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  • #7953

    Carob was the first to find the flyer. It had been pinned to the banyan tree with a teaspoon, flapping just slightly in the wind like it knew how ridiculous it was.

    FIVE HURT IN GAZEBO DRAMA
    Local Brewmaster Suspected. Coffee Stains Incriminating.

    She tapped it twice and announced to no one in particular, “I told you gazebos were structurally hostile.”

    Amy poked her head out of the linen drying shed. “No, you said they were ‘liminal spaces for domestic deceit.’ That’s not the same as a health hazard.”

    “You ever been in a gazebo during a high wind with someone named Derek? Exactly.”

    Ricardo ran past them at an awkward crouch, muttering into a device. “…confirming perimeter breach… one is wearing a caftan, possibly hallucinating… I repeat, gazebo situation is active.”

    Chico wandered in from the side trail, his shirt unbuttoned, leaf in mouth, mumbling to Kit. “I don’t know what happened. There was a conversation about frothed chalk and cheese, and then everything… rotated.”

    Kit looked solemn. “Aunt Amy, he sat on it.”

    “He sat on the gazebo?” Amy blinked.

    “No. On the incident.”

    Kit offered no further explanation.

    From the underbrush, a low groan emerged. Thiram’s voice, faint: “Someone built a gazebo over the generator hatch. There are no stairs. I fell in.”

    Amy sighed. “Goddammit, Thiram.”

    Carob smirked. “Gazebo’d.”

    #7937

    Ricardo splattered the coffee all over Amy, turning a shade of purple in the process.

    “What did you put in it? It tastes absolutely revolting!”

    Carob tittered. “Just as well. I had my doubts about this new Toktok craze about putting dried shallots and spring onions in lattes. Guess my hunch was on the money.”

    Amy wanted to feel incensed, but her brain had stopped at the description of the offending latte “You put what in his latte?! And that coffee’s going to stain my shirt now, I’ll look like a spotted leopard!”

    “Funny,” Carob looked down at Amy “that you should pronounce that loo-pard… You sound like a hooligan.”

    “Well, better that than an ooligarch.”

    “You did it again!”

    “Ooh, shut up Caroob.”

    #7927
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Thiram Izu

       

      Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

      Explicit Description

      • Age: Mid-30s

      • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

      • Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

      • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

      • Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

      • Clothing (standard look):

        • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

        • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

        • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

        • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

      • Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

      • Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.


      Inferred Personality & Manner

      • Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

      • Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

      • Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

      • Habits:

        • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

        • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

        • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

      • Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

      • Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.


      Function in the Group

      • Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

      • Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

      • Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.

      #7923
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Amy & Carob

        Amy Kawanhouse

        Directly Stated Visual Traits:

        • Hair: Long, light brown

        • Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

        • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

        • Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

        • Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

        Inferred From Behavior:

        • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

        • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

        • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


        Carob Latte

        Directly Stated Visual Traits:

        • Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

        • Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

        • General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

        Inferred From Behavior:

        • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

        • Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

        • There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

        #7908

        “Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

        Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

        “You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

        “Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

        “Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

        Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

        “According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

        Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

        “My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

        “Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

        “Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

        #7816
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.

          It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.

          And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.

          Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.

          “This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”

          Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”

          Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”

          Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.

          “Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”

          Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”

          Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”

          “The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”

          Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”

          Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.

          Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”

          “Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.

          Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”

          Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”

          Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.

          Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”

          Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”

          “She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.

          “She is not! She is enigmatic.”

          “She has a knife hidden in every scene.”

          “A woman should be prepared.”

          Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”

          Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”

          Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”

          Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”

          Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”

          Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”

          Godfrey perked up.

          Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”

          Godfrey’s head hit the table.

          Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”

          Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.

          Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”

          Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”

          Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”

          Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”

          Godfrey reached for another peanut.

          He was going to need a lot more of them.

          #7652

          Darius: The Call Home

          South of France: Early 2023

          Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.

          The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.

          “Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.

          The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.

          “I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.

          But the truth was, he didn’t.

          It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”

          The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.

           

          When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.

          “Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”

          Arrival in Guadeloupe

          The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.

          “You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”

          The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.

          “You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”

          He nodded, too tired to argue.

          :fleuron2:

          The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.

          “Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”

          Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.

          Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.

          A Turning Point

          One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.

          “Today, you clear,” she said.

          He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.

          With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.

          By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.

          As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.

          “You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.

          “See what?”

          “That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”

          :fleuron2:

          Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.

          One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.

          The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.

          The Bell

          It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.

          Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.

          He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.

          Darius nodded, unable to speak.

          “Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”

          :fleuron2:

          By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”

          For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.

          The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.

          #7638

          The Bell’s Moment: Paris, Summer 2024 – Olympic Games

          The bell was dangling unassumingly from the side pocket of a sports bag, its small brass frame swinging lightly with the jostle of the crowd. The bag belonged to an American tourist, a middle-aged man in a rumpled USA Basketball T-shirt, hustling through the Olympic complex with his family in tow. They were here to cheer for his niece, a rising star on the team, and the bell—a strange little heirloom from his grandmother—had been an afterthought, clipped to the bag for luck. It seemed to fit right in with the bright chaos of the Games, blending into the swirl of flags, chants, and the hum of summer excitement.

          1st Ring of the Bell: Matteo

          The vineyard was quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves. Matteo leaned against the tractor, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

          “You’ve done good work,” the supervisor said, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. “We’ll be finishing this batch by Friday.”

