PLAYER 1 - Lord Steelmind

Contact Lord Steelmind at marcus@jacobs.pp.se

PLAYER 2 - Tyranthraxus

     

         
We Gnomes have always lived a
         protected life in Valdoramax, the town in the sky.
         Century after century we create a powerful and peaceful
         nation under the great Tyranthraxus. Our skilful
         craftsman have build lot of wonderful things, which few
         have ever seen, and around the town we found lot of gems
         with we have decorate the town with.

         

         Now and then we heard about Caizarius have ravage the
         world under us but he have never found the way up to the
         astral-island Holliwican (or he didn't dared to attack us).
         In many years Valdoramax lived in peace but after a very
         long time it's no needs to build more and if you see 1000
         of gems every day you think they don't mean nothing so
         one after one the powerful guilds lost their power and
         the inhabitant took everything for granted. So the Old
         Handicraft disappeared!! But in the town the lives
         continues… the old buildings worked without any
         problems and the farmers around the town produced enough
         food so no one needed to starve and it's enough gems and
         gold so they could buy everything the caravans bring in
         many 1000 year…

         

         But so one day it happened!! A catastrophe that nobody
         thought would happened… a terrible storm ravage the
         country destroyed buildings and killed lots of gnomes!
         Even the famous magictower there the great Tyranthraxus,
         on the top, tried to fight the storm with his powerful
         magic collapsed. When the storm disappeared Valdoramax
         was a ruin, almost all the buildings had collapsed and
         many many had been killed but against all odds
         Tyranthraxus was still alive when they digged after him
         in the ruins after the old tower. The survivor thought
         they was saved because with his magic it would have been
         possible to rebuild the town again but when Tyranthraxus
         was going to cast the first spell nothing happened! He
         know how to cast the spells but oh some reason he have
         forgot how to pronounce the ancient words…

         

         Many years later they had rebuild the Valdoramax again
         but nothing of the former splendour when no one remember
         the old knowledge and the rumours says that Caizarius 
end
         
Gnomes 
         
Without doubt, gnomes are the wisest
         of the races of New Moon and their longevity 

         is surpassed only by the elves. Inquisitive by nature,
         gnomes are great hoarders 

         of information and are steeped in the history and lore of
         New Moon. The majority 

         of gnomes reside deep underground in the natural
         subterranean caverns of New Moon 

         and in the intricate tunnel and cave complexes carved out
         by their master rocksmiths. 

         A few gnomes have ventured above the surface to set up
         small towns and villages among

         the "big people" but usually they shy away from
         the aggression of the "bigger folk". 

         Small, weak and fragile, gnomes aren't much use in a
         fight, but their exceptional 

         wisdom and above-average intelligence means they are
         powerful wielders of magic and faith.
         

         
 
         
The
         Deep Dwellers 
         
Tinker tink, and splatter and 
splink
         
crash bash, tatter and trash
         
many sounds fourth did comes from
         the gnomes
         
inventing and creation they did in
         there homes
         
for throughout there many 
years
         
the gnomes thought up of many 
ideas
         
technology was to there liking you
         see
         
just as watching tv was to you and
         to me
         
 
         
-Elvish song of the Gnomes

         

         
         

         
In 
the darkness of Erth, after the
         death of the Foundation, a stout group of Taern humans
         hid in the mountainous southlands, in what the Taerns and
         gnomes called the Andes. In a world torn by the wars of
         the two great races of Orc and Taern, the land they chose
         was at least untouched by the direct effects of the
         battle. No battles were fought over uninhabitable ice and
         rock. Only slowly did the poisons of war creep into their
         bones and bloodlines, and they survived. 

         
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. 
         

         


         

          Gnome Legends 

         

         Three
         Wishes 
         
In
         a small house in the middle of a dark, sprawling forest
         lived a poor woodsman.
         
He
         had a wife, six children, and a black cat with one eye
         who kept the rats and mice at bay. The children had to
         walk two hours to get to school. Beside the little house
         was a vegetable garden and even a little flower garden;
         in the barn were two skinny goats and a pig.
         
But
         the family could hardly manage on the meager earnings of
         a woodsman, even though the father left the house before
         dawn and arrived home--exhausted--long after sunset.
         Though they had plenty of firewood and a clear stream
         nearby, the wife often sighed to her husband:
         
"How
         can we possibly bring up all our children?" And the
         woodsman would shrug his shoulders and say he couldn't
         work any harder than he already did, and this was true.
         
