May I have 13? Since 42 is taken. >.<
Random Encounters.
85 Blood Elf Priest
0
04/24/2011 02:37 PMPosted by KalicoWelcome to the RP bandwagon Skan :)
Why thank you. I don't suppose you could get me into Riddle of Steel now? *Cough* *Cough*.
#17 You have a reoccurring dream about your past.
Nightmare
I do not sleep. I have no need of sleep. I reach into the Nether and rip from it energy. Bolts, woven of mana and memory, spool into the diminished places in my soul. A torpor, of sorts, takes hold and there….
There I dream, or remember. I can no longer tell which from which.
Hand-stitched, heavy-canvas bags, one slightly smaller than the other, sit on the curb outside the family shop. I know I had made them both, the craftsmanship is good, the design unique, from the demands of the owner of the smaller bag. There is some pride there, and apprehension. I am finally joining The Gnome on one of his adventures.
A voice, lilting, excited and sad at the same time calls my name. “This is going to be hard,” I think, and the part of my brain that never sleeps agrees, threatening to end the dream now, wishing to end the dream now, but the bolt of mana, and its tapestry of memory, cannot be stopped. I am empty and need to be filled.
I turn to the woman who is, at once, childhood playmate, best friend, apprenticeship crush, twin brother’s wife. Her curly hair and bright eyes are the same color, the golden brown of the corn husk, not quite blonde, not quite brown. She is smiling and worried at the same time. Her shop apron accentuates her narrow waist. Her face is smooth, care lines recently begun above the bridge of her nose, at the corners of her mouth.
“You be safe, I need both my men here…”
I take her hands as she approaches, forestalling a full embrace. I could not bear it just now. She moves in closer, smiling up at me. The skin of her face is flawless, save for a single small scar above the right eye.
Instantly we three are in the woods, as this is the way of dreams, and sometimes memory as well. There in the mountain stream where it feeds, into the old canals. We are not supposed to be there, and we are certainly not supposed to be having a stick fight. My brother’s wayward swing arched back from its course, bloody, leaving behind the slightest whimper, the flow of blood, the profusion of “sorrys”. There was more crying after the event than during, the fear of being caught done and the penance served with switches of our own choosing.
I wonder, whether with my waking mind, or my dream mind, I cannot tell; if my stick had scarred her otherwise flawless face, would she now be my wife and would my brother be setting off for far shores with a too energetic Gnome? This question almost stops the dream.
Almost.
We are on the curb, and somehow my arms are around her slender frame, hers are locked behind my back. She presses upwards, lips reaching for mine, perfect eyelids closed, and the scent of cornbread, crab cakes and onions from our lunch mingled with her own sweet work smell. He lips part ever so slightly….
This torpor has been long. My fingers have worn through the thin leather, leaving a ruff of broken stitches. I turn to the wash basin so thoughtfully provided by my hosts. The water is still, my reflection stares back at me from the smooth surface. I would close my eyes, if I had eyelids. The spikes of bone that make up my fingers play across my face, the silk brocade, pink runecloth and light leather patches held together with fine evenly spaced stitches. This covering does little to hide what I have become.
I drive my hands into the water, distorting the reflection, tearing it. I wash, and, before the water can settle, drop both hands into the porcelain with such force as to crack the bowl and release its contents in a flood. Water pours down the table and across the floor, where it, mercifully, is absorbed; its ability to reflect thwarted.
I do not sleep. I have no need of sleep.
Nightmare
I do not sleep. I have no need of sleep. I reach into the Nether and rip from it energy. Bolts, woven of mana and memory, spool into the diminished places in my soul. A torpor, of sorts, takes hold and there….
There I dream, or remember. I can no longer tell which from which.
Hand-stitched, heavy-canvas bags, one slightly smaller than the other, sit on the curb outside the family shop. I know I had made them both, the craftsmanship is good, the design unique, from the demands of the owner of the smaller bag. There is some pride there, and apprehension. I am finally joining The Gnome on one of his adventures.
A voice, lilting, excited and sad at the same time calls my name. “This is going to be hard,” I think, and the part of my brain that never sleeps agrees, threatening to end the dream now, wishing to end the dream now, but the bolt of mana, and its tapestry of memory, cannot be stopped. I am empty and need to be filled.
I turn to the woman who is, at once, childhood playmate, best friend, apprenticeship crush, twin brother’s wife. Her curly hair and bright eyes are the same color, the golden brown of the corn husk, not quite blonde, not quite brown. She is smiling and worried at the same time. Her shop apron accentuates her narrow waist. Her face is smooth, care lines recently begun above the bridge of her nose, at the corners of her mouth.
“You be safe, I need both my men here…”
I take her hands as she approaches, forestalling a full embrace. I could not bear it just now. She moves in closer, smiling up at me. The skin of her face is flawless, save for a single small scar above the right eye.
Instantly we three are in the woods, as this is the way of dreams, and sometimes memory as well. There in the mountain stream where it feeds, into the old canals. We are not supposed to be there, and we are certainly not supposed to be having a stick fight. My brother’s wayward swing arched back from its course, bloody, leaving behind the slightest whimper, the flow of blood, the profusion of “sorrys”. There was more crying after the event than during, the fear of being caught done and the penance served with switches of our own choosing.