          Matteo nodded. “And after that?”

          The older man shrugged. “Some go north, some go south. You? You’ve got that look—like you already know where you’re headed.”

          Matteo offered a half-smile, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d felt the tug for days, like a thread pulling him toward something undefined. The idea of returning to Paris had slipped into his thoughts quietly, as if it had been waiting for the right moment.

          When his phone buzzed later that evening with a job offer to do renovation work in Paris, it wasn’t a surprise. He poured himself a small glass of wine, toasting the stars overhead.

          Somewhere, miles away, the bell rang its first note.

          2nd Ring of the Bell: Darius

          In a shaded square in Barcelona, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the echo of a street performer’s flamenco guitar. Darius sprawled on a wrought-iron bench, his leather-bound journal open on his lap. He sketched absentmindedly, the lines of a temple taking shape on the page.

          A man wearing a scarf of brilliant orange sat down beside him, his energy magnetic. “You’re an artist,” the man said without preamble, his voice carrying the cadence of Kolkata.

          “Sometimes,” Darius replied, his pen still moving.

          “Then you should come to India,” the man said, grinning. “There’s art everywhere. In the streets, in the temples, even in the food.”

          Darius chuckled. “You recruiting me?”

          “India doesn’t need recruiters,” the man replied. “It calls people when it’s time.”

          The bell rang again in Paris, its chime faint and melodic, as Darius scribbled the words “India, autumn” in the corner of his page.

          3rd Ring of the Bell: Elara

          The crowd at CERN’s conference hall buzzed as physicists exchanged ideas, voices overlapping like equations scribbled on whiteboards. Elara sat at a corner table, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through her messages.

          The voicemail notification glared at her, and she tapped it reluctantly.

          “Elara, it’s Florian. I… I’m sorry to tell you this over a message, but your mother passed away last night.”

          Her coffee cup trembled slightly as she set it down.

          Her relationship with her mother had been fraught, full of alternating period of silences and angry reunions, and had settled lately into careful politeness that masked deeper fractures. Years of therapy had softened the edges of her resentment but hadn’t erased it. She had come to accept that they would never truly understand each other, but the finality of death still struck her with a peculiar weight.

          Her mother had been living alone in Montrouge, France, refusing to leave the little house Elara had begged her to sell for years. They had drifted apart, their conversations perfunctory and strained, like the ritual of winding a clock that no longer worked.

          She would have to travel to Montrouge for the funeral arrangements.

          In that moment, the bell in Les Reliques rang a third time.

          4th Ring of the Bell: Lucien

          The train to Lausanne glided through fields of dried up sunflowers, too early for the season, but the heat had been relentless. He could imagine the golden blooms swaying with a cracking sound in the summer breeze. Lucien stared out the window, the strap of his duffel bag wrapped tightly around his wrist.

          Paris had been suffocating. The tourists swarmed the city like ants, turning every café into a photo opportunity and every quiet street into a backdrop. He hadn’t needed much convincing to take his friend up on the offer of a temporary studio in Lausanne.

          He reached into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook. The pages were filled with half-finished drawings, but one in particular caught his eye: a simple doorway with an ornate bell hanging above it.

          He didn’t remember drawing it, but the image felt familiar, like a memory from a dream.

          The bell rang again in Paris, its resonance threading through the quiet hum of the train.

          5th Ring of the Bell: …. Tabitha

          In the courtyard of her university residence, Tabitha swung lazily in a hammock, her phone propped precariously on her chest.

          “Goa, huh?” one of her friends asked, leaning against the tree holding up the hammock. “Think your mum will freak out?”

          “She’ll probably worry herself into knots,” Tabitha replied, laughing. “But she won’t say no. She’s good at the whole supportive parent thing. Or at least pretending to be.”

          Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Pretending?”

          “Don’t get me wrong, I love her,” Tabitha said. “But she’s got her own stuff. You know, things she never really talks about. I think it’s why she works so much. Keeps her distracted.”

          The bell rang faintly in Paris, though neither of them could hear it.

          “Maybe you should tell her to come with you,” the friend suggested.

          Tabitha grinned. “Now that would be a trip.”

          Last Ring: The Pawn

          It was now sitting on the counter at Les Reliques. Its brass surface gleamed faintly in the dim shop light, polished by the waves of time. Small and unassuming, its ring held something inexplicably magnetic.

          Time seemed to settle heavily around it. In the heat of the Olympic summer, it rang six times. Each chime marked a moment that mattered, though none of the characters whose lives it touched understood why. Not yet.

          “Where’d you get this?” the shopkeeper asked as the American tourist placed it down.

          “It was my grandma’s,” he said, shrugging. “She said it was lucky. I just think it’s old.”

          The shopkeeper ran her fingers over the brass surface, her expression unreadable. “And you’re selling it?”

          “Need cash to get tickets for the USA basketball game tomorrow,” the man replied. “Quarterfinals. You follow basketball?”

          “Not anymore,” the shopkeeper murmured, handing him a stack of bills.

          The bell rang softly as she placed it on the velvet cloth, its sound settling into the space like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

          And so it sat, quiet but full of presence, waiting for someone to claim it maybe months later, drawn by invisible threads woven through the magnetic field of lives, indifferent to the heat and chaos of the Parisian streets.

