The Great Sael Adventure 1
The growth puts its hand to its chin and stares inquisitively at you.
"Volcanoes is as volcanoes does, man," it mutters.
You look back, confused. Without questioning why you're talking to your arm—despite the Commodore's strange looks at you—you ask "What does that mean?"
Without missing a beat, Richard, the growth, proclaims, "Power to the proletariat!"
At once, you are summoned to the edge of the volcano without your boat and without the Commodore. An ancient, hollow voice speaks from within the volcano, "You must begin a new life here. You and Richard the Growth."
You experience twain feelings: a deep regret and agony at the prospect of life with this inescapable, politically minded growth and a mild turn on from that hollow voice—ugh, what a sexy ancient being that voice must belong to.
Unfortunately, the growth is omnipresent and the voice is not. While you can get behind the gist of what Richard has to say, the guy is non-stop with his ranting and makes absurd claims, like "Anarcho-capitalism and Neo-fascist liberalism are really two sides of the same three-sided coin. Their primary difference is the economic claims the state makes regarding subjugation of private property for federal taxation purposes."
You manage to make it three months with these inane blatherings constantly tormenting you while you learn to live off the land. But you've finally had enough after a three-hour hermeneutic monologue on the meaning of flat tax rates in a proto-feudalist escrow-centric economy seems to have no end in sight.
You feel like you've lived long enough to see your uncle aged to his eleventy first birthday. You stare down at the growth, which has been a source of pure power and hunger, and which has driven you mad with a thirst for more, more, more even as you have suffered and endured the trials of living on the run, escaping powerful creatures (they were a lot less dangerous than Richard's constant asinine chatter), and feeling alone on your journey of tribulations, performing your delicate balancing act of good and evil, fate and free will, death and immortality, gain and loss, age and youth, time and untime. Your purpose is clear, your moment is now. You stare into the eyes of that vicious parasite, and rip it from your arm, rending flesh into air and blood into water for the soil beneath your feet. This, the source of your power, is in your hand, and you cast it with disdain and longing into the magma pit below you, as the One Growth to Rule Them All dissolves into nothingness and the volcanic voice is pleased. You get a little horny again hearing that ancient voice.
You look down at your arm, and notice blood gushing freely. You cannot stem the flow in time. You follow the growth into the fiery pit below, still a little titillated.
The time of the elves is over.
"Volcanoes is as volcanoes does, man," it mutters.
You look back, confused. Without questioning why you're talking to your arm—despite the Commodore's strange looks at you—you ask "What does that mean?"
Without missing a beat, Richard, the growth, proclaims, "Power to the proletariat!"
At once, you are summoned to the edge of the volcano without your boat and without the Commodore. An ancient, hollow voice speaks from within the volcano, "You must begin a new life here. You and Richard the Growth."
You experience twain feelings: a deep regret and agony at the prospect of life with this inescapable, politically minded growth and a mild turn on from that hollow voice—ugh, what a sexy ancient being that voice must belong to.
Unfortunately, the growth is omnipresent and the voice is not. While you can get behind the gist of what Richard has to say, the guy is non-stop with his ranting and makes absurd claims, like "Anarcho-capitalism and Neo-fascist liberalism are really two sides of the same three-sided coin. Their primary difference is the economic claims the state makes regarding subjugation of private property for federal taxation purposes."
You manage to make it three months with these inane blatherings constantly tormenting you while you learn to live off the land. But you've finally had enough after a three-hour hermeneutic monologue on the meaning of flat tax rates in a proto-feudalist escrow-centric economy seems to have no end in sight.
You feel like you've lived long enough to see your uncle aged to his eleventy first birthday. You stare down at the growth, which has been a source of pure power and hunger, and which has driven you mad with a thirst for more, more, more even as you have suffered and endured the trials of living on the run, escaping powerful creatures (they were a lot less dangerous than Richard's constant asinine chatter), and feeling alone on your journey of tribulations, performing your delicate balancing act of good and evil, fate and free will, death and immortality, gain and loss, age and youth, time and untime. Your purpose is clear, your moment is now. You stare into the eyes of that vicious parasite, and rip it from your arm, rending flesh into air and blood into water for the soil beneath your feet. This, the source of your power, is in your hand, and you cast it with disdain and longing into the magma pit below you, as the One Growth to Rule Them All dissolves into nothingness and the volcanic voice is pleased. You get a little horny again hearing that ancient voice.
You look down at your arm, and notice blood gushing freely. You cannot stem the flow in time. You follow the growth into the fiery pit below, still a little titillated.
The time of the elves is over.
