Griznuq Gaming

It may be just me, but I don't see it anywhere. Could you direct me at it (them)?

Thanks.

Sorry - I was looking for a new post; I didn't even think of the possibility that you had integrated the dates into the original post.

Quote from: DrayCould you give us an exact date of "I have awakened" event?

And what are the common folks general thoughts of this almighty announcement?

I think that was about a year ago now, and that's when Jarmok was born.

I just *love* playing a deity.  :D

Griffen was born in a rural community (country hobbits - much like the shire). Dad runs a weed farm, growing weed primarily for export (slightly better than trash for the community's consumption, but plenty good enough to sell to the Dwarves and Humans). He made a viable life, but Griffen (the youngest of several) wanted nothing to do with it - booaaringggg!

When Griffen became old enough to work the farm, he began to rebel (shirk his errands). He would rise early in the morning and sneak out of the house to live the free life, as he referred to it. In this endeavor, he became very adept at sneaking out in silence and hiding from dad and the brothers, who couldn't really spare a lot of time in searching for him since they had a farm to run. Griffen spent his days running from work and family and exploring the countryside, which he found was teeming with life that one might never see (brownies, gnomes, and elves and such living everywhere from forest to rolling hills...).

The first brownie he ran into was being chased by a fox; Griffen lent his throwing arm to scaring the critter off, only to find that the brownie was more playing with the animal than not. Still, the brownie acknowledged that Griffen was trying to help and befriended him. His brownie (Sylvan) name became Magnus, which means big blunderer (compared to a brownie, Griffen is really quite large, clumsy, and noisy). Magnus spent a fair amount of time in the company of brownies, and their allies, while hiding from his responsibilities.

Eventually, Griffen was given the "my way or the highway" speech and he chose the highway. The parting was actually quite amiable. So much so that he sends money to his family every now and then (and filches a pie on the way out).

As Magnus, he wandered the regions around his home for a few years, learning what he could from the indigenous folk (elves, centaurs, gnomes...) including languages, moving about unseen and unnoticed (move silently and hide), music...and contributing as best he could to their way of life (he had to earn his food somehow).

At length curiosity got the better of him and he wanted to see what city life was like. The answer: "not so good". Going into the city, at the suggestion of his forest friends, he adopted the name "Cam". He found that people were a lot less accepting. He found himself in bad shape and had to help himself to some food. The following morning he awoke with a charming older man sitting in the hay that was Cam's bed. This fellow introduced himself as Gurdion, and told Cam that he was a representative of a group that specialized in helping wayward souls find their way back onto their feet. Gurdion had noted that Cam had filched food the previous night, and assumed that Cam was in need of work. He offered Cam a job within his organization, which was so large that they would surely be able to find Cam's brighter talents and put him to good work. Without options to speak of, Cam accepted.

Thus was he inducted into the IBEW (The Intra-Borough Entrepreneurial Worker's Guild), where for the first few months he did only straight work (this was his "trial membership") in shipping, porting, locksmithing, and a variety of other tasks. In fact, during this time it was Cam's understanding that the IBEW *only* did straight work; the guild was tantamount to a temp agency with clients throughout the city. When the guild leaders felt that he could be trusted, he was indoctrinated deeper into the guild for...special assignments. They provided training, and suggested that he take on a new name: Maxmillion. As Max, he worked in various nefarious trades from smuggling to burglary, plain theft and so forth. He was never very good at muggings, as being very small tends not to be too intimidating. Occasionally, he would also do "straight" work under the name of Cam; a guild's gotta keep its reputation, after all.

The IBEW proved to be a very comfortable home for Max; it was never boring as folks would get rotated through assignments to some degree, and it provided him an opportunity to learn new skills, including some rudimentary training in foreign scripts and the use (tricking) of magical devices, the latter provided by Gurdion, who appeared to also be a sorcerer of some ability. It was through the revelation that Gurdion was a User that Max learned that his mentor was a friend of one (or more) of the elves in the forest; he had been sent to keep and eye on (then) Cam for recruitment purposes - it all tied together rather neatly. Although, Max has yet to learn which elf or elves had been responsible for this introduction.

Lately, Max was given the opportunity to participate in a new venture for the kingdom: the establishment of a mid-sea port. He eagerly accepted this new challenge, and, under the nomen of "Meltin" (Mel), was assigned to a group headed for a sea journey of unprecedented opportunity.

And that's the way it was...

Watching his overly-somber friend prance about, Mel produces a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese and asks for T to slice them into "more manageable" chunks... :D

Mel studies T for a few moments...[sense motive].

