A Tunnels and Trolls® play-by-post adventure run by shindorim7
At the edge of the circle of flames you see more and more of the star-men emerge, surrounding you completely and rushing you en masse. Ack! The outside world starts to fade as the screaching horde launches itself upon you, Triple M's salivating being to no avail. BOOM! FROOSH! (flame sounds) You're all caught up in a CosmicWhorl™ and cast into ExplosiveOblivion™, along with Grandma Withers™.
All goes black, and you hear unearthly cackling in the background as the credits roll. You go to the proverbial fridge for the proverbial beer during the proverbial station identification. When you come to....
...you wake up, groggy and shaken on the floor of a long hallway. It's lined with the reasonably professional, if uninspired portraits of stodgy old men. They have pointy ears extending out from their heads horizontally, wrinkles, specs and nasty overbites. Each are illuminated by dainty little oil lamps and are underscored with little brass plaques. There are some benches too. One end of the hall runs to a dead end, a menacing obsidian-like wall. The other runs to a solid looking door with a classy gargoyle knocker and a black box at the top of the frame.
Grandma Withers regains her senses fairly quickly and, wielding her cane, fiercely hobbles over to Restu and gives her [sic] a clunk on the head. Then, a crackly voice apparently out of nowhere states in a servile yet eager to please tone, "Just a moment please! Mr. Grippenweld will see you shortly!" In a puff of green smoke, a tray of unidentified refreshments appears hovering in the middle of the room: a pot of something or other, paper cups and some dubiously phallic biscuits.
What do you do?
Coming to, Blodwydd starts, and rolls up to a crouch, gripping her dirk. Staring around wild eyed, her startled reaction to the sudden appearance of hovering refreshments is to leap at them, slashing wildly.
If I knew her name, I would think things did not bode well for Blodwydd, or she just hated phallic biscuits. Clapping my Hobbit hands together to get everyone's attention, I say, "Come on people... focus! Chop, chop! As party leader, I think we should all stick together, except for Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic]---let him wander off." I smile widely as only a Hobbit leader can.
Using my foot, I nudge Jax who is still on the floor unconscious. "Wake up you mangy cur... this is not some time tripping pic-a-nic, GrappleJax! And stop dreaming about Desuma!"
Seeing Grandma Withers, I can't help but think that she looks a lot like a (real) cheap harlot from the Blue Frog Tavern. I try to push that disgusting encounter from my hobbit brain, thinking normal greedy thoughts.
Hey Shin, I am as male as any Elf can be, and boy am I funny! [a reference to Tara's interlude. --ed.]
Smarting from Granny's strike, I crumble, swearing to protect her until my dying day, especially from 3M's quips. Before she can respond, I leap to the grub tray and seal my oath by swallowing a phallic biscuit whole (talk about manly... I'm comfortable in my masculinity) and assuming nothing horrible happens as a result of the biscuit, I offer her a less suggestive refreshment.
I learned a long time ago never to pass up a free drink. Being also secure in my Elvish masculinity (hah! thought I was going to say "Elfin" didn'tcha?) I pick up the pot and cups and offer to the group, "Shall I play Mother?"
Gathering her wits about her doesn't take long, because she finds she is doubly in her element: warriors and food. When the Elf Blaen offers around the plate, Ruth brightens. "Oh, fawn dew, how nice!" she exclaims. "No, Blaen, it has nothing to do with deer. I don't know why they call it that. Here. Just take a biscuit and dip it in this pot, like so, and have a bite. No double-dipping, though, that's not polite. If you want to do that, just put some of the dip in an empty cup and dip your biscuit into that. Hey, Jax is waking up. Let's see if we can get the big Orc to try it."
Jax mumbles incoherently in his half-conscious state, "No! Not the face, Desuma---"
With a start, he is coherent. "Whoa, what a trip, man! Hey, T! Where are we? And, hi Ruth! <mmmf> Why are you sticking <mmmf> phallic biscuits in my mouth?"
Shoulda had Triple M try it: "He likes it! Mikey likes it!"
I stand, shaking my head. No one ever listens to the Hobbit, even if I am the party leader. "I think the phallic biscuits and drinks are poison!" I shout.
Thinking to his manly self, "All the more reason to offer some to Granny... wait! I done ate one already!"
I silently offer a prayer to nameless god of the stomach pump...
Seeing Taran move in front of me..., I pat him on the back....
Right. Sure you do. Taran, check your wallet.
I wish the caravans ran on time---I'm tired of waiting in the station for innumerable hours worth of delays!
