G
Guest
Guest
<table width="603" border="2" bordercolor="#ff0000" align="center" bgcolor="#ffff80" height="160" cellspacing="2" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td>
</td> <td>
</td> </tr> </table>
las, the spirit is willing, but the body is weak. And so it was that the good Blind Otto did slumber away this week's story night once more, having no strength left to overcome the curse of sleep which fell up on him.
On the bright side, that means you get me instead!
I would have called Wulf, but I didn't think it would be fair for me to interrupt the Supreme Sage of Stabbyness at the last minute, in the middle of the night, so I, Beatrice Quill, went along to record the tales being told in Wispwood Shire!
I arrived just in time, after being badly delayed by the act of tossing multiple buckets of ice water over Otto, in a vain attempt to awaken him. Fortunately, I did get there with seconds to spare, before Daan Mor began his tale.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#ff0000" bgcolor="#ffff80" align="center"> <tr> <td width="119">
</td> <td width="426"> <p align="center"><font color="#ff0000" size="5">Caelan: Chapter One -
The Siege of Britain
by Daan Mor</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#ff0000" size="5">
</font> </p></td></tr></table>
<table bordercolor="#ff0000" width="90%" bgcolor="#ffff80" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td>
ater! We need more water! cried the artisan as he scurried past them.
The truth was the flames were completely overwhelming.
The rain of flaming arrows and mages spells hadnt stopped for a week;
almost every building was now ablaze.
"It's odd y'know?" said Gregor, turning to his friend,
"I wanted to be a fireman when I was young.
Now Im a fireman, Guard and healer."
Gregor was a good man, with a large, kind face and the actions to match.
He had been friend to Caelan since they were at school together.
"So, how long do you think it'll hold?"
Gregor was referring to the Poor Gate.
The north-western quarter of the city had fallen weeks ago
and the guards told to fall back behind the walls.
"Not long now, I would think, there are few of us Guards left, I fear ."
Caelan tried not to think of the citizens still trapped beyond the wall,
there was nothing that could be done for those now.
Not with the seething mass of monsters which now occupied that part of their fair city.
Caelan looked up, the night air was thick with soot,
and bright orange as the flames danced from roof to roof.
There was a loud crash. The pair hardly noticed this now,
not least because the roar of flames was almost deafening,
but also as the creation of new firebreaks
in the timber buildings of Britain was almost a daily occurrence.
Another crash, louder this time, enough to startle the young guards, who spun to face it.
BRRREEEEECH!!! came the cry from the north.
This was it, the monsters had made it through the wall.
By the time Caelan started running,
Gregor was already many strides ahead, rounding the corner of the street.
Wait! he cried, but it was to no avail, Gregor could not hear him.
Turning the corner and drawing his sword, Caelan was awestruck and horrified by what he saw.
This was no Ettin, Ogre or Cyclops.
He saw no monster even attempting to enter the breech.
Instead a mounted man stood atop an ever growing pile of corpses,
his mighty axe flicking this way and that,
creating rivers of blood to mix with the skies of flame that eve.
The riders huge armoured warhorse reared and kicked out,
Noooo!!!! shouted Caelan, renewing his sprint toward the horseman.
Gregors body slumped to the floor,
blood leaking from the gaping wound at his temple.
Caelan lunged, but the rider merely sidestepped his blow,
deftly manoeuvring his horse away from the young Guards sword.
Again and again he tried, but he found it impossible to strike the man.
"Why?"
Caelan sank to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor beside him.
"Why do you not kill me as you have my friend? and the other Guards? "
he sobbed, glancing into the vacant eyes of the corpses around him.
"It is not yet your time." The riders voice was deep,
yet strangely soothing for one so deadly.
Caelan looked up at him through tear-filled eyes,
the mans skin was as black as the night should have been,
and his robe a deep red, a hue not dissimilar from the blood he had spilled.
"We shall meet again." The rider said,
tipping the peak of the black helm which protruded from his hood like the beak
of some never before seen bird.
He spun away, then paused, turning to face the pitiful sight of the beleaguered Caelan.
Drawing a long knife, he threw it down.
"May Mithras protect you. "
As the rider turned away once more,
Caelan noticed the hisses of the Lizardmen, and the grunts of the Ogres beyond the wall.
Why did they not attack?
Was this man in league with them?
From the sounds it did not seem so. But then why did he fight the Guards?
The questions swirled in Caelans head
as he picked up the riders knife and turned to walk away...
There was nothing left for him here. </td></tr> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
</p></td></tr> </table>
And then he stopped! Grrr! Daan, make sure we get the next chapter next week! That was mean, stopping there!
Still, Uther quickly took to the stage, and brought a song of the grasses of the mountains with him, so I put the large plate that I was about to throw at Daan back down, and listened attentively.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#808000" bgcolor="#80ff80" align="center"> <tr> <td width="172">
</td> <td width="385"> <p align="center"><font color="#808000" size="5">Mountain Grasses
by Uther Mortigast</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#808000" size="5">
</font> </p></td></tr></table>
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#808000" bgcolor="#80ff80" align="center"> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
</p></td></tr> <tr> <td>
lie within the grass of spring
I lie and watch the battle
Twas to young eyes a fearful thing
Toothed orcs cut down like cattle
Upon bold steed rode fighting men
Who charged against the masses
While soft the wind blew down the glen
And waved the budding grasses
Wherefore they rode, from whence they came
Could not be heard for singing
Of humble sacrifice of fame
And warm arms round them flinging
And there within the mountain's ken
We loft from breast our glasses
A toast for all the valiant men
While soft wind waved the grasses
Twas from their purse the gold did bleed
To use in our own fashion
From those that have to those that need
The hallmark of compassion
Then swift the cuts of trails through grain
Which led to mountain passes
Amongst ourselves alone again
While soft wind waved the grasses
With gold in hand we lost our way
To field and shoppe and pasture
While deep within the mountain caves
A swell of hate did fester
And two years hence one autumn day
Shrill cried some several lasses
Justice spilled upon orcs' blades
While soft wind waved the grasses
Eye for eye, the last recourse
A mother did this son lose
A cairn around her ashen corpse
A victim of the Virtues
Tis of these tricks I'm wont to sing
And grief that never passes
My sad heart plucks a woeful string
When e'er wind waves the grasses
</td></tr></table>
A very fine song indeed, Uther! This was one of three that tied for first place... but more of that later.
