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| Theology; Jarmuk Solo | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 18 2016, 06:05 AM (122 Views) | |
| Platon | Jul 18 2016, 06:05 AM Post #1 |
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The Prophet of Toast
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The bloated trout’s scales burst open; overflowing the frying pan with bile in which the dead fish began to sizzle. Moist, hot fumes carried the scent of cooked meat with them as they rose in the night, attracting moths and flies which danced around the smoke. She moved the pan to another oven plate, letting it mellow in its own after heat. She was standing on the bank of a grey river, running quietly under the concrete bridge in whose shadow she had set up camp. It was a spartanly built little home; consisting only of a filthy mattress and a rusty lantern dangling from a stick. By some miracle she had managed to bring a heavy old iron stove to the spot; an effort which was double surprising considering the fact that she was a ghoul. An ancient creature, whose face had shriveled beyond recognition from centuries of radiation, and whose yellowed nails were just as long as the fingers on which they grew. Then suddenly, an unexpected noise snapped her out of her cooking. Instantly, she wheeled on the spot and drew a knife at the enormous stranger who had noiselessly crept up behind her; but he wasn’t armed, and showed no reaction to having a weapon pointed at him. He was a fat giant, with bushy mustaches and a low, heavy brow. She could tell just from looking at his loincloth that the man was a tribal. One of those primitive savages who lived off the land and knew nothing of the world before the war – whose heads since birth were filled with tales of spirits and ancestors, both of which were part of their everyday life. All this she knew, yet she felt compelled to ask: “Who are you?” “I am Jarmuk, a slayer of men.” “You don’t slay women?” “I slay all who arouse my anger.” “Then why do you only call yourself a slayer of men?” The giant squinted his eyes, pondering. Then he concluded: “Henceforth I shall be known as a slayer of many.” “But you won’t slay me?” “I do not war on corpses!” he snorted. The knife slid back in its sheath. People always reacted differently to ghouls; usually with contempt, and sometimes with fear. But the savage was a stranger to social norms, so apparently he didn’t know enough to do either. “Well, I have nothing worth stealing. Be gone.” “You have food.” Came his only response, and his eyes fixed on the trout. “And it’s my food.” She replied defiantly. “You will have to kill me to get it. And no fish is worth spilling blood over.” He suddenly reached into his girdle, pulling out a brahmin-scrotum pouch which he then opened to reveal dry, green herbs. “I have this. Share what you have with me, and we will have a meal worth remembering. She pinched the spice suspiciously, expecting it to be grass or the strange drugs used by shamans to throw themselves in a trance. But at the first whiff, her eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Oregano.” She smelled it again just to be safe. Then, the skinless face softened with warmth – and the ghoul’s gaze seemed to disappear into lost ages. “I haven’t had oregano since before the war. There was a Sicilian grocer a few blocks from where I lived, who used to hang it in the window to dry. He said his mother used it in every meal, and that she lived to be a hundred years old because of it. That was two hundred years ago. Now nothing ever tastes anything.” The warmth quickly disappeared from her face again, replaced with somberness. She threw a glance at the filthy mattress and sighed silently. She still remembered a different time, when she lived in a different world. “Sit down,” she finally replied. “and we’ll eat.” |
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Herman Higueras -HC- Appearance Scrawny, dark-colored ghoul. Black patches of hair, lacking an upper lip. Equipment Armor: Packrat's Clothing. Weapons: Phazer, Switchblade. Level: 3 Jarmuk Level: 2 Isaac -HC- - Mayor of Bucket Town ______________________________________________________________ The Platon | |
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| Platon | Jul 18 2016, 06:06 AM Post #2 |
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The Prophet of Toast
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She sat on the mattress, but the barbarian seemed to be more comfortable squatting on the ground. He ate wolfishly, gnawing the fish frantically and slurping the bullion from cupped hands. The oregano probably didn’t matter to him, but he had recognized its worth for bartering purposes, which in itself was impressive for a people who had devolved into cavemen. He spoke when he was done. Not so much to make small-talk, but because it must have been a mandatory question to him when meeting new people. “What gods do you pray to?” She swept her surroundings with a tired gaze. “My god died a long time ago.” “What was he like?” he asked without looking at her; suckling the stringy fish bones. “He was a kind god. He had lived for thousands of years, and cared for all people as if they were his own.” She began, but the voice died out in a sad sigh. “But we never cared about each other. We destroyed the world he had made for us, and it made him so sad that he lost the strength to exist.” “A kind god is good. But a strong god is better.” “What about you? What god do you pray to?” He tossed the bones aside, and wiped his hands off on the hairy chest. Straightening himself, he took on an aura of pride as he replied: “My Goddess smiles in all corners of the world. She shows herself on the walls of dead men’s buildings, and in the darkness of forgotten tunnels. A cruel Goddess is she, always laughing; even as we suffer and die under her unforgiving sun. But she pours life into us at birth, and the courage to follow our will – which is all I expect from any god.” “What does she look like?” “See for yourself,” he grinned knowingly, “she is in the sky behind you.” She furrowed her brow, and turned warily with a hand on her knife. If this was some crude attempt to fool her by making her turn around, she would at least be prepared for it. But when she turned, there was in fact a woman in the sky. Pale as the moon, with full red lips curled in a grin, and the raven locks thrown back in a laugh. In her hand she held a jar, and her dress was the color of warm blood. “You idiot!” the ghoul suddenly laughed hysterically, dropping the knife and covering her forehead. “Don’t you see that’s