A NEW PLAYER'S STORY

[Spindle 651]

A New Player’s Story

Spoiler

This is where the obligatory theme goes... Right, right?

 

 

 

TL;DR  Looking for people to roleplay with + some creative writing

 

 

Firstly I must confess to my serial lurking tendencies. Seven months of on-and-off observation, lore reading, and general interest in the dingy corners of the internet later and I have bitten the bullet. Social life be damned! 

 

Honestly, from the smidgen of lore and various posts I have read the world that has been created here is bonkers. That being said, I am excited to satiate my appetite for roleplaying… The italics are not a key slip - I am fully committing to this and I hope I am conveying my excitement and dedication to the role. Think Christian Bale in American Psycho. We are talking about a frightening degree of immersion. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman Spindle, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory.

 

Usually, I would not go to such lengths as to announce something of this sort, however, as I have noticed over my short observatory tenure here I am just scraping the surface of what the Lord of the Craft can offer. I have also noticed a trend in the phenomena of the self-titled “New Player Introductory Introduction.” So what groups, cliques, gaggles, cabals, and friendly groups of anonymous friends are yet to be discovered. 

 

To add to this, and perhaps stake my claim on this subforum, I have composed a sort of early manuscript of a heavily inspired story from both aspects of LOTC, and my own interests and readings (I have left clues to who sparked this inspiration. Iykyk. [Also! Yes the brackets go deeper. My writing style is littered with allusions, schizophrenia-ridden sentences, neologisms {Invented words. Wow never thought we would get here}, and general disregard for grammar, so my apologies are stated here in advance] Also if you wish to hijack this post and drop your favourite book or author as a reply you are more than welcome). Take a glance. Have a read. You are all some form of faux editor or publishing house. 

 

Elaine

 

(Or Ela, El, Elie… Or just Spindle)

 

 

Narbith

 

Sometimes I shit myself cus I like the feeling of my pants filling up

Carti

 

 

A Castle of Peculiar Consitution

 

Narbith: A castle of peculiar constitution, cast its shadow evilly over an encasing forest teaming with all the fell things that inhabited the world. The main massing of stone, that is, the original dwelling of House Creak, jutted out like a lone candelabra, gnarled and clinging to a circumfusion of floating balusters, the stone perpetually thawing with a stalactitic quality of melting wax. Skein-like dwellings clung about this assemblage of unnatural stone like molluscs to a rock, the lacunas hollowed by the denizens of these dwellings crept fungally, up, and up, seemingly appearing of themselves, or so the Duke of Castle Narbith would Groan. 

Equally cretinous characters comprised the swarming architecture nestled snuggly at the foot of the castle, enshaded in the umbral cast of the towering stone and thick-limbed trees. Little imparting was made between the castle proper and the decrepit denizens of the encompassing village Skëorn, although it could be concluded that the sprouting of those clinging dwellings was the doing of these substraten residents.

 

 

Cast away in the infesting sprawl of the Skëorn, a forlorn hovel of no discernable feature was presided over by the occupant Spindle, a man unsightly in figure and cantankerous in spirit. One dark afternoon, whose noonday gloom would appear uncanny to those unfamiliar with the nature of Castle Narbith, the man Spindle pranced about his dilapidated abode, chattering to himself in a truculent fashion. Spindle’s words seemed to carry easily in this particular nondescript recess of the Skëorn, aided by a half-fathom of water that pooled to his boney knees, echoing his babble with a dialogic quality. “Yesh the gate! Yesh,” Spindle barked, “That vill do, yesh, yesh indeed it vill!” 

 

“But vat of the Bunyans, yesh and the Gimblehawksh, the Goblintrollsh too, and the Onion Eatersh”

 

“Do not forget the Rotary Robinsh of a Rakishh Reputation,” he replied with a cackle. 

 

“Bah! ish it imposshible? Ish it? I think not.”

 

“It ish not…”

 

“Then it vill be done. Ve jump shaid gate, then up, up, up, and up again to the very top of the cashtle, perhapsh we pay the Duke a vishit, eh? Eh!” Spindle said, his spidery arms clung about what little figure of his was left consolingly, “Are ye not up for it? Are you not? I did not take ye for a coward… But alash, what can be done, eh?” Thereupon Spindle outstretched, his form unravelling outwards like the skeletal structure of a kite bound together with patchworked rags. His two beady eyes, if you could call them that, were glazed with an ineffectual milken hue, yet the manner in which he carried himself, and the manner in which he gangled, betrayed any semblance of sightlessness. “Fine!” he barked, donning a brightly embroidered eye cover of a similar ragged patchwork, “Good heavensh, I can shee now, oh how good it ish, oh yesh!”