One
         day as he was arriving home in the twilight he saw in the
         distance the cat leaving the woods with a rat in its
         mouth. But something was strange: the rat had no tail.
         Filled with curiosity, the woodsman approached the cat
         who was sitting under a bush. She hissed malevolently as
         he came closer, but the woodsman wasn't afraid. He
         grabbed the cat by the base of her tail with one hand and
         with the other pressed against her jaws until she opened
         her mouth and let the thing fall.
         
"Well,
         I'll be," said the woodsman. Because what he had
         picked up was not a rat, but a gnome woman. She was dead.
         
The
         woodsman had seen a gnome once, but never a female one.
         He took her inside and wiped away a few drops of blood on
         her cheeks and legs. His wife and children stroked the
         doll-like little being and laid her on the window seat in
         the living room while they ate their meal of potatoes and
         bacon fat in the kitchen. When they came back, the little
         gnome woman was gone.
         
"Maybe
         the cat has got her again," the wife said, but the
         cat still sat sulking under the bush outside, showing one
         angry eye. The family gave up searching and went to bed,
         as everyone had to be up early in the morning.
         
The
         woodsman woke up in the middle of the night. Something
         was tugging gently at his ear. Beside his head stood a
         gnome. "You saved my wife," he said. "What
         can I do to reward you? .... But she was dead, wasn't
         she?" the woodsman asked, sleepily. "She was
         only pretending to be dead. Luckily, she's still full of
         life oh, a scratch here, a few black-and-blue marks there--but
         she'll get over it. Just tell me what you want as a
         reward. Here is a little flute. When you blow on it, I'll
         return." And just like that--he disappeared!
         
The
         woodsman and his wife discussed the matter the rest of
         the night. They finally decided to ask if they might have
         three wishes, just as in the fairy tales.
         
The
         following evening the woodsman blew on the flute, and
         shortly thereafter the gnome appeared. "I'd like to
         have three wishes," said the woodsman, somewhat
         timidly, while his wife poked at the fire behind him.
         
The
         gnome looked a little glum but finally said: "Well,
         go on then--what is your first wish?" "I want a
         nugget of gold so I won't have money worries anymore."
         
The
         gnome shook his head. "You can have it, but gold
         seldom brings happiness."
         
"I
         don't care," said the woodsman. "And the other
         two wishes?" "We haven't decided yet."
         "Well, just blow on the flute when you want me
         again," said the gnome with a sigh.
         
Next
         morning, there on the front steps of the little house lay
         a gold nugget as big as an orange, sparkling in the sun.
         The woodsman grabbed it up and yelled, "We're rich,
         we're rich!" And then he carried the nugget to the
         village to exchange it for money. But no one in the
         village had ever seen a gold nugget before and no one
         knew what it was worth. The blacksmith advised the
         woodsman to take it to a jeweler in the city. The
         woodsman set off at once; but instead of going the long
         way he took a shortcut through the swamps that he
         remembered from the days of his youth. As he danced along
         the way, admiring his gold nugget, he slipped off the
         path and plunged into a quagmire and immediately began to
         sink. He tried to reach out for firm ground, but couldn't
         make it. In one hand he clutched the gold nugget, and
         with the other he struggled to get the flute out of his
         pocket so that he could signal the gnome. He was barely
         able to reach it and blow a shrill blast.
         
He
         had sunk up to his neck in mud when the gnome appeared.
         "Get me out of here," cried the woodsman.
         "That is your second wish," said the gnome. He
         then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly--and
         in a few minutes he was surrounded by six other gnomes.
         Using their little axes, the gnomes chopped down a nearby
         tree so that it fell across the quagmire right next to
         the woodsman. He was able to hoist himself up onto it and
         get back to the path from which he had fallen. When he
         looked around, the gnomes had disappeared.
         
But
         still he had the gold nugget in his hand. He went on his
         way, muddy and shivering; eventually, his clothes dried
         and his courage returned. He found a jeweler in the city
         and entered his shop. The jeweler was a distinguished-looking
         man in a white smock; he wore gold-rimmed glasses:
         Frowning at the enormous nugget of gold and at the
         woodsman's bedraggled appearance, shop through the back
         door to notify the police. A half hour later the woodsman
         found himself in the police station.
         