Yancey DeFlorio's noble stride took him across the floor, to the stage, where he continued his epic. Dragon Rider.
Outside, a considerably less epic vampire could be seen, struggling to park his swamp dragon. Still, perhaps someone will sing of him, too, one day - but I doubt it. People don't often sing about swamp dragons.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#0080ff" bgcolor="#808080" align="center"> <tr> <td width="213">
</td> <td width="327"> <p align="center"><font color="#80ffff" size="5">Dragon Rider:
Part IV - Roshelle
by Yancey DeFlorio</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#008080" size="5">
</font></p> </td></tr></table>
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#0080ff" bgcolor="#c0c0c0" align="center"> <tr> <td bgcolor="#808080" width="565">
<font color="#ccffcc">
<font color="#ffff80"> oshelle, though being elf born,
Fairy fire danced in her veins,
Skipping generations
As if somehow preordained.
If the darkness were to win this war,
Fairy magic would be lost,
So the magic stayed in waiting --
Self-saving at all cost.
She felt that hers was diffrent,
The magic she possessed,
Was more than elfin magic
So she hid it from the rest.
Shed often test its power
When no one was around.
In all the trials that she performed,
No limits could be found.
One day at such a proving,
The sun at its twilight,
Cold flames rose up before her --
First blue then turning white.
What appeared before her
Was beauty beyond belief,
A fairy light as vapor,
Her voice held soft relief.
The power that lay dormant
For a thousand years,
Entrusted to your bloodline,
Has chosen to appear.
The reason is unsettling,
For an omen long foretold,
When darkness reawakens,
The magic will unfold.
Its happening in your lifetime,
So you must be the one
To stand against this enemy --
The War of Lights begun.
Roshelle gazed at the fairy
With confusion and with doubt,
I know not of this war of yours
or what you speak about.
Im just a simple princess
Of the clan of woodland elves,
We are not a warring people,
We stay private, to ourselves.
The flames grew, bright and ominous,
The magic doesnt lie!
So if you choose, ignore all this,
And all you know will die.
Inside your sacred temple
Is the Chosens rune-marked sword
You must take this to a clearing
Where youll find a birthright lord.
Then youll need the shield,
If this plan is to succeed,
Its located at The Blood Lake
Warded by a heros creed.
Last, locate the Staff of Shades
Trapped deep in times debris,
In the balance between dark and light,
The shadows hold the key.
You speak in crumbs and riddles,
Roshelle said angrily.
So why should I believe you?
This could be treachery.
Then why? the fairy said to her,
Was the magic in you born?
And Roshelle, what youre forgetting,
Is: Why the unicorn?
This shook Roshelle completely,
She couldnt refute the claim.
The creature had appeared to her,
So she called the stallion Flame.
Unicorns had vanished
Hundreds of years before,
So the arrival of this halfling
Was too great just to ignore.
Roshelle had many questions --
How can I know whats right?
She asked, What are the answers?
How can I win this fight?
Youll have one of the Chosen,
The Staff and magic, too,
A champion and unicorn --
The rest is up to you.
The flames and fairy vanished.
Roshelle was left alone
To ponder many questions
As seeds within her sown.
The sword would be the easiest,
For her a simple theft.
But if her clan found out the thief,
The penalty was death.
The others would be different,
All carefully thought out.
Each with unique dangers
Masked in a web of doubt.
Roshelle stood just a moment,
Sent a thought to summon Flame,
Then rode off to her village --
The sword, was first to claim
Sometimes we make decisions,
For better or for worse,
And what we take as blessings
Can spin into a curse </font>
</font> </td></tr></table>
This gets better and better each week! And this, too, was tied for first place!
Unfortunately, the next one... well. In my haste to tend to the loudly snoring, sleep-stricken Otto, and to reach the Shire in time for the first tale, I was not as well prepared for story night as I had hoped to be. Firstly, I had picked up the wrong book, and found myself with an old diary, instead of the tale I had planned to tell, and secondly... it seems that old diary was cursed.
Several times, as I tried to read from it, the world went not grey, but black, and the whispering of a dark spirit called "M'ycr'o'sof't Er'ror Rep'ort'ng" reached my ears, and interrupted my tale. On more than one occasion, I was flung out of the tavern by this dark spirit, and eventually had to give up.
I will not present my badly battered rendition here now, but will rather wait until I have finished reading it in completeness, free of curses. However, should anyone wish to read the full diary, there is a copy <a target="_blank" href=http://uo.stratics.com/content/contests/autobiographies/beatricequill.shtml>here</a>, hopefully also free of curses and dark spirits.
Still, it could have been worse. If I had waited until later to present that tale, I could have been flung outside into the tender mercies of Wyrm, or one of his followers. It was also good to have a vampire arrive who was not intent on destruction - other than Spyderbite and Katharine, that is. Michael of VmP came to visit, and, after a brief misunderstanding regarding the waving of a kryss within the tavern, ended the evening there. Alive - at least, when I finally left.
The last tale of the night was a strange one. Strange, but thoroughly entertaining! Hoffs took to the stage, and attempted to empty our pockets of gold, with an amazing business opportunity.
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" bgcolor="#800040" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td width="132">
</td> <td width="362"> <p align="center"><font color="#ff00ff" size="5">A Business Opportunity
(you only live 32767 times)
by Hoffs</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#ff00ff" size="5">
</font> </p></td></tr></table>
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" bgcolor="#80ffff" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td>
<font color="#004000">
ear friends!
Trusted friends!
I am afraid there is no 'tale from the dark side' tonight.
Instead, I wish to use this occasion to inform you of a once-in-a-lifetime business opportunity.
Yes, a wise investment here could mean your days of gold farming are at an end.
In partnership with renowned producer Merlin Bialystock,
I have conceived a play which I intend to open at The King's Men Theatre in Britain.
It will be a lavish production, with a budget running into the millions of gold pieces.
To finance this, I am selling shares at 100,000 gps a time.
Each share will entitle you to 5% of the profits, and I have 97 shares still available!
Now, I'm sure you will want a few more details before you part with your cash,
so I will read you a rough draft of the script.
