Attention-Deficit Roleplaying

Sven-El said:
Not that it mattered... with the heavy interest people still have in Finish supergroups, the fact the Gamoreans spoke no English made them a huge hit, causing their first video to go viral.

The Gamoreans who didn't go into music got jobs at call centers for computer, cable, and cell-phone companies as well as banks.
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One Gamorean did learn some English, and thus was able to inform Americans that the cellphone manufacturer Nokia was based in Finland, rather than Japan. Hearing this, one American highschool dropout looked at Finland on a world map and confessed, "I thought this place next to Sweden WAS Japan!"
 
Brother Cadfael, gardener monk and Medieval forensic expert, tip-toes into the room, dragging a large sack behind him. As the result of rather bad luck, poor planning, and simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he has somehow ended up with the very un-monkly task of disposing of the body contained therein (the sack, you understand), but as this story is a cozy one, it neither smells nor bleeds very much, nor does, as I am told happens in the real world, the body lose bowel control. One would think, especially given the Medieval times, that the body would at least be unwashed, but no: it smells of fresh lilacs.

All the worse for Cadfael, who fears that the lilac scent will be detected before he can properly hide the sack. After a moment of thinking, he stumbles upon the solution:

"Of course!" he cries, "I shall hide the body in the lilac bushes." He then pauses to explain to the reader, "You see, the smell shall blend right in. This sort of thing happened all the time when I was a crusader!"

Having decided upon this course of action, Brother Cadfael heaved the sack into the lilacs, and made it to the chapel in time for vespers.
 
Smerdykov the purple duck rushed onto the scene, wearing a shoe on his head.

"Has anyone seen a body?" He quacks, "I was....er....using...one. For an experiment, you see. Nothing much really you don't need to worry. It's not like I killed a guy. That'd be silly."

He laughs awkwardly.
 
"Of course someone has seen a body," Doctor Brennan told him impatiently. "I'm never _allowed_ to appear on the scene _until_ someone sees a body."
 
A man who appears to be very old also limps into the thread. His hair is shock white; his beard is long. Sharp green eyes are lined with red, bags of sleeplessness sagging below them. He wears a long wool coat that appears to be either borrowed or stolen from some guard captain. Only one brass button is left, and he clutches the coat closed with one long, bony hand. He clutches a pistol in his free hand. A wooden crucifix on a fraying rope hangs around his neck.

His back bent beneath a heavy pack, he surveys the scene.

"I'm looking," he says with a heavy Russian accent, "for a man I know. The idiot has gone missing and I fear some harm has come to him without me. Have you seen a tall man with blue eyes? He wears a coat like mine and carries a rifle. His name is Nikolai."

He looks warily at Temperance.

"He is an idiot," he says again, "And I certainly don't care for him in the slightest. Still, I suppose I am responsible for him. Have you seen him?"
 
Meanwhile Princess Vespa (no relation whatsoever to the vespers), noticed that her industrial strength hair dryer was missing. At the same time, people noticed that Barf the Mog was sweating profusely outside of her quarters.
 
Dr. Brennan told the newcomer, "I'm afraid I'm not the person to ask about seeing idiots. I'm so vain and stuck-up about my scientific knowledge, that I think almost _everyone_ else is an idiot, so I don't pay attention to differences between them."


And in the "Spaceballs" reality, Barf the Mog admitted to having borrowed Vespa's hair dryer, but lamented: "It isn't working. Even in the future, _nothing_ works!"
 
The Russian sighs, and brushes the white hair away from his face.

"I did not expect much. Perhaps you will keep an eye out for him. I have not seen him in days," he says in a quiet, desperate voice.

He shifts the pack on his shoulders.

"My name is Ivan. Just Ivan. I've got no father and thus no other name. I've been on the run for a very long time."


More than anything, he wants to sleep.
 
The Spanish Inquisition said:
The Russian sighs, and brushes the white hair away from his face. "I did not expect much. Perhaps you will keep an eye out for him. I have not seen him in days," he says in a quiet, desperate voice.

He shifts the pack on his shoulders. "My name is Ivan. Just Ivan. I've got no father and thus no other name. I've been on the run for a very long time."

More than anything, he wants to sleep.
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Suddenly, a manly voice booms out, full of strength and good cheer. "Ivan, is that you? I haven't seen you since we escaped from that alternate dimension with the weird rambling castle, where those tentacled monsters were stalking us!" The speaker comes in view, looking like a cross between two parts Conan the Barbarian and one part Saint Francis of Assisi, and affectionately hugs the weary older man.

 
Copperfox said:
Suddenly, a manly voice booms out, full of strength and good cheer. "Ivan, is that you? I haven't seen you since we escaped from that alternate dimension with the weird rambling castle, where those tentacled monsters were stalking us!" The speaker comes in view, looking like a cross between two parts Conan the Barbarian and one part Saint Francis of Assisi, and affectionately hugs the weary older man.
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Ivan returns the hug. When he pulls back, he is laughing (and perhaps crying a little).

"Mr. Vissy," he says, "My God, I thought I dreamed you. You are real?" He looks at the large man in wonder, "Well, that is the peril of being a fictional character, I fear. I've been written and re-written so many times I don't always know what's real."

He smiles. Three teeth are missing.

"How did you get on all these years without me to save you? I certainly hope you've not brought any of your pets with you this time. But I'm glad you're here, though I can't say where we are."
 
