conversations: human
conversations:  A young man stands in his room. 
  Your name is ELLIOTT. If someone were to look in your room, they would find an assortment of BOOK scattered hither and yon and in at least three other oldtimey bullsh*t directions. You're a WRITER of small fame and smaller resolve, though you also fancy yourself a DESIGNER of GAMES and an inexplicable HURRICANE ENTHUSIAST. Stranger of all is your fixation on FAKE MAGIC PEOPLE like MARIE LAVEAU or other OCCULT FIGURES.
  
  What's with you? It's like you wrote a master's thesis on them or something.
  
  Anyway. Today is the 25th day of May, and despite your marvelously hectic schedule, your day off. Your home is now bereft of any living soul save your trustworthy SHIBA INU and everyday, run-of-the-mill microbes. The siren call of doing absolutely f😩kall beckons you like a sailor to the reef.
  
   What do you do? 
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  If there is one thing Elliott has mastered--one skill, one aspect, one facet of life--it is his proficient, high-octane nothing-doing. This afternoon, he's flat on his back staring up at the ceiling, a veritable cavalcade of half-finished books cascading across the floor around him alongside a number of papers. Papers with writing. Well, printing. Papers with poems that are patently AWFUL and belong together in a kiln, because they certainly don't seem to add up to a BOOK.
  
  Idly, Elliott listens for the sound of his shiba inu, a majestically silly pup by the name of HYPERION.
  
  Silence. Blessed silence.
  
  Wherever Hyperion is, it's not here. Not now. And that's wonderful.
  
  He doesn't hate his dog, mind you. Since moving, Hyperion has been his only real constant, the anchor in an unmoored life. Even still, there is only so much licking that any person can forgive.
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Even such masterful absence of thing-doing is not without it's trials. Your phone is constantly alerting you to the FRIENDS that are so inconveniently trying to get you to have FUN with them. Your good friend WILL has sent you a mindless stream of ONLY ONE TEXT via the pchat app.
  
    --  imperfectWarlord [IW]  has begun pestering  palliativePoet [PP]  --
  
   IW: hey Elliott, wanna play a game with a random gaggle of folks?  
  
  Such tedium.
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  Elliott puts down his phone, crumpling one AWFUL POEM after another. He tosses them like he's juggling, which he isn't. He considers whether or not this is one of those problems best solved by ignoring it, like crying children, or one of the ones you have to actually do something about, like the smell of neckbeards in a nearby diner booth.
  
  With much theatrical sighing for the benefit of the audience of no one, he picks up his phone again.
  
    PP: Can you guarantee me that this is, in fact
  PP: a legitimate gaggle?
  PP: I will be hella' bummed if these alleged folks
  PP: are, in fact,
  PP: not geese.   
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  IW: there is no guarantee that the people involved are geese.
  IW: herding geese would be a fun game though. unfortunately not this fun game however. I hope your disappointment was worth it
  IW: I got a code for an online multiplayer game we can play with a handful of other people. I'm celebrating a friend's birthday and I wanted to get more than two or three people involved  
  
  No geese?  Unconscionable .
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  PP: Is this an FPS?
  PP: Because that would be
  PP: a dealbreaker.
  PP: I mean seriously
  PP: Now you expect me to just be
  PP: Gooseless.
  PP: ...
  PP: That's not good for the gander.   
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  IW: ...
  IW: ...
  IW: Elliott this isn't going to work out, I'm breaking up with you
  IW: that was just  unconscionable 
  IW: but no it's like an adventure game? it described itself as 'an immersive cooperative worldbuilding sandbox extravaganza' but makes no mention of firearms or the orientation of their user's perspective
  IW: I could also give you the pchat names of anyone else that joins up
  IW: you know, for co-op  
  
  As you receive the message, there's a knock at the door and the sound of a light thud just outside it. The calling card of the enigmatic mail carrier.
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  You quickly set down your phone, smugly satisfied in your sadistic powers of puncraft, and saunter over to the door. What could have possibly been delivered, and at this time of the day?
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Standing so quaintly at your door is a small brown box, roughly a cubic foot in size and wrapped in brown butcher paper. Your address is written on the top in bright red. There is no return address. You have received one DELIVERED PARCEL.
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  Your grandfather (God rest his zombie bones) always used to say that a package is worth nothing until devastated. That was the sort of grandfather he was, and as a kid who occasionally experienced Christmas morning, you were always an acolyte of his philosophy.
  
