Interference
Destroyer of Words
(And you can call me Int... or Er ... or Fee .... or Rence -- You know, maybe Interference doesn't abbreviate too well, whaddya think? 
)
Grenville Blunderstap
No one dared call him 'killer' to his face. No one who could subsequently tell the tale, at any rate. But Grenville was more than just a murderer and a cutthroat. He was the finest tracker on any of the Four Worlds (and associated moons). Or at least, he had been until now. Now he was a has-been, his heart in turmoil, his soul in torment, his skills a distant, blurry memory. And so he drank, and it was in an advanced condition of alcoholic decay that Trench and Desperada found him - and despaired.
"Does he even know we're here?" Desperada said, desperation cling-wrapping her voice.
"Um, uh-hum, dunno, mebbe," Trench mumbled.
"And you say this man holds the only mortal key to the path through the mysterious Fortean Wastes, as discovered by your Grandfather all those many years ago?" she asked, pleading for assurance of a skill that seemed unlikely to reside in the man before them.
"Uh ... Sure," said Trench a little hesitantly since, though he had described the man in approximately that way, he hadn't actually used quite so many words to do so - though, in fairness, her way summarised the plot so far quite succinctly and as such had actually got into print!
"Leave me alone," Grenville screamed, though it is uncertain whether his appeal was addressed to anyone in particular, or just to the worlds at large.
Dark and brooding, gaunt of face and lithe of form, Grenville Blunderstap peered into the empty bottle before him and swore. He was an idiot. When he wasn't drinking, this shortcoming was as clear to him as the glass in his hand. Once or twice in a man's life he might hear the siren call, catch the sweetly scented breath of a beckoning romance, and once or twice he might be listening to Martin Tonedeaf and the Mothers of Inaction on his iPod and miss it. Such a true calling of a truer love had eluded Grenville in just such a way as this (at last count) forty-two times and he was terribly afraid that he might have missed the forty-third as well, for it had come from the silk-lined larynx of his bitterest foe ...
Naire Du Welles
##
)Grenville Blunderstap
No one dared call him 'killer' to his face. No one who could subsequently tell the tale, at any rate. But Grenville was more than just a murderer and a cutthroat. He was the finest tracker on any of the Four Worlds (and associated moons). Or at least, he had been until now. Now he was a has-been, his heart in turmoil, his soul in torment, his skills a distant, blurry memory. And so he drank, and it was in an advanced condition of alcoholic decay that Trench and Desperada found him - and despaired.
"Does he even know we're here?" Desperada said, desperation cling-wrapping her voice.
"Um, uh-hum, dunno, mebbe," Trench mumbled.
"And you say this man holds the only mortal key to the path through the mysterious Fortean Wastes, as discovered by your Grandfather all those many years ago?" she asked, pleading for assurance of a skill that seemed unlikely to reside in the man before them.
"Uh ... Sure," said Trench a little hesitantly since, though he had described the man in approximately that way, he hadn't actually used quite so many words to do so - though, in fairness, her way summarised the plot so far quite succinctly and as such had actually got into print!
"Leave me alone," Grenville screamed, though it is uncertain whether his appeal was addressed to anyone in particular, or just to the worlds at large.
Dark and brooding, gaunt of face and lithe of form, Grenville Blunderstap peered into the empty bottle before him and swore. He was an idiot. When he wasn't drinking, this shortcoming was as clear to him as the glass in his hand. Once or twice in a man's life he might hear the siren call, catch the sweetly scented breath of a beckoning romance, and once or twice he might be listening to Martin Tonedeaf and the Mothers of Inaction on his iPod and miss it. Such a true calling of a truer love had eluded Grenville in just such a way as this (at last count) forty-two times and he was terribly afraid that he might have missed the forty-third as well, for it had come from the silk-lined larynx of his bitterest foe ...
Naire Du Welles
##
Last edited:
