Gamba crept forward, grimly fascinated by the hilts protruding from the Perilous Poet's corpse. He crept closer, closer, until he began to wonder whether he saw something stranger than anything he had seen at the picnic thus far.
While others milled about arguing whether they should accuse the wight of any crime and what they woul do if they succeeded in convicting him (since he was already dead), the poet's corpse began to assume a strange green hue, and shimmer a little-- almost as if a breeze was blowing across a still, green pond.
As he watched in horror, stifling a shriek, there arose from the poet's body a new wraith, hovering, rising, billowing a little on the breeze. Gamba seized the book of poetry out of the corpse's hands and rapidly leafing through, found the evidence he needed, as scenes and acts ripled through his hands. Now the shriek came whistling out of Gamba like a teakettle on the boil.
"Nnnnnnoooooooo! A Perilous Play-Wight!"
Everyone turned at the noise and a chorus of gasps issued forth.
[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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