As residents of SMP8 know, I'm prone to spouting off some exceedingly random snippets of things. I can't really call them "stories," as they're much too short... but I shall record some here, for your amusement. When the hammer came down, Johnson had little time to reflect on the circumstances of his imminent cranial trauma. Glowing hot steel struck him with such force that his parting thoughts were quite literally scorched into the wall behind him. Sadly, Johnson was not the philosophical or introspective type. The words burned in the masonry read thus: "I forgot to fold the laundry in the dryer." "No, you must not take it! You don't understand, that blade is cursed! ...Towards the end, something terrible took hold of Ceres. Do you know what that's like, watching something you love become so twisted with hate? I had to watch every horrible step of his transformation. I knew him when he was just a pup- and then to see him become that kind of monster. I've always blamed myself for his fall. Our order teaches us to block out emotions, shut them away. They cloud judgement. But no one can stay stone forever. Ceres had shut away his feelings for so long, he did not know how to deal with them when he lost control. And when he finally let himself go... he was unstoppable. An unstoppable, wrathful god." "In prison? You must be joking!" I exclaimed. Adelline answered me with one of her trademark grins, showing quite clearly that she wasn't. "But isn't it a rather dour place for a wedding?" "Oh, I suppose to some," she laughed. Her fingers danced around the edge of her wine glass for a moment, before lifting it to her lips. "But for us it was quite fitting! That is where we met, after all. I'm sure you remember that story, Haudran." I shook my head. In truth, I did recall most of the details, but my pen was not at hand for the last telling. It is difficult to study sandwiches in their natural habitat. Although I have traveled through hundreds of refrigerators, these elusive creatures are often too well-disguised to observe properly. Cleverly, they break themselves down into their component parts, and seldom are their ingredients the same. To be sure, the Sliced Ham, Turkey, and Roast Beef cutlets are easy enough to identify. But it is the variety of cheeses, condiments, and assorted other fixings that make identifying a Sandwich such a difficult task. And then there are the Wraps...
Some humorous quotes I dug up from an old flash-drive. Smile! You want to look your best for the mug-shot. It's not murder, it's quality control. Sadly, his attention span doesn't make it across his knowledge gap. Enlightenment is brief - the mental scarring lasts a lifetime.
Had Samuel known then what awaited him in the depths, he might have reconsidered his decision. "Still," he reflected as he sat in the Fish Man's prison being poked with a stick, "there are worse fates." Beside him, the bones of the cage's previous occupant silently agreed.
Going to preface this with a bit of explanation. Minecraft isn't the only game I've done the "in-game book" thing for - back in my Morrowind modding days I'd written a few texts there as well. Most of them are either dull or amount to bad fanfiction, or both - but recently I stumbled onto some work I'd completely forgotten about, and as it turns out this version actually had some promise to it. Maybe posting it here will give me the spark needed to continue it. The following tale follows the Breton scholar Christophe Hawkston as he tries to complete his research in eastern Cyrodiil... Any Price To Pay, Volume 115th Last Seed, 3E 432 Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil On an ordinary day, the multicolored sunlight streaming through the chapel would have brightened Christophe Hawkston's spirit as much as it did the pews around him. On this particular morning however, it only served to worsen the pounding inside his head. "This," he reminded himself sourly, "is why you don't drink the cheap stuff." Sadly, "the cheap stuff" was all Dervera had left to offer when he stumbled into the Newlands Lodge the night before. He couldn't recall most of it - proving the alcohol had done its work as he'd intended - but vague images still assaulted him from the subconscious shadows, where even two-septim ales with all the flavor of fermented kagouti piss hadn't been able to reach. An Ayleid ruin. High Elves in dark robes. Daedra - by the Nine, so many daedra. A big Nord, bloodied from combat. "It was only supposed to be a quick research expedition," Christophe mumbled, his words still slurred by ale. Or perhaps it was actual kagouti piss - you never could tell with these Dunmer migrants. Slowly, Hawkston pushed himself up from the pew, dumping several books from his lap to the floor. Mumbling more oaths to himself, he knelt between the benches to retrieve the scattered tomes. Belda was a mistake. A terrible, traumatizing mistake that had cost him weeks of valuable research, and the even more valuable life of his guide Sanderson. His thoughts were interrupted as a tall, slender shadow came between him and the too-bright rays of sunlight. For a heartbeat, relief and terror fought for control - by the second beat, Christophe recognized the shadow to be another High Elf, and