Your style of writing is so different from every other author I read, different in a good way. It always tickles me to read your writings, always leaves me wanting more. As usual, this one didn't disappoint. koala warping to Ivanbot's park, still waiting for your review.
For the first time since we introduced the Feature Habitat on E'lys Island, there are no dragons living on our Landing Island. Instead there is another spectator velodrome: The Dragon Track
With 9 different tracks, featuring 45 combinations of environments, this is the place to see all our dragons race against competitors from around the cosmos. All our races are sprints, so this is the place to drop by if you're not up for a marathon session in the Colosseum.
As the brothers - surnames of Esquinaldo, unfortunately - approached a rise, the elder - Dalraun - stopped playing and pulled his mount to a halt. Rather suddenly, that is. His younger brother - Bizzenfirthaloo - was yet caught up in his practice, and thus their mounts bumped.
"HAW-heeee ... Oof? What is it, brother Dalraun?"
"Shh. We are nearing the town. Best we cease our practicing, lest the townsfolk get a free show.
"Aye, you are correct to protect our talents, for they are our meat and potatoes. But how do you know our locale, pal?"
"The map told me," Dalraun replied.
"The map? I didn't hear it say anything. Here, pull it out again."
Dalraun sighed, for his brother often was hard-headed, as younger brothers seemed to have occasion to be. He reached into his satchel, wherein the map was oft kept, and pulled it out. As he unrolled it, the map yawned, then called out, in a really annoying, high-pitched sort of whine, "HEEEEYY! Weeee're neeeear the town you wanted to gooo toooooo! Let'ssss go in and haaaave a driiiiiiink! What do you saaaayyy to thaaaaa-" and was cut off as Dalraun hasitly rolled it back up. Its muffled cries of protest were, well, muffled.
"Oh."
As they came abreast of the crest, the best they could guess was that the town was a mess. Not the littlest town they had seen (that had been the scene of Preem, and quite a bad dream), this place was called Brace, and it was in trouble. They neared.
The town was fairly normal, as far as towns in these kinds of stories go. It had a few farms lying around it. There were a few streets and roads - these being of packed dirt. The buildings were old, but well-built, yet much in need of painting. But that wasn't what the trouble was. A little painting is an easy fix! This trouble - immediately clear to the Brothers Esquinaldo - was much more immediate and, well, clear. Er, and dangerous!
Their horses' hooves (hoofs? Heef?) clomped dully on the dirt streets, but they themselves rode in a serious and very alert silence. Yes, there was a silence in the air throughout the town. Indeed, the whole town was very quiet. Of a truth, not much was going on. Verily, a general lack of noise - especially the noise of laughter and enjoyment - was present, although how an absence can be a presence is quite an enigma, and this only increased the sense of danger the brothers felt. Their instincts were well-honed, and the hairs on the back of the younger brother's neck stood up. The elder had hairs everywhere, not just on the back of his neck, so it would be a silly picture if his were to be described as standing up, so they weren't. This is in the interest of good storytelling, of course.
Nearing the town's silent center, slowly stepping, sensing cessation of sounds, signs of solitude surrounded Dalraun and Bizzenfirthaloo. They stopped in front of what clearly was the little hamlet's traditional tavern and inn - which bore a wooden sign hanging on creaky ropes and bearing the name The Way Station - and paused to listen. Silence. Together, they dismounted, the elder brother's boots making a muted clomp-clomp on the street's packed earth, the younger's making a clomp-squish, followed by a curse.
"Eerie," Dalraun said.
"No, gross. Eeewwwww." Bizz spent a few disgusted moments wrinkling his nose and trying to scrape off his boot on his horse's hoof, who also wrinkled his nose.
"No, I mean the town. Truly, brother, this is unnatural. Especially here, outside what should be a raucous and rowdy tavern."
"Oh, aye. Where are the people? Where the minstrels? Where the entertainment and the entertained? Most distressingly, where the scantily-clad and buxom barmaids, and the beer?"
"All good questions. Come, let us hitch our mounts and enter. The map clearly led us here for a purpose, and for a reason, and for some other synonym, and our work appears to be cut out for us. Which idiom I have never truly understood. Nevertheless, bringing jocundity and joy to just such a joint is our calling, Brother. We're ready for this challenge. Let us go."
