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High Fantasy Modern Storyhour - The Long Road (updated December 7)
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<blockquote data-quote="RangerWickett" data-source="post: 2558085" data-attributes="member: 63"><p><em>October 29, 2005</em></p><p><em>4:37 pm</em></p><p></p><p>Scarpedin once saw this freaky movie called Warlock. This new guy, Nathan, looks like the Warlock, if the Warlock were dressed like the dude from The Transporter. He's pretty sure that guy was the same actor who played the villain in The Medallion. That movie was terrible. But he <em>liked</em> Warlock and The Transporter.</p><p></p><p>Scarpedin is conflicted.</p><p></p><p>While this internal struggle wages in Scarpedin's mind, the others are trying to get a sense for who this guy is. Though they're not quite ready to hop in the man's car, they are following him as he guides them to where he's parked. A handful of Renaissance Festival fairgoers are wandering past them, heading home early. Robert has already left the group, eagerly slipping away to the Greyhound bus.</p><p></p><p>"You see," Nathan explains with a charming hint of British embarrassment, "I have visions that guide me, and I follow them so I can help people. I had a vision that you would be needing a ride."</p><p></p><p>John ponders while smoking. "Why?"</p><p></p><p>Nathan shrugs. "I don't know. The visions usually don't make sense until afterward, but they put me in the right place at the right time. Now come on, my car has room for four passengers if three of you squeeze in back."</p><p></p><p>At this, Scarpedin's eyes light up. "Shotgun!"</p><p></p><p>Terry laughs but shakes his head. "I don't think I feel quite right going along with a stranger."</p><p></p><p>"C'mon Terry," Scarpedin says. "He looks like a man in black. We need to talk to the men in black to find out who's trying to kill you."</p><p></p><p>"Aha," Nathan says. "I see you <em>are</em> in trouble. And by the way, I insist the lady takes shotgun. Sorry mate."</p><p></p><p>Belladonna nods, glad she's getting some respect. "We should consider his offer. I don't think that Robert fella was really hoping to see us again, and really, what would my friends think if they heard I rode into town on a bus? Don't you worry, Terry. My daddy taught me a thing or two about defending myself."</p><p></p><p>"Wait," John says. "We're going to talk to the men in black? You're joking."</p><p></p><p>Terry starts to answer, but Nathan interrupts.</p><p></p><p>"Here we are," Nathan says.</p><p></p><p>They stop next to a custom shroud-covered car. Delicately Nathan pulls off the cover, snapping it in the air and folding it without letting any of the fabric touch the ground. He takes his time, giving the others a chance to dazzle at his ride. It's a BMW 760Li Sedan, four doors, jet black with silver trim and black leather interior, tinted windows, and a pristine polish. It is the epitome of elegance.</p><p></p><p>As Nathan reaches for the passenger door handle, the doors unlock almost silently, without requiring any of those garish beeps most car alarms have. He opens the door and waits politely for Belladonna.</p><p></p><p>"Not b*tch," Scarpedin calls.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p></p><p>Robert squints and memorizes the British man's license plates. He's apparently from Georgia, Chatham county. Robert makes a note to look that up. The others were headed to New Orleans, and so is he, and though he claims not to be interested, there's not a chance in hell he'd just let something like this slide. Terry is either possibly the biggest *sshole he's ever met, or he's being followed by some *ssholes, and either way Robert wants to know what's going on.</p><p></p><p>He's sixty feet away, casually watching from a copse of trees. No one at the Ren Fest would think anything is odd about a guy leaning against some trees to relax, staring off down the aisle of parked cars.</p><p></p><p>The British driver opens the door for the woman from New Orleans -- Belladonna Lee. Robert ticks down his mental checklist. About 5'7", 130 lbs., straight brown hair, C-cup, Louisianan aristocratic accent, vials of some sort of poison paste in a concealed hip pouch, stilettos in her hair, at least four concealed two-shot derringers in her dress, spoke of voodoo with comfortable familiarity. Highly suspicious.</p><p></p><p>He goes down the same sort of facts about the others. John Rourke the chainsmoker who killed two men without qualms. Scarpedin Jones the thug with two concealed weapons, one of them an uzi, the other a . . . and Robert laughs despite himself . . . a sword. And Terry Abrams the . . . Robert can't even bring himself to <em>think</em> the word 'wizard.' </p><p></p><p>Terry's existence, and the things Robert has seen in the past few hours, seems wrong. Robert can't trust them, but he can't let go. He's always been that way. </p><p></p><p>As he makes his way back onto the Greyhound bus, his gaze is as ever looking for clues and threats. The bus driver, Missy, spots him and smiles.</p><p></p><p>"Hi again. I called your group, and they said you'd be the only one coming back. Is everything alright?"</p><p></p><p>Robert ponders for a moment, putting on a convincingly casual face while he eyes a mechanic crawling out from under the bus. Weird. Scarpedin must be rubbing off on him, because the man looks like George Clooney.</p><p></p><p>"Everything's fine," Robert says. "They just found someone to give them a ride."</p><p></p><p>Robert laughs, pretending to be amused by the whole situation. Missy smiles too, put at ease by Robert's casual charm.</p><p></p><p>"So," Robert asks, "is the bus fixed? We, ah, ready to go?"</p><p></p><p>Missy looks at the mechanic for an answer. He nods, pats the dirt off his jumpsuit, and cocks his head at the bus. "You've got a bit of body damage, and probably won't run completely straight, but I fixed the oil, and you're not leaking anything. I had to reset the. . . ."</p><p></p><p>Robert is bored and heads onto the bus, so busy worrying about magic, nymphs, and other things that shouldn't exist that he does not notice that the mechanic's accent, meant to sound Texan, is faked. Caught up in preparation, Robert takes his seat and looks out the window to see the mechanic get into his tow truck and drive off.