terror won out. He fell backwards into the chapel aisle with a startled yelp. "Oh dear, are you alright?" the elf asked, bending to help lift him up. Hawkston's cheeks flushed pink - it was only Ohtesse, the chapel healer. No murderous conjurers lurked within Cheydinhal's walls. At least, none he knew of. "Thank you," he murmured, then more coherrently, "I'm sorry, my nerves are rather frayed today." Ohtesse nodded, handing him one of the journals he'd dropped. "From the amount of liquor you had last night, I'm amazed your nerves work at all. Hil and Gruiand were taking bets on whether you'd pickled yourself into a coma." She gave the Breton a thin smile. "I'm pleased to see they were both wrong." "I wish I could say the same." He chuckled wryly, then winced. "Passing on while in the Chapel of Arkay does have a certain poetic elegance to it." The elf's smile became a little more genuine. "True, true. Even so, we prefer our patrons not drop dead under our roof. Are you a follower of the Nine?" She looked hopeful. Christophe thought as quickly as his hangover would allow. "They... um... have their uses, certainly." A hard wooden chapel pew was still preferable to sleeping outside on the ground, after all. "I appreciate those who dedicate themselves to such noble causes." That much at least was simple honesty. Before the healer could engage him in a lengthy discussion about the Divines, he gathered the last of his books from the floor and bade her thanks for the hospitality of the chapel's roof. @}---- The chest was empty. Rahna spat a muted curse, peering into it again. The chest was empty. She lightly tapped a claw on its bottom, each side panel, hoping to find some secret nook. There was none - the chest was gods-damned empty! After the long and treacherous course she'd weaved, sneaking into Belda's depths without notice, slipping past the daedra-conjurers and their summoned watch-scamps, and finally into Nalur's private "quarters" in the basin of the old ruins - THE. CHEST. WAS. EMPTY. It took every ounce of her self-control not to topple the offending furniture into one of the smoldering braziers. Ra'qanar was not going to like this news. Ra'qanar. The thought of him gave Rahna pause. She hated the way men and mer treated her kind, hated how even in the heartland of the Empire people could still keep Khajiit as servants. Not "slaves" in the traditional sense but Rahna was no fool. It pained her to see Ra'qanar's sparse arrangements, on those rare moments she could visit him - Cheydinhal guards were annoyingly vigilant. But when she could... She noticed her tailtip twitching, and held it still. Thoughts of Ra'qanar could wait. If Nalur's desk did not have the book, it was likely Nalur himself did. Gods-damned Dunmer thug. He may have escaped Morrowind, but he was still in the Empire. The long arm of Imperial Law would find him, find him and choke the miserable life from his corpse. Rahna would see to that. She just needed the right evidence. She needed- "My journal!" Nalur's rasping voice echoed from the cold Ayleid stone. "That wretched s'wit took my journal!" Rahna's eartips pricked. Wretched s'wit? He couldn't mean... "What are you yammering on about, Dunmer?" The deeper, melodic tones of an Altmer. Most of the conjurers in this place were Altmer. "That Breton man we found snooping around yesterday - here! 'Christophe Hawkston.' The one you let escape!" Nalur fumed from the corridor, growing closer with each word. Rahna's eyes darted around the room, seeking a better hiding spot. She couldn't put the fire out, the sudden darkness would alert them. After a moment, the Khajiit settled on one of the nearby pillars, its ornate metal bracket long bare of Welkynd crystal. She slipped behind it just as Nalur and his Altmer companion entered. "His Nord fellow was rather resistant to the idea of dying," the Altmer intoned dryly. "He took a significant amount of convincing and by then your Hawkston was quite gone. Would you have chased him to Cheydinhal's gates yourself?" "Do not mock me, Yashil. This was no mere diary he's taken. My life's work - which I might remind you is also your work - and equally important, how to reach my contacts here in Cyrodiil." Rahna held her breath as Nalur paced around the brazier, an arm's length from her pillar. "Your 'contacts' being more Cammona Tong rabble I assume." Yashil sniffed in disdain. "But I take your point. The book does represent a significant investment in our mutual interests. I have... friends, in Cheydinhal. I shall speak with them at nightfall." He paused. "They will, of course, require some compensation for their services." Nalur cursed violently. "If your 'friends' can recover the journal, they'll be rewarded properly, but they'll not see a single drake from my hand until then." "Have it your way then. By this time tomorrow, the book will be back in your possession. Be sure you have the gold on hand, Nalur," he added ominously. "These people are not to be crossed." "Noted," the Dunmer spat. "Now get out of my sight." By sheer good fortune, Yashil's annoyed huff completely masked Rahna's air-starved gasp. She waited until Nalur's attention was focused on the altar, facing away from her, before making her own much quieter exit.
