176 lines
7.6 KiB
Markdown
176 lines
7.6 KiB
Markdown
---
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title: 00025
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created: Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16 -0600
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updated: Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16 -0600
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public: yes
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syndicated: yes
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---
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### 00025 {#00025}
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> **Corraidhin** Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. This is NOT good.
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> Damn it Y'aml what was that? It wasn't even slightly stealthy
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>
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> **Y'aml** STAB, delightful blood. Stab the flesh, tear the skin,
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> pierce the fruit that gives us strength. Drink the blood, consume
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> their soul. More more more more more more more more more
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>
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> **Corraidhin (internal thought)** Ugh my head, it's heavy, hurts.
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> Misty and red? I can't see straight, it's hard to think straight.
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> That blasted sword, I thought for a moment it, no, not think, it
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> definitely did move on its own. It became lighter and heavier.
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> Pulling against it and it just weighs itself down. This little
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> magical bauble is definitely cursed..
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>
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> **Y'aml** CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did was stab that evil
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> hobbit. And it's getting away! Stab him again, taste his blood! The
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> tavern gaurds are closing in, they look like they're trying to get
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> rid of us, EVIL. Them trying to stop us from getting that evil
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> hobbit is EVIL, STAB THEM.
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>
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> Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though holding a
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> wound and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises again. It travels
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> swiftly down towards Blavin, missing as he slithers of the booth.
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> And again, digging deep into the wooden seat.
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>
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> **Y'aml** Disgusting wood, stab the flesh! Stab the Hobbit Hardy
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> Bear!
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>
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> But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the gaurds. In
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> desperation the dagger begins swinging side to side, making furtive
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> slashing moves in the direction of the guards. The party is safely
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> behind Corraidhin, but innocent patrons and the guards are directly
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> in their sights.
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>
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> Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying the
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> swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP. You've
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> had your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this man has
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> done us no harm despite his potential "evils", this is entirely
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> uncalled for!
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>
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> **Y'aml** NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB.
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>
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> The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry, insistent. It
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> consumes the last of Corraidhin's mental strength. All he hears is
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> EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he clings to his spare arm trying
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> desparately to resist. At this point the party and the tavern has
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> cleared a wide path around the sysorceor as he struggles with
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> himself, mumbling, sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE
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> WILL NOT. EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL
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> STAB IT. MAKE IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.
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>
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> The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but
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> commanding. Firm, calm, sane.
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>
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> Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood, consume the
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> soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them, stab them... over
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> and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches Blavin and the
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> guards with a malevolent look in his ruby red eyes.
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~
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> Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub bouncers.
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> Tossing a tiny "see-eye" container they had borrowed from Master
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> Corraidhín at him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the eye and says,
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> "You are not your sword."
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>
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> Watching the wizard's expression, Inky continues, more quietly, "If
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> Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit, a mere imp would
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> not stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets his mind to do, a
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> dagger cannot stop him either."
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~
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> Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his FASCINATING
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> CHARM, attempting to draw all eyes to him. He carefully avoids the
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> wild swinging of the once-sword-now-dagger.
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>
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> "I think," he rumbles gently, "we could all use a drink over the
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> other end of the room. I'm buying, and I'll spin you all a tale of
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> wonder! A tale of a wanderer, and of a war hammer, and the first of
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> their wild battles together!"
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>
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> Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín's ear: "Friend, I do
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> not know what occurs here, but pull yourself together. We can later
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> sate our blood lust in more appropriate places!" Jarrod lends a sly
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> wink in the sysorcerer's direction, one that promises adventure
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> later.
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The tavern guards tense, but pause their advance, as the crazed
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mage's friends position themselves protectively around him and try to
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placate him. They wouldn't want to engage a master sysorcerer on the
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best of days, much less one with some kind of malevolent blood dagger
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in the middle of a psychotic break. If his compatriots can handle him
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without them having to interfere, all the better.
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The duck waddles up next to Inky and quacks softly, pleadingly at
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Corraidhin. Only the Ornithologer in the corner can understand its
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words when it says, "As your marketing manager I must strongly advise
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against this course of action!"
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Seated in the corner next to the Ornithologer is a shaggy groll
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dressed in a dusty, faded poncho and a wide brimmed hat; and a
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greasy, matted gnu, dressed in black ceremonial robes.
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The groll discreetly draws its poncho back revealing a bandoleer of
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wands and draws a cracklestick and points it at the sysorcer. The
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wand starts to hum and glow as it charges up for a blast.
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The gnu slaps the groll's wrist, and immediately launches into a
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tirade against the cracklestick's manufacturer's proprietary spell
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slotting algorithm, and honestly how can you possibly justify your
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choices when there are open source alternatives available?
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The groll rolls its eyes, obviously having been on the receiving end
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of this particular lecture before, and tries to slap away the gnu's
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grasping hands. The ensuing scuffle threatens to turn this powder keg
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of a situation into a full blown conflagration until Jarrod actives
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his FASCINATING CHARM, commanding the attention of the entire room.
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The gnu freezes with its hands around the groll's throat. The groll
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halts with fists full of the gnu's beard. A grub smoking a hookah
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pauses with the mouthpiece raised to its pursed lips. A distracted
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waitress on roller skates crashes right into the bar.
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> As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB. THEM.
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> STAB. IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky whispers to
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> him his expression changes, first a grimace, then a whimper. As
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> Jarrod leads the patrons away from the sysorceor he begins to
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> tremble and cower away from himself, away from everyone. His ruby
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> red eyes dart back and forth between his friends and the patrons,
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> like a frightened animal searching for an escape. He pulls the
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> dagger into himself, as though sheilding it from his surroundings.
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>
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> What.. what's going on, he mutters feebly to himself. Everything is
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> a blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what's going on, Corraidhin
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> thumbs the dagger, caressing the large ruby embedded in the hilt.
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> Y'aml, you're still here, good good, the syscoreor croons.
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>
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> Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard glances
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> over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his oration, worried
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> about his companion.
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>
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> I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and collapses
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> to the floor.
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Corraidhin hits the floor and the dagger, now bereft of the well of
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emotion it had been drawing from, grows still. The eye closes and it
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seems to sigh happily. "Good job, Hardy Bear. You have spilled the
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blood of evil." And it sleeps, inert, lifeless.
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Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.
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Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.
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Blavin is squirming around on the floor gibbering about reassigning
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your case.
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The duck has found a toppled plate of corn chips and is happily
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snacking away.
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You feel like your welcome at Lucy's Basement has been, for the
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moment, overstayed.
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WHAT DO YOU DO
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[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00015.html)
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