          #7518

          Frella opened her eyes. She felt rather woozy and very peculiar and it took her a moment to work out that she was sitting on the camphor chest in Herma’s shed with Herma and that awful Cedric Spellbind looming over her, their faces close and large. Too close. She looked from one anxious expression to the other.

          “And what the devil is he doing here?” She nodded towards Cedric.

          Cedric straightened himself. “I am here on official business,” he said stiffly. “Investigating this AirBnB for potential Witch Violations. And lucky I turned up when I did because you gave Mrs McCarthy here quite a turn with the way you were carrying on.”

          Herma shook her head crossly.” Violations my foot. I told you lot last time your people came sniffing around, there’s none of that carry on here.”

          “Why have I got salt all over me?” asked Frella.

          Cedric rolled his eyes. “Now THIS, THIS is what I am talking about. SHE,” he pointed at Herma, “threw salt all over you to break the evil spell she said.”

          “What nonsense!” said Herma, her face colouring. “But you had gone all odd, sort of not-here like and I couldn’t get any sense out of you.” She considered her hands for a few moments and then raised her head and beamed at Frella. “Why don’t I go and make you a nice cup of tea?” With that, she scurried off.

          “Well, you’ve done what you came for. You can go now,” said Frella glaring at Cedric. She stood up and turned pointedly away from him, wondered how much he had seen and hoping she didn’t fall over. She silently cursed the other witches for their crazy shenanigans and desperately hoped that Herma would not get in trouble with the Authorities.

          Cedric’s thoughts had taken quite another turn, mostly something about how beautiful the Witch was when she was angry. “Frigella,” he said.

          She swung around. “It’s FRELLA,” she hissed.

          “Frella …. “ Now it was Cedric’s turn to colour and he looked at the ground, so many thoughts jumbling through his head and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

          “Damn it Man! Spit it out, will you!”

          “I just want to say that I know what you are.”

          “And what am I exactly?”

          Cedric met her gaze. “I know you’re a Witch and I’m not going to turn you in.” He shrugged. “I can’t.”

          “And why can’t you, then? Something wrong with you, is there?”

          Cedric’s hand reached under his shirt. “Look,” he said. He was holding a small round device. “It’s a listening device. We are supposed to wear them whenever we have a suspected Witch Violation or Interaction.” He threw the device to the ground where it bounced a couple of times. Then—rather dramatically in Frella’s opinion—he stomped on it.

          Frella giggled. She couldn’t help herself

          #7514

          Whether or not Truella’s suggestion proved to be true or not, and time would tell, she couldn’t help wondering about the letter Malove had sent to Jeezel. Was it genuine? Had she, Truella, also received one?  Jeezel had asked if she’d checked her bags, and the truth was that she had not.

          She made her way slowly up the grand staircase, holding the banister to steady herself as she looked at all the tapestries. How strange they were, a series of smaller cloths all of a similar theme, all of corpulent nuns in crimson red robes, not in itself a strange thing in an old convent, but they all had the faces of frogs.

          frog sisters 1frog sisters 2frog sisters 3frog sisters 4

           

          “I see you’ve noticed them too, Truella,” Rufus said quietly, his hand reaching under his shirt for a moment.

          “Thank goodness I was holding onto the bannisters, you startled me! I didn’t see you there. I could have fallen to my death on the tiled floor below, Rufus.”

          “I’d have saved you. As I always have done,” He replied enigmatically.  “Do you recognise them now?” he asked, glancing pointedly at the embroidered cloths.

          Truella paused. What was going on here? Was he trying to distract her?  “Rufus, we need to talk,” she said quietly. “I’m going to my room to look for, er, something. Come with me.”

          #7509

          Rufus was not a man for small talk and the past couple of hours had been punishing for a man of his reticent character.  He would have liked to get to know Truella better to try and recall which life he’d known her in, for he was sure now that it wasn’t a past encounter in this one, but that was not something to discuss in a crowded room. It would have to wait.  Despite being a serious man himself, he had found the more frivolous and jolly witches and nuns more compatible than the severe looking grim ones.  Even so, having to meet and speak to so many people in such a short time was overwhelming.

          As soon as he could politely do so, he excused himself. Avoiding the smoky courtyard, he wandered around the labyrinthine building looking for another way outside.  There were tapestries hanging on the walls in every room, ancient and faded, many with unusual designs.  Rufus photographed them all in order to have a closer look at them later in the solitude of his room.  The wall hanging with the frogs caught his eye in particular, and without thinking he found himself touching the Punic frog amulet hanging on his chest underneath his white silk shirt.  As he lingered looking at the frog tapestry, he was startled by the swish of Bartolo’s robes behind him.  Bartolo looked at him keenly for what seemed like an interminable length of time but in reality was only a moment. Damn it, he seemed familiar too.

          “Exquisite decor, Brother, I like this one in particular. Such needlework! May I ask the provenance of this specimen?”  Rufus tried to lighten the mood, not that lightening the mood had ever been his strong suit.  “It looks very old, I assume this is not a recently made handicraft?”

          Brother Bartolo decided to play along. He had recognised Rufus immediately, as if the name wasn’t enough of a clue, his eyes were exactly the same as old Rufino’s had been.  Rufino, one of the oldest Punic families in Baetica. Oh, Bartolo remembered them well.

          “That one has been hanging here since well before the convent was built,” Bartolo explained.  “It happens to be one of my favourites.  Another glass of cordial, sir?”

          “No thank you Brother, I need some fresh air. I’d like to see the gardens, if I may.”

          “Follow me,” replied Bartolo, as he lumbered down the passage.  “The kitchen gardens are through here.  There’s a gate at the end of that path to the rest of the grounds. Don’t worry about the mongoose, they’re quite tame.”

          Such was the relief to be outside on his own, that Rufus didn’t immediately wonder what Brother Bartolo had meant.  That frog tapestry had been hanging right there since before the convent was built? Hanging on what?  Rufus’s hand involuntarily clutched his amulet again.

          #7420

          Spring was there. At 5:57am in the morning, true to her name, Truella had been planting truelles incognito in what appeared to be random flowerbeds in the cities she was passing through. The truelles, she would usually find with the locator spell in sheds around the city and magic them out right into her hands. She loved magic for its efficiency, which really meant there was no need to break in and forage for hours in cramped little rooms.

          As she was following a border of plane trees, she chuckled. Believe it or not, she practically invented that spell. At least that’s what her mother used to tell her when she was 6yo and she often wandered alone around the city without mentioning it to anyone. At the time, she had believed her mother. She had bragged about it with her friends at school and pretended she had forgotten all about it like because of a bump on her head. But truth is she had frequent memory losses, which didn’t worry her at the time, and she found it cool to be able to do things and rediscover them later on.

          It was an uncle with a dreadfully red moustache, who took pity on her and decided to shatter her dreams of early accomplishments and fame. Was it that same year? Or the next?

          Anyway, back to the truelles, she didn’t do it for people to take photos of it and post them to social media, like gawdy Jeez seemed to think, but it was to remind people of the treasures they had buried in those dark little rooms just there in their gardens. How long would it take them to realise that those forgotten tools had disappeared?

          Pleased with herself, she noticed a man with a white shirt leaning forward in front of one of the plane trees, his right hand on the bark, two paper bags full of croissants in the other. Frowning, she walked towards him. She was about to ask if he needed help when a strong smell of alcohol made her gag. Then without a warning, the man threw up a red mash in front of him. Truella jumped back, raising the truelle as if it could protect her from any splatter.

          “Eww!” She wouldn’t dare saying anything else as opening her mouth could open the gates for her own early toasted cheese fritter. At least the man would not need embalming fluids if he didn’t survive his nocturnal drinking spree.

          She cast the truelle in front of the tree and a spell on the man so that he would bury deep the traces of his last meal. She didn’t want the neighbourhood dogs getting drunk after feasting on it.

          #7215

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Zara the game character was standing in the entrance hallway in the old wooden inn.  There was nobody around except for her three friends, and the light inside was strangely dim and an eerie orange glow was coming from the windows.  She and the others wandered around opening doors and looking in rooms in the deserted building.  There were a dozen or so bedrooms along both sides of a corridor, and a kitchen, dining room and lounge room leading off the entrance hall.  Zara looked up the wide staircase, but as a cellar entrance was unlikely to be upstairs, she didn’t go up. The inn was surrounded by a wrap around verandah; perhaps the cellar entrance was outside underneath it. Zara checked for a personal clue:

           

          “Amidst the foliage and bark, A feather and a beak in the dark.”

           

          Foliage and bark suggested that the entrance was indeed outside, given the absence of houseplants inside. She stepped out the door and down the steps, walking around the perimeter of the raised vernadah, looking for a hatch or anything to suggest a way under the building.  Before she had completed the circuit she noticed an outbuilding at the back underneath a eucalyptus tree and made her way over to it. She pushed the door open and peered into the dim interior.  A single unmade bed, some jeans and t shirts thrown over the back of a chair, a couple of pairs of mens shoes….Zara was just about to retreat and close the door behind her when she noticed the little wooden desk in the corner with an untidy pile of papers and notebooks on it.

          Wait though, Zara reminded herself, This is supposed to be a group quest. I better call the others over here.

          Nevertheless, she went over to the desk to look first. There was an old fashioned feather quill and an ink pot on the desk, and a gold pocket watch and chain.  Or was it a compass?  Strangely, it seemed like neither, but what was it then? Zara picked one of the notebooks up but it was too dark inside the hut to read.

          #6617

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Youssef had brought his black obsidian with him in the kitchen at breakfast. Idle—Youssef had realised that on top of being her way of life, it was also her name—was preparing a herbal brownie under the supervision of a colourful parrot perched on her shoulder.

          “If you’re interested in rocks, you should go to Betsy’s. She’s got that ‘Gems & Minerals’ shop on Main street. She opened it with her hubby a few years back. Before he died.”

          “Nutty Betsy, Pretty Girl likes her better,” said the parrot.

          Idle looked at his backpack and his clothes.

          “You seem the wandering type, lad. I was like you when I was younger, always gallivanting here, there, and everywhere with my brother. Now, I prefer wandering in my mind, if you know what I mean,” she said licking her finger full of chocolate. “Anyway, an advice. Don’t go down the mines alone. Betsy’s hubby’s still down there after one of the tunnels collapsed a few years back. She’s not been quite herself ever since.”

