7.6 KiB
| title | created | updated | public | syndicated |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 00025 | Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16 -0600 | Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16 -0600 | yes | yes |
00025
Corraidhin Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. This is NOT good. Damn it Y'aml what was that? It wasn't even slightly stealthy
Y'aml STAB, delightful blood. Stab the flesh, tear the skin, pierce the fruit that gives us strength. Drink the blood, consume their soul. More more more more more more more more more
Corraidhin (internal thought) Ugh my head, it's heavy, hurts. Misty and red? I can't see straight, it's hard to think straight. That blasted sword, I thought for a moment it, no, not think, it definitely did move on its own. It became lighter and heavier. Pulling against it and it just weighs itself down. This little magical bauble is definitely cursed..
Y'aml CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did was stab that evil hobbit. And it's getting away! Stab him again, taste his blood! The tavern gaurds are closing in, they look like they're trying to get rid of us, EVIL. Them trying to stop us from getting that evil hobbit is EVIL, STAB THEM.
Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though holding a wound and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises again. It travels swiftly down towards Blavin, missing as he slithers of the booth. And again, digging deep into the wooden seat.
Y'aml Disgusting wood, stab the flesh! Stab the Hobbit Hardy Bear!
But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the gaurds. In desperation the dagger begins swinging side to side, making furtive slashing moves in the direction of the guards. The party is safely behind Corraidhin, but innocent patrons and the guards are directly in their sights.
Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying the swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP. You've had your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this man has done us no harm despite his potential "evils", this is entirely uncalled for!
Y'aml NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB.
The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry, insistent. It consumes the last of Corraidhin's mental strength. All he hears is EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he clings to his spare arm trying desparately to resist. At this point the party and the tavern has cleared a wide path around the sysorceor as he struggles with himself, mumbling, sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE WILL NOT. EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL STAB IT. MAKE IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.
The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but commanding. Firm, calm, sane.
Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood, consume the soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them, stab them... over and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches Blavin and the guards with a malevolent look in his ruby red eyes.
~
Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub bouncers. Tossing a tiny "see-eye" container they had borrowed from Master Corraidhín at him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the eye and says, "You are not your sword."
Watching the wizard's expression, Inky continues, more quietly, "If Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit, a mere imp would not stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets his mind to do, a dagger cannot stop him either."
~
Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his FASCINATING CHARM, attempting to draw all eyes to him. He carefully avoids the wild swinging of the once-sword-now-dagger.
"I think," he rumbles gently, "we could all use a drink over the other end of the room. I'm buying, and I'll spin you all a tale of wonder! A tale of a wanderer, and of a war hammer, and the first of their wild battles together!"
Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín's ear: "Friend, I do not know what occurs here, but pull yourself together. We can later sate our blood lust in more appropriate places!" Jarrod lends a sly wink in the sysorcerer's direction, one that promises adventure later.
The tavern guards tense, but pause their advance, as the crazed mage's friends position themselves protectively around him and try to placate him. They wouldn't want to engage a master sysorcerer on the best of days, much less one with some kind of malevolent blood dagger in the middle of a psychotic break. If his compatriots can handle him without them having to interfere, all the better.
The duck waddles up next to Inky and quacks softly, pleadingly at Corraidhin. Only the Ornithologer in the corner can understand its words when it says, "As your marketing manager I must strongly advise against this course of action!"
Seated in the corner next to the Ornithologer is a shaggy groll dressed in a dusty, faded poncho and a wide brimmed hat; and a greasy, matted gnu, dressed in black ceremonial robes.
The groll discreetly draws its poncho back revealing a bandoleer of wands and draws a cracklestick and points it at the sysorcer. The wand starts to hum and glow as it charges up for a blast.
The gnu slaps the groll's wrist, and immediately launches into a tirade against the cracklestick's manufacturer's proprietary spell slotting algorithm, and honestly how can you possibly justify your choices when there are open source alternatives available?
The groll rolls its eyes, obviously having been on the receiving end of this particular lecture before, and tries to slap away the gnu's grasping hands. The ensuing scuffle threatens to turn this powder keg of a situation into a full blown conflagration until Jarrod actives his FASCINATING CHARM, commanding the attention of the entire room.
The gnu freezes with its hands around the groll's throat. The groll halts with fists full of the gnu's beard. A grub smoking a hookah pauses with the mouthpiece raised to its pursed lips. A distracted waitress on roller skates crashes right into the bar.
As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB. THEM. STAB. IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky whispers to him his expression changes, first a grimace, then a whimper. As Jarrod leads the patrons away from the sysorceor he begins to tremble and cower away from himself, away from everyone. His ruby red eyes dart back and forth between his friends and the patrons, like a frightened animal searching for an escape. He pulls the dagger into himself, as though sheilding it from his surroundings.
What.. what's going on, he mutters feebly to himself. Everything is a blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what's going on, Corraidhin thumbs the dagger, caressing the large ruby embedded in the hilt. Y'aml, you're still here, good good, the syscoreor croons.
Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard glances over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his oration, worried about his companion.
I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and collapses to the floor.
Corraidhin hits the floor and the dagger, now bereft of the well of emotion it had been drawing from, grows still. The eye closes and it seems to sigh happily. "Good job, Hardy Bear. You have spilled the blood of evil." And it sleeps, inert, lifeless.
Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.
Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.
Blavin is squirming around on the floor gibbering about reassigning your case.
The duck has found a toppled plate of corn chips and is happily snacking away.
You feel like your welcome at Lucy's Basement has been, for the moment, overstayed.
WHAT DO YOU DO