It is called 'You Only Live 32,767 Times'.
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene One
Chesapeake shard. A large castle next to a server boundary, NE of Britain.
Inside, six figures stand in a circle. Behind them are chests overflowing with Gypsy Headdresses,
Dryad Bows and Swords Of Prosperity as well as billions of gold and reagents.
The figures all have thick, black moustaches and are dressed in poncho-robes and wide-brim hats.
The leader speaks with a Latin-Sosarian accent.
"Ha. Sooon we wheel hav dooped r won meeelionth roon beeetle carapace. .
Already we r growing reech on ze Eeebay profeets.
And there eeez notheeng zat Oh.Ez.Aye can dooo abowt eeet, hehehe." .
The others break out into laughter also.
The mirth is cut short, however, when one of them takes off his hat, robe and false moustache.
He now looks like the archetypal English gentlemen - suave, immaculate dress, beeswaxed hair,
and a broad, Scottish accent.
"You should have stuck to the opium, Mendoza", he remarks casually.
"Weight ay mee-neet. U r knot Diego. Whoo r u?" .
"The name's Bond, Meester Bond."
"Seeez heeem!" shouts Mendoza.
The others each draw out identical unique weapons and hurry toward Bond.
But as they do so, each vanishes into the ether.
In panic, Mendoza rushes for the exit, but on his way out he knocks over a barrel full of library
reward glasses. He falls down upon the spilled items and is cut to shreds by the broken lenses.
Bond pulls out a crackling communication crystal from his pocket.
"All account bans in place," a voice announces, "wait there for the clean-up crew."
He looks on as Mendoza's corpse disappears like all the others.
"He certainly made a spectacle of himself."
[The part of Bond will be played by noted thespian McClure of Troy. You may remember him from
street-emptying plays as 'Mondain and the Golem Factory' and 'Honey, I Shrunk the Avatars'.]
Scene Two
Origin Shard. North side of Lord British's Castle.
Bond glances around, then places his hand onto the keep wall.
Part of the stonework slides open and he steps into a well-furnished reception room.
A middle-age lady smiles at him from behind a desk.
Bond takes off his hat and casually tosses it at the hat stand, but it drops straight to the floor
"Oh Meester," sighs the woman,
"How many times must I tell you? It won't stay up without your interior decorator tool."
Bond leans over the desk and grins. "Funny, I've never had problems keeping it up with anyone else."
One of the communication crystals on the desk starts flashing and a stern voice fills the room.
"If you have quite finished with UO7, Miss Moneygrabber, send him straight in."
Bond smiles and walks though into an adjacent office.
Sitting at a desk piled with parchments is a fairly young man with disheveled hair.
He is wearing some strange, blue, canvas-type trousers
and a white t-shirt with the word 'Nirvana' written on it.
"You're looking very dapper today, 'T'," quips Bond.
"You may dispense with the frivolity, Bond.
I'm a very busy person. I must put the finishing touches to this Publish 41.
There are some major fixes coming up, long overdue ones which we are finally going to sort out.
We are actually going to nerf Begging and Taste ID.
Yes sir, the days of the a**-licking spongers are well and truly numbered."
Bond raises an eyebrow.
"Anyway, Bond. I have a job for you on Siege."
"Siege?"
"Siege Perilous."
"Never heard of it."
"No, neither had I until Publish 38. Apparently they use these strange concepts of 'risk' and 'loss'.
'T' gets up from his desk and moves over to an easel.
Painted on the canvas is a crude, blotchy humanoid figure which could represent just about anyone.
"This is Ernst Revvo Blofeld," he begins, "head of the despised REVTRE organization.
They are implicated in virtually every cheat, hack, exploit, crime, gank and depravity going.
Why, only a couple of weeks ago they reportedly entered an inn
and wiped out a bunch of unarmoured saddoes who were attending a group hug or something.
I'm sorry about the picture. We lost the 2D image, so you'll have to make do with this 3D one."
'T' walks up to Bond. "Our sources tell us REVTRE are up to something big.
I want you to find them and put a stop to it."
"Where should I start looking?" asks Bond.
"They say Blofeld has somehow managed to obtain a 36x36 house near a place called Iantown.
Apparently, the building was loaded with so much gold
that the bottom two floors have collapsed into the ground..."
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Three
The basement of REVTRE HQ.
Several sinister, black-clad figures are seated around an illegally stretched hardwood table.
At the head of the table an ugly, bald, scarred, disfigured Blowfeld sits stroking a white hellcat.
[Hopefully I can persuade Revvo to play himself here].
"Your report please, Number Five," he intones.
"Well, Number One, Number 379 and I had just killed a couple of newbies near Despise.
I had not touched the bodies and was about to head back when Number Two appeared.
I saw him take things from the corpses, but upon our return he did not declare the loot."
"Do you have anything to say on this matter, Number Two?"
"Well, they don't call me Number Two for nothing."
"I see. It seems then, gentlemen, that I am left with no alternative."
Blowfeld pulls a lever by his side and a chest falls from the roof above.
It contains one item but weighs 15000 tons. As it crashes down upon Number Five,
the chest rips open and his body is buried beneath a mountain of plain wood.
"May this be a lesson to everyone," says Blofeld.
"There is no place in REVTRE for somebody who does not dry loot.
Now, let us concentrate on the matter at hand.
We now have amassed over 10,000 115 & 120 powerscrolls.
It is time to start the final phase of our plan...
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Four
Bond exits Kelmo's Pub in Iantown.
He is now accompanied by a waitress from the establishment, Annie Wheyulike.
She is dressed in red with short, brown hair and is altogether sexy, gorgeous,
intelligent and articulate. [I can only think of one person who fits this part
]
"Well Annie," says Bond, "this secret base is going to take some finding."
"But surely, Meester, a 36x36 house should be easy to spot."
"Not really, I can only see about 20 tiles at any one time.
No, look at all the houses, try and find anything suspicious or out of place."
"Does this count?" asks Annie.
She was standing next to a house with marble walls. The sign on the house read:
Name: REVTRE Secret Headquarters. Owner: Ernst Revvo Blofeld. This house is open to abuse.
"Er, it may be worth a try," says Bond in embarrassment.
They enter the main door. Inside, the house is furnished immaculately.
