In the cargo hold of the Artiste's ship...Sigmund takes a look at
Mark's books. Both of them seem to be related to magic, oddly enough. One is a book of various bindings, the other is a divination manual seemingly written for practical use. How'd this weirdo get his grubby metal hands on either of these? Sigmund takes a moment to think about this, then addresses Mark.
"Listen, trying to rob that bookstore ended with most of us mangled and lacking limbs, so I think that you will have some precious work. On the other hand, the guards seem to be rather competent, so try to stay low and don't do anything that may compromise any of us. Oh, and, if you happen to come across a man made of chairs, tell him to stay away from the ship and us, because the most probable thing is that he is Niklas, and there is a high bounty on him."Mark doesn't answer or move, lacking both limbs and articulation. Sigmund wonders if he is actually still alive.
At the Brotherhood of Fine Furniture and Other Odds and Ends...Niklas, not opposed to the idea of flying, agreed to the proposal.
"Excellent idea!"The furniture guy looks at him oddly, but Niklas doesn't particularly mind. He goes outside and tries to hover.
It works, sorta! As in, he launches himself upwards rapidly, flying into the sky like a chair comet of some sort. He reaches the apex of his flight about a minute later, now finding himself more than a kilometer up from the ground.
"Whee! Hahahahah!"On a telepathic ship...Morton continues on with his backstory, having been suitably provoked by the ship.
~Heh, I dearly hope that is a good remark.~ ~Being remembered is fine and nice, but what I really want is for them to be happy and to not worry too much about me. If that much can be done, then I can be happy. My wife... Heheh, words can't describe. She is--... she... was everything I wanted in life, she was my life in a sense. I would do anything for her, climb any mountain, fight any foe, debate any politician, match wits with any wizard, and I still would today. She was what got me out of bed every morning thinking I was the luckiest damned guy in the world. She taught me to always think optimistically, to give everyone a chance, to help whoever needed it, to stand by my friends and to always look for options in any situation. I remember that I'd tease that I either must of been in a coma and dreaming, or she chose me because of my tea. She'd always say it was because of my wit and smile... but that the tea was a nice perk, better than the mage's down the way at any rate.~~I was her Carter, and she was my Ruth. I don't think I can explain it any better than that.~The ship takes a moment, seemingly to process what it has heard.
~What made her truly special to you?~ it asks.
On the deck of the shrieking ship of Shriekpot...Scott presents his treats to the Artiste, hoping that the meats will serve to alleviate his hangover.
"I see you enjoyed my present, Master... a little too much maybe. This should put some new life in you."The Artiste looks up from his current activity, looking at Scott dully. He notices the food.
"How's that going to help?" he half-asks, half-groans.
"I GUARANTEE its EFFECTIVENESS!" the Captain vouches for the food.
"For a CRIPPLING HANGOVER, there's NOTHING like a MOUTHFUL of BACON!""Uh... really?""I'm a MERCHANT CAPTAIN! Or USED to be, anyhow. I KNOW MY HANGOVER CURES!"The Artiste looks at the Captain, then at Scott. He then takes the net full of meat, fetching a slice of bacon and some bread, then nibbling on both as he sits on deck.
"I'm SURE he'll THANK you later!" the Captain tells Scott, then looks at the Artiste, who cautiously shrugs and half-nods while having his breakfast and trying to keep it down.
"Uh... I'm home?" a voice comes from somewhere. The people gathered on deck all look around until their eyes rest on the somewhat destroyed
Kevin.
"GODS, man! What HAPPENED to YOU? Did a MOUNTAIN SIT DOWN ON YOUR EXTREMITIES?"The Artiste says nothing, though he does look Kevin over while chewing on his salted meat snacks contentedly.
Name: Irma Pratley
Gender: Female
Archetype: Zombie
Biography: Irma Pratley lived a full 86 year life of looking after her husband, then her kids, then her grandkids, and later of taking up knitting.
She died quietly of her age while undertaking a 28 hour knitting session.
When her husband came down for breakfast, she was still knitting.
Neither of them knew of her death until a week later when she started decomposing.
Having a loving husband and children/grandchildren, she is still invited to family gatherings, though generally kept away from the food.
You are now on the waitlist, sixth in number. Interesting concept.
Author
Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 542846 times)