WAR OF WIZARDS GAME BLURBS

"EXCERPTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF IDIOT SAVANT 5th Frunnze : High Elves ! God, how I hate them, the serene bastards. Try convincing them that there is a national emergency and they go off and sing jolly songs in the woods. 11th Frunnze : Yesterday I asked my chamberlain where my favourite curly-toed slippers were and got a series of infuriating (but beautifully crafted) riddles in verse. Clapped him in irons, but was unable to sleep all night due to the sounds of carolling and merrymaking from the dungeon. Heads will roll ! 2nd Varidel : Today I was out in the field inspecting the progress of our preparations, only to find the infirmary full of sick woodland mammals and tired migratory birds. Found the ironworkers bedecking the foundry in garlands of flowers and dancing naked in praise of the bounty of the earth. Suggested they might like to mine the bounty of the earth and smelt it, but was given a herbal remedy for hypertension and told not to be so 'heavy'. I then went to have a quiet scream in the woods on my own. However a 'sky-clad' elf maiden popped out of the shrubbery to say that I was disturbing the squirrels and would I like to hear a poem about them... 8th Varidel : I don't think my medication is working. Today I visited the dock area to see how the navy is coming along. No work seemed to be going on, but the shipwrights' drama society were busy rehearsing their production of 'The Humorously Shaped Vegetable of King Polypurgonikes' and asked if I would mind returning when they were ready to perform. I did manage to refrain from violence and give a civil, if confused, answer. 15th Varidel : Have decided to stay in bed and let them all go jump. Am thinking of putting my memoirs into verse..."

New Page 1

For eons the Gnome people have dwelt in their underground homes. Living happily in balance with the nature and the sea around them. They are a hard working people who enjoy the company of others as much as a good party and a good pipe to smoke. Sitting by the open fire eating good food and drinking good ale with friends and family singing songs is part of the lives they live. Meaning no harm to anyone. This is what it might sound around the fire one late summer night:

The sun shines on the great trees
The morning dew nourishes their gentle souls,
The night’s shadow slowly flees
To the safety of dark distant holes.

As the sun beckons the light
A gentle breeze wakes to caress the skin,
We forget last night’s fright
As we slowly wash away our sin.

In the moonlight we were free
To our hidden passions so divine,
But in haste we lost the key
That had imprisoned darkness’ vine.

In its place we have laid
A balance of night and day,
For the day, darkness fades,
In the night, evil preys.

Now the sun rises again
Chasing the nocturnal cloak,
Bringing the night to an end
By the light we are soak.

What a grand event it is
The rising of the sun,
I swear to you, truly t’is
Now it’s time for fun.

When the singing has died out and most have gone to bed its all quite and calm around the hills of this great people. This is what has been said about the gnomes:

The gnomish race was born of ice and darkness, and of fire and rock. In the southern mountains, they survived only by dint of careful maintainance of the resources they had, and by hiding in the cracks in the rock and glaciers that warped over the millenia. As other races headed south, the gnomes headed deep; into rock and ice, building life around the geothermal ventings of an earth rent by war, and cultivating the few living things that survived in and under the ice, fungi, fish, and the occasional hardy alpine plant all became grist for the gnomish mill.

They were aided by their heritance, for those who went south went armed with the latest technology of the Foundation days, which wore out only slowly. And the survival of this southern race depended on its maintainence. They lost the robust height of their Foundation forefathers, being compressed by the dual demands of their tiny living space and minimal resources. The poisons of the great war helped, and the end product was a race much smaller and lighter than humans or dwarves, designed for living a life constantly on the edge of starvation, supported only by the production of their feverish, technological minds. In those quiet, dead times in the north, they had much time to work and think, and the gnomish race become one of manipulators of ideas. They kept a compact strength, necessary for tunneling through the constantly shifting and twisting ice and rock.

