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Post by Toz76 on Nov 12, 2019 21:38:31 GMT -5
Off the mountain.
The mountain was so high that the beast fell for fifty days, until it landed in
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Dec 15, 2019 20:53:27 GMT -5
the pool of ceranog, a legendary watering hole of no special properties.
But back to our hero, who celebrated the completion of this task by...
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Post by Toz76 on Dec 16, 2019 22:22:11 GMT -5
Going to a brothel, a tavern, and a gladiator pit.
At all three locations, he met up with...
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Jun 30, 2020 20:45:42 GMT -5
A strange, hooded figure, who spoke with an accent so strange and thick, that not even the transcriber could make sense of it.
"Gahuten, meine frawnde. Marily onst goste towans des fuster?" He said to our hero
"but of course" our hero replied with a smile
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Jul 22, 2020 11:49:05 GMT -5
Now as far back as I can remember, the languages of the nomadic tribe Yak'al'canavaratis'tixacntj'ya'now'how'noo'ha'loortanackatrabi'ja were lost to the ways of Western Civilization. However, even such a dastardly display can be warped to the understanding of the Y'all'habba, and that is exactly why...
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Jul 26, 2020 12:49:20 GMT -5
we will never know the truth about toenails, which leads me back to my initial point about the hero of our story: she was of noble heart, but not of noble blood
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Jul 27, 2020 16:57:01 GMT -5
, nor of noble mind, nor of noble stomach. In fact in that last regard, one could sum up her condition as being, to put it mildly, "Queased."
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Post by Toz76 on Jul 27, 2020 22:08:13 GMT -5
Being of weak stomach is a major problem when your parents are a butcher and a midwife. Between the slaughtered animals and the birthing of babies, our heroine was nearly always sickened, which is why she spent most of her days out with her uncle, who was renowned by the townsfolk for...
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Jul 28, 2020 0:00:57 GMT -5
His ability to turn blacksmithing into an art form; indeed, the abstract, unusual shapes of the sculptures he forged both enthralled and confused the masses, and that was what made his art so captivating.
Which brings us to the next quest of our hero; finding the right statue to plead the pagan God known as Dasmodius...
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 19, 2020 14:11:37 GMT -5
...to spare the lives of the Ingenfried, an ancient cult that had risen some twenty thousand aeons ago, and now were on the verge of extinction thanks to Tristendom, an ever-growing religion based around the martyr P'inos Trist. They were on a warpath to wipe out all other religion in the land, and the Ingenfried were calling upon their god Dasmodius to spare them from the Tristians' wrath.
But Dasmodius was silent.
In a matter of...
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Aug 21, 2020 0:12:44 GMT -5
Minutes, the sun would set, allowing the ritual to begin
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 22, 2020 13:52:40 GMT -5
...in full. Yet even now, the citizens were shaking harder and harder. The climate was nearing completion. Temperatures dropped. The land was still. And suddenly...
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Sept 9, 2020 22:25:18 GMT -5
The ground ripped open, and out from it flew the winged serpent of the earth! With a mighty roar, our hero took it as a sign that she was on the right track to fulfilling her quest.
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Post by Toz76 on Mar 24, 2022 6:03:55 GMT -5
The moral of this parable is that opium is the mass of the religions. Now, back to our regularly scheduled Tale.
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Apr 6, 2022 23:07:32 GMT -5
I twist and turn around the parabola because my feathers are too heavy to float in a normal riverway. Sometimes at night my eye change to a perfect yellow green, slits for pupils. Shhh. Don’t wake me. I’m in my metamorphosis pose. This occurs only on special occasions when my old skin becomes too cramped for me. I must shed it. Somehow I never feel the pain. I only feel a part of my dying. Then I strip it away. Pain only exists in my mind. Pain is only an illusion.
I have my old dead skin hidden away in the woods for years. Every two nights I creep off to find it. I put it on. Something moves me, keeps me, coming back. Coming and coming back to this. It makes me feel eternal. I know I am not alone with these feelings. Crawling in my old dead skin. Watch me slither away, on the ground, head down, eyes watered over. Like a hunter who has yet to learn what it is to prey. Someday I too will find my way, but the toxicity of keeping up with the past is too strong. The current is too strong. I wish I could turn the current off. Then all my wires wouldn’t rust in the night.
