Recruit Cost: 0 Ability: Recruit Speed 100%, Clumsiness

[Guest Portable Machiavelli]

Magic Specialty PLAIN Race HUMAN

 

Attribute BASIC Power Rank 1

 

Attack Power 8

Attack Type HAIL MARY

Attack Initiative 1

 

Counter Attack 1 Hit Point 8

 

Attack Resistance -

 

Upkeep: 0.00 geld 0.00 mana

 

You may not be getting much... but you'll sure be paying for it .

 

How do I go about submitting an application here?

 

Portable Machiavelli

Melts in your pocket, not in your kingdom

[Wyvern]

Machiavelli,

 

The process of submitting an application is rather simple. All you have to do is post some sample of your writing that shows that you have potential. This could be a story, a poem, a small segment of role-playing, or anything else thought-provoking or creative. Just try to make it good...

 

------------------------------

 

Almost a Dragon...

 

"My life is like one big crime: I try to scheme through it." -Common, "The 6th Sense"

 

Owner of the Decanter of Endless Booze.

Edited by: Wyvern00  at: 10/3/01 7:52:26 pm

[Guest Portable Machiavelli]

Please, call me "Portable".

 

OOC: Only a fragment of a short story I've begun. Probably my first attempt at writing a character that is not, well, me. He does have some elements of myself, but I've attempted, and will attempt as I continue, to exaggerate certain things as well as adding completely new traits as I try to create a more nuerotic, pathetic persona for him. The real question I must answer for myself is - should I continue?

 

Green Eyed Monsters and Other Things that Go Bump in the Night

 

        Stephen scribbled vengefully on a notepad. Violent strokes scarred the surfaces of pages far underneath the recipient of his ire, and the dark-lined forms created seemed less random than animatedly horrific. An overeager psychiatrist might have analyzed the images from his cushioned seat with a furrowed brow, exclaiming at the pain and malevolence evident in this particular patient. As it was, Stephen hardly took note of the result of his frustrations, though he did sit in his own padded chair, swiveled perpendicular to a keyboard and a glowing monitor, last night’s work left on the screen. Yesterday he’d worked five hours overtime, and now here he was on Thursday, one hour early. Hell, he might as well have slept here last night. He hadn’t seen his wife, after all.

 

        He always worked at times like these. Three and a half close, soothing walls - enough at least that if he closed his eyes and dulled his ears he could foster in himself a sense of comfortable confinement. The softer the background, the more alone he was, the better he could create that sense of pleasant enclosure. And so Stephen reveled in those early hours when people rarely pass, never more substantial than an echo heard from afar, when bright lights never assaulted tender senses and the rhythmic hum of the building’s lifeblood throbbed unobscured by more worldly activities.

 

        And it was these moments when he would close in his mind as well, letting it prowl no further than those very walls which surrounded him. Sometimes he achieved this by burying his thoughts in work, sometimes he’d bury himself in his blinking screen, sometimes, even, he’d bury his thoughts in a deliberate attempt to bury his thoughts. They were all just different ways to stick one‘s head in the sand. He realized that consciously; it never stopped him. He also realized he was well acquainted with the flavour of sand - gritty, painful. In his wryer moods, there were moments he was able to grin at himself sardonically. Dirt was an acquired taste.

 

        But while burying his head in the sand may have been a habitual occurrence, what he was engaging in at that moment was more akin to unburying the sand within his head. And then picking through the sand for any grains of salt that may or may not be just his imagination. That was what the notepad was for, and that was the particular rationalization for today’s early appearance at the office.

 

        And so while dull people filtered into work, dull memories drifted in slowly from a distance. Their faded edges passed tantalizingly near - close enough, almost, and he grasped at them with a frenzy born of intense need. He lusted for these reflected moments. He longed to agonize over them, each one a prick of self-inflicted pain. Prick after prick until the pricks fell so close as to be drawn into a single silent aching moan. And then, skillfully played, the moan would reverberate just enough to fill a certain secret void in him. But with each impulsive grope the recollection would dart away from him, and each time he would have no line to reel them in. He wasn’t getting anywhere. The clock read fifteen past nine now. Breaking his pencil neatly in two with a grimace, Stephen growled weakly to himself. The growl turned into a cough, and his hand reached reflexively to clutch at his chest. He needed something to drink, and he needed to clear his head.

