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Post by Sylvester Hands on May 29, 2004 10:49:07 GMT
* Hands awakes to find himself under a table. Being slow to grasp this fact, he bangs his head on it. * Ow! Blimey, I thought I was dead. Not fair, why did that thing not use its light beam on me instead of crushin' me - I 'ad a nice mirror to stop it. Oh well, I'd better get back to the Dungeons - Lord F would want me to run the place in his absen- asbenc- abens- while 'e's gone. * Spies a tun of ale behind the bar. * On the other 'and, a quick drink won't 'urt, will it? Pint, please!
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Visage
New Settler
Who am I?
Posts: 60
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Post by Visage on May 29, 2004 11:37:06 GMT
[ModNote: Continuing from A Pint For a Groat?] *When Hands emerges from under the table, however, he finds that the Heifer is packed with angry villagers, arming themselves with a pile of clubs and other blunt instruments. No pitchforks, which is surprising...* *Ringmaster Rob stands on a table making a speech* We have been idle for too long, the forces of the opposition have for too long lorded over us. Now we can no longer trust anyone, sympathisers are everywhere. We must purge those elements in our midst which threaten the peace of Wolfenden, threaten your livelihoods... *Although the crowd is in a frenzy, there are elements that don't look so keen. All of the villagers, and some are the staff of the Heifer, have a strange rune marked on their forehead.* Now let us go, let the cleansing begin! *The Crowd pours out of the Heifer, fury in their eyes. "Rob" however stays behind. Only Hands, strill under the table, sees what happens next. He laughs, a long, grating laugh that should never come from a human throat. In the torchlight, his skin has a greyish sheen, and briefly Hands catches a glimpse of his eyes, which for a moment are nothing more than ragged, shadowy pits.* "Rob": But really, who can anyone trust. Soon they will have no trust ever again, my lord will take over a ghost town, and you, Ringmaster, will suffer the living torment to which you subjected me... *Then "Rob" appears normal again, and strides out of the Heifer, leaving Hands alone in the empty inn.* [OOC: Well, nearly, Owen is still tied up in the back!] [ModNote: Continued in The Witch Hunt.]
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Post by Sylvester Hands on May 29, 2004 11:56:31 GMT
Cor! Rob 'as a darker side. But 'ang on - from what 'e said...that isn't Rob at all! Flippin' 'eck. * Turns his attention once again to the now unattended booze behind the bar. * Oh well, when the cat's away... * Helps himself to wine, cider, port and spirits, but in careful and strict moderation - he doesn't want to fall over before he gets to the ale. Once he does so, his moderation deserts him and in a few minutes he is on the floor. Fortunately the angry mob's business takes longer than Hands takes to wake up, and although they will find the drink somewhat depleted and a frightful mess of spilt drink and overturned containers in the vicinity of the bar, there will be no reason for suspicion to fall on Hands, except possibly his reputation. Taking from this only very slight comfort against his terrible headache, Hands makes his way towards the Dungeons. *
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Post by Young Grimwold on Jun 4, 2004 14:24:35 GMT
*A little later, Owen crawls out into the main room of the tavern. What he feels is even worse than a standard hangover: a magic-induced hangover. He groans at the mess his establishment is in, and sighs at the lack of customers. Finding an unspilt, half-full (or rather, half-empty) flagon of... something, he sits at a table and sips away at 'the cause of and solution to all life's problems', pausing every so often to rest his head in his hands.*
[OOC: There's a Homer Simpson quotation lurking in there!]
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