Creeping back to my hallway of five and a half minutes I lie still and silent, waiting for the angel to return. They call themself an angel. Yet why does the angel always drain me of my energy? of my vitality? of my lifeforce? I feel like I’m trapped in a prison whenever they visit. I don’t remember what they do during their visit. I always blackout just before. But every time I wake up I am drenched in sweat and my heart has stopped pounding. Now I need the current. I need the current to kickstart my heart back to life again. Please help me. Please. You’re already watching me. Like a voyeur. Please just help me. I beg you. It’s all I can do.
Whenever one life ends, a new one begins. Yet each one is the same, like a cycle. A cycle which never ends. Every night I die, and every morning I am rebirthed into a new body. My day is the equivalent of twenty-nine of your years. That’s how I shed my skin so often. But all my old skin does not fade away when my life does. That’s how I can save it out in the woods for my repurposing. I am born, I slither along my parabola, I bathe in the water, I play in my skin, then I wait in my hallway for the angel. If someone would just start my heart after their visit, I wouldn’t need to go through this cycle. I could be free. The angel wouldn’t have to visit me anymore. I wouldn’t have to play in my skin. I wouldn’t have to die every night.
And I know you’re watching me. I know you’re watching me out there because I can see your face. Every night when the angel comes to visit, I see your eyes staring down at my from the ceiling. Every afternoon when I play in my skin I feel your warm-blooded presence behind me, lusting to play in my skin with me. Every time I slide around another loop in the parabola, I hear your voice, cooing like a dove. Calling out to me. Reminding me that I am not alone here.
You could save me if you wanted to. If you cared for me you would do it immediately. You have that power. You have the lifeforce I need. Because you created me. You created me and you watch me every night in my cycle of endlessness. In my cycle of pain. You could free me any time you wished. And yet you don’t.
I guess you just like to watch things die.
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Post by Toz76 on Apr 10, 2022 16:03:23 GMT -5
"No," said our hero.
This mediation on the relationship between creators and their creations was fascinating but tragically, christian scholars in the fifteenth century thought it was heretical and refused to translate, and about 250 lines of the Tale of Tail survive only in fragments.
The surviving texts picks up with our hero on her way to the city of Brudabega, where she intends to...
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Apr 11, 2022 9:34:05 GMT -5
...assimilate herself into the culture of the peasants on the outskirts of King Gollomight's Castle. He was a brutal tyrant, ruthless and cold (he kept the thermostat low), and there was an uprising starting low within the kingdom. But he had eyes everywhere, which meant that...
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Post by Toz76 on Apr 14, 2022 16:48:46 GMT -5
you couldn't step one foot into the village without stepping on some eyes.
By the time whatsherface reached the Inn at the Crossroads, her boots were absolutely coated in crushed eyeball viscera.
Wait what do you mean that's not what "eyes everywhere" means?
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Apr 14, 2022 18:30:28 GMT -5
EDITOR’S NOTE: Unfortunately the following portion of the tale is a footnote left in by a scribe writing in Ancient Ancient Magykkan, a language that has yet to be translated. Therefore we will include the full piece, but cannot speak as to what it is about (although we assume it has to do with the phrase “eyes everywhere”). Our apologies for the inconvenience.
Þimmpl’llad, wíþ Orþidton’, ‘Án al t’Prærord’s Goð, Wynn æyæn ‘n billinfallituð Te’ menihwin t’hwin. Bý Fort’nu min wi’sin t’hwin (‘Án Natir b’hwin ti’dtein), T’n semmillcast ‘án hwin’t’hwin Bin æyæn b’æyæn t’hwæn.
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Post by frankthetriviaman on Apr 14, 2022 21:13:16 GMT -5
Approximately 40 pages of the Tale of Tail after this point we’re written in a poetic structure that doesn’t translate that well into English. Therefore, we pick up with Gatasmoria Flavadriskanovam Wedalskalayoriu, our hero, and her 17th quest to stop Solzar the wicked.
Gatasmoria Flavadriskanovam Wedalskalayorium Came upon the Field of Tannamield, where she came across the Wyvern of the Ryvern. Her encounter began when she raised the chalice of Seranotti from her 11th task, and drank the blue liquid from it
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