though right now she was standing in such a fashion as to insure Willom that she had far more serious business on her mind. The other was a tall, lean male. The final was a monstrous half-orc whose eyes never left Willom’s. Willom swallowed and looked back to Father Teluvion, who addressed the female ranger.
“Meridia, are we ready then?”
Meridia Dalsunwë nodded. “Eager, actually,” she said, looking south where a red flickering glow was filling the horizon. “Darren, you lead.”
Darren Laine, the tall human male, slung his bow over his shoulder. “You bet, Meridia.”
Willom was just beginning to move forward to follow, when he swore he saw—or maybe felt—something moving behind him. Just a quick smudge, a blur, of red. His skin turned icy cold in the blink of his eye, and he started to call out when he felt a familiar blade to the skin of his neck, precisely where a scar still remained from the last time it had bit his skin.
Her voice was, if possible, colder, emptier. “Mr. Wilde. You take me for a fool. As did Duvados.” Willom could only gasp. “But now, you have led me to all of the accomplices of this heresy. Justice will be served. And you will be first.”
He was able to cry out “No!” and the others turned to him with surprise but not, apparently, with any understanding of what was wrong.
“Willom?” Iris asked, looking concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Meridia stepped forward, putting out a cautious hand to the others. “Do not move. Anyone. We are not alone.”
The Inquisitor tightened her hold on him. “I will waste no more time with idle words. Your time is through.”
Willom squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable slice against his throat from the Inquisitor’s blade. It did not, however, come.
Meridia displayed a cunning smile. “You may find, our invisible friend, that you do not possess the will to complete your act.”
Before them, the Inquisitor emerged from the shadows she had enfolded herself in. Her face was straining and confused. “What is this? What has happened to me?” Willom could still feel the blade to his throat, but it was rigid and unmoving.
Meridia took a step closer. “I have a message for you, Lady Inquisitor. From Father Duvados. I think you should read it.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out a piece of parchment.
Willom buckled to the ground as he was released, the blade drawn away from him. He expelled gasping breaths of relief and panic and complete confusion.
The Inquisitor was still in an offensive stance, though her face was showing a seething perplexity. Darren and the Half-Orc had their bows drawn, arrows notched, and upon her. Meridia held out the parchment to her. “This, I am sure, will put an end to your confusion.”
The Inquisitor levelled a steely glare upon Meridia, then stood straighter, stepping forward and snatching the parchment from her hands. She stepped back then, and read the single line of the note:
I warned you about going against someone with experience controlling people’s minds and having his own invaded.
She looked up, her hardened features cracking and tumbling down her face. “This...this is not possible!”
Meridia simply smiled. “You would be wise, perhaps, to not underestimate Father Duvados again. In the meantime, he said to let you know that the geas he placed on you during the interrogation will not last much longer. It will, however, last long enough for what must yet be done. I believe I am remembering his words correctly: that, if you were to say anything to anyone, you would feel an irresistible urge to rip your own tongue out.” Meridia smiled wider, nodding. “Yes, I believe that is right.”
And Willom remembered. At his inquisition, Duvados had seemingly put a geas on him, yet Willom had no sense of such a thing happening. Now, he realized, one had been placed. But not on him.
The Inquisitor just stood there, motionless, eyes beginning to burn with a cold fire as the full import of what had happened to her soaked in.
Now, Willom had been terrified of this woman Inquisitor ever since he met her. Her frozen emotion left him terror-filled, and her silence was a menacing threat. What he witnessed next would keep him up many, many nights.
The Inquisitor screamed. It was a nerve-rippling, shrill, maniacal scream unlike anything Willom had ever heard. Her eyes seemed almost to smoke with fury. To see this emotionless, calculating woman sudden become unhinged curdled Willom’s very soul.
And then...she was gone. Even before the last echo of her scream left them. Darren and the Half-orc had released their arrows upon her, but it was too late. They merely found their place in the trunk of a tree. Meridia’s voice was calmly intent. “Another time, my friends. We must get these people to the safety of the Lodge.”
And yet, all were quiet and motionless for a time. Finally, Darren finally spoke up. “Yes. It’s time we were off.”
Everyone nodded slowly, and stepped into the woods that led, though Willom still could not believe it, to their sanctuary. |
Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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The Flight From Midor: Epilogue
Posted: 18 Feb 2006 06:23 PM |
She was crying. That was alright; it was natural. A perfectly manicured hand gently, motheringly cradled the crying head to a welcoming shoulder, and softly muffled sobs echoed around the chamber.
A calm, soothing voice melodically flowed through the chamber.
“Velia.”
Velia looked up, her face stained by the dark flow of makeup mingled with tears down her cheeks. Her eyes slowly focused on the speaker, distant and pained. The voice purred again.
“Tell me what happened.”
Velia nodded, choking back a sob before briefly recounting the tale in a monotone.
“It started about two weeks ago…”
…
“He told us to train him. But he wasn’t one of us.”
…
“Jerec…”
…
“He seemed skilled at what he did. We were suspicious. We played with him. He was our toy, for a time.”
…
“A geas… mind control. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do; nothing! Not a single thing to serve; no way to fulfil my duty! What can I do, Mistress? I have failed…”
Fri’el looked down at Velia. She remembered her well; truth be told, she’d missed her—and all the others, as well. Velia’s armor was well cared for—it was the black version, she noted. She must have been on an important mission. A faint smile spread across her lips.
“Stay here with me, kitten. It is for the best.”
A nod signaled Velia’s assent. “Yes, Mistress.”
((With all due credit to Barnas, who did all the hard work and actually wrote the post, and then refused to be the one to post it.)) |
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Now, about that dress....
Posted: 14 Jul 2006 11:55 PM |
He had finished it. It was complete. After all this time, it was done.
And it was marvelous.
Though he might be slightly biased to that fact.
All he had needed was to get away from it all. Away from Jessup and Nico, away from Jerec and Lillian. From Byron, from Midor, from all the distractions that had plagued him.
So he had left. Headed out in search of Balto, Segmo and Alturius, his old acting troupe. The journey would give him time to write, and just maybe Balto could answer those questions about Serapha’s Gown Willom had written to him about but had never received a reply to.
He was thankful that Iris had joined him. He was more adept in battle with Iris’ training, but still no match for traveling alone. But more than that, he simply enjoyed her company.
They went everywhere, followed every main road and route of his troupe, but they had no luck finding them. Finally, he went to the last place he could think of, the only place left to look.
Right where he had left them so long ago.
They weren’t there, however. Long gone, the city officials said. It was journey’s end.
Why hadn’t he just left then?
But he and Iris were tired of the road, tired of the hard earth for a bed. One night at an Inn wouldn’t hurt. And he only had the last scene of the last act to write. How wonderful to do that in the cozy comforts of four walls and a warm hearth.
And there, he did it. The last lines resonated from him like the strummed chord of a lute. Perfect. There had never been such pleasure in his life as when he wrote those final words—CURTAINS CLOSE.
