Ozymandias

I'm not much of a fan of poetry, Rasash, but yours I like quite a bit. You're very good at painting intricate pictures with simple, yet important messages.

Roleplaying shenanigans aside, I'm glad to have you with us, Bhurin. You're a sharp one.

Lady Celes' screams echo through the manor, and the raised voices across the land seem to echo from everywhere. Jakob is taken aback by the cacophony of anger and anguish, his own troubles momentarily forgotten. Ozymandias and Peredhil lock eyes, nod to one another, and each leaps out of his chair at a run, Ozymandias flying outside and Peredhil racing upstairs to Lady Celes. Regaining himself, Jakob takes off after Peredhil.

The Black Mage with the Comfy Chair ™ looks around. As he notice that he is being thouroughly ignored, his face turns red "ENOUGH!!!!!" he yells. Everybody falls silent and turns to look at the Black Mage. Looking around on the crowd of tipsy, battered, scorched and generally ruffeled mages, Bats, Giant Grapes (what few remains) and Giant Stereotypical Males of French Origin, the Black Mage suddenly realize that he is the center of attention. Now he turns even redder, this time with embarrasment. "Ehhhmmm, could any of you please tell me who owns this chair, I'd like to return it please." The entire congregation of assorted creatures stares at the Black Mage. "Ehhhmmm, You see ... ehhmm ... it sort of just fell down in my garden and I thought someone might miss it." The crowd starts to whisper amongst eachother. "Ay seem tu recal, that le chair allez in le hole on it's own accord." one of the Giant Stereotypical Frenchmen says. "AHA!!!" yells the Black Mage "So no one here has anything to do with this??? I don't believe it !!! You lot are always stirring up trouble for the rest of us." The Black Mage looks around with a dramatic expression in his face, once more red with anger. "But I will make you pay for this ... truly I will." Wiht a swirl of his cloak he dissapears, leaving the chair behind. Suddenly the doorbell sounds. Galatea goes to answer it. She opens the door and a cloaked figure with a large nose forces it's way past her. The rest of the assembled mages strains too get a good look at the figure. "Is it a Gnome?" Deidre asks. "No, it's too tall," answers Ozymandias "Besides, I sense a great evil emenating from it." "I think it might be one of the rare Vampires, that are known to taunt you in jibberish before they suck your blood, truly terrible ... Just think Fran Drescher with fangs." one of the hamsters says, promptly getting torn to pieces by the irate Quadamage. It was a bad day for the hamster to try and impress the mages with it's knowledge of occult second-rate soap stars. Suddenly Galatea lets out a loud *GASP* She points at the figure with a trembeling finger and stutters "It, It, It's Barbar Bar Barbara Streisand!!!!!" "Yes ... It is I!!!!" the figure yells. I have come with a song-o-gram from the Dark Mage. "AAAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!" the crowd yells in unison and starts to panic. What is Barbara Streisand up to? What about the Giant Stereotypical Frenchmen? How much longer will the terrible hole be contained by the Temporal Stasis Field spell? Are all the hamsters dead now? and what about the bats and grapes? Will peace ever settle in the Banquet Hall so we can all enjoy a quiet glass of wine? Why does Quadamage have such a phobia for dancing hamsters? Will Deidre be able to decide wether she prefers wine over milk? Are Ents able to drink wine? And if no, shouldn't somebody get Woods something to drink? Get the answer to these questions and more in the next episode of ... "Invasion of the Flying Grapes"

Deirdre listens to Ozymandias's plan and wonders what she can do while waiting for the other mages to appear."And yeah,I'm a mage now,not a cat,Galateca!!!",she grumbles.

"And if you don't mind, we could use a hand ... ... paw ... Ozymandias has a plan"

"Currently? Giant Frenchmen and a huge hole in the floor that howls!", Ozymandias yells to her.

Deirdre the cat emerges from under a huge icky pile of squashed grapes and bats and asks what the fuss is all about.

A black mage comes in to the bar dragging a really comfortable chair behind him. Stands up and looks around the room and then screams "Who throw this in my graden. I want hands now!!!!!"

quote: Originally posted by Dameon: "I'm really tired. I think I'll go home now." (where's that quote from? (i know you server one guys can get it)) [/b] Forrest Gump. Now, back to your regularly scheduled blasted remnants of sanity.

