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Re: Adventrung! (Z0rrow)
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
| Total Posts: 5671 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 05:46 PM |
Graham Hex, outcast vampire. With nothing but the clothes on his back, he set off to find a new life, or horrendously painful death, on the other side of a mysterious portal.
I'm switching to second perspective now. TRANSITION
You set out at night-time, to avoid the mild discomfort of the day star. Owls hoot, and small creatures dash across the foot-path that you are following. The moon is bright in the sky, but not of it's own accord. The moon is merely a reflection of the sun. So really, it should still burn you, but, whatever.
You spy mysterious red mist trails in the air, like tendrils grasping at anything they can grab. They wrap around trees, go after small creatures, and even find their way wrapped around your leg. They are merely a gaseous form, and have no hindrance on your walking abilities.
A red light emits from an unknown source somewhere to the left of the path. You make your way through the forest plant-life, the area illuminated by the black-and-white moonlight. Eventually, you find the source.
There is a long, ancient looking stone stair-case, digging straight into the ground itself. It forms a sort of down-ward slanting tunnel, dimly lit by the crimson tendrils. After a long walk, you would come to some sort of doorway. The gas and tendrils seep from underneath the door-frame.
It's a fairly long way down. The only step now is to begin your adventure by walking down these stairs.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 07:45 PM |
(Your typo makes me sad. I have a sad face on right now.)
Down, still unceasingly, still inevitably down. I feel like I've been going downhill my whole life. Lower, and lower, and lower. I see the low, and that's all I must see nowadays. What a wretched existence.
The tendrils felt like a reflection of myself. Likely the last reflection of myself I'll ever see, in fact. The tendrils, grasping for what they could. The tendrils, yearning for something to rely on. And life goes by, without paying them any note.
Red light, red light, the only light in sight. The color red being the universal sign for "stop, don't go any farther, there are bad things here." Of course, I the fool would go farther.
And now, I'm where I am right now, this instant. Looking down the staircase set here by the forerunners of this place. The source of the tendrils and of the light. The beginning of the end. I took my first step down the stairs, followed by more and more. With each step, I knew I was drawing closer to my eventual end. But, this was my only chance at salvation for myself. And so I went. Down. Still unceasingly. Still inevitably. Down. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
| Total Posts: 5671 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 10:06 PM |
Your dramatic and well-written descent comes to a stop when you reach the door.
The red light fills your entire vision, seeing the world through a filter. The door is etched, crude and unprofessional, carved into the wood with a knife. A message.
"piss off"
Oh.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
| Total Posts: 14027 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 10:15 PM |
Feeling slightly discouraged, I contemplate turning around and going back the way I came. But, such a course of action is one of no true interest to me. To leave, to desert, to refuse to face the journey ahead is the mark of a coward. The mark of a man with no true conviction. The mark of a noble. I'm certainly no noble. Anyone could tell that from my rags.
On the topic of my rags, I silently wished that I'd elected to steal some nicer clothes from someone before coming here. Well, maybe I'll find some suitable apparel later. If I don't, I fear these rags may rip and I'll be on my adventure stark naked.
Staring at the door through the red, staring at the rude message, I found that looking wasn't the same as doing. Talk is cheap, watching is cheaper. The message was carved by someone with a knife. Through, through, through, someone on the other side might run me through. That's a risk I'm willing to take for my humanity.
For without humanity, what is a man? Man is matter. A shell to encapsulate and protect our humanity. The soul gone, the spirit dead, and humanity missing, man is nothing but garbage. Worthless trash, like all other kinds of garbage. The accursed secret of Snowden over Avignon, written out in entrails.
I had to save myself from being nothing but garbage. I had to save myself from this fate that's befallen me. And so, I stepped forward towards the door. Forward unto my death. Forward unto the hopes of an old life, returned. Clinging to the past is the mistake of idiots. But, for a cursed being like myself with no great future ahead, what else is there? Slowly, ever slowly, I opened the door and proceeded through. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 10:22 PM |
Whispers, the clanging of swords, the gnawing of teeth on flesh, all of these sounds greet you as you step into a world of pure crimson. Different shades, all about, tendrils appear, no longer transparent, but opaque. They cling to your heels, grabbing you now. Pulling you forward, sending you off balance.
More and more tendrils, grabbing and clinging to you, yanking you forward now. The door has gone, and has the world. This place burns, burns your skin. There are no marks, no singing, just an unbearable heat.