They tied their horses' reins off to a hitching post in front of the inn's broad farmer's porch, Bizzenfirthaloo yet scraping his boot against the ground, then turned to resolutely face the inn (split infinitive). Dalraun cleared his throat, and Bizzenfirthaloo steadied himself as though bracing for a fight. "Let's do it." Dalraun reached back, patting the comforting bulk of his lute in its satchel, and led the way up the stairs and into the yawning darkness of the inn's open door.
As the brothers - surnames of Esquinaldo, unfortunately - approached a rise, the elder - Dalraun - stopped playing and pulled his mount to a halt. Rather suddenly, that is. His younger brother - Bizzenfirthaloo - was yet caught up in his practice, and thus their mounts bumped.
"HAW-heeee ... Oof? What is it, brother Dalraun?"
"Shh. We are nearing the town. Best we cease our practicing, lest the townsfolk get a free show.
"Aye, you are correct to protect our talents, for they are our meat and potatoes. But how do you know our locale, pal?"
"The map told me," Dalraun replied.
"The map? I didn't hear it say anything. Here, pull it out again."
Dalraun sighed, for his brother often was hard-headed, as younger brothers seemed to have occasion to be. He reached into his satchel, wherein the map was oft kept, and pulled it out. As he unrolled it, the map yawned, then called out, in a really annoying, high-pitched sort of whine, "HEEEEYY! Weeee're neeeear the town you wanted to gooo toooooo! Let'ssss go in and haaaave a driiiiiiink! What do you saaaayyy to thaaaaa-" and was cut off as Dalraun hasitly rolled it back up. Its muffled cries of protest were, well, muffled.
"Oh."
As they came abreast of the crest, the best they could guess was that the town was a mess. Not the littlest town they had seen (that had been the scene of Preem, and quite a bad dream), this place was called Brace, and it was in trouble. They neared.
The town was fairly normal, as far as towns in these kinds of stories go. It had a few farms lying around it. There were a few streets and roads - these being of packed dirt. The buildings were old, but well-built, yet much in need of painting. But that wasn't what the trouble was. A little painting is an easy fix! This trouble - immediately clear to the Brothers Esquinaldo - was much more immediate and, well, clear. Er, and dangerous!
Their horses' hooves (hoofs? Heef?) clomped dully on the dirt streets, but they themselves rode in a serious and very alert silence. Yes, there was a silence in the air throughout the town. Indeed, the whole town was very quiet. Of a truth, not much was going on. Verily, a general lack of noise - especially the noise of laughter and enjoyment - was present, although how an absence can be a presence is quite an enigma, and this only increased the sense of danger the brothers felt. Their instincts were well-honed, and the hairs on the back of the younger brother's neck stood up. The elder had hairs everywhere, not just on the back of his neck, so it would be a silly picture if his were to be described as standing up, so they weren't. This is in the interest of good storytelling, of course.
Nearing the town's silent center, slowly stepping, sensing cessation of sounds, signs of solitude surrounded Dalraun and Bizzenfirthaloo. They stopped in front of what clearly was the little hamlet's traditional tavern and inn - which bore a wooden sign hanging on creaky ropes and bearing the name The Way Station - and paused to listen. Silence. Together, they dismounted, the elder brother's boots making a muted clomp-clomp on the street's packed earth, the younger's making a clomp-squish, followed by a curse.
"Eerie," Dalraun said.
"No, gross. Eeewwwww." Bizz spent a few disgusted moments wrinkling his nose and trying to scrape off his boot on his horse's hoof, who also wrinkled his nose.
"No, I mean the town. Truly, brother, this is unnatural. Especially here, outside what should be a raucous and rowdy tavern."
"Oh, aye. Where are the people? Where the minstrels? Where the entertainment and the entertained? Most distressingly, where the scantily-clad and buxom barmaids, and the beer?"
