Date: 2/27/1999 9:42 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
Tall and narrow, the Editor slipped once again into the creaking chair. Elbows akimbo, the rolling writer clasped in eager fingers, the Editor began to write. The words were the passion that glued flesh to cylindrical plastic and prompted gray matter to devise the means to communicate with a world so alien to the one chosen to deliver the message.
The pen was rubbed against the framework of glasses which held bifocal lenses as thought paused and action followed suit. Silence but for the ticking of the mantle clock ruled the small office, lined in fine, dark cherry paneling. Though the day was chilly, the fire grate was cold. As absentminded about personal amenities as the Editor was fastidious about words, the one in the chair would as soon wrap a blanket about cold shoulders as go to the
trouble of lighting the hearth.
There was much to explain to the dueling community -- the reason for the delay in the awards -- and much to leave out of the introductory message the Editor intended to pen -- personal touches. Trouble with the supplier of the brass from which the buckles awards had been crafted and further dissension between Outback management and the distributor of the buckles had forced the men in charge to go elsewhere for the supply. When a new
arrangement had been worked out, the buckles ordered for future weeks and winners, an invitation had been found under the Editor's small office's welcome mat.
Surprised and somewhat pleased, the wiry wordsmith accepted the task and perused the first week's reports and past records of awards ceremonies to decide how it ought to be done.
Another invitation had gone out to the workers of the esteemed Outback halls to attend a get together and the Editor, working late on the proper wording of the award had nearly missed the function. The chimes on the small mantle clock reminded as they echoed those on Westminster's Big Ben, so very, very far away. The Editor adjusted the spectacles that perched upon an aquiline nose and leapt upward from the chair, left creaking in that erstwhile
wake.
The door to the small office slammed shut behind the wordsmith and all was quiet again.
Brute of the Week: Editor's Awards
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Re: Brute of the Week: Kerrazy6-Mar 1- for the week of Feb 2
Date: 2/27/1999 11:01 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
With the names and votes in and the situations considered, Tracy Williams, the Editor, made the choice. For the week of March the first the Brute Award went to one known as Kerrazy, delivered to his doorstep by private courier.
The dueler's name was emblazoned in wide scroll on the front side of the buckle beneath the Fists crest and the Brute emblem. The dates of the duels for which the award was given were inscribed on the back.
A certificate accompanied the buckle and a letter of congratulations was sent to Kerrazy as well listing the dates for which the award winner would be honored as Brute. A copy of which appeared on the cork board of messages within the hallowed Outback hall:
Congratulations to Kerrazy
Brute of the Week
1 March - 5 March
May you forever duel with honor
From: RDI Editor
With the names and votes in and the situations considered, Tracy Williams, the Editor, made the choice. For the week of March the first the Brute Award went to one known as Kerrazy, delivered to his doorstep by private courier.
The dueler's name was emblazoned in wide scroll on the front side of the buckle beneath the Fists crest and the Brute emblem. The dates of the duels for which the award was given were inscribed on the back.
A certificate accompanied the buckle and a letter of congratulations was sent to Kerrazy as well listing the dates for which the award winner would be honored as Brute. A copy of which appeared on the cork board of messages within the hallowed Outback hall:
Congratulations to Kerrazy
Brute of the Week
1 March - 5 March
May you forever duel with honor
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Re: Brute of the Week: Kerrazy6-Mar 1- for the week of Feb 2
Date: 2/28/1999 2:53 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Deuce Mack
Deuce stood quietly before the boards, giving his bald head a slow rub. "Dat Phantom kid? Aight... yo, hold up."
Moving in to within a foot of the paper, he saw that those teenage eyes were not deceiving him. "March? Already? Damn, I musta been sleepin' fo' a week.
From: Deuce Mack
Deuce stood quietly before the boards, giving his bald head a slow rub. "Dat Phantom kid? Aight... yo, hold up."
Moving in to within a foot of the paper, he saw that those teenage eyes were not deceiving him. "March? Already? Damn, I musta been sleepin' fo' a week.
