Book #253
Entry #1
New one, again. As always, nothing really worth noting today. Sat with some 'plainees' in the Hammer for a while. Wispy blue man answering some boring lady's questions about his home tribe of Callum Shan, or something mundane. Spineless fool apologised to some pathetic other woman. A pair of simpleton brothers spilling drinks on themselves at the bar like idiots. Good times.. Hopefully yesterday will yield something more worth noting, although, that is quite a long time from now. I'll add more when, erm nar, if, I can be bothered.
Jean Foucault
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*MinimalResistance
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Entry #2
Why are there so few baby Dabus? To see one must be a rare occurrence. In fact, the only time I have seen a baby Dabus was when it was already a fully grown adult, accompanied by two other Dabus. No, shut up, shut up, she will hear your writing, and then it will be crossbows. For me. Hummm, how do I unwrite things? Too late. Next!
Why are there so few baby Dabus? To see one must be a rare occurrence. In fact, the only time I have seen a baby Dabus was when it was already a fully grown adult, accompanied by two other Dabus. No, shut up, shut up, she will hear your writing, and then it will be crossbows. For me. Hummm, how do I unwrite things? Too late. Next!
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*MinimalResistance
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Entry #3
Ahh broiled bread water never tasted so good! Though, it does actually tase quite bland, and it is making me feel rather ill. Cold and weak would describe it well. I shall have to remember to complain to the brute, I did ask for clean steins...
Ah yes, the taste! Of victory, of course! So many blind fools around, it is so easy to tug at the strings and watch them dance! I almost feel sorry for the poor fellow. It hides behind the mask. Only it is not really that exciting. I can't believe how easy he was to manipulate, like a piece of week old cheese. I had three things I wanted to do, and I do believe I achieved all three. Firstly, interrupt his daily routine, and thus detracting him from his goals. With the amount of time I kept him busy, no doubt he lost a lot of opportunities to advance himself. Hrm, after paying for the room, he was actually running at a loss instead of profit for his time with me... Nice. Oh, and also, I wanted to unveil the mask. Not that there is anything special about him, nor the mask, there are afterall so many under a disguise. But each one is good, and I do not believe how easy it was to get him to remove it. He seemed almost happy to do so. It was really an anticlimax though, nothing too remarkable about him at all. And thirdly, I wanted to see what he ate. You see, I was fairly sure that he was some kind of cannibal. It made perfect sense from what I was able to pry out of him. Precaution and patience is the key. Surprisingly, he ate the food that I had prepared. I was, as always, wrong in my assumption. Ahah! A fourth, this one is a surprise, even now! He ate the same food! The fool. He must be feeling as awful as I do, I can hardly even scribe straight. A little shaky in the hand. Four achievements for me today! Glorious! For once in my life, something, well, a bunch of things has gone my way... It is almost too good to be true, things rarely go the way I want them to. Except for the illness, which I should do something about. Stupid half-giants...
Ahh broiled bread water never tasted so good! Though, it does actually tase quite bland, and it is making me feel rather ill. Cold and weak would describe it well. I shall have to remember to complain to the brute, I did ask for clean steins...
Ah yes, the taste! Of victory, of course! So many blind fools around, it is so easy to tug at the strings and watch them dance! I almost feel sorry for the poor fellow. It hides behind the mask. Only it is not really that exciting. I can't believe how easy he was to manipulate, like a piece of week old cheese. I had three things I wanted to do, and I do believe I achieved all three. Firstly, interrupt his daily routine, and thus detracting him from his goals. With the amount of time I kept him busy, no doubt he lost a lot of opportunities to advance himself. Hrm, after paying for the room, he was actually running at a loss instead of profit for his time with me... Nice. Oh, and also, I wanted to unveil the mask. Not that there is anything special about him, nor the mask, there are afterall so many under a disguise. But each one is good, and I do not believe how easy it was to get him to remove it. He seemed almost happy to do so. It was really an anticlimax though, nothing too remarkable about him at all. And thirdly, I wanted to see what he ate. You see, I was fairly sure that he was some kind of cannibal. It made perfect sense from what I was able to pry out of him. Precaution and patience is the key. Surprisingly, he ate the food that I had prepared. I was, as always, wrong in my assumption. Ahah! A fourth, this one is a surprise, even now! He ate the same food! The fool. He must be feeling as awful as I do, I can hardly even scribe straight. A little shaky in the hand. Four achievements for me today! Glorious! For once in my life, something, well, a bunch of things has gone my way... It is almost too good to be true, things rarely go the way I want them to. Except for the illness, which I should do something about. Stupid half-giants...
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*MinimalResistance
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
"Arden.. Fire!"
A single crossbow bolt streamed through the air, swiftly finding its home in the dead center of a hay-filled archery target with a loud 'thwonk'. A rather young Jean Foucault, not quite yet seeing an age of double digits, looked to the bolt and swallowed hard. She knew it would be her turn next, and although she was confident that she would hit the target, to land dead center would surely be a hard feat to match. To her left and right were her colleagues, perhaps a dozen or so each side, all of roughly the same age (give or take a couple of years), lined up in a grassy meadow, each with their own target about fifty paces ahead of them. Although Jean toiled, trained and slept with each of those gathered on a daily basis, she knew them only as colleagues, as none of them had ever shown a remote interest in her; nothing to suggest any inclinations towards wanting a friendship with her. And then there was Markus, a very stereotypical aged, hardened and battle scarred-warrior, standing staunchly just beyond the last puerile marksman who would be to fire.
"Foucault.. Fire!" Bellowed Markus from the distance as he looked to ensure Jean was prepared to take her shot, watching on with the kind of stern look that only a warrior, whom had become both too old and battered to see any real kind of battle anymore, and was instead now teaching children, can display.
Jean ineptly raised the small crossbow (which was lighter and smaller in size than a regular light crossbow) to be in line with her collar bone. As she did this, she slightly opened her trigger hand reaching for an oyster shell necklace she always wore as a child, and clasped on it, closing her eyes only momentarily. She prayed, mentally, that she would make Markus proud. Her eyes flitted open and closed erratically as she concentrated hard on the center of the target. Softly biting down on her lower lip, Jean squeezed the trigger and watched as the twine of the small crossbow twanged back into its neutral position, releasing the bolt that had been drawn. She closed her eyes as the bolt left the carved out vessel on the end of the crossbow.
Thwud-ud! Jean heard the bolt finding the end of its short journey, and opened her eyes once more, only to see that her bolt had landed in one of the wooden tripod supports of the target, just above ground level. Once again, she closed her eyes and simply bowed her head in dismay.
Jean heard the muffled sounds of childrens laughter, dancing through the air in harmony, reaching both her left and right ears. The children were right to laugh at this feeble attempt; however, disprespect for ones peers was gravely frowned upon here, and the prepubescent marksmen at least attempted to hide their emotions out of fear of punishment (which would be swift and harsh, of course). Markus, still standing rigidly in the distance, looked to the target and grunted. He said nothing aloud, however, out of earshot of any of his students, Markus mumbled to himself. "Tis me job ter put 'em where they belong, that much at least are been paid for. And we ain't ne'er failed ter place, nor'ave we ever erred in a placement. But really Foucault, what are we to do with ye....". Markus also slowly shook his head and looked to the the next student, "Willems.. Fire!".
A single crossbow bolt streamed through the air, swiftly finding its home in the dead center of a hay-filled archery target with a loud 'thwonk'. A rather young Jean Foucault, not quite yet seeing an age of double digits, looked to the bolt and swallowed hard. She knew it would be her turn next, and although she was confident that she would hit the target, to land dead center would surely be a hard feat to match. To her left and right were her colleagues, perhaps a dozen or so each side, all of roughly the same age (give or take a couple of years), lined up in a grassy meadow, each with their own target about fifty paces ahead of them. Although Jean toiled, trained and slept with each of those gathered on a daily basis, she knew them only as colleagues, as none of them had ever shown a remote interest in her; nothing to suggest any inclinations towards wanting a friendship with her. And then there was Markus, a very stereotypical aged, hardened and battle scarred-warrior, standing staunchly just beyond the last puerile marksman who would be to fire.
"Foucault.. Fire!" Bellowed Markus from the distance as he looked to ensure Jean was prepared to take her shot, watching on with the kind of stern look that only a warrior, whom had become both too old and battered to see any real kind of battle anymore, and was instead now teaching children, can display.
Jean ineptly raised the small crossbow (which was lighter and smaller in size than a regular light crossbow) to be in line with her collar bone. As she did this, she slightly opened her trigger hand reaching for an oyster shell necklace she always wore as a child, and clasped on it, closing her eyes only momentarily. She prayed, mentally, that she would make Markus proud. Her eyes flitted open and closed erratically as she concentrated hard on the center of the target. Softly biting down on her lower lip, Jean squeezed the trigger and watched as the twine of the small crossbow twanged back into its neutral position, releasing the bolt that had been drawn. She closed her eyes as the bolt left the carved out vessel on the end of the crossbow.
Thwud-ud! Jean heard the bolt finding the end of its short journey, and opened her eyes once more, only to see that her bolt had landed in one of the wooden tripod supports of the target, just above ground level. Once again, she closed her eyes and simply bowed her head in dismay.
Jean heard the muffled sounds of childrens laughter, dancing through the air in harmony, reaching both her left and right ears. The children were right to laugh at this feeble attempt; however, disprespect for ones peers was gravely frowned upon here, and the prepubescent marksmen at least attempted to hide their emotions out of fear of punishment (which would be swift and harsh, of course). Markus, still standing rigidly in the distance, looked to the target and grunted. He said nothing aloud, however, out of earshot of any of his students, Markus mumbled to himself. "Tis me job ter put 'em where they belong, that much at least are been paid for. And we ain't ne'er failed ter place, nor'ave we ever erred in a placement. But really Foucault, what are we to do with ye....". Markus also slowly shook his head and looked to the the next student, "Willems.. Fire!".