So I couldn't decide whether to put them here or in the Quest Forum, but I decided these were creative enough to include in creations.
They're going to be in descending (ish) order. So, the top prize levels first, then mostly in reverse chronological order.
Description Quest Entries
Description Quest Entries
Last edited by Everybody on Tue Apr 26, 2005 6:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
-EB
Your local know-it-all.
Your local know-it-all.
Vermilion
Travelling with a most unusual gait, smoother than strolling, Vermilion gently floats across
the landscape, his luminous eyes of golden yellow twinkling with urbane amusement. Dressed
the part of the elder gentleman he is, his top hat fits snugly atop his sleekly bald head, his
metallic purple skin glinting in the faint light. On closer examination a pair of antennae have
been slipped through two narrow slits in his hat and dance in a bobbing motion as he hovers
in mid-air. Baring a paunch that is unusual for illithids and waggling jowls that speak of
affluence and gilded living, all that seems to be missing is a monocle. One of his smooth
tentacles even firmly grasps a cane of ivory and every nuance of his being projects a poised
and genteel manner.
Travelling with a most unusual gait, smoother than strolling, Vermilion gently floats across
the landscape, his luminous eyes of golden yellow twinkling with urbane amusement. Dressed
the part of the elder gentleman he is, his top hat fits snugly atop his sleekly bald head, his
metallic purple skin glinting in the faint light. On closer examination a pair of antennae have
been slipped through two narrow slits in his hat and dance in a bobbing motion as he hovers
in mid-air. Baring a paunch that is unusual for illithids and waggling jowls that speak of
affluence and gilded living, all that seems to be missing is a monocle. One of his smooth
tentacles even firmly grasps a cane of ivory and every nuance of his being projects a poised
and genteel manner.
Ankou
Standing before you is an apparition directly out of a nightmare. The Ankou is a horrid creature,
inhabiting the mists of Bretagne. Each evening, as the sun sets low across the waters of the Atlantic, a
piercing mystical fog flows up from the low places and out of the many ancient sites of Celtic power.
As the countryside slowly succombs to the embrace of the mists it is as if light, warmth, life itself flees
its cold cruel touch. It is then that the Ankou makes himself known. Noone knows whence he comes,
nor for how long he has roamed the realm of the twilight mist, somewhere between life and death. He
is the guardian of the gate to the next world, come to collect the souls of those perished and transport
them bound to his carriage of driftwood and bone to whatever fate awaits them. It is said that the
crows and ravens are his servants, and that a horrible aberration of a two-headed horse pulls his
carriage along its inexorable path. Few have ever seen the Ankou and lived to tell the tale, but all
reports are consistant with the abomination which stands before you. Little more than tight skin drawn
over parched bone, and in places not even that, the Ankou's power reaches far beyond that of flesh.
He wears a large-brimmed black hat, and whisps of ghostly grey hair fly about slowly despite the eerie
calmness of the fog. His great fur cloak is ragged and threadbare, though he appears utterly at ease
within the biting cold mist. Wielded casually in his hand is a large scythe with a haft weathered through
heavy use, and a razor-sharp iron blade mounted in reverse to the standard fashion. It is not his
weapon however that inspires the terrified cries of children at night, but the simple touch of his
dessicated hand. When he comes to collect the souls of the dead, it is best to turn the eye, for any who
are perceived to interfere with his eternal cause risk the Ankou's wrath. Such an offender may be
stricken as if dead by the Ankou's touch, and carried away both body and soul upon his carriage until
such time as the Ankou grows bored, and seperates the soul to be delivered into death.
Standing before you is an apparition directly out of a nightmare. The Ankou is a horrid creature,
inhabiting the mists of Bretagne. Each evening, as the sun sets low across the waters of the Atlantic, a
piercing mystical fog flows up from the low places and out of the many ancient sites of Celtic power.
As the countryside slowly succombs to the embrace of the mists it is as if light, warmth, life itself flees
its cold cruel touch. It is then that the Ankou makes himself known. Noone knows whence he comes,
nor for how long he has roamed the realm of the twilight mist, somewhere between life and death. He
is the guardian of the gate to the next world, come to collect the souls of those perished and transport
them bound to his carriage of driftwood and bone to whatever fate awaits them. It is said that the
crows and ravens are his servants, and that a horrible aberration of a two-headed horse pulls his
carriage along its inexorable path. Few have ever seen the Ankou and lived to tell the tale, but all
reports are consistant with the abomination which stands before you. Little more than tight skin drawn
over parched bone, and in places not even that, the Ankou's power reaches far beyond that of flesh.