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Re: Brute of the Week: OneEyez-Mar 8- for the week of Mar 1
Date: 3/5/1999 9:34 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith leaned back in his chair, the springs of the old thing protesting with a noisome squaller. He frowned, glasses drifting down his long nose, intent upon his work. The buckle that had come in this week had come with a burr on the pin that would have sliced the finger on any dueler who tried to use it in the normal fashion. It had certainly parted his own flesh easily enough. Bandaged and working with a jeweler's glass in his eye, the
Editor filed carefully at the pin until the hazardous spur had been removed. Mr. Williams considered sending the damnable thing back, but he wanted to have it delivered on time. He would take himself down to the manufacturer Monday morning, but for now, his work pleased him, for he was not a man of great physical ability. His gifts lay in the mind.
He'd had this proven well enough to him at the get-together with his coworkers in the dojo. Taking the opportunity to find out more about the sport for which he'd be awarding prizes, Mr. Williams had gotten into the ring himself. He still had a bruised jaw, a blackened eye and a very sore ... disposition to show for it. He might, someday, enter the ring again, but having fought, and won -- once -- he felt it was enough.
The buckle for Eric One-Eye, who'd won the Brute of the Week award for having an excellent night of dueling, was ready and inscribed properly. Mr. Williams set it in it's box and called the RhyDin Overnight service.
Smiling to himself, he leaned back in the complaining chair and said, "Congratulations, Mr. One-Eye."
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith leaned back in his chair, the springs of the old thing protesting with a noisome squaller. He frowned, glasses drifting down his long nose, intent upon his work. The buckle that had come in this week had come with a burr on the pin that would have sliced the finger on any dueler who tried to use it in the normal fashion. It had certainly parted his own flesh easily enough. Bandaged and working with a jeweler's glass in his eye, the
Editor filed carefully at the pin until the hazardous spur had been removed. Mr. Williams considered sending the damnable thing back, but he wanted to have it delivered on time. He would take himself down to the manufacturer Monday morning, but for now, his work pleased him, for he was not a man of great physical ability. His gifts lay in the mind.
He'd had this proven well enough to him at the get-together with his coworkers in the dojo. Taking the opportunity to find out more about the sport for which he'd be awarding prizes, Mr. Williams had gotten into the ring himself. He still had a bruised jaw, a blackened eye and a very sore ... disposition to show for it. He might, someday, enter the ring again, but having fought, and won -- once -- he felt it was enough.
The buckle for Eric One-Eye, who'd won the Brute of the Week award for having an excellent night of dueling, was ready and inscribed properly. Mr. Williams set it in it's box and called the RhyDin Overnight service.
Smiling to himself, he leaned back in the complaining chair and said, "Congratulations, Mr. One-Eye."
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Re: Brute of the Week: OneEyez-Mar 8- for the week of Mar 1
Date: 3/7/1999 10:58 PM Central Daylight Time
From: OneEyez
::carefully replacing his old brass buckle with the engraved new one, smiling slightly and talking to himself:: that's an awful nice guesture...I'll have to thank this Williams fellow if I ever meet him ::stands and threads the belt through the loops in his pants. He walks to a mirror and pauses, fists on his hips admiring it. He nods:: looks nice ::grins as he heads out the door of his modest home, bow slung on his
shoulder, and into the woods::
Eric One Eye
Jade of the Duel of Fists
From: OneEyez
::carefully replacing his old brass buckle with the engraved new one, smiling slightly and talking to himself:: that's an awful nice guesture...I'll have to thank this Williams fellow if I ever meet him ::stands and threads the belt through the loops in his pants. He walks to a mirror and pauses, fists on his hips admiring it. He nods:: looks nice ::grins as he heads out the door of his modest home, bow slung on his
shoulder, and into the woods::
Eric One Eye
Jade of the Duel of Fists
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Re: Brute of the Week: XJaycyndaX-Mar 15- for the week of Ma
Date: 3/16/1999 10:58 AM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
The vote for Jaycynda Ashleana had caught the wordsmith's eye. The charismatic gypsy bard had done well in the rings, and Trace was thankful that at least one of the referee's had been willing to commit wholeheartedly to a vote. The tiny bard, the Editor knew, had been in and out of the rings over time but her lionhearted wins in the rings that week were worthy of the
title "Brute." So it was, that the buckle held her name, shined to perfection and awaited only the wordsmith's letter of announcement to be delivered.
