random stuff
- Thread starter greyblob
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
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A bedtime story for conspiring second princes:
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Dunderklutch, there was an old king who had fallen ill, as old people are wont to do. In this realm of power-hungry nobles and conniving courtiers, his ailment was like a beacon to the vultures that circled above the royal palace.
The king had three sons, and each had a faction of loyal followers ready to plunge their daggers into the back of the other. The crown prince, the eldest, had the advantage of the royal guard. They were a fearsome bunch, built like mountains and fiercely loyal, mostly because they were paid in gold bars that could buy you a small castle.
The second prince, however, wasn't one to be outdone. His faction, lacking the brawn of the royal guard, decided to outsource the business of regicide. They hired assassins to poison the king. A risky endeavor, to be sure, but when you're eyeing the throne, you have to take chances.
The assassins, fearing for their own lives in case their plot was discovered, devised a cunning scheme. They embezzled a portion of the money they received and decided to cut corners on the poison. The king was to die by a slow-acting, agonizing toxin – poetic justice, they thought.
In a twist of fate, these ruthless killers ended up embezzling not only the money but the powerful poison too, which they had obtained from the prince. Panicking, they needed a patsy who could do their dirty work without raising suspicions.
Enter Madge, a senior maid who had served the king for longer than anyone could remember. She had a grudge against the king for not giving her a raise in years. When the assassins approached her with their deadly proposition, she saw an opportunity to take revenge without getting her own hands dirty.
Madge took their ill-gotten gold and their equally ill-gotten poison, but she had no intention of endangering her comfortable job as the keeper of the royal iron bowl. So, she sought out a junior maid, Eliza, known for her innocence and gullibility. With a wink, Madge handed her the poison, masquerading it as "medicament" for the king's ailment.
Eliza, eager to please and oblivious to the treacherous plot, duly administered the poison, thinking she was helping the ailing monarch. But the gods of irony had other plans in store.
You see, Madge's knowledge of poisons was as limited as her grudge was colossal. She had inadvertently passed on a weaker poison, extracted from a snake, that, when mixed with the herb extract the king had been drinking, had an unexpected reaction.
Instead of pushing the old king closer to his inevitable doom, it miraculously acted as a healing elixir, revitalizing his fragile vitality. The king began to show signs of life, and his sons watched in disbelief as he regained his strength.
In the blink of an eye, the feeble king had turned into a spry elder with a new lease on life. He was suddenly more focused on chasing chambermaids than the affairs of state. Eliza, the innocent junior maid who had unintentionally concocted this life-saving brew, was hailed as a "saint" by the courtiers. Even the old royal guard faction saw this as a sign of divine intervention and rallied behind the reinvigorated king.
With their plan in shambles, the second prince's faction was left stupefied, holding their bags of embezzled gold and a vial of snake poison they couldn't even give away at the local apothecary.
In a bizarre twist of fate, the old king's newfound vitality led to the resolution of the inheritance dispute. The crown prince, secure in his position, managed to restore order to the kingdom. The other factions, defeated and demoralized, had no choice but to slink back into the shadows, and the third prince quietly sipping tea without ever getting involved.
And so, in the kingdom of Dunderklutch, where treachery was as common as the jester's antics, a foolish plot led by cunning but inept assassins ended up being the unlikely catalyst for a happily ever after – unless you happened to be one of those scheming nobles, in which case, it was just plain old-fashioned irony at its finest.
The king had three sons, and each had a faction of loyal followers ready to plunge their daggers into the back of the other. The crown prince, the eldest, had the advantage of the royal guard. They were a fearsome bunch, built like mountains and fiercely loyal, mostly because they were paid in gold bars that could buy you a small castle.
The second prince, however, wasn't one to be outdone. His faction, lacking the brawn of the royal guard, decided to outsource the business of regicide. They hired assassins to poison the king. A risky endeavor, to be sure, but when you're eyeing the throne, you have to take chances.