He wears a large-brimmed black hat, and whisps of ghostly grey hair fly about slowly despite the eerie
calmness of the fog. His great fur cloak is ragged and threadbare, though he appears utterly at ease
within the biting cold mist. Wielded casually in his hand is a large scythe with a haft weathered through
heavy use, and a razor-sharp iron blade mounted in reverse to the standard fashion. It is not his
weapon however that inspires the terrified cries of children at night, but the simple touch of his
dessicated hand. When he comes to collect the souls of the dead, it is best to turn the eye, for any who
are perceived to interfere with his eternal cause risk the Ankou's wrath. Such an offender may be
stricken as if dead by the Ankou's touch, and carried away both body and soul upon his carriage until
such time as the Ankou grows bored, and seperates the soul to be delivered into death.
Buzz
As the buzz steps out of his new chariot, his chains jingle beside his pocket. A small, golden watch
hangs from one of the chains, a picture of a skull and crossbones engraved on its surface. His
black, empty eyes look long and hard right into yours through some blue, shiny shades as he
fingers a switchblade in his right pocket. The mans black t-shirt, stretched tight over his muscular
chest and arms, displays a nude female singer, framed in several inappropriate phrases. The
stubby black bristles of his unshaved face move with his mouth as his directs a threat at you,
laughing at the nervous expression you now display. His black hair is a little longer than a burr and
shiny as it sticks up, enveloped in hair gel. A golden necklace hangs outside his shirt, a small sign
attached along with a jeweled ring of silver. His right wrist sparkles with a chain that fits loosely.
A quick movement makes you jump as he jerks a small, silver gun out of his pocket. With another laugh,
he takes out a cigarette and lights it by pulling the gun/lighters trigger. Walking off,
you are keenly aware of his intent stare at your back as you retreat. He probably parked right
beside you in his black racing chariot on purpose, just for the enjoyment of ruining your moment.
Is he really as deadly as he appears, or can I take him on? When this thought races through
your mind, you realize that even his being near has influenced you.
As the buzz steps out of his new chariot, his chains jingle beside his pocket. A small, golden watch
hangs from one of the chains, a picture of a skull and crossbones engraved on its surface. His
black, empty eyes look long and hard right into yours through some blue, shiny shades as he
fingers a switchblade in his right pocket. The mans black t-shirt, stretched tight over his muscular
chest and arms, displays a nude female singer, framed in several inappropriate phrases. The
stubby black bristles of his unshaved face move with his mouth as his directs a threat at you,
laughing at the nervous expression you now display. His black hair is a little longer than a burr and
shiny as it sticks up, enveloped in hair gel. A golden necklace hangs outside his shirt, a small sign
attached along with a jeweled ring of silver. His right wrist sparkles with a chain that fits loosely.
A quick movement makes you jump as he jerks a small, silver gun out of his pocket. With another laugh,
he takes out a cigarette and lights it by pulling the gun/lighters trigger. Walking off,
you are keenly aware of his intent stare at your back as you retreat. He probably parked right
beside you in his black racing chariot on purpose, just for the enjoyment of ruining your moment.
Is he really as deadly as he appears, or can I take him on? When this thought races through
your mind, you realize that even his being near has influenced you.
Velour
I am a cuddly-soft fabric often used in place of velvet, who, to be quite honest, never
was much of a fabric anyhow. I am a closely napped fabric, while he
just lies around all day and takes naps. Sorry, that's not nice--it's
just that me and my cousin never really got along.
He thinks that just because he's velvet he can go get drunk every night and party with the
linen family. Well, he's mistaken on that one! He still has to get up the next morning and
help our tailoring business. He just doesn't understand that velvet, and even me, are on the
way out. Everything's cotton or polyester! Damn--polyester was such a dweeb in high
school and now look at him!
You know what? I know why velvet thinks he's so great. Have you ever looked up my
definition? I read this verbatim--"n : heavy fabric that resembles velvet". That resembles
velvet! Why couldn't velvet resemble me instead? Oh, and have you ever eaten red-velvet
cake? That was his idea. But no one listened when I suggested red-velour pie. Everyone
knows that pie is a more sophisticated dessert anyhow.
Oh well--whatever. Not like it matters. I think he got the satin twins pregnant so I guess
he'll have to grow up pretty soon anyhow. Man, those satin twins are smooth!