          Main street was —well— the only street in town. They’ve been preparing for some kind of festival, putting banners on top of the shops and in between two trees near the gas station. Youssef stopped there to buy snacks that he stacked on top of the obsidian stone in his backpack. The young boy who worked there, Devan, seemed quite excited at the perspective of the Lager and Cart Race. It happened only every ten years and last time he was too young to participate.

          The shop had not been difficult to find, at the other end of the street. A tiny sign covered in purple star sequins indicated “Betsy’s Gems & Minerals — We deliver worldwide”. He felt with his hand the black rock he had put in his backpack. If Idle had not mentioned the mines and the dead husband, Youssef might have reconsidered going in. But the coincidence with his dream and the game was too intriguing. He entered.

          The shop was a mess. Crates full of stones, cardboard boxes and bubble wrappings. In the back, a plump woman, working on a giant starfish she held  on her lap, was humming as she listened to loud rock music. Youssef recognised a song from the Last Shadow Puppets’ second album : The Element of Surprise. Apparently, the woman hadn’t heard him enter. She wore a dress and a hat sprinkled with golden stars, and her wrists were hidden under a ton of stone bracelets. The music track changed. The woman started shaking her head following the rhythm of the tune. She was gluing small red stones, she picked in a little box, on one of the starfish arms.

          “Bad Habits! Uhu. Bad Habits! Uhu.”

          Youssef moved closer. His shadow covered the starfish. The woman raised her head and screamed, scattering the red stones in her workshop. The starfish fell from her lap onto the ground with a thud.

          “Oh! My! Little devil. Look at what you made me do. I lost my marbles,” she said with a high pitched laugh. “Your mother never taught you? That’s bad habit to creep up on people like that. You scared the sheep out of me!”

          “I’m so sorry,” said Youssef, getting on his knees to help her gather the stones.

          When they were all back in their box, Youssef got back on his feet. The woman looked a him with a softened face.

          “You such a cutie with your bear shirt. You make me think of my Howard. He was as tall as you are. I’m Betsy, obviously” she said with a giggle, extending her hand to him.

          They shook hands, making the pearls of her bracelets clink together.

          “I’m Youssef.”

          :fleuron:

          Youssef didn’t need to insist too much. Betsy was a real juke box of gossips. He just had to ask one question from time to time, and she would get going again. He was starting to feel his quirk could be more than a curse after all.

          “When the tunnel collapsed,” Betsy said, “I was ready to give up the stone shop. The pain was too much to bear, everything in the shop reminded me of Howard. And in a miners’ town, who would want to buy stones anyway. We’ve been in bad terms with Idle and her family for some time, but that tragic incident coincided with her brother Fred’s disappearance. They thought at first Fred had died in the mines with Howard, because they spent so much time discussing together in Room 8 at the Inn. I overheard them once, talking about something they found in the mines. But Howard never told me, he was so secretive about that. We even had a fight, you know. But Fred, the children found some message later that suggested he had just left the family. Imagine, the children! Idle was pissed with him of course. Abandoning her with that mother of theirs and that money pit of an Inn and the rest of the family. And I needed company. So we started to get together on a regular basis. She would bring her special cakes, and we would complain about our lives. At some point she got involved with that shamanic stuff she found online, and she helped me find my totem Bear. It was quite a revelation. Bear suggested I diversify and open an online shop and start making orgonites. I love those little gummy bears so much. So, I followed Bear’s advice and it has been working like a charm ever since. That’s why I trusted you straight away, lad. Not ’cause of your cute face. You got the Bear in your heart,” she said putting her finger at the center of his chest.

          My inner Bear, of course, thought Youssef. That’s the magnet. His phone buzzed. He took it out and saw he had an alert from the game and a message from his friends.

          You found the source of your quirk, the magnetic pull that attracts talkative people to you.
          Now obtain the silver key in the shape of a tongue to fulfil your quest.

           

          Zara : Where are you!? :yahoo_bee: We’re at the bar, getting parched! They got Pale Ale!

          “I have to go,” said Youssef.

          “Wait,” said Betsy.

          She foraged through her orgonite collection and handed Youssef one little gummy bear and an ornate metal badge.

          “Bear wants me to give this to you. Howard made it. He said it was his forked tongue key.”

          She looked at him, emotion in her eyes.

          “I know you won’t listen if I tell you not to. So, be careful when you go into the mines.”

          #6545

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The road was stretching endlessly and monotonously, a straight line disappearing into a nothingness of dry landscapes that reminded Youssef of the Gobi desert where he had been driving not too long ago. At regular speed, the car barely seemed to progress.

          > O Time suspend thy flight!

          Eternity. Something only nature could procure him. He loved the feeling, and compared to the more usual sand of Gobi, the red sands of Australia gave him the impression he had shifted into another reality. That and the fifteen hours flight listening to Gladys made it difficult to respond to Xavier’s loquacious self and funny jokes. After some time, his friend stopped talking and tried catching some signal to play the Game, brandishing his phone in different directions as if he was hunting ghosts with a strange device.

          It reminded him he had to accept his next quest in a ghost town. That’s all he remembered. He could do that at the Inn, when they could rest in their rooms.