"All good questions. Come, let us hitch our mounts and enter. The map clearly led us here for a purpose, and for a reason, and for some other synonym, and our work appears to be cut out for us. Which idiom I have never truly understood. Nevertheless, bringing jocundity and joy to just such a joint is our calling, Brother. We're ready for this challenge. Let us go."
They tied their horses' reins off to a hitching post in front of the inn's broad farmer's porch, Bizzenfirthaloo yet scraping his boot against the ground, then turned to resolutely face the inn (split infinitive). Dalraun cleared his throat, and Bizzenfirthaloo steadied himself as though bracing for a fight. "Let's do it." Dalraun reached back, patting the comforting bulk of his lute in its satchel, and led the way up the stairs and into the yawning darkness of the inn's open door.
Idiot Face.. LOL..
GCID: Skaala2903 ----------------------- Hunt for missing dragon doubles ON..
Naught occurs by chance. And, yet, everything occurs by chance. It all depends upon your viewpoint.
Envision the proverbial and hackneyed pond, if you will. Drop into this pond a pebble. Ripples. Drop into it, at any other point, another pebble. The ripples cross each other in predictable patterns. Predictable. Yet, continue. Drop in double handfuls of sand at various places. Unpredictable ripples, to a man. Predictable only by a god. Chance, and yet predilection. Viewpoint.
Think on that.
-=-=-=-
"ROAR! RAWR! Erm, ROOOOAR!"
"Yer dumb."
"Stop it. I'm really trying to get this second darned Ruby to show up, but my stupid Chrome Dragon isn't interested in Mr. Scorch at all. And the only way to get her in the mood is to roar at her, obviously." I sighed. "But it's not working. Obviously."
"Obviously. Well, boss, other parks seem to be getting multiple Rubies. Why don't you go steal, I mean ask for advice from your friends?"
"That's the problem; I don't have any friends. Least, that's what my mom always said, that I'd never have any friends cuz I'm dumb."
"Okay, acquaintances. Go see what other park wizards are doing. You might learn something."
I nodded. "You're right. It's time for a trip." I nodded. Or, well, again. Anyhow, yeah. Yeah, time for a trip. I got up from my creaky wooden chair, leaning on the old oaken table, which creaked, and got my creaky bones going. Some odds and ends in the knapsack, my trusty oaken staff, and I was ready. Er, except for my clothes. Everyone knows wizards wear spiffy wizard robes, but I magicked mine into a pair of jeans, because I didn't want park visitors pointing and laughing at the old man in a dress. "If I'm not back in time," I said as I headed for the door, "don't forget to -"
"- turn off the Firefly Dragon's butt at bed time, yes, I know. It keeps the other Fire dragons awake."
"Yes, thank you." Good help is hard to find. Well, off I went.
It was a kinda muggy day, but that's okay; it was July after all. Hadn't been a bad summer thus far, so who'm I to complain? Besides, it's not like anyone can magically control the weather or anything. Off down the path. Some folks have asked me, and it's been in the Suggestions Box at the park more than once, why I don't swap out the rugged riverstone paths on my Forest Island for smoother marble or some such. Truth is, other than being lazy, I really prefer them. They're homey, I dunno. Somehow it's nice to feel those rounded old stones beneath my boots, with the dirt and grass between and the breeze flowing through summer branches thick with leaves. It just fits. I wrinkled my nose as a bee buzzed by my head. I'm not allergic, but I hate bee stings.
I passed by my sadly empty hatchery (okay, not empty, just empty of What I Want: Ruby eggs) and shook my head. Really hoped I'd figure out something that would help me breed that second Ruby Dragon on this trip. Sigh. Mellissa, my little Love Dragon, winked at me, which is what Love Dragons do, and that cheered me up. I hitched up my jeans and headed off. It's always nice to walk down this path, through this park, because it's comfy and homey and relaxing. A slower pace, one could say. I made my way down the path, around corners and beneath the trees, and came to Sham-Rock Henge, feeling the hum of magic that emanated from this unique Warp-In. In my head, I went over the spell I'd need in order to get to my frie- acquaintance Ivanabot's park. That darned bee was buzzing around my head, though, and it was hard to concentrate. If I got even one syllable of my spell wrong, strange things could happen. Well. Bag on my back, staff in hand, I began the incantation, stepped on the magic stones, and - *bbzzzzz* "Ouch!" *zhzhzhzh* ... disappeared ...
