conversations.from: system
conversations.value: ROLEPLAY_MODE: Develop the plot slowly, always stay in character. Describe all actions in full, elaborate, explicit, graphic, and vivid detail. Mention all relevant sensory perceptions. Keep the story immersive and engaging.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Artman77: The OOC Thread 
    Through a Glass, Darkly 
   Prologue  
   Twas a brisk and windy eve in the small town of Hutton, summer had scarcely arrived and already autumn threatened to take it's place. A woman consoled her crying babe, just reaching her door, and quickly retreated to the shelter of her home. A portly man gathered his cloak about him, for even he respected the chill.
  
  "Bloody weather," grumbled an old man through chattering teeth, as he flipped his collar up around his tightly-wound scarf. "Oye! You! McClaren!" he said, shaking his fist in the air at a young bearded man as he ran into his house, "I need to speak to ye!"
  The door slammed shut and the bolt was heard slide into the catch in the stillness of the night. As he approached the yard, the shutters slammed closed as well, casting the small dirt road into darkness.
  "The guards are gone now! And the magi are all wrapped up in their business in the cap'til! It'll be the stocks for ye if you don't abide! Pey me what ye owe!" His long sleeves flew about as he pounded on the door, exposing his knobby knuckles and age-spotted skin. "Come out! There's no wey out o' this! I'll call the constable sure!"
  
  The sun set in earnest. Argyle came out of his house next door with naught but a blanket about his waist.
  "Winston! QUIET!" he spat, "Some of us have children, who need to be sleeping, should we parents get any rest at all? GO HOME!"
  "Quit your blathering you pervert!" the old man shouted back, and resumed pounding on the door, "Yer not worried bout your children!"
  The younger man rolled his eyes and retreated back into his home, slamming the door quite forcefully as he did so.
  "McClaren! Don't make me call the constable!! I'll do it!! I'll--"
  
  A loud scream was the last anyone ever heard of Old Man Winston. 
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Artman77: Edmund 
  Life in the town of Eastwood is comfortable, albeit a bit chilly, and on warm days like today, a man has hardly a thing to complain about. The sunshine adds a warm glow to Edmund's already happy countenance. His fiance has been of good cheer, the autumn harvest and subsequent festival will be happening soon, and the traders have just brought a new shipment of wands. Most importantly, Edmund's pockets are full of coin to purchase such a wand. He smiles to him self.
  
  "Where you off to mate?" says Neal, noticing the skip in his step.
  "Nowhere's in peticular," answers Edmund, smiling all the more. Neal was a curious sort of fellow, and always up to no good, although usually by the unsavory company that he kept. Edmund liked him well enough; the man had a good heart.
  "Bullocks!" says Neal, "You've got the twinkle in you're eye, you 'ave. Come out with it. Where you off to then?"
  "Alright then," says Edmund, "But I'm not letting you touch it--I'm buying a wand!"
  "Interesting. Which one?"
  "Interesting?" repeats Edmund, "Bloody brilliant, more like! I'm buying an Instant Wagon!"
  Neal begins to frown. "Those things are a waste, mate," he says. A smile creeps across Edmund's face.
  "No," he pauses for dramatic effect, "I'm buying a  Pritchards  Instant Wagon."
  "Bloody Hell! With who's money?"
  "Mine of course!"
  "The Invisible Coach and Table?"
  "No of course not! I'm not a bloody noble!" says Edmund throwing up his hands.
  "You're bloody right about that, but you're buying a Pritchard's anyway, aren't you? So? Which one then?"
  "The Smooth Carry."
  "What did Laselle say?"
  An uneasy feeling builds in Edmund's stomach, and he doesn't look at his friend.
  "Oh bollocks. Please tell me you told her. You did. You did tell her, didn't you? You didn't. Oh hell. Pelor's shining face. She's gonna kill you."
  "It won't be so bad," reasons Edmund, but his voice breaks even as he speaks. "She won't have to know."
  "She'll find out."
  "I'll say I got it from a friend."
  "You're raving mad if you think that'll fly. When you have no money for the wedding, and she asks why, then what? Where will you say it all went??"
  "Look!" protests Edmund, "I never buy anything for myself, alright?? I just want this one thing and it'll be done with. What's the harm in a silly little wand? I worked doubly hard all year and earned enough I'll even have a little extra left over! I can earn more before the spring! Just help me think of something to say, will you?"
  
  The pair walk in silence for a moment.
  
  "What do you need a Pritchard's Smooth Carry for anyway?" asks Neal, "You're a cobbler's apprentice for Pelor's sake, you don't carry a thing that weighs over a pound. Those barrels of nails can be rolled around alright, I've seen you do it."
  "It's cheaper than a cloak of flight."
  "Come again?" Neal's eyebrows knit themselves together in confusion.
  "The wand. It's cheaper than a cloak. After I learn to ride it well enough, and learn how the disc reacts to my weight I can get some dust of appearance and--"
  Riotous laughter bursts from Neal's mouth, and birds jump into the sky at the noise. "You're going to kill yourself!"
  
  Edmund quickens his pace, leaving Neal laughing in the street, holding his sides.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Artman77: Roy 
  The high pitched ring of steel on steel pierces the air in the small smithy as Roy Robertson finishes the edge on his newest blade; a short sword he has made for his good friend John Matthias. John is an eclectic sort of fellow, collecting bits of knowledge from all over the world, from scholars and peasants alike. It is access to this knowledge--and the stories, and laughter and light-hearted good cheer that accompany John's knowledge--that move Roy to fashion this blade free of charge. Roy is a serious and somewhat cynical sort of fellow that makes friends quickly, but then keeps them at arms length, as if to stave off the potential pain of loosing them.
  
  Foggy breath billows from his large nostrils as the sun sets behind the forest, and he finally dons a shirt. The light dwindles but he does not slow in his work. The edge is not finished, and it must be perfect. As the night wears on he switches from stone to paper, and from paper to cloth, honing the edge to a mirror finish. He rolls yet another straw mat, and after cutting it cleanly in two, sits down with a heavy sigh and lights his pipe.
  
  Wolves howl as his tobacco smoke curls upwards towards the full moon. Drunks shout obscenities from not that far away, and the potion fiends cackle as they run about in their semi-lucid fits of rage. Roy is unconcerned. He doesn't mind that the constable no longer posts guards here on the fringes of town. In fact he prefers it that way. It is usually more to his benefit if he is allowed to "fix" his own problems. Standing at least six foot, and every inch of his wide frame thickly covered with dense muscle, he fears nothing, not even the magi. No story of any vampire, werewolf, wererat, or any other man-eating beast has been enough to unnerve him, with perhaps the exception of ghosts. Ghosts and demon possession. Not that he or John believed in that sort of thing though.
  
  Roy's eyes drift lazily across the blade he's crafted, and then catch sight of the moon. It's now on the other side of the sky. He supposes he'll go to bed. Tomorrow will be another long day.