Forward and forward, the tendrils beckon you. |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 10:32 PM |
Thrust into Hell, and being pulled even deeper. What a life. Was there any hope to struggle against these tendrils? These tools of a place of crimson harboring a hope for my escape from a life of sustaining upon the crimson fluids of mortality.
Truly, truly, truly, there was no use to struggle now. If I escaped the tendrils, I'd still go forward in the direction they were pulling me. Letting go, letting all go around again. Fighting against the forces here was a useless exercise in futility. Though, the same could be said about my quest in general.
I allowed the tendrils to grab and pull me forward, merely going through the motions. What else was there to do? As I was forced forward, I thought about this quest I've undertook. Would I find the conclusion I wanted? Would I leave empty-handed? Would I leave at all?
Would I, perhaps, succumb to this curse before I've been relieved of it. My sanity could leave me, my memory could leave me. Not even the tattoo on my wrist could remind me of my name, and my only semblance of a possible title for myself would be the Lord of the Flies. Would I sink that low? Could I sink that low? Could I become the villain? Worse than scum is the creator and progenitor of scum. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 10:43 PM |
Suddenly, it's over.
You fall forward, barely putting your hands up in time. Your palms slap onto what seems to be a well polished wooden floor.
You look up. Your in a large room, the ceiling high above your head, with paintings all in a row that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Each painting is about six feet tall and feature a life-size portrait of some act of heroism.
A strange, mysterious and almost jazz-like tune echoes throughout the hall. It's worrying and calming at the same time.
The room is lit by orbs mounted on the wall, giving the place an orange composure. On the far end of the hall is what appears to be some sort of counter for a bar, or tavern. You can make out drinks on shelves, a mirror reflecting the entire room (and you), and stools to sit on.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 11:14 PM |
The hue's changed. Red to orange. Soon, I expect it to be orange to yellow. Then to white. Then there will be no light. No hope is left when light is extinguished, fitting that being in the most natural of light is discomforting to me. No hope left for me, or the rest of the cursed beings similar to me.
This place, regardless of light coloring, was more comforting than before. No profanities etched in tools of death, no tendrils grabbing at me and pulling me further into Hell. Was this the First Circle? A place to ease me into the terrors that await. If that's the case, then the next would be a place of pleasure. To kiss the lips of lust, is that not what my kind represent? Lustful allure, the taste of blood, and the pleasure derived from the tasting of another's fluids.
Slowly, I stood up from the ground and looked ahead at the mirror. I haven't yet lost myself in this curse. I walked towards the counter, with nowhere else to turn. Perhaps there, I'd discover where I am, and where I should be heading. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 11:18 PM |
You approach the bar, and stand in front of it. You catch your own eye in the mirror. Suddenly, your face becomes a skull. Wait, that's not right.
A skeletal form popped up from underneath the counter. A full on skeleton. No skin, no organs and no eyes. It stood there, scrubbing a shot-glass with a rag.
"Sorry for the wait, what'll you be havin'?" The bartender somehow manages to make eye-contact with you. |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
| Total Posts: 14027 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 11:24 PM |
A skeleton, while not me, was certainly a reflection of myself. A look at my own mortality. I'd be nothing but bones one day, and my actions in this world could bring that eventual fate sooner rather than later. Gazing at one's own morality could bring on a plethora of different emotions. Anger, hatred at God, sorrow, despair, disgust, and a wide variety of other things. But for me, I was spooked.
This was evident from the instinctual sort of flinch I gave out when I saw the bartender. It was as though I was trying to shy away from my own odious skin, away from the fate of death that would come upon me one day. Spooky, scary, and entirely wholesome in calcium and in provoking a self-reflection. Soon, skeletons like these would be the only reflection I could see of myself.
I recalled, for a moment, my favorite drinks. Their names blurred together, and soon, I found I had no taste for any kind of beverage besides that of blood. Disgusting. "Not thirsty," I say, shaking my head, "where am I right now?" |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 20 Nov 2015 11:29 PM |
"Bad night?" The bartender says. He speaks with a crude accent, but his voice is clear and almost well-spoken.
"Well, if ya don't remember, you're in the Hall of Heroes. Finest and most well air-conditioned bar this side o' the portal,"
The bartender looks you up and down. "Funny lookin' fella, aintcha? You're not from 'round-ere?" The skeleton man leans closer to you, curious. |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 12:01 AM |
Hall of Heroes? This isn't the place for me, then. And, this probably isn't Hell. No licentious women in the next place I end up. Pity. I stood my ground, not flinching as the reflection of myself leaned forward and called me funny looking. How rude.
Perhaps he's jealous of my skin, however pale it may be becoming. Maybe he misses his own skin, or perhaps he never had any skin to begin with. How sad it must be to not have skin.