Vissarion the Selfless laughed indulgently at the thought of himself needing to be rescued by Ivan. Then he replied to the where-are-we question:

"You may remember that the huge castle where 'my pets' lurked had some large corridors, and small, hidden passages besides. Well, if you think of the routine world in which mortals live and work and think and strive and love as being a big open corridor, there seem to be smaller passages neighboring it on every side. These neighboring passages are the worlds of thought and hope which are home to the dreams or fears of imaginative people.

"Our own 'side passage' is one in which you and I are called to reveal, by the very lives we live, some truth _about_ life. You, my dear friend, have _suffered_ many wrongs, and you struggle each day to cope with what your misfortunes have done to you. For myself, when I was a youth, before God straightened me out, I was guilty of _inflicting_ wrongs on others; thus, now my life is dedicated to making amends, by helping those in distress.

"And distress includes insomnia. If I can get a campfire brewing, I've got some herbal tea I can boil up for you, which is great for promoting healthy sleep."
 
Ivan considers this a moment.

"It has been a long time since we've shared a corridor," he says, "But what worries me is this: if you are here, who else is? The super-human girls? The tentacle monsters? My past self, even? Maybe even worse."

He shifts the weight of the pack.

"It is strange," he said, "This idiot I travel with and I....we were trudging through the woods of Siberia. And now I am here and he is not. I must find this man, Vissarion. And so I cannot rest. You may scoff at the idea of anyone needing my protection, but the man is under my care. He can't even hold a gun, let alone defend himself with fists. He's utterly useless."

He then drops all pretense of scorn.

"He is my dearest friend," he said, "And I'm not going to rest or sleep even until I find him."
 
"Why should I scoff?" said Vissarion. "Although it WAS sort of ME protecting YOU in that other dimension, this doesn't mean you can't be of use to someone. The Hobbits in the Middle-Earth dimension had faithful hearts, and in the end this mattered more than strength. Your own faithfulness to the friend you speak of may accomplish more than you expect. And I'll be glad to come along with you on your search. The superhero types appear to have the monsters in this roleplay zone under control for now.

"And speaking of those ultra-super-duper-women who were with us in the strange castle, I believe they're off in a futuristic setting, conquering whole galaxies before breakfast. Shall we have some of that herbal tea now? We'll travel faster in your search for your friend if you restore your energy first."
 
Ivan slung his pack off his shoulders.

"Why not," he said, "It's been awhile since I've had a warm drink."

He dug through his pack and found a few biscuits.

"Speaking of breakfast," he said, offering one to Vissarion, "I haven't much here, and they're rather stale, but filling enough."

He watched the smoke rise from the fire that the warrior had built.

"Why is it that some of us fictional people get all the powers. Why, I'd sell a vital organ or two for super strength or some such thing. Though you've got muscle enough for the two of us."
 
Vissarion accepted a biscuit, and poured tea for Ivan. "My muscular strength is hereditary: nothing I ever did anything to earn or deserve. But it became the occasion for me to go on a spiritual journey to redemption.

"When I was a youth, I boasted of my strength AS IF IT WERE something I had earned by my own goodness. I used it to bully the boys of my village, and to force my attentions on the girls as I pleased. I was in fact FAR WORSE morally than you have ever thought of being; for I did not have the excuse of misfortunes having embittered me. I was enjoying an easy, privileged life, and instead of being grateful for my advantages, I made OTHER people's lives worse by my selfishness.

"In God's timing, though, my arrogance was brought low, VERY low. I was captured by slave-taking barbarians, whose trained combat skills made a joke of my ever-so-vaunted raw strength. By the time I providentially escaped, I had been terribly humiliated, and filled with such a fear of death as I had never imagined anyone could feel. Eventually I met a prophet, who put everything in perspective for me. He told me that my life had been spared for a reason: so that I could make amends for my selfishness by HELPING OTHERS wherever I went. Which is what I do now. And I am nothing but pleased, my friend, that it is now granted to me to help YOU once more."
 
Ivan took a quick sip of scalding tea.

"Well, I have caused my share of harm, my friend," he said, "There are so many dead because of me," he stared down into the teacup, "And you might say it was only self-defense, but it's not that easy, is it? I tell you, I remember their faces. All of them. And well....Nikolai is not going to become one of them."

As he drank the tea, he noticed a strange purple creature not far off.

"Is that.....a purple duck?"
 
At this point in the roleplay, a 13-year-old girl joined.

ok u guys. Forgot al that prple duck stuf nd lissen. dis rp is aboutt ME now ok? Im a princess an u all haf 2 do wat i say!

Seeing that no one payed any attention to her ramblings, she mounted a horse and rode off on a lonely quest that only she could understand...
 
After they shared their modest breakfast, Vissarion surveyed a pile of wreckage left over from the collisions of competing roleplay plot arcs. Here he found a very large, flat handcart of the kind that home-improvement stores keep to carry large merchandise. "Aha, perfect!" he exclaimed. Bringing the cart back to the fireside, he spread his cloak and blankets on it. "This," he explained to Ivan, "will help us proceed. I won't insult you by _demanding_ that you sleep, when you're so agitated for your friend's safety; but I'll haul this cart along as we go. You can put your gear on it to lighten your load; and if you get even _more_ tired along the way, you can ride on the cart yourself and rest."


Meanwhile, the latest would-be princess found her quest not lasting long. The horse the girl had mounted was a mare, and _she_ decided that _she_ was a princess. "After all," the mare told the 13-year-old human, "your own movies and television shows insist that just _being_ female at all is enough to qualify every female to be a princess; therefore I'm a princess. Now get off my back and go ride a tricycle or something."
 
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