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: The Walox: Lovecraft Nevada, 10:30 P.M. October 23rd 2072.  
   “This is channel 51 news with a breaking story. Billionaire debutante Baxter Baker has been found dead alongside Titan’s Highway. Marsha in the field has the details, Marsha?”  The image on the screen switched from the pencil mustachioed anchorman to a blushing young reported with a trendy flapper haircut.
  
   “Thanks Hank! I’m here with police at the sight of the crash. Details are a little sketchy so far but I have confirmation from a forensic analyst at the scene that Baker died of decapitation due to sever lacerations to the neck, back to you Hank.”
   
  The Orkish cameraman switched his camera off and began replacing the lens as the pretty young reporter pulled her overcoat closer. As the two pulled away in shining new news van the police began the real work.
  
   A haggard troll crouched next to the mutilated body in the rolled Mercedes.  “I’ll tell ya’ll somethin’”  he said between drags on his soggy cigar.  “No way in hell this punk died in a roll over.”
   
   “What the hell makes you say that Thompson?”  snorted a woman who didn’t even reach his armpit.
  
   “Well Carletta, this bum is the tenth case like this I’ve seen in the past three months. Some fool getting’ his head cut clean off r’ his heart pulled out in some unfortunate accident.”  He lit up another cigar, this one not soggy,  “I don’t like this. It’s got those old money freaks written all over it.”
   
    Priscilla’s Café, 10:35 P.M.  
   ‘Hey Betty! would ya turn that depressing nonsense off?”  The willowy elven waitress, with a haircut much resembling that of the reporter Marsha, flicked off the streamlined set. Priscilla’s Café was on the edge of Lovecraft’s most fashionable district. Nestled on a brightly lit corner by tow skyscrapers and the elevated monorail track it serviced a wide variety of the cities citizens.
  Modeled in the classic diner fashion the patrons ether sat in booths by the windows or at the counter.
  
   Either way it wasn’t the best location for private individuals. Despite this Diocletian Darkchaple, aka Jeeves, aka the personal butler to one of the most powerful men in the world, sat in the back corner sipping his coffee. Decapitation? He had heard rumors of such things, rumors that led him to believe the worst.
  
  That in this shining new place, full of hopes and dreams, ancient beings from times best forgotten walked among mortal men. That vampires had made a nest here and were thriving. That he had some work to do.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Galvain7: The phrase, "Work is the greatest tragedy to befall metahumanity." is certainly not true in any objective sense. May other things could and should take precedent over mere work as great tragedies: War, famine, exploitation, alarm clocks. But this seemingly obtuse saying, popular in the city state of Maredo from whence it originated, is not accurately translated out of Maredian and into more common tongues. A more correct rendition would read: "The prevalence of toil among the humanoid races is the greatest distress and most indefatigable barrier to the realization of happiness the world over."
  
  In fact, native Maredian has several different words that could all translate loosely into 'work' or synonyms therein, based more around purpose and emotional state rather than action itself. For example, the Maredean word 'Tregeaz' translates best into 'toil' or even 'miserable slave labor', because it connotes ceaseless work for no beneficial or even definable purpose. 'Maskan-Maskan' is 'working to live' like begging or substance farming. 'Strakgth' is a job or career that invokes no special feelings, done for convenience sake, or because other, better tasks are not available.
  
  The highest and most enviable state of 'work' is "Q'ath-Bthuganiz" best translated as 'labor of love' or 'passion'. "Q'ath-Bthuganiz" is still labor, because it taxes the body and mind, but inherently rewarding, because it 'fulfills the spirit'.
  
  I tell you this, fair reader, so that you might better understand the mind of one Diocletian Darkchapel, an elf butler spending his rare day off at the cafe. Working a butler is certainly not 'Tregaeaz', but more of a 'Strakgth' for our protagonist. It does not fulfill, but neither is it purposeless taxing labor. Butler work is perhaps the best and only job fit for an elf-man with a boundless, all encompassing boredom born from a life that was far too exiting for an even tempered individual.
  
  But there was one thing, one almost hedonistic labor than an ennui strained soul could indulge in without suffering the guilt-rage of the god Tehlu, and that was killing vampires.
  
  It is perhaps the best "Q'ath-Bthuganiz" possible.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: The Walox: “Your coffee sir, do you need anything else?”  One of the wispy elven waitresses set the mug of `genuine Maredo style` coffee down on the booth’s gleaming black table top. The arrival of the precious beverage brought the butler out of his vampire induced rage stupor.
  
  Yes vampires, obviously that chap Baker had been one. Decapitation was one of the foolproof, if there was such a thing as foolproof, methods for killing the beasts according to Van Helsing. Obviously there were more where Baker had come from.
  
  Non-too-subtle rumors from around town, confirmed by his lamenting employer, had it that the blood suckers ran the countless “beauty rejuvenation’ clinics scattered about town. It made sense most of the actors and actresses he ahd met had shown the symptoms of thralldom.