In the slow millenia that followed, technology began to fail, and populations pushed to the limits. Other forces began to appear; first the Valar, providing sustenance and light as the sustaining fragments of technology began to fail. It is said that even the Valar did not know the gnomes existed, until Mayflon, the Laughing One, found himself bedeviled by small humans while hiding in the northlands (as his tricks often forced him to do). He took them as his own, these little tricksters, and gave them access to the clerical powers. His bretherns soon found out about these new humans, but Mayflon, for obvious reasons, remained chief in their hearts. The long dark had refined the practical joke to a fine art amongst the gnomes. The strangely reticient Taern religion, weakened by time and the long night gave ground to the more visible Haruchai pantheon, and other Valars and Maiars found their ways into the gnomish life. Camber's healing touch was high in their pantheon, whereas the need for Haekar's trackers was minimal. A gnomish criminal had few places to run. The communities were tightly knit and small spaces, and to leave them was often to die.

Of course, crime was a relative thing. Much could be (and had to be) forgiven in the gnomish holds. Property was common, necessities were shared where needed, while luxuries changed hands with a rapidity governed only by the gentleness of gnomish hearts. A loaf of bread would never be stolen, but might be freely given between three families. But gemwork and other products of idle hands would be stolen repeatedly in the dark night, only restricted by the elaborateness of the guarding traps and the sentiment attached to ownership. An old lady might keep her husband's last work, but her heirs would soon find it taking wing in the night, unless they contrived an elaborate plan to protect it; usually an alarm crafted from the sparse resources of the hold and family.

Causing harm to the hold was the only true crime. One who caused the injury or death of another would soon be hunted out of the hold. It is said that some of these formed holds of their own in the lowlands, becoming the races of goblins and kobolds, detested by gnomish kind to this day. Of these warped races gnomes speak little. Their heritage is twisted by their background, by their exposure to the poisons of the lowlands, and possibly by affiliation with the Orcish folk.

Within the holds another force made itself known. Living close to the rock, and spending long nights in close company and deep thought, the gnomes were amongst the first to discovery the coursing flow of magic through the rock and earth beneath them. They quickly realized and mastered this strange new form of power, although by this time their minds had twisted enough that they best mastered the sorcerous arts of illusion and deception. Such trickery lent itself to the convolutions of their dark and and twisty passages.

It was many years before the humans found their far southern brethren. Their first encounters were with the twisted valley rabble of goblinoid and kobold races. The battles between invading humans and the resident goblinoid races waged for many years, as the first exploratory groups of humans began heading south, looking for new sources of minerals. These forays were largely doomed to failure, the goblinoids and gnomes had been mining and fighting in these peaks for millenia before the humans arrived, but man did not know that.

First contact occured after almost a decade of running battles between heavily armed prospectors and the goblinoids. A group of humans manged to penetrate the lowland ring of rabble, only to be pinned in a cul-de-sac against the looming blue-ice foot of a glacier. They faced an overwhelming force of kobolds who seemed strangely reticent to attack. That fear was soon explained when the second attack on the faltering human forces was greeted with a blazing show of pyrotechnics, both technological and sorcerous, that effectively eliminated the attacking kobolds.

That night, humans and gnomes met again for the first time in millenia. The former were slow to accept the gnomish folk, fearing that they were another of the small and vicious races that they had been fighting so recently. The gnomes, for their part, were fascinated by their new allies. A heavily guarded combined caravan, loaded with years of wealth accumulated from the gnomish mines, soon began wending its way north. It returned intact, aided by a few kind humans, and laden with the riches of the northern races.

Gnome-human relations proceded apace. The avarice of the humans was stilled somewhat by the hostility of the intervening forces and by the incredible treachery of the gnomish homelands. The gnomes learned enough about their new neighbors to recognize their danger quickly, and humans seeking the legendary wealth of the gnomish folk soon found only miles of twisted glacier ice and rock tunnels, too small to move comfortably through, and replete with traps designed to drive even the sanest human wild with claustrophobia and frustration. Centuries of fighting the wiry little kobolds and goblins made defending the holds against much larger humans a relatively simple matter.

