Legendary Times vol.7 no.1
Previous Issue Main Index Next Issue =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= .............._______ ............./ / THE LEGENDARY TIMES ............/ / .........../ /.....______.._____.....______.._____.......____ ........../ /...../ /./ \.../ /./ \...../ \ ........./ /...../ ___/./ ____/../ ___/./ __. \.../ /\ \ ......../ /...../ /_.../ /....../ /_.../ /..\>./ /./ / ......./ /...../ __/../ /____../ __/../ /.../ /./ /./ / ....../ /_____/__/__../ \_\ /./ /__../ /.../ /./ /_/ / ...../ / /./ /./ /./ /.../ /./ / ..../ /_/..\______/./_____/./__/.../__/./_______/ MUD .../________________/ running on mud.legendmud.org 9999 208.188.102.145 9999 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= http://www.legendmud.org/ ftp://ftp.legendmud.org/pub =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= VOLUME SEVEN, ISSUE ONE January 9th, 2000 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TABLE OF CONTENTS NEWS & REPORTS - Privacy Reminder - - The Immortal Report - - Connection Analysis - - Skilltrees and Testmud Update - LEGENDITES - Announcements - - A Friendly Warning - - Holiday Wishes - Gloria's Gossip & Tales, Including: - Sebastien Goes Shopping - Journal Entry - An Anxious Letter - The Awooga Corner - - - The McDougan Report - - Clancy - - Escape! - - Let the Plundering Begin - ___ ___ \ |------------------------------------------------------------------| / /__| UPCOMING CALENDAR OF EVENTS |__\ '------------------------------------------------------------------'>-/\*/\-/\*/\-/\*/\-/\ January /\-/\*/\-/\*/\-/\*/\- A Friendly Warning By Nadya As you may or may not know, I was a member of the USL and therefore a surgeon. One sunny afternoon, I wasn't feeling very well. In fact, I was in a great deal of pain, and there wasn't a soul around to help me. So, I made a rather, er, fatal decision: I performed surgery on myself. Or should I say, I attempted surgery. It did not go well at all. I will spare you all the gory, bloody details, but I must warn all of you not to try this at home. If you are a surgeon, keep your scalpels pointed away from yourselves! I myself have decided to relinquish my scalpel for now and pursue another profession as a result of my mistake. Consider my sad tale and heed my warning! Holiday Wishes Another year has come and gone. Joy and sadness both hath impacted on our existence. Life as life cometh, sometimes gently sweet, sometimes harshly bitter, has revolved, and we have but grown older and the wiser for it. Blessings to all who wish to receive, for now is the time of celebration. Joyeux Noel! Tancred de Gisborne Gloria's Gossip & Tales Heloooo everybody out there, and can I just say, you are looking so fabulous today, I could just die! I don't know what you've done to your hair, but it is so you, so very very you! Oh yes, where was I. Ah, right. I'm Gloria, Gloria Lynn, and I'm a certified household engineer. What that means, honey, is that I clean houses. And no, Gloria Lynn is not my real name, but it ought to be (what, you think I can publish other people's private things and put my own name on it? I'd never work again, and *you'd* never hear all of this lovely stuff!) But anyway! This! This is my beautiful new column in a stodgy old newsletter, and I've collected up all the delightful little bits which are scarcely fit to print, all for you. I've got bits of other people's diaries, copies of desperate letters... royalty, stars, politicians, everything! You wouldn't believe what I (and my camera) come across while cleaning people's houses *wink*. So, on with the dish! Yours, Gloria Sebastien Goes Shopping A scribbled page from a spiralbound notebook fluttered into our offices...it looks like someone did a little Christmas shopping for themself this year! -G - ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- ()- In spite of the abominable london post, my package arrived today! I was out shopping two weeks ago with the gang and saw the loveliest boots you can imagine. They were middling height, between calf and knee high I guess. Black leather (drool, drool), also available in patent, but I prefer the plain leather. With five straps across the front and across the top of the foot. The straps were, of course, secured with silver buckles (drool, drool). One of my friends tried a pair on, and they looked fantastic on her! I knew that I HAD to have them, but when I asked the salesclerk, she regretfully advised me that they were out of my size. I pouted cutely and scuffled my feet and the nice saleslady told me that they could do a special order for me. Joy and rapture! All of my friends cheered too. :) So, today when I got home after a long day tromping the town with the gang, what do I find, but a nice large package sitting outside the door of my flat. For a very, extremely brief moment, I have to wonder what it is. But I know, and I crow a victory, and with a silly stupid grin, pick up me package and rush into the house