Too Good, pleasant to read and visualise.. Great work by Tommy..
Last Edit: Jul 26, 2012 22:41:18 GMT -6 by skaala2903
GCID: Skaala2903 ----------------------- Hunt for missing dragon doubles ON..
So spilled over Wifey's Nursery Island into two Islands. Already needs an edit to add Treasure and Olympus Habitats, so will need to lose the individual egg placements and place them back in tight to the appropriate habitat.
I used to work for a normal university as a librarian. I say normal, to distinguish it from the Unseen University which is for wizards, and if you want to know more about them, I refer you to Sir Terry Pratchett, who has documented their antics for many a year. Suffice to say that the ones who are too weird to work there often become dragon wranglers, which explains a great deal.
When dragons and wizards became available to our dimension, all of dragon lore was brought through with them, and my university received some of the archives, along with a building to house them. We weren’t expecting this collection, and whilst we sometimes acquired items unannounced, this was the first time an entire building had landed. Neatly centred in the middle of the quad, narrowly avoiding a sociologist who was sleeping off a party from the previous night, and frightening the resident sparrow-hawks into laying an extra egg. The egg must have been caught up in the magical backlash, because it emerged purple, striped, and larger than the bird that produced it. It was later collected by one of the wizards now familiar to us all, but he refused to have anything to do with our newly acquired library, and I was assigned to work in it. Actually I begged, pleaded, screamed, drooled and stamped my feet until they reassigned me. For some reason they suddenly decided I’d fit in well with the wizards, and anyway by this time, other colleagues were treating me strangely.
When the building was relocated to one of the new dragon parks, I went along with it. I had been expecting removal vans and was anticipating the usual scrum of hefty removal guys, loading books into crates and resisting any attempts to label them as they were loaded. This move however, was organised by wizards, and without warning I found myself rising rapidly skywards and deposited 35,000 feet over Yorkshire, all without spilling my coffee. Despite a short journey, I was grateful to realise that a bubble of atmosphere had travelled along with the building, although I admit my ears did pop several times, and I seriously considered switching to decaff after a close encounter with a 747 out of Manchester.
I have been keeping a diary of events at the park, but it’s not really a tour as such, so perhaps one of the mods might tell me where to shove it? ;D (Kindly moved by PixieWA - TY)
"Ah, finally." It was a small town, certainly no city. A little strange, too, because it somehow looked ... old. No cars, no trucks, no telephone poles. Hmm. Well, I was intrigued, and, besides, I needed help (and lunch!).
Approaching the little hamlet (mmm, ham ...) took longer than I had anticipated, but that is really only in order to stretch the story out a little bit here at a dull point, because everybody already knows that it was the same town - Brace - that the Brothers Esquinaldo had just entered. Of course, I didn't know this at the time, though clearly now I do, cuz obviously I'm writing the story. But yes it was strange, for the little town was down in a vale, but just as mountains look much closer than they are so too did this village seem closer than it was. There is no plot device here at all, and it isn't even funny or anything. Now I really wonder why I wrote it.
It didn't take long at all to reach the little hamlet (mmm, ham ...), and soon I found myself tromping down what quickly resolved itself as the town's main road. Odd, there was no pavement - just hard, packed dirt. I stopped and looked around (even though the town has already been described), taking note of the crude, old construction of the homes and buildings. They were mostly built of field stone, with mud and thatch for mortar and roof, and large portions of them made of wood, quite likely post-and-beam construction. Old, weather-worn, yet clearly well-built. And in need of some paint. Idly, I cast a spell and colored one pink, wheeee. Hypoglycemia does weird things to people, and, as I said, I was hungry, hungry enough to eat the word that comes right after .
"Yes," I said to nobody in particular, "food. Where does a bloke find a meal in a quaint little village like this?" But nobody was even evident to answer, let alone any blokes. "Okay, then, never mind the blokes, where can I get some nosh? Must be a restaurant or a bar or something in this no-stop-sign town. This is the main street, far as I can tell," and, so far as I could tell, I was on the town's principal thoroughfare, "so I am likely to find it on this street," I declared, and it seemed probable that it could be located somewhere down this road.
