Fall Ceramic DM - Final Round Judgment Posted!
Sialia
First Post
As a completely irrelevant point of interest, the plant depicted in "chew" (which I drew quite some time ago and had pretty much forgotten about) is the same kind of kelp as was depicted in the picture from the preceeding round which Piratecat decided was a bull pizzle.
They wash up on the beaches around here fairly often.
This should in no way deter the contestants from deciding that it is something else, of course, if it so moves them.
Good luck to both of you.
I hunger for your juicy contributions.
They wash up on the beaches around here fairly often.
This should in no way deter the contestants from deciding that it is something else, of course, if it so moves them.
Good luck to both of you.
I hunger for your juicy contributions.
Thomas Hobbes
First Post
Sialia said:
I thought I recognized it, but I didn't want to comment for fear of prejudicing. the minds of the writers.
In the same spirit, I have a suspicion as to where "hot" was taken, and once that part of the competition has wrapped up I'd be highly amused to have it confirmed.
(I suppose it goes without saying, since I was here to read the above post, that I've been following this avidly and enjoying it immensely. Looking forward to the finals and semifinals!)
Last edited:
Piratecat
Sesquipedalian
Reunion
Autumn 2004 Round 3-1: Macbeth vs. Piratecat
They came from different directions and sat on the bench. Slowly, arthritically, mindful of bad joints and old wounds. They’d been coming here for six decades, ever since academy graduation. It was a good bench. It was showing its age, but so were the old men. It was worn, and they were worn, and the peeling paint somehow complemented the wrinkles in their skin. Every once in a while one of them would donate money to have the bench refurbished, but that wouldn’t happen again for another few years. The splinters weren’t quite sharp enough yet to bother.
One of the men adjusted his elaborate robes. His long face boasted the sort of snarled and unkempt beard that might result from a goatee getting delusions of grandeur. Anyone could tell he was a wizard because of the eyes; eyes reflect the soul, and these eyes looked like those of an owl.
The other man sported a dapper little mustache and long gray hair pulled back from his face. He was far from handsome. He didn’t look as ostentatious as his friend. He didn’t look as old as his friend either, but that’s like saying the sea isn’t quite as wet as the ocean.
One of them unwrapped a greasy parchment and took out a suspicious looking sandwich. The other one eyed it askance, gave a disapproving little hrmph, and began patting his pockets. He set aside his intricately carved staff as he pulled out a long-stemmed pipe. Bony fingers snapped, flame flared, the owl-shaped bowl flashed into life.
Late afternoon sunlight warmed old bones.
The man with the pipe ran long fingers through his tangled beard. “I’m stuck with a morass.”
“Don’t you mean ‘in a morass?’ You don’t normally use bad grammar. You’re usually so precise.”
“Of course I’m precise, and I mean what I say. WITH a morass. It’s eating the whole damn lake bed.”
“What is?”
“The morass.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” The man with the mustache took a bite of the sandwich and gave chewing his complete concentration.
The old man’s lip twitched underneath the thick beard. “I took a donkey,” he explained in loud, slow tones.
“I’m no longer a child.”
“My granddaughter is. She loves to swim and wanted a new pet. Her birthday was coming up.”
“So you got her a donkey?” The tone was disbelieving. “It’s been my experience that most little girls want ponies.”
“She isn’t most little girls. I crossed it with a purpose.”
“What sort of purpose?”
“What? Oh, the normal kind. You see, I wanted it to have a fluke.”
“Your purpose has a fluke?”
“All purposes do.”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course not. How else could they move through the water?”
“There’s magic. . .”
They mused on that for a while, sitting on the bench. The unseasonably warm autumn wind blew golden leaves up against the bottom of their shoes.
“. . . but I still have no idea what you’re talking about. Your purpose has a fluke, which is why you’re stuck with a morass. Clear as mud. And I haven’t even begun to understand the donkey.”
“Jackass.”
He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, their narrow shoulders brushing. “Screw you.”
They sat, they smiled, and one of the old men smoked. The other one ate his sandwich. It smelled like rotting kippers. A squirrel scampered up in the hopes of a free handout, caught a whiff of the sandwich, and skittered away before anyone could force-fed it a bite.
The man with the sandwich sighed. “They just don’t make squirrels like they used to.”
“I could fix that.”
“Heh.”
“Tried to once, actually. It was about a year ago that I became interested in their burrowing ability. I decided to cross one of the little buggers with some grub.”
