Board Writing :: RoR: Idiotic Iteration :: Page 1
The tavern housed a generous amount of patrons that night, although it was closer to morning at the late hour. The bar was lined with a great diversity of people from all lands, and the tables were filled with travelers whom have never met before, save for from this lack of seating. Little conversation passed among the drunks unless it was to order more mead or slothful attempts to start fights before failing to stand up properly. The hour of the last call drew closer, and they knew that soon they would have to either remember where they lived or where they were heading. The scene was typical of the pub, as was the night. Nothing spectacular had happened this night, as with most, and the few remaining moments were expected to slip by the same.
Hear, ye! Hear, ye! a powerful voice boomed from nowhere, The Rumbl-o-Rama is 'pon ye all! The bar erupted into frenzied commotion. Some of it was dozed drunkards slipping from their daze and chairs alike by the sudden outburst, but, more so, it was those who could not believe the declaration. Many had heard the tales surrounding the first Rumbl-o-Rama, mucked as they were by word of mouth. The great treasures and perils that surrounded the adventure had swept across the land in short time. Fortune hunters and glory seekers from across the land of Ref had pondered if they, too, might have a chance at such a journey. Long they have waited, but now, after elapsing one year, one month, one week, and one day from the original declaration of the great Rumbl-o-Rama, it comes again.
Laid low in the Deli Dale runs a swift river, home to the Merry Cherry Ferry. To any brave enough to captureth this vessel, they shall be taken to the Legendary Dairy!
"Hey, now," cried out a large warrior clad in crimson who lifted himself about the chaotic crowd, "I thought the dairy product of lore was already obtained?"
Nay, fool! That was the Cheddar Legendairy, kept by the Hairy Dairy Fairy! Ye shall seeketh the Sharp Cheddar Legendairy! And, to reacheth this meaty locale, ye must treketh the harsh lands of the jagged Cotton Mountain, the torrential Rapids of Caramel, the ... On the voice trailed, naming more ridiculous areas after another. Dodging the rampaging crowd as they darted to fit through or even find the exit, a blue robed maiden obtained a mop and approached the middle of the wide room. ... the great Carpeted Canyon, the ominous Forest of Crayons, the Desert of what art thou doing with that mop? Hey, ceaseth that! The gold masked woman prodded the rafters with the end of the handle, knocking done a figure. Standing itself up, the slim man with shaggy brown hair hanging over his blank face, who donned a simple red t-shirt and a sign hung around his neck reading, "GARY" dusted himself off.
"Just who the hell are you?" demanded a sickly figure swaddled in dirty cloths.
I am the Nary Wary Gary, of course, overseer of the Rumbl-o-Rama, he informed. What? Thou never heardeth of me before?
"No," the tavern echoed in unison, a cry that most felt they just to call out, not even knowing why.
Fine, he choked, wiping off a tear from his eyeless face.
"Wait, Mr. Gary," questioned a finned beast, "isn't the Deli Dale just down the road from here?"
... Thy point?
"Couldn't we not go through all that trouble of those other places and just go straight there?" Staring the blue dog, a snap of his fingers was followed by a large crash as a giant wall fell from the sky, blocking the path.
"Oh, real nice."
'Tis. Now then, the great Rumblo is on! Goeth! What little room was left for the panic to grow was filled in a violent frenzy. One individual, however, was collectedly calm about the matter.
"Well, that sounds good and all, but I don't care," bolstered the frigid figure, "I'm going to go on my own adventure." Bending at the waist until almost parallel to the floor, he darted for the door.
"No, you fool, don't go out there!" attempted to warn a large marauder clad in horned, blood red armor. "There's ancient zombies and swamp gas!" As gazes turned outside, they saw squadrons of wiggly deadmen interspersed between splotchy clouds, which were oddly all swiped up by a painted Kraken who became split in twine by nothing at all. However, before the frosted adventurer could leave through the door, the wall he walked by was smashed on top of him as a giant robot emerged through the hole.