And then there was the knock at the door.
Iris went to answer it. Willom couldn’t understand why, but he suddenly tingled with a terrible boding of ill.
“Iris, wait—“
Too late. The door opened. And it was her.
“A year has come, Willom Wilde. The stage lights dim. Have you then solved the mystery of Serapha’s Gown?”
Willom stumbled onto his numb feet. “You!”
The hag cackled. Willom had forgotten just how much he hated that cackle.
“It’s too soon!” he cried. “I’m very close! Spectacularly close! I just need more time!”
“A year comes neither too quick, nor too late, but just in time. Have you the answer?”
Iris was just finding her voice. “Willom. Is this....?”
“Yes, Iris. This is the splendid old woman who decided to ruin my life one year ago right here.” He carefully approached the hag. “Now listen here, madam. I have traveled all about Vives for a year now on your ridiculous quest. I have met a strange woman and her talking shadow. I’ve been harassed by an ancient celestial vampire. I’ve thrown wine glasses at fish corpses only to be told riddles. I have done as you have asked.”
The old woman’s milky eye leered. Her voice grated. “Have you the answer?”
Willom stammered. “I...I know that Serapha was a seamstress. That the material for the gown came from Maldovia. And I know that Avadaille is somehow involved. I’m so close...”
“You have failed.” The witch raised her hand to him. “And thus, you shall exit this stage of life, Willom Wilde.”
Iris reached for her sword that was not at her side but against the far wall of the room. “Willom, run!”
But Willom could only throw up his hands to the gnarled hand that drew ever closer. “It’s not my fault! I could have done it. If not for Midor, if not for...”
The hag paused. “Midor? What of Midor?”
Willom peeked at her through his fingers. “Er, well. Yes. Interesting story, that. Very harrowing, actually—“
The hag snarled and moved her hand closer.
“Right. Well, see, I, that is, we, I mean to say Iris and I....We were captured by Vidus Khain. Held captive in Midor. Because of my play. About the Aristi.”
“Khain.” It was a low growl, and her eye became distant.
“Yes. Nasty fellow. Nice hair, though. Took an uncomfortable interest in poor Iris, I’m afraid.”
The withered witch turned to Iris, scrutinized her shrewdly. “Truly?”
Iris could only nod.
She swung her head back to Willom. “What is this play you speak of?”
“Oh. The play. Yes, well, I was commissioned, you see, to write a play. I chose to write about Aristi. And Midor. The Battle of the Plains. Really spectacular material. I’ve just finished it, actually. See?” Willom gestured proudly to the desk where the ream of parchment sat. “You must come! I’ll save you the best seat...well, that is, if you don’t kill me, of course.”
The hag arched a challenging brow to Willom. “Have you forgotten? You are already cast in a play. You were chosen.”
“What other--? Oh, you mean Serapha’s Dress? Really, I must say, you are quite beating this play analogy to death.”
The hag approached the desk. “You are distracted from your role.” She picked up the manuscript. “I shall remedy that.”
Willom’s gut lurched. “What are you doing?”
She slipped the script into a heavy black cloth sack and sealed it tight.
“Now hold on just one minute there!” Willom rushed to her, but that pale eye was thrust upon him, and his legs froze.
“Seek you the answer, Willom Wilde.” She held up the black bag. “Only then will you see this again.”
“No! You can’t!” Willom struggled to move, but he was held fast in place.
“Then, Willom Wilde, you will owe me a favor. And I shall collect.” She began to walk out the door, cackling again.
“Owe you?! Are you completely deranged?”
Iris moved to block the door. “You aren’t going anywhere, old woman.”
The hag waved her hand before Iris and she was thrown roughly against the door frame. The witch walked past her easily. “Yes, Willom Wilde. You owe me the life you forfeited this day, the life I now allow you to keep...for one year more. Then, you will be mine.” She cackled her way down the hall and into shadow.
Willom stood stunned. After a moment, he shouted after her. “That cackle of yours is quite overplayed!!! And very cliché, I might add!!”
“She’s gone, Willom,” Iris said, moving away from the door.
And Willom, too, could move once again, though he could find no motivation to do so. Instead, he just stood still, with only one dreadful question coming to mind.
“Now just how exactly do we explain this to Mr. Jessup?”
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Willom Wilde--Actor, Playwrite, Head of Wilde's Vials, and fearful of all things cheesy
Califus Sarten--Mercenary for Hire
Bennigan Songsinger--Brooding bard. |
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Intermission
Posted: 30 Jul 2006 01:49 AM |
Somewhere in a place that time has forgotten...
A cackle resounded through vast, echoing halls.
"Do you see?" the hag waved a thick document in the face of a rather young woman. "Do you see the name in this play? And he mentioned Khain. Do you know what this means?"
"Oh, yes," was the cool reply. "I'm well aware."
"Have you been watching them?"
"I have. All my eyes are open. They are easy pickings, even for paladins."
"Then it's time. Let us see if he can be their undoing. And of course, if he does not discover the secret of the gown... it would be a pity. But his death is no great loss." |
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Plot Twists Galore
Posted: 19 Sep 2006 02:08 AM |
((With apologies to James for hijacking his thread... oh, and his life.))
Buckshire Trading Post
Jessup the Younger: *eyes Willom*
Willom Wilde: Hmmm...it would appear the situation is not so clear-cut.
Ophelia: *nods* mr. Jessup.
Salt Sower: A sort of a preview, so to speak.
Jessup the Younger: *licks his lips*
Willom Wilde: But perhaps...*turns, seeing Jessup* Erp!!!!!!
Jessup the Younger: *looks over to Ophelia and nods*
Iris Tammarack: *cringes at the name Jessup*
Talion Deraith: *is about to answer but turns to Jessup and watches*
Jessup the Younger: *points to Willom*
Iris Tammarack: *turns around slowly*
Willom Wilde: I...I....Ir....Ir........Ir...*begins to yank on Iris' arm frantically*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wilde.
Jessup the Younger: I believe we haz a needin ta talkz.
Cherilyn Marcelle: *Takes an involutary half-step back*
Willom Wilde: *Sweating and stuttering* a...aaa......aa......a....th....thththththt
Iris Tammarack: ~pats Willom's arm comfortingly~
Salt Sower: *eyes wide in horror as the scene unfolds*
Jessup the Younger: Nowz.
Jessup the Younger: *snorts*
Salt Sower: *brief pleading glance at Talion*
Willom Wilde: *Looks down at his legs, which are rigid*
Jessup the Younger: *looks at his hands*
Willom Wilde: *Looks up at Jessup, white as a sheet*
Talion Deraith: *watches quietly with a look of dismay*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wilde?
Ophelia: *looks at jussup*
Jessup the Younger: Zhall I carry ya?
Iris Tammarack: Where would you like to go to talk Jessup?
Jessup the Younger: Tha Port.
Cherilyn Marcelle: *Opens her mouth to say something, look at the Orc again, then wisely shuts it*
((You should have seen where he was standing... the lighting was very intimidating. Looked like something outta Nethar'u!))