“Grub? Oh, like nuts.”
“Like nuts to you, apprentice. No need to be sarcastic. I did it, I’m telling you. I plucked it from a leaf.”
“The squirrel?”
“No, the grub. I took them from leaves, amplified their growth ratio to achieve a reasonable adhesion matrix, and then merged their essences using standard incantations. I wanted to use a grub that was translucent, so that you could see what was happening inside the squirrel’s innards.”
The other man pondered this for a minute, doubtlessly picturing his friend prying open a squirrel’s jaws and staring down into the translucent acorns packing its belly. “Why?”
“Just experimenting. Seeing if the worm-like half would dig faster or slower than the squirrel half. Seeing if it still tried to eat leaves, or spin a cocoon, or turned into a buttersquirrel.”
“I find they’re best cooked in bacon grease.”
“I didn’t eat it. Part butterfly, part squirrel. Or fluttersquirrel, if you prefer. Or squirrelmoth. It’s all one to me.”
“Oh, you transmogrified it?”
“Of course I did, you idiot. What did you think we were talking about?”
“Your purpose.”
He closed his eyes, counted to ten. “The tale of the purpose is connected to the donkey.”
A snort came from beside him. “So it could have a fluke, right?”
At last. Gratified, the man with the owl eyes smiled. “Exactly.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Teeth ground on a pipe stem. “Well, at the moment we’re talking about transmogrifying squirrels.”
“Indeed we are. You did some work in that area, if I remember correctly.”
“You don’t say.” The words dripped acid. It had been his life’s work for seventy years.
“The hummingfrogs and the bumblecats.”
“Good times.”
“Not particularly. I seem to recall that claws and wings and poisonous stingers didn’t make for good house pets.”
“Well, it gave those young adventurers something to hunt. Gave them a start in life.”
“After they were done, didn’t they try to hunt down the mage creating those abominations?”
“A simple misunderstanding.” He blew a smoke ring that briefly resembled an octodog before dissipating into the clear autumn air. They pondered the smoke for a moment, lost in memories.
“My favorite was the time you tried to merge pigeons and pufferfish.”
“Now, let’s not bring up –“
“It’s a work of genius!” The old man’s voice was a remarkable parody of the other’s, rising and wheedling in an impression that would have gained a performer great fame had he managed to survive the stage show. “Birds that can swim and fly! Birds that inflate! Defense against the natural predator! Revolutionize the avian community!” The wizened man trailed off into gasping coughs that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
His friend drew himself up stiffly, tapped one finger against the head of his staff. “It’s not my fault that their skin elasticity was sub-par in cool weather. Don’t you dare laugh.”
The coughs turned into choking gasps. “And then. . . when they released the beautiful white pufferdoves over the coliseum before the games, and you set off the fireball to mark the start of the gladiatorial matches. . .” He was having trouble breathing now. “And the pufferdoves all got scared at once. . .” Mirth got the better of him and he finally keeled over sideways onto his friend, chest heaving with unrestrained laughter.
The other old man gritted his teeth on the pipe stem and mourned his lost dignity. His tone was wry. “In retrospect, it’s a shame the Queen didn’t have an umbrella with her.”
“Wumph!”
“Yes, yes.”
“Wumph wumph WUMPH WUMPH WUMPH! Exploding pufferdoves everywhere! Wumph!”
“Yes, we don’t particularly need sound effects. Thank you.” The tone was haughty.
“I remember the mess as they vaporized! And in the process you accidentally fulfilled that prophecy about the blood rain. Oh, the sages were furious with you for that.” Laughter trailed off into awkward hiccups, punctuated by uncontrollable giggling. “And the King’s jester, good ole’ Toddzoc, wrote that wonderful song about you that everyone sung for years. . .”
There was a heavy sigh. “I was tired of being High Magus anyways.”
The younger of the two men fished out a handkerchief and wiped tears of merriment from his face. “As you said, good times.”
“Feh. And please stop humming that tune under your breath.” His eyes narrowed. “Apropos of nothing, I notice that your impersonations of me have gotten better.”
“I learned from the best, and I get a lot of practice. You know, did I ever tell you that I got revenge for you?”
The older man’s head swiveled birdlike towards his friend. “Oh? How’s that?”
“Sent Toddzoc a cursed mandolin. I enchanted the thing to vastly improve his playing, but it gave him horrible gas every time he played it. You should have seen his face the first time he performed in court. He froze in horror. Possibly my finest moment, and one that I savor.” He settled back against the familiar bench. “Well, finest of that year. It was a slow year, and I was feeling petty. But I’m still proud.”