"I'm Griff, the Uranium Golem!" it crackled through grainy speakers. "I must destroy all! Charging electromagnetic rod cannon!" The middle of the robots chest released, and the hatch fell to its waist, revealing a large barrel. Pumping its arms back and forth, it charged up the cannon.
"That's not public appropriate!" a bulbous man with a canister straped on his back pointed out. When fully energized, two orbs of light, one white, one black, were ejected from the barrel and traveled in wild paths.
"Officer: Did someone call me?" a cop questioned, emerging through the entrance just in time to catch the blunt of the white orb in his stomach. "Ooh," he groaned, grasping his abdomen from which poured out squiggly lines, "I'm hungry!"
"Why did you address who you are?" asked a large eyed, spiky haired man who slide into view from nowhere. The black orb hit the man without steps, revealing him to be a nine foot tall human or so everyone thought!
"I should have seen this coming," the alien, apparently, stated. "After all, I am telepsychic! And I can shoot telepsychic evergies from my Titanium-steel hands!" Everyone did their best to ignore the giant nuisance until he was crushed by a large, silver disk with the printing, "Skull Badge."
Um, yeah. Ye... ye art not invited. Hanging their heads, or what remained of them in most cases, they all slowly removed themselves from the bar in shame. The mysterious figures hiding themselves in the corner watched the transpiring events, while entirely removed from them, tapping their fingers together speaking of how everything was going as planned until Gary chased the trio off with a broom.
"Extrasharp dairy product o' lore?" spouted one of the only few members left sitting, only due to the fact that he refused to abandon his ale. "Bah! Had I known o' this, I would not have wasted my time so long ago." His time was squandered, too, as all his efforts awarded him nothing. His chair swayed on its back legs as he spoke to no one for his sickly limbs were propped up high on the table, displaying his ruddy, brown hose. A tattered, regal colored jacket adorned his chest, the color barely showing through the years of dust from his travels. He wore his hat low with his collar high. From out the flimsy brim of his headwear stuck two pointed ears while strains of thin, orange hair hung down, masking over his beady eyes already hidden in the shadows. Bandages, stained with blood of his own and enemies, wrapped about his hands, neck, feet, arms, waist, and tail, possibly serving as the only things that held his outfit together. He was Bimblesnaff Bogg, the Lunatic, and lived the first Rumbl-o-Rama nearly a year ago. Amidst his pondering, a single claw of his three moved from scratching his scarcely haired, jutting chin to his sharp nose. "This time would prolly not be any different from the last," the green fiend considered, "however, this lot does seem grossly incompetent." And Bogg knew incompetence. Swinging his bare feet from off the table's top, the lanky freak stood to his full stoop, carelessly tossing his mug behind him. With his bent blade slung over his shoulder, he shoved away the aimless seekers as he made his way to the door. "I said it before," while beating his way through a sea of shoulders, "and I'll say it again: I sure hope no one tries to hamper m'attempt at procurin' this delectable treat."
Pfft. Yeah, right.
It's a race
To the place
To feed your face.
(Let the insanity begin)
Dark eyes glinted behind straggling few strands that fell from the figure's face as he raised it to his foe. Of all the targets there, this one stood out beyond the others.
"So," he narrated to his enemy, "it comes again. Every time I get close, the prize slips through my claws. No matter how far I travel in these many lands of Ref, there has never been as formidable a foe as you." Slowly, his arm lifted. His fingers gripped the handle of his weapon cautiously. "There are others, yes -- many others. None of them matter. You are the only one that concerns me in this contest. It is my obsession, my madness," he continued, narrowing his broad eyes. He eased his hand forward, readying for the strike. "But no more. I shall not let you stop me again -- nothing will; the prize is mine!" His thumb rolled up, depressing the switch at the top of the lever. Immediately, the cold, iron claw descended upon its prey, successfully making contact, but the man was far too experienced to let this raise his spirits. He had to keep the mind of a true warrior, even if he could do nothing now but watch.