A stable and comfortable relationship soon developed. The gnomes maintained their mountainous holds, dispatching heavily armed and guarded caravans to trade with the humans. A few hardy gnomes headed out, mxing slowly with the human races, and sending a steady stream of information back, but assimiliating well with the other races. Most races quickly saw the futility of messing with the gnomes in their holds, and maintained a fairly polite diplomatic relationship.

Before long, small groups of the technologically oriented gnomes began to set up outside the human towns, trading their skills. A few humans, fascinated by the vestiges of technology still held by the gnomes, began to venture south to live amongst them. And the two races grew to know each other. A gnome, while an unusual sight amongst humans, was typically more of a curiousity than anything else, while a human amongst the gnomes was typically bombarded endlessly with questions about the southern races.

The loss of a caravan in Thurdis, and the intransigence of the government in dealing with that crime, has made the visitation of gnomish folk a rare event indeed. Only a few loners now walk the streets of Thurdis, and the race has pretty much faded from the public mind, except as an idle curiousity. Those who know more of the events leading up to that day typically do not speak of it, for it is mixed up in large part with the present politics of Thurdis, never a pleasant subject.

_________________________________________________________________ Chat with friends online, try MSN Messenger: http://messenger.msn.com

FROM THE DIABLACK ARCHIVIST, WORDS FROM THE REALM AS THE CHAOS DESCENDS Rumours on the second month of Chaos: --------------------------------------------------- The Chaos hordes awoke from their troubled sleeps, in the various places that they had made their bed for the last night in the confines of the volcanic region. Some had not slept at all, without the constant trembling of the ground that was both a threat from the heart of teh volcano, but as reassuring as the womb. Those next to the ocean only slept due to the sheer trauma that the crashing waves brought to them, and amongst them, some cried salty tears to match the tang from the ocean's spray, mostly from the unknown orders that might send them into this monstrous patch of blue and white crests. Still, having broken their fast on the delicasies that they found locally - rabbit, wild mushrooms etc, each cohort was gathered into the mob that they pretended to be, without a uniform, the kobolds were the epitomy of the "great unwashed" that legends told of. The captains dealt smartly with any questions, such as "where are we going?", and "Can we go home now?", any many a kobold felt a stiff boot to the groin, or the gentle thwack of a jolly stick across the neck. (note: jolly sticks in this instance resemble baseball bats rather than conductors batons). There were six gaggles of kobolds who set out that morning, and each felt the change as they crossed the boundary from the charred region of the Diablack volcano. Some were acutely aware of the sharp drop in temperature as they began a gentle climb, which progressively became steeper as they picked their way up the lower slopes of a mountain, their ragged clothing being little comfort. Others found the increasing heat from the sun and the choking effects of the breeze, which, far from cooling them, abraded their skin with the sand it whipped up from the desert floor. As these groups fought to come to terms with the harsh realities of terrain far different from the volcano, two further marches were much less troubled. After the haze from the lava field was left behind, a sight was revealed that stunned the hapless kobolds into silence. It was through fear, but more from the incredulity as their gaze took in the gently undulating ground with its veneer of green. Plains were as new to these kobolds as the sea had been to others, but no fearsome roar assailed their ears, and the gentle breeze carried scents of wild flowers. These ventures into new regions were proclaimed by the captains in guttural tones around the camp fires, as they 'read' from despatches that reached them from the city. This new medium for communication was strange to all, but the messengers had begun to arrive late in the month, with tales of the new paths that had been laid at Ordo's behest, speeding travel through the lava fields as the wooden sleepers that had been laid eased the sudden drops and razor sharp edges. The messengers hinted that they had seen people abroad with goods to sell and money to spend in the much vaunted tavern, and that messengers of unknown origin had been seen entering Diablack with sealed scrolls. The word was that Lord Ordo was planning to agree an alliance with some distant warlord, but who and where from, none could say. The new shires were claimed in the name of Ordo Equester, Tyrant of Diablack, and the detail of the taxes were given. The news from the previous month's activities was spread in this manner, and slowly the kobold armies began to believe that a new beginning was upon them. Instead of the disgruntled (but muted) murmurings that had ended the first month, there was a genuine expectation of what they would achieve in the coming month. Only a few were aware that the captains sat together in huddles, reading separate despatches, and looking across to the weapons pile with a worried eye - the meagre daggers, shovels and occasional rusty sword made a pitiful sight to any who had actually fought, even in rough and tumble sessions. What would the new month bring; vast and unclaimed lands or the advance elements of some irrate wizard, protesting at the uninvited presence of troops in whatthey considered to be their domain. As the camps settled down for the sleep, even the doziest of the picket sentries that were posted could not fail to notice the occasional flicker of a glow in the distance; what was it, dancing fireflies, the breath of some mythical dragon or just maybe, or maybe not, the dying embers of some other campfire, around which sat what manner of creature... but no, it must be just a trick of the night. ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************* Rumours on the first month of Chaos: ----------------------------------------------- The Chaos hordes have set out tentatively to the local countryside. Some are amazed that the ground does not tremble, and is slightly cooler, as they descend from the central volcanic area of Diablack (they don't get out much). One group were sorely afraid of the roar that reached them as they marched, if you could call the perambulations of such a ragbag assembly marching. The roar grew louder, and the sulphur from the volcano was replaced by a strange taste on the lips, with an accompanying tingle as a rain that was not rain moistened everything that it touched. Their comprehension was stretched to breaking point when they found that the earth ended, and they stared in wonder at the ocean before them, trying to take in the scale of the bluey-green turmoil with its fingers of white foam that thrust on to the earth, as if trying to grab any foolish Kobold daring to get too close. To the relief of other groups, such terror was thankfuly avoided. They found peasant kobolds living in makeshift hovels, thrown together from spent lava balls and in places, the few twigs and leaves were fashioned into roofing. But as the cycle of the twin moons came to an end, they could see that the earth continued beyond the last of the lava flows - here was new territory to be claimed in the name of Ordo Equester, Tyrant of Diablack. As they settled down for the last night's rest before pushing out into unknown lands beyond teh volcano, some had word of a Tavern back at the city, with ribaldry and merriment. Wiser heads (that is stretching the word wiser to its limits) discounted such rumours as unfounded - The life of a kobold is to suffer, and Lord Ordo would never countenance levity. There were the less wise (braindead?) who proffered that such rumours as this might be the very reason for a Tavern to be built. After all, he tongues of fools are loosened by the libations that could be offered. Even the wise and not-so wise had to admit that there was sense in this line of argument. Still, the ramblings were cut short by the well aimed boot of the kobold captains, who being neither wise nor lenient, drew the last night to a close and awaited the orders for the next day. ******************************************************************************************************************* Extract from the book entitled "The Rules of Chaos" by the Late Wizard of the Black Hand "To entreat the Gods, in their infinite wisdom, to grant the Sons of Chaos the means to destroy the acursed Elves and their hideous visages of purity; the first of the Chaos Minions to breathe on the face of Merrigon offered his life in sacrifice, and cried out for the Gods to clarify the rules under which the victory could be won. As the blood from his viens poured onto the ground, the Gods replied with a fearsome thunder ... FOOLISH SON OF ORDURE - WHERE CHAOS REIGNS THERE ARE NO RULES ... and as the drops of blood touched the rock of the Volcano of Diablack, the heat raised steam and each became granted with a life force of its own. The seething mass, like leeches in a pool, took form and began to devour the still standing form of their effective father." So did the Volcano of Diablack become the home of the Chaos Minions. The castle is cut into the lava from centuries of eruptions, and appears to glower down on the caves that are the homes of the Kobolds, who toil amongst the lava pits for the moss and lichen that is the staple diet of these wretches. The Kobolds have no body hair, its use long since rendered effete by the tongues of flame that burst forth from the Volcano's heart, and although the cannibalism recorded in the myth of their creation has been lessened, those too weak to toil are thrown into the volcano's gaping maw in the belief that the fire that provides warmth might somehow fail unless fed. The equilibrium of their meagre existence was set off kilter by the birth of a Kobold that broke the mould of conformity. Laden with hair as red as the fires that sustain, this Kobold grew like no other, and was soon a youth with a wicked reputation for achieving where others failed. Those that challenged him were either savagely beaten in full view of the community, yielding to preserve their remaining thread of existence. Others who spoke of challenges were strangely lost to the flames in accidents that happened with uncanny regularity. As the youth grew on, such dissent as there might be remained in thoughts alone, as the ears of the volcano were everywhere, and as the present day approached, the name of Ordo Equester was spoken only in reverence, if at all. Now, as the wind carries the cries of the dead to the far corners of Merrigon, the figure atop the volcano stands with arms outstretched, and the biting wind swirls the mane of red hair so that it resembles the snakes of the fabled Medusae. Those who dare to watch, hear the words that ride on the wind, incomprehensible to mere Kobolds: "Eadem Mutata Resurgo" .. and with these words, the disbelieving Kobolds watch as the figure arches in a slow dive towards to spewing lava in the crown of the volcano. The word is quickly spread.. Ordo Equester is dead.. and old ambitions are suddenly rekindled amongst the foolhardy. With a terrible roar and a shower of molten rock that seems to target only those who had dared to utter pleasure in their master's demise, the figure of Ordo Equester is carried on a geyser of steam to tower over the now trembling kobolds... the glow around his torso, the flames that dance in his beard and mane, all these are taken in by the frightened multitude below. Now they see the beginning of the new world... Chaos shall have its day. [for those who may be interested: the Latin words are the epitaph of Jacob Bernouilli, Swiss Pioneer of fluid mechnics and spiral mathematics - translated they say "Though changed, I shall arise the same" ]