Dameon looks around at the chaos that is now the banquet hall. He stops gazing around suddenly and says "I'm really tired. I think I'll go home now." (where's that quote from? (i know you server one guys can get it))

A neat cleanup of all grape leavings and bats, Armageddon, server cramps, a splitting headache, a newly purchased copy of "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes II: Flying Fanged Fruit of Fury"(hoping Archmage Yo-yokirby got his good side), an evil twin, a new strain of grapes, a melon, an impromptu reverse French singing lesson, the appearance of an energetic then suddenly airborne carnivourous chair and the subsquent disappeance of same (along with the now late twice over John Steinbeck), giant stereotypical Frenchmen, and a formerly expanding maw in the floor that unearthly howls seem to be issuing from, Ozymandias tries to take it all in without resorting to an enormously long run-on sentence. With no success. Thinking as quickly as his inebriated mind allows- *Casting Concentration on the fermenting reeeeaaally wasn't a good idea. Ow.*-he has another idea. *If Concentration worked on the grapes...* He begins concentrating on Feet of Hermes, and casts. His drunkeness quickly melts into a hangover, which causes him to vomit a few times on a French Barbarian, and he then miraculously feels fine. Well, sober. "It worked!!", he crows. *Now, to the matter at -"Eep!"-hand* he muses, dancing away from the lip of the ever widening portal. Looking around, he realizes the worst has happened: his spellbook has fallen in! "Triple Damn!!!", he yells, dodging a piece of ash the size of his head flicked from a giant cigarette. "This is it, then. I've got nothing else left." A flick of the wrist once, twice, thrice, seven times, and Ozymandias has seven cards in his hand. Cards with an all too familiar brown backing with blue letters... A Frechman trips over a very confused and frightened wine press and tumbles into the void. "Merde!" A nearby mage looks up from his brave attempts at savaging another Frenchman's ankle. Seeing what Ozymandias has in hand, he curses. "It's not worth it, man! Get that stuff out of here before it's too l...!" He is abruptly cut off as a massive sterotypical foot comes crashing down on him and a lone grape he was standing over. Ozymandias deftly tosses a card at the offending foot. It rebounds into the air, sending the Frenchman stumbling backwards toward the portal. "Le help! Le help! Le screeeeeeeeeeech..." Another Frenchman bites the big one. "You're damned lucky I brought my green/blue deck", Ozymandias mutters. The fallen mage gives him a look, leaps to his feet, throws himself out a window, and hits the ground, running like hell. "Bright lad. Now, what can I do???" Backpeadaling away from the expanding hole, and pulling furiously at his moustache, Ozymandias considers his remaining cards. "Creeping mold? No, probably too slow. Black Lotus? BIG help. Blastoderm? No, don't know if Nemesis is tournament legal yet. AHA! Quickly! Any, oh, crap, what's the proficiency? Verdancy? ANY GREEN MAGES HERE?" Suddenly, he notices the pit is no longer expanding. *Well, better safe than sorry* "Verdants! Greens!!! ARE YOU HERE???" No answer. "Alright, I'm not wasting another moment. Not at this rate!" He tosses the cards away. "I need six other mages! I have the solution! Woods! Get your bark-laden butt over here! Quadamge! Yo-yokirby! Galatea! Dethyl! To me! Greased!" "Yes?" "You find Deirdre! Tzimfemme? Damn! Rydia? Damn!! Now where did they go? Surfing Druids! Are any of you actually mages?" Some reluctantly, others hurriedly, a few under hashish clouds, mages huddle around Ozymandias. "Listen, I've got a summon that should take care of this whole sorry mess, but I need your mana..."