The contraption slowly squeezed down. It clumsily rolled about with uneven, jerky movements, centered around the hook caught beneath the target. It finally came to a still, latched about that which he sought so much, but there still was no change in his expression. He watched on with a cold, unyielding gaze as the crane separated his treasure from the chaff. It dangled from the bottom of the hold quite freely; it was not a clean catch. Wider and wider his eyes grew as he watched the uneasily return, each jolt twisting his prized yet unpossessed Manatee Can-a-teen more and more from his surrogate grasp.
Mere moments from a safe return, the prize made its escape, diving down to the pit from which it came and exit the same. It somersaulted off from the barrier and eluded capture and the outside world once more.
"Dammit!" let out our lone figure, as well as a blow that rocked the crane game from its feeble, four-legged foundation. "I cannot keep losing like this; I am almost out of quarters. Why did they have to make them so tasty?" he wondered, popping another handful into a greedy mouth. "Mmmmm, minty."
"Do not despair, child," an eerie yet non-booming voice called from the background.
"Who said that?" our bewildered hero asked. "Was it you, chair? I'm thinking it was you," he interrogated with accusing eyes and shaky fist.
"Nay, 'twas I!" it announced and made itself present by phasing into sight. "I am the Spirit of Rumblo!"
"Wait, there's no such thing as a Spirit of Rumblo."
"Anything is possible," it explained in a comedic falsetto, "when you drink enough of what's in these drinks!"
"You mean rubbing alcohol?"
"You wish," it quickly responded.
"So," began the lone one, "why does a spirit need to wear a sheet?"
"What, I thought ghosts were supposed to look like this?"
"Oh, no-no, they are, but," he assured, "you're already a spirit. Is it really necessary for you to, y'know, dress up like one when you are one?"
"And I suppose people aren't allowed to dress like people, then?" it retorted, lowering its high pitch to an angered medium-high tone. "Besides, I'm dressed in a sheet from the spirit world, so I'm, like, extra ghosty. Whoo-ooo-oooOOO!"
"Okay, okay, jeez," he submitted, gesturing back the unruly spirit. "You sure are testy for a guy that's just a drunken illusion. I won't rag on your rags anymore... but..."
"Buuuut?" goaded on the ghost.
"Buuuut... why do you need sheets in the spirit world?" he returned.
"Well, dressing up like this, pretty much."
"Ah, I see," calmly said he. "So... is there a reason you're here or somethin'?"
"What? Oh, right," remembered the Spirit of Rumblo. "I am here to tell you that the Rumbl-O-Rama has begun once again!"
"What? Why didn't I hear about this?"
"I... I don't know," it stammered. "I mean, it only happened about two minutes ago right over there," it informed, expending its formless body in the direction of the crowded exit.
"Ah, what's the point?" he admitted. "I usually give up those things once I remember that I'm an idiot, which usually comes around the time when I can't remember how to get my head out of a pickle jar," he unfortunately informed, despite the saddening number of times it had happened to him, "or how my head even got stuck there in the first place."
"That is where I come in!" interrupted the spirit. "I was sent so that you may see the true path; look at the crane game. Master it, and you will master the Legendairy."
"Aww, I've been trying all afternoon," complained our lone hero, "and then I took a nap, and if something can't be done in an afternoon and non-napping portion of a night's time -- time spent mostly drunk -- then it can't be done at all." But, just as the ghost had told him, the true path was revealed. "Yes, of course!" our joyous hero recited. "I now know the answer!"
"Yes! Go forth an- hey, what are you doing?" the spirit asked of a suddenly raised chair, soon sank through the glass box that once was the crane game. Leaping atop the metal frame of the shattered machine, the vagrant plunged his arm deep inside. He threw back his chest and arm and hand in a single, swift motion, ripping the Manatee Can-a-teen free from its passtime prison.
The vagrant loosed his grip on the canteen, allowing its strap to slide down his sleeve down to his shoulder, while he firmed his grip on his weapon of choice. He cast his hateful gaze downward to the devastated enemy he had fought so long and so bitterly against. With another mighty bound, he launched himself far across the opposite end of the pub. His worn, blue jacket wrapped around his kneeling body as he came to a sudden crash on the floor.
