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#9875216 Aug 13, 2014 at 04:49 PM
16 Posts
I haven't fleshed out the little details yet but I've come up with a storyteller character that I intend to play come release on whatever server the EU RP community designates as 'home'. Working on a little stock of stories and thought it might be fun to tell stories on a weekly basis at different venues - but I'll see how that pans out. Comments welcomed.

I regarded my ‘audience’ critically as I eased myself to the ground of the central plaza in the City of Towers and wondered which of the many stories in my repertoire would be most appropriate; a small boy with one finger shoved industriously up his right nostril, a trio of little girls fighting over a rag doll that had seen better days, a bleary-eyed merchant who belched and hiccupped alarmingly as he swayed from side to side and a plump young woman with a gormless expression who was shovelling sticky rice into her mouth as if her life depended on it. I sighed inwardly – looked like I might go hungry again.

Things had been tough since I’d parted company with Captain Haruki’s Company of Players but truth be told pickings had been slim even when part of that illustrious band of performers, musicians and acrobats. War was everywhere these days and safe venues hard to come by. Even so, not for the first time I wondered if I might have been too hasty in turning my back on the troupe. There was safety in numbers for one thing and shared resources for another. Still, you played the hand Nui dealt you and made the best of it.

I discounted sooth-saying immediately – I drew the line at taking advantage of children or simpletons and the drunk merchant looked as though he had already spent the contents of his purse on a cellar’s worth of ale. Sleight of hand and games of chance I also discounted for the same reasons which left me with story-telling. The best I could hope for from my present audience was a few grains of rice and a couple of sticky strands of wool from the rag doll. But stories are like an oasis in the desert; they will draw the thirsty soul more assuredly than anything else so I smiled at my small audience and lay my staff across my lap.

“Well my young, hungry and…..redolent –“I glanced meaningfully at the drunken merchant who had belched hugely at that moment, “ – friends, who would like to hear the tale of Rogi the Chicken and the Words of Changing?”

The young boy momentarily stopped digging for gold in his nostril and regarded me seriously and the three little girls stopped arguing over the thread-bare doll to listen. The drunkard finally swayed too far and landed in a drunken heap where he proceeded to snore as loudly as the engine on a new-fangled fishing boat I had once seen in Lutesong Harbour. The plump woman started on a second bowl of sticky rice so I took this as my cue to start my tale;

“Chickens, you’ll be aware, are not the brightest of the God’s creations, and Rogi was no exception.” I began, resting my right leg casually on the back of the prone merchant comfortably. “But in the language of chickens, Rogi means ‘the fortunate’, and in many ways Rogi was a most fortunate chicken indeed.” I caught the expression of doubt on the young boy’s face and smiled. “Are you incredulous, young man, that chickens should have a language all their own? Well I can assure you that they do. True it is a somewhat limited language confined mainly to their opinions on the quality of various grains and the meatiness of certain worms but it is nevertheless a language for all that, and rich in meaning too - especially if you’ve an interest in fat, juicy grubs…”

“Ewwwww…” Said one of the three little girls and a broad grin spread across the dirt-smudged face of the little boy.

“But I digress,” I continued, flicking a clump of sticky rice from my thigh that had somehow escaped the rapacious attentions of the plump woman. “I was telling you how fortunate a chicken Rogi was and fortunate indeed he was for although his was a life filled with adventure and mishap he always seemed to come out of it unscathed. In fact, had he been a cat, he would almost certainly have used all of his nine lives and quite a few more besides. He had bested Prince Tuft-knot the fox and his thirty Vociferous Vixens, he had survived the twenty torments of the chicken-stuffing Sultan and even come out on top in the battle of the Worrisome Wolves. But every chicken will meet it’s match eventually and Rogi was no exception.....”

I proceeded to relate that well known children’s tale where Rogi finally lost his giblets, one with which I am sure you are all familiar, and in no time at all my audience had grown considerably. As I brought my tale to an end I casually lay my hat by my feet with hope in my heart and what I hoped was a winning grin on my face. Perhaps I would eat tonight after all....
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