His eyes drooping, Trace rested his head on his arms ... for a moment, a moment only ...
The tendril of the capricious Nexus danced around his mind, connecting with a distant place. There was only faint, weak Mana there, but it made contact and it teased the deep recesses of the wordsmith's brain while he slept -- beginning while he slept.
"Good evening, Meralynn," The voice familiar voice of Elliot flooded the room as Meralynn moved through it. "It is nice to see you today."
She smiled up in the general direction of the hidden speakers that Trace knew -- somehow -- were there. But Trace wasn't there, he was watching only, in a dream so far, far away. The girl he saw knew the computer which spoke to her as a fixture in her life in the same way a young child might know a favored uncle. She referred to Elliot as "him" more often than as "it" for the sentience of the machine gave it more conversational ability than most
people she knew. Meralynn was not one to believe that possessing flesh and blood alone indicated life.
"Good evening Elliot. I hope you're well."
"What did Meralynn have on the agenda for this evening?"
Before she could answer him, a young man, a boy really -truth be told- strolled in, a heavy looking gun sliding from his shoulder and dangling loosely by it's strap in his fingertips.
The soothing voice of the supercomputer echoed throughout the corridors of the hospital, almost ... godlike in it's omnidirectional presence. "Good evening, sir."
"Hi ... how are you?" The look on the boy's face showed clearly that he didn't know who was speaking. The way he looked around for the source of the voice and the tight grip he asserted on his gun let Meralynn see he was unsure of his surroundings.
"Might I help you?" Elliot addressed the boy as if Meralynn wasn't even present, but she was used to that and bent down behind what used to be the receptionist's counter, a useful surface supported by a network of cubbies and drawers from a time when there were employees enough for there to be a receptionist. She reassured herself of the readiness of first aid supplies. Most people didn't come into the hospital for small talk and as she moved to a
nearby supply cabinet, she was determined to be prepared.
"Er ... yeah ... who are you?"
"I am Elliot Enterprises Series 7 Supercomputer. Welcome to the New Rydynn Memorial Hospital. Have you any wounded?"
Mr. Williams sat upright, wide eyed. Supercomputer? Trace didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was frightened. He wasn't a man who had dreams. He was a dreamer, but that was an utterly different thing. He wove images with words and sometimes those images dallied before him in the daylight hours as dreams did in the subconscious of others, but Trace didn't dream the way other people did. Even as a child he'd reveled
in the blissful darkness of uninterrupted sleep. But it had to be a dream. What other explanation remained?
Insanity wasn't a choice he felt inclined to pursue.
Eyes still wide, with the images and voices, distinct, clear in his head, he searched feverishly for a fresh sheet of parchment. He began to write ... the award he was to send out, momentarily forgotten.
~~~
Hours later, when the last word of the vision was scratched out upon the parchment and Trace leaned back in his chair -- which howled in anguished protest at the rude treatment -- he remembered the award. He scribbled out the announcement to be tacked up on the Outback's corkboard, his hand trembling from the excessive exercise to which it had been subjected by the transcription of the vision. Unfolding from the chair, he gathered the package,
checked to be sure it had been properly addressed and made his way to the overnight delivery shop.
From: RDI Editor
The vote for Jaycynda Ashleana had caught the wordsmith's eye. The charismatic gypsy bard had done well in the rings, and Trace was thankful that at least one of the referee's had been willing to commit wholeheartedly to a vote. The tiny bard, the Editor knew, had been in and out of the rings over time but her lionhearted wins in the rings that week were worthy of the
title "Brute." So it was, that the buckle held her name, shined to perfection and awaited only the wordsmith's letter of announcement to be delivered.
His eyes drooping, Trace rested his head on his arms ... for a moment, a moment only ...
The tendril of the capricious Nexus danced around his mind, connecting with a distant place. There was only faint, weak Mana there, but it made contact and it teased the deep recesses of the wordsmith's brain while he slept -- beginning while he slept.