My hands are small...

He holds the loaf out, his hands on the extreme edges of the heels, and as far in front of him as he can (the whole foot).

Quote from: wildfireAs soon as Mel reaches the full extent of his arm T'riad summersaults towards Mel and as he pulls out of the tuck onto both feet he swings down with both Kamas and slices the loaf into three pieces.

"AAAAHHHH!"[/b] Mel screams and falls backward sticking his left hand under his right armpit. "THE GODS! THE GODS! IT HURTS! I THOUGHT THE MONK WAS BETTER THAN THAT!! He continues to scream, rolling about on the ground just until the surprise on T's face is about to turn into action, then suddenly leaps to his feet, both hands extended like moose antlers on the sides of his head.

He then falls on his ass laughing.

Seriously, good shot, T.  :lol:

Quote from: wildfirefeyberry jam...it's great!"

Made from freshly-sqeezed fey! I caught them myself this morning. :lol:

...and we've hit three pages!

Time is measure in this game as:

Hands - 1 Hand = 1 Hour; this is the distance that the sun moves in 1 hour

Candlemarks - 1 Candlemark = 1 Hand, used mostly at night or in-doors. A candle has demarkation lines on it, and it takes a Hand for the candle to melt from one line to the next.

Days (or suns to some more primitive groups)

Weeks

Moons

Years

Death of an Elf  :twisted:

Gee, Zurn, I'm all a'twitter.

I must say that you also make me feel at 20 feet tall! Of course, I am twenty feet tall...

I was thining this morning that the FK game started just about this time of year; it's "birthday" must either have just passed or is immenent.

Checking the log, Session 1 ocurred on April 25, 2003. FK is two years old the-day-before-yesterday!

Yay!

Happy birthday to you, (come on, you all know the song) Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear FK, Happy birthday to you!

Blow out the torches!

Now the Keep gets to open it's presents:

Look! A whole horde of occupants! Won't that be nice? There are men-at-arms, clerics, general worker-bees. Awww, you shouldn't have. *sigh*

What's in this big package? Ohh... a new ballista for the south-west tower! Prettyyyy.  :)

Look at this big package over here: what can it be? Ooohhh...lots of rocks! Just like the ones that the humans were trying make the main walls from! Just what I needed.

I'd like to thank all the people who came to enjoy my birthday with me; it was nice to get together as friends and allies for a change. Thanks to the delgates from the giant-kin from the mountains - I'm *so* glad that you could come and not kill anyone for a change.

And to the Orcs, I realize that this food is not to your tastes, but I'm very gratefull that you haven't tried to eat any of the party-goers. Too bad Himo and his band couldn't be here; the spiders say that they're all tied up at the moment.

Let's agree to get together like this every year - no matter who controls me (the keep).

Jarmok is in a lot of pain and does not respond. He looks wildly at the rat and its guts splattered all abou the little chamber and himself. He gimps backward a step and looks for something else to occupy him.

Fortunately, a conversation ensues regarding the rickety door and whether they should persue this venue.

You've now seen that Jarmok is clearly not from the Threshold area. He speaks in poor, broken common and has only a tenuous mastry of the language.

This is perhaps the result of his apparent seldom use of the tongue. He seems to preferr to communicate in gestures, grunts, and as few words as possible (although what's the tail and what's the dog may be open for debate).

When tracking Jarmok keeps close to the ground, sometimes moving about with his hands as much as his feet, looking as much animal as man. When he pauses he tends to a crouching stance instead of standing tall.

Jarmok is intensely private, not joining the group in the tavern / inn during "quiet time". He heads off in one direction or the other and melts into the foliage at the edge of Threshold (any edge that they are near at the time when they part company). It may often be that you don't notice that he's gone until he's gone; he neither parts nor greets in other than minor gestures (a nod of the head most usually) and rarely makes eye contact. He most often walks looking at the ground and occasionally glancing skyward.

It is difficult to tell if Jarmok is freightened, nervous, or simply wound over-tight.

It would be easy to equate his apparent desire to remain apart as aloofness, but his anxious, overly-shy nature might lead the careful observer to conclude that there are other motivators that drive this enigmatic citezen of Threshold.

Although he carries a magnificent battle axe, his long bow and arrows are crude, his two hand axes are dissimilar, his studded leather armor is worn and mis-matched. His body, while very clean, is not very sheveled (I just made this word up as the antinym to "dissheveled"). His thick black hair is invariably pulled behind his head through a nondescript leather collet and falls in a barely tamed tail down beyond his shoulders.