just a billboard on the side of the road? Your goddess is nothing but an advertisement! And for hemorrhoid cream none the less! Showing herself on walls and tunnels indeed! You must have seen posters of that very same advertisement.” Jarmuk furrowed his brow. “You speak in riddles. Hemorrhoid cream?” “It’s an ointment.” She explained, but was instantly met with confusion, so she added: “It stops you from pooping blood.” “Bah, what do you know about divinity? Your god is dead.” The tribal snorted. “Are you running from other gods now that he can’t protect you? Is that why you’re out here all alone?” “No,” she replied, letting the laughter fade down to a smile, “I lived here long before he died. Back then I was a toll booth operator, and the river was a strong, booming stream instead of the thin stripe of brown it is today.” “There used to be more of us in the early days after the bombs. But Otis and Clarke couldn’t handle their skin falling off, and they went mad. Joanna drowned herself on her hundred and eighteenth birthday. Soon enough there was just me left, sitting under this bridge and dreaming of lost times. It’s a lonely life, but I make do. Nobody bothers me out here.” “Not even the Mud Walkers?” he asked. “You know of them?” “I’m searching for them.” She smiled tiredly. “There was a time when they journeyed up from the south to trade and talk with me. But they worshipped the river, and when the stream of the water began to die their shamans blamed it on me. They called me a witch-demon for having lived so long, and that I had killed the current with forbidden magic. “But the river still flows?” he asked, eyeing the lazy waters. “Yes, but barely. Enough for the fishes to swim upstream, and for people to live off of its waters.” The barbarian cracked his knuckles in the lantern’s dim glow, eyeing the frying pan on the stove, whose bile still bubbled with warmth. |
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Herman Higueras -HC- Appearance Scrawny, dark-colored ghoul. Black patches of hair, lacking an upper lip. Equipment Armor: Packrat's Clothing. Weapons: Phazer, Switchblade. Level: 3 Jarmuk Level: 2 Isaac -HC- - Mayor of Bucket Town ______________________________________________________________ The Platon | |
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| Platon | Jul 18 2016, 06:06 AM Post #3 |
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The Prophet of Toast
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Life ran its accustomed course in the tiny village of the Mud Walkers. Naked men lolled in the shadow of their thatched huts; gaunt, nappy-haired women held emergency council around the tribal fire and naked children played and fought in the muddy ditch where a few days back there had been a river. A half-asleep guard leaned on his spear at the outskirts of the settlement, his red skin beaded with sweat from the blazing sun. All around him gaped naked flatlands, but when he suddenly saw a figure appear on the horizon he woke up; shouting a command which brought the attention of the rest of the village. Warriors with throwing spears, elders in plumed headdresses and shamans with Brahmin-skull masks all hurried to the guard; and had gathered in a weak crowd to greet the stranger, who faced them calmly – though at a safe distance. It was an unspoken custom not to approach a foreign village uninvited. “Who goes there?” Nayaga, chief of the tribe called out shrilly. “I am Jarmuk,” replied the stranger. “a wanderer. Is this the home of the Mud Walkers?” “Aye, but you would do well in turning around, wanderer.” Nayaga answered sullenly. “This is an accursed village. Our god has forsaken us, and left us to wander forever in draught.” Jarmuk threw a glance at the sludgy gulley. “There used to be a river here, I can tell. What manner of tragedy has made it dry?” “Ha!” one of the shamans snapped, “It is no tragedy! It is sorcery -- black, ghastly magic! We have been cursed with devilry, cast upon us by a northern phantom!” “Is this the phantom you speak of?” Jarmuk replied, and suddenly raised a head which had been tied to his girdle by the hair. It was severed clean by the neck, with the slacked jaw hanging and the eyes frozen wide with empty shock. The villagers recoiled, startled. They recognized the head’s flaky skin and shriveled tendons. He threw the head carelessly to the side, and it splashed loudly in the mud. “My own goddess came to me in a dream, and told me to find and slay the river witch who had done you harm. By her will, water will once again come to your people.” The last part was no lie, for Jarmuk knew that even the iron stove he threw to block the river would rust eventually, and then the waters would be free. “Then your goddess is our savior!” the bewildered shamans clucked. “Aye, perhaps she is.” He replied diplomatically. “Your god must have been a good god. He let you grow strong in numbers, and gave you a home to call your own. But he is dead, and can no longer help you. Swear allegiance to me and my goddess instead, so you can share her glories and drink the nectars of her hemorrhoid cream!” “Hemorrhoid cream?” a squinting elder asked. “It stops you from pooping blood.” Everybody wanted to stop pooping blood, and so they invited Jarmuk to celebrate and shake his hand. By dawn they had sworn allegiance to her cause, and the elders swore a sacred blood-oath around the crackled fires. The day when Jarmuk called for holy war, their warriors would come running to his aid. |
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Herman Higueras -HC- Appearance Scrawny, dark-colored ghoul. Black patches of hair, lacking an upper lip. Equipment Armor: Packrat's Clothing. Weapons: Phazer, Switchblade. Level: 3 Jarmuk Level: 2 Isaac -HC- - Mayor of Bucket Town ______________________________________________________________ The Platon | |
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| LMGVagabond | Jul 30 2016, 12:44 PM Post #4 |
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Crispy, Creamy, and Quite Dreamy
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This is a good fucking RP. The imagery was solid, the humor made me laugh, and it was genuinely refreshing to read. Ernak is coming together swimmingly and I can't wait to read what you type up next. The only critique I can give is that this was pretty short, and try to curb your obsession with the word "naked" next time. Other than that, hunnid. Rewards!
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Luis d'Duret 6.3.5.9.7.3.7 Level 1 Root Beer Level 1 PLEASE UNMOD ME ;( ;( | |
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