"Good evening, Meralynn," The voice familiar voice of Elliot flooded the room as Meralynn moved through it. "It is nice to see you today."
She smiled up in the general direction of the hidden speakers that Trace knew -- somehow -- were there. But Trace wasn't there, he was watching only, in a dream so far, far away. The girl he saw knew the computer which spoke to her as a fixture in her life in the same way a young child might know a favored uncle. She referred to Elliot as "him" more often than as "it" for the sentience of the machine gave it more conversational ability than most
people she knew. Meralynn was not one to believe that possessing flesh and blood alone indicated life.
"Good evening Elliot. I hope you're well."
"What did Meralynn have on the agenda for this evening?"
Before she could answer him, a young man, a boy really -truth be told- strolled in, a heavy looking gun sliding from his shoulder and dangling loosely by it's strap in his fingertips.
The soothing voice of the supercomputer echoed throughout the corridors of the hospital, almost ... godlike in it's omnidirectional presence. "Good evening, sir."
"Hi ... how are you?" The look on the boy's face showed clearly that he didn't know who was speaking. The way he looked around for the source of the voice and the tight grip he asserted on his gun let Meralynn see he was unsure of his surroundings.
"Might I help you?" Elliot addressed the boy as if Meralynn wasn't even present, but she was used to that and bent down behind what used to be the receptionist's counter, a useful surface supported by a network of cubbies and drawers from a time when there were employees enough for there to be a receptionist. She reassured herself of the readiness of first aid supplies. Most people didn't come into the hospital for small talk and as she moved to a
nearby supply cabinet, she was determined to be prepared.
"Er ... yeah ... who are you?"
"I am Elliot Enterprises Series 7 Supercomputer. Welcome to the New Rydynn Memorial Hospital. Have you any wounded?"
Mr. Williams sat upright, wide eyed. Supercomputer? Trace didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was frightened. He wasn't a man who had dreams. He was a dreamer, but that was an utterly different thing. He wove images with words and sometimes those images dallied before him in the daylight hours as dreams did in the subconscious of others, but Trace didn't dream the way other people did. Even as a child he'd reveled
in the blissful darkness of uninterrupted sleep. But it had to be a dream. What other explanation remained?
Insanity wasn't a choice he felt inclined to pursue.
Eyes still wide, with the images and voices, distinct, clear in his head, he searched feverishly for a fresh sheet of parchment. He began to write ... the award he was to send out, momentarily forgotten.
~~~
Hours later, when the last word of the vision was scratched out upon the parchment and Trace leaned back in his chair -- which howled in anguished protest at the rude treatment -- he remembered the award. He scribbled out the announcement to be tacked up on the Outback's corkboard, his hand trembling from the excessive exercise to which it had been subjected by the transcription of the vision. Unfolding from the chair, he gathered the package,
checked to be sure it had been properly addressed and made his way to the overnight delivery shop.
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Re: Brute of the Week: Ivy636 Mar 26- for the week of Mar 15
Date: 3/26/1999 1:31 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith couldn't sleep. He'd been trying but everytime he closed his eyes he saw stew made from cadavers left by the ravages of war. It was no wonder that dark circles lined his usually bright eyes.
Trace splashed water in his face from the basin and sat down to award the Brute. When he looked over the nominations, he smiled ever so slightly and chose a new-comer.
Her name was Ivy and that's all he knew about her personally. But Trace wasn't a people person, he was a word person. It had been her first night, apparently and she'd won two duels. Not bad. Did she qualify for the Brute? Somehow, he felt she did.
He slipped the paper into the parcel and wrote out the award announcement for the corkboard, which stated the name and dates for which the award was given and that was all. When it came to announcements, he preferred an economy with the words he so loved. The award said the rest, he felt.
Penning a letter to the winner, Trace sealed the envelope. He then addressed the parcel to the new engraver -- who was, so far, working out well -- and pulled on his coat. As he shut the door to his office, he made his way along the corridor and out into the night, darkness abundant yet. It was hours before the mail pickup and the while the parcel would make it's round today and be shipped to Ivy tomorrow, Trace simply needed the walk to clear his
head. He could have waited, but it was a good time to be out. Spring was in the air, making the night warm. Old World thrushes were high in the trees -- he could hear the sweet song of the males as they called for love.
He left the parcel for the engraver and the letter for the winner in the slot and made his way onward to the Outback. Perhaps it surprised Trace to find the outer doors locked. And of course, they ought to be, you silly old fool, he told himself. Not quite knowing where to go, he backtracked. He heard the merriment in the Red Dragon, even at this hour and angled his steps away from it, heading for the docks past the Inn. He was lulled by
the sound of the lapping tide and waited there for sunrise.
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith couldn't sleep. He'd been trying but everytime he closed his eyes he saw stew made from cadavers left by the ravages of war. It was no wonder that dark circles lined his usually bright eyes.
Trace splashed water in his face from the basin and sat down to award the Brute. When he looked over the nominations, he smiled ever so slightly and chose a new-comer.
Her name was Ivy and that's all he knew about her personally. But Trace wasn't a people person, he was a word person. It had been her first night, apparently and she'd won two duels. Not bad. Did she qualify for the Brute? Somehow, he felt she did.
He slipped the paper into the parcel and wrote out the award announcement for the corkboard, which stated the name and dates for which the award was given and that was all. When it came to announcements, he preferred an economy with the words he so loved. The award said the rest, he felt.
Penning a letter to the winner, Trace sealed the envelope. He then addressed the parcel to the new engraver -- who was, so far, working out well -- and pulled on his coat. As he shut the door to his office, he made his way along the corridor and out into the night, darkness abundant yet. It was hours before the mail pickup and the while the parcel would make it's round today and be shipped to Ivy tomorrow, Trace simply needed the walk to clear his
head. He could have waited, but it was a good time to be out. Spring was in the air, making the night warm. Old World thrushes were high in the trees -- he could hear the sweet song of the males as they called for love.
He left the parcel for the engraver and the letter for the winner in the slot and made his way onward to the Outback. Perhaps it surprised Trace to find the outer doors locked. And of course, they ought to be, you silly old fool, he told himself. Not quite knowing where to go, he backtracked. He heard the merriment in the Red Dragon, even at this hour and angled his steps away from it, heading for the docks past the Inn. He was lulled by
the sound of the lapping tide and waited there for sunrise.
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Re: Brute of the Week: Tareth Thorn
Date: 4/8/1999 11:03 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
Tareth Thorn. The name brought images to the wordsmith. Images of elegance and stealth. If any pugilist deserved the Brute of the Week, it was Thorn.
Trace had hired someone to tap into the surveilance cameras in the main room of the Outback for him. He'd hired someone else because he didn't know "in" from "out" when it came to electronics. In fact, the mere existence of such things made him uneasy. As if quill and parchment were all there ever need be for purposes of communication.
He'd hired someone to tap into the cameras because he was fearful now of venturing out in public. The things that had been mere dreams were more prevalent now; invading his waking thoughts as well as dominating his sleep patterns.
Cadaver stew... Holy God, have mercy... Trace shuddered with the memory and wondered again if he weren't losing his mind. But the words overflowed him, surrounded him. He finished up with the award of the Brute and the posted announcement as quickly as possible. He had to rewrite it thrice because the visions that threatened, spilled over from his mind and flowed through his quill onto the announcement sheet.
Finally, he had it completed to his satisfaction and he withdrew from his work desk to his arm chair -- journal in white-knuckled hand, quill trembling -- to record for some future history that which poured into his head.
From: RDI Editor
Tareth Thorn. The name brought images to the wordsmith. Images of elegance and stealth. If any pugilist deserved the Brute of the Week, it was Thorn.
Trace had hired someone to tap into the surveilance cameras in the main room of the Outback for him. He'd hired someone else because he didn't know "in" from "out" when it came to electronics. In fact, the mere existence of such things made him uneasy. As if quill and parchment were all there ever need be for purposes of communication.
