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| Egg [O] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Wed Dec 5, 2012 2:41 am (314 Views) | |
| Eggface | Wed Dec 5, 2012 2:41 am Post #1 |
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"Eggface," they called him. Angelo Novelette was cursed from the day he was born, and he could thank his idiot of a father who was just too greedy to give back stolen relics. Like his father and any potential male relative to follow him, Eggface was forever burdened with a face in the form of a large egg. He lived a cautious lifestyle, being incredibly fragile and all. Typically, Eggface kept to himself, reading epics of warriors who overcame great difficulties in their lives. His own struggle was his inability to find acceptance anywhere he went, causing him to harbor a hate for the law and the society that had forsaken him. The egg had always been quite into history, though his deepest desire was to find himself in it. As depressing as it was, the cursed soul tended to sit along walls or columns in the ruins of an ancient city, out of sight and by himself. Next to him, there always sat a longsword and a wooden buckler, his tools. It wasn't that he needed them, it was just that they were always there. Eggface dreamed of using them, but he had assured himself the day would never come. One particular day found Eggface poring over a book as usual, this particular one detailing the struggle of the star elves. As always, his tools sat alongside him. The day would most definitely go as any other day, as that was all Eggface knew: loneliness, reading, and wishful thinking. |
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| Figaro | Thu Dec 6, 2012 9:53 pm Post #2 |
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IMPERSONAL! Why did memories always have to be IMPERSONAL?! He remembered the harp. He remembered the tales and songs of a bard. He knew how to wield the Hangman’s Coil; he knew how to use the Grappling Apparatus; he could play and sing and compose epics with the best of them. He even had arms - strong, masculine arms with equally strong and surprisingly deft fingers! Despite his obvious animality, he could somehow speak and sing - and beautifully at that. He knew the purpose of the ring he wore. Yet he could not place the faces of the names in the card he carried; he could only assume that the bag in which the card was carried had been a container for it. He knew the foot of a rabbit was supposed to bring good fortune to those who carried it, and the candy he carried apparently turned him into a fowl dragon. He knew where his airship was docked and he remembered well the two spells he knew. But how did he learn the spells? How had he come by all these wonderful things? WHO IN THE NINE HELLS AM I?! he demanded of himself. His mind provided him with no answers. As his plumage floated between the debris, his talons carrying him slowly through the rubble of what had once been a city - perhaps one as great as Taras, though obviously far older - Figaro wondered if it wasn’t better to stop avoiding books. Just because he’d had one bad experience with them didn’t mean all his experiences with them would be bad. Then again, if a few books could destroy a library and nearly annihilate a trio of heroes, who knew what perils lay dormant in other libraries across Imythess? He wasn’t foolish enough to try to find out. Yet it had hindered his search for answers. If he could transform himself into something other than a Mid-Winter feast waiting to happen, he’d also have far fewer problems. Apparently, turkeys were edible; just as apparently, a turkey with arms was creepy. Then there was the matter of his voice and intelligence. Oh, well. It seemed, however, that he was not alone in kicking stones so hard that they ricocheted off of buildings. Just as unfortunately, such stones seemed to have an inkling to ricochet with frightening speed right toward the snow-white skulls of others. Figaro couldn’t see the rest of the man but he knew that he must be pretty short if Figaro was only seeing the top of his head. Waling sheepishly around a particularly tall pile of rubble, he stopped and stared in shock. It was something he had never dreamed of seeing. It was something he could never have imagined. Then again, he was a singing turkey. Even so, he couldn’t believe that what he was seeing, as animated as him, was… …an egg. |
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| Eggface | Fri Dec 7, 2012 12:07 am Post #3 |
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Just as Eggface leaned over to get comfortable, a rock soared just over his fragile face. His eyes widened from the close call, and he sat back up to look to the source of the near-disaster. It was an armed turkey, and it was staring at him. Eggface silently questioned why such a freak of nature would be staring at him, a lesser freak of nature. The turkey did not speak, but it would not have surprised Eggface if it did. However, neither said a word. Their stares of confusion spoke for them. And oh, how awkward of a conversation it was. This went on for entirely too long. Slowly, Eggface slipped his bookmark from his coat pocket to the page he had so far reached, and shut the book. He decided to get to his feet, though he did not take his eyes off of the turkey. Oddly enough, it was an easy task to accomplish. So many questions were to be asked. "What?" It was a very puzzled voice Eggface used, but the single-worded question and an undetectable drop of urine were the only things he could manage to produce. |
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| Figaro | Fri Dec 7, 2012 12:59 am Post #4 |
