Glad to know I'm in good company.
My writing time this evening wound up being occupied by a five-way game of scrabble... The taste victory was sweet, but the hour is late and my post will have to wait a bit.
Clumsywordsmith
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Great stuff people -- it looks good, Derren. I'm still, however, feeling marginally embarrassed with getting your character's name wrong.
Keys... Keys... Keys... but I hadn't any keys. Strange. Change of Colour. Change of Scenery. Change of Thought. Jump from one train only to board the next; at least it was no case of 'Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire'. And -she'd- taken my flask. Again. I patted my breast pocket just to be sure. Perhaps it was a good thing, anyway. I glanced over – with the golem, acceptable. (She peers into the depths of the metal flask, sniffs and wrinkles a nose – the flesh not creasing, not folding neatly as human flesh is wont to do, but rather crackling and crinkling stiffly, and then her eyebrows shoot upward as she eyes something... someone else) I rubbed my eyes. Very, very pleasant – to ease onto the vivid green of the grass, to run my fingers through the trailing growths of flowers; but the sky was strange – I frowned – she didn't paint it that... no, it didn't -look- that way. I hope I've taken the right pills! But something jogs my train of thought – the gears clang, I find myself drawn to memories of deep leather chairs and pleasant evenings, the woody fragrance of tobacco smouldering into the wee hours of the night, the heady taste of malt and peat singing the back of my nose; we were laughing about something – some witticism – all of us, and then the figure seated just across from me rose and approached through the smoke. Now he produces a black leathern bag, remarks quietly “Mister... Nestor, is it?” I nodded, began to rise from my chair... no!
The sun breaks through the brief shadow of a passing cloud, Nestor starts; one hand had been extended toward the Wight – as if in the midst of offering a greeting – but then springs suddenly back to his side. He stands there awkwardly a moment, blinks rapidly several times, then finally speaks:
“Ah – Master Seymour; you are correct... but where has she... oh god!” the Demonspawn responds in a trailing string of seeming incoherence; his words first addressed to the Wight, then his attention trailing toward the Demoness (Not with the Golem. No longer acceptable. She had seemingly begun an ill-advised interception of the bristling Werewolf, a sly smile etched permanently into her icy skull, a confident sway finding its way into her hips) I wave the Wight off, remarking brusquely and – in retrospect – quite unhelpfully: “No! No, wait... I mean yes! A moment please...”
Closing both eyes, the Demonspawn bows his head, draws a breath.... and in a flash the Demoness vanishes, the soft tinkle of metal clanging against rock as the flask strikes a stone before rolling a little ways and coming to rest in the grass. A slow trickle issues from the open cap, endlessly leaking out into the dirt – and long, long after the time that a flask so small should have since ran dry it continues to trickle. Trickles until a little stream of liquor finds its way filtering on down the hill and vanishing into the dirt. But, no matter Nestor's efforts, she does not vanish without one last parting shot – a quiet whisper issued to the werewolf:
“Some predator you are, Wolf Girl! I've just the thing for you... it isn't pretty...” And then she was gone – and whether her words were cut off mid-sentence, or whether she intentionally left the sentence dangling, remained for debate.
Opening his eyes – crystal blue, icy; different – no longer grey – Nestor finally gives the Wight his full attention. “Self Medication is the best Medicine, I always say... but... I'm willing to make exceptions. I am human, flesh and blood – live and breath, but struggle to die. Do your worst. Can't be worse than I've managed myself.” With that he slumps into the grass, absently pats his breast pocket – frowns – then eyes the Wight, as if waiting to see what he might do next.
The sun breaks through the brief shadow of a passing cloud, Nestor starts; one hand had been extended toward the Wight – as if in the midst of offering a greeting – but then springs suddenly back to his side. He stands there awkwardly a moment, blinks rapidly several times, then finally speaks:
“Ah – Master Seymour; you are correct... but where has she... oh god!” the Demonspawn responds in a trailing string of seeming incoherence; his words first addressed to the Wight, then his attention trailing toward the Demoness (Not with the Golem. No longer acceptable. She had seemingly begun an ill-advised interception of the bristling Werewolf, a sly smile etched permanently into her icy skull, a confident sway finding its way into her hips) I wave the Wight off, remarking brusquely and – in retrospect – quite unhelpfully: “No! No, wait... I mean yes! A moment please...”
