All things considered there's something I find really cozy about your current turn Maloy. And I can't even begin to describe how much I thoroughly enjoy the fact that your Wolf Man has a loyal pet doggo. Also the leaving of figurines around is really nice touch, as we mentioned before I LOVE finding the leftovers of other players' presences.
I don't mean to take any spotlight away from your turn Maloy, but I finally managed to sit down and write up my very brief adventure just earlier. One that I couldn't devote anywhere near enough of the time I should have to, and so I allowed it to fall into ruin. . . Regardless I hope something good came from it. Here it is, the Tale of Amala Camelaisa;
Ye, o ye, whom dwell 'midst Lålthocit,
'Neathe the shadows of Mucka's kin,
Ye, o ye, whom stalk Besmonal,
'Neathe shadow of mountains tall,
Ye, o, ye, 'midst Porebwimad mired,
Young stray of purpose tired,
Bereft of home, bereft of kin,
You whom say, 'an orphan 'midst this din',
Know that you spit lies, you spit slander,
Yea, a lesson is learnt from thine candor
What is family whenst blood runs dry?
'Tis a feeling that hearts do tie.
For she, the bounteous ocean her great mother,
The sheltering mountains her honored father,
For without pause they provide, they protect,
And all they ask is thine respect,
Yet it is her dear elder sister she holds closest to her chest,
A giant, great-horned owl of feathered breast.
Knows she as Mucka by her name,
Unknown to her a god of man, the very same,
Deigned was she in those times forgotten,
Beyond the isle, her memories rotten.
So they go to reclaim what's been lost,
Ungsmabungmo abaft, but just so -- a great cost.
Mucka's feathered wings beat and glide,
Shading the ocean 'neath their stride,
A day passes, or two perhaps,
Familiar sea breeze rushing past,
The beast of burden is slow to tire,
But now even she's of smoldering fire.
Just then as luck would have the orphan cries,
"Mucka! Land ahead, don't falter now you need only fly!"
So fly she did and land as well,
Upon dark shores where sea did swell,
This land appeared no different than her island home,
Yet with endless paths for which to roam.
A sight stood out to the girl -- a house, a wooden spike!
Could within dwell vibrant life?
She gathered her courage and wrangled her steed.
Ghoulcreek, the Raven of Whips, a hall of mead.
But whence she round the corner her heart did flutter,
A blighted monster returned her gaze with a mutter.
Upon the grass and at her side,
A gleaming morningstar had caught her eye,
At unnatural speed the dead dwarf lunged,
And so she rolled, her body plunged,
In the young girl's hands the artifact rose,
To defend her body from mortal blows.
The weapon had grown weary and betrayed its master,
The ghoul spat a curse and redoubled faster,
Grace of gods were with the girl thence,
Her body intact and nary rent,
Had Mucka not swept her up and taken flight,
She would have surely fallen to the
blightThe giant owl fled with haste,
The orphan's head spun with soured taste,
Could all the beings of Orid Xem,
Be as bile and sickly phlegm?
She couldn't say as she held Okirramtak tight,
Then in the distance rose another sight.
A spire of stone and trenched pits,
Built by those of devious wit,
At her heed Mucka set upon the top,
With what stood before her, that heart did stop,
Okirramtak shuddered within her hands,
It washed away her unselfish plans.
With one step forth she rose the hammer,
The green men cowered, their words did stammer,
Her malice grew with a rain of strikes,
Bloody and violent, retribution of the likes,
Pain flooded her head of forgotten days,
These evil goblin slavers, they would pay!
None were spared upon the tower's height,
Mucka circled in abject fright,
But the possessed girl was nary done,
A wicked smile, she was having fun,
Another spire, another field,
Deep within the earthen weald
When all was said and finished,
A field of bone, of gore, a sinful grimace,
She clattered to her knees amidst the death,
All her will exhausted and drawn of breath,
Only then had she come to,
Mucka's body 'midst the stew.
She shook her sister's feathered down,
Stained of crimson, her tears did drown,
She cursed this world of mercy bereft,
How she wished they'd never left,
So the girl could do not but weep,
Lay midst the scene, in her sorrow steep.
Even still she could not discard that vile mace,
For now its bloodlust was just aslake,
Mucka rode she as she did her
She swam for days, for weeks ablur
They say the oceans rose from her eternal tears,
Engulfing her in mortal fears.
Entombed dear Mucka upon Lålthocit,
And then she leapt, this life did quit,
'Twas the tale of Amala Camelaisa,
No hero, no villain, no shining messiah.
What lesson you ask, from this we can learn?
There are none, this world -- Orid Xem I spurn.
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 473580 times)