I am a cuddly-soft fabric often used in place of velvet, who, to be quite honest, never
was much of a fabric anyhow. I am a closely napped fabric, while he
just lies around all day and takes naps. Sorry, that's not nice--it's
just that me and my cousin never really got along.
He thinks that just because he's velvet he can go get drunk every night and party with the
linen family. Well, he's mistaken on that one! He still has to get up the next morning and
help our tailoring business. He just doesn't understand that velvet, and even me, are on the
way out. Everything's cotton or polyester! Damn--polyester was such a dweeb in high
school and now look at him!
You know what? I know why velvet thinks he's so great. Have you ever looked up my
definition? I read this verbatim--"n : heavy fabric that resembles velvet". That resembles
velvet! Why couldn't velvet resemble me instead? Oh, and have you ever eaten red-velvet
cake? That was his idea. But no one listened when I suggested red-velour pie. Everyone
knows that pie is a more sophisticated dessert anyhow.
Oh well--whatever. Not like it matters. I think he got the satin twins pregnant so I guess
he'll have to grow up pretty soon anyhow. Man, those satin twins are smooth!
Mayhem
The leader of Project Mayhem is here, wearing a faded pink bathrobe with pastel coffee cups on it. He
is, by far, the most interesting single-serving friend you have ever met. He was THE guerrilla terrorist
of the food service industry. Apart from seasoning the lobster bisque, farted-on meringues, sneazed-on
braized endive and, as for the creme of mushroom soup, well... you get the idea. He's a night person.
While the rest of us are sleeping, he works. He has one part time job as a projectionist. Why, you
might ask? Because it affords him certain unique opportunities. Like splicing single frames of
pornography into family films. Not even a hummingbird could catch him at work. You have to give it to
him, he has a plan and it's starting to make sense, in his own sort of way. No fear, no distractions. The
ability to let that which does not matter truly slide. Supposedly, he was born in a mental institution, and
he sleeps only one hour a night. He's a great man. He's started giving out homework assignments, in
sealed envelopes. Fight Club was the beginning. Now, it's out of the basements, and there's a name
for it- Project Mayhem. The first rule of Project Mayhem is: You do not ask questions. Sooner or later,
we all become what he wants us to be. A monkey, ready to be shot into space. A Space Monkey,
ready to sacrifice ourself for Project Mayhem.
The leader of Project Mayhem is here, wearing a faded pink bathrobe with pastel coffee cups on it. He
is, by far, the most interesting single-serving friend you have ever met. He was THE guerrilla terrorist
of the food service industry. Apart from seasoning the lobster bisque, farted-on meringues, sneazed-on
braized endive and, as for the creme of mushroom soup, well... you get the idea. He's a night person.
While the rest of us are sleeping, he works. He has one part time job as a projectionist. Why, you
might ask? Because it affords him certain unique opportunities. Like splicing single frames of
pornography into family films. Not even a hummingbird could catch him at work. You have to give it to
him, he has a plan and it's starting to make sense, in his own sort of way. No fear, no distractions. The
ability to let that which does not matter truly slide. Supposedly, he was born in a mental institution, and
he sleeps only one hour a night. He's a great man. He's started giving out homework assignments, in
sealed envelopes. Fight Club was the beginning. Now, it's out of the basements, and there's a name
for it- Project Mayhem. The first rule of Project Mayhem is: You do not ask questions. Sooner or later,
we all become what he wants us to be. A monkey, ready to be shot into space. A Space Monkey,
ready to sacrifice ourself for Project Mayhem.
Bedlam
A tiny little demon stands here before you, with an odd, far-away look in his eyes. He seems not to
notice you, though perhaps he has simply decided that you are unworthy of his attention. Bedlam is a
rather unusual demon, who has chosen to forgo the typical route of power and destruction prefered by
others of his race. Instead, he is content to play pranks on his fellow beings, sowing the confusion and
uncertainty that are his namesake. So much a part of his character is this mischevious bent, that the
demon gods have cursed him with a most unusual collection of limbs. His skin, instead of being
covered with the scales and spines common to most demons, is covered with fluffy yellow feathers.
His arms, which for other demons are used to strike out and damage opponents, all end in a collection
of feather dusters, balloon animals, and rubber chickens. Perhaps most bizarely, an oversized clown-
head sprouts from Bedlam's left shoulder, complete with big red nose and pointy hat. Unlike the
second heads of truely evil demons, which continually cast destructive spells against opponents, this
head does nothing but shout insults at those nearby. At the moment, while Bedlam himself continues to
ignore you while plotting his next prank, the clown-head is viciously comparing you to an overweight
baboon.
