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14 hrs ago
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1 day ago
Okay then. New diet plan. Gouge out everyone's eyes and snack away.
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4 days ago
Looks like we have here ourselves a STANDOFF.
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6 days ago
Someone must sell propane and propane accessories.
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9 days ago
You have a big throbbing aching... Headache.
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Master Plum
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Location: Shadowell Manor: Chair 15 -> Chair 15.
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 6
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There were two ravens sat comfortably.
They were as black as black could be.
Then one of them said to his mate,
where shall our dinner take?
With a downe derrie derrie derrie downe downe...


A cawing crow indeed, the bird's beady eyes begging at the bits of body, broken, battered, and bloodied. The smell of death freshly dealt, permeated the air as the carrion called out to be ripped asunder. Oh how the chair had done much to pulverize the meat, the tender flesh no doubt scattered across bone and marrow. A shake of preening feathers, and a ruffle of hunger flitted the talons upon his left shoulder. His companion it seemed minded not the cold as much as he. Down the man or woman fell, but not before divorcing the chair in one final act of desperation to escape. And yet now between the odd pair, surely one them could certainly have a premature dinner from this life cut short, surely it was dead. Or if not on the cusp of dying and not just fainted as before, given the evident splatter that excited his raven. Yet the bird waited patiently, as often he would claim the first cut and distribute the spoils, that and the beaks of ravens oft were not made to cut the sinew well from bone thus required greater predators to take claim. For still the master calmly sat, watching the events all unfold beneath the long-nosed mask and stroking his feathered friend.

what were they playing at? He pondered if indeed the guards were as innocent as they claimed? The surprise caught everyone, and most had scrambled out of their seats either fearing for their lives of being crushed from the falling duo or next up into the air. Yet he stood his ground, or rather stayed his seat, watching the show of panic set into motion. Scrambling underneath the projected trajectory, accounting for the pull, the wind, the last act and final swansong. The man in the last chair did not as much budge nor show a sign of concern, at a death nor the prospect of his very own. There was little argument to move, as certainly his chosen seat would have been adequately far from the fallout, and it seemed the curious man in the penultimate chair thought the very same. All the while most of the other guests took to their feet to escape, save for perhaps the other beaked man on the other end of the parade of chairs. What foul plot was afoot? The man in black had ironically survived the forest long enough to die. The grim twist of fate, which gave them all such a terrible beginning, and to one of them a terrifying end.

"Minced meat of exquisite taste,
A guest for some hors d'oeuvres,
We'll let nothing go to waste,
And thus our dinner is served."


A macabre sing-song comment came from the back. Still ominously stroking his bird as if such soothing touch was holding the hungry avian back. Certainly it was only naturally for a raven to eat what slivers of carrion it could find, yet the mockery of the dead may have been seen as a little more than just a fool's attempt to make gallows humor. Just what sort of dinner were they all going to attend?
Master Plum
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Location: Shadowell Manor: Chair 15
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 6
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Another is raised up;
Lifted too High!
Mistress who sits on the top:
Let her beware of chair!


Slinking behind like a lagging tail, a shadow no doubt, the pair watched keenly as the chairs above them squabbled like insolent children. Were their heads so full of fat that they were perfectly insulated against the cold? Yet his attempt to slip into the background was not unnoticed. His little eye did spy a saddled sneer, jauntingly grinning with a glaring gaze, dauntingly perhaps to inspire fear but he remained unfazed. A short little man puffing hot air, but worthy of note as he sat in his chair, as the sound of uproar caught the birds aware. It seemed far beyond their reach something had happened, and the ex-passed-out traveler was now up and about, perhaps tiring of that brutish villain as they sought another chair. And more so it appeared another petulant guest had plopped his black-masked face in the penultimate chair to deny her. A shame truly, but the game of chairs had no end as from what he could strain to tell, no such exchange was made between the doctor and devil. And the temper of the haughty man, oh he screamed for attention didn't he? The first to bark orders at the staff so eagerly. It is the squeaky wheel which gets the grease...

Oh but what is this? Another jester? Playing at puns and riddles, the rhymes sloppily done. Twas the late comer who had the gall to mimic him. His attention and that of his companion's turned away from the faint sound of hooves trampling the road as a pair of eyes and an eye stared intently at the grey irises of the blonde. Such mockery no doubt, that he come late and hold up the rest of the party. It was cold, very cold, and neither of them enjoyed wasting anymore time in this bitter limbo. Was there another to come? Such were the whispers and commotion. Chairs it seemed were a rare commodity, a fact worthy of note as perhaps the Ambesire wished to eliminate them one by one by one, piece by piece.