He'd hired someone to tap into the cameras because he was fearful now of venturing out in public. The things that had been mere dreams were more prevalent now; invading his waking thoughts as well as dominating his sleep patterns.
Cadaver stew... Holy God, have mercy... Trace shuddered with the memory and wondered again if he weren't losing his mind. But the words overflowed him, surrounded him. He finished up with the award of the Brute and the posted announcement as quickly as possible. He had to rewrite it thrice because the visions that threatened, spilled over from his mind and flowed through his quill onto the announcement sheet.
Finally, he had it completed to his satisfaction and he withdrew from his work desk to his arm chair -- journal in white-knuckled hand, quill trembling -- to record for some future history that which poured into his head.
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Re: Brute of the Week: DzzyFlores
Date: 4/13/1999 12:45 PM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
for the week of: 4-5-99
The wordsmith shook the bottle and a tablespoon of gray power trickled into his trembling palm. Maybe this would help, maybe it wouldn't but since the Brute award was sewn up by Dizzy Flores this past week for going an impressive three-and-oh in the rings of the Outback, Trace was done with it, and he could sleep. He hoped he'd taken enough to get him through tonight
and tomorrow.
The alchemist had told him it ought to keep him dreamlessly sleeping for an extended period of time, but not to take more than two if he had appointments to keep.
He considered the small mound and shook more granules of the powder into his hand. He dumped the pile into a glass and sloshed some water into it from his nightstand pitcher. Stirring with the unused handle of his new ink pen, he mixed the powder and the liquid until it was a uniform ugly gray. He sniffed at it and recoiled. Horrid! How did the alchemist make any living selling such noxious things?
At least, if it worked, he wouldn't have to think about the new Diamond's list of "rulings."
"What a ridiculous man," Trace murmured nasally as he held his nose and drank down the potion.
From: RDI Editor
for the week of: 4-5-99
The wordsmith shook the bottle and a tablespoon of gray power trickled into his trembling palm. Maybe this would help, maybe it wouldn't but since the Brute award was sewn up by Dizzy Flores this past week for going an impressive three-and-oh in the rings of the Outback, Trace was done with it, and he could sleep. He hoped he'd taken enough to get him through tonight
and tomorrow.
The alchemist had told him it ought to keep him dreamlessly sleeping for an extended period of time, but not to take more than two if he had appointments to keep.
He considered the small mound and shook more granules of the powder into his hand. He dumped the pile into a glass and sloshed some water into it from his nightstand pitcher. Stirring with the unused handle of his new ink pen, he mixed the powder and the liquid until it was a uniform ugly gray. He sniffed at it and recoiled. Horrid! How did the alchemist make any living selling such noxious things?
At least, if it worked, he wouldn't have to think about the new Diamond's list of "rulings."
"What a ridiculous man," Trace murmured nasally as he held his nose and drank down the potion.
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Re: Brute of the Week: LeDucBlanc
Date: 4/22/1999 10:21 AM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
For the week of: 4-12-99
In a nearly unanimous series of votes, the referees had chosen LeDucBlanc as the Brute of the Week. This almost never happened and it made the wordsmith curious. Trace went to the records to find out what he could. (The wordsmith had access to many records in many places and enjoyed the feel of parchment between his fingers, so the search was an enjoyable one.)
Percival Marchand de Clermont, the White Duke was an old man and apparently not in good health either. That made his selection as Brute of the Week even more intriguing to Trace. Duke of Clermont was a fighter in the Swords rings, which seemed the place for a man of war moreso than in the rings of Fists.
Dutifully, Trace made up the announcement paper to be tacked on the corkboard. Then he lifted the engraved Buckle and adjusted his glasses to read it over to be sure there were no mistakes:
Percival Marchand de Clermont
Brute of the Week
--12 April thru 15 April --
Duel of Fists
Seeing it was thus well done, Trace rose and packaged the award in an overnight RPS box made of fine corrogated cardboard and wended his way to the local Post.
From: RDI Editor
For the week of: 4-12-99
In a nearly unanimous series of votes, the referees had chosen LeDucBlanc as the Brute of the Week. This almost never happened and it made the wordsmith curious. Trace went to the records to find out what he could. (The wordsmith had access to many records in many places and enjoyed the feel of parchment between his fingers, so the search was an enjoyable one.)