A tiny little demon stands here before you, with an odd, far-away look in his eyes. He seems not to
notice you, though perhaps he has simply decided that you are unworthy of his attention. Bedlam is a
rather unusual demon, who has chosen to forgo the typical route of power and destruction prefered by
others of his race. Instead, he is content to play pranks on his fellow beings, sowing the confusion and
uncertainty that are his namesake. So much a part of his character is this mischevious bent, that the
demon gods have cursed him with a most unusual collection of limbs. His skin, instead of being
covered with the scales and spines common to most demons, is covered with fluffy yellow feathers.
His arms, which for other demons are used to strike out and damage opponents, all end in a collection
of feather dusters, balloon animals, and rubber chickens. Perhaps most bizarely, an oversized clown-
head sprouts from Bedlam's left shoulder, complete with big red nose and pointy hat. Unlike the
second heads of truely evil demons, which continually cast destructive spells against opponents, this
head does nothing but shout insults at those nearby. At the moment, while Bedlam himself continues to
ignore you while plotting his next prank, the clown-head is viciously comparing you to an overweight
baboon.
Zapp
I go by many names. Captain; General; Sir; or, my personal
favorite--the velvet fog. Of my many accomplishments I am most proud
of my victory over the rampaging Killbots in the octilian system. It
was by my genius alone that I realized that the Killbots had a pre-set
kill limit. After that, all I had to do was send wave after wave of my
own men to their deaths!
Of course, the honor of being a 25-star general comes with its own
share of problems. Not for me of course--but I hear other people have
problems sometimes. I command the Nimbus, and along with my faithful
first mate Kif, I have defeated the Retiree People of the
Assisted-Living Nebula; The Pacifists of the Ghandi Nebula; The
Brainballs of Spheron 1 (they were thoroughly licked!) and The
Spiderians of Turantulon 6. Actually, Kif didn't really help.
All-in-all, the life of a captain is a quiet one except for the
occasional female companion. And I've had my share of female
companions in my day. Here's a tip: look deeply into their eyes,
pretend like they're all you're thinking about, and tell them that the
most erotic part of a woman's body is the boobie. Trust me--it worked
for Leela. Oh, Leela! Now there's a woman! Grrr!
I see you're admiring my uniform. I know other captains don't care
about what they wear, but for me it's velour or nothing. I just like
the feel of it as it caresses my hard, toned body. What? No, I do not
wear a girdle--or a toupee! This description is over!
I go by many names. Captain; General; Sir; or, my personal
favorite--the velvet fog. Of my many accomplishments I am most proud
of my victory over the rampaging Killbots in the octilian system. It
was by my genius alone that I realized that the Killbots had a pre-set
kill limit. After that, all I had to do was send wave after wave of my
own men to their deaths!
Of course, the honor of being a 25-star general comes with its own
share of problems. Not for me of course--but I hear other people have
problems sometimes. I command the Nimbus, and along with my faithful
first mate Kif, I have defeated the Retiree People of the
Assisted-Living Nebula; The Pacifists of the Ghandi Nebula; The
Brainballs of Spheron 1 (they were thoroughly licked!) and The
Spiderians of Turantulon 6. Actually, Kif didn't really help.
All-in-all, the life of a captain is a quiet one except for the
occasional female companion. And I've had my share of female
companions in my day. Here's a tip: look deeply into their eyes,
pretend like they're all you're thinking about, and tell them that the
most erotic part of a woman's body is the boobie. Trust me--it worked
for Leela. Oh, Leela! Now there's a woman! Grrr!
I see you're admiring my uniform. I know other captains don't care
about what they wear, but for me it's velour or nothing. I just like
the feel of it as it caresses my hard, toned body. What? No, I do not
wear a girdle--or a toupee! This description is over!
AMystery
AMystery isn't here
You look around for he/she/it.
AMystery still isn't here
You close your eyes.
You open them.
You look around for he/she/it.
AMystery obstinately persists in its absence.
You close your eyes once more, preparatory to repeating this futile exercise, and it is only then, with your eyes closed, that your brain begins to realize what it was experiencing. Before you exists a being of indescribable confusion.
Colors, limbs, entire realities seem to form and vanish without any discernible pattern or reason. Perhaps the realities don't need a reason, but the limbs most certainly do.