Contact Ordo Equester at lias@lineone.net

PLAYER 13 - Geronimo

No Blurb Submitted As Yet.

Contact Geronimo at noplayer@wow.pbemgame.com

PLAYER 14 - Alodar the Apprentice


*grmph* Here I go again (but which I... ?) - my uncle TOLD me not to fiddle
with that 'clone self' spell back on my first homeworld until I was absolutely
sure I had mastered it... Well, I _thought_ I had, but somehow I became a
victim of chaos theory and ended up in an endless loop (not that I understand
how ending up in something endless is logically possible in the first place)
of clonecarnations, one more chaotic than the other... Not that it really
matters, it is kind of interesting to have so many lives to choose memories
from, and by now I have considerable experience of chao---OOPS!

*grr* Not enough experience it seems, stumbling over a singularity like that -
I'd better relearn to watch my steps again (it is about 42 clonecarnations
since I last took a refresher course on that subject, so it is well overdue
anyway...) ... ehh, wait... stumbling over a WHAT ???

[After carefully checking, rechecking, and finally re-rechecking with singular
determination...] No doubt, that is indeed a singularity - though I have never
seen one in a(ny) physical world before, nor have I ever even seen a picture
of one, but definitely - something which looks like that cannot possibly be
anything but a singularity...

Strange indeed - I thought they had something in common with black holes, but
that one looks like a cross between Kylie Minogue and a pink elephant with a
helluva hangover... Sort of like the normal laws of physics were not in force
here (well, not that they are able to explain my endless clonecarnation loops
either, but one'd expect physics to be good for SOMETHING...)

Well better move on, sooner or later I'm bound to bump into someone who can
shed some light on this chaos...

-Be still, stranger, or this scythe will turn you into two (somewhat
 incomplete) strangers in no time!

Ehh, that wasn't exactly the revelation of light I had expected, but then I
guess it is better than nothing, and no doubt one of my focussing spells will
bring some semblance of order even into this seeming chaos... But first an
elementary precaution... *ZAP!*

-I say, that was strange indeed - it was you who was supposed to be turned into
 two parts, not the scythe... This goes well beyond the intellectual capacity
 of a poor Chaos Kobold Slave...

