Believing the word to be a magical spell, Robert attempts to draw power from some sort of inner mana-reserve, or whatever the hell he has, and speak the word. Failing that, he attempts write the word with whatever makeshift writing tools he can find.
Speak the word aloud. If that does nothing, write it down.
WATER, you say. It stings a little as you say it. Perhaps it does not like you using it so lightly.
You walk over to the pot full of sticks and break off the end of one easily. Feels sandy and crumbly, and a blacker stick you haven't seen in your life. Purposefully you step to the nearby wall and begin vandalizing it with your word, but the small writing piece crumbles in your hands, leaving black stains all over your fingers. Now they smell like medicine and ash, which you must grudgingly admit is preferable to the scent of agitated rat.
Escape! Well, hopefully.
"We've got to get out of this room." I shove the gross man away from the center of the room and start stacking bricks below the grate to climb up on.
WATER, you hear. You're not sure what that might be referring to. Hopefully not the rain. The drainage here seems nonexistent.
You try and push Mr. Erikson out of the way, finding him deeply objectionable, but he refuses to budge, merely giving you a stern look. You push for a few moments more, but it is of no use. As such, you elect to make him the base of your tower. Solidity of this sort should not be wasted. Grabbing an armful of bricks - they're much heavier than they look, and they certainly did not have the look of feathers to begin with - you start stacking them at his feet as he rants at the ceiling grate, fashioning the rough equivalent of a staircase that would hopefully lead up to his shoulders, from which reaching the grate ought to be simple. He even kindly kneels down to relieve the unhelpful man of his robe and rub his hand on his naked flesh, which you fail to question in the face of the wonderful opening for your ascent that it provides.
"Yes, we are very much done! Thanks for asking! Wanna help us up? And get a bath ready. This place is filthy!"
Shouting up with sarcastic tone in my voice. Evaluate sanity of relieving the guy in my hand of his clothes and wearing it myself. Either way, drop him and clean my hand properly on his clothes. Terrorists do not need gentle treatment.
Your last request is cut off by sudden WATER, but the silhouette up top appears to get the gist anyway.
"You are done! Grand! Open the grate then and I'll throw you down the chain!" shouts the silhouette. Finally someone agreeable. You drop the man you're holding on his face again so as to not mess his clothes up further, and evaluate briefly whether his robe would be sufficient to cover your naked body, and quickly reason that it would indeed. Ripping off the robe with your bare hands you tie it around your hips as a thick skirt, the spattering of blood and bone you left on the inside providing your soft bits with much-needed warmth even if a few bony splinters poke you here and there. Nothing you're not used to, at any rate.
Once the skirt is quite done and you find yourself looking positively stunning once more, you notice that the terrorist's now-naked body has remained largely clean, so you wipe your gory hand on his back in a bold stroke, getting the gristle off reasonably well.
Grab a brick as well, toss it in the sack. Examine possibilities of grabbing another, smaller sack of gold for use as a flail. Then Indicate willingness to exit to grate man.
Attempting to hold the sack with one hand is a risky proposition. Putting it down in the hopes of lifting it again is a riskier one. So you go with the former and fetch one of the bricks, wondering what's got Mr. Johnson so excited. Standing there for perhaps a moment too long looking at it, you notice there's something written on it.
"Water". How odd. WATER, your better instincts and also the whole room somehow attempt to correct you, but no, you're pretty sure it's "water". Might be worth something, you never know. You chuck it in your bag and seize it once again in two hands. Your spine begins to plot elaborate revenge for your crimes against it as you go back for another sack to hit people with, and you find a minutely smaller-looking one that you think will do. Letting the other bag rest on your back you go for the one on the ground, and somehow manage to lift it and hoist it over your other shoulder.
It occurs to you that this shouldn't be possible, and physics promptly agrees as your knees buckle and you fall, the combined weight of two full potato sacks of coin mashing you into the ground and liberating a small amount of indeterminate stuffing from you. It is quite exquisitely painful.
After donning one of the sacks to preserve his modesty, Benny helps the woman stack bricks to escape.
You take the upturned, ripped sack full of coin and take a few moments to scoop out its contents, not being a fan of getting gold on your giblets. This is too slow for your liking. You would like them to flow more like WATER, and so you must increase the flow. With your teeth and fingernails you tear the hole bigger and bigger until it goes from end to end, and you remove fully half the bag, letting the coinage spill on the ground, the rattle and clink of gold against gold making a very joyful noise.
That done, you survey the two halves of the bag, noting that one appears to have only one hole while the other one has two, but one seems to be both tied into a nasty-looking knot as well as probably a bit too small for your generous hips. Dejected, you examine the 17463 gp you so carelessly spilled on the ground, and contemplate if rolling in it would help make the situation better.
Wounds accumulate with time, but are reduced with rest. At five wounds you will die.
Eric Codeburn, COMPUTISTICS SPECIALIST
- Naked
- Wounds: 1
- 27568 gp (non-sequential)
- Burlap Potato Sack x2
Benny Calverly, Barber
- Naked
- Burlap Potato Sack, Part 1
- Burlap Potato Sack, Part 2
Leif Erikson, Miner
- Traces of Gore: Bits On One's Bits
- Reappropriated Skirt
Robert Johnson, MLG
- Naked
- A Word: WATER
- Traces of Mischief: Blackened Fingers
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- Naked
- Sticks: 0.5
- Rat Pantheon: Disliked
Author
Topic: Our Salvation: It Is Written (Read 264553 times)