A Tunnels and Trolls® play-by-post adventure run by shindorim7
Hmmm... after a short hiatus the master of reality returns to his omniscient seat of cold analytical observation to find everyone impatiently shuffling their feet in the waiting room. No sneering from all those of you who were looking for week old copies of Goblin's Quarterly!
Anyway... the biscuits taste bland but tolerable (for those who ate them), the plaques under the portraits are written in simple geometric figures, and there is no spare change under the benches. In a metagaming moment of moments you all come to the similar conclusion that you're bored.
As you approach the door, the squeaking voice rings out again (from the little black box above): "Patience is a virtue! Mr. Grippenweld will see you now! Thank you!" at which point the door swings open, revealing a long broad board room of sorts teaming with the busy sounds of official industry. There are little mechanical men running around from clockwork machine to clockwork machine tabulating figures and waving ticker tape reciepts at one another, and obvious superiors wagging fingers at obvious inferiors, all in time to an inspiring orchestral theme which would find itself at home in any propagandist's mass rally.
On a raised dais of finely inlaid wood, foreign obviously, comforting tangentially, is a huge desk, at which sits a little balding man smoking. He is surrounded on either side by star-men very similar to the ones you've seen in Khazan. Above them all on the wall is a map of a world. Probably not yours. It's emblazoned with a big circle, a big triangle, and a big square.
Grandma Withers steps forward.
"Where's the beef?"
"Nice to see you again, Nana," says the balding man. "And a job well done."
She shoots a scowl at all of you and hobbles up and takes a seat to the right of the BigDesk™.
The bald smoker motions you all to step forward.
"I'm Mr. Grippenweld. Welcome to (something weirdly unpronounceable) Industries. You are now my prisoners, after a fashion." (the star-men and Grandma Withers find this pretty funny and start yuking it up).
What do you do?
Leaning out from behind Taran, I say in a most forceful Hobbitoid manner, "As party leader, Mr. Grippenweld, I will not stand for this 'prisoners after a fashion' nonsense. We have rights, you know. People have told us this before and we didn't much like it then either, Mr. Grippenweld! Unless of course if you intend to inflict bodily harm, then please defer to Taran here." I pat Taran on the back already knowing his wallet is empty.
Seeing Mikey standing nearby with that stupid look on his face, I point to the little mechanical men. "See Mikey... I told you important people were short! And you never believe me! Ha!!"
Jabbing Taran with my pudgy Hobbit finger I whisper, "I think you can take Grandma Withers, Taran." Seeing Taran's distorted expression I add, "Not that way---I mean in a fight!" Unamused, I shake my head as only a Hobbit can.
My ardour obiously misplaced in Grandma Withers, I hang my head, brushing a tear from my eye. First love gone wrong... Maybe someday she'll regret what she's done---I mean, look at me! I am the prisoner of some extra-terrestrial mega-corporation! Who knows how far I'll go....
Anyway---I look down to Shipy for guidance.
"Be righteous Restu, and think not of yourself if they decide to kill a few of us. Think not of the one, but of the many, and sacrifice yourself or Mikey to save the party leader if need be," I state as only a Hobbit can.
Blodwydd snorts in disgust as the door pops open just as she is reaching for it. Spotting the balding guy behind the desk, Blodwydd strides forward toward the desk, possibly bowling over a few of the little mechanical men as she goes. Upon reaching the desk, she either throws herself ungracefully into a chair in front of the desk, if there are such, or plants both fists on front of the desk, if there aren't. Either way, she favors the guy behind the desk with a menacing scowl, partially tempered by the watchful eye she's keeping on the two starmen.
"Arright, I know yer game. Yer sum kinda wizzard, aincha? En wizzards are allus needin folk to bail their butts outta sum trouble! So whatcha wannus to do?"
"Do men ever stop thinking about sex?"
Is today Tuesday?
...Mike of the would-be Magicks [sic]...
Blame the wizard's guild for holding out. I'm eminently qualified. (The College of Mystical Clowning seems somewhat appealing.)
"Yeah, um, the door. I suppose that's howya get outta here. Think we should hit it with onna them there benches?"
"No way! I've already claimed these!" yells Mike, as he throws himself onto one, and grabs hold with both arms.
...the master of reality returns to his omniscient seat of cold analytical observation to find everyone impatiently shuffling their feet in the waiting room.
Mine are wrapped around the bench.
...the plaques under the portraits are written in simple geometric figures...
I perk up, suddenly forgetting about the benches completely. "Hello-o-o-o there..."
...and there is no spare change under the benches.
Another good reason to forget all about them.
In a metagaming moment of moments you all come to the similar conclusion that you're bored.
Really? I must be doing something wrong. I should try thinking like a Hobbit.
...the squeaking voice rings out again (from the little black box above)...
I knew that thing was bad news. Who needs Apollo for prophecy when you have a Magic 8-ball.
"You are now my prisoners, after a fashion." (the star-men and Grandma Withers find this pretty funny and start yuking it up). What do you do?
