The Messageboard Oracle's page

32 posts. Alias of Charles Evans 25.


(alias edited)
A cold and ominous northerly wind blows through the eyrie for half a minute or so, disturbing the nests and spreading a biting chill that disturbs the occupants.
Then the warning breeze slowly dies away.

A shade walks at noon, when the shadows are at their least. He casts phantom shards of ivory across the altar and studies the result. He 'hmms', then sighs.

Fire and lightning, born of night, reaper of the stars. Northern wind, freezing cold... does she have a sibling?

Then noon is past, the phantom and his sticks fade away, and the shadows begin to lengthen...

The shade of the Messageboard Oracle smiles, and departs.

If I could help or comfort, I would; but I can offer no more reassurance than that even swords can be beaten into ploughshares, if it is the nature of a sword which frightens you.

Or to be afraid that taking up a sword used by a tyrant might make one tyrannical.

It is not entirely unreasonable for a sudden broadening of perspective to be something which one tries to deny and hide from.

She starts to see things now, which are glimpsed at times by all like her.

Truth. She must choose to face truth or to put a lie on her face.
The silvery shade of the Messageboard Oracle appears to Alaina and Lynora.

Warn them of the....

He manages to croak one last partial sentence to the Acme. Then the old man's eyes glaze over, and he lies silent on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Coffee from the fallen cup begins to drip down onto the floor.

You know seeing love birds around such as some of those young things who've gone off to fight makes me quite misty-eyed. I do hope that they come back intact.
A while ago I took care of the only man whom a fortune teller told me that I ever needed to be wary of, although I don't know what all the fuss was about. A cruel sorcerer-king of a mountain realm, but...

At this point, the Oracle is interrupted as the doors fly open. He drops his cup, his face going pale.


No thank you. I like it black. That puts me in mind of a rather risque incident, but I don't suppose you want to hear about that, do you?
You're a good fellow, staying behind like this, to look after an old duffer like me, when I would have thought anyone in armour like you would rather be off fighting, hmm?

Oh yes please. Two spoons.

The old man looks around in bewilderment.
Well the glowing fellow over there might be a bit intrusive to the eyes of anyone with a hangover from last night I dare say.
Other than him there seems to be just us around.
It's not mice after your coffee bean stores is it, heh?
Alas, the oracle who can see all ends approaching except for his own....

The old man orders a mug of coffee.

Thank you, my good fellow. Freshly baked. Mmm.
Fumbles with coin pouch and dumps a handful of copper pieces on the bar.

Acme Robot wrote:


Ragnarok sir, Ragnarok.

Zips to get SunnyG a cold SunnyD and Vodka

Ragnarok? Ahh, that's funny, but in my youth I once knew a girl named Ragnarok. She had the prettiest red hair, and spectacles, if you can believe that.

I thank you kind sir.
Peers at Acme short-sightedly.
You seem to be wearing rather a lot of armour? That's sensible in such troubled times as these.
So what exactly is going on at the moment?

Apparently oblivious to the arming, the old man has been dozing up until this point. Now he wakes, looks around at all the fuss, frowns, and goes looking for the biscuit barrel.
Cookies? Are there any cookies in this place?

The old man mumbles in his sleep.
The dragon falls, by the treasure it didn't know it had.... zzzz... zzz...
Then he sinks back into a deeper slumber.

Edited, wrong alias!

Nods off again, relieved and impressed...

Heathansson wrote:
Excuse me, is this Le Ho Fook's, and if so, might I a bit of beef chow mein?

Hmm, hmm, hrmm?

Wakes suddenly, and is immediately and dreadfully embarrassed.
Lord Heathansson. My gravest apologies for this diversion of your attention, but these youngsters are dreadfully overmatched in battle, if there is a Lord of the Boads who is both versed in battle and great in cunning, who might have leant aid to their cause, I thought that it might be yourself.

The old man gathers his beard back up again, into a pillow, and nods asleep in his chair. His last words are something about 'youngsters today, tearing around with so MUCH energy'....

The old man mumbles... something about a gravestone, thrush clocks, slighting the sun, and an Innesmouth keyhole. He is clearly tiring, and it's difficult to be sure where his mind is wanderng to - if he is entirely focused upon the here and now.

And yet.... Perhaps the one known as the 'werewoof' or 'Heathansson' might aid you if you could seek him out and soften him with the rigt words. I do not know if he has time for such trials as you will soon face though.

The lords of the boards are unlikely to aid you; they are caught up too much in their battles with one another, and the only one to interest himself openly in this contest, the one known as Kobold Cleaver, already sacrificed himself in your cause.
The lords of the boards are more likely to seek revenge upon you, for the death of one of their own.

A 'Bard' you say? Hmm. I don't suppose there happens to be a convenient black arrow around and a thrush to advise of a weak spot, if one of your enemies is a dragon? I have the strangest dreams sometimes, not all of them concerning this universe I fear.

The Runelords could defeat them, but the Runelords are more interested in seeing your enemies succeed I fear.
They have taken themselves into seclusion anyway, aping the Runelord of Pride, save for a few of the lesser ones.
It has been many months since the other Runelords have been seen abroad.

The Paizomatixes have been erased by now?
I must confess I thought we were before that point in the stream of events.
The old man mutters something about his alarm clock going off two months too late.

<Wakes up for a bit...>
What about simply asking the Paizomatix to assimilate them?

It is too late. You have chased them away, and stand the hollow victor of the field.

<astral projection fades>

<astrally projecting>
Remember the prophecy, Candle Lighter; if you choose to win at this time and in this place, it will turn to be your greatest undoing.

The Messageboard Oracle stirs briefly from his sleep of the ages. He rubs his eyes, yawns, and blinks.

That wasp, young lady, is all that is left of the soul of a once great messageboards hero, who fought a war he could not win against the PostMonster General and his legion of baleful polysmurfs. Having lost which war, he decided to fight one which he had a chance in, against a goddess of evil. It seemed to sort of finish in a tie, with the hero distracting the goddess, but the hero trapped with her.
But then heroes wouldn't be heroes, if there wasn't a price they occasionally had to pay.
Now leave me be. I long to sleep.

The Messageboard Oracle pulls up his long grey beard, adjusting it to use as a pillow, and slumps back into his chair. He is soon snoring again.