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Old 03-21-2007, 06:18 PM   #17
Kuruharan
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Join Date: Jan 2002
Location: A Remote Dwarven Hold
Posts: 3,685
Kuruharan is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Kuruharan is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Kuruharan is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Boots

“Six,” said the croupier, as Denimthor turned over his cards.

The banker, currently a dwarf with a rather shaggy brown beard named Fazi, smiled and turned over a 5 and a 2.

“Seven,” said the croupier and began ruthlessly moving Denimthor’s stake into the bank. The frivolous and scantly clad nymphs that seem to congregate around high stakes games in high power casinos tittered and began stroking Fazi’s hair and beard (they had already clustered around him long since). Fazi sat there and looked smug.

Denimthor, on the other hand, sat there near despair. He couldn’t allow himself to remember that he’d started a line of credit to get his chips. He also couldn’t allow himself to remember what happened to defaulting debtors. Groaning, he looked about himself. The room was large and full of people of different sorts. The carpets and furniture were very rich. Figuring prominently in the décor was the image of a dragon. To take his mind off his troubles for a moment, Denimthor studied the image. At first glance it appeared to be just a typical image of a dragon, twisting and wreathed in fire. But what was that clutched in the dragon’s claw? It looked like a…microphone? What grim omen is this, wondered Denimthor, to see this fell beast with such a thing.

…and where was that awful music coming from? It was low and faint, as one would expect in an establishment of refinement and taste…but it had an effect on the ear similar to a cat being put through a ringer. These contemplations brought him back to reality. How had this evening gone so horribly wrong? It had started reasonably well. He had almost doubled his stake, which is to say he had almost broken even. Then everything went all pear-shaped and he was down to his last thousand in chips.

There was no time for further contemplation as the next round had begun. Steeling his soul, Denimthor signaled that he would play. The nymphs looked at him in that vaguely pitying but mostly scornful way they have as they anticipated watching his last stand.

The cards were dealt. A 5 and 2. He had a 7, a splendid hand, not quite as good for him as a natural, but he had a definite advantage. He signaled that he wanted no card. Fazi took one. It was a 6. Denimthor began to feel more confident, surely the dwarf had gone over the limit and had nothing. Denimthor turned over his cards.

“Seven,” announced the croupier impressively. The nymphs winced, much to Denimthor’s satisfaction. Fazi just sat there and looked vaguely disappointed. Denimthor was suddenly feeling much better about life and stuff. He reached for his winnings. Fazi turned over his cards.

“I don’t suppose you brought more with you,” said Fazi in a rather contemplative tone.

Denimthor looked at the cards and collapsed in an undignified and most un-Proctorlike heap on the floor. The dwarf had a 2 and a 10.

The nymphs squealed with delight, a sound that to Denimthor held all the charm of fingernails across a chalkboard.

“Excuse me, sir,” came a rather aloof voice from above him, “but it appears you are out of chips. I’m afraid it is time for you to pay your bill if you wish to continue to play.”

There was nothing else for it, he had to try and overawe this mere functionary with his high rank, title, and lineage.

“Do you know who I am?” Denimthor demanded in his most imposing voice from his not so imposing heap on the floor.

“A defaulting debtor,” said the voice.

“I, sir, am the Proctor of Grundor,” Denimthor bellowed, still from his most un-Proctorlike heap on the floor.

“And I’m the Queen-Mother,” said the voice. Strong hands seized Denimthor.

“Grundor has no Queen-Mother!” cried Denimthor, “Grundor needs no Queen-Mother!”

This reminder of monarchy did little to improve Denimthor’s mood, for some odd reason. But on the other hand, neither did the savage series of buffets he suddenly received about the head and shoulders.

“Congratulations,” said the dwarf in front of him, “you now qualify for our special rewards program.”

“Here it comes,” thought Denimthor, bracing for the whips and chains.

“A free concert down in the most exclusive part of the casino,” said the dwarf. “A show just started and if you hurry you won’t miss much of it.”

Denimthor reacted in the only way he could under the circumstances.

“Whaaaa…” he stammered. “No feather-tickling? No pillow torture? No c…c…comfy chair?”

“Of course not!” said the dwarf, seeming surprised. “We want to reward special patrons such as yourself. It keeps you coming back.”

“Ahh,” said Denimthor. This was more like it. They were going to accord him treatment befitting his status. He adopted his most gracious and generally Proctor-like demeanor. “Lead the way,” he said.

The dwarves led Denimthor through the casino, making something of a parade of him in front of the customers. Denimthor strode with dignity behind the dwarves. Who could blame them if they wanted to make a show of having THE Proctor of Grundor in their casino; that would bring in the crowds. He failed to notice that the eyes watching him held a mixture of fear and pity.

They started down a long corridor. As they proceeded Denimthor grew increasingly uneasy. He couldn’t lay his finger on the source of it. Was it because he was no longer basking in the crowd? Was it because the corridor they were leading him down grew darker? Why were the dwarves stopping and putting large wads of cotton in their ears?

Then it hit him, the hideous music was much worse down here. It all made sense!!! He tried to run, but the dwarves grabbed him and dragged him down.

“No…no…no!” he jabbered, “I’ll pay…I’ll find a way!!!” The dwarves were oblivious to his protestations and carried him down until they drew near some large doors. The music came from behind the doors. The dwarves were about to open them when the music stopped. They heard a soft groan. A *WHIPPPOOOOOWWWW!!!* <thud> was instantly succeeded by thunderous applause.

The door burst open and four dwarves carrying a body came bundling out. The dwarves shoved Denimthor through the door and closed it. The crowd around him was in a frenzy…the sort of frenzy that usually attends speeches given in the Soviet Union where the first person who stops cheering goes to Siberia. Several members of the crowd seemed to be a little overcome with their rapture and were screaming at the top of their lungs and foaming at the mouth.

“Thank you, thank you!” boomed a voice from up front, “You are too kind. And now my next number…”

Somewhere in the room somebody started sobbing.

*CRUNCH*

feeeEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGGSSSSSS!!!!!
NoTHing mOOOOOOOOOreEEEEE thAAn FEEEEEEeeeeeeeLLLLLLLLL…


Denimthor cast his horrified gaze toward the stage.

There, mikestand in hand, singing in all the dulcet tones of an elephant in its death agony, stood Chrysophylax Dives.

AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! !!!

Dead silence.

Denimthor could hardly believe that he’d screamed like that. All the eyes in the room were on him. They looked at him with…well, it was that sort of look that one gets when one has just gone running naked through some public place. Everyone looks at you with horror but at the same time wishes they’d thought to do that first. This look was sort of like that…only much, much worse. And one pair of eyes had nothing of that look about them.

“Oh,” said Chrysophylax sweetly, “a critic!”

Denimthor’s mouth went dry..er.

“Come up here and let’s see if you can do better,” commanded the dragon. Whimpers of dismay stealthily crept from the audience. Denimthor was only dimly aware of all this. All he saw were the razor sharp teeth and the powerful jaws moving about.

“Come now,” said Chrysophylax. “It isn’t like the Proctor to leave an audience waiting.”

Last edited by Kuruharan; 03-21-2007 at 06:22 PM.
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