July 3rd, 2010 by Walrus
The dark waters glistened beneath the 747 as it almost lazily glided over them.
“This flight will be your connection to the cruise ship” the captains voice came over the intercom. I recalled the captain as someone rather short, kind of young, blonde and female. She had come out to introduce herself us, the passengers, before we took off. “As there is no way to land on the ship, passengers will have to jump and be picked up from the water by rescue vessels waiting upon our destination.
Yeah, that is one crazy thing about this airline. You can’t land at the destination, so you’ll have to jump into the sea and be picked up from it instead. This time of the year it is only a few degrees warm too…
“Remember to check your pockets for small things and place those within your luggage, so that they don’t get washed away in the water. In general, keep items upon your person to a minimum” continued the captain’s voice over the intercom. Looking at my travel companions, it seemed that they were all okay with this arrangement. Muttering under my breath, I started to empty my pockets onto the seat. Looking out over the airplane, it was clear to see how we flew along streets covered deep in water. The captain’s voice came once again over the intercom, something about fueling up as the plane pulled onto the yard of a gasoline station.
Later, over the dark and inhospitable looking sea, I was looking out from the observation “room” and pondered the idiocy of this endeavour . Then something happened and we came to a standstill. Going in, I could see people readying themselves for jumping off. Muttering, I took a nap in my chair.
Once awake again, I went to the observation room, which was now a loading pier with a wooden roof. All in all, it was a corner of a house. The dark waters had been replaced by more shallow, icy blue liquid. Measuring only a couple of meters in depth, you could see debris and rotting logs towards the depth. Some of my fellow passengers were swimming in it, jumping off the pier and diving into the cold, cold water. A guy, a friend of mine called Albert, was pulling himself up from the water and seemed to be enjoying himself. Fifty or so meters from the pier, the land rose up from the water and trees covered the small rise. It was impossible to see what was on the other side of it, but lining the top were centaurs.
I awake from my reverie and ventured out to the pier, only to find people engaged in battle with the centaurs. Deep water caused them trouble and people like Albert would swim around them, delivering kicks and punches that drove them back. “Doing a good job of keeping them at bay?” “Yeah, it’s going okay” he replied and dove in again.
Yet later, once someone had gotten the side door open so that we could actually walk on dry land again, two centaurs came over to me and Albert. They sat down sideways and had put on clothes and pulled a large sheet over the horse part of their body. Altogether it was obvious that they thought they looked like humans, but the effect was quite the opposite.
“See hu-man? We a-re nor-mal hu-mans to-o?” called out the one on the left, waving its hands at us in a fashion designed to be non-threatening but came off more as retarded. “Ye-s, we hu-mans lik-e to be nor-mal” stated the other one. “Fuck off morons” came Albert’s retort and threw something after them. Their comic gait, trying to run in what was basically an over-sized tent, did not lessen the blood curdling sound of their starved howls as they fled up the rise.
A female passenger went to pick up a puppy or kitten, cooing softly under her voice as she approached the centaur holding the flea-bag. “She’s lost” was Albert’s instructions to a couple of people getting ready to rush in and save her. “Chose to believe in their glamour, she’s already dead” he continued and kicked an approaching centaur in the head.
Even yet later. The centaurs were preparing for a massive assault off the rise. Their numbers had increased steadily and their strength had returned by dining on flesh once again. I stood by the door, surveying the carnage to come. As the centaurs started blow in their battle-trumpets, I raised my hands over my head, muttering a lengthy curse and unleashed lightning, heavenly fires and general exploding doom upon the bastards. Their numbers wavered, but held as they charged into the deep water, where Albert and the others were already waiting.
In the end, no centaur dined on our flesh.
May 29th, 2010 by Walrus
And here are those promised updates. More to come.
The King’s Dock Times 4
The King’s Dock Times 5
And the Pafasi Inquirer 3
Roflcopters!
May 27th, 2010 by Walrus
Blah blah blah and then news happened! (More later!)
May 3rd, 2010 by Walrus
Three updates: Times, Inquirer and Mail get their second installments. Click below for hilarity.