@}---- The day just kept getting worse. In addition to his hangover, Christophe had developed a case of hiccoughs, and each one brought the bitter tang of last night's ale back to his mouth. Also, he was missing a book. Of course, so was someone else. A "Nalur Vimyn" - probably Dark Elf by the name - and heavily involved in some research of his own. Utterly useless for a Breton of significant scholarly talent, but sorely lacking in the magickal variety. Hawkston sat at a table in the corner of the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, his books and research spread out across the tabletop. Vimyn's journal was interesting, but he'd have preferred his own volume of notes instead. His observations on Belda had been lost when he and Sanderson were attacked, incinerated in a campfire during the initial scuffle. Christophe focused harder, trying to remember the details of that moment. There was so much confusion, sudden panic. Had one of the conjurers been a Dark Elf? "God's Blood," he sighed, banging his forehead against the table. Sudden agony reminded him that the morning's hangover had not yet faded. Dimly, the Breton wondered if his presence in Cyrodiil was somehow offensive to their resident pantheon and were making him suffer for it. "Rough night?" Christophe glanced up, his face still solidly planted against the table. A tall Imperial man with sandy-brown hair gazed down on him with mild concern. He wore the dark leather and chain of a Cheydinhal guard. "Not my best, no." Hawkston lifted his head, offering the guard a seat. "Something I can do for you, sir?" "Garrus Darelliun. I just have a few questions I'd like to ask you." Darelliun took the offered chair. "You were the man the evening watch let in last night, correct? Burz gro-Khash tells me you left with one of his guild, a Nord by the name of Bjorik Sanderson." Christophe winced. "Sanderson was slain protecting me while we explored the Belda ruins west of the city. Gro-Khash has my apologies, though Bjorik fought well enough to do any Nord proud." The guard nodded. "And what exactly did you find in those ruins?" "A few High Elves, and far too many summoned daedra. Possibly others - once we were attacked, both Sanderson and I ran." Despite doing his best to drown the incident in an alcoholic haze the previous night, Hawkston related what he could remember to the guard. Darelliun listened intently, asking for clarification when it was necessary. Though Sanderson's demise was unfortunate, he conceded that Christophe was blameless in the matter - or at least in so far as Imperial Law was concerned. As for the conjurers in Belda, a task force of the Imperial Legion would clean them out, once the appropriate report was filed. "Regrettably, the Cheydinhal Guard sees only to the affairs within our walls," Darelliun added apologetically as he stood up. "Well Mr. Hawkston, I must get back to my patrol. I hope the rest of your time in Cheydinhal is less eventful." "As do I," the Breton agreed. Neither noticed the golden-furred Khajiit as she slipped away from the window sill outside. @}---- Rahna knew it was a risk, but wasn't everything in her profession risky? Besides, Ra'qanar had to know. A brief spell of invisibility let her slip past the guards at the castle gate and into the courtyard - she could never allow them to see her come or go, lest they begin asking themselves what business a Khajiit woman had in Cheydinhal Castle. Even at night, it was difficult to remain unseen. Sneaking in under broad daylight was nearly impossible. By the way Ra'qanar jumped in surprise, it was clear he'd thought the same. Quickly, he shut his door and locked it. "Has she gone mad?" he hissed. "Rahna knows we cannot be seen like this!" "She is quite sane," Rahna assured him dryly. "Do you think I would have come in daylight if it weren't important?" Ra'qanar sighed. "This one would be happier if you