All the furniture is carved of frostwood and the ornaments are all of gold - even the parrots.
"Interesting decoration," comments Bond. And look, some clever design work here on the floor."
"Wait, Mester," shrieks Annie, as an ominous sound fills the room. "It may be a...."
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Five
"...teleporter."
The two appear in the basement of the building.
Instantly they are siezed by guards and hauled before Number Two.
"Governor Memnoch, " says Annie, "I might have known.
I recognized your foul stench when I came in the house."
"Charming, to the last." smiles Memnoch.
"Silence," roars Blofeld, "No mixing parodies, there will be.
Part of the EA Alliance and a traitor, you are. Away, take her!"
The pair are dragged off to a side-room, where Bond is strapped down to a stone table.
A small, iron grate opens in the wall opposite and a Miasma appears from it and slowly advances.
Blowfeld puts his arm around Annie. "You will stay here with me, my dear.
But don't worry, when I first left school I worked as a eunuch for several years."
Bond eyes the Miasma's snapping pincers moving towards his nether regions.
"I don't suppose I could have my scribe's pen could I?
"The Corp Por one? No."
"How about a my silver cigarette case?"
"Ah. The special Recall one? Yes you can have that.
Haha. Q division should have let you have the gold Gate Travel one here."
"So, you except me to talk?"
"No, Meeeester Bond. I expect you to diiiiieeee!"
Oh well, that's not so bad. It's happened to me loads of time, usually rez kills.
32766 deaths by my calculation.
"You only live 32767 times, Meeeester Bond."
"Really?"
"Yes. To save memory they programmed that with a signed short instead of an integer.
No, I'm afraid you are headed for the recycle bin, old boy."
"Well, UO8 will replace me."
"Nah. He was a casualty of the recent Dev team cutbacks.
"Oh," said Bond, quite deflated. "In that case, are you recruiting at the moment?"
Suddenly, the building shakes and the sound of explosions fills the air. In the main room, scores of
ninjas are descending from the ceiling on ropes [most will be female clad in skimpy leather armour]
The concussion knocks over Dawn's Music Box and it begins playing dramatic horn music.
Blofeld steps into the room amid a cacophony of shurikens and fireballs.
He is confronted by the noble, oriental figure of Yasou Wakayama [I thought Will Smith for this].
"It seems we have the better of you." says Yasou, bowing.
"Pah. Only because you outnumber us 3-1." spits Blofeld.
"I would say it's about even numbers." retorts the other.
"Yes, because half of you are dead now."
"Looks to me like most of yours are trying to run away," snivels Yasou.
"They are not."
"Are too."
"Bah, you've been eating too much shrimp fried rice."
"Nya-nya nya nya-nya," says Yasou.
"Oh," snorts Blofeld, drawing his 860% DI Ornate Axe, "am I going to give it to you now, old chap.
"But you promised me the night off," whimpers Number Four.
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Six
Annie shuts the door and the argument is drowned out.
The Miasma has slunk back into its cell, so she releases Bond.
"Now is our chance to escape, Meester."
Bond walks over to the other door that lies in the room.
It opens into a large storehouse containing hundreds of wooden crates.
Bond breaks one open and removes a purple bottle from within, tasting it carefully.
On the wall is a map of Felucca with all the Champion Spawn locations marked.
"My God!" he exclaims. REVTRE must have been stockpiling Scrolls Of Power.
Now they are planning on blowing up the spawn areas, and they will become unstoppable!
"But Meester," protests Annie, "It would take ages to destroy an alter even with all these potions."
"You don't understand, my dear. These are bugged pots, one going off can cause a chain reaction.
We need to act fast."
Bond peels back the outer leather from his boots and removes two pieces of parchment,
a length of copper wire, a tiny hourglass and a small pen.
He places one piece of parchment on the floor and begins inscribing a design.
"What are you doing?" asks Annie.
"It's a skeleton teleporter," replies Bond. "I just hope I can get the right symbol."
Next, Bond attaches one end of the wire to the hourglass, and the other
to the second parchment - an explosion scroll. He places this into one of the crates.
"Right, let's go," he barks, and the pair step on to the teleporter.
Scene Seven
The pair appear on the roof of the building, next to the gaping hole where WAKA had entered.
Down below, the battle has reached its full, horrifying climax
as ghost and living alike stand around arguing over who PWN's whom.
Bond grabs Annie and they jump over the side of the roof and land on the back of a huge dragon
The beast flaps its wings and roars up into the air.
"Oh, Meester," questions Annie, "Are you sure you can control this creature?"
"Of course I can. It's BONDed."
As the dragon soars up over Gravewater Lake, Iantown is engulfed in a blinding fireball.
Annie clasps her ears as the deafening shock wave reaches them,
but Bond seems barely to notice the noise.
"It's times like these," he muses, "that I'm glad I didn't patch to 5.0.1e."
The couple fall into an intimate embrace as the dragon sails into the sunset of stage left.
Cue Shirley Bassey singing.
So there we have it, a cetain winner.
I'm sure there is no chance of this one closing on the opening night.
And I already have plans for several sequels;
Bolaball, Moonglower, A View to a Gank, The Mage Who In Lor'd Me.
Now, if you would all care to form an orderly queue next to my table...
</font> </td></tr></table>
I'm sure Hoffs will be rich. One day. Quite possibly not because of that script, though, but it was very well done - and the third tale to tie for first place!!!
When the votes were counted, the three who contended for first place eyed each other with glints in their eyes, quills sharpened, exploding ink pots at the ready. The three-way stand off caused a hush to fall upon the room, interrupted only by the crunching sound of Goodah eating a carrot.
Yancey stared at Uther and Hoffs, a freshly scribed scroll of rival smothering in his hand. Then, with a smile, he stepped back.
"I tell my tales to tell them, not to get paid." he said, and yeilded the floor to the other two tellers of fine tales.
Daan polished a disturbingly large axe, making everyone wonder just where he had been hiding it, given the extreme difference in size between the axe and his backpack, and offered to champion any scribe who would have him. Hoffs blushed at this, and was seen to quickly scribe a number on a small piece of parchment, and press it into his hand with a whisper.
But, just as pens were about to be bloodied, and scrolls cut up into bandages, the two turned to the use of the die, rather than die, and small tumbling blocks with dots on them determined the winner.