The bench creaked as he shifted. “Well, that explains a few thing.”
“The built in percussion or the smell in court?”
“The jokes. I never guessed. Did he ever figure it out?”
“No way to tell. I’d say yes, but I knew he’d be too vain not to use it. I was right. He’s humiliated himself every time he performed for the King. Worth every copper piece.”
“Sometimes the old jokes are the best. We’ve known bards who would have approved of that sort of thing.”
“Very true.”
Momentary silence in the golden light of late day. Somewhere a bird trilled.
“You did that for me?”
“Absolutely.”
“But didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want you getting a swelled head.” He corrected himself. “More of a swelled head.”
“Well, thank you. I wish all of our old companions were still here to have seen it.”
Leaves swirled about their feet. The last of the laughter died away. The man with the sandwich took one final bite, savoring the taste, and then brushed off his hands with the handkerchief.
“Why is it that we outlive the good ones?”
“Paranoia. Resourcefulness. Luck. I’ll point out, however, that I am one of the good ones.”
“Tell it to the pufferdoves.”
“Ass.”
“Speaking of which, you were telling me about the donkey.”
“You mean the morass.” This time he enunciated.
His friend blinked, put the syllables together, and traced the thread of the previous conversation. He unconsciously stroked his mustache before wrinkling his nose in contempt. “If you meant ‘mer-’, you should have said ‘mer-‘. And that’s a terrible name.”
“It is, isn’t it? Still, it’s better than ‘donkoise.’ That was my first try. ‘Porpkey’ was my second.”
“The man who created the owlbear did us all a grave disservice.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You should rent it out to clean waterweeds from moats.”
“What about my granddaughter?”
“Probably not. I doubt she could eat that much, and her mother might object.”
The man slowly levered himself to his feet before offering a hand to his older companion. His friend shook his head, raised his staff, and was instantly standing.
“I’ve gotten lazy.”
“Gotten?”
They both paused, each laying a hand on the ancient and weather beaten bench. The younger man looked down into the last vestiges of paint.
“You know, I’ve grown to love this thing. It’s old and splintery, but it gives me something to look forward to.” They met each other’s gaze, and both old faces broke out in knowing grins.
“Some things don’t change.”
And they were gone, leaving the bench to birdsong and squirrels and the setting sun.
-- o --
seat.jpg – the yearly meeting place
chew.jpg – the mer-ass, latest home project and children’s pet
underneath_the_surface.jpg – one of the translucent grubs used in the buttersquirrels
hot.jpg – the bloody aftermath of exploding pufferdoves
playme.jpg – Toddzoc the Flatulent learns the hard way about his cursed mandolin
Autumn 2004 Round 3-1: Macbeth vs. Piratecat
They came from different directions and sat on the bench. Slowly, arthritically, mindful of bad joints and old wounds. They’d been coming here for six decades, ever since academy graduation. It was a good bench. It was showing its age, but so were the old men. It was worn, and they were worn, and the peeling paint somehow complemented the wrinkles in their skin. Every once in a while one of them would donate money to have the bench refurbished, but that wouldn’t happen again for another few years. The splinters weren’t quite sharp enough yet to bother.
One of the men adjusted his elaborate robes. His long face boasted the sort of snarled and unkempt beard that might result from a goatee getting delusions of grandeur. Anyone could tell he was a wizard because of the eyes; eyes reflect the soul, and these eyes looked like those of an owl.
The other man sported a dapper little mustache and long gray hair pulled back from his face. He was far from handsome. He didn’t look as ostentatious as his friend. He didn’t look as old as his friend either, but that’s like saying the sea isn’t quite as wet as the ocean.
One of them unwrapped a greasy parchment and took out a suspicious looking sandwich. The other one eyed it askance, gave a disapproving little hrmph, and began patting his pockets. He set aside his intricately carved staff as he pulled out a long-stemmed pipe. Bony fingers snapped, flame flared, the owl-shaped bowl flashed into life.
Late afternoon sunlight warmed old bones.
The man with the pipe ran long fingers through his tangled beard. “I’m stuck with a morass.”
“Don’t you mean ‘in a morass?’ You don’t normally use bad grammar. You’re usually so precise.”
“Of course I’m precise, and I mean what I say. WITH a morass. It’s eating the whole damn lake bed.”