Just then, what reached my ears could only be described as an awful aural assault.
twang-twing ... cloomb ... twingitty ...
"Woah!"
trummm ... tangitty ...
"What in the world?"
HEE-haw!
It seemed to come from the direction I'd intended to go, which, one would assume, would cement my decision and spur me onwards. But that assumption would be dead wrong. What a racket! Oh, it almost made me lose my appetite altogether! I pulled the brim of my floppy wizard's hat down over my ears, screwed up my courage (because the "music" hadn't quite managed to screw up my appetite), and resolutely I set off ... towards the ruckus and, perhaps, to my doom ...
Hi Tommy, your writing reminds me of a very excellent book I'd like to recommend to you: If On A Winter's Night a Traveller. A small blurb that I copied from Wikipedia about the text:
The narrative is about a reader trying to read a book called If on a winter's night a traveller. Every odd-numbered chapter is in the second person, and tells the reader what he is doing in preparation for reading the next chapter. The even-numbered chapters are all single chapters from whichever book the reader is trying to read.
Ooo, investigated the book. Sounds really cool! I'll have to fnd a way to get my hands on a copy, maybe in a few months when I'm hopefully back to work. Really interesting idea and sounds like it was accomplished well. Thanks for the rcommendation!
"It's full of staaaaarrrrsss! Wheeeeeeeee-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hoooooooo!" Rapidly gathering speed (that's not a pun), the aforementioned object began to gather speed rapidly. Exponentially. The vast depths of extra-solar space are cold. Like, technically. Heat is technically the motion of atoms and their constituents. Motion requires energy, as we know, and there is very little energy out in the depths of space. Solar winds, light, energy quickly dissipates, atoms and elements spread far out, trying to come to some kind of equilibrium with the nothingness, and doing a pretty miserable job of it. The object, however, was being acted upon by a force, a magic, a will, which smelled funny, from an immense, unthinkable distance, rendering it initially small, nearly imperceptible, easily missed and easily lost, especially in a run-on-sentence, and that with so many, many, unnecessary commas. But it gathered momentum. Soon, with so little to push against it or to act against it, in that near-void far beyond our solar system, soon the object would gather great speed, and indeed it had begun to ... but whence its destination? Ah, that will soon be revealed (course, it's easily guessable, cuz this is a story).
-=-=-=-
The Brothers Esquinaldo were of two minds, which makes sense since there were two of 'em. On the one hand, they both were well-seasoned (Montreal, perhaps; definitely not Old Bay. We're talking heroes, not crab cakes, here!) wandering entertainers. They were men of the open road, bound by no laws, familiar with rough circumstances and tough situations, and as such had certainly been in their fair share of scrapes and brawls. They were love-'em-and-leave-'em, always moving on to the next town, the next adventure, the next box of ketchup packets. Or maybe catsup, depends. Regardless, their bravado was by no means false.
Yet, concurrently (an awkward word for this genre), the eerie quiet of this town, the absence of evidence of inhabitants, just the very heavy stillness which hung in the air - these things were undoubtedly unsettling.
Nevertheless, they resolved to boldly step (split infinitive) through the front door of the Way Station, ready for whatever they might meet within.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but their other senses had already filled in most of the details: beer and liquor, good, greasy tavern food, unwashed bodies, and fear. Yes, fear. Oh, and horse poop, but we know where that came from. As they adjusted, their eyes began to take in the particulars.
All motion had stopped when they had brazenly come through the doors. Blonk blonk blonk and such. Ahem. All motion had stopped when they had brazenly come through the doors, Dalraun with lute in hand and Bizzenfirthaloo with ass at the ready.
"Greetins, cretins, and a beautiful day to you! I and my brother are the famous traveling entertainers Dalraun! Well, I'm Dalraun, but we're the famous Brothers Esquinaldo!" Tloooombbbb - he gave a flourish on his lute. Blank stares. "We have come to rescue the day! To save your bacon!"