And so, after a seemingly eternal effort of presenting tales on Tuesdays, Hoffs won the grand prize!
Congratulations Hoffs!
And well done to all the others - and a special nod to Yancey, for showing true nobility on the battlefield. Now, where can I get one of those exploding ink pots?
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" align="center" bgcolor="#8000ff" border="2"> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
</p> </td> </tr> </table>
<font size="1"> (proof-read by a sleepy Otto!) </font>
On the bright side, that means you get me instead!
I would have called Wulf, but I didn't think it would be fair for me to interrupt the Supreme Sage of Stabbyness at the last minute, in the middle of the night, so I, Beatrice Quill, went along to record the tales being told in Wispwood Shire!
I arrived just in time, after being badly delayed by the act of tossing multiple buckets of ice water over Otto, in a vain attempt to awaken him. Fortunately, I did get there with seconds to spare, before Daan Mor began his tale.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#ff0000" bgcolor="#ffff80" align="center"> <tr> <td width="119">
The Siege of Britain
by Daan Mor</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#ff0000" size="5">
<table bordercolor="#ff0000" width="90%" bgcolor="#ffff80" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td>
The truth was the flames were completely overwhelming.
The rain of flaming arrows and mages spells hadnt stopped for a week;
almost every building was now ablaze.
"It's odd y'know?" said Gregor, turning to his friend,
"I wanted to be a fireman when I was young.
Now Im a fireman, Guard and healer."
Gregor was a good man, with a large, kind face and the actions to match.
He had been friend to Caelan since they were at school together.
"So, how long do you think it'll hold?"
Gregor was referring to the Poor Gate.
The north-western quarter of the city had fallen weeks ago
and the guards told to fall back behind the walls.
"Not long now, I would think, there are few of us Guards left, I fear ."
Caelan tried not to think of the citizens still trapped beyond the wall,
there was nothing that could be done for those now.
Not with the seething mass of monsters which now occupied that part of their fair city.
Caelan looked up, the night air was thick with soot,
and bright orange as the flames danced from roof to roof.
There was a loud crash. The pair hardly noticed this now,
not least because the roar of flames was almost deafening,
but also as the creation of new firebreaks
in the timber buildings of Britain was almost a daily occurrence.
Another crash, louder this time, enough to startle the young guards, who spun to face it.
BRRREEEEECH!!! came the cry from the north.
This was it, the monsters had made it through the wall.
By the time Caelan started running,
Gregor was already many strides ahead, rounding the corner of the street.
Wait! he cried, but it was to no avail, Gregor could not hear him.
Turning the corner and drawing his sword, Caelan was awestruck and horrified by what he saw.
This was no Ettin, Ogre or Cyclops.
He saw no monster even attempting to enter the breech.
Instead a mounted man stood atop an ever growing pile of corpses,
his mighty axe flicking this way and that,
creating rivers of blood to mix with the skies of flame that eve.
The riders huge armoured warhorse reared and kicked out,
Noooo!!!! shouted Caelan, renewing his sprint toward the horseman.
Gregors body slumped to the floor,
blood leaking from the gaping wound at his temple.
Caelan lunged, but the rider merely sidestepped his blow,
deftly manoeuvring his horse away from the young Guards sword.
Again and again he tried, but he found it impossible to strike the man.
"Why?"
Caelan sank to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor beside him.
"Why do you not kill me as you have my friend? and the other Guards? "
he sobbed, glancing into the vacant eyes of the corpses around him.
"It is not yet your time." The riders voice was deep,
yet strangely soothing for one so deadly.
Caelan looked up at him through tear-filled eyes,
the mans skin was as black as the night should have been,
and his robe a deep red, a hue not dissimilar from the blood he had spilled.
"We shall meet again." The rider said,
tipping the peak of the black helm which protruded from his hood like the beak
of some never before seen bird.
He spun away, then paused, turning to face the pitiful sight of the beleaguered Caelan.
Drawing a long knife, he threw it down.
"May Mithras protect you. "
As the rider turned away once more,
Caelan noticed the hisses of the Lizardmen, and the grunts of the Ogres beyond the wall.
Why did they not attack?
Was this man in league with them?
From the sounds it did not seem so. But then why did he fight the Guards?
The questions swirled in Caelans head
as he picked up the riders knife and turned to walk away...
There was nothing left for him here. </td></tr> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
And then he stopped! Grrr! Daan, make sure we get the next chapter next week! That was mean, stopping there!
Still, Uther quickly took to the stage, and brought a song of the grasses of the mountains with him, so I put the large plate that I was about to throw at Daan back down, and listened attentively.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#808000" bgcolor="#80ff80" align="center"> <tr> <td width="172">
by Uther Mortigast</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#808000" size="5">
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#808000" bgcolor="#80ff80" align="center"> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
I lie and watch the battle
Twas to young eyes a fearful thing
Toothed orcs cut down like cattle
Upon bold steed rode fighting men
Who charged against the masses
While soft the wind blew down the glen
And waved the budding grasses
Wherefore they rode, from whence they came
Could not be heard for singing
Of humble sacrifice of fame
And warm arms round them flinging
And there within the mountain's ken
We loft from breast our glasses
A toast for all the valiant men
While soft wind waved the grasses
Twas from their purse the gold did bleed
To use in our own fashion
From those that have to those that need
The hallmark of compassion
Then swift the cuts of trails through grain
Which led to mountain passes
Amongst ourselves alone again
While soft wind waved the grasses
With gold in hand we lost our way
To field and shoppe and pasture
While deep within the mountain caves
A swell of hate did fester
And two years hence one autumn day
Shrill cried some several lasses
Justice spilled upon orcs' blades
While soft wind waved the grasses
Eye for eye, the last recourse
A mother did this son lose
A cairn around her ashen corpse
A victim of the Virtues
Tis of these tricks I'm wont to sing
And grief that never passes
My sad heart plucks a woeful string
When e'er wind waves the grasses
</td></tr></table>
A very fine song indeed, Uther! This was one of three that tied for first place... but more of that later.
Yancey DeFlorio's noble stride took him across the floor, to the stage, where he continued his epic. Dragon Rider.