          Youssef wondered if the welcome sign at the entrance of the town had seen better days. The wood the fish was made of seemed eaten by termites, but someone had painted it with silver and blue to give it a fresher look. Youssef snorted at the shocked expression on his friend’s face.

          “It looked like it died of boredom. Let’s just hope the Innside doesn’t look like a gutted fish,” Xavier said.

          An old lady showed them their rooms. She didn’t seem the talkative type, which made Youssef love her immediately with her sharp tongue and red cardigan. He rather admired her braided silver hair as it reminded him of his mother who would let him brush her hair when they lived in Norway. It was in another reality. He smiled. She saw him looking at her and her eyes narrowed like a pair of arrowslits. She seemed ready to fire. Instead she kept on ranting about an idle person not doing her only job properly. They each went to their rooms, Xavier took number 7 and Youssef picked number 5, his lucky number.

          He was glad to be able to enjoy his own room after the trip of the last few weeks. It had been for work, so it was different. But usually he liked travelling the world on his own and meet people on his way and learn from their stories. Traveling with people always meant some compromise that would always frustrate him because he wanted to go faster, or explore more tricky paths.

          The room was nicely decorated, and the scent of fresh paint made it clear it was recent. A strange black stone, which Youssef recognized as a black obsidian, has been put on a pile of paper full of doodles, beside two notebooks and pencils. The notebooks’ pages were blank, he thought of giving them to Xavier. He took the stone. It was cold to the touch and his reflection on the surface looked back at him, all wavy. The doodles on the paper looked like a map and hard to read annotations. One stood out, though which looked like a wifi password. That made him think of the Game. He entered it on his phone and that was it. Maybe it was time to go back in. But he wanted to take a shower first.

          He put his backpack and his bag on the bed and unpacked it. Amongst a pile of dirty clothes, he managed to find a t-shirt that didn’t smell too bad and a pair of shorts. He would have to use the laundry service of the hotel.

          He had missed hot showers. Once refreshed, he moved his bags on the floor and jumped on his bed and launched the Game.

          Youssef finds himself in a small ghost town in what looks like the middle of the Australian outback. The town was once thriving but now only a few stragglers remain, living in old, decrepit buildings. He’s standing in the town square, surrounded by an old post office, a saloon, and a few other ramshackle buildings.

          A message appeared on the screen.

          Quest: Your task is to find the source of the magnetic pull that attracts talkative people to you. You must find the reason behind it and break the spell, so you can continue your journey in peace.

          Youssef started to move his avatar towards the saloon when someone knocked on the door.

          #6540

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            Update & clarifications on the characters:

            Looking at the avatars that Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin are using in VR.

            Full name or real name in RL :: name in VR (@nickhandle) description of avatar.

            • Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara (@zaraloon) is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.
            • Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier (@xavimunk) is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
            • Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin (@yasminowl) is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.
            • Youssef Ali :: Youssef (@youssefbear) is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

            Full descriptions for real-life Zara, Yasmin, Youssef, Xavier:

            Real Life Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara is a 57-year-old woman who is an adventurous traveler and a passionate hobbyist. She has a full mane of gorgeous auburn hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, sparkling green eyes, and a warm smile that puts others at ease. She is of mixed heritage, her mother was Indian and her father was British. She is well-educated and well-off, either through an inheritance or a supportive and understanding husband. Zara is a lover of art, music, and history, and spends much of her time indulging in her passions. She is always eager to explore new places and meet new people, and her adventurous spirit often leads her to travel off the beaten path.

            Real Life Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin is a 32-year-old woman who is kind, nurturing, and always puts others first. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a warm smile that lights up a room. Born in Egypt, she grew up in a close-knit family and values the importance of community. She is a talented actress, who has kept her career a secret from those closest to her, in order to pursue a more fulfilling life working with children. Yasmin currently volunteers at an orphanage in Fiji, where she devotes herself to helping children in need.

            Real Life Youssef Ali :: Youssef is a 34-year-old man who is driven, confident, and always up for a challenge. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and a square jawline that gives him a strong and determined look. Born to a Yemeni father and a Norwegian mother, he has a unique blend of cultures that has shaped his world view. Youssef is a talented blogger, who has traveled the world in search of new and interesting stories to share with his audience. He is always on the go, with a backpack on his shoulder, ready for his next adventure.

            Real Life Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier is a 36-year-old man who is bright, cheerful, and always looking for the positive in every situation. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile that never fails to win people over. Born to Norwegian and Danish parents, he has a love for the sea and an appreciation for the finer things in life. Xavier is an AI developer, who is working on a project he calls AL. He is always eager to share his ideas with others and is constantly seeking new and exciting opportunities.

            #6460

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            The vendor was preparing the Lorgh Drülp with the dexterity of a Japanese sushi chef. A piece of yak, tons of spices, minced vegetables, and some other ingredients that Youssef couldn’t recognise. He turned his attention to the shaman’s performance. The team was trying to follow the man’s erratic moves under Miss Tartiflate’s supervision.  Youssef could hear her shouting to Kyle to get closer shots. It reminded him that he had to get an internet connection.

