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[TankKit]

"Please can someone find, or make a box for me to sit in? Roll onto my back, and be extremely CUTE, so they get me a box.

[Yottawhat]

Crawl to the bathroom and splash some water on my skull.

[DoctorMcTaalik]

Pick a west door at random, and go through it.

[crazyabe]

Spoiler: Sheet. Wait list please. (click to show/hide)

Name: Alexander Kovacof
Description: A Tall Russian looking man, Someone seems to have Tatooed Several Images that should be Less then... Public on his face.
Drunken element: Subjective Truth

Was I rejected or Something?

[NJW2000]

"Savage, but adequate. Now!"

BEER BEER

You down a foaming tankard, covering most of your torso with froth. Quaffing stuff on a ship is hard.

As the chilled alcohol slips down your throat and into your body, your perception changes. Suddenly, you become physically aware of the dimensions of the ship and the portals around you, almost as if they were parts of your body, muscles you might stretch or relax. It's only a barely perceptible sensation at the moment, but it increases with every draught you take.

Jump out of the ship, don't notice how bad of a idea this is until is too late.

[6-1]

You run towards the Viking, feint left, then dart right past the confused raider and hurl yourself off the side of the boat. Strangely, instead of an icy splash, you land with a thump on hard wooden boards. Looking about you, the Longboat is nowhere to be seen. You're in a dark attic-like room, high-vaulted ceiling criss-crossed by wooden beams, from which dark shapes are hanging.

All around you, pale and handsome men and women in evening wear and dark cloaks hold glasses of red wine and converse elegantly. As you roll to a stop, several look round in suprise and consternation. The chatter stops. With an audible rush of displaced air a tall and commanding woman in a carmine ballgown appears.

"Did you forget the stakes, my dear, or is this a bell, book and candle sort of venture?"

"Please can someone find, or make a box for me to sit in? Roll onto my back, and be extremely CUTE, so they get me a box.

[3-1]

You do your best to look cute, though with the headache and all, you don't do much better than endearingly grumpy. Nobody hears you over the drinking songs anyway.

Crawl to the bathroom and splash some water on my skull.

You try to find the bathroom, though going on your hands and knees through crowds of the rich elite isn't a great way of moving.

You're pretty sure the door was marked "gents", and that several people in evening dress had gone through it already, but when you try to you come out in a dimly lit, crowded and racous space. The room is circular, and in the centre is a three foot pit surrounded by barbed wire. Inside it, a figure covered in sheet of corrugated iron armour is busy beating the crap out of a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and long metal spikes on his hands, wolverine-style. The primary dress code seems to be punk, most of the outlandish figures wandering around with brightly coloured cocktails or cheering on the combatants having nine or ten piercings on their face or hands alone. Leather dominates, as do rags and intentional rips. Most alarmingly, a great deal of the people here are armed with knuckledusters, whips or switchblades. You can barely hear it over the rock music, but people seem to be betting on whether the losing fighter will die of blood loss or brain damage.

This definitely isn't the bathroom. What a stupid place to put a portal.

Pick a west door at random, and go through it.

You slither out of the room and into a moonlit valley overlooking a lake, shaggy-haired long-horned beasts lying asleep on the wet grass. The view is incredible.

Nearby are two doors into the hillside, similar to the one you just went through. Also of note are several large copper containers connected by pipes, as well as a lot of barrels and a wood-burning stove. From the smell of the barrels, some kind of human contraption for manufacturing alcohol from plant matter.

Spoiler: Sheet. Wait list please. (click to show/hide)

Name: Alexander Kovacof
Description: A Tall Russian looking man, Someone seems to have Tatooed Several Images that should be Less then... Public on his face.
Drunken element: Subjective Truth

Was I rejected or Something?

Sry, missed you. Won't bother putting you on the waitlist as we're a character short, so just jump right in and post. You start in the same room as everyone else did.

[NJW2000]

Spoiler: Inventory/Status (click to show/hide)

Prometheus the Destroyer   HUNGOVER
Unpleasant human pornographic writings.

Shelly Ton  HUNGOVER
Handful of casino chips

Name:Jerry the Puuuur-fect  HUNGOVER


Allen Aries Amberg  HUNGOVER
Umbrella

Zhao Zheng  Inebriation:1
Umbrella
Erotic Novel


Alexander Kovacof HUNGOVER

[Harry Baldman]

"My robe! Seven hells, thirteen spheres of damnation! Infinite frustration!" Zheng stomps. "But the elixir must flow! So it has been ordained!"

BEER BEER

Also see if I can give the grumpy cat-thing some of that reindeer meat.

[TankKit]

"Pleeeease ? Someone ? I just want a box..." "box..." "Oh, hi there human!" "human..." "Do you have a box for m- Oh, you'll get me food?" "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!"
(Have you guessed what the true best word to describe Jerry is yet?)

