Aprilos 13
Aprilos 13
Aprilos 13, in the 2,002 year W.K
Sir Huerney, Templar of the White Brik
Manor of the late Baron NeMo
West-end, Barony of the Western Kingdom
Sir Huerney,
You might remember our conversation late in the fortnight after the Feast of Friar Bulkington, wherein you described your knowledge of certain texts of shall we say, "an arcane nature"? I was most intrigued by your mention of a certain "Brikthul-something-or-other", whose name is known to me, but I shan't mention here. You see, as a priest of St. Cutblok, I am interested in such matters, and in more capacity than is sufficient for a priest who seeks to better his understanding of the arcane arts insomuch as fighting nay, conquering and mastering evil.
I have spent many a sleepless night in the rectory, pacing the halls, longing to gain further insight and knowledge of these things. Last night, sleep came to me unusually promptly, yet I was plagued by a recurring dream. In this dream, I was wearing armour, bearing a great sword and a shield. To say 'I' is a stretch in truth, for I perceived and knew that I was the one in my dream, yet I happened to glimpse a reflection of my dream-self in a mirror.
What I saw was a hideous mutation of a figure, my skin a sickly yellow with no shade or flush in the cheek - only the ghastly jaundice of a dying wretch. Upon my bloated, cylindrical head, I bore a smile, yet somehow without lips. An up-turned black line, incapable of movement or expression of the horror I truly felt, was this mockery of happier emotion. The worst part, and it is with great apprehension that I recount it to you, were the unblinking, unfeeling, empty black eyes that stared back at me in that haunted window. No apple, nor cornea, nor white, nor lid, nor lash had they, only the deep, writhing agony of all-seeing terror. At this time in my dream, my physical body, strained at my mind not being able to wink and wet my eyes, must have begun to seep tears, for when I woke, my pillow was soaked through, and my eyes were red as one weeping for the recently-departed dead.
That is not the extent of my nightmare, for I was left with much more reason to tremble the next morn. Dreaming, I looked down at my feet which had been removed in some twisted experiment concocted by my sub-conscious mind, or as a result of a savage wound from countless aeons of war against the demons of my past leaving only two square pegs to maintain a shaky balance on this broken plane.
My hands! Sweet St. Cutblok! MY HANDS! Two molded yellow appendages mounted like the severed claws of a hepatitic lobster. Inscribed upon the pommel of the sword I carried was a word that taunted me -for unable was I to "le' go" of the weapon I brandished. The shield I carried was fitted with a handle to accommodate my unbending arm - like some evil malefactor had produced masses of these to equip a dying, elbow-less army.
I turned from the mirror, goose-stepping because my knees were frozen fast whether from terror and the strain of too much knocking, or yet another evil inflicted by the same malice that had taken my feet. Down a dark corridor I plodded, to a chamber at its end. A light shone upon a pedestal in this room, a pale light with no apparent source; yet glowing faintly -as that given off by the last firefly in the autumn before a winter that will never end. As I stepped up to the pedestal, I saw a book, an ancient tome bound in Pleather, and the title upon it burned in my mind as if writ in fire.
Even as I write to you, I am feverish. The abbot is making some soup and preparing to give the weekly message to the congregation tomorrow, in my absence. My hands grow clammy and I am coughing in fits, but I must convey the title to you, ere I return to my bed. The title upon that ancient and arcane text was CHAPTER FNORD.
I remain, Sir, your most respectful comrade,
Weyoun B, priest of St. Cutblok
Sir Huerney, Templar of the White Brik
Manor of the late Baron NeMo
West-end, Barony of the Western Kingdom
Sir Huerney,
You might remember our conversation late in the fortnight after the Feast of Friar Bulkington, wherein you described your knowledge of certain texts of shall we say, "an arcane nature"? I was most intrigued by your mention of a certain "Brikthul-something-or-other", whose name is known to me, but I shan't mention here. You see, as a priest of St. Cutblok, I am interested in such matters, and in more capacity than is sufficient for a priest who seeks to better his understanding of the arcane arts insomuch as fighting nay, conquering and mastering evil.
I have spent many a sleepless night in the rectory, pacing the halls, longing to gain further insight and knowledge of these things. Last night, sleep came to me unusually promptly, yet I was plagued by a recurring dream. In this dream, I was wearing armour, bearing a great sword and a shield. To say 'I' is a stretch in truth, for I perceived and knew that I was the one in my dream, yet I happened to glimpse a reflection of my dream-self in a mirror.
What I saw was a hideous mutation of a figure, my skin a sickly yellow with no shade or flush in the cheek - only the ghastly jaundice of a dying wretch. Upon my bloated, cylindrical head, I bore a smile, yet somehow without lips. An up-turned black line, incapable of movement or expression of the horror I truly felt, was this mockery of happier emotion. The worst part, and it is with great apprehension that I recount it to you, were the unblinking, unfeeling, empty black eyes that stared back at me in that haunted window. No apple, nor cornea, nor white, nor lid, nor lash had they, only the deep, writhing agony of all-seeing terror. At this time in my dream, my physical body, strained at my mind not being able to wink and wet my eyes, must have begun to seep tears, for when I woke, my pillow was soaked through, and my eyes were red as one weeping for the recently-departed dead.
That is not the extent of my nightmare, for I was left with much more reason to tremble the next morn. Dreaming, I looked down at my feet which had been removed in some twisted experiment concocted by my sub-conscious mind, or as a result of a savage wound from countless aeons of war against the demons of my past leaving only two square pegs to maintain a shaky balance on this broken plane.
My hands! Sweet St. Cutblok! MY HANDS! Two molded yellow appendages mounted like the severed claws of a hepatitic lobster. Inscribed upon the pommel of the sword I carried was a word that taunted me -for unable was I to "le' go" of the weapon I brandished. The shield I carried was fitted with a handle to accommodate my unbending arm - like some evil malefactor had produced masses of these to equip a dying, elbow-less army.
I turned from the mirror, goose-stepping because my knees were frozen fast whether from terror and the strain of too much knocking, or yet another evil inflicted by the same malice that had taken my feet. Down a dark corridor I plodded, to a chamber at its end. A light shone upon a pedestal in this room, a pale light with no apparent source; yet glowing faintly -as that given off by the last firefly in the autumn before a winter that will never end. As I stepped up to the pedestal, I saw a book, an ancient tome bound in Pleather, and the title upon it burned in my mind as if writ in fire.
Even as I write to you, I am feverish. The abbot is making some soup and preparing to give the weekly message to the congregation tomorrow, in my absence. My hands grow clammy and I am coughing in fits, but I must convey the title to you, ere I return to my bed. The title upon that ancient and arcane text was CHAPTER FNORD.
I remain, Sir, your most respectful comrade,
Weyoun B, priest of St. Cutblok
Last edited by Nemo20k on Mon Apr 13, 2009 2:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
- Moronstudios
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That was amazing, do have more writing like this you can share?
Nice description of being a minifig.
Nice description of being a minifig.
Looking for Vancouver Island players: http://www.brikwars.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=1194
RE: Aprilos 13
That depends on what you mean by "more writing like this". I certainly do have more dark and sinister works as yet made unavailable to the public. Most certainly. Works that speak of hatred, malice, contempt for humanity, envy, suffering, mistreatment, violence, wanton cruelty, and the worst: unrequited love.do have more writing like this you can share?
But none of them are about briks, minis, or Brikthulhu. I could be pressed to continue The Nightmare Adventures of Weyoun Brikfour, Priest of St Cutblok -if this is what folks like. The poll won't lie.
- tahthing
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yer do more stuff like this i really like the idea of it, i think im evil since i don't feel guilt for crusing minifigures under bricks in the boxs i keep my le'go in.
"some people are like slinkies there really good for nothing, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs"
"Triangalism! What's the fuckin' point!"
How's that compression ratio?
"Triangalism! What's the fuckin' point!"
How's that compression ratio?
- RagnarokRose
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Chapter Fnord
http://www.brikwars.com/supplements.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fnord
And I will make more as time permits. I can't let three sets of gouged-out eyes go to waste.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fnord
And I will make more as time permits. I can't let three sets of gouged-out eyes go to waste.
- RagnarokRose
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BrikWars actually had a chapter fnord for awhile, back before I finished the Squads chapter. When you tried to go to Chapter 8: Squads, it would take you to Chapter Fnord: Squids instead. I don't think I have it up anymore, but I've always meant to make a fuller version of that chapter and stick it between 7 and 8.
- Greenkey15
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- RagnarokRose
- u a MILLION wus and only then shall you become the MISTRESS
- Posts: 3941
- Joined: Sun Sep 21, 2008 7:03 pm
- tahthing
- rather undermines the point of ranks.
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no it would be every picture,Greenkey15 wrote:Wasn't chapter FNORD just a picture of BrikThulu?
EDIT:i meant should of been every picture.
Last edited by tahthing on Sat May 02, 2009 6:27 am, edited 1 time in total.
"some people are like slinkies there really good for nothing, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs"
"Triangalism! What's the fuckin' point!"
How's that compression ratio?
"Triangalism! What's the fuckin' point!"
How's that compression ratio?
- Greenkey15
- Cannon Fodder
- Posts: 338
- Joined: Tue Jul 01, 2008 10:01 pm