The assassins, fearing for their own lives in case their plot was discovered, devised a cunning scheme. They embezzled a portion of the money they received and decided to cut corners on the poison. The king was to die by a slow-acting, agonizing toxin – poetic justice, they thought.
In a twist of fate, these ruthless killers ended up embezzling not only the money but the powerful poison too, which they had obtained from the prince. Panicking, they needed a patsy who could do their dirty work without raising suspicions.
Enter Madge, a senior maid who had served the king for longer than anyone could remember. She had a grudge against the king for not giving her a raise in years. When the assassins approached her with their deadly proposition, she saw an opportunity to take revenge without getting her own hands dirty.
Madge took their ill-gotten gold and their equally ill-gotten poison, but she had no intention of endangering her comfortable job as the keeper of the royal iron bowl. So, she sought out a junior maid, Eliza, known for her innocence and gullibility. With a wink, Madge handed her the poison, masquerading it as "medicament" for the king's ailment.
Eliza, eager to please and oblivious to the treacherous plot, duly administered the poison, thinking she was helping the ailing monarch. But the gods of irony had other plans in store.
You see, Madge's knowledge of poisons was as limited as her grudge was colossal. She had inadvertently passed on a weaker poison, extracted from a snake, that, when mixed with the herb extract the king had been drinking, had an unexpected reaction.
Instead of pushing the old king closer to his inevitable doom, it miraculously acted as a healing elixir, revitalizing his fragile vitality. The king began to show signs of life, and his sons watched in disbelief as he regained his strength.
In the blink of an eye, the feeble king had turned into a spry elder with a new lease on life. He was suddenly more focused on chasing chambermaids than the affairs of state. Eliza, the innocent junior maid who had unintentionally concocted this life-saving brew, was hailed as a "saint" by the courtiers. Even the old royal guard faction saw this as a sign of divine intervention and rallied behind the reinvigorated king.
With their plan in shambles, the second prince's faction was left stupefied, holding their bags of embezzled gold and a vial of snake poison they couldn't even give away at the local apothecary.
In a bizarre twist of fate, the old king's newfound vitality led to the resolution of the inheritance dispute. The crown prince, secure in his position, managed to restore order to the kingdom. The other factions, defeated and demoralized, had no choice but to slink back into the shadows, and the third prince quietly sipping tea without ever getting involved.
And so, in the kingdom of Dunderklutch, where treachery was as common as the jester's antics, a foolish plot led by cunning but inept assassins ended up being the unlikely catalyst for a happily ever after – unless you happened to be one of those scheming nobles, in which case, it was just plain old-fashioned irony at its finest.
RepresentingDesire
Eye of Desire
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 1,393
- Points
- 153
A bedtime story for legendary ice magicians:
Ah, the life of an ice magician, a profession that sounds like it was plucked straight from the pages of a fairy tale. People imagine majestic sorcerers conjuring frosty wonders, but let me set the record straight. In this quaint little village, I'm less of a magician and more of a glorified ice dispenser with a knack for freezing things.
You see, while others wield staffs with dragon-scale cores, I carry a hefty ice pick disguised as a wand and a perpetually annoyed expression. My job is simple yet numbingly monotonous - freeze water. Buckets upon buckets of it. Each day, they summon me with all the pomp of a royal decree, as if I were some sort of magical savior.
The villagers gather 'round in awe, their faces a delightful mix of expectation and ignorance. They whisper in hushed tones, "Oh, there goes the great ice magician!" And what do I do? I raise my trusty ice pick high, strike the earth, and boom! Ice spreads forth in all its chilly glory, as if I'd just channeled the spirit of my ancestor, Jack Frost the Second himself.
The children clap and cheer, thinking I've performed an act of unparalleled magic. Little do they know, it's less "Abracadabra" and more "Swish, flick, freeze." I'm not a magician; I'm a glorified refrigerator.