Outside, a considerably less epic vampire could be seen, struggling to park his swamp dragon. Still, perhaps someone will sing of him, too, one day - but I doubt it. People don't often sing about swamp dragons.
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#0080ff" bgcolor="#808080" align="center"> <tr> <td width="213">
Part IV - Roshelle
by Yancey DeFlorio</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#008080" size="5">
<table width="90%" border="1" bordercolor="#0080ff" bgcolor="#c0c0c0" align="center"> <tr> <td bgcolor="#808080" width="565">
<font color="#ccffcc">
Fairy fire danced in her veins,
Skipping generations
As if somehow preordained.
If the darkness were to win this war,
Fairy magic would be lost,
So the magic stayed in waiting --
Self-saving at all cost.
She felt that hers was diffrent,
The magic she possessed,
Was more than elfin magic
So she hid it from the rest.
Shed often test its power
When no one was around.
In all the trials that she performed,
No limits could be found.
One day at such a proving,
The sun at its twilight,
Cold flames rose up before her --
First blue then turning white.
What appeared before her
Was beauty beyond belief,
A fairy light as vapor,
Her voice held soft relief.
The power that lay dormant
For a thousand years,
Entrusted to your bloodline,
Has chosen to appear.
The reason is unsettling,
For an omen long foretold,
When darkness reawakens,
The magic will unfold.
Its happening in your lifetime,
So you must be the one
To stand against this enemy --
The War of Lights begun.
Roshelle gazed at the fairy
With confusion and with doubt,
I know not of this war of yours
or what you speak about.
Im just a simple princess
Of the clan of woodland elves,
We are not a warring people,
We stay private, to ourselves.
The flames grew, bright and ominous,
The magic doesnt lie!
So if you choose, ignore all this,
And all you know will die.
Inside your sacred temple
Is the Chosens rune-marked sword
You must take this to a clearing
Where youll find a birthright lord.
Then youll need the shield,
If this plan is to succeed,
Its located at The Blood Lake
Warded by a heros creed.
Last, locate the Staff of Shades
Trapped deep in times debris,
In the balance between dark and light,
The shadows hold the key.
You speak in crumbs and riddles,
Roshelle said angrily.
So why should I believe you?
This could be treachery.
Then why? the fairy said to her,
Was the magic in you born?
And Roshelle, what youre forgetting,
Is: Why the unicorn?
This shook Roshelle completely,
She couldnt refute the claim.
The creature had appeared to her,
So she called the stallion Flame.
Unicorns had vanished
Hundreds of years before,
So the arrival of this halfling
Was too great just to ignore.
Roshelle had many questions --
How can I know whats right?
She asked, What are the answers?
How can I win this fight?
Youll have one of the Chosen,
The Staff and magic, too,
A champion and unicorn --
The rest is up to you.
The flames and fairy vanished.
Roshelle was left alone
To ponder many questions
As seeds within her sown.
The sword would be the easiest,
For her a simple theft.
But if her clan found out the thief,
The penalty was death.
The others would be different,
All carefully thought out.
Each with unique dangers
Masked in a web of doubt.
Roshelle stood just a moment,
Sent a thought to summon Flame,
Then rode off to her village --
The sword, was first to claim
Sometimes we make decisions,
For better or for worse,
And what we take as blessings
Can spin into a curse </font>
</font> </td></tr></table>
This gets better and better each week! And this, too, was tied for first place!
Unfortunately, the next one... well. In my haste to tend to the loudly snoring, sleep-stricken Otto, and to reach the Shire in time for the first tale, I was not as well prepared for story night as I had hoped to be. Firstly, I had picked up the wrong book, and found myself with an old diary, instead of the tale I had planned to tell, and secondly... it seems that old diary was cursed.
Several times, as I tried to read from it, the world went not grey, but black, and the whispering of a dark spirit called "M'ycr'o'sof't Er'ror Rep'ort'ng" reached my ears, and interrupted my tale. On more than one occasion, I was flung out of the tavern by this dark spirit, and eventually had to give up.
I will not present my badly battered rendition here now, but will rather wait until I have finished reading it in completeness, free of curses. However, should anyone wish to read the full diary, there is a copy <a target="_blank" href=http://uo.stratics.com/content/contests/autobiographies/beatricequill.shtml>here</a>, hopefully also free of curses and dark spirits.
Still, it could have been worse. If I had waited until later to present that tale, I could have been flung outside into the tender mercies of Wyrm, or one of his followers. It was also good to have a vampire arrive who was not intent on destruction - other than Spyderbite and Katharine, that is. Michael of VmP came to visit, and, after a brief misunderstanding regarding the waving of a kryss within the tavern, ended the evening there. Alive - at least, when I finally left.
The last tale of the night was a strange one. Strange, but thoroughly entertaining! Hoffs took to the stage, and attempted to empty our pockets of gold, with an amazing business opportunity.
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" bgcolor="#800040" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td width="132">
(you only live 32767 times)
by Hoffs</font></p></td> <td> <p align="center"><font color="#ff00ff" size="5">
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" bgcolor="#80ffff" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td>
<font color="#004000">
Trusted friends!
I am afraid there is no 'tale from the dark side' tonight.
Instead, I wish to use this occasion to inform you of a once-in-a-lifetime business opportunity.
Yes, a wise investment here could mean your days of gold farming are at an end.
In partnership with renowned producer Merlin Bialystock,
I have conceived a play which I intend to open at The King's Men Theatre in Britain.
It will be a lavish production, with a budget running into the millions of gold pieces.
To finance this, I am selling shares at 100,000 gps a time.
Each share will entitle you to 5% of the profits, and I have 97 shares still available!
Now, I'm sure you will want a few more details before you part with your cash,
so I will read you a rough draft of the script.
It is called 'You Only Live 32,767 Times'.
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene One
Chesapeake shard. A large castle next to a server boundary, NE of Britain.
Inside, six figures stand in a circle. Behind them are chests overflowing with Gypsy Headdresses,
Dryad Bows and Swords Of Prosperity as well as billions of gold and reagents.
The figures all have thick, black moustaches and are dressed in poncho-robes and wide-brim hats.
The leader speaks with a Latin-Sosarian accent.
"Ha. Sooon we wheel hav dooped r won meeelionth roon beeetle carapace. .