"And
         now tell us where you stole this gold," said a fat
         police sergeant in a fatherly fashion. The commissioner
         of police asked the same question an hour later--but in a
         less fatherly fashion. "I didn't steal it,"
         cried the woodsman in despair, "I got it from a
         gnome." "Of course, from a gnome," said
         the commissioner, who had never seen a gnome---and would
         never, because he was such an unpleasant person. "Not
         even one grain of gold has ever been found in this
         country in a thousand years--but that doesn't occur to
         this gentleman, does it? Lock him up!"
         
During
         the days that followed, the woodsman was questioned again
         and again--and threatened with dire consequences if he
         did not reveal the source of the gold. Finally, he was
         examined by a doctor, but even he could cast no light on
         the matter except to report that the woodsman kept
         babbling away about gnomes.
         
None
         of these people had ever seen a gnome because they all
         had ugly souls. Meanwhile, the gold nugget was kept in
         the vault of the city council. After a week went by, the
         woodsman became so miserable that, one night, he blew the
         flute. After two hours, the gnome appeared. "My wife
         and children are starving," the woodsman said.
         "I want to get out."
         
"That
         is your third wish," replied the gnome, "but I
         have already taken care of your wife and children."
         The gnome went that same night to consult a lawyer in the
         city who had a house gnome. Next day, the lawyer visited
         the police and succeeded in having the woodsman freed,
         owing to lack of evidence. But the gold remained behind
         for safekeeping until its theft could be verified.
         
The
         woodsman gladly went back to his work. The forest had
         never seemed so spacious and free as it did after his
         stay in the stuffy cell in the city; he was happy and
         satisfied even though he often thought of the gold.
         
From
         that time on, things improved for him in all sorts of
         ways. First, a rich foreigner bought all the logs the
         woodsman had cut for twice the usual price. Next, the
         same man asked if the woodsman would become his overseer.
         
The
         happy woodsman was given a cheerful house at the edge of
         a village, and close to the school. He earned much more
         than before and his troubles were over. A few months
         later he came across the gnome in the woods. "And?"
         the gnome asked, "Have you got your gold back yet?"
         "Not yet," the woodsman said, "It seems to
         be a criminal act in this country to possess gold. But
         even without it, my troubles are over."
         
"So,
         there you are," the gnome said--and disappeared into
         the bushes.
         
Weeping
         Willow 
         
The
         old writer sensed that his death was approaching. He
         lived in Norway, in a low cabin with book-lined walls in
         the neighborhood of Lillehammer, beside a mountain slope.
         
Next
         to the window, overlooking the valley, was a large table
         bearing paper, magazines, volumes of verse, inkpots,
         pens, candles, and more books, carelessly stacked.
         
One
         evening, just at sunset, the writer left his bed and went
         to sit at the table. He looked out over the peaceful
         valley with its lake in the distance, and recalled how he
         had lived here quietly for many years, and thought of how
         many books he had written and that soon it would all be
         over. Suddenly, a gnome jumped onto the table, seated
         himself opposite the writer, and crossed his legs. The
         writer greeted him happily.
         
"Tell
         me another story," he asked the aged gnome, who was
         holding his silver watch against his ear. "I can't
         think of any more, I've become too old."
         
"I
         don't know any more," the gnome said. "You've
         already written all the stories about this country.
         You've become rich from them."
         
"Just
         tell me one more. My hands are so tired, I can hardly
         write anymore," sighed the writer. (Nevertheless he
         placed pencil and notebook within reach.)
         
"All
         right then," the gnome said. He changed his position
         and stared outside. "Do you see that big weeping
         willow in the distance at the edge of the lake? The ends
         of its branches always hang in the water. I'll tell you
         why. 
         
"Long
         ago, one dark night, mountain trolls switched their
         infant daughter with the daughter of a rich farmer,
         kidnapping her when everyone was asleep. Next day, the
         poor parents couldn't understand why their daughter's
         skin had suddenly become so dark or why her eyes looked
         like black currants. But deep in the forest the trolls
         exulted over the blue eyes, blond hair, and soft skin of
         the stolen child--and they performed a joyful, thumping
         dance in a circle.
         
"The
         troll child grew up to be a dark, wild tomboy and did
         only naughty and ugly things; she loved no one and no one
         loved her. One day she disappeared and was never seen
         again.
         