</p><p></p><p>Briefly, Robert wonders what sort of danger the British man's vision might have been warning of, but he shakes off the worry. He has a hunch that if there <em>is</em> trouble, it's going to be following Terry.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="RangerWickett, post: 2558085, member: 63"] [i]October 29, 2005 4:37 pm[/i] Scarpedin once saw this freaky movie called Warlock. This new guy, Nathan, looks like the Warlock, if the Warlock were dressed like the dude from The Transporter. He's pretty sure that guy was the same actor who played the villain in The Medallion. That movie was terrible. But he [i]liked[/i] Warlock and The Transporter. Scarpedin is conflicted. While this internal struggle wages in Scarpedin's mind, the others are trying to get a sense for who this guy is. Though they're not quite ready to hop in the man's car, they are following him as he guides them to where he's parked. A handful of Renaissance Festival fairgoers are wandering past them, heading home early. Robert has already left the group, eagerly slipping away to the Greyhound bus. "You see," Nathan explains with a charming hint of British embarrassment, "I have visions that guide me, and I follow them so I can help people. I had a vision that you would be needing a ride." John ponders while smoking. "Why?" Nathan shrugs. "I don't know. The visions usually don't make sense until afterward, but they put me in the right place at the right time. Now come on, my car has room for four passengers if three of you squeeze in back." At this, Scarpedin's eyes light up. "Shotgun!" Terry laughs but shakes his head. "I don't think I feel quite right going along with a stranger." "C'mon Terry," Scarpedin says. "He looks like a man in black. We need to talk to the men in black to find out who's trying to kill you." "Aha," Nathan says. "I see you [i]are[/i] in trouble. And by the way, I insist the lady takes shotgun. Sorry mate." Belladonna nods, glad she's getting some respect. "We should consider his offer. I don't think that Robert fella was really hoping to see us again, and really, what would my friends think if they heard I rode into town on a bus? Don't you worry, Terry. My daddy taught me a thing or two about defending myself." "Wait," John says. "We're going to talk to the men in black? You're joking." Terry starts to answer, but Nathan interrupts. "Here we are," Nathan says. They stop next to a custom shroud-covered car. Delicately Nathan pulls off the cover, snapping it in the air and folding it without letting any of the fabric touch the ground. He takes his time, giving the others a chance to dazzle at his ride. It's a BMW 760Li Sedan, four doors, jet black with silver trim and black leather interior, tinted windows, and a pristine polish. It is the epitome of elegance. As Nathan reaches for the passenger door handle, the doors unlock almost silently, without requiring any of those garish beeps most car alarms have. He opens the door and waits politely for Belladonna. "Not b*tch," Scarpedin calls. [center]* * *[/center] Robert squints and memorizes the British man's license plates. He's apparently from Georgia, Chatham county. Robert makes a note to look that up. The others were headed to New Orleans, and so is he, and though he claims not to be interested, there's not a chance in hell he'd just let something like this slide. Terry is either possibly the biggest *sshole he's ever met, or he's being followed by some *ssholes, and either way Robert wants to know what's going on. He's sixty feet away, casually watching from a copse of trees. No one at the Ren Fest would think anything is odd about a guy leaning against some trees to relax, staring off down the aisle of parked cars. The British driver opens the door for the woman from New Orleans -- Belladonna Lee. Robert ticks down his mental checklist. About 5'7", 130 lbs., straight brown hair, C-cup, Louisianan aristocratic accent, vials of some sort of poison paste in a concealed hip pouch, stilettos in her hair, at least four concealed two-shot derringers in her dress, spoke of voodoo with comfortable familiarity. Highly suspicious. He goes down the same sort of facts about the others. John Rourke the chainsmoker who killed two men without qualms. Scarpedin Jones the thug with two concealed weapons, one of them an uzi, the other a . . . and Robert laughs despite himself . . . a sword. And Terry Abrams the . . . Robert can't even bring himself to [i]think[/i] the word 'wizard.' Terry's existence, and the things Robert has seen in the past few hours, seems wrong. Robert can't trust them, but he can't let go. He's always been that way. As he makes his way back onto the Greyhound bus, his gaze is as ever looking for clues and threats. The bus driver, Missy, spots him and smiles. "Hi again. I called your group, and they said you'd be the only one coming back. Is everything alright?" Robert ponders for a moment, putting on a convincingly casual face while he eyes a mechanic crawling out from under the bus. Weird. Scarpedin must be rubbing off on him, because the man looks like George Clooney. "Everything's fine," Robert says. "They just found someone to give them a ride." Robert laughs, pretending to be amused by the whole situation. Missy smiles too, put at ease by Robert's casual charm. "So," Robert asks, "is the bus fixed? We, ah, ready to go?" Missy looks at the mechanic for an answer. He nods, pats the dirt off his jumpsuit, and cocks his head at the bus. "You've got a bit of body damage, and probably won't run completely straight, but I fixed the oil, and you're not leaking anything. I had to reset the. . . ." Robert is bored and heads onto the bus, so busy worrying about magic, nymphs, and other things that shouldn't exist that he does not notice that the mechanic's accent, meant to sound Texan, is faked. Caught up in preparation, Robert takes his seat and looks out the window to see the mechanic get into his tow truck and drive off. Briefly, Robert wonders what sort of danger the British man's vision might have been warning of, but he shakes off the worry. He has a hunch that if there [i]is[/i] trouble, it's going to be following Terry. [/QUOTE]
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