Are you still accepting apps?
Name: He insists on being called "Magnus the Colossal", although this probably isn't his real name.
Description: His title suits him: He stands at an impressive 6'11", and appears to weigh at least 300 pounds, much of which is muscle, covered with a decent amount of fat. Beneath his charcoal-grey bathrobe he wears a white apron and steel-toed kickin' boots.
Desire: Violence.
Greatest fear: Insects, spiders, and anything larger than him.
Stats:
Strength:10
Dexterity:1
Endurance:5
Speed:1
Intelligence:0
Luck:1
Will:1
Perception:1
Sure, we aim to have a fairly high fatality rate... and a waitlisted audience is a
bloodthirsty attentive audience.
Darn it, forgot to update in hectity of camping preparations, too late now (England). Sry. Will update Sunday, probs.
((Yeah, no problem, RL comes first. We can think of ways to kill each other with scrabble tiles in the meantime.))
"This must either be the greatest or worst decision in my life. Mais, à la guerre comme à la guerre, allons-y!
Eat le fromaaaaaage!
The cheese is artfully cut, carefully speared and delicately inserted into your mouth. Then the cheese is carefully cut, delicately speared and artfully inserted into your mouth. After that, the cheese is delicately cut, artfully speared and carefully inserted into your mouth. It is entirely an entirely comfortable process, though there is... rather a lot... of cheese on the tray. You reckon you're about halfway through, though the weird textures and alien creamy ripenesses of some of the approaching cheeses are beginning to seem a little... daunting. But you feel fine. More cheese. Definitely. You aren't beginning to get tired of it or anything. You're perfectly comfortable, and there is no need for the restraints. Not like you'd want to stop eating cheese around now if you had the option. Nope.
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"Waved! Waved! Even better, ladies and gentlemen, now you're rolling," cries the grinning host, hopping from side to side and waving meaningfully at Desmond as he does so.
Ten points to Desmond, thirty-two to the audience. The blade moves another twenty two inches up his body, sinking lower and lower in preparation for the final sickening chop, now some twenty-six inches down his body, or somewhere over his thigh.
Desmond's letters: o, t, t, e, t, s, n
Audience Letters: m, a, i, n, r, e, a
Author
Topic: Dead Man Running Season II - Five Card Drawn and Quartered (Read 63370 times)