Willom Wilde: Uh...yes. I mean, NO! No. I...I....I just need to.....hold on...*starts hyperventilating* Having trouble....breathing....please...one moment!
Talion Deraith: Mister Jessup, even for yourself it is rude to interupt someone business. Master Wilde here had just agreed to travel with us.
Willom Wilde: *Leans over, puts head between knees and takes deep breaths*
Ophelia: I suggest you stay out of it.
((That was to Talion))
Iris Tammarack: ~pats Willom on the back~
Ophelia: Mr talion.
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Tal*
Salt Sower: *jaw drops*
Willom Wilde: *Looks up at Talion*
Salt Sower: *at Ophelia's move*
Jessup the Younger: Im afraid thiz buzinezz iz more important.
Zubeida al-Maheeni: *watches impressed by talion's balls*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wilde iz in my debt.
Ophelia: *looks to jessup*
Jessup the Younger: An it iz time ta collectz.
Jessup the Younger: Zurely ya unnerztan tha Mizta Tal.
Willom Wilde: B...but...but...the debt..wait!
Talion Deraith: I see... and I will still be able to complete my business with him?
Talion Deraith: At a later date.
Willom Wilde: *Looks with panic between Talion and Jessup*
Zubeida al-Maheeni: *steps forward out of the shadows interested in this exchange*
Jessup the Younger: *looks over at Will then back to Tal then to Willoms hands* Dependz on wah ya wan i zpoze.
Jessup the Younger: Tell ya wah.....ifn he nah able ta elp ya outz...ill find ya zomeone who willz.
Willom Wilde: Mr. JessupIcanexplaineverythingyoudon'thavetotakemyhandswecanworkthisallout!!!
Jessup the Younger: Ta tha Port Willomz.
Jessup the Younger: Nowz.
Willom Wilde: Pleeeeeeeaaaasseee!
Jessup the Younger: An ztop beggin'.
Jessup the Younger: Yer makin it worze.
Jessup the Younger: An makin me mad.
Willom Wilde: *Looks up*
Jessup the Younger: *sigh*
Iris Tammarack: ~helps Willom up~ We had better just go talk to him right away.
Port Royale - The Stagecrafters
Jessup the Younger: *waves you over*
Willom Wilde: *Looks around, thoroughly confused*
Jessup the Younger: Ya been ere afore noz?
Willom Wilde: *Nods hesitantly*
Iris Tammarack: *nods*
Jessup the Younger: *nods slowly*
Esmerelda: *drops down from the ceiling*
((Esmerelda is a demi-lich that Xaranthir found in Ka'azim in an adventure that ultimately resulted in the purple badger craziness earlier this year. Ad-lib storylines... gotta love em.))
Esmerelda: *Spins crazily a few times*
Jessup the Younger: *smiles*
Willom Wilde: *Jumps at Esmerelda* Oh dear!
Iris Tammarack: *jumps back*
Jessup the Younger: Ezme!
Esmerelda: Darrrrrrlings! Has the bloodletting started yet?
Jessup the Younger: *shakes his head*
Esmerelda: *pouts*
Willom Wilde: oooo.....*Hold head, legs threatening to give way*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Jezzup haz com' up wit zomtin betta.
Esmerelda: *The Stagecrafters look accustomed to the skull's presence*
Iris Tammarack: ~steps forward and offers Willom her arm~
Willom Wilde: *Jaw drops*
Jessup the Younger: Ezme likez diz plaze nah?
Esmerelda: Ooohhh, really?
Esmerelda: You know I do, my dear.
Jessup the Younger: *smiles*
Jessup the Younger: *looks at will*
Willom Wilde: But you MUST at least hear my STORY! You HAVE to!!!
Jessup the Younger: ZILENZE!
Willom Wilde: There is an amazingly good reason why I don't have the play for you!!!
Willom Wilde: *Clamps mouth shut*
Esmerelda: *makes a sound like a sigh and turns to Jessup*
Esmerelda: Shall I?
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Willom Wilde: *Panicked eyes stare at Esmerelda*
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Willom*
Esmerelda: -Headbutts Willom-
Jessup the Younger: [DM] ROFL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Willom Wilde: *Flies back, grabbing onto head* yyyyyyYYYOWWW!!!!
Jessup the Younger: Tank ya Mz Ezme.
Esmerelda: *Head shakes from side to side* Honestly, darrrling. Now shush and be a good boy.
Willom Wilde: *Spinning around* Ow ow ow ow ow!!!
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wildez....diz be yer optionz.
Esmerelda: Aww, it hurt, I think.
Willom Wilde: Oh my gods! gonna bruise, gonna bruise. That's goona bruise!
Esmerelda: Here, I'll kiss it and make it better. Mwah!
Esmerelda: *Lunges forward and taps forehead with her teeth*
Jessup the Younger: [DM] YOUR KILLIN ME! LOLOL
Iris Tammarack: Willom...shhhhh.
Jessup the Younger: Tha firzt optionz...I take yer handz an we all zquarez.
Willom Wilde: *Holds head out to Iris*
Willom Wilde: STay back!
Jessup the Younger: MIZTA WILDEZ!
Jessup the Younger: Ya Lizenin?
Willom Wilde: *Winces*
Esmerelda: -Hovers over Willom, then settles atop his hat-
Esmerelda: *Clacks jaws*
Jessup the Younger: Yer firzt optionz...I take yer handz.
Willom Wilde: *Freezes, eyes rolling up to hat*
Jessup the Younger: Nowz ifn ya nah wan tha...then I haz anotha option fer ya.
Willom Wilde: *Trembles, shakes, shudders*
Jessup the Younger: [DM] that looked graeat!!!!!
((You had to see it. Haha... all the dancing around and the spinning and the bobbing skull...))
Willom Wilde: *Eyes lock intently on Mr. Jessup*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Jezzup iz tinkin a gittin inta tha performin artz buzinezz.
Jessup the Younger: *motions to the stagecrafters hall*
Jessup the Younger: Oweva...I need zomonez ta run it fer mez.
Willom Wilde: *Stares with utter perplexity*
Jessup the Younger: I nah haz tha time ta doz tha ya zee.
Iris Tammarack: You are going to buy this place?
Esmerelda: Darrrrrling... *purrs*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Jezzup haz a partna in thiz matta....an yez we iz puttin a bid in.
Esmerelda: There are so many paladins around nowadays. Why don't you hold the opening ceremony with a parade? I'm sure they'll want the chance to strut and show off.
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Esme and nods happily* A gooda ideaz!
Willom Wilde: *Wringing hands, looking completely lost*
Esmerelda: I do SO love parades
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Jezzup luv em tooz.
Jessup the Younger: All tha wavin an ztuffz!
Jessup the Younger: *beams*
Esmerelda: And banners, darrrrrling
Jessup the Younger: YUZ!