“What is?”
“The morass.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” The man with the mustache took a bite of the sandwich and gave chewing his complete concentration.
The old man’s lip twitched underneath the thick beard. “I took a donkey,” he explained in loud, slow tones.
“I’m no longer a child.”
“My granddaughter is. She loves to swim and wanted a new pet. Her birthday was coming up.”
“So you got her a donkey?” The tone was disbelieving. “It’s been my experience that most little girls want ponies.”
“She isn’t most little girls. I crossed it with a purpose.”
“What sort of purpose?”
“What? Oh, the normal kind. You see, I wanted it to have a fluke.”
“Your purpose has a fluke?”
“All purposes do.”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course not. How else could they move through the water?”
“There’s magic. . .”
They mused on that for a while, sitting on the bench. The unseasonably warm autumn wind blew golden leaves up against the bottom of their shoes.
“. . . but I still have no idea what you’re talking about. Your purpose has a fluke, which is why you’re stuck with a morass. Clear as mud. And I haven’t even begun to understand the donkey.”
“Jackass.”
He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, their narrow shoulders brushing. “Screw you.”
They sat, they smiled, and one of the old men smoked. The other one ate his sandwich. It smelled like rotting kippers. A squirrel scampered up in the hopes of a free handout, caught a whiff of the sandwich, and skittered away before anyone could force-fed it a bite.
The man with the sandwich sighed. “They just don’t make squirrels like they used to.”
“I could fix that.”
“Heh.”
“Tried to once, actually. It was about a year ago that I became interested in their burrowing ability. I decided to cross one of the little buggers with some grub.”
“Grub? Oh, like nuts.”
“Like nuts to you, apprentice. No need to be sarcastic. I did it, I’m telling you. I plucked it from a leaf.”
“The squirrel?”
“No, the grub. I took them from leaves, amplified their growth ratio to achieve a reasonable adhesion matrix, and then merged their essences using standard incantations. I wanted to use a grub that was translucent, so that you could see what was happening inside the squirrel’s innards.”
The other man pondered this for a minute, doubtlessly picturing his friend prying open a squirrel’s jaws and staring down into the translucent acorns packing its belly. “Why?”
“Just experimenting. Seeing if the worm-like half would dig faster or slower than the squirrel half. Seeing if it still tried to eat leaves, or spin a cocoon, or turned into a buttersquirrel.”
“I find they’re best cooked in bacon grease.”
“I didn’t eat it. Part butterfly, part squirrel. Or fluttersquirrel, if you prefer. Or squirrelmoth. It’s all one to me.”
“Oh, you transmogrified it?”
“Of course I did, you idiot. What did you think we were talking about?”
“Your purpose.”
He closed his eyes, counted to ten. “The tale of the purpose is connected to the donkey.”
A snort came from beside him. “So it could have a fluke, right?”
At last. Gratified, the man with the owl eyes smiled. “Exactly.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Teeth ground on a pipe stem. “Well, at the moment we’re talking about transmogrifying squirrels.”
“Indeed we are. You did some work in that area, if I remember correctly.”
“You don’t say.” The words dripped acid. It had been his life’s work for seventy years.
“The hummingfrogs and the bumblecats.”
“Good times.”
“Not particularly. I seem to recall that claws and wings and poisonous stingers didn’t make for good house pets.”
“Well, it gave those young adventurers something to hunt. Gave them a start in life.”
“After they were done, didn’t they try to hunt down the mage creating those abominations?”
“A simple misunderstanding.” He blew a smoke ring that briefly resembled an octodog before dissipating into the clear autumn air. They pondered the smoke for a moment, lost in memories.
“My favorite was the time you tried to merge pigeons and pufferfish.”
“Now, let’s not bring up –“
“It’s a work of genius!” The old man’s voice was a remarkable parody of the other’s, rising and wheedling in an impression that would have gained a performer great fame had he managed to survive the stage show. “Birds that can swim and fly! Birds that inflate! Defense against the natural predator! Revolutionize the avian community!” The wizened man trailed off into gasping coughs that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
His friend drew himself up stiffly, tapped one finger against the head of his staff. “It’s not my fault that their skin elasticity was sub-par in cool weather. Don’t you dare laugh.”
