The Chronicles of Nimrod Dundermul, et al
Posted: Tue Feb 17, 2009 5:15 am
Here's a bit: Lemme know what you think.
The Beginning
He bled.
Like a river running…
…he bled.
No shallow divide to slow the on-rush of red. No deep damning to stop life’s river from flowing away.
Nothing to abate the hot seepage now forming around his pale, naked body.
Dead men don’t laugh, he said to himself, as there was no one else to speak too. And he bled some more.
Dead men don’t fail, he thought to himself, as there was no one else to think too. And he bled some more.
Dead men don’t beg, he felt to himself, as there was no one else to feel too. And the blood streaming down his legs began to subside, slowing to a trickle. Each drop suspended from his calf as if taunting his cowardice, pounding the basin of his chosen grave like a gavel of finality.
And finally, there was blood no more.
Dundermul, Scone of the Elders, Hire to the Throne of Dong, Third Blood of Boondermak and Master of the Smord of Rignizent…
…had died.
And the whole nation of Fharldulagrindion mourned his passing as they had not mourned in all they’re long memory. Old women wailed at their chimneys and young men gnashed at their toes, songs were sung of valor and emnity, tears were shed of love and lust. As none had ever been as gifted, none had ever been held as high by the hopes of the People of the Boondermak...
...as Dundermul-SotE, HttToT, FBoB, MofBoR, et al.
For on that day, Nimrod Dundermul, et al, and his esteemed warrior-friends, The Knigits of Geometry, had entered the Shadows of Pariah, led by the Gizard Walileloligan, questing to destroy the evil Mord Pandi-Mandul and his Freistheud of Only Two Dimensions.
And it was thought, though maybeitst naively, that the heroes had succeeded.
But they were all of them deceivethed...
The Beginning
He bled.
Like a river running…
…he bled.
No shallow divide to slow the on-rush of red. No deep damning to stop life’s river from flowing away.
Nothing to abate the hot seepage now forming around his pale, naked body.
Dead men don’t laugh, he said to himself, as there was no one else to speak too. And he bled some more.
Dead men don’t fail, he thought to himself, as there was no one else to think too. And he bled some more.
Dead men don’t beg, he felt to himself, as there was no one else to feel too. And the blood streaming down his legs began to subside, slowing to a trickle. Each drop suspended from his calf as if taunting his cowardice, pounding the basin of his chosen grave like a gavel of finality.
And finally, there was blood no more.
Dundermul, Scone of the Elders, Hire to the Throne of Dong, Third Blood of Boondermak and Master of the Smord of Rignizent…
…had died.
And the whole nation of Fharldulagrindion mourned his passing as they had not mourned in all they’re long memory. Old women wailed at their chimneys and young men gnashed at their toes, songs were sung of valor and emnity, tears were shed of love and lust. As none had ever been as gifted, none had ever been held as high by the hopes of the People of the Boondermak...
...as Dundermul-SotE, HttToT, FBoB, MofBoR, et al.
For on that day, Nimrod Dundermul, et al, and his esteemed warrior-friends, The Knigits of Geometry, had entered the Shadows of Pariah, led by the Gizard Walileloligan, questing to destroy the evil Mord Pandi-Mandul and his Freistheud of Only Two Dimensions.
And it was thought, though maybeitst naively, that the heroes had succeeded.
But they were all of them deceivethed...