and ...carefully... open the box... (ooh, suspense) of course! it's my boots! :) Big black sexy stompin' "Storm Commando" boots! (drool!) ("Storm Commando" is sort of the 'model' name, you might say) I tried not to get my hopes up before I tried them on, but had mostly failed miserably (at not getting my hopes up). Thankfully, when I tried them on, they fit perfectly. :) Journal Entry: Gallowglass Alexandria D'Aramand year: 540 el'Sadia . . . For all my crimes, living was one of the worst I could have done. Being born a daughter of the Dark One, I learned to deal with my sins through an eerie easiness. Things were great until that dread day: the day I wanted to speak to Genocide about my fiance, Xerox. It was then that I finally realized what possessed the man. Xianadu, one of the worst demons possible, had control of him. Through my carelessness, I let down all my protective wards that I normally kept up about myself when I was around him. Stupid me! Xianadu showed himself and took control of Genocide, forcing him to draw my blood and become one of 'them.' To both our surprises, Xianadu transferred to me and thought that it could control me. Genocide aged rapidly to the old man he would have been had he not been bitten. I, on the other hand, had become one of the damned Undead and became blood thirsty. I found my first kill from a wolf and satisfied my hunger for blood. That's when things went terribly wrong. The world spun and I found myself in the depths of Hell. The Nether regions of Hell. Clutching my hands at my sides and calling forth the self-control that I needed, I felt clawed hands grab my arms and force me to my knees. Their hands began to feel about my body, as though I was their's to use. My anger lashed out, yet they held me still. As this went on, my anger rose, and so did the amount of internal pain. Red haze clouded my vision as I prepared to break free and kill all of those who were touching me. A shrill voice sounded within my head. "Kill them all," it said and I recognized it to be Xianadu. "I will not let you take control of me, demon," I hissed at it mentally. The picture of the demon recoiling from my voice gave me a little pleasure. Those hands continued to feel me up, yet I was helpless to stop them. "Gallowglass Alexandria D'Aramand," a voice sounded from nowhere and anywhere, "for the crimes you have committed against the people of Telosia, your sentence is permanent death. The crimes in seduction through lust and the promise of starsilver carry the penalty of permanent death." I grinned like an idiot, knowing that I would never come back from this one. The pain began to concentrate on me shoulders. Gritting my teeth in pain, a pair of greenish-black, dragon-like wings sprouted forth from my shoulders. My head was filled with the agonizing images of dead and dying, knowing that those people were dead from my hand as I killed innocent Telosians because of Xianadu. Standing, I tried to look regal and flapped those demonic wings once to see what I had 'gained.' "So you plan to kill me?" I said, my voice a soft whisper, yet piercing through the commotion of Hell. "Xianadu!" the others hissed. "Not Xianadu, yet fused with this Elven coil, I still exist." My wings poised themselves as my voice went on. "Do not think of crossing me again!" I found myself saying. Those demons ran from me, ran from ME!, as though the Dark One had risen from the Ninth Circle. My hands shook as I knelt down to look into the River Lethe. The pair of fangs, that were small to start with, were still deathly sharp yet they shown even when my mouth was closed. My eyes, once a normal green, were glowing green embers. Searching this reflection and the memories that I could now call mine, I had found that I was no longer the Everliving Queen of Telosia, for I had destroyed that nation in my blood-lust. I was now a winged, green-eyed demoness . . . Gallowglass Alexandria D'Aramand An Anxious Letter Lieber Maman, I am assured that you will receive this letter from me, as the locals tell me there are regular boats to Germany from Dover, despite the war. Dover. Do not ask by what turn of the tides I have come here, on enemy ground, because that is a question I cannot answer. I fear I must have been abducted, though for what reason I cannot tell. The last I remember was falling into a deep slumber in my tent in the camp near the western front - and when I woke up, coughing and feverish, the voices surrounding me were distinctively British, and the head nurse even had a quite charming Welsh accent. I managed to escape the military hospital, thank God. I have to find my way back home to the Empire, which is no doubt going to be a considerable challenge - but I will. Rest assured, maman, and pray for me. Your son, Gottfried von Luttke. That's all I have for now, I hope you enjoyed. If *you* run across something scandalous or dramatic in *your* explorations, please drop me a line -- but send it to the newspaper, so's