[A kobold slave capable of speaking polysyllables?? This world suffers from a
 SEVERE state of chaos, I daresay...]

-Well, to tell the truth, I have no idea where I am, or what this strange world
 is, but since you seem to be something as utterly improbable as an intelligent
 kobold, would you mind filling me in on some worldly details?

-Strange wizard you are indeed - neutralising my scythe with merely a *ZAP!*
 but not knowing where you are... Well, this world is called Merrigon, though
 much joy and merriment there is not - somehow our tribe seems to have been
 caught in a permanent state of chaos - nothing is really what it seems to be
 around here, and it is somewhat confusing and distressing, to say the least..

[Hmm, another visit to Merrigon so soon after the previous one - this seems to
 indicate a truly chaotic situation indeed...]

-I see... By the way, Alodar the Apprentice is the name, and if past
 experience is something to go by you presumably have a chair of wizardry
 which somehow is just waiting to be filled ?!

-Indeed - your arrival comes at a most suitable moment, oh mighty wizard -
 maybe you are the wizard who can bring order into this chaos after all these
 years!? The previous one worked hard for 42 years, and then one day he just
 vanished without a trace...

-OK, take me to your capital then, and I'll see what I can do... Ehh, what is
 this place called?

-Firemore, capital of the chaos minions, oh mighty wizard! If we walk in that
 direction, we should reach our magic college in about half an hour... In the
 meantime, would you mind if I discussed a highly interesting theory of
 absolutivity which a great chaotic thinker named Zweibaum has put forth...

-Never mind the highbrow theories (at least for now) - just fill me in on some
 more details of this world while we walk...

[Approximately 42 minutes later]

-Thank you for the briefing, fella! So this strange creation is your magic
 college - the architect must have been quite high on some extremely chaotic
 substance if he could think of something like THAT (and actually make it
 stick together...) I'll take over from here - you just go and find someone
 to discuss the theory of absolutivity with!

Let's see - this must be the library... Now where do I start - hmm, this title
looks somehow familiar:

"A Short Introduction to the Foundations of cHAotIc Magick".

*grmph* Even the title is slightly chaotic - wonder if it has more surprises
in stock... Oh well, here is the fine print, let's brace ourselves...

"Volume I of I"...

WHAT ???? That has NEVER happened before - this part of the world must surely
be in an EXTREMELY chaotic state... Well, guess I'll have to write 41 more
volumes then at my leisure *chuckle*

Contact Alodar the Apprentice at rwikman@ra.abo.fi

Off to WOW Game Status Page.

Sponsor
<a href="http://ads.datais.com/ads/ad.cgi?wowgames-link87&chnc=true target="_top"> <img src="http://ads.datais.com/ads/ad.cgi?wowgames-ad87&chnc=true border="0" alt="Click here to visit our sponsor" width="468" height="60"></a><br>  <a href="http://members.datais.com/cgi-bin/referral.cgi?wowgames" target="_top"><img border="0" alt="Join the Datacom Ad Network"src="http://www.datais.com/buttons/Datacom88.gif"></a><br>  <P> </BODY> </HTML>

PLAYER BLURBS.

PLAYER 1 - Fizzle

PLAYER 2 - Takara

December twentieth, Audience Hall in Laline Grove

December the twenty-second, Laline Grove

PLAYER 3 - Trpaslik

PLAYER 4 - Sirikul

PLAYER 5 - IdiotSavant

PLAYER 6 - Alamopud

PLAYER 7 - Mitsushi

PLAYER 8 - Hazaar

PLAYER 9 - Calymar Ironhand

PLAYER 10 - Oronic

PLAYER 11 - Draconis

PLAYER 12 - Ordo Equester

PLAYER 13 - Geronimo

PLAYER 14 - Alodar the Apprentice

Off to WOW Game Status Page.