I boldly step forward, throw back my cloak and yell "Boo! Now go away! I already bought one, I gave at the office, I'm not the droids you're looking for!"
I wish I had said "I'm not the droid you're looking for!"
At the edge of the circle of flames you see more and more of the star-men emerge, surrounding you completely and rushing you en masse.
Forget what I said before, I wish Pshio (one p) grew 6 more feet!
The outside world starts to fade as the screaching horde launches itself upon you, Triple M's salivating being to no avail.
I wish I could spit faster!
BOOM! FROOSH! (flame sounds)
I wish I were female, so I'd be funnier! [a reference to Tara's interlude --ed.]
You're all caught up in a CosmicWhorl™ and cast into ExplosiveOblivion™.... All goes black, and you hear unearthly cackling in the background as the credits roll.
I wish---Hey, where'd all... the... stars... go? Clunk.
You go to the proverbial fridge for the proverbial beer during the proverbial station identification.
I'm a Pepper.
Each are illuminated by dainty little oil lamps and are underscored with little brass plaques.
Is the writing in a familiar language? (Wait, this is a serious question. Never mind, ignore that. I only want to know if it's written in German or Porker. That's much better.)
There are some benches too.
Keen! For some reason, this has really thrilled me. I admire them. Can I carry one? Are they padded? Cushions?
One end of the hall... runs to a solid looking door with a classy gargoyle knocker and a black box at the top of the frame.
And the box fills me with an incredible sense of Paranoia.
In a puff of green smoke, a tray of unidentified refreshments appears hovering in the middle of the room: a pot of something or other, paper cups and some dubiously phallic biscuits.
I'll identify the refreshments as a pot of liquid and biscuits, for the benefit of the food-impaired. However, I'll pass on imbibing. I just had that Dr. Pepper.
Coming to, Blodwydd starts, ... her startled reaction to the sudden appearance of hovering refreshments is to leap at them, slashing wildly.
... I would think things did not bode well for Blodwydd, or she just hated phallic biscuits.
Ask her what she thinks of men and women, fish and bicycles, and you'll know for sure.
"I think we should all stick together, except for Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic]---let him wander off."
I don't respond. The Hobbit is beneath my notice, or at least my line of sight.
Hey, Shin, I am as male as any Elf can be....
Somebody's really hurting his case here. That's like being "as macho as Liberace."
I swear to protect her until my dying day, especially from 3M's quips.
Do quips do "Bonk" damage, like in Teenagers From Outer Space?
I seal my oath by swallowing a phallic biscuit whole.
Forget Liberace. He's about as macho as Boy George.
... and assuming nothing horrible happens as a result of the biscuit....
Do quips count as something horrible?
Being also secure in my Elvish masculinity ... I pick up the pot and cups and offer to the group, "Shall I play Mother?"
And this guy must be Richard Simmons.
Gathering her wits about her doesn't take long, because she finds she is doubly in her element: warriors and food.
And one warrior-wizard elect.
"And, hi Ruth! <mmmf> Why are you sticking <mmmf> phallic biscuits in my mouth?"
We no longer need to know the answer to the fish and bicycle question.
Shoulda had Triple M try it: "He likes it! Mikey likes it!"
I'll pass. Besides the Dr. Pepper, I've packed a Ham & Chicken loaf MRE for later.
No one ever listens to the Hobbit, even if I am the party leader.
What? You can't hear me laughing at you again?
"I think the phallic biscuits and drinks are poison!" I shout.
A Hobbit passes up food. And you thought you'd never live to see the day.
When Taran regains his senses, he makes no secret about cursing loudly in his most rash and impolite Orcish dialect. Jax catches most of Taran's sentiment that wasn't garbled by lapses into Lizardman tongue. Astonished at his protector's vituperative display, Shipy looks at Taran in shock. Taran translates. "I'm tired of being teleported, transported, transfigured, transdimentionally sent through time, and last but not least, tolerating fate!"
"I'm <munch> tired of your alliteration!"
Ignoring his brother for now, Taran continues, having nothing to do with the refreshments, either. He'd had his fill of Jack's specialty brew and special of the day. Rising to his feet, Taran attempts to take charge of the bizzare turn of events. He unholsters his over-and-under crossbow from the uniquely designed strap on his back, loads it, and sneers through squinted eyes and bared teeth at his surroundings. He awaits for any newcomers and tries to swallow the dreadful feeling he has in his gut. Hopefully it was nerves, and not Jack's hamburger special #1.