The coughs turned into choking gasps. “And then. . . when they released the beautiful white pufferdoves over the coliseum before the games, and you set off the fireball to mark the start of the gladiatorial matches. . .” He was having trouble breathing now. “And the pufferdoves all got scared at once. . .” Mirth got the better of him and he finally keeled over sideways onto his friend, chest heaving with unrestrained laughter.
The other old man gritted his teeth on the pipe stem and mourned his lost dignity. His tone was wry. “In retrospect, it’s a shame the Queen didn’t have an umbrella with her.”
“Wumph!”
“Yes, yes.”
“Wumph wumph WUMPH WUMPH WUMPH! Exploding pufferdoves everywhere! Wumph!”
“Yes, we don’t particularly need sound effects. Thank you.” The tone was haughty.
“I remember the mess as they vaporized! And in the process you accidentally fulfilled that prophecy about the blood rain. Oh, the sages were furious with you for that.” Laughter trailed off into awkward hiccups, punctuated by uncontrollable giggling. “And the King’s jester, good ole’ Toddzoc, wrote that wonderful song about you that everyone sung for years. . .”
There was a heavy sigh. “I was tired of being High Magus anyways.”
The younger of the two men fished out a handkerchief and wiped tears of merriment from his face. “As you said, good times.”
“Feh. And please stop humming that tune under your breath.” His eyes narrowed. “Apropos of nothing, I notice that your impersonations of me have gotten better.”
“I learned from the best, and I get a lot of practice. You know, did I ever tell you that I got revenge for you?”
The older man’s head swiveled birdlike towards his friend. “Oh? How’s that?”
“Sent Toddzoc a cursed mandolin. I enchanted the thing to vastly improve his playing, but it gave him horrible gas every time he played it. You should have seen his face the first time he performed in court. He froze in horror. Possibly my finest moment, and one that I savor.” He settled back against the familiar bench. “Well, finest of that year. It was a slow year, and I was feeling petty. But I’m still proud.”
The bench creaked as he shifted. “Well, that explains a few thing.”
“The built in percussion or the smell in court?”
“The jokes. I never guessed. Did he ever figure it out?”
“No way to tell. I’d say yes, but I knew he’d be too vain not to use it. I was right. He’s humiliated himself every time he performed for the King. Worth every copper piece.”
“Sometimes the old jokes are the best. We’ve known bards who would have approved of that sort of thing.”
“Very true.”
Momentary silence in the golden light of late day. Somewhere a bird trilled.
“You did that for me?”
“Absolutely.”
“But didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want you getting a swelled head.” He corrected himself. “More of a swelled head.”
“Well, thank you. I wish all of our old companions were still here to have seen it.”
Leaves swirled about their feet. The last of the laughter died away. The man with the sandwich took one final bite, savoring the taste, and then brushed off his hands with the handkerchief.
“Why is it that we outlive the good ones?”
“Paranoia. Resourcefulness. Luck. I’ll point out, however, that I am one of the good ones.”
“Tell it to the pufferdoves.”
“Ass.”
“Speaking of which, you were telling me about the donkey.”
“You mean the morass.” This time he enunciated.
His friend blinked, put the syllables together, and traced the thread of the previous conversation. He unconsciously stroked his mustache before wrinkling his nose in contempt. “If you meant ‘mer-’, you should have said ‘mer-‘. And that’s a terrible name.”
“It is, isn’t it? Still, it’s better than ‘donkoise.’ That was my first try. ‘Porpkey’ was my second.”
“The man who created the owlbear did us all a grave disservice.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You should rent it out to clean waterweeds from moats.”
“What about my granddaughter?”
“Probably not. I doubt she could eat that much, and her mother might object.”
The man slowly levered himself to his feet before offering a hand to his older companion. His friend shook his head, raised his staff, and was instantly standing.
“I’ve gotten lazy.”
“Gotten?”
They both paused, each laying a hand on the ancient and weather beaten bench. The younger man looked down into the last vestiges of paint.
“You know, I’ve grown to love this thing. It’s old and splintery, but it gives me something to look forward to.” They met each other’s gaze, and both old faces broke out in knowing grins.
“Some things don’t change.”
And they were gone, leaving the bench to birdsong and squirrels and the setting sun.
-- o --
seat.jpg – the yearly meeting place
chew.jpg – the mer-ass, latest home project and children’s pet
underneath_the_surface.jpg – one of the translucent grubs used in the buttersquirrels
hot.jpg – the bloody aftermath of exploding pufferdoves
playme.jpg – Toddzoc the Flatulent learns the hard way about his cursed mandolin