The Pafasi Inquirer
The Ulaini Mail From Home
The King’s Dock Times
April 28th, 2010 by Walrus
Tales - Part Five
“Friends! Friends! Come over here and sit with an old man for a while! Guess who has another tale of splendor to share with you? That’s right! None other than your favourite bard and teller magnificent stories; master Orator Tu’an Surlín! Thank you, thank you, no need to applaud! Everyone seated? Let me begin then…
This great city is home to some truly magnificent sights. Think you have seen every single one of them? Let us count friend! First we begin our mental journey here in dear old Gatebridge. There is of course the Grand Gate, which every single one of you has already seen several times, why, some of you surely pass underneath it daily! Mark yourself down one point friends and let us continue. How many of you have been to Rooster’s? Ah, some, good. Now that fine establishment is famous for being none other than the favourite hangout of the legendary Fury. Aha, yes. “Those guys” indeed. Even though they are outlawed by Council decree since quite long ago, the show up every now and then. And when they do, guess where they like to stay? That’s right my friend, Rooster’s! So head down to Stonecutter Street Ten in southern Gatebridge and be prepared to meet dear ol’ Rooster. And remember that it is impolite to stare, yet worse to scream and run away. Now Rooster is not a human. Heavens, no one knows “what” he is. Tall, muscular with long hair and strong features, he has tusks extending several inches out of his jaw. His haunched gait and big feet are only a result of living in a building built for humans, not his kind. And what exactly is his kind? He tells me it is borok’koi. What that is, I must admit, I don’t know. Once, yours truly inquired about this from a dzappa outrider. He looked at me blankly, muttered something incomprehensible and rode out of our fair city as fast as he could. Eh, could happen to anyone. But onwards…
Have you seen Telpei Tower at the very end of Carter Alley? It stands there by the Old City Wall. Rumors say it is haunted, but one thing is certain. At then storeys tall, it is visible from afar. Now, walk in your mind with me to Redbottle, our dear northern neighbourhood. There’s Seele’s Brewery, the very place that gave Redbottle its name centuries ago. See, they brew the famous Cattle Ale, Dull Pale Lager and Redwater Stout, all which came - and still do - in these amber red bottles. They became so famous that the whole neighbourhood was renamed after the colour of the bottles! Legendary refreshment indeed!
But Redbottle is not only known for its fine drinks, oh no. Did you know that the legendary Corner House, at Corner Street Fourteen, across from Turncog House, is in this neighbourhood? Ah, your bemused faces strike a dagger into my poor heart. Surely you know of the 412 IC revolt that placed our beloved Council into their position of extra-ordinary power? No? Ah, truly a pity. So let me enlighten you on the matter. In 412 IC, after many years of unrest, the Viceroy van Nakir was overthrown in a bloody revolt that started at that very place! It still stands, 638 Free Years later and is still run by the very descendants of the A’laur family that ran it on that blessed day! However, since it is a rather posh inn and fine eatery, you should probably save up for a bit before going there. And reserve in advance! It is very popular. Across the street, by the way, stands Turncog House, where the Imperial Engineers’ Association are holed up. These fine people oversee many important things in the city, things that we hardly notice in our daily life, but would they disappear, we would notice immediately that they are gone!
How many of you are familiar with the Burrows? Ah, quite a few, good. How many of you have been into the Den? Not that many? Why not! It’s a fine place to get into some real trouble, real fast! Ha ha, let me explain. Now, you see, the Den is a honeycomb of alleys and small side-streets at the very heart of the Burrows. It is about five by five blocks in size and full of wonders and terrors for the common man. And remember, if you need the Watch, you won’t find them there. But what you will find is Polly’s, a cozy little in squeezed in there. It is run by a nice mature woman named the same. Most call her “the Grey” as well. Some say that Polly the Grey is a dragon, or a demon, or a warlock - how silly, the female title is witch - or something much worse and sinister; like a direct descendant of the van Nakir bloodline, ha ha! This place is favoured by some rather shady characters, so beware if you dare venture there! Not that far away, you’ll find the House of Song, a local bard college. It has nurtured and taught several famous bards of our dear city, including yours truly. Some of us have gotten to entertain wealthy nobles or even the Council. Not me of course, I am forever blessed to be a man of the people. And on that note, this man grows thirsty. Let us have a drink and continue another time! There’s still much to be told!”
