Round Robin, Round Robin....

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Chuck Messer
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Round Robin, Round Robin....

Postby Chuck Messer » Wed Oct 05, 2005 12:50 am

I thought it would be fun to start a writing round robin. I'll start the story and others may pitch in with the next part, if they so desire. Each part, a paragraph or a page, has to advance the plot, develop character, etc.

To kick things off, I will begin a story I will call, "The Magic Key."


Once upon a time, long ago in a place far away, when knights fought for honor, dragons dwelled upon the Earth, magic was in the air, wizards, elves and fairies did their thing, and no one had yet invented the short sentence, lived a guy named Dink.

He was kind of husky, short of stature and short of temper.

And foul of mouth.

Sloppy of habits.

Quick with an insult.

Think Joe Pesci on too much caffeine and a bad 70’s hair cut.

In short, a real dink.

One day, Dink was relaxing in his cluttered hovel, sipping on a warm beer. Of course, there was no refrigeration in those days, so all beer was warm.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light, a loud pop and a tall, gray figure appeared in the middle of the trash-strewn room.

Dink shrieked, jumped out of his chair, his flagon of beer flying out of his stubby little hand.

It was Noordung, the wizard. “Ew,” he said looking at the junk he was standing in. “I think you take this bachelor thing a little too seriously.” He saw Dink panting in front of his chair, holding his hand in front of his chest. “Did I startle you, Dink?” he asked in his deep, resonant baritone.

“No!” shouted Dink, his face a blotchy red, “I always scream, jump up and piss my pants whenever company shows up! Especially in a flash of lightning and clap of thunder!”

Noordung tucked his chin into his long, gray beard as he looked at Dink with eyes like those of a chastised dog. “Sorry, Dink.”

“Yeah, well tell that to my laundry woman.”

“You have a laundry woman now?” asked Noordung.

“Wellll,” said Dink trying to wave away the question, “Not since I didn’t pay her for about six months. Give or take a month. Or two. How impatient can you get? I’m good fer it…eventually.”

“You always were a welsher,” said Noordung, shaking his leonine head.

“Yeah, well fuck your mother in the butt with a broomstick, you grey-bearded old fart!” Dink shot back.

Noordung’s face turned reddish-purple, then turned dark and shadowy, like a thundercloud. Electric sparks crackled through his hair and beard and the air smelled of ozone. “Don’t dick with me, you little pismire,” he rumbled in a volcanic voice. “Or I’ll rend you into a hundred bloody pieces, each still alive and screaming as I feed them to my dog!”

“Okay, okay!” cried Dink as he groveled on the floor. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! There’s no word in any language that would describe how sorry I am for saying such things about your dear, sainted mother! Really, fergodsakes!”

He’d forgotten the most important thing you needed to know about wizards: Do not, under any circumstances diss their mothers.


Okay, now take it from here.
Some people are wedded to their ideology the way nuns are wed to God.

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Postby JaySmith » Wed Oct 05, 2005 1:59 pm

Sadly for Noordung, this display of power was short-lived. Heaving and gasping, he collapsed to the grungy floor of Dink's hovel, wretching at the stench of urine while at the same time trying to capture his breath.

As the light show faded and the old wizard dry heaved on his collection of halfling pornography, Dink sat back and took a sip. "Noo noo noo... getting long in the tooth are ya? Too much of that Ogre-leaf. I keep telling you. You keep smoking that shit you gon'die!"

Noordung WAS very fond of Ogre-lead. Each fall, the ogres of the Lowensteen Forest would shed their skins, which were collected by other denizens of the forest to be cured and rolled into paper saturated in a secret blend of Elvish herbs and spices. The effect of smoking Ogre Leaf was most potent to Wizards and old men with bad eyesight. Music took shape. Smells had color. Solid objects projected their inner light. But mostly, it clogged the lining of the smoker's throat and made them smell like wet poop.

Despite his name, Noordung didn't smell like wet poop. But even if he did, the stench of the hovel would have overpowered it. Dink had lost his sense of smell a long time ago in a fireworks accident while reinacting the final battle of the D'hurn/Saguuul Civil War. Dink sat and sipped hisbeer while Noordung writhed and hacked across the floor toward Dink's kitchen.

"Ooh! That's what the floor in there needs - a good mopping! A wizard of Service you are!"