Already we r growing reech on ze Eeebay profeets.
And there eeez notheeng zat Oh.Ez.Aye can dooo abowt eeet, hehehe." .
The others break out into laughter also.
The mirth is cut short, however, when one of them takes off his hat, robe and false moustache.
He now looks like the archetypal English gentlemen - suave, immaculate dress, beeswaxed hair,
and a broad, Scottish accent.
"You should have stuck to the opium, Mendoza", he remarks casually.
"Weight ay mee-neet. U r knot Diego. Whoo r u?" .
"The name's Bond, Meester Bond."
"Seeez heeem!" shouts Mendoza.
The others each draw out identical unique weapons and hurry toward Bond.
But as they do so, each vanishes into the ether.
In panic, Mendoza rushes for the exit, but on his way out he knocks over a barrel full of library
reward glasses. He falls down upon the spilled items and is cut to shreds by the broken lenses.
Bond pulls out a crackling communication crystal from his pocket.
"All account bans in place," a voice announces, "wait there for the clean-up crew."
He looks on as Mendoza's corpse disappears like all the others.
"He certainly made a spectacle of himself."
[The part of Bond will be played by noted thespian McClure of Troy. You may remember him from
street-emptying plays as 'Mondain and the Golem Factory' and 'Honey, I Shrunk the Avatars'.]
Scene Two
Origin Shard. North side of Lord British's Castle.
Bond glances around, then places his hand onto the keep wall.
Part of the stonework slides open and he steps into a well-furnished reception room.
A middle-age lady smiles at him from behind a desk.
Bond takes off his hat and casually tosses it at the hat stand, but it drops straight to the floor
"Oh Meester," sighs the woman,
"How many times must I tell you? It won't stay up without your interior decorator tool."
Bond leans over the desk and grins. "Funny, I've never had problems keeping it up with anyone else."
One of the communication crystals on the desk starts flashing and a stern voice fills the room.
"If you have quite finished with UO7, Miss Moneygrabber, send him straight in."
Bond smiles and walks though into an adjacent office.
Sitting at a desk piled with parchments is a fairly young man with disheveled hair.
He is wearing some strange, blue, canvas-type trousers
and a white t-shirt with the word 'Nirvana' written on it.
"You're looking very dapper today, 'T'," quips Bond.
"You may dispense with the frivolity, Bond.
I'm a very busy person. I must put the finishing touches to this Publish 41.
There are some major fixes coming up, long overdue ones which we are finally going to sort out.
We are actually going to nerf Begging and Taste ID.
Yes sir, the days of the a**-licking spongers are well and truly numbered."
Bond raises an eyebrow.
"Anyway, Bond. I have a job for you on Siege."
"Siege?"
"Siege Perilous."
"Never heard of it."
"No, neither had I until Publish 38. Apparently they use these strange concepts of 'risk' and 'loss'.
'T' gets up from his desk and moves over to an easel.
Painted on the canvas is a crude, blotchy humanoid figure which could represent just about anyone.
"This is Ernst Revvo Blofeld," he begins, "head of the despised REVTRE organization.
They are implicated in virtually every cheat, hack, exploit, crime, gank and depravity going.
Why, only a couple of weeks ago they reportedly entered an inn
and wiped out a bunch of unarmoured saddoes who were attending a group hug or something.
I'm sorry about the picture. We lost the 2D image, so you'll have to make do with this 3D one."
'T' walks up to Bond. "Our sources tell us REVTRE are up to something big.
I want you to find them and put a stop to it."
"Where should I start looking?" asks Bond.
"They say Blofeld has somehow managed to obtain a 36x36 house near a place called Iantown.
Apparently, the building was loaded with so much gold
that the bottom two floors have collapsed into the ground..."
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Three
The basement of REVTRE HQ.
Several sinister, black-clad figures are seated around an illegally stretched hardwood table.
At the head of the table an ugly, bald, scarred, disfigured Blowfeld sits stroking a white hellcat.
[Hopefully I can persuade Revvo to play himself here].
"Your report please, Number Five," he intones.
"Well, Number One, Number 379 and I had just killed a couple of newbies near Despise.
I had not touched the bodies and was about to head back when Number Two appeared.
I saw him take things from the corpses, but upon our return he did not declare the loot."
"Do you have anything to say on this matter, Number Two?"
"Well, they don't call me Number Two for nothing."
"I see. It seems then, gentlemen, that I am left with no alternative."
Blowfeld pulls a lever by his side and a chest falls from the roof above.
It contains one item but weighs 15000 tons. As it crashes down upon Number Five,
the chest rips open and his body is buried beneath a mountain of plain wood.
"May this be a lesson to everyone," says Blofeld.
"There is no place in REVTRE for somebody who does not dry loot.
Now, let us concentrate on the matter at hand.
We now have amassed over 10,000 115 & 120 powerscrolls.
It is time to start the final phase of our plan...
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Four
Bond exits Kelmo's Pub in Iantown.
He is now accompanied by a waitress from the establishment, Annie Wheyulike.
She is dressed in red with short, brown hair and is altogether sexy, gorgeous,
intelligent and articulate. [I can only think of one person who fits this part
] "Well Annie," says Bond, "this secret base is going to take some finding."
"But surely, Meester, a 36x36 house should be easy to spot."
"Not really, I can only see about 20 tiles at any one time.
No, look at all the houses, try and find anything suspicious or out of place."
"Does this count?" asks Annie.
She was standing next to a house with marble walls. The sign on the house read:
Name: REVTRE Secret Headquarters. Owner: Ernst Revvo Blofeld. This house is open to abuse.
"Er, it may be worth a try," says Bond in embarrassment.
They enter the main door. Inside, the house is furnished immaculately.
All the furniture is carved of frostwood and the ornaments are all of gold - even the parrots.
"Interesting decoration," comments Bond. And look, some clever design work here on the floor."
"Wait, Mester," shrieks Annie, as an ominous sound fills the room. "It may be a...."
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Five
"...teleporter."
The two appear in the basement of the building.
Instantly they are siezed by guards and hauled before Number Two.
"Governor Memnoch, " says Annie, "I might have known.
I recognized your foul stench when I came in the house."
"Charming, to the last." smiles Memnoch.
"Silence," roars Blofeld, "No mixing parodies, there will be.