"Yes, please save us some bacon!" Bizzenfirthaloo whispered intently.
"Aha! This town is under ... a curse! A curse of morbid, er, morbidity! A horrible, wretched state ... of ... "
"Wait for it ... "
"... boredom!"
"HEE-haw! Hee-haw!"
"And we are come ... to, dramatic pause ... save you, yes, I said that, erm, okay, right. Have no fear, gentle townsfolks! I, Dalraun - " a theatric cloomb cloomb twangitty "- and my dear brother Bizzenfirth - "
"Haw-HEE! MrroooOOOO!"
"- aloo - " he lowered his voice. "You do that every time! Get it right! Ahem, as I was saying, my dear brother and I are the famous Brothers Esquinaldo, and tonight you shall be entertained by our unmatched talents while we eat your mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, and bar maids! Er, that didn't come out right."
"Hwonk! Hwonk! Knicker knicker knicker, hee-HAW!"
As Bizzenfirthaloo's final HAW echoed off into the darker corners of the tavern's common room, all that bounced back were those blank stares. They came from, however, dozens and dozens of similarly blank faces. The place was packed. The whole town must have been present. Doesn't anybody work around here? The barkeep had even frozen in mid-wipe of a heavy stein, and a barmaid in mid-swipe of a bevy stain (that was pretty good, yes?). The tables were full, and every head was turned in rapt befuddlement (don't think I've ever written that before) towards the Brothers Esquinaldo. From all corners - the bar, the tables, the fireside - came blank stares - even the back stairs.
Dalraun grinned and clapped his brother on the back. "Brother, I do believe we have ourselves some employ." He wielded his fine lute with a flourish, plucked out a few chords, and called out, "Let the evening merriment begin!" Cloombitty-twing tang-twing clumb cloooomb!
The inn exploded into motion. The brothers descended the stairs into the common room, heading towards the bar to negotiate a fair price for their inestimable talents. Laughter and raucous conversation picked back up at every table, steins slammed down and cries for more ale were made. The barmaids jumped back into action, patiently but cheerfully exchanging drinks and grabs for cold hard cash.
Yet all was not well. Not every patron partook of the joviality and pleasantries. One lone figure, standing in a far, darkened corner, pulled her hood up over her head, and slanted her eyes as she examined the loud newcomers. Her stance was difficult to discern, yet it seemed to betray several emotions at once: alertness, alarm, alacrity, attendance, arrogance, uh, ambivalence ... oh, and - most telling - recognition.
She fingered the hilt of the stiletto at her hip, her inner thoughts in turmoil, and furrowed her brow in thought. Very nearly, she resisted the impulse to draw the weapon. She could have, certainly, because well she'd had it a long time so she knew what it looked like, and she was pretty good at drawing. Mainly charcoals, or pastels. Watercolors were definitely not her strong suit, cuz they just wouldn't stay where they were put! But she didn't draw it. She also resisted the urge to pull it from its sheath and toss it spinning into the heart of the elder Esquinaldo. No, she had better self-control than that. Her resolution to investigate matters more thoroughly was the only thing standing between that chunky hairy man and his certain death, because even at this distance of two hundred feet (the inn was bigger on the inside than it had appeared) she would not have missed her mark. No, she decided, she would see this through.
I love some of your phrases - "trying to come to some kind of equilibrium with the nothingness, and doing a pretty miserable job of it." "The Brothers Esquinaldo were of two minds, which makes sense since there were two of 'em." Stein/stain - yes it WAS good and a woman of mystery, what more do we need? Well tell us!
Sorry I missed this earlier in the week, I usually read via iPhone on the train.
I love some of your phrases - "trying to come to some kind of equilibrium with the nothingness, and doing a pretty miserable job of it." "The Brothers Esquinaldo were of two minds, which makes sense since there were two of 'em." Stein/stain - yes it WAS good and a woman of mystery, what more do we need? Well tell us!
Sorry I missed this earlier in the week, I usually read via iPhone on the train.
That's okay! Glad you're enjoying it! I'm really not looking for attention or fishing for compliments, just trying to entertain folks!