my clientele have less chance of noticing. -Gloria The Awooga Corner A rift of thunder clapped through the air as I walked along the muddy roads of Sherwood. I was out on an errand for some unknown reason; it always seems that during the bad weather you need things the most. I turned the corner heading toward Tudor as I ran into Cenja Awooga-O'Brian, and her husband Dupaq. I inquired as to why they were out on such a night, it seems they have the same problem I do; errands need running at the worst of times. I noticed that Cenja seemed to be laboring along, a little slower than her normal speed, clearly in pain. Dupaq informed me that she was in labor. I quickly went to her side to aid them both. We headed toward the nearest Inn, a dimly lit one at that. As I acted as a crutch for Cenja, Dupaq knocked on the door. "Who's it?" a voice answered. We managed to convince the innkeeper that we were not thieves stalking in the dead of the night, that in fact Cenja was pregnant and we needed a room. Cenja interjected at this point, asking to be seated as some sort of contraction was coming. The innkeeper after hearing of the pregnancy, of course, told us there was no room in the inn. "However, if you wish you can sleep with the sheep in the manger," he mentioned in passing as we were about to leave. By now, Cenja was on the ground clutching her stomach in pain and making some rather ugly noises. Dupaq and myself managed to cart Cenja to the manger and prop her onto a pile of hay. She was screaming at us to do a few too many things at once, cursing the entire time. I glanced at Dupaq; he was as green as seaweed and had no idea what to do. The poor man. Suddenly the manger door swung open, startling us all. Despite the terrible storm, the innkeeper trundled in with a mid-wife in tow. Bless him. She seemed quite adept at her job. The birth took near five hours to complete; I do believe Dupaq and myself both fainted once or twice during this time. The innkeeper, however, fled the scene at the first sign of blood, mumbling something about a dirty kitchen. The sheep were calm, bleating the entire time, a calming sound amongst Cenja's screams. The morning came, and I had to leave, as the storm subsided I noticed their new daughter crying, and passed her to Cenja, then left on my way. I was thanked later for my part in the birth of Gwajeth, and may even be in the running as a Godparent. Sincerely, A historian of current facts. The Opened Tomb The treasure hunters pushed onwards into the decaying bowels of the castle. Even the phalanx of guards, obviously out of place here in Romainia with their Teutonic features and German accents, couldn't deter them. The ecstasy of gold that was perhaps hidden in the tomb ahead was just too strong to deny. You can't really blame them, can you? The leader pushed open the decaying stone doors into the central mausoleum, the ancient slabs sliding open with groans of protest, showering flecks of dried moss down on them. Well, at least it looks like moss. But moss usually isn't red. To their left and right, green balls of flame puff into existence as they trudge onward into the room. The flames give only a beacon of where to go, no real light shed anywhere else in the room. Something about the fire doesn't seem quite right, from its gelatinous appearance, or to the fact that even the presence of it makes one's skin crawl with revulsion. Straining their ears, a slight creaking sound can be heard, as methodical as the tick-tock of an ancient clock. As the path comes to a close, a series of these balls of flame pop into existence, forming a vague omega shape with thirteen of their number. This can't be good.. Light fills the room silently, a ghastly green eldritch light that makes the cold darkness seem as warm and familiar as mother's womb. The sight it reveals only adds to the horror. Dead bodies hung from the ceiling on chains, giant hooks thrust through their torn open and shredded chest cavities, like haunches of meat in a butcher's freezer. Some are just near skeletons, held together by ligament. Others are fresh... even dripping blood onto the ground. In fact, the entire floor is slicked over with pools of blood, the color a glowing dark black. Like a gallery of macabre pinatas, the corpses hang and sway to some unfelt wind. In the center of the room, a black shape looms. Four more eldritch balls of light come into existence around it, casting the sickly green light upon the surface of a throne. Bones of all shapes and sizes make the framework, with rows upon rows of skulls at the back. Whether just a metal chair covered with bones, or a complete construct of death, the victim cost for such a unwholesome spectable staggers the mind. Even devoid of flesh, lips, and larynx, each skull and bone seems to scream its tale of unfairness, of cruelty, of bad luck and misfortune. Each one adds another voice to the chorus, rising up together in the song of the damned, the song of madness. The