"Hey!" complained the individual he had just landed in front of. "No cuts!" The vagrant rolled one enormous eye upwards to him from beneath his azure headware. He slowly rose to a hunching stance such that his stare never left its menacing slant. His spear, still at hand, dragged across the tavern floor as he turned to face this other competitor for the Cheese. "Oh no you don't!" he whined, shakily commanding a robot army of a leech, a mole, and a lava giant to attack. "Nobody messes with Hey Cheng, Master of Suck!"
But the blue clad vagrant gave them no heed. He jumped straight at and onto the Master of Suck, clasped onto his collar, and pulled him into the bill of his hat.
"That first post was enough," he growled. "We don't need anymore inside jokes."
"Who, me?" a voice squeaked from the vagrant's stomach.
"Be quiet, Oh-Snappicus Prime!" the vagrant verbally assaulted the internal oven. Using the moment of extreme confusion to his advantage, he flipped himself backwards off of Hey Cheng and over the crowd to the top of the door frame. Gripping onto the wall, he hung upside down, managed to keep his hat from falling through unknown means, and issued a very vertigoed thumbs-up from his one free, webbed hand. With a deep, guttural croak, the frog spat out a bomb (as well as some quarters and a few buttons he did not wish to account for) into the center of the crowded bar.
"The king is back, baby," the Rex Ranarum last issued before swinging up and out from the bar to venture forth to the jagged, frozen peaks of the warm, fuzzy Cotton Mountain
From the rubble that flew into a tree from the bar, a man fell, as luck would have it, into a pile of unwashed spoons. "Ouch." said the man, thinking of nothing else more appropriate to say. Standing up and dusting spoons off his tyedyed plaid trenchcoat, he proclaimed: “With my dull knife and trusty almighty egg-friend, I shall be the one to first cut the cheese for my own!” With that a kamikaze wedding cake rendered him unconscious, serving temporary justice to all.
Meanwhile at the top of Cotton Mountain…there was a slight breeze and a seventeen percent chance of wind. It was slightly cloudy with a slight overbite. Regardless, no one was there yet save for a bird, which was impaled by jagged cotton! After a while it flew away.
Back at the bar, for unknown reasons at the late hour, children began to fill the streets and play in the burning wreckage of the pub, some digging for treasure, some running around on fire as only children could, while others had contests to see who could eat the most glass, or remains of kamikaze wedding cake.
From the remains of the wedding cake that flew into the man, rose…the man, as a kid bit him. “Wretched ingrate! How dare you bite the Great fashion mage Kodiro! I’ll turn your clothes into knockoffs!” With that the children swarmed the suave sorcerer, and he was forced to sow their pantlegs together, as he ran off, the cunning runts…cried.
Questing ahead of the rest of the few that weren’t lactose intolerant, Lunatic Bogg strolled toward the pneumatic cotton mountain, taking the scenic Hu Knows route. The very scenic Hu Knows route. Ol’ Snaff’s eyes were fixated…on a rock.
“Stop staring at my curves, you monster!” It shrieked feeling quite offended.
“I’m just making a sketch of the tattoo of the tribal “Map to the Legendairy” on your backside! It’s art!” A really big boat flew over head. A cry from above rang out: “Foolish Ghobling! This ship I flung will reach the summit of the mountain long before you reach the base. A huge thud sounded as the Frogman touched down a short distance from the sexually harassed stone. All three watch as the vessel never fit to fly was engulfed by the mountain. The Minty One glowered in his achievement, and then continued his trek on webbed feet.
“At the rate of your sketches you’ll never make it on time.” Commented a smiling cat behind Bimblesnaff.
“Who the heck are you?” Bogg stopped playing hangman with the rock and continued copying the tattoo.
“I am McDuff the Fluff, and I would like to take you in as my apprentice as I quest for the sharp legendairy, what say thee?”