Iris Tammarack: Parades? Paladins? *shakes head in confusion*
Jessup the Younger: Many bannaz!
Esmerelda : [Tell - to Chief] ROFL. It's great how he goes from being menacing crimelord to little kid.
Willom Wilde: ...Waving...yes...*Looks at Iris, then back to Jessup*
Willom Wilde: Banners. Yes.
Jessup the Younger: *clears throat*Yez fer tha regranopenin a tha stagecraftaz!
Jessup the Younger: *nods happily*
Jessup the Younger: A plaze tha ya will be runnin Mizta Wildez.
Jessup the Younger: Fer me an me partna a courze.
Willom Wilde: *Stunned silence*
Jessup the Younger: Tha iz unlezz ya wan me ta take yer handz.
Jessup the Younger: *looks at them*
Willom Wilde: *Looks down at his hands. Ponders. Looks back up at Jessup.*
Iris Tammarack: I don't imagine you would tell us who your partner is? *looks to Jessup*
Willom Wilde: I'll...keep my hands.
Jessup the Younger: *looks at him*
Willom Wilde: And...um...just how long, might I respectfully ask...would this...term of service...be...for?
Jessup the Younger: *furrows brow* Az long az tha ownaz a tha plaze agree ta itz.
Jessup the Younger: Tha being me an me partna.
Willom Wilde: *Smiles a sour smile* Yes. Hmmm. Lovely. Exciting, really. I'm...stupified by my...good...fortune. Hmmm.
Willom Wilde: Huzzah, I say.
Jessup the Younger: Juz tink a it Mizta Wildez...yer name on thiz plaze!
Jessup the Younger: All yerz!
Jessup the Younger: Ya can do any play ya wizh!
Jessup the Younger: Yer very own actin troupz!
Jessup the Younger: Muzizianz! Artiztz!
Willom Wilde: *Eyes spark* Eh?
Jessup the Younger: All unner yer command!
Willom Wilde: *Looks up* My own...troupe?
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Willom Wilde: *Absently twirls mustache* My own troupe....
Willom Wilde: Acting again...
Jessup the Younger: Mhmm.
Jessup the Younger: An zingin!
Jessup the Younger: Anytin ya needz...Mizta Jezzup can gitz it fer ya....any acta....
Jessup the Younger: I can gitz im fer ya ...an at a dizcount.
Jessup the Younger: They will be made an offa they canna refuze!
Jessup the Younger: *cracks knuckles*
Jessup the Younger: All tha finezt in tha landz workin fer ya1
Jessup the Younger: *nods beaming*
Jessup the Younger: An yer name on tha entranze!
Willom Wilde: *Brow furrows slightly* Now, just hold on a moment...*taps finger against temple* Now, a moment ago, you were going to take my hands.
Jessup the Younger: Yuz
Jessup the Younger: Tha true.
Willom Wilde: Now, you're going to let me run this place and act and sing and dance? THAT'S the alternative to getting my hands lopped off???
Esmerelda: Is there a problem with that, darrrrling?
Jessup the Younger: *looks at esme*
Iris Tammarack: Sounds too good to be true. Is there a catch?
Jessup the Younger: *then to Willom*
Esmerelda: Honestly. Artists. I don't understand you lot.
Willom Wilde: *Looks at Esmerelda* Er...well, no. Not as such, certainly. I'm...I'm just a bit...confused, is all, you see.
Jessup the Younger: Lady Ezme be ritez....
Jessup the Younger: Look Mizta Wildez...
Jessup the Younger: zure I can take yer handz....an tha debt be zettled...
Esmerelda: Darrrling, you have demonstrated great innovation, endurance and integrity!
Willom Wilde: *Holds out one hand* Mutilation...? *Holds out other hand* Or singing and dancing...?
Jessup the Younger: Ezactly!
Esmerelda: And resourcefulness!
Jessup the Younger: Lady Ezme zaid itz!
((Actually, it was a wild guess! Did I ever mention, ad-lib RP is the most fun sort?))
Esmerelda: Why, in the face of death threats, you have not caved in!
Jessup the Younger: Ta take yer handz woulda be a zhame!
Esmerelda: You've held up to incredible stress!
Jessup the Younger: Ya be perfect fer thiz jobz!
((ROFL, in that case, Jessup has the most interesting job interviews and selection process I have ever seen....))
Willom Wilde: *Gawks at both of them*
Jessup the Younger: *nods rapidly*
Esmerelda: *Hops off the hat*
Esmerelda: MWAH!
Jessup the Younger: Ya haz talentz Mizta Wildez1
Esmerelda: *Kisses his cheek*
Jessup the Younger: Ta deztroy tha...would be a zhame!
Jessup the Younger: An...nah profitable.
Jessup the Younger: *wry smile*
Willom Wilde: *Closes eyes*
Jessup the Younger: I can makez more gold wit ya wit both handz.
Willom Wilde: *Pinches himself*
Willom Wilde: *Opens eyes*
Jessup the Younger: It be buzinezz Mizta Wildez....an thiz idea be gooda buzinezz!
Willom Wilde: Well...um....*Looks at Iris questioningly*...I'm...flattered. Really. Quite marvellously flattered.
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Jezzup git real good reputation az a philanhtropizt!
Iris Tammarack: ~looks back to Willom with concern~
Jessup the Younger: I be a lova a tha artz!
Jessup the Younger: *clutches robes and looks off*
((I should point out now, he's wearing a rather dramatic-looking red, black and silver toga))
Jessup the Younger: Almoz like a bard!
Jessup the Younger: *beams*
Willom Wilde: *Scrutinizes Jessup* But what about all the killing and mutilating and torturing and stuff? See, the artsy stuff doesn't go so well with that, you know.
Jessup the Younger: *dramatic ppose*
Esmerelda: Nonsense, darrrrling.
Esmerelda: Why, people love it.... the drama... the horror...
Jessup the Younger: *snaps out of it* Tha only don when needed.
Esmerelda: The bravery that comes from such horrid conditions....
Jessup the Younger: Yez!
Willom Wilde: *Blinks at Jessup* Love...the...arts. Well, of course you do.
Jessup the Younger: Peoplez lovez itz!
Jessup the Younger: They wan morez1
Jessup the Younger: Didn ya zee them fazez in tha pozt?
Willom Wilde: *Stares between them again*
Jessup the Younger: They waz about ta haz hart attackz!
Jessup the Younger: Tha drama!
Esmerelda: *Clacks jaws and chuckles*
Willom Wilde: I think I'm about to have one myself...
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Esme and laughs*
((She has... the BEST voiceset. And the most EVIL little chuckle.))
Willom Wilde: *Winces to her cackle and his laugh*
Esmerelda : [Tell] Oh I love the laughs
Iris Tammarack: *shakes head slowly*
Jessup the Younger: *ahem* Naturally Mizta Wilde.....ya may change tha inzide a thiz plaze ta yer likin.
Jessup the Younger: Ya may add a room fer yerzelvez.
Jessup the Younger: Waheva ya needz.