"But
         in the forest, the farmer's daughter became sweeter and
         lovelier every year despite all the crude and rough
         things she saw about her. When she was seventeen she was
         discovered by Olav, a strong farm laborer. (Olav slept
         below me in the stable of a farmhouse in the valley.) He
         was bringing in a few lost cows from the high mountain
         meadow for the winter when he saw the farmer's daughter.
         She was sweeping the ground in front of the troll cave
         under the watchful eyes of the old troll mother. It was
         dusk, but Olav thought he had never seen anything so fair
         and beautiful. He immediately fell in love. As he
         attempted to approach, the troll mother pulled the girl
         inside and locked the door.
         
"Back
         in the stable, Olav asked if I would help him, and we set
         off that same night. Reaching the troll hill, we saw a
         stream flowing from it. (Water flows through the middle
         of every troll hill; they use it for drinking.) Using a
         divining rod, I found the spring on the other side of the
         hill from which the water flowed. We dug a hole, and when
         we reached water, Olav put me into a wooden shoe and I
         floated into the stuffy troll cave.
         
"I
         hid myself and the wooden shoe in a dark corner of the
         cave and waited until the trolls left to perform their
         nightly crimes in the forest. Before leaving they shut
         the girl in a side alcove and finally locked the main
         door behind them. Only the girl and I remained in the
         somber, stinking lair. As soon as it was safe, I released
         the girl and said to her: 'You're not a troll girl!
         Outside there's someone who will suit you much better
         than a troll.
         
"She
         looked quite astonished and hesitated, but finally came
         along with me. Outside she saw the blond giant of a man
         Olav; at once she fell in love with him, as he had with
         her.
         
"The
         three of us ran for home. But we were still deep in the
         forest, and before we could make our getaway the trolls
         learned that we had stolen their prize. They caught up
         with us, beat Olav until he was black and blue, and took
         the girl back. I couldn't do a thing.
         
"A
         week later, we tried again. This time Olav took along a
         horse that he had borrowed from the farmer he worked for.
         For the second time, I drifted along on the underground
         stream into the trolls' domain. But this time the trolls
         had left their old mother to stand guard. When the old
         mother troll turned away from a bowl of porridge she was
         making, I quickly tossed a good dash of sleeping potion
         into it. Ten minutes later she was snoring away". (I
         had signaled the girl not to eat the porridge.) 
         
"Again
         the three of us raced through the forest for home. It was
         much quicker this time, on a horse. But in spite of it,
         the trolls caught up with us, just as we were almost out
         of the forest. Again they beat Olav until he was half
         dead, then took the girl back with them--and the horse,
         too, of course. There was nothing we could do; no matter
         how strong Olav was, the trolls were stronger.
         
"Three
         weeks later it snowed. This time I managed to get two
         reindeer to help us. In the trolls' cave I had to wait
         half the night, because not only was the troll mother on
         the lookout but the troll father as well! Eventually I
         was at able to sneak enough sleeping potion into their
         porridge to put them fast asleep.
         
"The
         reindeer transported us quickly on a small sleigh along
         little-known paths in the direction of the lake. The
         trolls pursued us, but in the snowstorm we were lucky
         enough to reach the edge of the lake. I knew where alt
         old fishing boat was moored and we got to it quickly. We
         cut the sleigh loose, thanked the reindeer, and sent them
         back to their herd. The lake was still not entirely
         frozen. Olav and the girl climbed aboard the boat and
         began rowing; I skied homeward along the bank of the lake.
         Nothing could happen to me. Trolls have no power over us
         once they leave their cave. It was almost sunrise. The
         last snowflakes fell; the sky opened up and, in the east,
         took on a yellow and red hue.
         
"When
         the boat was already a good distance across the lake, the
         trolls finally reached the dock. They ranted and raved,
         but Olav rowed with big strokes toward the other side,
         and the trolls couldn't reach them. The trolls didn't
         have much time left: when the sun shines on them, they
         turn to stone. Suddenly, the strongest troll seized a
         gigantic boulder and hurled it at the fleeing pair. The
         boulder did not hit the boat, but it fell so close to it
         that the boat capsized. The suction dragged the girl down
         to the depths of the lake and she drowned. For hours,
         Olav dived in search of her, but he had no luck. Deeply
         depressed, he finally swam to the bank of the lake.
         