 

        He dropped the yellow legal notepad onto his desk and tossed the halves of pencil towards his waste bin with equal measures of irritation. Stephen’s chair swiveled another ninety degrees from his monitor, and he stood up from it deliberately, carefully putting together an air of guarded nonchalance before he crept through his only opening to the outside world. The corridor leading to the water cooler was narrow and bright, and just beginning to fill with noise and people. Still blinking his eyes as they adjusted, Stephen shuffled towards the cooler with his head slightly down and his eyes to the floor a few feet in front of him. There was no one there, good. He pressed the blue button with his thumb and tilted his cup so the stream hit the plastic side, muffling the noise of the falling water. Just as he was adjusting the angle of the cup to accommodate the rising level, a meaty hand fell on Stephen’s shoulder as John’s voice, mockingly jovial, chuckled behind him, “Thirsty, Stephen?”.

 

        Startled by the hand grasping his shoulder, Stephen dropped the clear plastic cup. Falling, the cup hit the edge of the drain on the water cooler and seemed to balance for just a moment before bouncing upwards and upside down again. The cup splashed itself over the front of Stephen’s trousers, and having relieved itself on Stephens left leg above his knee, the cup met the ground, spinning a lazy curve before settling a few feet away. Turning to face John, Stephen smiled sickly. “Good morning, John.”

 

        John took one look at Stephen’s pants and his chuckle escalated to a hearty bellow. John had loosened his grasping fist and now patted the top of Stephen’s arm patronizingly before he turned to leave, laughing out “Try to find the bathroom next time buddy” over his shoulder.

 

        Frozen, Stephen watched John stride away. After several moments Stephen bent down carefully, picked up the plastic cup, and shuffled hurriedly back down the corridor, the cacophony of people’s morning greetings chasing him back behind his walls, his notepad, his pencil, and his thoughts returned to with renewed determination. Was John the one Susanna had been smiling towards, at the office Christmas party, by the tree? Were her eyes gleaming? Was that John’s laughter that echoed faintly in his memories? He decided that it was.

 

And with that, the Portable Machiavelli charges the Almost-Dragon, diving through the air, collapsing in upon itself, and landing neatly in Wyvern's pocket

 

Portable Machiavelli

Melts in your pocket, not in your kingdom

[Falcon2001]

What are you, pocket boy?

 

Even though I have no say, you are a VERY GOOD storyteller. I find it highly probable that you are better than I and will make it in, while I stay out and throw eggs.

[Falcon2001]

Ah! I see, said the blind man!

 

Don't you have an account here?

 

And does anyone know what's with the sudden spamming of the AM UBB?

[Guest Portable Machiavelli]

The Portable Machiavelli steps out of Wyvern's pocket, walks over to Falcon2001, and shakes his hand.

 

I've just been informed my application has not been accepted. While you enjoy your stay I find it highly likely that now I will be the one throwing eggs .

 

Portable Machiavelli

Melts in your pocket, not your Kingdom

 

P.S. Falcon, my friend, it's RagingGoat, you may remember me. It's nice to see you..

[Guest Portable Machiavelli]

It's nice to see you're OK, Yui . I hope everything's fine over there.

 

And of course... !

 

--RagingGoat@hotmail.com

 

(but I'll send you an e-mail nevertheless).

[Yui-chan]

RagingGoat, would you be so kind as to send me a quick note so that I can have your email address? vayenne@yahoo.com

[Jechum]

Greetings Machiavelli,

 

        I have heard that name is infamous for its views on politics, human nature, morality, fortune and religion. With just a little research, it became clear that that Machiavellians have a reputation for being both cunning and decadent. In fact, Niccolò Machiavelli’s nickname in the 16th century was "Old Nick"—the popular nickname for Satan.

 

        Undoubtedly, the skill is there, but based on what I’ve seen the spirit may be lacking. If you don’t mind I would like to hold onto your application until you run out of eggs. Maybe at that time we can sit down and revisit the issue.

 

        I suggest reading the Codex’s "the Pen is Mightier than the Sword's Standard". In the meantime feel free to visit our site and I encourage you to contribute positively.

 

Most Honorably and Respectfully

Jechum

Mage of Shadows

Crusader of Intelligent Conversations

The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword-BH

Towel Sales Man - "The Intergalactic Highway (reset) is coming so better get your towel now!"

[Guest Minta Rose]

"Eggs?" asks Rydia. "Excellent! I've wanted scrambled eggs for *weeks*." She looks around expectantly. . .

 

"Ummmm. . .anyone have a frying pan I can borrow? I haven't seen Racuoul in ages."