Kannibal stumbles into the room and looks at all the people around him. Apparently something strange was going on with bats, grapes, Frenchmen, and the like, but Kannibal took no notice. He scouted the room for the lusty serving wenches, and upon finding none, he sighed and took out his stomach flute and began to play another sad tune, bringing tears to the eyes of all the mages in the room. For one brief moment, time itself seemed to stop and everyone was at peace. Kannibal finished his sad tune and, waving goodbye, he left and accidentally stumbled down the steps leading out of the Banquet Hall. "SON OF A [censored]" he yelled. And with the Reverand gone, the chaos resumed.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! NO HAMSTERDANCE!!!!!!!!! quadamage yells as he is distracted from his attmepted dispel of Seismic Disruption. In his fury, he blows apart hamster after hamster with his slgihtly wild-eyed, completely anger-filled stare, not even needing to cast Gaze of Death, and making said spell look like a joke (note: you don't want to get quadamage angry. this has happenned in real life). Turning back to the hole, he finds that some quick-thinking blue mage has cast Temporal Stasis Field on it, thus stopping the destruction and allowing the various mages to look over quadamage's shoulder and kibitz as he tries to understand what went wrong with the spell and therefore, reverse it. However, they cease to do this when he looks at one and they turn to stone. muttering only half-meant apologies, he unfreezes the unfortunate mage and returns to his studies unhindered. MEANWHILE... the chair, still smoldering both from the heat and from anger, gets up and, turning walks smack dab into the black mage whose garden it had fallen in. quickly petrifying the chair, the mage proceeds to study it, muttering "ingenious design...never would've thought of it myself... should bve just the thing to take out those anoyying mages in the Banquet hall." this last he says with contempt, throwing a deathly glance at the towering structure in the distance.

Yo-yokirby abandons his copys of the grape invasion as he casts Summon Bat Haters. About 10 or 11 Bat Haters appear and proceed to crush, smash, and gennerally maul the Bats. Unfortunatly, as the spell loses affect, the Bat Haters turn into Little Annoying Dancing Hamsters. They dance and dance, while mages running in circles trip over them. (Luckily, most of the Hamsters fell into obllivion ) (You can see the Little Annoying Dancing Hamsters at www.hamsterdance.com

Greased looks one way, and the other. "WHERE'S THE CAT?!?!" In the distance, Diedre meows... [sudden, intense silence...] ...or did she?

Dameon turns as Quadmages casts his spell and watches a very strange chair disappears into the widening crack in the floor. Sighing he turns his back on quadmage and reaches for his everfull glass of milk. From behind him , Dameon hears quadmage scream. "IT'S WRONG...ALL WRONG...NONONONONONONO YOU'RE SUPPOSE TO CLOSE YOU STUPID HOLE" Quickly twisting around in his seat, Dameon notices what Quadmage, from his vantage point, couldn't...there is something coming out of the crack. He watches as the chair comes hurtling out of the crack and smashes through the roof to land in some black mage's garden. "This is not good.." Smoke and steam billow from the ever widening tear in mother earth and a howl eminates from the deep black hole, chilling Dameon to the bone....

Quadamage, at this point dazed, Drunk, charged, dragging, with feet of hermes, and scrapes and scratches covering his bearded face and trying to control the giant he summoned (who has now caught and is trying to tame a randomly flying RD with his pink, flowery umbrella) Sags with a relieved expression into a huge overstuffed chair, and then starts struggling mightily as he realizes that the chair isn't stuffed with chair stuff, but with unsuspecting people. He casts flame shield on himself, and the chair cringes away from him, lunging towards the barkeep, who is still being held down by an irate steinbeck. feeling pity on the sad little (although quite fat) man, Quadamage steibeck off him and hurls the little magic-created author into the path of the Charging chair in an attempt to slow it. He throws the Barkeeper over the Bar. and turns to face the chair, both of them baring their teeth. Recalling what he was working on when he came to the Hall to relax. He whips out his experimental Computerized spellbook, and spends precious seconds paging through the hundreds of entries he has made. He finds what he was looking for, and casts his experimental spell Seismic Disruption. Teh ground shakes, and a red glow begins to shine around the hungry chair. cracks form in the gro9und, and the ground begins to crumble. The chair, caught in the middle of the spell, falls into the middle of, well, nothing. as quadamage casts the final phrase, the ground begins to close. but somethign has gone wrong! the closing stops, and the gap begins to widen once more. looking at the other tired and bedraggled mages for help, he remembers once more why this spell was still in the experimental stages. He curses under his breath and hopes that combined, the powerful mages in this hall can overcome the experimental spell...