  The box's defenses prove utterly inadequate to the sheer, apocalyptic probing of your fingers (plus or minus one well placed steaknife).
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Within you find a strange array of odd items. Once you scour the inside of the cardboard box once, you discover ONE (1) ROCK HARD DINNER ROLL, ONE (1) FOREIGN COPY of GameSir MAGAZINE, ONE (1) TITANIUM BOOKMARK, THREE (3) GOURMET DOG TREATS, and ONE (1) HIGH END BLUETOOTH HEADSET.
  
  Instantly at the smell of the open box, your SHIBA INU goes absolutely hog-wild and attempt to crawl up your leg and have at the delicious animal treats. Almost viciously! What will you do?!
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  Hyperion may be fast, but you're doubtlessly--well, much much slower. Maybe if you actually ran that 5k (or ran, period, or walked briskly)...but alas, you will have to rely on your wits.
  
  Which have decided to point to the kitchen and yell "BACON!" while pocketing the treats and replacing them with the roll.
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Hyperion is skeptical, or at least as skeptical as a dog can be. That is to say he is not skeptical. The hound looks at you for a moment before darting off to where you had directed him and begins looking around in confusion. It's a good thing he hadn't given into his insane snack-lust, as you notice there is also a small note folded beneath the treats he would have doubtlessly eaten.
  
  
    Hey so here's your stuff. We just wanna ensure you continue continued  serv  patronage with us. Make good use of whatever you want however you want, and see you later.
  
  -GS  
  
  It looks like Devin has been trying to message you.
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  What could Devin possibly want at this moment when you're so very deeply busy procrastinating? So busy in fact that you can't even fathom who would send you such an unspeakably random assortment of "goods," if you're charitable enough to give them that appellation.
  
  Might as well see what he wants.
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Spoiler: Pesterlog 
   --  sardonicEscapist [SE]  began pestering  palliativePoet [PP]  --
  
   SE: ELLIOTT!
  SE: A NEW TIME OF GAMING IS UPON US!
  SE: WILL YOU HEED THE CALL? 
  
  --  sardonicEscapist [SE]  has gone idle -- 
   
  
  
  Well it looks like he's ignored his communicative devices. What a shame(?).
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  It's not a surprise, is it? You briefly consider throwing a small pity party, but the issue there is that you're all out of streamers, and you're not some kind of barbarian.
  
  Whatever. You don't need that.
  
  You definitely need it, though. You sit down, prime your thumbs, and tap out a litany of increasingly creative insults. The usual, natch.
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Clearly your tongue is as sharp as any dwarven-forged mithril dagger of slicing, and twice as intricately titled. Your tongue-lashings aside, the minutes continue to pass un-game-playing-ed. Just as you consider this, Will sends you another pester.
  
   
   Spoiler: Pesterlog 
    IW: so it looks like Devin got himself mixed up with some crazy physical forces
  IW: in this instance it's a cocktail of gravity and mass
  IW: he bonked his head and is now unconscious
  IW: soooo
  IW: I might have to garner you forth into gaming adventure
  IW: it's a deviation from protocol, but I'm sure neither of us wants to wait around for that lazy ass Devin to regain consciousness
  IW: what say you?  
   
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf:
conversations: human
conversations:  Spoiler: Pesterlog 
  
   PP: ...
  PP: Isn't that kind of a thing we should take an active interest in?
  PP: I mean, the head-hitting unconsciousness.
  PP: It's not all fun and games, you know. It is like
  PP: super bad for you.
  PP: ...Also, why do I get the feeling I'm
  PP: getting lambed right now? Specifically of the to-the-slaughter variety? 
   
conversations: GryffonDurime:
conversations: human
conversations:  Spoiler: Pesterlog 
    IW: oh he's fiiiiiine. don't go unnecessarily worrying over the cranial well-being of your internet friends
  IW: and I dont know what you mean about slaughtering
  IW: I'll not have you spearheading my impeccable reputation with massacre-based slander
  IW: plus, the sooner you get in the sooner we can meet!  
   
conversations: Krimm_Blackleaf: