Post one single word and the hero's story must (coherently) incorporate it in to the next sentence or paragraph.
Rules (because you fuckers can't behave):
Chapter 1
Rambunctious Recollections
Our hero awakens with gusto and enthusiasm, eager to go on a quest... But due to his chronic forgetfulness, he forgot where or how he may seek it. He groans and yabbles incoherently to himself, clearly frustrated with his inability to recollect his plans for the day. The purpleness of his face makes it very clear that he's agitated.
It was something that occurs every fortnight, an today was that day. He was convinced that it must be of high importance. A peculiarly dressed man had told him something or the other the day before, while they were sharing a bowl of fries at the local inn, which he regularly frequented. Something about a helmet comes to mind... An enchanted magical helmet? Or perhaps one made out of gold, and adorned with expensive gemstones.
He could have just dreamt it, after all he was prone to somnambulate during the night, and could have dreamt up all sorts of nonsense while doing so. "Perhaps I should return to the inn to see if that weird man was really there.." - he thought to himself.
Our hero sets out to search for the man from yesterday. The inn is mere minutes away by foot, conveniently so, it being his favorite hangout during late nights when his cravings for greasy fries and cheap mead set in. He ventures outside through his front door, but stops dead in his tracks, befuddled by the sight before him. The entire village appears barren, empty, eerily ghost-like with not a single soul in sight. "How unusual", he murmurs to himself. At this time of day, the townsfolk would usually get together and congregate in the town square, gossiping and chattering about the events that took place the night before.
A weirdly melodic noise emanates through the town. It doesn't appear to come from far away, just around the corner a few houses down. Distracted by the sound, our hero decides to head towards it. He arrives at a raggedly clothed man haphazardly mashing his hands in to an odd looking rectangular object in black and white, adorned with dancing lights in all the colours you could possibly imagine, and an unfamiliar noise being conjured seemingly out of nowhere. A tool of the occult, infused with dark mystical powers, he thinks. "Hey you! What is that thing?" - the hero loudly proclaims. The noise stops as the ragged man stops fiddling with the item and looks up towards the hero. "Oh this thing? I nicked it from a time wizard. He said he brought it back with him from the future, a keyboard he called it. Very odd" - the ragged man replies. Seemingly too infatuated by the item to continue the conversation, the man returns to fiddling with the so called keyboard.
The hero decides to move along, showing a disinterest for magic, especially of the dark variety. He had heard many tales of men becoming possessed by weapons of the occult, cursing them with insatiable rage and bloodlust, and ostensibly death when hubris overthrows their rationale.
He was more of a fist-to-fist combat type, he thought. Fights would frequently break out at the local inn as people got increasingly drunk and reckless. Though he was no stranger to brawls, his fighting technique would largely consist of aimlessly swinging his arms around and punting people in the shins. When his opponent was of much greater stature and strength than himself, he would resort to wrecking tables, chairs and mugs in an attempt to intimidate them. Evidently he was not much of a fighter in reality, but nevertheless thought of himself as great warrior.
As the hero moved along, he became increasingly more aware of how barren town had become. He could hear stray cats mewling and the foundations of buildings creaking as strong gusts of wind pass through the alleyways. He was becoming sensitized to the silence, yet growing an awareness for things he would have otherwise not paid any attention to. For the first time in years he was able to hear himself think, which would have otherwise been entirely impossible in the noisy inns and bars he would spend most of his time in. He was riddled with thoughts that he was now fully aware of, thinking what could possibly have happened to make the townsfolk to vanish, and about the mysterious man from yesterday.
He arrives at the inn, which looks just as empty and abandoned as the rest of the village. All the curtains have been shut, the lights quenched and not a squeak is to be heard. Though questioning whether his presence would be welcome, he decides to enter the inn anyways, eager to find answers. He makes his way through the door. The floorboards squeak with his every step, and the draft from the now wide open entryway rattles the haphazardly abandoned whiteware.
"Is anybody there?" - he yells out, but to no avail. The realization of being alone makes the thoughts flood in again, unanswerable questions zooming through his mind, like reading a quiz you were meant to study for, but didn't because of your incessant stubbornness. After several minutes of frustration, the mental tribulations die out. He visually scours the room, trying to find anything that may give him a hint or clue.
The walls are adorned with framed paintings of boats and harbors. The locals were greatly proud of their naval prowess, as most of the town's wealth was being supplied by trade ships and fisheries. A rustling coming from behind the bar counter breaks his focus. He could hear erratic squeaking alongside the tiniest, yet rapid footsteps. A mouse emerges from the bar and charges straight past him. The hero lets out a cowardly shriek. He had an inexplicable fear of mice, so much so that he once stipulated that he might have been an elephant in a past life. The mouse let's out a high pitched squeak as it scuttles away. The hero shudders. Mice were truly one of the worst things he could imagine.
Having collected himself, he turns his attention to another painting hung up on the wall, one depicting a noble figure dressed in kingly attire. It was a painting of the town's king, unabashedly grinning in his depiction. The king had always been overtly boastful and arrogant about his regal status, with many of the townsfolk feeling resentment and anger towards the royal family, particularly towards the king himself. They considered him undeserving of the crown and unfit to rule, perhaps justifiably so, as he had a tendency to spend the town's tax funds and resources on pampering himself and the royal estate. Needless to say, the entire town felt devastated the day he became coronated.
