Name: Oscar Wilde
Occupation: Chemistry teacher
Description: coming soonish
Name: Rindle Fischgartner
Occupation: evolutionary biologist
Waitlist please.
Can I get on the waitlist?
Name: Ed MacDougal
Profession: Bartender
Description: Like Moe from The Simpsons, except Scottish and a wee bit violently insane.
The mounds must grow. To the waitlist with you.
Grab and examine a stick. Also a sack of coin.
You step over to the long black sticks and retrieve one carefully from the pot. It has a sandy sort of texture, and from its lightness and thinness you get the feeling that it's probably not an ordinary stick by any means. Smells a little funky, too. A hint of ash beneath a distinctly medicinal scent. One stick is about the length of your arm, and it is only by delicate handling that you think you manage not to break it.
Holding on to the stick, you proceed over to the sacks of coin and ponder the possibilities of lugging one around. Putting down the stick on the ground, you grab one of the smaller ones and hoist it over your shoulder, ignoring the vicious complaints this produces from your back and knees. One must learn to subdue base impulses of self-preservation when there's mad cash to be made.
His survival-game instincts kick in, and Robert begins searching high and low for any and all potentially useful items.
You look at the vast array of pots on the ground and immediately realize that there's likely to be absolutely nothing of value in them, and so you go straight to the bricks instead. They do look a tad peculiar. You head over to take a look, grabbing a brick off the top. They're not clay as you would expect - instead they're some sort of reddish rock speckled with black. And they have something etched into them. An inscription. It's not immediately legible, but...
... huh. It's a bit of a lively inscription. Swims around before your eyes, the letters looking desperately familiar for a moment before a certain, easily recognizable shape is attained, the letters settling into the word WATER. The word sticks in your mind in all its exquisite blandness, lingering at the edge of your lips as you set the brick down and take another one. This one says the same thing, as do all the others as far as you can tell.
This place is terrible. I grab a stick and start hitting rats with it.
As the other guy steps away from the pots you run up and grab a stick from it, and charge at the vicious rats in the center of the room. You start to swing the thing at them, but it snaps in half under its own weight from the swing, leaving you looking a little silly as you stand over the writhing mass of rodents, which politely writhes away from you, suspecting you to be up to no good. A few rats squeak disapprovingly in unison from atop the pile.
Pull the welcoming guy up and give him few good slaps accross his face.
"This is not time to fall asleep. Where we are, how you got us here and what the hell you want form us?"
You lift him up from the ground with ease, scattering the rats that have swarmed over his prone form - man's probably half your weight, if that, and give him a good, hard slap. Some blood escapes his nose as something pops within his skull. You slap again, and his head lolls to the other side. A third slap makes some teeth slip out of his mouth. Seems like he's not made out of very stern stuff.
And now your hand is filthy from slapping him, too. Ugh. Figures he'd have to fall face down into gore. You wipe it on the back of his robe, figuring he probably doesn't mind. As you get most of the gore off, you hear a nasal, male voice from above.
"Are you people done yet?" it goes, and you look up. Above the ceiling grate you spy an upward-going tunnel, at the top of which you see a darkened, thin silhouette of a man. "Getting tired of waiting here!"
Benny rushes to check on and help the fallen man.
"Are you okay, what happened?"
Then he looks at the big guy who desperately needs a trim.
"Please don't, th-there's no reason to hit anyone."
You'd say the man's about as far from okay as you've ever observed anyone be and still remain in one piece. You'd also say he needs rest and recuperation, because you sure as hell don't know any medicine that could fix this. You're not a doctor or anything, but you'd also say slapping him is only likely to loosen more of his bones and organs. Frankly, you're not sure he could even hear you if he was conscious, what with the bleeding from his ears.
Your examination is interrupted by the sound of a man talking through his nose from above.
"Are you people done yet? Getting tired of waiting here!"
You look up, and in the sunlight's glare coming from the well-like tunnel above the ceiling grate you spy an indistinct silhouette of a man.
Eric Codeburn, COMPUTISTICS SPECIALIST
- Naked
- 14024 gp (non-sequential)
- Burlap Potato Sack
Benny Calverly, Barber
- Naked
Leif Erikson, Miner
- Naked
- Unhelpful Man (held, slapped)
- Traces of Gore: Right Hand
Robert Johnson, MLG
- Naked
- A Word: WATER
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- Naked
- Sticks: 0.5
- Rat Pantheon: Disliked
Author
Topic: Our Salvation: It Is Written (Read 262224 times)