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[Jun. 22nd, 2009|12:46 am] |
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
Stranger: This should be interesting.
You: Man? Man... Man!
Stranger: I am, i bet you're too?
You: Pray tell, dear person, what shores are these.
Stranger: These be the haunted shores of Fiendland.
You: Ah, blessed land, holy land!
You: The cruelty of the seas knows no bounds, i tell.
Stranger: The sea took your longboat?
You: For it has been naught less than a year since i left port at Imfort.
You: Within that year i have endured the ravages to fill a hundred men's lives.
Stranger: What far land you speak of, this Imfort?
You: And lo and behold, serendipity brings me to your blessed shore.
You: Imfort. Imfort is the town of my shame.
Stranger: Blessed is a world not many would utter to describe these lands.
Stranger: word*
You: In the land of Garroth did i do acts that no man should ever even behold, lest be shamed.
You: And from the land of Garroth did i depart through the quaintly town of Imfort.
Stranger: So exiled you are and now look refuge from the roaring seas?
You: That i am, good sir. That i am.
You: Though worn and weary, i feel i might not last the night.
Stranger: Well, me, my wife and 15 of our children will give you a haven that you seek. But you must help me with my task of poking filth with a dull stick. I collect filth you see.
You: I'll gladly oblige. it would be below me to become a burden on your hospitality.
You: Still i must implore you to hear out my shame, that i may die at peace.
Stranger: Well then, here is a stick and down here, see, there's some lovely filth. You shall tell me stories of your past, if you will.
Stranger: As we collect the filth.
You: Imfort, Imfort... How loved have i you, my home. How missed have i you.
Stranger: Do they have filthiers in Imfort?
Stranger: And if so, are they liked among fellow men?
You: In imfort i performed an act of utter sin. Not a sin of vice, nor passion. Not rape, nor murder of a filthier. Not even the unforgivable deed of being born a woman.
You: My mark of shame and exile is one of utmost gluttony.
Stranger: Pray tell more.
Stranger: you hogged all the filth didn't ya!?
You: For in Imfort, under the watchful eyes of the burgomeister and his entourage i consumed...
You: I... I consumed...
You: Pickles on a friday.
Stranger: ..yes?
You: No! NO! Don't look at me, please!
Stranger: and in Imfort THAT is a mortal sin?
You: You may wish me well and hide your shuns, but i feel the fire of righteousness in your gaze.
You: I... I... cannot live on
You: Farewell, friend, alas this is the end.
Stranger: Oh, cheer up. We're having pickels today, friday!
You: (also, thanks for the marvellous playing along. You, sir, make this site great)
You have disconnected. |
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