Remembering to laugh last, I cast a Hidey Hole spell on one of the plaques. (Material component: flowing robe with deep pockets.)
Seeing Mikey standing nearby with that stupid look on his face...
I am pleased. Obviously, my thinking like a Hobbit has worked if I've started gaining their facial expressions.
I point to the little mechanical men. "See Mikey... I told you important people were short! And you never believe me! Ha!!"
Lesson one of two: The little mechanical men are "obvious inferiors," only a small part in a giant corporation.
"Think not of the one, but of the many, and sacrifice yourself or Mikey to save the party leader if need be."
Well spoken. However, Triple M will have to decline the invitation to sacrifice himself today, regardless of how well suited he is to heroism. He's got a rhino to think of, after all.
...Blodwydd strides forward toward the desk, possibly bowling over a few of the little mechanical men as she goes.
Lesson two of two. Collect 'em all.
"En wizzards are allus needin folk to bail their butts outta sum trouble!"
"Nahr, uss wizzards ahr allus da wons whoher allus da dramatik wuns, an ahr allus da wuns kalled on ta safe da daye. Wizzards über Alles!"
(Good grief, that's a hard dialect to master...)
"Jus kuz I doan tak er dress city lak Miss Fancy Bee Hind", (waves hand absently in the direction of Ruth), "doan mean ahm STOOPID!"
Amused at Shipy's calmness under stress, and also his ability to wax poetic in the midst of captivity, but not visibly showing his impression of such, Taran takes a few steps forward to address their captors. He catches his brother's eye [Ah, got it!] as he stands next to him but keeps his focus on the aliens in front of them.
"Grumph. What use do you have for a band like us? Your invasion of Khazan isn't going so well and you need some hostages or something?" Taran tries to remain calm, baring his teeth in the usual Orcish, brusque manner. "After all," he thinks. "This is the second planetary invasion I've lived through. If I can handle serpent aliens, I can handle some star-men," he thinks confidently, but makes sure he's next to his brother and his vorpal blade. Of course, he didn't exactly live through the last one from beginning to end, but he wasn't going to rehash those dreadful thoughts just now.
Freya? Blaen? Where'd you go?
What if they gave a tea party and only Alice came?
Q: How many wizards does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None. Lightbulb? How mundane. (for all wizards other than MMM)
A: None. "Yes, my room-darkening spell is very powerful." (for all wizards named Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic])
Maybe I ought to post a move or something.
Ruth takes Blodwydd's comment as a compliment. Thinking about Shipy's leadership claims to Blodwydd, she has mercy on the human. "Call me Ruth," she says to her. "I just thought you should know, nobody ever said Shipy was a leader except for Shipy, and he only makes that claim when he asks you to be his shield. He's okay, though. A friend of mine says he took a shot for him, once."
Addressing Mr. Grippenweld, Ruth says simply, "What do you want?"
There, that wasn't so bad, and it sure beats shoveling snow.
"Prisoners!?!" I sputter. Turning to Shipy "But don't you have our get-out-of-jail-free card, oh fearful leader?"
Turning to Mr Grippenweld, I say, "Ok, release the hounds, send us out to destr---er, save the world: we're ready. Just let us grab a few little things from home first."
I look at Ruth and turn up my nose as only a scorned Hobbit can. "But I am the leader!" I quip.
Turning to Blaen I say, "Uh, er, sure I do... somewhere." I start checking my pockets until Blaen forgets about the get-out-of-jail-free card.
"But I am the leader!" I quip.
Triple M suddenly feels a twinge of pain. "No wonder I fired that worthless assistant. If he thinks that's an example of a quip, he had no future in the business."
(The barkeep's interlude: Holiday Time at the Blue Frog Tavern)
Mr. Grippenweld shifts impatiently in his super comfortable-looking seat, apparently put off by your vulgar tones and ridiculous fashion sense.
"What I want", he says icily, giving Ruth and Taran a particularly dismissive once over, "is for you 'people' to do me a favour. Grandma Withers has been acting as our deep agent for quite sometime. Your heroics in liberating the lizardman stripling were rather impressive in a barabaric kind of way".
He stands, stretches, and begins a pacing back and forth behind the desk as he launches into an all-too-rehearsed diatribe.
"The World, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a big place, full of big ideas, big egos, and big money to be made. That's what we do here at (something horrendously unutterable) Industries. We make the big money, and we make it any way we can," his voice echoes through the room as if you were about to buy the Cadbury's Caramilk secret. Whatever that is.
He hauls on his cigar with great smoking satisfaction and continues.
"Did you know that dimensions exist where the rivers and streams run pure gold, or where the entire sentient population have been bred in such a way that they can physically serve no other purpose than to be love slaves? The possibilities are endless. And it's our great goal here to make these things available, at a marginal mark-up naturally, to the multiverse at large. Our agents and appraisers are everywhere. Chances are anything which you've ever really enjoyed in your miserably parochial lives has come through our warehouses at some point. Consider yourselves valued customers."
He waves his hand like some oriental potentate calling for a hookah and a shimmering image of a pig appears over the desk in an irridescent green.
"This is agent Grolp. After some minor preparatory surgery it will be your job to rescue him from the penal dimension of Oblique Streams. Should you choose to accept your mission that is...."
"The last time someone offered me minor preparatory surgery they were wanting to hang up Hobbit missile-toes! [c.f. the Barkeep's interlude. --ed.] Penal dimension of Oblique Streams™ eh?" I snicker loudly at that last comment as only a true Hobbit leader can.
Star-men™, dubiously phallic biscuits™, CosmicWhorl™, ExplosiveOblivion™, little mechanical men, Grandma Withers™ as a secret agent, shimmering images of a pig, penal dimensions? Things were really beginning to get weird, and I had a really bad feeling in my gut---and it wasn't because of the dubiously shaped poisoned phallic biscuits either. I just had this feeling everything that was happening was so strange that some foreigner had to be making it up as we were going along. Exactly whom I had not yet deduced, but he would most likely be very StrangeAndTwisted™, no doubt.
Since when is crawling through a dungeon (with no mention of pay) just a little favor? She knows when she is out of her league. Fortunately, she's got an expert on "enlightened self-interest" on her side. "Mr. Grippenweld, I will have to defer to the advice of my counsel, I mean party leader, Shipy."
I remember the Cadbury Caramilk secret, but knowing the "how" of it still leaves me puzzled as to the "why". Oh, well silly humans of the canuck tribe....
Hearing Mr.Grippenweld refer to us as valued customers, and then suggest that we undergo "minor preparatory surgery" makes me want to ask for a refund. As for minor surgery, I prefer mine to be cosmetic and have had quite enough of that. However, if Grippenweld could add two dozen inches to Shipy's shins, I would be much obliged. Then when I vent my displeasure on our illustrious leader for getting us into this mess, I will at least be picking on someone my own size. I start to voice this idea to Grippenweld, then trail off as I realize the obvious alternative method of establishing height parity.
I content myself with envisioning agent Grolp in a series of lurid fantasies involving copious aplications of barbecue sauce and fire.
Mr. Grippenweld shifts impatiently in his super comfortable-looking seat...
I'd rather have a bench.
...apparently put off by your vulgar tones...
Me too. Some of my companions are real potty-mouths.
"...full of big ideas..."
That would be me!
"...big egos..."
"I snicker loudly at that last comment as only a true Hobbit leader can."
I rest my case.
As for minor surgery... if Grippenweld could add two dozen inches to Shipy's shins, I would be much obliged.
Keen, more of my wishes are coming true!
I change my mind. I don't really need to be funnier.
"We make the big money, and we make it any way we can.... Did you know that dimensions exist where the rivers and streams run pure gold.... And it's our great goal here to make these things available, at a marginal mark-up naturally, to the multiverse at large."
Triple M voices those big ideas of his. No, wait, he's only being irritating. "How do you pay for a river of gold? With mithril? What would I do with a river of gold anyway? I don't have anywhere to keep it. Wouldn't that much gold just make it all pretty valueless anyway? Where's the profit in that? This is a secret message. Is it molten gold? What's the source? Why would I want to break a criminal out of jail? What's he in for---counterfeiting? Some ways you just aren't supposed to make big money. What kind of surgery are you thinking of providing? Do I need insurance?"
What minor surgery could compare having my heart ripped out by fair Granny, sans anesthesia? I am ready for anything.
Jax shifts his weight nervously as he formulates a response to the balding hu-mann. He's already played the pawn for Cobalt, Toubow and Martek, and although profiting from that venture, he doesn't much care for being used.
"Four questions, Grippo. What if we don't accept your mission? And if we do, exactly what surgery must we undergo, will it be undone upon completion, and what will be our compensation?"
Jax folds his meaty arms and awaits an answer.
I pat Jax lightly, mostly checking for loose coins. "Yes, as party leader those are the questions I gave my overly meaty friend to ask, just in case you might want to kill the messenger. One can never be too careful nowadays. As for the minor surgery... could I get a certain yet special thing increased in size?"
I smile as only a Hobbit can and fold my not so meaty arms, awaiting an answer as I think of Desuma.
The good-looking Orc brother, at least, it seemed to Taran, folded his arms in exact mimicry of Jax, and even added a slightly menacing grunt through bared tusks. This, all in visual notification of a second to all of Jax's questions. After Shipy's tort, Taran smiles, and whispers out of the corner of his mouth. "Shipy, I don't think there's anything to be done to help increase the size of your brain. Sorry!"
Taran wonders if he will end up as a lizardman again, and sighs at the thought.
Right around the balding man's phrase "big ideas," Boldwydd's eyes glaze over. At the end of Grippenweld's diatribe, she mutters in confusion, "He wannus t'rescue his pig?" and looks in hope toward the shining beacon of leadership that is the Hobbit.
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