"Well, golly. That was gross." I scraped my boot (I wear cowboy boots. They're comfy, especially around year seven or eight) off on (weird thing to say - off on - which is it? Would it be more accurate to say I scraped the pooh off my boot on, because I certainly didn't scrape my boot off my foot or anything) someone's face, and headed resolutely toward the town's center.
As I walked, I noticed many things that set off red flags in my head. For instance, the road, though packed dirt, showed the prints and tracks not of cars and trucks but horses and carts. And chickens. Next, there were no telephone poles nor any such thing as satellite t.v. dishes or antennae. None of the houses had garages, either, which was weird. It truly was like stepping back centuries in time. In my mind I began to consider exactly what had gone wrong.
Clearly, I had got the incantation wrong. That darned bumblebee had stung me and screwed up my warp spell. The first question to answer was this: if not the proper incantation, then what exactly had I said? If I could somehow recall the exact words and intonation, perhaps I could piece together the precise spell I had accidentally cast as I'd stepped on the warp stones, and that might help me figure out where - or when? - I'd wound up.
"Okay, normally, to zip to Ivabanot's dragon park I would have said, 'Yo, Warp Stones, I really wanna go to Ivanabot's dragon park, oh pretty pretty please, thank you and you're neat.'" Erm, of course, that would have been said in, like, some weird language. Of course. Cuz everyone knows casting spells can't be that easy. Right? Obviously, it's all hard and spooky and hocus-pocus (fascinating origin to that word, 'hocus-pocus', by the way. I recommend studying it and considering its ramifications), not just saying a bunch of plain normal sentences. Right? Right. Prolly in some weird, arcane language. Or maybe that's why wizards always mutter their spells.
Anyhow, what exactly had I said? Plodding along down the town's main street, I tried to recall exactly when the darned bee had stung me. What word had I been saying, and what did I say instead, and was that printable? Where in the sequence was it? Had the bee sting caused me to omit a 'pretty'? What rhymes with 'pretty'? I sure hoped it was nothing anatomical. That would be comical! Or conical?
My thoughts were interrupted by something that stopped me dead in my tracks (but only figuratively, because obviously I'm still alive to write this). It sounded like a cross between a dead cow and a dying donkey. Almost as though a tall, thin, light-complected brother were practicing making animal noises and sucked at it. Oh, it was awful. Behind it was some kind of music, though to use that word for it was quite a stretch. Somebody was strangling a guitar or something, and I wished somebody else would help him. The worst part was that it was coming from the direction I was headed. Well, a growling stomach knows no ... something. Hmm. Knows no trepidation? Knows no boundaries? Has no common sense? Ah! A growling stomach is no music critic. Need food.
As I continued towards the gut-wrenching, blood-freezing sounds coming from the town's center, looking forward to a good ham sandwich, I tried to figure out where I'd gone wrong. Usually, it's waking up.
-=-=-=-
The bouncing buxom brunette barmaid brazenly bore bottled beer by beaming Bizzenfirthaloo, who reached out and grabbed one off the tray as she passed. He popped the top and gave a contended sigh as he downed the bountiful bracing bubbly brown brew. "Heee-haw, Dalraun. Ah, this is the life."
"Indeed, my friend," Dalraun affirmed, finishing off his own ale. "I mean, brother. Indeed, my brother. And I can see you've been practicing your ass." Bizzenfirth smiled with gratifaction. Grateful satisfaction. "You held them rapt, my brother, with the realism of your uncanny recreation of the donkey call. Well done indeed."
"Pshaw."
"But, now, I reckon they have had sufficient time to order another round, and to truly soak in the genius of your performance. Now, again I say, it is time for a song." He stood. "Yes!" he called more loudly, "a song!" Dalraun grabbed his lute, cleared his voice, and climbed the steps to the stage, coming out of the relative shadows of their table into the bright glow cast by the common room's twin fireplaces. "A song!" he called again, and was echoed by several townfolk.