They should not be writhing in that particular way, it just isn't the behavior of well bred appendages.
Once more you close your eyes.
Once more the images expand in your mind to confusing and all together overwhelming dimensions.
You open your eyes.
There is nothing.
AMystery is gone?
AMystery isn't here
You look around for he/she/it.
AMystery still isn't here
You close your eyes.
You open them.
You look around for he/she/it.
AMystery obstinately persists in its absence.
You close your eyes once more, preparatory to repeating this futile exercise, and it is only then, with your eyes closed, that your brain begins to realize what it was experiencing. Before you exists a being of indescribable confusion.
Colors, limbs, entire realities seem to form and vanish without any discernible pattern or reason. Perhaps the realities don't need a reason, but the limbs most certainly do.
They should not be writhing in that particular way, it just isn't the behavior of well bred appendages.
Once more you close your eyes.
Once more the images expand in your mind to confusing and all together overwhelming dimensions.
You open your eyes.
There is nothing.
AMystery is gone?
Ender
Travel worn and battle hardened, Ender appears alert and calm.
The elf's friendly demeanor shines through a warm smile,
while his piercing blue eyes betray the hours spent in intense study of magic.
Having endured years of questing and strife, this elf has become a tough, skilled
warrior, forever removing himself from the "wimpy spellcaster" characterization.
Travel worn and battle hardened, Ender appears alert and calm.
The elf's friendly demeanor shines through a warm smile,
while his piercing blue eyes betray the hours spent in intense study of magic.
Having endured years of questing and strife, this elf has become a tough, skilled
warrior, forever removing himself from the "wimpy spellcaster" characterization.
Lyrica
Lyrica, born into the nomadic life style of the Druids has dedicated her life to uphold the ancient ways of old.
Wandering the realms, and practicing the druid skills and magic passed down from her ancestors.
She relies on her abilities as a druid for survival.
Lyrica, like her elders spends most of her time alone, except for a select few.
The elements, wisdom and all that has become her, flows around her, from deep within her soul.
Lyrica, born into the nomadic life style of the Druids has dedicated her life to uphold the ancient ways of old.
Wandering the realms, and practicing the druid skills and magic passed down from her ancestors.
She relies on her abilities as a druid for survival.
Lyrica, like her elders spends most of her time alone, except for a select few.
The elements, wisdom and all that has become her, flows around her, from deep within her soul.
Packor
You see Packor pondering what spell to cast on you...
Packor nods solemnly.
You scream in agony as you suddenly catch on FIRE!!
Packor's magic missile /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
Packor's colour spray /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
Packor's solar ray /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
As your vision glazes and you see Packor staring calmly at you, you realize
it was all just an illusion.
You see Packor pondering what spell to cast on you...
Packor nods solemnly.
You scream in agony as you suddenly catch on FIRE!!
Packor's magic missile /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
Packor's colour spray /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
Packor's solar ray /^\ ENFL4MES /^\ you!
As your vision glazes and you see Packor staring calmly at you, you realize
it was all just an illusion.
Slade
His skin as dark as night
His eyes a mysterious blue
he's coming to get evil
he's coming to get you.
So go ahead and try to run
you can even try to hide
but you won't know he's there
till his blade is deep inside.
As your life drains out of you
and the blood begins to spread
remember that you pissed yourself
in that finaly moment of dread.
The finaly thought coming to you
as your mind begins to fade
is what the hell was i thinking
when i tried to **** with Slade.
His skin as dark as night
His eyes a mysterious blue
he's coming to get evil
he's coming to get you.
So go ahead and try to run
you can even try to hide
but you won't know he's there
till his blade is deep inside.
As your life drains out of you
and the blood begins to spread
remember that you pissed yourself
in that finaly moment of dread.
The finaly thought coming to you
as your mind begins to fade
is what the hell was i thinking
when i tried to **** with Slade.
Flowerbud
"Time cannot destroy it.
I am that love - time cannot touch me.
Somewhere in some time, that love will return.
When you least expect it, the face of a loved one reappears.
Look beyond the face and you will see -- ME!"
Christopher Pike - 'The Starlight Crystal'
the orginal @>--,-'-- since 1996
"Time cannot destroy it.
I am that love - time cannot touch me.
Somewhere in some time, that love will return.
When you least expect it, the face of a loved one reappears.
Look beyond the face and you will see -- ME!"
Christopher Pike - 'The Starlight Crystal'
the orginal @>--,-'-- since 1996