Sometimes, I wonder if this is what my destiny had in store for me. Did my parents secretly hope that their precious child would grow up to be the human-sized ice dispenser of the village? I imagine my ancestors, the great ice sorcerers of yore, shaking their frosty heads in disappointment from their icy graves.
But hey, it pays the bills, I suppose. And I can always count on a steady stream of compliments from the locals. "Oh, thank you, ice magician, for gracing us with your frosty talents!" they say, offering me baskets of apples and freshly baked bread as if I'd just saved their livestock from a fire-breathing dragon.
So here I am, the unsung hero of the village, the master of the frozen water, the ice magician. The next time you hear of one, just remember that not all magical professions are filled with wonder and awe. Some are just, well, downright chilling.
You see, while others wield staffs with dragon-scale cores, I carry a hefty ice pick disguised as a wand and a perpetually annoyed expression. My job is simple yet numbingly monotonous - freeze water. Buckets upon buckets of it. Each day, they summon me with all the pomp of a royal decree, as if I were some sort of magical savior.
The villagers gather 'round in awe, their faces a delightful mix of expectation and ignorance. They whisper in hushed tones, "Oh, there goes the great ice magician!" And what do I do? I raise my trusty ice pick high, strike the earth, and boom! Ice spreads forth in all its chilly glory, as if I'd just channeled the spirit of my ancestor, Jack Frost the Second himself.
The children clap and cheer, thinking I've performed an act of unparalleled magic. Little do they know, it's less "Abracadabra" and more "Swish, flick, freeze." I'm not a magician; I'm a glorified refrigerator.
Sometimes, I wonder if this is what my destiny had in store for me. Did my parents secretly hope that their precious child would grow up to be the human-sized ice dispenser of the village? I imagine my ancestors, the great ice sorcerers of yore, shaking their frosty heads in disappointment from their icy graves.
But hey, it pays the bills, I suppose. And I can always count on a steady stream of compliments from the locals. "Oh, thank you, ice magician, for gracing us with your frosty talents!" they say, offering me baskets of apples and freshly baked bread as if I'd just saved their livestock from a fire-breathing dragon.
So here I am, the unsung hero of the village, the master of the frozen water, the ice magician. The next time you hear of one, just remember that not all magical professions are filled with wonder and awe. Some are just, well, downright chilling.
Representing_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of an author begging for feedb
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Representing_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of an author begging for feedb
- Joined
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- 233
Stealthy_Enigma
(❀≽ᆺ≼)⊃~~~~✧ ꧁Floofy Ninja!!!꧂
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HelloHound
Hound of hell, lover of girls
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monastery
Representing_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of an author begging for feedb
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You know!!!
D
Deleted member 84247
Guest
Tempokai
The Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
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A bedtime story of those Chosen Hollows out there:
Once upon a time, in a world filled with mystical lands and epic quests, there was the Chosen Hollow. A hero of destiny, destined to save the kingdom of Lordran from an impending darkness. Armed with a trusty sword and a heart full of courage, he embarked on a journey that would be... anything but ordinary.
Our Chosen Hollow had been reading the ancient prophecy for weeks, a prophecy that foretold his arrival in the mystical land of Lordran. The sacred text, however, had no warning about the treacherous pitfalls of technology of Guiding Position Stones.
As he set forth on his quest, the Chosen Hollow pulled out his GPS, a relic of the flame age that was supposed to guide him to his destination. With a resolute look on his face, he uttered the magical words, "Take me to Lordran."
But fate had a cruel twist in store. Auto-correct, the bane of smartphone users everywhere, reared its ugly head. The GPS interpreted "Lordran" as "London" with a smug certainty that only autocorrect can muster. And with that, the Chosen Hollow found himself on a one-way ticket to foggy, rainy England, rather than the mystical kingdom of Lordran.
As he gazed upon the bustling city streets, the Chosen Hollow was utterly baffled. London was certainly not what he had envisioned for his heroic journey. Instead of ancient castles and fearsome monsters, he was surrounded by double-decker buses and people in trench coats.