- Tu’an Surlín at the Gallow’s Head Inn, talking about sightseeing
And on another note, that was my 100th entry into this blog.
April 8th, 2010 by Walrus
Last night’s dream.
Where were you when the war started? Many would ask each other that and many would retell in detail what they had been doing just prior to the sounds of gunfire and heavy artillery raining down upon our homes. Where had I been? I can’t honestly say that I remember. Doesn’t really matter either way - if you remember - or if you don’t. There was only one thing certain. Things had gone insane, skipping bad and worse and all other steps in between, in one hazy warm summer morning. It had started somewhere at the beach. Or maybe up in the hills, where the jungle met the pueblos and shanty towns of my home. Some say that big black ships sailed out from the sunrise and swarmed the beach en masse, covering its length in their metal bodies. Out from the ships swarmed men, jeeps pulling artillery and from the biggest ones; artillery and tanks. Big black monstrosities that tore up the white and yellow sans beneath their wheels and threads and lumbered into the coastal communities, spewing black smog into the air and bringing terror wherever they went. And from the jungles came rushing men wearing camouflage, with rifles and RPGs, wielding machetes and long knives and bringing death to the poorest and most downtrodden in our society. People I met, those that were not babbling incoherently or sobbing uncontrollably, tell me that even in the great city those men strode forth from buildings and warehouses and spread chaos and death in our midst. The whole thing was over by the end of the day. As night fell, these demons from the sun had seized control of all the strategic positions; the harbour, parliament, presidential palace, TV and radio stations, subways, trains… the list went on and on. During the night people tried to flee or hide. I don’t know what happened to them. Some say that they were shot on sight or collected into large black trucks and taken away. Someone even claimed that the Grand Stadium had become an holding camp, with tens or hundreds of thousands of people forced inside and shot or herded into pens like cattle. What does it all matter now, how they passed from this world to the next? The Grand Stadium is but a hollowed shell now, its once grey walls of concrete shattered blocks and rubble strewn around, like by the giant hand of an angry god. Signs and tears in the structure would indicate that this did not happen immediately afterwards, but a few days later, once the place had been filled to the brim with people. Judging from the looks of it, the demon-men detonated a large bomb or several lesser ones that decimated that once proud symbol of national unity and good natured competition. There were corpses everywhere. Trampled to death, burned to death, crushed… shot… the list goes on. I could only spare a moment to look at it all before I had to hurry on. Where had I been during all this? I can’t say I remember, my memory is a blur. Maybe I hid? Maybe I was out of town? Does not matter, for I am still alive. There are some others with me. We are all armed. How did we get these weapons? I don’t know. Does it matter?
It is a few days, or maybe a week who knows, time is blurred, after those events. Our little band of armed men and women roam around the city, looking for things to eat, for more arms, for anything which could tell us why this happened. Or maybe even what happened. A clear picture would be a … terrible thing to possess, yet I yearn to hold it all together in my mind like a gigantic puzzle. Maybe it would tell me everything I need to know, but I doubt it.
Our mission, well, there isn’t one. We try to attempt capture. The demon-men are still roaming around the city, looting and looking for people. The majority seem to have left. There are other cities out there, not even that far away. In lands, along the coast. Are they spreading out? What were the names of those places? My memories are all a blur. They say the demon-men speak a tongue like ours, some even have a name or a nationality for them. I hear the names and words spoken, but they have ceased to mean anything to me.