The obtusely dressed mage came upon the seen of a green man wearing cat collar that said “McDuff” playing tictactoe with a henna enscribed rock covered with what seemed to be fur. Kodiro decided to continue on walking.
“I smell wedding cake,” Snaff looked up. “catch ya later tutz.”
“I thought you loved me!”
“But I’m a supossi-”
Kodiro only walked faster
From the bathroom of the tavern, the only part to escape the destruction, entered a man dressed in a close fitting black costume.
"What did I miss?" he said before looking up to see a riot of flaming children running through what was left of the bar.
The man moved stealthily towards the door to avoid the demonic looking children. His movements could be described only as almost catlike, he moved without sound, merging with the night. However, before reaching the door he managed to trip despite the relatively smooth section of floor.
"173," he counted, "That's a new daily record."
He then picked himself up and professionally dusted himself off before stepping out of what was left of the bar.
"What happened here," he asked to nobody in particular.
"Rumbl-o-Rama," croaked the owner of the wreckage before falling flat on his face.
"Rest in peace good man," replied the slightly confused man. "Rumbl-o-Rama eh? Sounds like fun."
The man had no difficulty following the action due to trail of corpses and offended stones. After a few hours he saw a strange sight.
"Oh my. That horrible green man is attacking those poor zombies. I have to help them. Gariland to the rescue," he shouted while charging towards the fight with swords in the air
Jun 17, 2005
Nary Wary Gary, The Voice and overseer of Rumblo!, approached a grizzled man in the corner wearing faded green armor. This corner was inexplicably untouched by bombs nor flames nor cannibal children. The man eclipsed the small framed NWG, even while sitting and sipping from a vile looking mug which actually contained wine cooler. Of course nobody would ever know.
Ya know, I just announced another coming of Rumbl-o-rama. Weren't you somehow involved in the last one, like some kind of funk monk or something?
From underneath his weathered face two eyes lit aflame at the words. D was sweating bullets.
You should probably get that looked at. Bullets coming out of the pores and flaming eyes just aren't healthy for humans.
Upon realizing that his eyes were in fact on fire, the giant doused himself with a pitcher from the adjoining table, belonging to a multitude of ninjas.
"Now that is just rude." Ninja 7 said under his breath.
The man finally spoke to Gary, in a voice that sounded like rocks were being dragged across his vocal cords to make the hoarse sounds coming out of his throat.
Come again? NWG asked, wondering about the strange tones he just heard.
Coughing up several rocks and a very confused buffalo, D attempted to speak again. "Oh sorry. Yeah, I was the funk knight, but those days are over. I've lost too much to my adventures, my youth, my friends and family, lost loves..."
But... The last Rumblo was like a year ago or something. That can't put you at a day over 26.
"...Nope there is no return to the funk knight. I may just live my days out in this broken down, smoldering excuse for a tavern. A broken man... I am the grizzled knight VinnyD." The grayed giant wallowed in self pity.
Hmmm. Well, fine. No sweat off my back. In fact, come to think of it I don't even know why I continually announce this thing. Nobody even pays attention anyway.
D was roused from his thoughts by Gary's attempts to leave.
"What? You say that I may regain my youth if I seek this so called 'Candy Bar of Justice' I may return to my former fantastic funkadelic f word state?"
No! That's not even what its called? What the hel..
"That is great news!" Vin shouted wringing the small man with his gargantuan arms. For a moment, the hairs on his face seemed to return to their previous jet black state, but he released NWG and sprayed a generic can labeled 'make your hair look gray now' onto is face. He then eyed the rest of the tavern's patrons which were either buried under rubble or a ninja busy quarreling over soup.
"Yep. Grizzled and old and broken knight..." D attempted to stealthily exit through a doorway with these words, only to burst through a wall next to it, which made no sense since it was the only section of wall which had not been knocked over. Scuttling into a forest which was most likely not on the way to anything important, D missed seeing a sign labeled 'Forest of insignificance to issues at hand'.
Meanwhile other beings, some somehow related to the story and some not, did stuff of and not of significance!
** There is still more to this story.
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