You speak without caws or crow,
Without rhyme nor reasons sing,
Now I must beg of you to know,
What ill fortunes do you bring?
Perhaps wait for warmer climes,
Before exchanging our rhymes.


A flap of wings and cawing, ruffled the feathers of his raven friend. The two of them intently staring at the man making idle conversation. There was no need for this conversation, at least as far as he could see such chatter could better be had indoors. And with any luck, this conversation could cease.
Master Plum
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Location: Shadowell Manor: Chair 15
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 6
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Cas the guardian, with the eyes of jade,
Beckoning to them, collects them all together,
Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.


Quite a gathered lot. fifteen chairs by the count, a throne for each guest. One by one they staked their claim, not in any particular order as it seemed. Some took to their seats before some others after a marvel at what strange means of transport would get them to the actual manor. Another layer of security perhaps? Or was it indeed so far a walk from this point to the warmth of the manor itself that such a cogworthy craft was needed? Or simply the mode for the stupidly rich? Not just the wealthy who could afford such a horseless carriage, but to afford something like this> Pulled along the track as if by magic. And that was the key wasn't it? To impress and inspire, to amuse and awe, the methods and means to demonstrate one power and prominence. This thing was merely a taste of what the guests could expect, as one by one they boarded. They had entered the gates, and there their ferryman greeted them openly while dressed in a suit befitting the devil himself. The imps had gone to steal the horses away from those who brought them. It appeared that tonight, they only had the clothes on their back, and whatever they took with them.

Some came richly, some came poorly, but all came mysteriously no doubt. Even the one that succumbed to the cold found themselves in the arms of some brutish oaf. Cradled indeed by a thoroughbred steed, but to the meathead's surprise they began to rise, and protest the embrace in an attempt to face. The raven-clad man tutted and stroked his raven's crest of feathers as he took his strides parading past the rest. Pacing down and then back up the queer machine to his right, a vexing vehicle like none other across the land no doubt. Was it safe? Not the screaming metal death trap, but the invitation. The mask hides the face, but who had faced the Ambesire? A puzzle beyond the machine, a conundrum yet to be seen. A sideways glance to his right at the other bird beaker in the second seat, what sort of man was he? Would he move out of courtesy? Or stand his ground and keep his seat? A challenge to his authority. Not wanting to bring too much attention to himself or his avian acquaintance yet, he backtracked his steps to the fifteenth position and gingerly sat in the final seat. Perhaps it was the safest place to be, should the entire vehicle come to a rather explosive demise. Far away from the blast, and the one to have the greatest chance of escaping no doubt.

Sixteen chairs to fill and use,
Quickly choose, choose, and choose,
With so many more come far before us,
We'll claim the seat most perilous.


Another singsong tune muttered perhaps in madness to the raven on his shoulder.
Master Plum
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Location: Shadowell Forest: Front Gate
Skills: Intelligience
Hit Points: 6
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Once upon a winter dreary, while I wander, weak and weary...


There was something in the air about the forest. Something wicked, something weird, something wondrous. Not just the nip of frost biting at one's ears, nor the forgotten twigs snapping at one's heels. It was the deafening silence, yes the eerie lack of sound muffled by the breathing mists, beckoning the lone traveler deeper into the mesmer. Deeper into the Shadowell, like a siren's call, or a banshee's wail, muted by the rolling fog. This was the white darkness, for not all blindness is black, a bleak miasma breathed over the woods. And alas what one would give to feel a single beam of sunlight filtered through the overhanging canopy to feed the light carried within the soul, to cast off the withered leaves of doubt, duck below the clawing branches of despair, and weave through the gnarled roots of desiccation. Yet even the gloom of the forest seemed to fade away against the curse of winter. The ominous undergrowth wilting along the cold earth, the wheels of carriages and hoof prints of horses making their stamp across the unpaved road. Perhaps the lucky few would find themselves pause to turn around. For only fools would so willingly enter the gates of Hell.

And yet there he stood before the iron gates, ancient and worn as they were, the gates to the House of Ambesire. Dressed in the shabby elegance of his attire, parading in panache and pantaloons, cursing his lack of a winter's cloak for the bitter journey. It was cold, indeed, but cold had not yet stopped him thus far, nor had it his bird. Though the winter air had chilled them, still they survived their trek. The raven claws delicately perched upon his left shoulder away from the fabric of his draping cape, a shiver of black feathers and a reciprocated shudder of shared suffering. A man who looked like a scarecrow dressed quite like a clown and aptly bearing a raven. His hair kept well despite the subtle marks of wear on his clothes, and the mud caked on his soles. The man kept his head cocked towards his bird, watching all who watched him from perhaps a corner of his eye. And to the eyes that watched them, perchance they looked like brothers, both brandishing their beaks.

A grim gaze glazed over the gates, guardsmen, guns, and the gathered guest. Quite a menagerie indeed, judgments to be passed, and verdicts to be given, who amongst the flock would be the devil in guise? Was she a woman of wiles? Was he a demon of a man? A glance at all their faces and figures, afforded as none had accosted him quite yet, perhaps it was the comrade on his shoulder that made them stray, a hidden blessing perhaps? Allowing him to ogle the ladies who had the numbers, in their gorgeous gowns they came, a medley of colors from greens and blues to reds and blacks. Perhaps they came to be gandered at as lovely brides to be, and the men here gathered had other business to confess to the noblesse. And yet all of this security, the intensity of it all, to ensure no stowaway slip into the forest depths for the sake of a single ball? What shall become of these mysterious strangers and their masks? What plot would bind their fates together? To spend a night brushing arms surely ought to glean who they were behind the mask, and beneath their mask of flesh as well.

Five had already acted out, their actions mixed with words. The bodacious-dressed harlot boldly offered her invitation first, her salacious bodice revealing what her mask dare not. And then there was the mounted devil dressed in his overcoat, who pushed the envelope, carried himself about in dismounting but still riding his high airs. Between these two some others fair produced their ticket in, but it was difficult keeping an eye on everyone at once. The commotion came when a man in black fell black and dead, did the journey already claim one for the cold? No evidence of injury, as the bird-skull walker dared assess in his swiftness to act and reveal perhaps a superior craft he commanded by the waggle of his tongue. And finally came the brute, who barged in and flexed his muscles to impress the boy or lady held against his chest, he must have thought the vulturous doctor weak or was he merely cleverer sneak who thought he could get a glimpsing peek?

And with his eye cast at the dogs and men, the hounds first as their tempers flared beyond their masters, certainly of the two the dogs gave chase faster. But a bullet was the fastest of the three, and thus spied he their arms before their arms. And finally then to the unmasked faces, the staff of the House Ambesire came in all manners of size and shape. The commonality between them all, tied together as silver thread, was their vigilance as easily read. Too uptight, too secure, the Shadowell Manor, what secrets do the watchmen keep? For what would a man dare endure the forest, dark and cold? Those watching eyes like burning coals with eager dogs that drool, waiting for an impostor revealed amongst them, but who waits for the fool? The game begins, the thrill of it all, the deception with a mask worn upon a masked mask. Nameless names and faceless faces, amongst the visitants, the mind ponders the question of who shall be the first to ask, and who would be the first to tell?


Thrice cursed, and twice blessed,
Rich in masque, but poor in dress,
Invited the perverse, this cold Mid-Winter
And by this pass, I beg to Enter.


Presented his golden ticket, past the dreadful gates, a finger poised beneath his nose, curled like a question against his lips. For there the tracks, and with no turning back from this point on in here. And what awaited as was fated, to be a night to remember and celebrated for what purposes to be made clear. The grinning jester turned his head for a hand to preen against the chilled feathers of his fiendish friend. A comfort perhaps as he would spend a night in manor and manners strange, a familiar face of beady eyes, and a voice of mocking caws that soothes. Then in turn the bird did nuzzle closely, and with what a could appear to be to be a whisper into his ear, perhaps one could think if a ravens tongue could speak?
A reboot?
Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: "The Structure Formally Known As Tower" & Freedom
Interacting with: Satilla, Keystone,



Well, the undertaker drew a heavy sigh,
Seeing no one else had come,
And a bell was ringing in the village square,
For the rabbits on the run,


Man on the run. Fueled by a powerful mix of anger, fear, and the arrogant airs of superiority, Thomas sloughed off the vomit as he rose up from his fall. A long descent from the heavens for a stellar being, but the boy brushed off his shoulders as he turned his head to see their foolish healer tumble face-first into a pile of stinking vomit. Surely with such emesis, Keystone earned himself another nemesis. Thomas'own filth lay outside, just beyond the tower where surely by now the patch had dried as the earth swallowed up the wallowing waste. The healer could get up herself, she had two arms and a two able limbs, and once Thomas could rid himself of these robes and find a hot bath to be drawn to wash his vessel of this cretin's gastric contents he could perhaps drink a potion to recover and rest. Vengeance could wait until he was appropriately dressed to harvest the long-due reckoning upon that oaf! He had robe left unspoilt, one befitting of his current stellar phase. His black robes as dark as night would match his goal... Good. Use your aggressive feelings boy, Let the Hate flow through you.

So he did, the surge rising as the tower fell, blocks of stone crumbling like hailfire and dust like rain. His feet moved and towards the exit, the doorway of his escape. He would not be entombed there in that idiot's folly, no the buffoon must pay dearly for the mistake. A fellow mage, they could have interrogated, questioned, learned from maimed. All the knowledge of the tower and his techniques lost. Yes, burning the infuriating thoughts into the combustion engine, Thomas took off after Keystone, running past the imploding ruins and into the promise of freedom and whispers of revenge. The loose archway of the door itself began to fail, the breaking archstone began to quiver, an omen of things perhaps? And the brown dirt and the black ash and the grey dust, curtained over the doorway, into a cloud of obscuring fog as the structure became a storm. Yet his final push knew no bounds, his eyes closed and chin tucked, his shoulders squared off as through the shaken void the cosmic sorcerer ran, freedom at last...

That is, until he felt something stopping his further movement, as a paunchy fleshy wall stopped his advance. This was a rather awkward moment given both parties'positioning. The younger lad having his forward momentum stopped by the bulk, notably colliding with the other man's backside. Of which, when perhaps looked at a particular angle, maybe if one squinted one's eyes a bit, and cocked a head over to a degree of tilt...

You might have sworn that Thomas just pelvic thrusted Keystone.
Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: "Tower", the walls and ceiling closing in.
Interacting with: Vomit, lots and lots of it.


Another one bites the dust. And oh was there plenty of dust to bite. Gritted through teeth in frantic despair, a thousand curses mentally directed at Keystone for this amount of stupidity. To destroy the only anchor this structure clearly had left! What bumbling simpleton oaf would throw an ursine projectile at someone they could have apprehended and interrogated on the methods of his magicks? Ignorant imbecile! The more moronic persona of Thomas may have nearly killed Sana in his misguided attempts to save her, but this moronic meathead had just possibly killed the three of them without securing a method of escape! If only his saving spell had recharged, had only a week's time passed and then he would be able to save himself from this tower's downfall. But no, instead he was here in this crumbling tower, covered in the gastric contents of a dunce, trying to keep himself from falling down as the ground trembled at his filth splashing feet. Where is the moment when we needed the most? You kick up the vomit, and the magic is lost.

But it wasn't just the blockheaded bully that infuriated Thomas. No, there was something else that stemmed this deep hatred of another man. Sure there stupidity, and the current phase of Thomas passionately despised the uncouthed and unlearned, but there was something else the boy dreaded. The walls were made of glass, the ceiling made of paper, the tower imploding under its own crushing weight. The stability destroyed the moment the man behind its structural integrity was lost, and now this tower would be Thomas' tomb. His unworthy, low-borne tomb where he would spend an eternity enclosed in the ground. The fate of the dog and the master, shared as the sorcerer's destiny. No, the room had to hold, it had to be solid long enough for Thomas to escape! He had survived all this humiliation and indignity for what? To be trapped in this prison? The falling debris gave Thomas pause as he attempted to get back up, stopping his advance as the sky fell. The slippery floor, the shaking ground, all the elements were against him. No, he would not die in this coffin! He must press forward!

One block. All that could be measured, past the table and away from that- That- That... The words could no longer describe what Thomas thought of Keystone adequately. Not without a greater thesaurus and right now being eloquent and verbose was perhaps the last thing that would save Thomas. Plus he shuddered at the thought of opening his mouth and having chunks of goop fall in. One can never be too careful.
Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Tower Ground Floor
Interacting with: Keystone.


Carapichea ipecacuanha. A most noxious flower, its drab white petals presented in a cluster, its broad leaves like spearheads, its roots gnarled knots. A clever herbalist would know the tincture that could be made from those woody anchors, a poison so foul that the body would purge itself of it upon ingestion. And though the draught was fast to act, the plant was slow to grow, thus alas was the extract of ipecac a rare and curious bit of alchemy. It was capable of reducing a fully grown man into horrid retching, turning his stomach into a sea of troubles and spilling forth the contents inside out, a terrible experience that none should have to live through...

Unless his name was Keystone. Drenched in whatever that foul man decidedly considered food, the unamused Thomas found himself silently screaming sworn vengeance at the disgusting deplorable. The sorcerer himself would have made it clear his newfound quest would be to see to it that somehow such insults were not to go unpunished. By the thistle crown, a muttered oath, a mental vow invoking Nemesis: Nemo me impune lacessit. How dare that oaf direct upchuck at him? Had not these robes already been ruin by that mutt, and had the tower not become their death trap because of that stupid cook's gambit to throw a bear at the one being obviously keeping the rotting tower togeth-

A million thoughts of anger and revenge raced through Thomas' mind before the smell finally overpowered that neurons he could commit to plotting against Keystone. Such a deliberate act of targeting him when the fist-fighter could have easily just chosen the floor or that already stinking refuse of a arthropod corpse, did not escape the sorcerer and the sour note, as sour as the acidified stomach contents permeating through him in awful chunks of rank cheese, rotten eggs and whatever else came out from the forceful vomit comet blazing out to strike Thomas. Alas if only he could return the volley, heaving from the grossly gross experience that was seen as beneath a man of learning, but Thomas had already emptied his stomach earlier, and once again from the memory of Keystone's befouled nature. Thus the boy had nothing to give but empty purges as he clutched his stomach, soaked with goop and muttered his airy curses between his episodes of wanting to shove a potion down Keystone's throat or watch him choking on his own spewed stew.

If they survive this, he would no less hold a grudge against the pugilist as he wiped his face of the gunk in the short recovery.
And if they did not? Keystone was the first person Thomas would destroy once he ascended to the cosmos to rejoin his darker brothers.
Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: Tower Ground Floor/Ground Zero?
Interacting with: The Ground Floor Ground.



((This post dedicated to Ash. Poor Doggo))


This is the end,
Hold your breath and count to ten,
Feel the earth move and then,
Hear my heart burst again.


To die for such a noble cause. The loyalty of a dog truly tested to follow one's master to the grave. There could be no end more glorious, more sincere, more true than a lifelong companion to accompany one in the afterlife. For if indeed a dog is man's best friend, there must be a reason why the heavens sent Ash to join Kyra as fated to be. Sure to the scholarly stellar sorcerer it was just a stupid beast, trying a fool's errand to remove the Kyra's corpse, but had he been more solar-inclined, perhaps the boy could have shed a tear for a lost partner. Cats were the devil who thought themselves gods and demand you worship them, but dogs were pure innocent dumb things who love you and worship you for simply being their best friend. But alas, it was the end, and Kyra and Ash died, together.

But not a tear was shed by the emotionally-detached star-phase, as the significance of such a gesture was lost on the aloof academic. Although simple physics caught up to Thomas, as his momentum carried him a bit too far and certainly the upstart youth would receive his comeuppance. The basic laws of physics applied, objects which stay in motion trend to stay in motion, and thus the forward movement of the sorcerer's flight coming to a sudden halt upon witnessing the death of a lupine. A meteorite of a floor piece, or perhaps wall piece came down upon the wretched wolf and made it into the strawberry jam sandwich the pile of mangled fur was. When this was over, and if they survive, Thomas would certainly seek vengence for the loss of his fine robe and see if a tanner would be interested in pelting the wolf to create a new, more grandiose robe for Thomas. But for now the most threatening obstacle was falling, and falling pieces, lest one wished to be a raspberry jelly sandwich following Ash. Hence why perhaps, the sudden stop at the bottom of the stairs watching the sky fall and crush a wolf into a bloody pulp gave reason for a sudden stop. And then perhaps it was karma, which tripped Thomas' footing to humble the ever arrogant mage to kiss the ground. Hurting a bit more than his pride as his chipped tooth bit into his lip with the faceplant.

Getting up, Thomas wasted no time in restarting his escape, he would certainly feel the pain tomorrow, but neither Ash nor Kyra felt pain right now. Thus using the minor irritation, and the taste of blood seeping, Thomas was adequately motivated to retake his lead in their contest of survival between he and Keystone to prove the intellectual superiority of a wizard against a simpleton cook who- nevermind. This was no time for long drawn out thoughts, the dwarf hairdresser had just cleared most of the way to make a route towards the door, Thomas would poise himself to be the next one out as he ran just shy of the dwarf's original position a pace behind it beside the table.
His grand magus' tower exists past the 4th wall.
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