A dark and forbidding voice booms from Galateas pale lips. "YOU HAVE RELEASED THE DREADED GIANT STEREOTYPICAL FRENCHMEN!!!!! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO TERRA???" "Ehhhmmm ... no" answers Woods, with the feeling that this day is going to be very hectic and quietly cursing his urge to go to the banqueting hall instead of spending the day watching squirrels play in the trees. "DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW THAT NOW THAT THE GIANT STEREOTYPICAL FRENCHMEN HAVE BEEN FREED FROM THEIR PRISON, THEY WILL START TO CONSTRUCT FLYING SHEEP IN AN ATTEMPT TO TAKE OVER TERRA???? FURTHER MORE, THEY WILL BE BANNING ALL USE OF OTHER LANGUAGES THAN FRENCH AND START PUTTING TECHNICAL TRADE RESTRICTIONS ON MAGIC ITEMS OF OTHER ORIGIN THAN FRANCE!!!!!" "YOU MUST STOP THIS MENACE BEFORE IT IS TO LATE!!!!!!!" Galatea starts shaking again, and thrashes wildly on the floor. She gradually starts to quiet down and gets up, holding a hand to her head. "What happened?" she asks, looking around sheepishly.

Having been in hiding through the sticky fray, Galatea comes forth, luckily she has just researched the famed Eno fruit salt spell. A little worse for wear, the party continues, and Galatea starts to mingle, looking forward to a nice glass of wine. She starts drinking and cajoling with the other mages, but cannot completely focus on having fun. Ever present in the back of her head is the persistent, nagging thought that something is very wrong. Never having been one to let something as trivial as a nagging suspicion ruin a good booze-up, especially one with free booze, Galatea tries to push the thought out of her head. But being a Phantasm Mage, her thoughts sometimes have a life of their own. Suddenly Galatea starts convulsing violently. She falls to the floor, knocking over a table and spilling wine all over herself, followed by bowls of olives and salty pringles. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO !!!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!!" Startled, the assembled mages looks at the frail figure on the floor. "Who is she?" Woods ask "I have no idea," answers Greased "But she doesn't seem to be able to hold her booze very well." [to be continued]

Dethyl gathers all his resources and breaks the 8th seal of Armageddon, 100% of all killer grapes and bats fall to the ground dead and crumble to dust, unfortunately all the mages are mildly affected, including Dethyl. All the mages get SEVER STOMACH CRAMPS! Mages start swearing and cursing Dethyl, Dethyl is too much in pain to respond, everyone hopes that some one will cast the Eno fruit salt spell.