"No, not from here," I answer. Truly, I had no interest in remaining in this particular place. No need for drink, no need to worship the heroes on display. Heroism isn't for me, anyway. Not for me to perform, not for me to look at in awe. "Not to undermine your establishment, but where's the exit?" |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 02:28 PM |
"Exit?" He said. AS if it was foreign word.
"I suppose you could call 'et an exit..." He said under his breath. A mischievous look managed to appear on his emotionless face.
"You haven't really taken that close 'a look at the paintings, have ya?" He stands up straight. |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
| Total Posts: 14027 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 02:33 PM |
The paintings? No, I didn't take a look at the paintings, I suppose. Truly, truly, truly, I tell you, I very much prefer paintings with such features as: happy little clouds, happy little trees, and almighty mountains. Paintings depicting acts of heroism and violence are of no interest to me, as they do not bring any happiness to my soul.
Perhaps the appeal of the paintings I enjoy lies in the simplicity of it, its depiction of nature in its happiest form. Those paintings, showing happy skies and happy trees, present nature in its untarnished state, not tainted by the feet of men. And, perhaps the appeal of the paintings is their ease of creation. Anyone can paint, and everyone should paint. It brings lots of happy thoughts to your heart. Everyday's a good day when you paint. It's fitting, then, that I never had enough money to buy art supplies.
"No, not really. I prefer landscapes," I explain to the skeleton, "Why? Are the paintings significant?" |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 02:43 PM |
The skeleton-man glances over at the painting just to the left of the bar area. You follow his gaze. It depicts a knight, fully-clad in plate armor, slicing the heads off of snakes and serpents that leap and crawl from the swamp areas around him.
However, if one were to look a little closer, you would see his off-balance stature. One leg off the ground, about to fall over. The snakes wrap around his legs and latch onto his arms.
Another painting, to the left of that one. An archer on a rooftop, preparing to assassinate what looks to be some sort of official. How the lighting and colors and the official himself are painted, it makes the official out to be evil, and corrupt. But, the archer is looking at something behind him. Several bright red eyes and claws leap out of the darkness at him, and the archers eyes are widened in sudden panic.
Your eyes scan the paintings. A courageous horse-men with an arrow an inch away from colliding with his forehead. A lone warrior outnumbered a thousand to one, slashed and beaten on the ground, about to be finished off. An agile rogue, not making a dexterous leap, but plummeting into a death-fall.
This is true with all of the paintings. Heroes of all good moral alignments just seconds away from their untimely demises. Legends that never were.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
| Total Posts: 14027 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 02:55 PM |
I should've known earlier. I should've seen it. It's obvious where I am. Has the mausoleum fallen? Is there where those that fall are cursed to be? Have I fallen? Down. Still unceasingly. Still inevitably. Down. Were those stairs leading down to my demise? Did I die on the way here?
The knight, taken by those snakes. Snakes. Creatures of deceit, creatures of a vile venom. They are much like humans, then. Have you ever seen such a person? A person, so full of anger, that he's become venomous? A danger to other, but more to himself, for anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.
The archer, to perform evil to be rid of evil. An eye for an eye. Two wrongs don't make a right. What creature has taken the archer's life? What foul, red-eyed beast, clothed in dark? Is that another reflection of me I see?
Horsemen fall from their horse, warriors fall from grave, and rogues fall down. Unceasingly. Inevitably. Down.
I turn away from the paintings and look towards the skeleton. A skeleton. It couldn't have been born, skeletons aren't born. He must've been a person once. "This isn't the Hall of Heroes. This is the Hall of the Dead," I say, not averting my eyes from the proprietor of this crypt, "And you're in one of those paintings, aren't you?" |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 03:00 PM |
"No, it's the Hall o' Heroes. That's the name," The skeleton looks around.
"And, no again, 'cause I'm not in one-of-the paintings. Wish 'a was, but I ain't. I just run the place. Make sure the inhabitants don't get too rowdy...
Speakin' of which, it's time for my duties again. Just wait 'ere, yeah? Don't move," He disappears underneath the counter again. He hops back up again, an afterthought.
"No, really. Don't," Gone again.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 03:08 PM |
The inhabitants? There's no one else here besides me. And the skeleton, I suppose. For a moment, I fight a battle within my own mind. Cognitive dissonance. Do I obey the orders of the skeleton? Or, do I move and see where he went? Let us weigh the pros and cons of each.