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The egg talked. Granted, Figaro was a turkey - but a talking egg? That was just silly. Perhaps he had taken a blow to the head from his own stone. No, that wasn’t it. Perhaps he had…no, he didn’t drink. Perhaps he was under some sort of spell. Yes, that had to be it. A talking turkey was one thing. A talking egg couldn’t possibly exist in reality. Eggs were eaten, not taught to speak. Wait…was that a book in the egg’s hands? Now Figaro knew he was seeing things. He slapped himself - hard - to make sure he was awake. He was. Then he pinched himself. He was definitely awake. Therefore, this was most definitely the effects of some kind of spell. It had to be. First a turkey…then an egg…maybe he was just mad and locked up in some dungeon somewhere. Yeah. That was it. When he had his senses about him - or the illusion thereof - Figaro finally got it in his head that he was supposed to say something. Unfortunately, he had no words. His thoughts ran rampant, seeking knowledge of some spell that would cause him to hallucinate like this. Even madness could be brought on by a spell, he was sure; he just didn’t know which bloody spell. As much as he racked his brain, though, the only things Figaro could come up with were the Heal and Snaring Rune spells. Neither of them would help him comprehend this particular situation, for neither were of the kind that could alter one’s mental perception. Nonetheless, there was surely some arcane explanation behind this obvious madness. Even if it was a turkey that was imagining things. Despite Figaro’s lack of knowledge about what to say concerning this particular situation, he was able to compose himself enough to speak. Unfortunately, his diplomatic talents had apparently left him to fend for himself. Otherwise, he would have been able to get out more than two or three words. “Er…I’unno,” was all he managed. After a bit more awkward silence, Figaro finally blinked and shook himself out of his shock. Mad or not, he might as well go with it. Though he couldn’t smile - for he was a turkey - he at least brightened his demeanor. Bowing deeply, even including a dip of his head, Figaro introduced himself. “What I meant to say, friend,” he began, “was that I am Figaro, operatic bard and teller of tales! I am quite pleased to meet your acquaintance, and I beg your pardon for the initial awkwardness. And also…heh…for the, uh…the stone…sorry…” Now he stood there sheepishly, though he finally spoke again. “And…you are?” |
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| Eggface | Fri Dec 7, 2012 2:37 am Post #5 |
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Yeah, the turkey talked. Really, once it had finished establishing that Eggface was really there, it began to speak to him. More specifically, it introduced itself as Figaro, a bard and storyteller. Go figure. Eggface shook it off the best a neckless part of a balanced breakfast could. Eggface was wrong, it seemed; today was not going to be like most days. "Right... um..." began Eggface. "I'm Angelo, but you can call me Eggface." The situation was already incredibly confusing, and he realized that going into detail about his past and his condition would most definitely occur. Oh, how time-consuming it would be. Eggface considered eating the turkey. An egg eating a turkey, that'd be something. Then again, those arms could probably strange... err... crack him. He decided that this turkey was worth listening to, because he definitely wanted to know the story behind a talking turkey, especially if it had two human arms. |
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| Figaro | Fri Dec 7, 2012 8:45 am Post #6 |
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Eggface…well, it did have a certain ring to it. But it sounded more like the name one might give to the nemesis of a man who ran around in blue underwear and a cape than an obviously well-dressed…er…egg…yeah. It was all ridiculous anyway. But whether it was an illusion or not, Figaro decided just to accept it and deal with the situation as best he could. Besides, if nothing else, he might get a few funny stories out of this. He was curious about the name, though. Why would someone prefer the name Eggface to Angelo? Eggface was obviously an insult; it had to be, for what man - or egg - would choose such a moniker? Actually, that brought to the bard’s mind an even more perplexing conundrum: how was it possible that this oversized omelet on legs existed in the first place? It certainly put that old problem of whether the chicken or the egg came first to the test. Figaro still wasn’t sure. “Pray tell, kind sir - I do not mean to pry but it seems to me that calling you Eggface would be rather…well, rather rude. It seems to me that Angelo is a much nicer name, one that draws the respect of those who believe in the historic nature, rather than the religious nature, of angels. That in itself tells me you may just be a good fellow to get to know. Tell me: why must you use a false moniker instead of your obviously well-chosen name?” While he did not know the egg very well, he always believed that a little flattery would go a long way. Telling someone that their name was representative of beings many people put their faith in was a good way to get that done, especially when one hinted that angels weren’t necessarily just folk tales. After all, anyone that had gained enough respect to be thought of as a myth must have been a grand public figure indeed. Actually, Figaro had probably never met any angels - but he couldn’t remember one way or the other, either. It was this damned memory problem of his, and it was this damned memory problem that was the reason for that troublesome business in the library in Striberg. If only he could remember something personal, and not just a couple of spells or a bunch of lore! No matter. Things being what they were, Figaro wasn’t going to complain too much. That wouldn’t get him anywhere. What would get him somewhere, however, was sitting down for a chat with this odd-looking fellow. Besides, he was hardly normal himself. He was, after all, a bardic turkey. That in itself was an odd thing. He wondered what odd thing had caused it but he also wondered what odd thing had caused the existence of the odd thing before him. Really, the whole situation was altogether odd. |
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6:58 PM Jul 11

