Post by The March of Ides on Jun 30, 2006 20:16:52 GMT
*Having been left to his own devices, the March of Ides had crept towards the gate, finding a shadowy vantage point from which to observe the guards without being spotted. By the girth of one of the men, it looked like his previous posting had been the pantry, with regular 'sweeps' of the interior. His colleague, however, was drastically thinner - perhaps he'd been the one on the outside of the pantry door - and balder. The bulky guard was turning slowly to the skeletal guard. [OOC: A clue as to which characters they're inspired by. ]
Bloatilla: I been thinking, Scragoil. Does it really need two of us guarding the gate?
Scragoil: How many times, Bloatilla? The boss said that two heads are better than one.
Bloatilla: Yeah, but I thought he was talking about pig's heads at dinner time. And he didn't say what sauce he'd...
Scragoil: *Tuts* What are you like? Who'd ever guess that your uncle was a famous guard?
Bloatilla: He was! Ran Level One of the Dungeon single-handically!
Scragoil: *Mutters* 'Cause he couldn't count any higher.
Bloatilla: Anyone who tried to get past him, he'd flip them, and he'd flopped them, and... Whawazat?
*The guards hear a thud as Wren lands on the other side of the wall. They turn. At that moment, the March, appearing as an 18-year-old, hops up to the gate, and the guards turn back towards him.*
Hello, ye keepers of the gate!
So sorry am I to be late!
Bloatilla: Late? But we wasn't expecting anybodies. We wasn't, was we, Scragoil?
Oh really? Well then, check your list,
Unless by ale you are too... too... drunk.
Scragoil: We don't have a list. Anyone who tries to get in, we keep them out. And if they try anything naughty...
*After a vacuous pause, Bloatilla takes his cue and brings out a club from behind his back. Scragoil unsheathes a sword and strokes it, painfully pricking his finger.
As The March eyes the sword, he sees another, but in his mind. Slender, almost unreal, but deadly. And he hears voices, two voices. One wants to help, the other wants to kill.*
Too slow, too slow, the magic's tardy,
Against his doom I'll be not hardy...
[OOC: The March is having a flashback to the dungeoneer death of Team 1 of Series 4 - the 'TRANSFORMATION' death.]
Bloatilla: Er, I don't think he's well...
*The March collapses in fear, shifting back several years to boyhood.*
Scragoil: That really doesn't seem normal to me.
No time, what crime, this is my end;
I'm helpless as that blade descends!
*The March rolls about on the ground, trying to evade Mogdred's sword, struggling to elude Mogdred's merciless stare, as they assail him from within his tortured mind. And all the while he screams. Bloatilla and Scragoil are becoming concerned, and what's more, the commotion is getting the attention of the guards at the main doorway.*
Bloatilla: I been thinking, Scragoil. Does it really need two of us guarding the gate?
Scragoil: How many times, Bloatilla? The boss said that two heads are better than one.
Bloatilla: Yeah, but I thought he was talking about pig's heads at dinner time. And he didn't say what sauce he'd...
Scragoil: *Tuts* What are you like? Who'd ever guess that your uncle was a famous guard?
Bloatilla: He was! Ran Level One of the Dungeon single-handically!
Scragoil: *Mutters* 'Cause he couldn't count any higher.
Bloatilla: Anyone who tried to get past him, he'd flip them, and he'd flopped them, and... Whawazat?
*The guards hear a thud as Wren lands on the other side of the wall. They turn. At that moment, the March, appearing as an 18-year-old, hops up to the gate, and the guards turn back towards him.*
Hello, ye keepers of the gate!
So sorry am I to be late!
Bloatilla: Late? But we wasn't expecting anybodies. We wasn't, was we, Scragoil?
Oh really? Well then, check your list,
Unless by ale you are too... too... drunk.
Scragoil: We don't have a list. Anyone who tries to get in, we keep them out. And if they try anything naughty...
*After a vacuous pause, Bloatilla takes his cue and brings out a club from behind his back. Scragoil unsheathes a sword and strokes it, painfully pricking his finger.
As The March eyes the sword, he sees another, but in his mind. Slender, almost unreal, but deadly. And he hears voices, two voices. One wants to help, the other wants to kill.*
Too slow, too slow, the magic's tardy,
Against his doom I'll be not hardy...
[OOC: The March is having a flashback to the dungeoneer death of Team 1 of Series 4 - the 'TRANSFORMATION' death.]
Bloatilla: Er, I don't think he's well...
*The March collapses in fear, shifting back several years to boyhood.*
Scragoil: That really doesn't seem normal to me.
No time, what crime, this is my end;
I'm helpless as that blade descends!
*The March rolls about on the ground, trying to evade Mogdred's sword, struggling to elude Mogdred's merciless stare, as they assail him from within his tortured mind. And all the while he screams. Bloatilla and Scragoil are becoming concerned, and what's more, the commotion is getting the attention of the guards at the main doorway.*