Closing both eyes, the Demonspawn bows his head, draws a breath.... and in a flash the Demoness vanishes, the soft tinkle of metal clanging against rock as the flask strikes a stone before rolling a little ways and coming to rest in the grass. A slow trickle issues from the open cap, endlessly leaking out into the dirt – and long, long after the time that a flask so small should have since ran dry it continues to trickle. Trickles until a little stream of liquor finds its way filtering on down the hill and vanishing into the dirt. But, no matter Nestor's efforts, she does not vanish without one last parting shot – a quiet whisper issued to the werewolf:
“Some predator you are, Wolf Girl! I've just the thing for you... it isn't pretty...” And then she was gone – and whether her words were cut off mid-sentence, or whether she intentionally left the sentence dangling, remained for debate.
Opening his eyes – crystal blue, icy; different – no longer grey – Nestor finally gives the Wight his full attention. “Self Medication is the best Medicine, I always say... but... I'm willing to make exceptions. I am human, flesh and blood – live and breath, but struggle to die. Do your worst. Can't be worse than I've managed myself.” With that he slumps into the grass, absently pats his breast pocket – frowns – then eyes the Wight, as if waiting to see what he might do next.
Sorry people, working on a post ahora mismo.
And finishing.
And finishing.
Will probably not get a post up tonight because... Ooh! Shiny! Ahem. Too busy rampaging through dungeons with my brother, leaving a swathe of carnage in our wake, all while looting anything and everything that hasn't been bolted to the floor.
And I keep getting this irresistible RL urge whilst at work to, you know, grab stuff. Shove it in my pockets. Slip it in my tool belt. Stash it in my van... Guys are all like "You don't happen to know where such-and-such went Clumsy, do you?" And I'm all like: "Naaah, sorry... Oh wait! How did that end up there!? My bad!"
But I will definitely have one up by Thursday evening.
And I keep getting this irresistible RL urge whilst at work to, you know, grab stuff. Shove it in my pockets. Slip it in my tool belt. Stash it in my van... Guys are all like "You don't happen to know where such-and-such went Clumsy, do you?" And I'm all like: "Naaah, sorry... Oh wait! How did that end up there!? My bad!"
But I will definitely have one up by Thursday evening.
Winter will live on! But I was hoping we'd get one last monster storm... So an inch is sadly disappointing.
andastra said
The demonspawn is trying to poison me O_O
Naaah. Alcohol is good for what ails you. And it lubricates brain cells as an added bonus.
“Why the long face, Master Golem? – “ Nestor calls to the creature as he notes the trio's approach – Golem and his pair of uncerimoniously dangling passengers, one locked beneath each arm – “That throw was positively splendid!” He gives an encouraging smile at this, the look eventually vanishing in a favour of an involuntary grimace, pain splashing itself his face and leaving him leaning against the wall, chest heaving as he draws in a long breath.
Taking a moment to steady himself, the Demonspawn eases his uninjured shoulder against the stony wall of the great arched gate, silently watching the approach of the others and the ever advancing swarm of Scarab beetles. (Bugs; I had never much liked bugs I found myself thinking as I coughed again, retched up something thick and grotesquely nasty in the back of my throat, spat as discreetly as I could onto a floor already strewn with debris. Beetles – shit eaters – and I'd be damned if they ate me too. I found a hand slipping involuntarily toward that particular spot beneath my jacket. Found the flask. Took a sip. Not enough. My 'medicinal' case and a little bottle followed, and one by one I watched as several pills found themselves following one another down the hatch; then another sip – maybe closer to enough now. The pain began to ease. Marginally. I reach for the flask again – gone!)