Esmerelda: Oh, splendid idea, darrrrrling
Jessup the Younger: Ya juz letz me knaw.
Willom Wilde: *Looks around* Oh, well. The place could use a bit of touching up, couldn't it? Missing a bit of color, really. A bit of the...dramatic.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Jessup the Younger: Yez...dramaticz! Tha wah I waz tinkin!
Esmerelda: See? He's already thinking of ideas, darrrling.
Jessup the Younger: Maybe blod red eh?
Jessup the Younger: Yez yez!
Esmerelda: Such initiative!
Jessup the Younger: Him a tinker!
Jessup the Younger: An an intiativer!
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Willom Wilde: *Pales* Blood red? Yes, yes, well...maybe....maybe.....just a DROP.
Jessup the Younger: *shrugs* It up ta ya.
Jessup the Younger: *looks back*
Willom Wilde: *Blinks*
Jessup the Younger: *sniff*
Jessup the Younger: *frowns*
Cora Delving: *slight smirk*
Willom Wilde: *Watches Jessup nervously*
Jessup the Younger: I gotta git betta eyez.
Cora Delving: it's only me
Willom Wilde: *Startles to Cora*
Jessup the Younger: *smiles*
Esmerelda: Darrrling. Love the outfit.
Cora Delving: *slight smirk* um.. thanks
Jessup the Younger: *rocks on his heels* Zo Mizta Wildez...doz we haz a deal?
Jessup the Younger: *extends his hand*
Willom Wilde: I...well...I guess...I would say...that...we.....*inhales, eyes hand, then puts his out, wincing* A deal. *through clenched teeth.
Esmerelda: *Cackles gleefully*
Jessup the Younger: *shakes it vigorously*
Jessup the Younger: YUZ!
Jessup the Younger: *pulls him in andhugs him*
Jessup the Younger: *crunch*
Cora Delving: [DM] omg.. that is a great laugh
((Didn't I tell you? She has the BEST cackle!))
Jessup the Younger: EZELLENTZ!
Willom Wilde: Ooorph!
Esmerelda : [Tell - to Chief] ROFL!!!!! Og just bruised his ribs earlier.
Jessup the Younger: *scrnch*
Esmerelda : [Tell - to BKatt] I know!
Willom Wilde: *Muffled murmur, then groan*
Jessup the Younger: *crunch*
Willom Wilde: .....!
Jessup the Younger: *mushes his hat*
Jessup the Younger: *releases him*
Esmerelda : [Tell - to Chief] Then let's meet his partner!
Cora Delving: *looks Willom over slowly*
Willom Wilde: *Turns lovely shade of blue*
Esmerelda: Oooh
Jessup the Younger: Nowz...we muz haz ya meet my partna.
Esmerelda: Look, darrrrling
Willom Wilde: Ooooooof! *Breathes heavily*
Jessup the Younger: Hmm?
Esmerelda: His face matches his outfit now. Splendid.
Jessup the Younger: Yez.
Jessup the Younger: Lookz gooda!
Esmerelda: I do love colour coordination.
((Can you tell I'm taking the piss outta this sort of RP with the floating skull? Is it obvious enough?))
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Esmerelda : [Tell] Funny thing is, she's TN
Willom Wilde: You're...partner...*straightening hat* Yes, certainly.
Jessup the Younger: Much abetta then yer pazty white faze.
Willom Wilde: *Looks at Cora* Would this be your...your partner?
Iris Tammarack: Indeed...partner.
Cora Delving: *raised brow*
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Cora* Nah...nah lady Cora..though zhe may be elpin a bitz.
Jessup the Younger: Com'!
Jessup the Younger: We go meet im!
Esmerelda: *Bobs along*
Jessup the Younger: Com lady Cora!
Willom Wilde: *Eyes eyes with nervous resignation, then follows*
Cora Delving: ..right
Esmerelda: *Zips around in dizzy circles happily*
Port Royale
Esmerelda : [Tell] carry esme
((I had to zip ahead to PAJWT, so had to limbo her))
Jessup the Younger: *pops esme in his pack*
Cora Delving: *slight grin to herself*
((Slight bit of confusion and miscommuncation occurs here, the party ending up in UnderCity. Oops!))
Port Royale - The Black Pearl
Cora Delving: you walk too fast, sir.. *smirks*
Jessup the Younger: *grins*
Iris Tammarack: I doubt it.
Willom Wilde: I can see why he'd be interested.
Port Royale - The Black Pearl - Cellars
Willom Wilde: *Looks about*
Jessup the Younger: Com we muznt keep me partna watin!
Willom Wilde: Wha...what is this place?
Willom Wilde: *Knocks on the dome*
Iris Tammarack: Ummm, that's not good.
Willom Wilde: Excuse me?
((A flurry of Tells occurs, along the lines of, Where the hell are you going???))
Jessup the Younger: Falla me.
Iris Tammarack: Mustn't keep his partner waiting, but we get shut out of wherever they are going. Perfect.
Jessup the Younger: bah he already at me zhop.
Jessup the Younger: *frowns* we iz late!
Willom Wilde: Oh. Hellow.
Jessup the Younger: *snorts*
Port Royale
Jessup the Younger: *mutters to himself about a parade and banners*
Jessup the Younger: In ya goz!
Jessup the Younger: Quickz!
Jessup the Younger: *pushes you in*
Jessup the Younger: *smiles*
Port Royale - Pickston and Jessup's Wild Tours
Iris Tammarack: *looks around*
Jessup the Younger: Thiz wayz.
Willom Wilde: So, your...um...partner. Is this person a performer, perhaps?
Cora Delving: *slight grin*
Cora Delving: he appreciates... the arts
Jessup the Younger: He haz....actually ad zom ezperienze in tha artz...yez....but he now zpezializez in anotha art.
Willom Wilde: Oh, well....splendid. He must.
Willom Wilde: Painting?
Iris Tammarack: *looks into the store sadly*
Port Royale - Pickston and Jessup's Wild Tours - Residences
Willom Wilde: Oh, my! This IS impressive!
Jessup the Younger: Juz a leetle remodelin.
Jessup the Younger: Thiz way pleaze.
((He leads them to the lab))
Willom Wilde: *Looks in, a bit nervously*
Jessup the Younger: Gotta git tha door fixed.
Iris Tammarack: What is this?
Willom Wilde: *Glances at the floor*
((At the glowing red pentagram... and the blood stains around it))
Cora Delving: oh.. just.. art deco
Mortifer: *Is leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed*
((Mortifer's on the far side of the room, and so is Malicia. Mortifer is a pale man with silver hair, wearing black armour with purple trim and a flowing cape. Malicia is a woman with ashen skin and red hair who looks vaguely demonic, in a skin-tight costume, wielding a wicked glowing red whip.))
Iris Tammarack: Interesting.
Jessup the Younger: *lets Esme out*
Mortifer: *Slow smile, baring fangs*
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wilde....Mz Iriz.