Rules (because you fuckers can't behave):
- Your post must contain one word only
- English - UK/American dictionary
- No proper nouns/acronyms/conjunctions
- No slurs, profanities or general inappropriateness
- No nonsense non-words such as "rizz" or "gyatt"
- No editing your post, even if there's a typo
- polyspora and keremaru are banned from participating
Our hero awakens with gusto and enthusiasm, eager to go on a quest... But due to his chronic forgetfulness, he forgot where or how he may seek it. He groans and yabbles incoherently to himself, clearly frustrated with his inability to recollect his plans for the day. The purpleness of his face makes it very clear that he's agitated.
It was something that occurs every fortnight, an today was that day. He was convinced that it must be of high importance. A peculiarly dressed man had told him something or the other the day before, while they were sharing a bowl of fries at the local inn, which he regularly frequented. Something about a helmet comes to mind... An enchanted magical helmet? Or perhaps one made out of gold, and adorned with expensive gemstones.
He could have just dreamt it, after all he was prone to somnambulate during the night, and could have dreamt up all sorts of nonsense while doing so. "Perhaps I should return to the inn to see if that weird man was really there.." - he thought to himself.
Our hero sets out to search for the man from yesterday. The inn is mere minutes away by foot, conveniently so, it being his favorite hangout during late nights when his cravings for greasy fries and cheap mead set in. He ventures outside through his front door, but stops dead in his tracks, befuddled by the sight before him. The entire village appears barren, empty, eerily ghost-like with not a single soul in sight. "How unusual", he murmurs to himself. At this time of day, the townsfolk would usually get together and congregate in the town square, gossiping and chattering about the events that took place the night before.
A weirdly melodic noise emanates through the town. It doesn't appear to come from far away, just around the corner a few houses down. Distracted by the sound, our hero decides to head towards it. He arrives at a raggedly clothed man haphazardly mashing his hands in to an odd looking rectangular object in black and white, adorned with dancing lights in all the colours you could possibly imagine, and an unfamiliar noise being conjured seemingly out of nowhere. A tool of the occult, infused with dark mystical powers, he thinks. "Hey you! What is that thing?" - the hero loudly proclaims. The noise stops as the ragged man stops fiddling with the item and looks up towards the hero. "Oh this thing? I nicked it from a time wizard. He said he brought it back with him from the future, a keyboard he called it. Very odd" - the ragged man replies. Seemingly too infatuated by the item to continue the conversation, the man returns to fiddling with the so called keyboard.
The hero decides to move along, showing a disinterest for magic, especially of the dark variety. He had heard many tales of men becoming possessed by weapons of the occult, cursing them with insatiable rage and bloodlust, and ostensibly death when hubris overthrows their rationale.
He was more of a fist-to-fist combat type, he thought. Fights would frequently break out at the local inn as people got increasingly drunk and reckless. Though he was no stranger to brawls, his fighting technique would largely consist of aimlessly swinging his arms around and punting people in the shins. When his opponent was of much greater stature and strength than himself, he would resort to wrecking tables, chairs and mugs in an attempt to intimidate them. Evidently he was not much of a fighter in reality, but nevertheless thought of himself as great warrior.
As the hero moved along, he became increasingly more aware of how barren town had become. He could hear stray cats mewling and the foundations of buildings creaking as strong gusts of wind pass through the alleyways. He was becoming sensitized to the silence, yet growing an awareness for things he would have otherwise not paid any attention to. For the first time in years he was able to hear himself think, which would have otherwise been entirely impossible in the noisy inns and bars he would spend most of his time in. He was riddled with thoughts that he was now fully aware of, thinking what could possibly have happened to make the townsfolk to vanish, and about the mysterious man from yesterday.
He arrives at the inn, which looks just as empty and abandoned as the rest of the village. All the curtains have been shut, the lights quenched and not a squeak is to be heard. Though questioning whether his presence would be welcome, he decides to enter the inn anyways, eager to find answers. He makes his way through the door. The floorboards squeak with his every step, and the draft from the now wide open entryway rattles the haphazardly abandoned whiteware.
"Is anybody there?" - he yells out, but to no avail. The realization of being alone makes the thoughts flood in again, unanswerable questions zooming through his mind, like reading a quiz you were meant to study for, but didn't because of your incessant stubbornness. After several minutes of frustration, the mental tribulations die out. He visually scours the room, trying to find anything that may give him a hint or clue.
The walls are adorned with framed paintings of boats and harbors. The locals were greatly proud of their naval prowess, as most of the town's wealth was being supplied by trade ships and fisheries. A rustling coming from behind the bar counter breaks his focus. He could hear erratic squeaking alongside the tiniest, yet rapid footsteps. A mouse emerges from the bar and charges straight past him. The hero lets out a cowardly shriek. He had an inexplicable fear of mice, so much so that he once stipulated that he might have been an elephant in a past life. The mouse let's out a high pitched squeak as it scuttles away. The hero shudders. Mice were truly one of the worst things he could imagine.
Having collected himself, he turns his attention to another painting hung up on the wall, one depicting a noble figure dressed in kingly attire. It was a painting of the town's king, unabashedly grinning in his depiction. The king had always been overtly boastful and arrogant about his regal status, with many of the townsfolk feeling resentment and anger towards the royal family, particularly towards the king himself. They considered him undeserving of the crown and unfit to rule, perhaps justifiably so, as he had a tendency to spend the town's tax funds and resources on pampering himself and the royal estate. Needless to say, the entire town felt devastated the day he became coronated.