Part of the EA Alliance and a traitor, you are. Away, take her!"
The pair are dragged off to a side-room, where Bond is strapped down to a stone table.
A small, iron grate opens in the wall opposite and a Miasma appears from it and slowly advances.
Blowfeld puts his arm around Annie. "You will stay here with me, my dear.
But don't worry, when I first left school I worked as a eunuch for several years."
Bond eyes the Miasma's snapping pincers moving towards his nether regions.
"I don't suppose I could have my scribe's pen could I?
"The Corp Por one? No."
"How about a my silver cigarette case?"
"Ah. The special Recall one? Yes you can have that.
Haha. Q division should have let you have the gold Gate Travel one here."
"So, you except me to talk?"
"No, Meeeester Bond. I expect you to diiiiieeee!"
Oh well, that's not so bad. It's happened to me loads of time, usually rez kills.
32766 deaths by my calculation.
"You only live 32767 times, Meeeester Bond."
"Really?"
"Yes. To save memory they programmed that with a signed short instead of an integer.
No, I'm afraid you are headed for the recycle bin, old boy."
"Well, UO8 will replace me."
"Nah. He was a casualty of the recent Dev team cutbacks.
"Oh," said Bond, quite deflated. "In that case, are you recruiting at the moment?"
Suddenly, the building shakes and the sound of explosions fills the air. In the main room, scores of
ninjas are descending from the ceiling on ropes [most will be female clad in skimpy leather armour]
The concussion knocks over Dawn's Music Box and it begins playing dramatic horn music.
Blofeld steps into the room amid a cacophony of shurikens and fireballs.
He is confronted by the noble, oriental figure of Yasou Wakayama [I thought Will Smith for this].
"It seems we have the better of you." says Yasou, bowing.
"Pah. Only because you outnumber us 3-1." spits Blofeld.
"I would say it's about even numbers." retorts the other.
"Yes, because half of you are dead now."
"Looks to me like most of yours are trying to run away," snivels Yasou.
"They are not."
"Are too."
"Bah, you've been eating too much shrimp fried rice."
"Nya-nya nya nya-nya," says Yasou.
"Oh," snorts Blofeld, drawing his 860% DI Ornate Axe, "am I going to give it to you now, old chap.
"But you promised me the night off," whimpers Number Four.
</font><font color="#004000"> Scene Six
Annie shuts the door and the argument is drowned out.
The Miasma has slunk back into its cell, so she releases Bond.
"Now is our chance to escape, Meester."
Bond walks over to the other door that lies in the room.
It opens into a large storehouse containing hundreds of wooden crates.
Bond breaks one open and removes a purple bottle from within, tasting it carefully.
On the wall is a map of Felucca with all the Champion Spawn locations marked.
"My God!" he exclaims. REVTRE must have been stockpiling Scrolls Of Power.
Now they are planning on blowing up the spawn areas, and they will become unstoppable!
"But Meester," protests Annie, "It would take ages to destroy an alter even with all these potions."
"You don't understand, my dear. These are bugged pots, one going off can cause a chain reaction.
We need to act fast."
Bond peels back the outer leather from his boots and removes two pieces of parchment,
a length of copper wire, a tiny hourglass and a small pen.
He places one piece of parchment on the floor and begins inscribing a design.
"What are you doing?" asks Annie.
"It's a skeleton teleporter," replies Bond. "I just hope I can get the right symbol."
Next, Bond attaches one end of the wire to the hourglass, and the other
to the second parchment - an explosion scroll. He places this into one of the crates.
"Right, let's go," he barks, and the pair step on to the teleporter.
Scene Seven
The pair appear on the roof of the building, next to the gaping hole where WAKA had entered.
Down below, the battle has reached its full, horrifying climax
as ghost and living alike stand around arguing over who PWN's whom.
Bond grabs Annie and they jump over the side of the roof and land on the back of a huge dragon
The beast flaps its wings and roars up into the air.
"Oh, Meester," questions Annie, "Are you sure you can control this creature?"
"Of course I can. It's BONDed."
As the dragon soars up over Gravewater Lake, Iantown is engulfed in a blinding fireball.
Annie clasps her ears as the deafening shock wave reaches them,
but Bond seems barely to notice the noise.
"It's times like these," he muses, "that I'm glad I didn't patch to 5.0.1e."
The couple fall into an intimate embrace as the dragon sails into the sunset of stage left.
Cue Shirley Bassey singing.
So there we have it, a cetain winner.
I'm sure there is no chance of this one closing on the opening night.
And I already have plans for several sequels;
Bolaball, Moonglower, A View to a Gank, The Mage Who In Lor'd Me.
Now, if you would all care to form an orderly queue next to my table...
</font> </td></tr></table>
I'm sure Hoffs will be rich. One day. Quite possibly not because of that script, though, but it was very well done - and the third tale to tie for first place!!!
When the votes were counted, the three who contended for first place eyed each other with glints in their eyes, quills sharpened, exploding ink pots at the ready. The three-way stand off caused a hush to fall upon the room, interrupted only by the crunching sound of Goodah eating a carrot.
Yancey stared at Uther and Hoffs, a freshly scribed scroll of rival smothering in his hand. Then, with a smile, he stepped back.
"I tell my tales to tell them, not to get paid." he said, and yeilded the floor to the other two tellers of fine tales.
Daan polished a disturbingly large axe, making everyone wonder just where he had been hiding it, given the extreme difference in size between the axe and his backpack, and offered to champion any scribe who would have him. Hoffs blushed at this, and was seen to quickly scribe a number on a small piece of parchment, and press it into his hand with a whisper.
But, just as pens were about to be bloodied, and scrolls cut up into bandages, the two turned to the use of the die, rather than die, and small tumbling blocks with dots on them determined the winner.
And so, after a seemingly eternal effort of presenting tales on Tuesdays, Hoffs won the grand prize!
Congratulations Hoffs!
And well done to all the others - and a special nod to Yancey, for showing true nobility on the battlefield. Now, where can I get one of those exploding ink pots?
<table bordercolor="#ff0080" width="90%" align="center" bgcolor="#8000ff" border="2"> <tr> <td> <p align="center">
<font size="1"> (proof-read by a sleepy Otto!) </font>