Willom Wilde: *Stares at Mortifer, backing up when he sees the fangs*
Iris Tammarack: *watches the book flutter around*
Cora Delving: *leans on the wall*
Jessup the Younger: May I intraduze ya ta my buzinezz partna....Mizta MOrtiferz.
Willom Wilde: Mmmister...Mortifer?
Iris Tammarack: *steps toward Willom protectively*
Willom Wilde: *Bows shakily* A...a pleasure, indeed.
Jessup the Younger: Mizta Wilde danna be rude go cloza!
Willom Wilde: *Takes cautious steps*
Mortifer: *leans away from the wall, uncrossing his arms*
Jessup the Younger: Go onz!
Willom Wilde: *Tries to smile*
Jessup the Younger: He iz yer bozz!
((Poor, poor James... always ends up picked on by vampires, no matter what character he plays!))
Jessup the Younger: *nods happily*
Mortifer: Ah, so you are the famous Willom Wilde.
Iris Tammarack: *keeps close to Willom*
Willom Wilde: *Turns sharply to Jessup, then back to Mortifer..if possible, paler than before*
Mortifer: I'm a fan of your work, sir. Especially that play with the dress.
Jessup the Younger: *nods about the dress*
Mortifer: *Steps forward and kisses him on both cheeks*
Willom Wilde: Er...well, yes. A...a fan? Oh, well...thank you.
Mortifer: *Then Iris too*
Willom Wilde: You...you saw that?
Jessup the Younger: [DM] lol
Iris Tammarack: *blink, blink*
Mortifer : [Tell - to BKatt] I wonder how much i can creep them out... first they get kissed by skulls... and now a vampire
Willom Wilde: *Touches skin where kissed* Er...well...um...oh dear. Thank you.
Cora Delving: [DM] heh
Mortifer: *Smiles that fanged smiled again* I look forward to working with you both. *Silkily*
((...And if you fail, I will devour you...))
Mortifer: *Turns to Jessup suddenly*
Jessup the Younger: *beams and claps*
Mortifer: Have you introduced them to Miss Satard yet?
Iris Tammarack: ~looks to Willom with a great deal of concern~
Mortifer : [Tell] what does he call jessup? Sir Jessup? Lord Jessup? just Jessup?
Jessup the Younger: Nah yetz....ya may doz tha honaz Mizta Mortiferz.
Willom Wilde: *Returns Iris' look, eyes glassy and wide*
Jessup the Younger: [DM] Lord jessup
Mortifer: *Gestures with his left hand*
Iris Tammarack: *glances over*
Mortifer: Milord Willom, this is Miss Malicia Satard. She will be acquiring... whatever supplies you desire for your enterprise.
((Torture instruments and souls in jars a specialty.))
Jessup the Younger: *looks over to Malicia*
Willom Wilde: *Turns to look at Miss Satard, hand grasping cloak tightly, wringing it*
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Malicia Satard: *Steps forward, smiling... surprisingly doesn't have fangs*
Cora Delving: *slight smirk*
Jessup the Younger: [DM] lol
Mortifer: She's... -very-... experienced.
Mortifer: I don't think you'll be disappointed.
Willom Wilde: Oh, uh. Well...a...a pleasure, Miss. Satard.
Willom Wilde: *Bows*
Cora Delving: *slaps at some of the pages of the book*
((The Master's Grimoire - a flying book - is flapping around everywhere being a nuisance.))
Malicia Satard: *Bows back, saying nothing; just watching the two with her void-black eyes*
Iris Tammarack: *steps forward and holds out a hand* Pleased to meet you madam.
Malicia Satard: *Rubs a thumb along the whip*
((She's holding a glowing red whip.))
Malicia Satard: *Eyes the hand*
Willom Wilde: *Tries to keep eye contact with her, but finally looks slightly away*
Mortifer: Milord Jessup, I must inform you... there has been a... development.
Jessup the Younger: Ohz?
Jessup the Younger: Wah be tha?
Iris Tammarack: Okay then. *pulls hand back*
Mortifer : [Tell - to BKatt] might want to stand by jessup, on the side esme is on
((ie. away from the pentagram))
Willom Wilde: *Slowly steps back, against the wall, Looking between Jessup and Mortifer*
Mortifer: Well, a third party has shown... interest... in Mister Wilde's activities.
Iris Tammarack: *watches book with fascination*
Cora Delving: *grabs a parchment from the desk*
Mortifer: And has proposed to join this partnership.
Willom Wilde: *Eyes bulge*
Jessup the Younger: *eyes widen and a huge smile comes across his face*
Jessup the Younger: Ezellentz!
Jessup the Younger: Moz ezellentz!
Jessup the Younger: Will zhe be joinin uz?
Willom Wilde: *Lips move, quiver, but no sound emits*
Mortifer: Well, as I understand it...
Willom Wilde: *Eyes dart between them*
Cora Delving: *slight nod to Malicia*
Mortifer: The heir to one of the great and affluent patrician families of Midor.
Jessup the Younger: Oh ho!
Willom Wilde: *slight gasp of breath*
Jessup the Younger: Royalty!
Iris Tammarack: *mouthes the word Midor*
Mortifer: Or the equivalent.
Jessup the Younger: Tha givez uz mucha credibility!
Jessup the Younger: *nods sagely*
Willom Wilde: Wwwwha....wwwwhoo.....? *Very quietly*
Mortifer: Would you get that vial from the shelf behind you, Mister Wilde? The one labelled frost dragon blood.
((I made that up. In retrospect should probably have gone for blood of innocents or something more sinister like that.))
Willom Wilde: *Looks at the shelf* What? Oh...yes...
Willom Wilde: *Reaches up, grabbing the vial in trembling hands*
Mortifer: Pour it into the centre of the pentragram, if you please. Then step away. Quickly.
Cora Delving: *coughs*
Jessup the Younger: *smiles patiently*
Jessup the Younger: *points to the pentagram*
Willom Wilde: Pour it...*Looks to the pentagram*...Me???
Malicia Satard: *Glides forward eagerly*
Jessup the Younger: Tha pentagramz.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Mortifer: Yes, it must be you. You were specifically asked for.
Iris Tammarack: *steps away*
Willom Wilde: *Puts other hand on Vial to try and stop the trembling.*
Jessup the Younger: An danna fergit ta movez away fazt!
Mortifer: Why, this individual would never have wished to be part of this if not for you.
Mortifer: *Smiles, showing off his fangs*
Willom Wilde: Bbbut, now....er...Okay.
Jessup the Younger: *fixes his hair*
Willom Wilde: *Grasps cork...tries to pull it off vial...trembling hand fumbles*
Cora Delving: *reclines back, elbows on the desk*
Iris Tammarack: *crosses arms to hide her shaking hands*
Willom Wilde: Oh...oh, dear. Just...just a moment here...*wipes hand on his cloths briskly*
Jessup the Younger: *blink*
Cora Delving: *snaps her fingers at the book and gives it a stern look*
Willom Wilde: *Gives up and pulls cork out with his teeth, almost spilling the vial*
Jessup the Younger: *winces a bit*
Willom Wilde: *Holds vial over center of pentagram*
The Muse: [Tell] oh the suspense
Jessup the Younger: [Tell] ROFL I KNOW!