I wonder, whether with my waking mind, or my dream mind, I cannot tell; if my stick had scarred her otherwise flawless face, would she now be my wife and would my brother be setting off for far shores with a too energetic Gnome? This question almost stops the dream.
Almost.
We are on the curb, and somehow my arms are around her slender frame, hers are locked behind my back. She presses upwards, lips reaching for mine, perfect eyelids closed, and the scent of cornbread, crab cakes and onions from our lunch mingled with her own sweet work smell. He lips part ever so slightly….
This torpor has been long. My fingers have worn through the thin leather, leaving a ruff of broken stitches. I turn to the wash basin so thoughtfully provided by my hosts. The water is still, my reflection stares back at me from the smooth surface. I would close my eyes, if I had eyelids. The spikes of bone that make up my fingers play across my face, the silk brocade, pink runecloth and light leather patches held together with fine evenly spaced stitches. This covering does little to hide what I have become.
I drive my hands into the water, distorting the reflection, tearing it. I wash, and, before the water can settle, drop both hands into the porcelain with such force as to crack the bowl and release its contents in a flood. Water pours down the table and across the floor, where it, mercifully, is absorbed; its ability to reflect thwarted.
I do not sleep. I have no need of sleep.
I think I want number 67 please.
#9: You have been gnome-napped!
Sodding fel. This was not her blanket.
Suddenly awake, she froze, willing herself to feel the warmth of--no. No one else in the bed. She went from panic to high alert. Slowly, she lifted her head. A flowered comforter. A nightstand. Candleholder with unburnt candle. No neighboring pillow with a dent in it.
To all appearances she was alone, but where? This was a bad thing to not remember.
And why was she wearing flower print pajamas? This did not bode well. She sat up. What did she remember? She'd been home. Ironforge, the apartment, working on a design for a heat exchanger for the new engine idea. Situation normal, then. She had a pint of last month's pale ale. Oh, and the duck. She'd gotten up to check the roasting duck because something smelled funny. Oh.
She searched the room. No sign of her leathers. A dress, in her size, and another godsawful flower print? Someone gassed her and dumped her in this? This had the stench of human all over it.
The morning air was bracing. She stepped out of the small cottage, still in the flowered pajamas. She didn't terribly mind that her knives had also gone missing, as killing someone with her bare hands would be extremely satisfying right now.
A man, human, cycled past and saw her on the stoop. He waved. "Morning, number nine!" he called.
Tripsibet Teavalve was speechless.
The bicyclist squeaked off down the lane. The lane lined with cottages exactly like this one. Exactly except for the numerals on the front door of each. She went back inside number 9 and got dressed.
Tripsibet Teavalve walked in the direction she'd seen the bicylist squeak. She wore an ecru a-line dress cleverly printed with pale green vines, flowers the same shade as her hair and a numeral 9. Her sandals were the pebbly leather of natural plainstrider hide.
The sameness of the cottages had made her think there were a lot of them, but the end of the lane was only a few doors down. It opened onto a cobbled plaza lined with shops. Most of these were closed, but a knot of people were gathered at a kiosk opposite the entrance. She saw the erstwhile bicyclist absorbed in a newspaper and the consumption of a scone.
One person greeted her and then there was a ragged chorus of "Good morning, number nine!" Humans. Two dwarves. A gnome. "Have some tea, won't you?"
"Just call me Tripsy. Who -are- you people?"
Laughter. "Good one, number nine."
"Number nine!" the bicyclist beckoned to her. "We're celebrities!"
She looked at the newspaper. It was a broadsheet, really, printed on one side, with a masthead proclaiming it the "Shire Chronicle." It had two articles. One was headlined "24 Wins Checkers Tournament" but the main story was "WELCOME #9 TO SHIRE". The rest of the page was filled with greeking that, from a distance, looked like lines of text.
"I take it you're the checkers champion."
"Oh yes." He tapped the "24" sewn to his blazer. "Sorry you missed it."
She shrugged. "I'm more interested in what this place is."
"You, ah, don't know? You didn't retire here?" He shifted in his seat and glanced away quickly before leaning in, voice low. "I rent boats out on the pond. If you need someplace quiet to go. Somewhere private."
She was taking this in when another round of greetings sounded out.
"Good morning, good morning!" The new arrival was a somewhat gaunt-looking human with a "2" on his blazer. His voice was more impressive than his frame, though, and once he started to talk all other conversation seemed like background noise. "I see you've all met number nine. That's wonderful, just wonderful."
"Number nine?" he turned to her. "We should probably have that chat now."
"That chat. We were going to have a chat?"
"Exactly. My office?" He handed her a cup of tea and poured one for himself.
The office was upstairs from the tea and scones kiosk. It was empty save for a long table and a few chairs. He sat. She stood. He steepled his fingers.
"So. You present a problem. I don't know what your name is, but it's not Tripsydamus."
She snickered. "Just call me Tripsy."