The Demoness chortles softly to herself, holding Nestor's flask delicately between both hands – as though it were some holy chalice being reverently brought to an alter – and plants herself right in front of the Golem as he reaches the shelter just within the vault gates. Cocking a thin eyebrow upwards in the looming creature's direction, she announces: “Don't suppose it would do -you- any good, Aluminium Asshole that you apparently are --” She pauses here, sidles up a little closer to him and whispers slyly “Though me myself? I think... I think... you make for a positively gorgeous example of true manhood...” The words are followed by a bit of snickering, and perhaps too much emphasis on the last word, and then her attention shifts – as though she'd never even been speaking to the Golem in the first place – words now directed toward the Necromancer, flask extended in her direction: “Now, now – Nestor's been cut off for the time being – drink up Missy!” A look of careworn sadness somehow forces its way her icy features, eyebrows lowering as she adds “ I do so hate to see my dear companions suffer”. The seriousness of her words might remain very much in doubt – caught on the edge, just barely kept from teetering into outright mockery.
My thoughts had wandered elsewhere – seeing that the party had (by all appearances) waded through the devastation of the ancient Anubi with the same number of members as we had begun, I turned my attention to the hallway of the vault beyond. What lay within, I wondered? And more directly, how in the blazes we were supposed to find this Ankh; Birdwoman Senior – if she'd made it through the horde alive – I assumed could give a little guidance. I couldn't help but smirk at my own minor blasphemy, but they were my own thoughts after all, weren't they?
Taking a moment to steady himself, the Demonspawn eases his uninjured shoulder against the stony wall of the great arched gate, silently watching the approach of the others and the ever advancing swarm of Scarab beetles. (Bugs; I had never much liked bugs I found myself thinking as I coughed again, retched up something thick and grotesquely nasty in the back of my throat, spat as discreetly as I could onto a floor already strewn with debris. Beetles – shit eaters – and I'd be damned if they ate me too. I found a hand slipping involuntarily toward that particular spot beneath my jacket. Found the flask. Took a sip. Not enough. My 'medicinal' case and a little bottle followed, and one by one I watched as several pills found themselves following one another down the hatch; then another sip – maybe closer to enough now. The pain began to ease. Marginally. I reach for the flask again – gone!)
The Demoness chortles softly to herself, holding Nestor's flask delicately between both hands – as though it were some holy chalice being reverently brought to an alter – and plants herself right in front of the Golem as he reaches the shelter just within the vault gates. Cocking a thin eyebrow upwards in the looming creature's direction, she announces: “Don't suppose it would do -you- any good, Aluminium Asshole that you apparently are --” She pauses here, sidles up a little closer to him and whispers slyly “Though me myself? I think... I think... you make for a positively gorgeous example of true manhood...” The words are followed by a bit of snickering, and perhaps too much emphasis on the last word, and then her attention shifts – as though she'd never even been speaking to the Golem in the first place – words now directed toward the Necromancer, flask extended in her direction: “Now, now – Nestor's been cut off for the time being – drink up Missy!” A look of careworn sadness somehow forces its way her icy features, eyebrows lowering as she adds “ I do so hate to see my dear companions suffer”. The seriousness of her words might remain very much in doubt – caught on the edge, just barely kept from teetering into outright mockery.
My thoughts had wandered elsewhere – seeing that the party had (by all appearances) waded through the devastation of the ancient Anubi with the same number of members as we had begun, I turned my attention to the hallway of the vault beyond. What lay within, I wondered? And more directly, how in the blazes we were supposed to find this Ankh; Birdwoman Senior – if she'd made it through the horde alive – I assumed could give a little guidance. I couldn't help but smirk at my own minor blasphemy, but they were my own thoughts after all, weren't they?
Work, work, work... Sorry, the weekend has had a rough start. I will be getting a post up tomorrow, however!
I should have a post up by tonight, provided the weekend doesn't get too crazy too soon.
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