Willom Wilde: *Looks back at Mortifer*
Jessup the Younger: *nods confidently*
Jessup the Younger: Ya doin fine Willomz!
The Muse: *He's still smiling that lovely sharp smile*
Willom Wilde: *Turns vial over, pouring out contents, and dashes out of the Pentagram*
((Power Word: Kill effect, followed by Gate summon effect. The witch appears in the centre of the pentagram.))
Iris Tammarack: *winces*
Jessup the Younger: *claps*
Netallien Serilde: *Well-remembered cackle*
((She's hideous! AHH!))
Cora Delving: *smirks*
Willom Wilde: Ahhh!!!!
Jessup the Younger: Welcomez!
Willom Wilde: *Slams into shelf*
Willom Wilde: Its....its....HER!!!
Netallien Serilde: *Hunches over, clutching the branch with both clawed hands*
Cora Delving: *watches Willom with some amusement*
Iris Tammarack: *blinks in amazement*
Willom Wilde: *Looks at Jessup, at Iris, at the others* W-what's going on here????
Netallien Serilde: *Levels a clawed finger at him*
Jessup the Younger: Zhe iz tha third party ta our inveztment groupz.
((Jessup's very poised for someone who no longer has any idea of what's going on.))
Iris Tammarack: *simply stares in disbelief*
Netallien Serilde: Again have I extended your life. You who would have lost your hands.
Willom Wilde: *Face slackens, eyes glaze....mouth gapes*
Jessup the Younger: *ahem* Willomz...yer mouthz.
Willom Wilde: *Gurgles*
Jessup the Younger: *sigh*
Netallien Serilde: *Lowers the arm*
Iris Tammarack: ~looks to Willom, wide eyed~
Netallien Serilde: Still your crime unanswered is and still the mystery unsolved is.
((For the life of me, I could not remember how she spoke! Was scrabbling on the laptop to track down Willom Wilde and the Cheese of Foreboding.))
Netallien Serilde: *A sleight-of-hand gesture; a manuscript appears in her hands*
Willom Wilde: *Eyes suddenly focus sharp on the manuscript*
Willom Wilde: *Murmurs* ...play...
Willom Wilde: ...mine...
Netallien Serilde: The cheese of foreboding looms near, Willom Wilde. Seek ye the secret of the gown, or suffer the consequences.
Jessup the Younger: *looks at his fingernails*
Iris Tammarack: ~pats Willom on the shoulder and mumbles~ The good news is...we are definitely out of the frying pan.
Willom Wilde: *Winces* I.....I'm trying. Please...
Willom Wilde: *Stares at Iris*
Jessup the Younger: [DM] IM dyin here!!!!
Netallien Serilde: One more clue will I give you. Blessings come in painful disguises.
Netallien Serilde: *Raises an arm, tracing a pattern of complex webs in the air with a finger, leaving red glowing trails*
Iris Tammarack: *raises a brow*
Jessup the Younger: ooooh!
Jessup the Younger: *watches*
((ROFL! This is the big bad crimelord of Port Royale? Oh, classic.))
Netallien Serilde: The secret. Seek it or the cheese... seeks -you-.
((Power Word: Kill VFX, then Unsummon VFX))
Willom Wilde: *Looks confused* Blessings...is...is that the clue, or was that just a warning? I"m...I'm not clear here...
((Too late, she's gone))
Willom Wilde: Oh...oh dear.
Jessup the Younger: I gotta learn 'ow ta do tha.
Mortifer: A fine actress!
Jessup the Younger: Yez!
Mortifer: *Applauds*
Jessup the Younger: One a tha bezt!
Jessup the Younger: *claps*
Iris Tammarack: Cheese seeks you?
Mortifer: And a noblewoman.
Jessup the Younger: Indeedz!
Willom Wilde: *Turns sharply to Mortifer* Actress???
Mortifer: She ought to be in the play, milord Jessup.
Jessup the Younger: We needz more like herz.
Mortifer: *Gravely*
Jessup the Younger: A finez idea!
Cora Delving: *grins*
Jessup the Younger: Willomz!
Jessup the Younger: Make a part fer her in tha play!
Jessup the Younger: A good part.
Jessup the Younger: One with lotza talkin!
Willom Wilde: *Bulging eyes stare*
Jessup the Younger: An ztuffz!
Mortifer: And special effects.
Jessup the Younger: Yez....effectz!
Willom Wilde: *Shakes himself out of his stupor*
Willom Wilde: *Waves hands* Now just hold on here. Please!
Jessup the Younger: *snorts*
Mortifer: *Snaps fingers* Milord Jessup...
Cora Delving: *grabs the master's grimoire and snaps it shut, then puts it on the desk with a bottle on top of it*
Mortifer: With her hair colour, she would be a fine choice to play the part of The Priestess.
Jessup the Younger: Yez!
Willom Wilde: *Looks at Jessup* You are in league with that hag???
Mortifer: As well as her regal command presence.
Jessup the Younger: Zhe woulda be perfectz!
((Limboed the grimoire that was flapping around everywhere, then popped an open tome placeable where it had been, and a fat bottle atop that.))
Cora Delving: [DM] heh
Jessup the Younger: *looks at Willom* Zhe iz my buzinezz partna Willomz!
Willom Wilde: *Stares at Mortifer, aghast* REGAL???
Jessup the Younger: yez....regalz!
Willom Wilde: *Stares at Jessup* PARTNER??
Jessup the Younger: Yez..partna.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Iris Tammarack: *under her breath* Careful what you say Willom.
Jessup the Younger: Yez...carefulz!
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Willom Wilde: *Pulls hat down tightly on his head*
Mortifer: *Looks left and right and left and right, following the dizzying exchange*
((Mortifer was standing between Jessup and Willom... you could see his head moving left and right and left as if watching a furious tennis match.))
Willom Wilde: *Moans for a moment*
Jessup the Younger: *pats Willom on the shoulder*
Jessup the Younger: *pulls him in tight*
Cora Delving: [DM] *chuckles* you know your way around too many things in the DM client...
((RE: the squished grimoire))
Jessup the Younger: *scrunch* Willomz......Willomz...
Willom Wilde: .....!
Jessup the Younger: Thiz be tha beginnin a yer dream!
Jessup the Younger: Yer vury own playhouze...wit yer namez on itz!
Willom Wilde: *Winces, gasps for breath*
Jessup the Younger: I knowin it a lot ta takez in.
Jessup the Younger: *scrunch*
Jessup the Younger: Butz ya can do itz.
Willom Wilde: Erp!
Jessup the Younger: Ya haz ta!
Jessup the Younger: Ya haz nah choize.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Willom Wilde: ...cant....breathe.......