Woods continues, his face now crimson with Pinot Noir. "There's only spell I know of that can get us out this scrape and, as far as I'm aware, it's never be casted before." "We'll try anything," yells a particularly burgundy Vampire, anxious to get the hell out of the hall before dawn. A chorus of voices and moans and hisses concur. "OK," says Woods, pleased despite the crisis to be the object of hope rather than ridicule. "The spell is called 'Summon Giant Stereotypical Frenchmen'. In order to be cast successfully, we must all sing 'La Marseillaise' backwards." There is immediate and lusty heckling: "Whaaaaat?! We don't even know it forwards!" "Er, neither do I," confesses Woods. "Wait a minute. Are there any TFB members in the house?" Several hands rather reluctantly snake out from under chairs and tables. "That's mon freres!" bellows Woods. "Get up here and sing for your country, proudly and backwards! Vive la France! Think of the Revolution! Think of Napoleon. Think of La Resistance! Don't think about Vanessa Paradis!" If anything will get a Frenchman from under a table into a room full of flying grapes, it's an appeal to his patriotism. A dozen or so of la creme de la TFB emerge, swatting aside the raw material of their greatest export, and stride to the front of the hall like heroic figures from a Delacroix painting. Woods has gone over to the Surfing Druids and is rapidly teaching them an approximation of the melody and how to play it backwards. He nods to the brave and noble Frenchman and the band strike up, chorus first... Abreuve nos sillons Qu'un sang impur Marchons, marchons (The TFB members are singing lustily, clutching their fists to their chests and not flinching in the face of flying fruit. Gradually, hesitantly, the assembled begin to join in...) Formez vos bataillons Aux armes citoyens (Now for the verse. The Surfing Druids are doing pretty well, probably because many of them have accidentally played it backwards before. The only exception is Sid the bassist who misheard 'La Marseillaise' and is hamming his way through 'Purple Haze'...) Egorger vos fils, vos compagnes ! Allons enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé ! Contre nous de la tyrannie ! L'étendard sanglant est levé (bis) Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes (A real crescendo! Tres fort!) Mugir ces féroces soldats ? Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras The singing stops. There is silence save for the whistling of grapes through the air. Moments pass. Murmurs of disillusionment begin to rhubarb around the room until... Is that a whiff of garlic? What's that sound? An accordion? There is a clinking metallic sound. Is that one petanque ball hitting another? And what is materialising in the centre of the Banquet Hall? Could those ten-foot tall cream-smocked beret wearing onion-adorned mustachioed figures really be Giant Stereotypical Frenchmen? A rousing cheer echoes around the Banquet Hall. The spell has worked! The giant Frenchmen rub their stubble, light up a filterless Gitane and begin to stomp grapes. Woods and his band rapidly pack up and dive for cover to avoid the enormous and indiscriminately stamping feet. Occasionally one of the giants will flick ash into the gathering mulch, but who cares about that. Twenty minutes later there is nothing but a sea of pungent slush. With one last grumble, scratch and puff of smoke, the Frenchmen disappear, their task complete. Woods surveys the new liquid carpet. Another idea (two in a day!) has broken its way through his usually thick skull. "Greased, old chap? Don't I remember you telling me one time that you'd developed a new spell which you rated higher than Inferno and Contract of the Soul?" "Ah", replies the Man. "You'll be referring to 'Instant Fermentation'. Can you get organise a large vat, Tzimfemme? Then consider it done..." 30 minutes and a hundred new gallons of 20% proof Shiraz later, the BH begins the mere and pere of all parties...

Woods enters the Banquet Hall closely followed by the hairy dregs of shamanity, otherwise known as his backing group, The Surfing Druids. "What the fu...?" - splat! - a large grape hits the atonal Ent square between the eyes. For the Druids, edgy at the best of times, paranoia strikes... "Hey, er, is anyone else seeing a roomful of flying grapes or is it just me?" "I'm seeing them too, man!" "I've been hit! I've been hit! MEDIC!" "Cool your boots, man. This isn't 'Nam. It's just the Fly Agaric kicking in. Just find your centre and park your karma...hey..." -SPLAT! - " I'm getting hit by flying grapes!" "They're real as taxes, man! It's a shakedown! I've read about it: first they hit you with flying fruit, then they lock you up in some ranch somewhere and blast Ted Nugent at you day and night then they move in and..." "Shut up" barks Woods, well-adjusted in comparison to his entourage. "The Banquet Hall is under attack from flying grapes and we've got to help these poor people, dammit! Set up the gear. NOW!" The Surfers comply with alacrity, snagged by the knowledge that no-one else would even think of employing them. "Hey, man, this is the first time we've been hit by fruit BEFORE we started playing," observes Freddie Four-Four, the drummer. Batting away the fusillades of fruit at best he can, Woods clambers onto a table. "Ladies, gentlemen and creatures! Stay calm! Don't Panic! I have a plan!" Many of the banqueters make the mistake of groaning and getting a grape in the gullet. Most are so desperate they'll even put their faith in Woods... [to be continued soon...]

multisoul hastly enters the hall carrying a bucket of grapes as reinforcement seeing that most grapes are dead he screams in rage: "YOULL PAY FOR THAT!" he empties the bucket on the floor and starts casting transmute brainsucking grapes the casual grapes start changing into gremlinlike creatures multisoul casts Fruit growth and Permanent levitation multisoul runs out of the hall before his grapes are eable to eat him he grins and says by himself: "Have fun with my new toys, he he."

Yo-yokirby annouces that if you squished at least 10 grapes, you get a copy for free!