songs of That Which Should Not Be, the dirge of monsters best left forgotten, and the ballad of blood. This is a abomination on the face of the earth, a open handed slap at all that is good or pure. Not a single shred of purity survives long, and no gods dare peek into this territory. Only a fiend or demon could find anything more than insanity in such a place. And no doubt, there are plenty of both lurking in the shadows. Seemingly from nowhere, a great pillar of the balefire bursts out from the seat of the throne, the sick heat radiating forth enough to make the hunters start to sweat. With a clap of granite, the doors behind closed, and the walls seemed to shift, pushing them onwards towards the throne. Dying down with the fire, the light in the room fades to black, leaving only darkness and the creaking of the chained bodies. Still the small band pushed on, determined to find something to make their trip down into this charnel house worthwhile. Thin, breathless shrieks puncuate the silence occasionally when one of them bumps into a corpse, naturally. Flaring back into ... life, the flames cast their green glare on the room's occupants, plus one more. A conflagaration of pure night, poured into the vague shape of a man, resides in the chair now. Slowly, the light carves out features on him(?). Most prominent, perhaps, are the large, jagged claws that seem to spring in and out of his fingertips occasionally. In a voice like rotted and poisoned honey, he speaks.. "Wow. You guys are so, like, screwed." And they are, naturally. As are the guards outside the now broken stone doors, and most of the old guards of the castle. Half of Romania is slaughtered, cut down to the numbers from before the menace was caged. Once more, Lord Valthalas is loose in his playground. The McDoogan Report: Language We noo coom aloong tae the shubject o' undershtandin the English language. Thish can caushe difficulty tae ush Shcotsh, ash they ushe shtrange wairdsh, and unushual proonoonshiationsh. Feer inshtansh, Shimilar tae the noon-droonk Scotsh, they tend tae hae twa shoondsh feer "sh", un o' them being Sh, and the oother... weel, short o' a hish, wha they call, noo, ye moosht try tae coonshentrate tae get thish richt, "Essssssssssssssh" Weel, shoomthin like tha. oonly they dunnae shlur it at the end feer shoom reashon. Alsho, beware o' ordinary wairdsh proonoonshed diffrently - Eshpeshially the ae and ie wairdsh, which they proonoonshe ave and ive, wha ish shtrange, esheppt feer the ae'sh they fproonoonshe oo or oh.. Shae, hae ye a neep tae shpare, auld lad? becoomsh, have ye a neep too spare, auld lad? Thoo they alsho dae foony thingsh tae oother bitsh. They alsho tend tae proonoonshe au ash in auld o cauld or shuch ash oh, wha' again be shtrange and unneshary. in additioon, they dunnae hae guid vocabulary. Speer, gin, donnart, coof, kelpie, ken and the like weel coonfooshe them tae nae end, wha can be guid feer inshultin theem! Noo then, wheerash in Droonken Shcottish ye can eashily take a shentenshe and make it intae un lang waird wi lootshan loosha shyllablesh, the pedantic English woont ye tae shtate everry waird dishtinct-like. Oother thingsh tae beware: ui oft becoomsh oo, art (shtalwart, donnart, haggart, wizart) alwaysh becoomsh ard, and oftimesh they'll caul a wizart or common magician a "mage" in a poncy Latin-type way. Thish ish why the English wishard often wearsh loong roobesh, and a pointy hat, becooshe they're donnart ponshesh. Oon the hool, the English Language ish an ugly un, and yer better oof nae bootherin wi' it. They can oondershtand ye, they joosht CLAIM nae tae. Hit'm wi' yer bagpipesh if they dunnae ken, thash wha I shay! -McDougan, o' the Thalgenael variety, in guid Shpiritsh, ash weel ash guid beersh! Clancy The full moon shone high in the cloudless sky. A soft rustle in the bushes caused a rabbit to sit up straight and stare into the darkness. Ears twitching, it sniffed the air cautiously. Suddenly, a loud yell pierced the air, and the chase was on. Dodging trees frantically, a small figure pursued a smaller. With a sudden burst of speed, the rabbit reached the safety of it's burrow. "Darn." A small mouth pouted petulantly, and a grimy hand reached up to scratch at orange-red hair, matted with sweat and dirt. "Don't worry, Mr. Bunny." Clancy yanks a limp, dirty stuffed rabbit from his belt and smiles reassuringly at it."I'll find a friend for you sooner or later." With that, he trudged off into the forests that was his home, picking up a dented, rusty sword from where he had dropped it earlier. He should go stand by the road, Clancy decided. Some traveller would inevitably pass by, and then he'd either try to cute-talk or ignore him. Either always was fatal. They never saw any danger in his sword, and nobody realised how much ankles could hurt when they were bitten. Clancy shook his head. Adults were really very blind. He hoped he'd never become one. And if he was really lucky, he'd manage