"Good move, Taran. No time for breakfast, you have to protect me!"
"Right.... <rumble>"
"I think the phallic biscuits and drinks are poison!" I shout.
Ruth laughs out loud, saying "Shipy, that's so funny!" Shipy doesn't seem to think it's funny, but he smiles, nonetheless, at having made someone laugh (as opposed to being ignored or spat upon). Once she settles down, she continues, "I love it. So, someone wanted to make us eat poison biscuits, and to do so, they made the sky fall, sent an attack force to capture us, and transported all of us into this waiting room (presumably to put us off guard), and then presented us with the poison in these snacks. Now, that's style. So, who are these people, anyway?" Ruth turns to examine one of the paintings and its label.
So, someone wanted to make us eat poison biscuits, and to do so,...
I pout as only a Hobbit leader can, and remember never to say things around Ruth without deep thought first....
"And, hi Ruth! <mmmf> Why are you sticking <mmmf> phallic biscuits in my mouth?"
Why didn't Ruth answer Jax?
I don't respond. The Hobbit is beneath my notice, or at least my line of sight.
Why am I posting in the strange way Mikey does?
"I'm tired of being teleported, transported, transfigured, transdimentionally sent through time, and last but not least, tolerating fate!"
"I wish I was transfigured!" (No stars here, so I had to pluck an eyelash for that one.)
Shipy doesn't seem to think it's funny, but he smiles, nonetheless, at having made someone laugh (as opposed to being ignored or spat upon).
In some cultures, that's considered a mark of good fortune.
I pout as only a Hobbit leader can, and remember never to say things around Ruth without deep thought first....
Keep that in mind.
Why am I posting in the strange way Mikey does?
It's that Deep Thought at work.
Are there any pennies around the benches?
And, hi Ruth! <mmmf> Why are you sticking <mmmf> phallic biscuits in my mouth?"
Because Trix™ are for kids. You'll just have to stick to phallic fondue biscuits.
"Phallic? But it's just..." Ruth pauses, then considers the shape of the biscuit (cookie?). She turns a bit red, then huffs, "Do men ever stop thinking about sex?" She turns and walks away to see someone on the other side of the room. Jax would defend himself, but he is distracted by her sway. "And she's not even an Orc!" he thinks to himself.
Sorry I ignored Jax for so long. I was just being lazy and hoped nobody would notice.
Jax picks himself up and dusts himself off. He watches Ruth as she walks away, fuming. He has half a mind (the Haroouugh half) to respond back to the sultry lass, "Hey, baby, want some fries with that shake?" but he overrules it. Hell hath no fury.... Not interested in pictures, word games, or biscuits---and especially these!---he quietly takes in the scene. Some familiar faces are here, his ever-stinkin' bro, the sticky-fingered Hobbit, Mike of the would-be Magicks [sic], and the Warrior-Cook with the shake. That Elf who stuck his nose (and fingers) into D&D's "thanksgiving" feast is also present, as well as two other Elves he hasn't met, and some old crone who continues to beat on the male unknown Elf and utter obscenities. Lastly, there is---
BAM!
"Whoa! We gotta stop bumping into each other!" Jax grasps Blodwydd's hand and tries to pry out her dirk. The fem, in her frantic reaction to the floating fawn dew, backed into Jax and tripped, falling again. When she catches her breath, he gives up on his attempt, and helps her up. "Hi! I'm Jax. Let's go take a look at that door."
The dirk fails to pry. The fem has a rather strong grip. The touch of Jax's hand seems to calm her a little though, and she accepts the hand up, shaking her head to clear the last of the disorientation. Jax has the (for him) disconcerting realization that he has to look slightly up to meet her eyes.
Blodwydd returns his friendly greeting with a rather suspicious glare, then somewhat mollified, turns her gaze to the door.
"Yeah, um, the door. I suppose that's howya get outta here. Think we should hit it with onna them there benches?"
"Or we could just try to open it!" I say, as only a Hobbit leader can.
"Outta here, or into someplace worse? I have the feeling we're in somebody's waiting room, and I don't remember making an appointment to see them." I look at the portraits again and shudder. "On the other hand, like my mother always taught me, Hobbits first, so after you, O fearless leader..." <Toothy Grin>
"Gee, thassa good idear!" remarks Blodwydd, beaming fondly down upon the Hobbit. "Yer smart furra little squirt. Yew mussbe party leader or sumthin'!"
Emboldened, Blodwydd stalks over to the solid looking door, grasps the handle firmly, and attempts to open it....
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