We were somewhere in a richer suburb, where the gigantic palm trees were trimmed and shaped, not just left to grow as they damn well pleased, looting a house when we came into contact with them. The enemy, the demon-men. Someone shouted something from the door and I could hear the sound of a big vehicle tear down the road and halt close by. From the window I caught a glimpse of black and dark camouflage and heard them open fire at whoever screamed out. They swarmed towards the house and attempted to surrender it. Me and someone else dashed out through a backdoor. Several others had thought of that, and we were soon running down a back alley with high plank walls on both sides. The palm trees on both sides and the blue hazy hills in the distance framed a world of screaming and brutal pain as our pursuers opened fire. Someone returned fire. A women pushed backwards, screaming in rage and mindless sorrow and fired salvo after salvo at them. I caught a glimpse over my shoulder as I jumped a wall. They had shot her, she was on her knees, a man was standing over her grinning with the muzzle of a rifle to her chest. Behind him stood other men, grinning and looking more like clothed beasts than anything remotely humane. A short sound tore through the air and there was a mercifully short scream. Me and someone else, or two people, ran as fast as we could.
Sometime later, somewhere else, maybe in a burnt out school. Burnt out for sure, could have been … I don’t know. Must have been a school. Those. Charred. Yes. A school. Now it was me and two others. They formulated a plan. To get out. To escape. To be free? No, surely that was not even possible any longer. What is freedom? How can something as absurd as that still exist out there for us. For any of us. It does not matter. There is a gas station with a market not that far away. We are going to loot it for supplies and hopefully more ammo.
The parking lot was a sad sight. Then again, everything was, so I hardly noticed anymore. The palm trees rustled in the soft, warm breeze and the shadows were lengthening rapidly. We snuck inside. In the warehouse nestled between the market and the station we found shelves full of rifles, pistols, other things. But no ammo. Someone had already taken that, breaking the heavy steel doors and lock that held what we sought. Heavy bars covered the shelves, so we ignored them and started looking for food inside the market, anything that would not have spoiled in the heat. One of us was in the market, another one was out in the parking loot looking for any car that could be used to take us away from there. I was trying to get a generator online so that the damn gas pumps could be operated again. Running feet broke my reverie, in which the generator stubbornly refused to come alive, and our lookout dashed into the station, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in under the counter. “Soldiers” was all I caught. The ear-drum splitting noise that followed forced me to look up and gaze over the counter. A massive metal beast rolled in front of the station. It had four wheels, tall as a man, on both sides and was covered in sickly green and brown paint. On top of it was a massive cannon. Men jumped down from it and started to work the pumps. My companions tore me away and we crawled into the warehouse before the men go inside the station. “Get it online” muttered my companion, translating the words of the men as we lay hidden under a heavy cloth covering some boxes. “Seems to be bust” he continued. “Shit, get it into the hall then!” he muttered and started to pull me away again. We slowly crawled over to a backdoor and pumped into the woman who had been looking for food supplies. Peering out from the door we saw a service hall not far across the back yard. The metal monster was already leisurely rolling into it. Judging from a closer look, it had been hit by heavy fire; rpg or artillery. My heart jumped in my chest. “Can we, somehow?” I mumbled. My first companion, a man, shot me a glance and then exchanged looks with the woman, who was clenching her rifle to her chest where she was crouching by the door. “I could, if anyone can get me inside” he whispered. The woman nodded, the cooked her head and raised her a finger to her mouth. We flattened ourselves against the wall by the wall and waited. Suddenly the lights inside the warehouse came on, blinding us and causing us to almost bolt. “Check this place” the man translated the voice from further away. We shot each other a glance and then scuttled out of the door, across the yard in a low run and into the shadows of the hall. It was dead silent inside, from the warehouse came loud voices and laughter. “Beer” translated the man. “They’ve found beer, we got a moment”. He crawled inside the hall through a low window and we waited for a moment, peering into the darkness inside, our hearts beating like drums. “I can’t seem to get inside” his voice suddenly came from inside. “The hatch is locked.” His hand extended from the window and we could see him in the gloom. “Get inside, there is a place we can crawl inside under the carriage, got to leave our weapons though.” We got inside and dropped our rifles into the oil ditch beneath the monster. Heaving and sweating, we managed to force ourselves into the hollow underneath. Then we waited for what seemed like forever. Finally the beast, which the man called “heavy mobile artillery”, roared into life and we had to hang on with all we could as it tore down the street. Stones and dirt flew up and pelted us for miles and miles as it carried us in its belly into the darkness of the night. It made a pit stop by the road in the jungle. As the soldiers took a piss on the roadside we waited. I had almost squeezed off right there and then, but he held me back and whispered to wait. As they climbed back on board and the engine started again he pushed me forward and we dropped off, him last. It was his luck that the road was soggy with mud, for by the time he managed to drop free, the monster was already moving at considerable speed. Waiting in the darkness for it to have disappeared fully into the night seemed to last a lifetime. Finally we crawled over to him and found him to be alive, but most likely with a broken arm, possibly a leg as well. Me and the woman helped him off the road and we disappeared into the night of the jungle.