-STAY PUT- PROS: -I might not die. -Staying put is a good exercise in self-control. -Staying put is a good exercise in obedience. -This jazzy tune is rather nice. CONS: -I might die. -I might get very bored. -I'm not sure how long I need to stay still. -The paintings aren't happy enough.
-FOLLOW THE SKELETON- PROS: -I might not die. -I will learn more things about this place. -I will learn more things about the skeleton. -There may be fun things underneath the counter. -The skeleton may be testing my resolve and my ambition. -The skeleton may truly want me to follow. CONS: -I might die. -The skeleton is spooky.
Having weighed the pros and cons of each potential action, I decide to hop over the counter to see where the skeleton went. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 08:01 PM |
You land on the skeleton.
"oof"
He was just crouched down behind the counter, and you landed on him, knocking him to his back with a bone-on-wood clatter.
"I told ya to stay put!" |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 08:08 PM |
I thought there would be a secret compartment behind the counter. I thought, perhaps, the skeleton had sunk below ground to said secret compartment. Down, down, down. Everything is down, everything is low.
I feel a bit embarrassed, having landed like an oaf on this poor skeleton. I stand up, freeing the skeleton from my weight. Oops. My mistake. At least I'm not dead, nor am I /too/ spooked as of now.
"Sorry, I thought you went into your secret lair and I wanted to see," I explain. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 08:16 PM |
"So much fer my theatrics..." The skeleton said.
"Come-on, fellas!" The skeleton calls out to the room.
There is a short silence. Then, the paintings begin to move. No, not the painting, but the figures in the painting. Suddenly, the rogue erupts from his painting, as if he kept his momentum from the fall. He collapses in a heap of robes on the floor. The knight frees himself from frozen snakes and slices his way through the canvas of the painting. The archer leaps into the hall.
The entire room starts filling with the heroes. They fall from the higher paintings and plummet to the floor. You notice something. The rogue stands up and pulls back his hood. His face is a dirty brown skull. Through the knights visor, you can see two black holes for eyes. The same with every other fallen Hero in the room. There is a dozen, then two dozen, then forty, then fifty. They appear from their paintings and all look at you.
"Sorry to do this to ya, buddy. Man's gotta eat," The skeleton leans back against the mirror.
The Heroes begin to walk towards you. |
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 08:22 PM |
"Eat?" I question, looking at the skeleton and trying to figure out how it would digest its food. It must be speaking in a non-literal fashion. I suppose he makes his money by letting these paintings kill people. His drinks are probably watered-down. I'm glad I didn't accept any of his drinks.
I turn away from the skeleton and look towards the dead men walking. Oh dear. This is bad. I don't even have a weapon. And I don't think there is a secret lair behind this counter. Behind this counter. Is that how the skeleton brought these paintings to life.
I squat down, disappearing behind the counter just as the skeleton did. Having performed this task, I begin to scan what's behind the counter, in hopes of finding something vaguely useful. |
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gwebster2
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| Joined: 29 Aug 2010 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 10:17 PM |
You hop over the counter and start searching. Just drinks, and barrels for the beverages to come out of. And, of course, a variety of different potions and special drinks. A glowing red one, a sparkly green one, some blue ones, and a black with billowing smoke inside of it.
Something wacks the side of your head. The skeleton bartender stands over you with a closed fist. You're on your back.
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Z0rr0w
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| Joined: 06 Jul 2008 |
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| 21 Nov 2015 10:27 PM |
Struck by mortality. Such a fitting thing, why is everything so fitting? Fighting a skeleton is very spooky, and I'm not sure if such a thing is possible. The skeleton doesn't have nerves, so it must not be able to feel pain. I have no chance against this skeleton, and even less of a chance against those paintings.
I must escape, it is the only way. But, what escape is there? I don't know where the exit is, I'm not sure there even is one. I resolve then, that I /must/ fight. It is the only way.
But what do I do? Those potions, those special drinks. I must use them. I must ingest them. But how can I chug all those drinks when there's a skeleton attacking me? I turned my attention to the bottle with smoke. Of course.
Quickly, I roll over to the drinks, grabbing the one with the smoke and smashing it onto the floor, hoping the smoke will be released and thus conceal my actions.
If such a thing happens, then I begin to go about the task of chugging all the special-looking drinks. |
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gwebster2
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| 22 Nov 2015 12:07 PM |
As you grab the smokey bottle, the skeleton bartender runs over to you and puts his hands around your arm, trying to keep you from smashing it.
"Don't do that one! Don't! No! Don't! Just- just die! Please!?" The skeleton pushes his palm against your forehead, trying to get you to let go of the bottle with his other hand. |
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