[Yottawhat]

"Well, when in Rome, always bet on blood loss. That's usually the cause of death."

Bet the last of my chips on blood loss.

[DoctorMcTaalik]

RELINQUISH YOUR INNARDS, SCUM.

Thwack one of the barrels with my porn book until alcohol comes out.

[crazyabe]

I Grab a book and... damm my head... head to the left, where ever that is...

[ziizo]

"No time to speak, angry viking chasing me"

ignore the goths and run. If possible jump trough a window, unless the movies lied the umbrella should stop your fall.

[NJW2000]

-

[NJW2000]

"My robe! Seven hells, thirteen spheres of damnation! Infinite frustration!" Zheng stomps. "But the elixir must flow! So it has been ordained!"

BEER BEER

Also see if I can give the grumpy cat-thing some of that reindeer meat.

 You down drinking horn after drinking horn of beer, though you're beginning to get a little unsteady on your feet. On the plus side, your feeling of power and dimensional awareness grows. You're pretty sure it isn't just the booze talking.


Like most dometic animals you've observed, the cat shows immense pleasure in eating food meant for humans, emerging unscathed from beneath the foot-long cut of reindeer you drop on it. Unlike most domestic animals, it thanks you enthusiastically. Through the happy haze of alcohol, you fail to notice anything remarkable about this.

RELINQUISH YOUR INNARDS, SCUM.

Thwack one of the barrels with my porn book until alcohol comes out.

6-1

You flail awkwardly at a barrel with the copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover. The slim paperback is soon reduced to a mulch of torn pages, but the pseudopodia of a pained and furious alien fare better. Your vanquished foe is soon reduced to a pile of wood chips in a puddle of alcohol. Oh look, some idiotic horned multicellular life forms are staring at you in alarm.

"Well, when in Rome, always bet on blood loss. That's usually the cause of death."

Bet the last of my chips on blood loss.

You slide your five red chips onto one of the "blood loss" tables, a burly and tattooed androgene staring pugnaciously at you while you do. The call for "final bets" is given, and bars shoot up around the tables. As the armoured figure delivers a viscious kick to the pile of wretched gore lying in the ring, men in surgical masks rush in and attach what appear to be brain scanners and heart rate monitors to the defeated combatant. Tension rises as the corrugated iron covered gladiator gives a victory lap, and the beeping of the pulseometer gets steadily more erratic.

"Blood loss!" comes a voice suddenly, as the heart rate flatlines, to a variety or cheers or cries of diappointment. Sulkily, the massive bookie shoves over your winnings: five more red chips.

Your sense of victory is reduced a little by the stomach cramps you're getting and the crashing sensation in your ears: like if tinnitus had listened to a lot of thrash metal.

"No time to speak, angry viking chasing me"

ignore the goths and run. If possible jump trough a window, unless the movies lied the umbrella should stop your fall.

2-1

You sprint madly for a window, opening your umbrella as you go, and jump out, forcing the shutters open with your velocity. Or rather, you throw yourself at a bit of wall with a few chinks of light showing through, catch an intimidating, almost milky white man in a tuxedo with your umbrella, and on the rebound crash into a shelf of bottles of some sticky red liqour.

They fall down and shatter on top of you.

Covered in the stuff, your accidental victim ignores your and scrabbles desperately away from the bottles.

"Aaargh! Ze smell! Ze changes! Ze urges! I can't control them!"

His pupils dilate until they fill the entire eye, and he looms up until you're unsure if his feet are even touching the ground. His spine strains beneath his evening suit as his whole body contorts and straightens. The tall women who originally greeted you calls to him.

"Stay ztrong, Vladimitrovitch! Rezist it!"

Several other people turn to glare at you. "Leave now, moron," one of them hisses.

No viking. Looks like they haven't figured out how to use the portals.

I Grab a book and... damm my head... head to the left, where ever that is...

You come out in the misty moonlit valley by the still, as described in the last post. The cows, tremendous natural beauty, and stone doors in the hillside are still there. Additionally, a giant amoeba-like creature is pulversising a wooden barrel of scotch.

Spoiler: Inventory/Status (click to show/hide)

Prometheus the Destroyer   HUNGOVER
Sodden pages
Wood chips

Shelly Ton  HUNGOVER
10 red casino chips

Name:Jerry the Puuuur-fect  HUNGOVER
Slab of roast reindeer larger than his stomach.

Allen Aries Amberg  HUNGOVER
Umbrella
Covering of suspiscious sticky red stuff.
Bits of glass (in skin)

Zhao Zheng  Inebriation:2
Umbrella
Erotic Novel
Norse Drinking Horn

Alexander Kovacof HUNGOVER
Erotic novel

[Harry Baldman]

"It is done. Now for sublime reflection."

Meditate on the boundaries of the infinite dimensions. Maybe poke at them a bit, or a lot. Whichever seems easier.