            “Is there a wifi?” asked Youssef to the vendor. The man bobbed his head and pointed at the table with a knife just as big as a machete. Impressed by the size of the blade, Youssef almost didn’t see the tattoo on the vendor’s forearm. The man resumed his cooking swiftly and his long yellow sleeve hid the tattoo. Youssef touched his screen to look at his exchange with Xavier. He searched for the screenshot he had taken of the Thi Gang’s message. There it was. The mummy skull with Darth Vador’s helmet. The same as the man’s tattoo. Xavier’s last message was about the translation being an ancient silk road recipe. They had thought it a fluke in AL’s algorithm. Youssef glanced at the vendor and his knife. Could he be part of Thi Gang?

            Youssef didn’t have time to think of a plan when the vendor put a tray with the Lorgh Drülp and little balls of tsampa on the table. The man pointed with his finger at the menu on the table, uncovering his forearm, it was the same as the Thi Gang logo.

            “Wifi on menu,” the man said. “Tsampa, good for you…”

            A commotion at the market place interrupted them. Apparently Kyle had gone too close and the shaman had crashed into him and the rest of the team. The man was cursing every one of them and Miss Tartiflate was apparently trying to calm him down by offering him snack bars. But the shaman kept brandishing an ugly sceptre that looked like a giant chicken foot covered in greasy fur, while cursing them with broken english. The tourists were all brandishing their phones, not missing a thing, ready to send their videos on TrickTruck. The shaman left angrily, ignoring all attempts at conciliation. There would be no reportage.

            “Hahaha, tourists, they believe anything they see,” said the vendor before returning to his stove and his knife.

            Despite his hunger, Youssef thought he’d better hurry with the wifi, now that the crew was out of work, he would be the target of Miss Tartiflate’s frustration. Furthermore, he wanted to lay low and not attract the vendor’s attention.

            3235 messages from his friends. How would he ever catch up?
            Among them, messages from Xavier. Youssef sighed of relief when he read that his friend had regained full access of the website and updated the system to fix a security flaw that allowed Thi Gang to gain access in the first place. But he growled when his friend continued with the bad news. There was some damage done to the content of THE BLOG.

            To console himself, Youssef started to eat a ball of tsampa. It was sweet and tasted like rose. He took a second and spit it out almost immediately. There was a piece of paper inside. He smoothed it and discovered a series of five pictograms.

            🧔🌮🔍🔑🏞️

            The first one was like a hologram and kept changing into six horizontal bars. The second one, looking like a tako bell, kept reversing side. Youssef raised his head to call the vendor and nobody was there. He got up and looked for the guy, Thi Gang or not, he needed some answers. Voices came from behind the curtain at the back of the stall. Youssef walked around the stall and saw the shaman and the vendor exchanging clothes. The caucasian man was now wearing the colourful costume and the drum. When he saw Youssef, he smiled and waved his hand, making the bells from the hem ring. Then he turned around and left, whistling an air that sounded strangely like the music of the Game. Youssef was about to run after him when a hand grasped his shirt.

            “Please! Tell me at least that THE BLOG is up and running!” said an angry voice.

            #6396

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Youssef woke up with a hangover. The guy from the restaurant had put fermented horse milk in his yak butter tea and he was already drunk before he could realize it. Apparently it had been a joke played on him by some of the team members he suspected didn’t quite like the humour of his real life shirt collection. Especially the one with the man shouting at his newspaper on his toilets.
            As soon as he had gotten out of the yurt, before he could go have some breakfast, his boss, Miss Tartiflate, pounced on him because there was something wrong with THE BLOG. And Youssef was the one in charge of it. And it was important because people in the world were expecting her posts about the shooting everyday. Truth is, since they couldn’t find the last Mongolian shaman, who apparently called himself Lama Yoneze, and the views had dropped dramatically. Youssef suspected Miss Tartiflate was not as ignorante as she wanted him to believe and had broken the blog on purpose so that her own boss wouldn’t accuse her of being lazy.

            “I have a reputation, you know!”

            She had said that looking like he didn’t have one, and nobody cared anyway.

            Youssef looked at the clock on his phone. They were supposed to meet with Zara, Xavier and Yasmine in thirty minutes. He had tried to sort out THE BLOG problem, but nothing seemed to work, and time was running out. Despite all being ok on the admin console, nothing was showing up on the page. He had called Gang Thi, the Nepalese company in charge of the blog, three times. Each time the receptionist hang up on him while attempting to put him on hold, or so she said. Now, nobody even bother to answer the damn phone.

            Miss Tartiflate passed her head between the curtains of the yurt.

            “Are you finished yet ?” she asked that as if he was on the throne.

            “Nope!”

            “What!? How? Do you have sausage fingers? My 5 years old daughter is more nimble than you with computers.”

            “Well, you should have brought her with us then,” said Youssef with an irritated smile, fed up by her constant useless interruptions.

            She grunted and closed the curtains angrily. Youssef growled like a bear, showing his bare teeth. Everybody knew why she jumped on the occasion for this trip: needed some fresh air from her nimble daughter and her husband.

            An alert showed up on his phone : “You’ve got a message from 💣Gang Thi💣”. The bomb in the title looked suspicious, and his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten this morning. He clicked to open it.

            The face of a mummy looking like Darth Vader and laughing like the Joker jumped on his screen. After a few seconds a message started to appear in a tongue he couldn’t decipher.

            Youssef looked at the clock and almost threw his phone on the ground as the mummy started to laugh again.
            He would definitely have to miss the meeting with his friends.

            #6388

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Youssef came out of the Internet Cafe Yurt quite satisfied of himself but confused. It was already night time here and he felt hungry like a bear looking for honey. He smelled the scents of yak’s meat and followed the trail to the resto’yurt of the camp the production had settled in for the night. They were on a trip to make a documentary about the last surviving authentic shaman of Mongolia. They’d heard he was still alive and 125 years old. Of course, he was difficult to find and they’ve been looking for him for weeks.

            Fortunately, they had good reception for him to stay in contact with his friends and play the new game with that AI generated storyline stuff. Youssef liked his character with the bear shirt, but he wouldn’t tell his friends that he hadn’t  quite understood the concept of the game or of the quest. He was the kind of guy who liked having some explanations first and follow clear rules, have a little guidance. He smiled and performed two steps of breakdance, recalling one of Xavier’s joke about a little “guy dance”. His stomach growled as he approached the resto’yurt and the scent of food became stronger. The sounds of cheerful conversations in different languages welcomed him as he entered.

            He’ll have plenty of time to think of the game in front a spicy smorlax fried and a bowl of sweet tsampa for dessert. He noticed an empty seat just near Rebbecca, a young intern that took care of Mme Landowski’s schedule. She was smiling and Youssef thought they could continue the conversation they started this morning about the type of guys she liked.

             

            #6379

            In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Asking to give each of the 4 characters some particular traits that makes them uniquely distinctive and recognizable

              The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

              Zara is the leader of the group, she is confident, and always ready for an adventure. She is a natural leader and has a strong sense of justice. She is also a tech-savvy person, always carrying a variety of gadgets with her, and is always the first to try out new technology.

              Xavier is the joker of the group, always cracking jokes and making puns. He is a free-spirited person who is always up for an adventure, he has a great sense of humor and is not afraid to be himself. He is also an artist and often carries a sketchbook and pencils with him, he likes to draw whatever he sees in his journeys.

              Yasmin is the brains of the group, she is intelligent and logical. She is always able to think on her feet and come up with a plan when things get tough. She is also a bit of a perfectionist and likes to have everything organized. She is a history buff and always carries a notebook with her to document her findings.

              Youssef is the muscle of the group, He is physically strong, and always ready to help out in a fight. He is also a bit of a foodie and loves trying new dishes. He is always the first one to volunteer to carry the heavy bags and equipment. He is also a bit of a daredevil and loves trying out new sports and activities.

              Give each of them a color, and an animal, and a secret name in a funny language

              The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

              Zara is the leader of the group, her color is red, her animal is a lion, and her secret name in a funny language is “Zaraloon”

              Xavier is the joker of the group, his color is orange, his animal is a monkey, and his secret name in a funny language is “Xavimunk”

              Yasmin is the brains of the group, her color is blue, her animal is an owl, and her secret name in a funny language is “Yasminowl”

              Youssef is the muscle of the group, his color is green, his animal is a bear, and his secret name in a funny language is “Youssefbear”

              Now, we need physical descriptions for each of them. Also, their ages, height, clothes, facial features, ethnicity (for instance Youssef may be half Yemeni and half Norwegian), etc. with a good mix of generic and eccentric. We also need surnames congruent with their described ethnicity, not too bland, but not too daft either. For instance Youssef Olafsson, Zara Patara-Smythe, etc. Also explain how they become friends.

              Zara Patara-Smythe is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.

              Xavier Olafsson is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

              Yasmin Ahmed is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.

              Youssef Ali is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

              The four of them became friends in college, they were all studying different majors, but they all shared a love for adventure and exploration. They found themselves in the same class project, and from there they formed a strong bond. After college, they decided to keep exploring the world together, and went on many trips and adventures, always seeking for something new and exciting.

              1/ Change the ages of Zara, Xavier, Yasmin and Youssef to more random patterns – rewrite if needed how they met each other to reflect eventual age gaps. Give them some flaws, mental or physical challenges.
              2/ increase again the age gaps while keeping the youngest one a young adult, and remove “minor” from the flaws descriptions

              Zara is a 22-year-old woman who is the youngest of the group. She is a free-spirited, adventurous person, but also a bit reckless and impulsive. She has a scar on her cheek that she got from a Skateboarding accident when she was a teenager.

              Xavier is a 45-year-old man who is the oldest of the group. He is a responsible and level-headed person, but also a bit of a perfectionist and can be hard on himself and others. He has dyslexia which he has been able to work around and it doesn’t impede his daily life.

              Yasmin is a 38-year-old woman who is the second oldest of the group. She is a kind and compassionate person, but also a bit of a pushover and can have trouble standing up for herself. She has social anxiety that affect her in certain situations and she have been working on coping mechanisms.

              Youssef is a 33-year-old man who is the second youngest of the group. He is a charismatic and outgoing person, but also a bit of a flirt and can be a bit insensitive to others feelings. He has ADHD which he has been able to manage with medication, but it still affects him from time to time.

              The group met each other through different means, Xavier and Yasmin met at work, Zara and Youssef met at a college class, and eventually, they all became friends through common interests and activities. They decided to go on this adventure together because they were all looking for a change in their lives and wanted to explore the unknown.

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