Mirrizin

(Gwai showed this to me, and I got a momentary inspiration from memory. Hope I'm not diverging too far from the theme) Groggy, I lie on the cold ground in a plastic sack surrounded by a loose-fitting waterproof cocoon. I hear some conversation and strange sounds. Curiosity slowly drags me across the gravel path between rest and wakefulness, until I caterpillar-worm my way out of the sack and unzip the flap of my civilized cave. Some leaders are standing around, chuckling and looking into the distant trees, from which our supplies are supposed to be suspended in bags, a practice called "bear bagging." Note it is not called "raccoon bagging." The wily not-rodents have developed a plan, I am told. They can't jump to the height of our food, so instead they climb the branch above, launch themselves into the airy void, and grab onto the "bear bags" with both paws. The lucky ones hang on. The really lucky ones fall off, taking shreds of bag with them, then they climb the tree and do the whole ride again, not unlike certain roller coaster enthusiasts. Annoyed, but entertained, we keep a safe distance as the beasties enjoy their party, at our expense. I can almost hear them laughing as fatigue settles in and I crawl back into my plastic cocoon.

seeking baloney one opens the door, finds what? freakin elephant

If I may say so, establishing the setting as a "face to face" fight is putting the ninja at a distinct disadvantage...

The dragonfly watched with envy matching its multifaceted eyes as the flower sprite hugged her teddybear. freight train pixie cotton gnarled

Imar suddenly slips into a vacant trance, his eyes glazing momentarily, just as he was going to say something else to Dennis. There was a momentary buzzing in his ears that foretold an incoming message from one of his compatriots back home. A businessman with a small network of contacts, Imar had found use for a mystic who, for some fee, trained him and most of his higher-level lieutenants in a limited form of telepathy useful for long distance communication. It proved occasionally essential to his business, but mostly led to extraneous, unnecessary, or redundant conversations, such as this one. The conversation went something like this: “Hey boss, we’ve got some big news for ya!” Really? “Yeah, this guy, he says that there’s a huge shipment of silk coming in from someplace called Phantasia, methinks we might be able to hijack it!” You don’t say. Do you have the capacity to handle this job? “Sure, boss, just waiting for your command.” Go for it. “Um, great. When will you be here?” I’m preoccupied. I think you can handle this yourself. “But boss…” You heard me. Imar then closed his mind, the equivalent to hanging up on some pesky telemarketer. It wasn’t hard, telepathy was only possible between two willing participants, and as soon as one participant chose, a conversation could be ended instantaneously…very convenient when dealing with insecure, if not outright inept, subordinates. He was sure his lieutenant could handle this one. Besides, he now had bigger, more interesting fish to fry. Speaking of which, where was he…

Imar continues wandering around the room, mutting things about "trunks" and "tusks", before settling alongside Dennis, who, like most of the other "players" as Imar had come to think of them, seemed content to sit back and watch the curious play wafting around them. "I couldn't help but notice," he said loudly enough to be overheard but softly enough to create the illusion of privacy, "that you also were given one of these." He held up his rubix cube box, now resealed. I was wondering if perhaps we could agree to some sort of pooling of resources, in the interest of hastening the rescue of our dear departed princess.

