"Aye its always nice when an enemy alerts you to there location, hehe" Garesh points over to the where he saw the explosion, "Over there did you all see that? We better hurry before I have to charge some of these wannabes double."
Garesh starts limping towards the direction of the explosion, leading the way for the rest with his crossbow in hand.
Hands still behind his head, lost in utter thought, still about Zhao's social demise, he see's Garesh dart off in his limping sprint. His brain registers what he has said, noticing the fireworks exploding that he had pointed out, and he takes off in a delayed reaction after him. "Blast it! I hope no one gets hurt!"
He opens up in a full sprint to get to the commotion quickly, making sure to help keep anyone fleeing calm, guiding them away, and keeping his eyes pierced for any problems or unwanted guests.
Zhao moves rapidly, unsheating his sword while running towards the noise.
"It's them! They're attacking! Save the people, I'll hold them off!"
Zhao moves rapidly, unsheating his sword while running towards the noise.
"We could just wait here and attack while they are looting the wagon."
Alfonso notices he is alone.
Sigh.
"Heroes."
Alfonso begins to double move towards the wagon.
As Garesh gets closer to the screams, he'll start to sneak up on them. When the drow gets close enough he looks to the sky for a answer or guidence of what he's looking at.
With a wave of his hand Alfonso calls forth from the deepest pit of the Abyss.........an armchair and a matching end table.
He seats himself comfortably on the blood-warm leather. He places his feet on the ottoman and takes a small volume from the endtable. Les Fleurs du mal by Charles Baudelaire if you look.
Some selections that seem apt for this moment.
Sous une lumière blafarde
Court, danse et se tord sans raison
La Vie, impudente et crarde.
Aussi, sitôt qu'à l'horizon
La nuit voluptueuse monte,
Apaisant tout, même la faim,
Effaçant tout, même la honte,
Le Poëte se dit: "Enfin!
Mon esprit, comme me vertèbres,
Invoque ardemment le repos;
Le coeur plein de songes funèbres,
Je vais me coucher sur le dos
Et me rouler dans vos rideaux,
O rafraîchissantes ténèbres!"
<
In all its raucous impudence
Life writhes, cavorts in pallid light,
With little cause or consequence;
And when, with darkling skies, the night
Casts over all its sensuous balm,
Quells hunger's pangs and, in like wise,
Quells shame beneath its pall of calm,
"Aha, at last!" the Poet sighs.
"My mind, my bones, yearn, clamoring
For sweet repose unburdening.
Heart full of dire, funeral thought,
I will lie out; your folds will cling
About me: veils of shadow wrought,
O darkness, cool and comforting!"
Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme, et volupté.
Des meubles luisantes,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre:
Les plus rare fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
A l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
—Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D'hyacinthe et d'or;
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme, et volupté.
Imagine, ma petite,
Dear sister mine, how sweet
Were we to go and take our pleasure
Leisurely, you and I—
To lie, to love, to die
Off in that land made to your measure!
A land whose suns' moist rays,
Through the skies' misty haze,
Hold quite the same dark charms for me
As do your scheming eyes
When they, in their like wise,
Shine through your tears, perfidiously.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
Treasure galore—ornate,
Time-glossed—would decorate
Our chamber, where the rarest blooms
Would blend their lavish scent,
Heady and opulent,
With wisps of amber-like perfumes;
Where all the Orient's
Splendid, rich ornaments—
Deep mirrors, ceilings fine—would each,
In confidential tone,
Speak to the soul alone
In its own sweet and secret speech.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
See how the ships, asleep—
They who would ply the deep!—
Line the canals: to satisfy
Your merest whim they come
From far-flung heathendom
And skim the seven seas. —On high,
The sunset's rays enfold
In hyacinth and gold,
Field and canal; and, with the night,
As shadows gently fall,
Behold! Life sleeps, and all
Lies bathed in warmth and evening light.
There all is order, naught amiss:
Comfort and beauty, calm and bliss.
And my current favorite
La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brondé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;
C'est l'Ennui!—l'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
—Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!
[bigger]To the Reader
Folly, depravity, greed, mortal sin
Invade our souls and rack our flesh; we feed
Our gentle guilt, gracious regrets, that breed
Like vermin glutting on foul beggars' skin.
Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, faint.
We take a handsome price for our confession,
Happy once more to wallow in transgression,
Thinking vile tears will cleanse us of all taint.
On evil's cushion poised, His Majesty,
Satan Thrice-Great, lulls our charmed soul, until
He turns to vapor what was once our will:
Rich ore, transmuted by his alchemy.
He holds the strings that move us, limb by limb!
We yield, enthralled, to things repugnant, base;
Each day, towards Hell, with slow, unhurried pace,
We sink, uncowed, through shadows, stinking, grim.
Like some lewd rake with his old worn-out whore,
Nibbling her suffering teats, we seize our sly
delight, that, like an orange—withered, dry—
We squeeze and press for juice that is no more.
Our brains teem with a race of Fiends, who frolic
thick as a million gut-worms; with each breath,
Our lungs drink deep, suck down a stream of Death—
Dim-lit—to low-moaned whimpers melancholic.
If poison, fire, blade, rape do not succeed
In sewing on that dull embroidery
Of our pathetic lives their artistry,
It's that our soul, alas, shrinks from the deed.
And yet, among the beasts and creatures all—
Panther, snake, scorpion, jackal, ape, hound, hawk—
Monsters that crawl, and shriek, and grunt, and squawk,
In our vice-filled menagerie's caterwaul,
One worse is there, fit to heap scorn upon—
More ugly, rank! Though noiseless, calm and still,
yet would he turn the earth to scraps and swill,
swallow it whole in one great, gaping yawn:
Ennui! That monster frail!—With eye wherein
A chance tear gleams, he dreams of gibbets, while
Smoking his hookah, with a dainty smile. . .
—You know him, reader,—hypocrite,—my twin!
Any sign of our well remembered Mathpro. Sigh I see him on the boards but perhaps we have failed to amuse and enlighten...
Alfonso waves a hand and a second armchair, rust red to his own deep violet, shudders into being. A small table stands beside it.
Alfonso Turns to Garesh. "Please have a seat my good man. Might I offer you some Absinth?" Alfonso asks holding out a small glass of the dark green liquor.
"Our erstwhile leader posted in his other games yesterday. I fear this does not bode well for our expedition. Still I am content to wait for a time."
Alfonso sips from his own glass of the green fairy.
Garesh sits down with Alfonso and grabs a glass of the green liqour, then takes a sip. "My good elf you mean since I am not human." Garesh ends his correction with a chuckle.
"As long as we show were still here and roleplay we will be back, I was in one of Mathpro games before these two and this happened a little bit. What drove him to end it was no one was responding except for me and one other person. So we need to wait and the creator will direct us on where these goblins are."
As Garesh embraces the alcohol he looks to Alfonso, "I would say were bad luck in games ,but our average schmoes are still kicking."
With that Garesh lays back in his chair and enjoys the fireworks while trying to ignore the screams of victims he cannot find.
Alfonso consults a pocket watch he draws from his waistcoat.
"Hmmm, No posts by mathpro since monday the 12th. I fear this game too shall fade into the darkness that consumed the fair bottle."
Alfonso takes a thin cigar from a silver box on the table, lights it. And sings back into the bepths of the chair with a sigh.