"I don't think so. You were a standout agent for the Twilight cult. Remarkable what you accomplished. Things could have gone differently, but you disappeared. Why?"
"First things first. Where am I?"
"In the Shire."
"Not very helpful. What do you want?"
"Information."
"Whose side are you on?"
"That would be telling. We want information."
"You won't get it."
"By hook or by crook, we will!"
"Who are you?"
"Number two."
"Who is number one?"
"You are number nine."
Sodding fel. This was not her blanket.
Suddenly awake, she froze, willing herself to feel the warmth of--no. No one else in the bed. She went from panic to high alert. Slowly, she lifted her head. A flowered comforter. A nightstand. Candleholder with unburnt candle. No neighboring pillow with a dent in it.
To all appearances she was alone, but where? This was a bad thing to not remember.
And why was she wearing flower print pajamas? This did not bode well. She sat up. What did she remember? She'd been home. Ironforge, the apartment, working on a design for a heat exchanger for the new engine idea. Situation normal, then. She had a pint of last month's pale ale. Oh, and the duck. She'd gotten up to check the roasting duck because something smelled funny. Oh.
She searched the room. No sign of her leathers. A dress, in her size, and another godsawful flower print? Someone gassed her and dumped her in this? This had the stench of human all over it.
The morning air was bracing. She stepped out of the small cottage, still in the flowered pajamas. She didn't terribly mind that her knives had also gone missing, as killing someone with her bare hands would be extremely satisfying right now.
A man, human, cycled past and saw her on the stoop. He waved. "Morning, number nine!" he called.
Tripsibet Teavalve was speechless.
The bicyclist squeaked off down the lane. The lane lined with cottages exactly like this one. Exactly except for the numerals on the front door of each. She went back inside number 9 and got dressed.
Tripsibet Teavalve walked in the direction she'd seen the bicylist squeak. She wore an ecru a-line dress cleverly printed with pale green vines, flowers the same shade as her hair and a numeral 9. Her sandals were the pebbly leather of natural plainstrider hide.
The sameness of the cottages had made her think there were a lot of them, but the end of the lane was only a few doors down. It opened onto a cobbled plaza lined with shops. Most of these were closed, but a knot of people were gathered at a kiosk opposite the entrance. She saw the erstwhile bicyclist absorbed in a newspaper and the consumption of a scone.
One person greeted her and then there was a ragged chorus of "Good morning, number nine!" Humans. Two dwarves. A gnome. "Have some tea, won't you?"
"Just call me Tripsy. Who -are- you people?"
Laughter. "Good one, number nine."
"Number nine!" the bicyclist beckoned to her. "We're celebrities!"
She looked at the newspaper. It was a broadsheet, really, printed on one side, with a masthead proclaiming it the "Shire Chronicle." It had two articles. One was headlined "24 Wins Checkers Tournament" but the main story was "WELCOME #9 TO SHIRE". The rest of the page was filled with greeking that, from a distance, looked like lines of text.
"I take it you're the checkers champion."
"Oh yes." He tapped the "24" sewn to his blazer. "Sorry you missed it."
She shrugged. "I'm more interested in what this place is."
"You, ah, don't know? You didn't retire here?" He shifted in his seat and glanced away quickly before leaning in, voice low. "I rent boats out on the pond. If you need someplace quiet to go. Somewhere private."
She was taking this in when another round of greetings sounded out.
"Good morning, good morning!" The new arrival was a somewhat gaunt-looking human with a "2" on his blazer. His voice was more impressive than his frame, though, and once he started to talk all other conversation seemed like background noise. "I see you've all met number nine. That's wonderful, just wonderful."
"Number nine?" he turned to her. "We should probably have that chat now."
"That chat. We were going to have a chat?"
"Exactly. My office?" He handed her a cup of tea and poured one for himself.
The office was upstairs from the tea and scones kiosk. It was empty save for a long table and a few chairs. He sat. She stood. He steepled his fingers.
"So. You present a problem. I don't know what your name is, but it's not Tripsydamus."
She snickered. "Just call me Tripsy."
"I don't think so. You were a standout agent for the Twilight cult. Remarkable what you accomplished. Things could have gone differently, but you disappeared. Why?"
"First things first. Where am I?"
"In the Shire."
"Not very helpful. What do you want?"
"Information."
"Whose side are you on?"
"That would be telling. We want information."
"You won't get it."
"By hook or by crook, we will!"
"Who are you?"
"Number two."
"Who is number one?"
"You are number nine."
*is getting antsy waiting for her situation to be posted*
15 then, please.
Bumping - I was sort of hoping I'd get a theoretical situation sometime soon :(
Well, since I already wrote my story, I am just going to claim that I can now assign one myself...
So here it goes, Shade (if you choose to accept it):
You've been given an assignment to eliminate a traitor to the Horde. You quickly realize that the mark is a long-time acquaintance of yours.
So here it goes, Shade (if you choose to accept it):
You've been given an assignment to eliminate a traitor to the Horde. You quickly realize that the mark is a long-time acquaintance of yours.
Could I have 39?
Conterra here, sorry it has taken so long before I can write/ post my random encounter. RL is just throwing a lot at me at the moment. >.<
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