How does one properly wash a silken floor? Do they replace this frippery every time a crowd steps into the room, or do they just send it to the cleaners? Or do the servants... Shaking his head in puzzlement, Imar steps softly into the chamber, taking in his surroundings, picking up bits and strands of "idle" gossip as they waft about the room like incense laced with too much honey and a touch of vinegar. He stood slightly apart from the encircled social, but not quite out of earshot. Just as he started to question the sanity of that dwarf he'd consulted in the marketplace (and by extension, his own), a hush fell on the court and the kind and queen emerged from a silk curtain. They spoke for a while…princess was missing, reward for whosoever manages to “rescue” her, yatta-yatta we’re so important, etc. Imar yawned, with great subtlety, and waited for something relevant to be said. Then the dwarf showed up. Eyebrows shifted up and down, more talking…yeah, she’s still missing, police aren’t reliable to it’s up to you guys to find her, and we have no evidence… Just then, Imar noticed a small box that had somehow found its way into a pouch dangling from his belt. Glancing down, he picked it up, fiddled with the Rubix Cube-like panels on it, and discovered a little fortune-cookie like slip of paper inside. As he held it up to his face, anyone who bothered to look would notice his bristly eyebrows rise slightly, furrow momentarily in concentration, and stay that way before he carefully folded the slip of paper in half and stuff it in his pouch. And with that moment, the dwarf disappeared off the stage and the schmoozing returned to its previous dull roar. Imar shrugged and turned to the nearest circular clique with the nonchalance of a large toothsome predator with just a little space left to fill in his cavernous belly.

Sounds familiar, kind of what I've been through off and on a bit lately, with some variations. Thanks:)

Imar Say'ina is an explorer, vagabond, and sometimes-diplomat who had the (mis)fortune to be in this particular part of the world at the time of the princess's disappearance. He is dark-skinned with black hair he usually keeps in a ponytail. His conversation tends towards the laconic, but is always interesting.

Count me in.

You know, it's unfair that that accidentally eating a jackal makes you not vegan!!! -Gwai, talking about NetHack.

BTW, Tharias has recently undergone a name change. He's now known as K'tarnan. Sorry if this creates any confusion

OK, not exactly, but it was pretty close to what I was thinking...

OOC: Here, fresh from the black void of my consciousness, comes the beginnings of what could be a fun little story. The main character, and the story, come of a world that started as a ADnD world created by some friends and me, and has since taken on a life of its own. It also parodies certain aspects of my current life that shall remain nameless for reasons of self protection. It's really rough (and that's putting it nicely), but I hope it's enjoyable. Commentary appreciated. IC: “Tarn!” called a disturbing chipper elven woman wearing a similar cloak, her smile a little too bright for sincerity; “I’ve got a job for you!” K’Tarnan responded with a slightly raised eyebrow. “OK. What, where, and with whom?” A few months ago he’d given up on why and how. “There’s this lady, she lives in Arlistan Heights, and she’s contacted us about a problem. Wants us to exterminate some rats.” Something in the way she said the word “rats” made it sound like the most exciting thing in the world. Knowing her as he did, K’Tarnan often wondered how in the name of any deity she kept it up. Must be something she drank… “OK. I take it I’m going now?” He yawned. “Yep, and you’re bringing Eras with you.” She grinned. “Oh, and the boss said you should use these,” as she handed him a pair of unusually ornate daggers. The blades were an odd, dull shade of black. K’Tarnan couldn’t quite recognize the metal. Still, he’d learned after a while not to question his superiors, at least openly. He took the daggers, felt the grip, the balance of the blades, and sheathed them. “Where’s Eras?” he asked. “He’s right here,” she replied. Eras walked up, a somewhat shy, vaguely disgruntled half elf who’d traveled from faraway Visco. He carried a shortsword and wore a suit of leather armor, somewhat in need of patching. “How’s it going?” he asked, with an uncertainty that characterized most people’s attempts at conversation with Tarn. “Typical,” was Tarn’s response. While he understood that most people found his somewhat monastic approach to conversation unnerving, he didn’t feel obligated to change it. He rather liked being a creature of few words. It made people easier to get along with. “Ready to go?” asked Eras. “As always,” said K’Tarnan, “oh, and Shari said we should use these.” He handed Eras one of the daggers. “Silver, how strange,” said Eras, “what would they want us to use silver daggers for…” “Rats, apparently,” said K’Tarnan. “We should probably get going.” “Right,” said Eras. “Good luck!” shouted Shari, with characteristic enthusiasm. They slung on their huge dull-red cloaks and strode out the door with a bizarre confidence bred by months of perpetual uncertainty. OOC: Oh yeah. Guess I should introduce myself. My name's Tom. I live in the Cleveland area.