Jessup the Younger: eh?
Jessup the Younger: Canna wah?
Jessup the Younger: Zee?
Willom Wilde: ......c.....br.....
Iris Tammarack: I think you are crushing him Jessup.
Jessup the Younger: Ohz!
Willom Wilde: *Nods frantically*
Jessup the Younger: *releases*
Willom Wilde: Bhaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.....
Jessup the Younger: *fixes his outfit and hat*
Cora Delving: *smirks*
Jessup the Younger: *dusts him off*
Willom Wilde: *Inhales deeply*
Jessup the Younger: *straightens his mustache*
Malicia Satard: *Speaks up for the first time, her voice guttural and devilish* Shall I procure him a new outfit, Milord Jessup?
Jessup the Younger: Yez!
Malicia Satard: That one appears the worse for wear.
Jessup the Younger: let Lady Ezme pick tha colar...zhe gooda at tha!
Cora Delving: *under her breath* or just plain tacky
Willom Wilde: *Looks over to Malicia, hearing her, but not seeming to comprehend her*
Malicia Satard: *Dips her head in a bow* Your will be done. I shall have it within the week. *A whisper of movement, then she's gone*
Jessup the Younger: Ifn he gonna be tha new owna ofz a play houze...he needz ta ztart drezzin like onez!
Willom Wilde: *Glares at Cora*
Esmerelda: Ohh, colours!
((Esmerelda flies out the door and also exits.))
Cora Delving: *sweet smile*
Jessup the Younger: *looks back at Will and Iris*
Jessup the Younger: Ya knaw...
Jessup the Younger: I juz knew tha dayz I met ya bothz it woulda change our livez fer tha betta!
Jessup the Younger: Now look at uz!
Jessup the Younger: *beams*
Jessup the Younger: All workin tagetha!
Mortifer: Inspiring.
Willom Wilde: *Twitching lips resemble a smile*
Mortifer: *Dryly*
Iris Tammarack: *smiles the best she can* Yes...together.
Mortifer: *Bares teeth in a grin*
Jessup the Younger: *motions in his hand in the air* WILLOM WILDEZ ZTAGECRAFTAZ!
Cora Delving: *softly and a bit sarcastic* one big happy family
Jessup the Younger: Tha be in big lettaz!
Jessup the Younger: Ritez outzide it!
Jessup the Younger: Well haz yer faze everywherz!
Willom Wilde: I'm....I'm...overwhelmed...with....with joy. Yes. Yes! But...being overwhelmed is so very....um...overwhelming...
Jessup the Younger: On pozterz...banna'z
Jessup the Younger: We zhould even makez leetle Willom dollz fer tha kidz!
Mortifer: Mm. Perhaps work on the name a bit.
Willom Wilde: I...I think I must...lie down.
Jessup the Younger: It can comez wit a drezz!
Iris Tammarack: Dolls?
Willom Wilde: *Holds head between hands tightly*
Jessup the Younger: Mhmm...fer tha kiddiez.
Cora Delving: *chuckles softly*
Jessup the Younger: It can comez wit a drezz an cheeze.
Jessup the Younger: Zo tha kiddiez can chande hiz outfitz.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Jessup the Younger: *pats Willom on tha back*
Mortifer : [Tell] Dolls, LOL
Willom Wilde: *Stammers*
Jessup the Younger: We can givez a performanze fer tha Zmall Ztonez!
Jessup the Younger: An givez them awayz!
Jessup the Younger: 'ow noble a ya Mizta Wildez!
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Cora Delving: Oh, they'll -love- that
Jessup the Younger: Yez.
Willom Wilde: *Eyes Jessup with horor* Give away ORPHANS???
Jessup the Younger: Nah nah nah..tha dollz!
Jessup the Younger: We givez them ta tha orphanz.
Cora Delving: *chuckles*
Jessup the Younger: Ta play wit!
Willom Wilde: *Breathes heavy relief*
Iris Tammarack: That makes more sense.
Mortifer: That's not a bad idea, though.
Jessup the Younger: Mhmm nah bad at allz.
Mortifer: *Rubs finger across chin*
Jessup the Younger: Every ticket com wit a kid.
Jessup the Younger: *nods*
Jessup the Younger: ill look inta tha.
Mortifer: Give the orphans away... I know a lady in Maldovia who'd want some.
Iris Tammarack: *eyes wide*
Jessup the Younger: Yez...zhe likez tha kidz.
Willom Wilde: *Tugs frantically at his beard*
Jessup the Younger: An zo doz tha fella in tha dezert.
Cora Delving: *puts her hand over her mouth to hide her grin*
Jessup the Younger: Malakai tooz!
Mortifer: I don't blame her. They taste better.
Jessup the Younger: [DM] E------VIL!
Jessup the Younger: He lovez tha kidz!
Willom Wilde: But....noo! You...you can't! Think...think of the....liability! yes! Terrible!
Jessup the Younger: Tha wah?
Cora Delving: *clears throat and looks serious, lowering her hand*
Jessup the Younger: Doz nah worry Mizta Wildez I haz a frind in tha courtz tha can deal with any legal izzuez...fella by tha name a Boddleglumz.
Willom Wilde: *Desperately* Terribly unreliable, those orphans! Can't trust them! So then they break customer's things and the customers would expect YOU to pay!
Jessup the Younger: Nah nah Boddleglumz can make a contract fer uz.
Mortifer: Mm, yes. So much better than that Nico fellow.
Jessup the Younger: [DM] LOL
Willom Wilde: *Winces to Nico's name*
Mortifer: Are you certain you don't want me to hunt him down and feed on him?
Jessup the Younger: *frowns* Nicoz!
Jessup the Younger: Nah...he iz workin wit Frobozz nowz.
Jessup the Younger: I tink.
Jessup the Younger: *shrugs*
Jessup the Younger: No time fer tha...we haz mucha plannin ta do.
Iris Tammarack: *looks to the floor* Nico...
Jessup the Younger: Like a parade!
Jessup the Younger: An zpecial foodz!
Jessup the Younger: An fireworkz!
Jessup the Younger: An Madam Zetine!
Jessup the Younger: All fer Willomz playhouze!
Willom Wilde: *Looks at both Mortifer and Jessup* Well, yes, so much to do. You know, I simply must get some sound sleep so that I can be well rested for all...all I must do!
Jessup the Younger: *nods at Will* Yez..git zom rezt.
Mortifer: A wise idea.
Iris Tammarack: Madam...Setine? *looks puzzled*
Jessup the Younger: *nods* Rezt.. I letz ya outz.
Willom Wilde: Wise. Yes! That's me! So...so very....*losing steam*....wise...
Jessup the Younger: Com.
Iris Tammarack: *looks to Mortifier on the way out*
Willom Wilde: Um...g-good to meet you...m-mr...Mortifer...
Cora Delving: *stuffs the parchment in the desk*
Mortifer: *sharp smile*
Mortifer: *vanishes into the shadows* |
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