Panic began to set in as he wandered the streets of London, wondering if he was supposed to defeat the dreaded "Big Ben" or engage in a perilous battle with the Queen's Guard. Alas, he was far from the kingdom of Lordran, and the Hollowed were not part of his immediate concerns.
To make matters worse, the Chosen Hollow's attire, which was meant for epic battles, drew quite a few stares from the Londoners. Passersby gave him peculiar looks as he brandished his sword and shield while trying to make sense of the city's tube map. He couldn't decide if the Underground was a dungeon or just the local subway.
Desperate and confused, he finally decided to ask a passerby for help. "Excuse me, good sir," he said to a puzzled Londoner. "I'm supposed to be in Lordran, but I seem to have ended up in this... strange land. Can you assist me in any way?"
The Londoner raised an eyebrow and replied, "Lordran? Sorry, mate, I think you've got the wrong stop. You want to head back the way you came and try not to follow your GPS too literally."
And so, the Chosen Hollow's quest to save Lordran took an unexpected detour through the winding streets of London, guided not by prophecy but by the voice of a helpful Londoner. It wasn't quite the heroic adventure he had imagined, but it was certainly a tale to remember, filled with the perils of technology and the absurdity of autocorrect.
Our Chosen Hollow had been reading the ancient prophecy for weeks, a prophecy that foretold his arrival in the mystical land of Lordran. The sacred text, however, had no warning about the treacherous pitfalls of technology of Guiding Position Stones.
As he set forth on his quest, the Chosen Hollow pulled out his GPS, a relic of the flame age that was supposed to guide him to his destination. With a resolute look on his face, he uttered the magical words, "Take me to Lordran."
But fate had a cruel twist in store. Auto-correct, the bane of smartphone users everywhere, reared its ugly head. The GPS interpreted "Lordran" as "London" with a smug certainty that only autocorrect can muster. And with that, the Chosen Hollow found himself on a one-way ticket to foggy, rainy England, rather than the mystical kingdom of Lordran.
As he gazed upon the bustling city streets, the Chosen Hollow was utterly baffled. London was certainly not what he had envisioned for his heroic journey. Instead of ancient castles and fearsome monsters, he was surrounded by double-decker buses and people in trench coats.
Panic began to set in as he wandered the streets of London, wondering if he was supposed to defeat the dreaded "Big Ben" or engage in a perilous battle with the Queen's Guard. Alas, he was far from the kingdom of Lordran, and the Hollowed were not part of his immediate concerns.
To make matters worse, the Chosen Hollow's attire, which was meant for epic battles, drew quite a few stares from the Londoners. Passersby gave him peculiar looks as he brandished his sword and shield while trying to make sense of the city's tube map. He couldn't decide if the Underground was a dungeon or just the local subway.
Desperate and confused, he finally decided to ask a passerby for help. "Excuse me, good sir," he said to a puzzled Londoner. "I'm supposed to be in Lordran, but I seem to have ended up in this... strange land. Can you assist me in any way?"
The Londoner raised an eyebrow and replied, "Lordran? Sorry, mate, I think you've got the wrong stop. You want to head back the way you came and try not to follow your GPS too literally."
And so, the Chosen Hollow's quest to save Lordran took an unexpected detour through the winding streets of London, guided not by prophecy but by the voice of a helpful Londoner. It wasn't quite the heroic adventure he had imagined, but it was certainly a tale to remember, filled with the perils of technology and the absurdity of autocorrect.
D
Deleted member 84247
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greyblob
"Staff Memeber" pleasr
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interesting/slightly useful for world building
m.youtube.com
youtube.com
- YouTube
Enjoy the videos and music you love, upload original content, and share it all with friends, family, and the world on YouTube.
m.youtube.com
- YouTube
Enjoy the videos and music you love, upload original content, and share it all with friends, family, and the world on YouTube.
youtube.com