Jack was stroking his beard, listening intently. Unless he was the forest hermit in question, and the goblin had suddenly taken towards being polite about him--which he doubted-- it meant there were others. The prospect intrigued him. What would one have any business with.. HERE? He himself only came because it was the only lead he had-- Then again, this calamity seemed to be in full swing, surely if there WERE others, they would have been trying to fix it also? ... Just what exactly WAS it that was at work here, if others like himself, could not fix it early? More strangely-- He had never met another person like himself. Had spent decades thinking he was perhaps the only one.
He kept listening. Sure enough, the clattering crap-box started spilling names. Typical that it would feed him a load of bologna. Despite the fact that this rattling rust bucket had been the one who started the inhospitable tone between them, immediately jumping to conclusions about him and mama like that--- the NERVE---This "sociable" approach did seem to be getting better results. He scratched in his beard irritably; He had just been responding in kind mostly, though he was still more than a little miffed with stony tits upstairs. That ice-queen could freeze the hair off a polar bear's arse hole.
Steeling himself for it, he tried a more 'diplomatic' approach. There was a look of obvious discomfort as the old coot tried to forcibly correct his speech into something more congenial.
If ye'd pardon the question-- he struggled, I take it I ain't t'e only fores' hermit as is been through?
He wasn't quite sure how to say this without dredging up old memories of his prior life. The one he had abandoned in disgust. The one his father had tried to groom him for so many long years ago. The one he tried so hard to forget about, that he elected to live like an actual beast instead, and why he found flowery shit like this so damn distasteful, why gaudy towers encrusted with jewels from head to foot made him nauseous, and how he KNEW this little diminutive door-man knew a lot more than he was letting on. He bit on the inner side of his lower lip under his incisor gently, closed his eye, and shuddered a moment. Gods was this unpleasant.
A'spite t'e indignities we's been hurlin' at one'nother, I ain'ts all I lets on as neither-- and I knows the help 'ears more an they's wants, nor is 'sposed to. I many not look'it (not no moar no how..), but trus' me, I knows. I don' rightly -- there was a momentary pause and a churning of the old man's mouth, as if stumbling over a hard-set mannerism, catching it before it could slip out, and then forcing the resumption of the more congenial pattern. -- Have any concerns... Nor... business...--- Neighborly nor otherwise-- with yer ... master... but I may have business with 'is guests. Since yer ... master... ain't home, I cain't ask 'im proper muhself, an' since 'e ain't lef' no notice when 'e might be back ta... pay ..a .. social.. call... It was very abundantly clear that this method of communication was very jarring to the hermit on some invisible level, and was taking tremendous effort to sustain, but he kept struggling, the effort ever more apparent in his demeanor as he did so. At a more.. convenient time.. I would ...very much... appreciate it... If ye could... o'er look .. t'e finer points o' propri'ty, and tell meh maor 'bout what ye ... 'didn't hear,' If'n ye know what I mean? I'd like ta pay a prop'r visit, an ask questions... moar.. directly.. If ye follow? Anythang ye knows 'bout where any o' 'em lives, ... I'd be... mighty... appreci'ative...
The hermit stopped somewhat abrubtly, clearly struggling to push harder but finding it too difficult to continue-- His hand white knuckled on his walking stick, and quivering. Once, long ago, he had been able to sweet-talk servants like a professional, but anymore, the very concept of keeping servants, or any creature as a social underclass, made him want to vomit up his toe-nails. He had fought for years-- YEARS--- to kill the person he used to be. Dragging the withered sinews of it out for even a few minutes was a sordid and painful exercise. He doubted the little metal man could scarcely conceive of how loathsome the notion of owning another intelligent being was to him now, either figurative through the threat of financial ruin, or literally, as a slave-- nor how much it rankled his very core that said "servants" (gods how he hated the 'nice' words people used to cover up their hubris!) were.. CONDITIONED to stay in their position beneath people that did not do an honest day's work themselves, out of misguided adherence to 'social norms and customs.'
The old hermit genuinely wanted to puke up last week's meal, just thinking about it. The hand clenching his staff shook uncontrollably. He would rather publicly roll in hot pig shit in the town square on a feast day than supplicate to that poison again. --- But he needed answers, or at least leads to who might have them.
His whole body shook.
... If ye could help an old feller out... At t'e very leas', ifn ye fin' 'nother nest a pigeons, could ye show em ta me firs? ... I'd... Be.. Mighty.. Appreci'ative.....
Jack was very pale faced, and strugling to hold the nausea in. He didnt dare try any harder. He hoped it was enough.
Author
Topic: Mystville [Game Thread] (Read 119628 times)