"After
         this, Olav was inconsolable. Every day he went to the
         edge of the lake and stood in one spot, staring at the
         water. He never looked at another girl. And when he
         became so old that he couldn't work any more, he
         continued to return daily to the same spot. In the end,
         he stood there the whole day long. Branches grew out of
         his head and roots from his feet. And then he stood there
         forever. He is that weeping willow you see there at the
         lake's edge. Even now its branches feel about in the
         water in an attempt to find the drowned girl."
         
The
         gnome looked around. The old writer had grown still. His
         snow-white head lay upon the notebook on the table. He
         was dead. The gnome smiled and went over to him. He
         closed the writer's eyes and read what was on the paper.
         The last words were, "And then he stood there
         forever."
         
And
         the gnome pulled the notebook out from under the dead
         writer' s head, carefully loosened the pencil from his
         stiff fingers, and wrote the remaining sentences of the
         story.
         
     

Contact Tyranthraxus at gor@passagen.se

PLAYER 3 - Alodar the Apprentice

-Hey Allie, you old alligator, wake up! (OK, raise your consciousness from your deep meditation then, if that makes you feel more important...)
-Fooled you this time, Tyranthraxus - I was already awake!
-Good, then I don't have to pretend you were meditating rather than sleeping, and this is urgent, since we have the final tournament round coming up...
[stunned silence lasting 42 seconds]
- what did you just say??
-I think I said "Fooled you this time, Tyranthraxus - I was already awake!"
[with a shellshocked look of utter disbelief at his face, looking for a chair to sink down into, but finding none, sinking down onto - though fortunately not into - the floor instead]
-You... you... have learnt to pronounce my name!!??
[trying to look nonchalantly casual, or casually nonchalant, but failing dismally, since it is impossible to look anything but smug when wearing a grin broader than a Cheshire cat]
-Well, yeah, I had sort of nothing else to do during the past several months so I figured I might as well learn something new for a change rather than practicing the "improve chair comfort" spell...
-Ahh, so that is why I am sitting on the floor then - said spell seems to need a lot more practice than even pronouncing my name required...
-Well, actually I mastered your name already yesterday, so I have practiced the chair comfort spell since then, but as you can see it does need a lot more practising, as it is even the chairs need more comforting than I do after watching the results of the practice session...
But enough of chair and name spells for now - after such an unnaturally long break I am itching for battle! What was the reason for the long pause - no one daring to meet us in the final round, maybe?
-Fat chance, you chair discomforter - do the names Lord Steelmind and Valerien ring a bell?
[looking shellshockedly around for a chair, finding none, sinking down onto the floor, trying desperately to memorise the spell for actually sinking down into the floor, but failing dismally once again, though this time definitely not due to resembling a Cheshire cat]
-We... we... are up against them?
-Seems the names rang more than a bell, then... More like a sledgehammer, to judge from the look on your face... Pull yourself together, old alligator, we are going to need all your brain cells intact if we are going to win that battle - they are fearsome opponents, I give you that! But I think you just discovered the secret weapon with which to beat them - my name!
-Your name??
-Yes, it is a long story, but actually it was Lord Steelmind who christened me (or whatever god[s] we are supposed to worship here in the WoW universe) Tyranthraxus, so the fact that you have finally learnt how to pronounce it just in time for the final must be a good omen - hey, what made you laugh so hilariously (hope not hysterically), it's a good omen allright, but not that good?
-Sorry, couldn't help it - I just imagined the scene... "I baptize thee Tyranthraxus - in the name of Chris and Harry, amen" [rolling around on the floor rocking helplessly/shellshockedly/hysterically/whateverly with laughter]
-*SNAP OUT OF IT!*
[Quickly and surreptitiously casting the spell named - you guessed it - "*SNAP OUT OF IT!*"]
-We need your brain (or whatever is left of it, anyway) in top gear for this battle - our opponents are good indeed, but not invincible! Listen here, while you were developing your own secret weapon against them, I have given some thoughts as to how we could beat them - what do you think about this plan... (whisper, whisper)
-Hmm, sounds good, yes, but what if they counter with this instead of that - but if we modify the plan like this instead? (more whispers)
[About 42 more back-and-forth-tossed ideas later]
-OK that's about it then! Let's go out there and smash them into the ground - onwards to victory, Tyralodaurus Rex!

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

PLAYER 4 - Valerien

=20

Contact Valerien at sweetdigs@starpower.net

Off to WOW Game Status Page.