Now, it must be explained, mainly because I can't seem to work it cleverly into the narrative, that although the brothers' talents generally and typically resulted in headaches, nausea, and vomiting, which normally would get them thrown out of any establishment they performed in, the perverse thing about their unique talents was that they instead held their audience in rapt attention while they performed. Whether this was due to some arcane trinket casting a literal spell over the crowd, or instead some queer twist of their own actual talents, well, this is unknown (because the story is more mysterious that way). Regardless of the why, the what is that they did indeed enthrall their audience, despite the adverse effects their performances caused. Again, the perverse thing about this was that the audience, rapt and seemingly unable to escape (the way a car wreck magnetically draws the attention of passers-by), instead called out the more for drink to drown this sorrowing situation, resulting in beaucoup sales for the tavern that night. Course, the Brothers Esquinaldo thought they were just really really good entertainers. That was a long paragraph. Anyhow, that obviously is a tough thing to explain through narrative, except in a long, tedious manner, so there it is in a nutshell. Now the reader has knowledge that the characters lack, and we call this literary device 'dramatic irony'. Don't mention it.
Dalraun cleared his throat (while many of his audience, in anticipation of the trial they were about to endure, wet their throats), flourished his fine ash lute, took a bow, and straightened with a flair of dramatic poise. Then, to the horror of his hearers, he opened his mouth.
"Oh, maiden fair ... whose eyes are bright as the sun, Let me come up there ... where love will, er, begun ... "
clooomb, twangitty twang ...
"Ah, my dear dear ... you hopefully shall hear, How dear you, er, are, it's clear ... never fear ... "
twing-twang, clomp
"For I am your hero! May I rescue you from ... " clang "Your doom which is near - oh! You have a nice - "
clong twing tang!
Heads were down. Sales were up.
-=-=-=-
Far off, lurking in the corner, the hooded woman fought back several emotions: rage, despair, and her lunch. Ah, Dalraun, she thought, how could you. For so many years, you have (this would be in italics, but I'm too lazy to do the brackets thing, sorry) tempted, teased, and terribly tortured me with your promises, playing, and putrifying performances. What's a girl to do? I cannot live any longer like this. I will not let you live any longer like this. Tonight, she thought with determination, a steel-cold, rock-hard resolution forming in her gut, tonight I will end your sorry existence, though it will kill me to see your beautiful face frozen in death. I must rid the world of your cruel gift, and avenge the many women you have left unsatisfied, rapt but vomitous. Oh, Dalraun. Tonight, you will torture your audience for the last time. And then, just maybe, my broken heart will beat again for the first time since I got stung by a bee and miscast my warp spell so many years ago. This I most solemnly swear, or my name isn't ... Ivanabot!
We are a little overdue in writing our latest brochure for E'lys Island, as the Treasure Habitat with our Gold Dragons has been the welcoming site on our arrival island for a few weeks now, but today's events have compelled us to write an update. The wizards of the park have reached a few milestones today, which culminated in a magical event transforming the elemental statues that ring our feature habitat to Gold. Here you can see an image captured with the statues mid transformation.
This magic has released limitations previously in place on the parks dragons and will allow the game keepers to feed up the dragons to make them bigger and better than ever before. The calculations of the food required have not been done, as we quickly ran out of fingers when trying to tally it up.
We have recently heard word of a Silver Dragon, a cousin to the Gold currently on display, but have been unable to procure one for the park. We had no trouble collecting our Gold Dragons when the statues are silver, and hope that the Silver Dragons will now be readily available after turning all the statues gold.
The astute amongst you will also notice that our Colosseum is no longer on E'lys Island. Center Management was able to find and attach a 7th Island to our archipelago and so we are proud to present ...
Isla Juegos
Our Colosseum and Race Track have found their new home on this island which is a celebration of competition. It also houses two brand new Olympus habitats (don't be fooled by the ancient Greek architecture, these things are state of the art) each with a full complement of Gold, Silver and Bronze Dragons, including a nursery habitat with infants of this brand new dragon species. Symbolising the prize money to be won in any good competition, the Pots of Gold and their accompanying Rainbow Dragons have also been relocated here. We encourage you to visit whilst the braziers are stocked and lit, as our game keepers inform me we won't have the fuel to keep them burning for too much longer.
'... overwhelming goodwill, and witty humour, profound grace and compassion blended with the spice of relentless taunts.'
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