Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
Hi folks, this is part for an apparent requirement of getting past 2k posts that you need to pip something up to be critiqued.
I'm working on a collection of shorts based around a group of four characters;
As normal good, bag and ugly comments welcome
Cheers Luigin.
PS: anyone of DnD experience may spot an obvious thing I've pinched ;p
~~~
Orn had decided long ago that fate had it in for him. Not the nice, fluffy sort. No, the kind that if you were playing cards and had a top hand of four crowns, your opponent would have four wild card jesters… when the deck should only have had two.
Knowing that the Gods spread fate around by managing it in weekly doses only seemed to prove his point. Whether good or bad, they always seemed to make sure that his dollop of destiny came from the backside of a celestial cow who had been fed a good dose of emetics.
He rummaged inside his bag of components once again, just in case he’d missed the frost daisy that the ice bolt spell required. Everything else he had, but the dried flower head remained conspicuous by its absence.
A gurgling cackle echoed through the chamber. It sounded like someone being drowned in custard and finding it hilarious. It should not have been frightening. Should not have turned his insides to fighting amongst themselves in an effort to escape. Should not have made his fingers suffer from a serious lack of any sort of coordination. Custard, that delicious of desserts. Laughter, that infectious mood of unadulterated joy. Yet, combined together… a hideous combination.
Orn supposed the fact that his mind’s eye the vision of Old Widow Mugg, a swamp hag of notable wickedness, naked warts and all (quite literally in her case), played a major part.
He had a thing about old women. Being raised by three Grannies didn’t help, even more so when no one would ever say why there were three of them to start with. Orn reckoned that their Granniness — if there were not a term, then he’d have happily submitted it to be accepted — had been exponentially increased due to their constant close proximity to each other. Growing up had consisted of whiskered kisses from prune shaped lips; copious amounts of cod liver oil delivered from a rusty spoon; home sowed clothes made from remnants of moth bitten curtains; and every single piece of his skin adorned with red raw claw marks from Fuddles, a cat with the patience of a saint that had lost his way.
As soon as he’d been able, he had left, taking with him the only gift they had ever given him, a talent for manipulating the essence of The Art. Magic to anyone else. Oh, and the ability to make a humbug mint last all day.
Orn switched the slither of humbug around from one cheek to the other and considered his options. One, stay in his hiding spot and hope Old Widow Mugg would not find him. Two, make a run for it and hope that his skinny legs had more muscle than hers. Three, make a fight of it with whatever he could find in his spell bag.
One, like all Granny based entities, Old Widow Mugg had eyes in the back of her head, and once within range, his hiding place stood no chance. Two, she may have been skinnier than him but he had no doubt that her wiriness could only be due to the muscles shrinking to a core of infinite energy. Three, he rammed his hand in the bag and grabbed the first thing, hoping fate would be on his side. He should have known better.
A piece of wicker.
Great, now he could teleport from his hiding spot to a random basket. Perfect for any laundry, not so good when the sole hiding spot he could fit in had been the rooms only basket.
I'm working on a collection of shorts based around a group of four characters;
- Gil, human ex-King of the Goblins
- Nael, a barbarian youth just out of college
- Bro, the world's only talking bardic dog
- and, Orn, a mage of dubious courage and power
As normal good, bag and ugly comments welcome
Cheers Luigin.
PS: anyone of DnD experience may spot an obvious thing I've pinched ;p
~~~
Orn had decided long ago that fate had it in for him. Not the nice, fluffy sort. No, the kind that if you were playing cards and had a top hand of four crowns, your opponent would have four wild card jesters… when the deck should only have had two.
Knowing that the Gods spread fate around by managing it in weekly doses only seemed to prove his point. Whether good or bad, they always seemed to make sure that his dollop of destiny came from the backside of a celestial cow who had been fed a good dose of emetics.
He rummaged inside his bag of components once again, just in case he’d missed the frost daisy that the ice bolt spell required. Everything else he had, but the dried flower head remained conspicuous by its absence.
A gurgling cackle echoed through the chamber. It sounded like someone being drowned in custard and finding it hilarious. It should not have been frightening. Should not have turned his insides to fighting amongst themselves in an effort to escape. Should not have made his fingers suffer from a serious lack of any sort of coordination. Custard, that delicious of desserts. Laughter, that infectious mood of unadulterated joy. Yet, combined together… a hideous combination.
Orn supposed the fact that his mind’s eye the vision of Old Widow Mugg, a swamp hag of notable wickedness, naked warts and all (quite literally in her case), played a major part.
He had a thing about old women. Being raised by three Grannies didn’t help, even more so when no one would ever say why there were three of them to start with. Orn reckoned that their Granniness — if there were not a term, then he’d have happily submitted it to be accepted — had been exponentially increased due to their constant close proximity to each other. Growing up had consisted of whiskered kisses from prune shaped lips; copious amounts of cod liver oil delivered from a rusty spoon; home sowed clothes made from remnants of moth bitten curtains; and every single piece of his skin adorned with red raw claw marks from Fuddles, a cat with the patience of a saint that had lost his way.
As soon as he’d been able, he had left, taking with him the only gift they had ever given him, a talent for manipulating the essence of The Art. Magic to anyone else. Oh, and the ability to make a humbug mint last all day.
Orn switched the slither of humbug around from one cheek to the other and considered his options. One, stay in his hiding spot and hope Old Widow Mugg would not find him. Two, make a run for it and hope that his skinny legs had more muscle than hers. Three, make a fight of it with whatever he could find in his spell bag.
One, like all Granny based entities, Old Widow Mugg had eyes in the back of her head, and once within range, his hiding place stood no chance. Two, she may have been skinnier than him but he had no doubt that her wiriness could only be due to the muscles shrinking to a core of infinite energy. Three, he rammed his hand in the bag and grabbed the first thing, hoping fate would be on his side. He should have known better.
A piece of wicker.
Great, now he could teleport from his hiding spot to a random basket. Perfect for any laundry, not so good when the sole hiding spot he could fit in had been the rooms only basket.