bring him good news. But of course, it isn't, is it?" He tried pacing but his quarters were far too small to vent his agitation properly. "Vimyn's book was stolen. I followed him into the Ayleid ruins west of town, but by then it was gone. A Breton man, Hawkston, has it now." Her tail lashed in frustration. "I saw him talking to a guard - the Captain's second, no less - over lunch in the Bridge Inn." "And did he give Garrus the journal?" Rahna shook her head. "I couldn't hear what they were saying. He may have been negotiating a price, but Hawkston still has it, for now." "For now," Ra'qanar emphasized, shooting her a meaningful glance. "Nothing has changed, except who you must steal from. Ra'qanar knows this Captain, he is a good man. If the book is given to him, some good may happen. But it will be a small thing." "And the Tong bypass Cheydinhal, or shift south into Bravil. Don't worry Ra'qanar, I know the stakes." Rahna flexed her claws, staring at their pointed tips. "I don't want to see the scum of Vvardenfell sneaking through here any more than you." She turned to leave, then paused as she remembered something. "Planning to let me go, or do I need to pick your door's lock first?" The other Khajiit laughed. "Ra'qanar will open it for you, though he is sure the lock would give you no trouble. That is," he added as he drew the key, "if you are so eager to leave this one's company." Rahna noted the mischevious edge to his grin and her eartips grew warm. "First you berate me for coming and now you don't want me to go? You're sending mixed messages, ahziss'dar." She leaned back as he reached for the lock, a pose more suggestive than she'd intended. "Business before pleasure," she reminded him teasingly as the door clicked open. "Besides, I've pressed my luck enough as it is. Any longer and they'll start wondering where their humble porter has gone to." Ra'qanar snorted. "Sky'ell ahn trajiir, ja'khajiit. Just be sure you do not harm Hawkston when you take Vimyn's book from him." "I know our code, Bandit," she assured him, delivering a quick kiss to the thief's cheek for emphasis. "Hawkston will be safe, I promise."
Pickle pickle, on the wall Will you adhere, or will you fall? Who sent you sailing through the air To splat against the stucco there?
But the truth is that he stands by himself, a lone actor playing to an audience of empty seats. The stage is a ruse, no one sees the world he has built. He stands there beneath the glaring lights, forcing his way through the act out of a desperate need to make himself believe in the reality he inhabits. Even if it is shared by no one, he finds it preferable to the one where those seats are filled.
Hit me with some Vitamin C 'Cause I can feel the germs inside'a me The plague is swimmin through my bloodstream I can only cough, but I wanna scream! Gimme the citrus So I can kick this I don't wanna be sick no more Let's kill the microbes And ditch these bath robes So I can finally walk out my door Had tissues in my face nearly a week Throat so raw an scratchy I can barely speak But pass me that glass and then we'll see How fast those one-celled bastards leave my body! Gimme the citrus So I can kick this I don't wanna be sick no more Let's kill the microbes And ditch these bath robes So I can finally walk out my door It's a tangy orange attack No virus can fight back A wicked citrus victory One glass of juice and I'll be free...! (I laughed so hard writing this.)
Once I tried to fall asleep Upon the backs of wooly sheep I tossed and turned for nearly a week And when at last my breath grew deep Into my dreams those sheep did creep They stalked me through tall fields of wheat Seeking not hay, but flesh to eat They caught me in an empty street And feasted well upon my meat - My eyes they thought a special treat! So heed me reader, when I speak Of the terror induced by their bleats And never sleep upon the sheep!