*** Your Turn ***

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Postby Chuck Messer » Thu Oct 06, 2005 10:09 pm

"Just wait until I catch, fuggit, Dink." Noordung sat on the floor huffing and sweating. "I'm getting too fuggin' old for this shit." He looked at Dink, his eyes all a-twinkle, his head cocked to one side. "Sooo, Dink. A little short of the coinage are we? A little light in the purse? Got your lamp oil cut off for non-payment, aren't we?"

He stood up and brushed himself off as best he could. He watched Dink swirl the remnants of his Gen-yu-wine Wheat ale in the battered pewter flagon, waiting for the other sandle to drop.

"You know what I mean, Dink. I've checked around. Well, I've got a sure-fire moneymaker for you. A job. Not a regular one, don't break out in a rash. A small errand that could make that purse of yours heavy with coins."

Dink held up a hand. "Wait a min -- wai-wai-wait a minute, there graybeard. The last time you had a 'little errand' for me, I was almost eaten by an ogre."

"Well, I..."

"Sliced. Diced. Alive. Remember?"

"Now, Dink..."

"Eaten, dammit! And the Ogre had the worst goddamned bad breath. If the Great Balrog himself gave off a nachos-with-chili-mixed-with-rotten-liver fart it wouldn't smell that bad. He-she-it wanted to either have a good solid shag with me or eat me. I couldn't even tell if it was male for female, fer godsakes. It was one tough decision, let me tell you. And now you think I'm enough of a slack-jawed, vacant-eyed, mouth-breathing dumbass as to do it again? I mean hump or die with an Ogre? Holy jumpin' Jesus, Noordung."

Noordung harrumphed and looked at his nails. Finally he said, "Female. The Ogre, I mean. And this job is a lot easier than the last one. It'll pay big. I mean, BIG. It doesn't take a wizard to see the eviction notice on the door."

Noordung took a step toward Dink and almost slipped on an issue of Dwarf Whore magazine. He pulled out his pipe and twirled it in his long fingers. "And, don't knock the leaf 'til you've tried it, 'kay? So, what do you say, Dink, are you in?" Noordung jerked his thoumb toward the front door. "Or are you out, baby, out out out?"


Some people are wedded to their ideology the way nuns are wed to God.

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Postby Gwyneth M905 » Fri Sep 22, 2006 12:10 pm

"All right, all right, I'm in" said Dink. He took a final swig of his beer and tossed the flagon into the unlit, soot-filled fireplace.

"Righti-ho," said Noordung," here's the poop: there's a Princess being held captive in a high tower by a dragon. You have three days to get her out of there -- alive -- and slay the dragon (or trick him) to get a MAGIC LANTERN that projects special pictures, of aforementioned princess." "Bring them both back here, and you get 10,000 semolions from King Humperdingdong."

"Paid in semenolions?" said Dink. "You've gotta be kidding! It's gold folderloons or nuttin'!"

The old wizard hemmed and hawed and finally capitulated after some quick finger work on his wand (which doubled as a calculator). "OK, 85,467.78 gold folderloons it is, Dink."

"Sheesh, contract work!" said Dink. He retrieved his flagon from the fireplace, wiped the ashes on his jerkin and poured himself another beer.
"So (slurp), when am I supposed to leave on this gig?" I'm assuming I get a company destrier, caparisoned in the finest dragon-proof armor."

"Erm..." said the wizard...

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Postby Hathor » Tue Sep 26, 2006 4:27 pm

Dink could feel the head-ache beginning in his temples, and his eyesight starting to become swimmy.

Dink was a simple man with simple needs. A dragon to slay, a woman to lay, call it a day.

He didn't know which was worse. When wizards would speak over his head, and make him feel stupid, or when they would answer questions with grunts and shrugs and he would end up in a life-threatening situation. AND feeling stupid.

Situations that usually involved something foul smelling, undead, or gaseous that would make him vow if he lived through this, he would test the limits of bastard mythago quasi-immortality by strangling the mystic
who set him up until he, Dink, was tired.

If only he could figure out what happened to all the gold he acquired from these quests. For maybe two months things would be great, but then the hovel would be in shambles, and everyone forgot him again, and soon he was back taking sucker quests from some smug geezer in a coarse stinky robe.

The more Dink thought about it, the angrier he became.

"What the Hell d'ya MEAN, 'erm..', HAH?"

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