Having concluded his false dialogue and having solved his equally false unsight, Spindle scuttled out of the forlorn hovel of no discernable feature, moving along the well-hidden pathways of slopping earth that only a truly wretched denizen of the Skëorn would employ.

 

 

Guile

Beneath a massing of time-gnawed turrets and up through endless aged stoneworked passages and manifolds, upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor of the Castle Narbith, past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure, lived a boy named Guile. A boy of sound mind yet plain countenance. He was clad in fine raiments of sea silk, wrought from the fillaments of metre-long molluscs native to the eastern shores, and were it not for its flayed fringes and its sheer overdrapery the thing would be considered elegant. His chin was smooth, for he was not of the age to consider shaving. His eyes were shadowed by an overbearing brow. His neck mired with epidemic spots, blazened and angry.

The boy sat musingly. His legs splayed about the chill floor in a hollowed out chamber devoid of any clutter, his sole companion a solitary door of heavy wood. This particular door was left ajar whereat a cool breeze crept through, superimposing itself over the floor and adding to its bitting. A ***** rapping resounded at the door, and then another softer rap, or perhaps it was a tap, and then a third. The rapping was an odd thing, for a massing of dirty rags pitched over a spindly frame, clutered up the entirety of the doorframe in clear view of the boy, unobstructed and unneeded. 

 

“The kitchen, vhere ish it?” the figure paused, gazing about the empty room with veiled eyes clad in some colourful patchwork, “Veird place eh, empty, very empty, and cold!”

 

“I do not think so,” Guile replied awkwardly, following the figure’s odd gaze, “Follow the hall up the stairs, and then down, and down again, spin on the spot, take a right by the moon-leaking embrasure, and then a left past the cat with one eye, up another flight of stairs, and it is on your left.”

 

“Many thanksh,” the figure replied, darting out as quickly as it appeared.

 

A question rankled Guile, for the halls upon the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-second floor past the forty-second preceding archway with a moon-leaking embrasure were entirely forgotten and untreaded, hidden amongst countless identical turnoffs, alleys, and doors of the castle. An unfamiliar shuffle resounded once again outside Guile’s hitherto quiet dwelling. A lingering of padded feet and a flapping of matted fur sealed this unfamiliar gait until it came into sight of the boy. Before Guile stood a Bunyan. Darkly furred with the quality of thistle. A rictus snarl revealing wicked teeth plastered over a bestial skull of the shape of a great ape. Stout in stature and menacing four spans above the floor. 

 

 

The boy would have cowered ought it not for a familiarity with the nature of Bunyans - as all subjects of Narbith were, and a sharp transformation of mood seized him. “A creature of the forest now calls to visit. In the wake of another his stop’s explicit.”

It did not seem that such a zoic thing could usher any utterance, yet as the boy’s words left his mouth and danced upon his lips with exceedingly poetic spirit the Bunyan returned in a gnomey tone:

 

“An iamb, and hexametre too;
 Thou ought to have heard the Bunyan’s game.
Perhaps thou knows of the riddles fame?
Answer me wrong and thy flesh I’ll stew!”
 

“Four jolly men sat down to play,
and played all night till break of day.
They played for gold and not for fun,
with separate scores for every one.
 

Yet when they came to square accounts,
they all had made quite fair amounts!
Can you the paradox explain?
If no one lost, how could all gain?”

 

The riddle tumbled in his mind’s ear. Gnawing, festering for a time, repeating and bubbling into images commuting to the facilities of the mind’s eye. As Guile sat before the Bunyan in his cold recess high atop the strange gathering of stone called Narbith, a sole thought flashed in his head: The answer. “Musicians. The players were musicians,” he hummed jovially, permitting a smile to wash over his face.

 

The Manifold of Duke Creak

 

Spoiler

This may be continued :)

 

 

 

 

Edited July 6, 2022 by Spindle

[H 746]

It's actually a little wild to me that you were lurking for seven months reading the forums and taking in lore. Welcome, and I'm pretty sure you'll be the most knowledgeable new player ever. Enjoy your time here!

Oh, and nice writing.

[HurferDurfer1 2584]

welcome to the swamp

[Unwillingly 11139]

Absolutely love your writing :) 

[creamynoteblock 2424]

really cool writing

[kindEmperor 1013]

wab dah 

 

[Jentos 6839]

take a look