to loot enough gold to buy a new carton of chocolate milk. The old one was almost empty. Skipping, Clancy began humming a little tune to himself. Escape! Bright lights flared and danced and created patterns of uncharacteristic illumination in the office that had been quietly dark and comfortable for eons. The demon prince winced at the sight as he entered; the light cut into his eyes like purple spikes of pain. The throbbing of rhythmic music with shrill keyboard overtones ripped at his sensitive ears painfully, unlike the soothing cries of mortal pain he was used to. He shuddered in discomfort. The carpet under his clawed feet was soft and lush and purple. Hell was going home in a hand basket. There was little doubt of that as he shoved the plastic seven inch heel boots off the table, along with several long drinks and cocktail glasses. The carpet became splattered. It was all courtesy of Monsieur le Fliet, a fairly new arrival to the netherwordly realms. The prince hated him with a passion that almost surpassed his hatred for all things angelic. The little Frenchman, with his effeminate accent and constant moustache twirling, made the demon want to quietly go out back and throw up. Only if he did that, he'd be sure to find that while his back was turned, the little decorateur had put up strings of colored lights, disco balls or Olivia Newton-John posters all over his office. Marcel Alexander, or whatever the demon's former boss called himself this century, was to blame. It was his little mortal girlfriend who had hired the Frenchman. It was Alexander who had expedited him into this realm. The prince was going to get even with him for that. The entire Seventh Circle looked like a mad Fonzie fan's dream. Workers were fleeing into other circles faster than fleas off a sinking rat - or whatever that human expression was. Let the Plundering Begin This past week, out of the uncharted waters of the Atlantic, they came. A fleet of murderous Pyrats descended upon the isle of Briton, hungry for plunder and thirsty for blood. A small fishing village in Orkney was the first to fall under their sword. The Roman army foolishly left the poor fishermen to their own devices, thinking a band of Pyrats was no real threat. The Britons were used to dealing with Saxon raiders, surely they could throw back a raiding party of unruly Pyrats on their own, yes? The village was burned to the ground before the sun kissed the boundless sea. The Dred Pyrats rolled through the village and on, to the south and east, their eyes on the fatter purse of Roman civilization. The small pockets of Roman soldiers were caught unawares and dispatched with deadly efficiency. No one escaped to warn the peaceful population of the horrible fate that awaited them. Their stronghold, the oblivious Romans left wide open! The soldiers stared in horror as the Pyrats overwhelmed them, like a swell from the mistress sea engulfs a floundering ship. As flames leapt from the guard towers, the stones from their own weapons crashed down upon the remnants of the army, scrambling about to save their own hides. When the Pyrats burst into the office of the Tribune, he was dead at his desk. Perhaps he could not bear the shame of being overrun by a handful of unruly, unorganized Pyrats, or maybe his own men mutinied when they realized that their own death was near at hand. While the fort burned, filled with the corpses of their "protectors," the town of Aquae Sulis rested peacefully behind it's walls. Not stopping with the fortress, the Pyrats moved on towards the town. Again, the complacent Romans left their gates wide open and the town guard was quickly cut down. By the time any cry was raised, it was too late for the people of Aquae Sulis. Romans were cut down in the streets as they went about their chores. Shopkeepers screamed as their shops were put to the torch. The baths ran red when more Romans were surprised, lounging around while their friends and family screamed. In the end, the survivors locked themselves in the church. From such a defensible position, they were able to withstand attack. The Pyrats, who had no plans on besieging a group of peasants and clergy, simply burned the building to the ground, locking them all inside. And then they were gone. As quickly as they had descended upon the poor people of Briton, the Dred Pyrat returned to their beloved ocean, leaving a burned husk behind. Lock your doors and watch the seas, for you never know when the Pyrats will pay you a visit. Tirasala, Captain of the Dred Pyrats, Lord of the Oshan See =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Legendary Times is published by the immortals of LegendMUD. Please send all replies, additions, or corrections to our address at lt@mud.sig.net for inclusion in the next edition. We, however, reserve the right to moderate this discussion, and may object to some submissions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Previous Issue Main Index Next Issue