It was a small step, but at least we were out of the city. Maybe one day, we would know this thing called ‘freedom’ again.
March 30th, 2010 by Walrus
“Friends! Friends! Halt your stride and let me speak with you briefly. I see that you are all wearing your best and seem to be in a chipper mood this fine evening. Might one gather from all this that you are perhaps on your way to the big dance at Baglak Square? Ah, indeed it would seem that way, seeing how your chests are held forth with pride and how your walk seems to have gathered a certain swagger to it. Just a quick question, are any of you familiar with the dances of this season? No? Let me give you a quick run through.
See the different people in our fine city like, well almost all, to dance. And each group has at the very least one specific dance that is traditionally considered theirs. The pafasi dance something called the pafassos waltz, a slow and rhythmic dance with a lot of holding your partner close and gazing in her eyes, or as the case might be, aptly displayed beauty. There are several versions of the common waltz, but most are danced close and with not that much skill involved. On the other hand, the kaudosi have something fiendishly complicated called the tango, which they like to dance at all occasions. Variations exist, some better, some worse on the knees. Their culture has also brought with it the samba, a fast paced and exciting dance that you should not wear overly much clothes for as you can get terribly warm. Some of you might have the chance to watch or partake in the ju’koshi spiral dance or their famous fire dance. They use real fire in the latter one, watch yourselves! Those beu’koshi have some dances that are very like the launadosi circle dance or the bridge or parading gate dance. If you really like to dance just to get to hold a beautiful lady close, avoid those as they have minimal touching. Havai dancing is a mess, they go all over the place, with a lot of chanting, drums, shouting, clapping of hands and stomping of feet. They sure are energetic, but a bit too foreign for the most of us. And whatever you do, do not partake in the ulaini jen’ca. One is a simple kick, stomp, kick, stomp dance, but the more deadly ones involve going in a circle with your hands on the next persons neck or waste, stopping every few feet to take a drink from a clay jug of strong ulaini beer. Sounds fun at first, yes, I know. But the dance is planned so that it only ends in two ways. Either the dancers all fall over from too much drink or then the circle grows so small that is only two people left in it. Never seen that happen, but they say it means something unrepeatable in polite company. If you have the chance, do go see their Bear Dance at least once, it is quite a spectacle. They dress in heavy furs and go around the square, dancing like beasts of the wild. However, that one can get dangerous if you have berserkers involved, so as an afterthought, stay away from that too. Anyhow, enough of my babbling, enjoy your evening lads!”
- Tu’an Surlín, talking to some newcomers in Baker Street
March 26th, 2010 by Walrus
And now for the Ulaini Mail From Home, a paper that writes about things that happen in the homelands of the ulaini. They also make up the only people who bother to read it, since most people don’t know about any of the issues it deals with.
March 26th, 2010 by Walrus
Now in turn is the Nak’dai Council’s official newspaper, although they call it a newsletter. It tends to be only one page, available for quite cheap in many different places of the city. The paper was established in order to give the common folk of the city an insight into matters that the Council felt that they should know. Most of the things written in it are either informative or propaganda, or if you are lucky, both. Take a look.
March 25th, 2010 by Walrus
Today in turn is The King’s Dock Times. This newspaper keeps facing constant criticism by the Watch, nobility and wealthy merchants. They claim that the Times is on the side of the Royalists, a faction aiming to reinstall an heir of the old royal line of Nak’dai. The Times refuses such claims and then writes lenghty news articles about it being under siege from narrow-minded factions in the city that do not endorse the free press. This tends to cause the Council to occasionally send a representative to shut both sides up for a bit, in order to avoid possible unrest.