Percival Marchand de Clermont, the White Duke was an old man and apparently not in good health either. That made his selection as Brute of the Week even more intriguing to Trace. Duke of Clermont was a fighter in the Swords rings, which seemed the place for a man of war moreso than in the rings of Fists.
Dutifully, Trace made up the announcement paper to be tacked on the corkboard. Then he lifted the engraved Buckle and adjusted his glasses to read it over to be sure there were no mistakes:
Percival Marchand de Clermont
Brute of the Week
--12 April thru 15 April --
Duel of Fists
Seeing it was thus well done, Trace rose and packaged the award in an overnight RPS box made of fine corrogated cardboard and wended his way to the local Post.
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Re: Brute of the Week: LeDucBlanc
Date: 4/22/1999 2:13 PM Central Daylight Time
From: LeDucBlanc
Percy took the package from the deliveryman, wondering who would send him anything. He didn't think he had offended anyone enough for them to send him a bomb. So it had to be something else. But what? Why would he be receiving a package? Any of his friends who wanted to give him something would be more likely to give it to him in person. So he looked the package over and opened it very carefully. After dropping it in a pail of waterof course. After all, maybe he had offended someone without knowing it. And he had smacked Jesse around. That punk kid was just the type to send a bomb by special delivery, Then he got back to opening the package. He was rather surprised when he found it to be containing an award. More than rather surprised. Flabbergasted. Sure, one of the callers had joked about it. But he had thought it was just that. Joking. He hadn't expected to actually receive any sort of award. He set it carefully on the headboard of his bed and exited his room. He headed down the hall and out into the common room of the Golden Ivy Tavern. He exited the tavern and made for the Outback and the bulletin board. Once there he stopped and did some writing. Everyone, I am honored to have received an award, any award, for the rather poor showing I have made so far. I just hope to do better in the future. I have the feeling I will be spending more than a little time around here. I like the place, even if it smells worse than the Arena. Percy After he finished writing the short note he pinned it up and headed back home to the Golden Ivy Tavern.
From: LeDucBlanc
Percy took the package from the deliveryman, wondering who would send him anything. He didn't think he had offended anyone enough for them to send him a bomb. So it had to be something else. But what? Why would he be receiving a package? Any of his friends who wanted to give him something would be more likely to give it to him in person. So he looked the package over and opened it very carefully. After dropping it in a pail of waterof course. After all, maybe he had offended someone without knowing it. And he had smacked Jesse around. That punk kid was just the type to send a bomb by special delivery, Then he got back to opening the package. He was rather surprised when he found it to be containing an award. More than rather surprised. Flabbergasted. Sure, one of the callers had joked about it. But he had thought it was just that. Joking. He hadn't expected to actually receive any sort of award. He set it carefully on the headboard of his bed and exited his room. He headed down the hall and out into the common room of the Golden Ivy Tavern. He exited the tavern and made for the Outback and the bulletin board. Once there he stopped and did some writing. Everyone, I am honored to have received an award, any award, for the rather poor showing I have made so far. I just hope to do better in the future. I have the feeling I will be spending more than a little time around here. I like the place, even if it smells worse than the Arena. Percy After he finished writing the short note he pinned it up and headed back home to the Golden Ivy Tavern.
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Re: Brute of the Week: LeDucBlanc
Date: 5/4/1999 11:14 AM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
For the week of: 4-19-99
4-26-99
The nightmares (*) kept him from awarding the Brute as he should have, but when Trace got a look at the votes from the refs, he puzzled over just what to do. It was interesting, how it split over the time he'd been incapacitated and he thought for a while on how to handle it.
He would have found it hard to give anyone an award for the previous week because there were single votes for different duelers. No two refs agreed. However, one vote carried over to the next week and gained more in his favor. Weasel's (WyldWsel) spanned the two weeks of referring. Then too for Jen Starblade (Talyn Star), who'd done well in just the past week.
The first option was to count the two weeks as one, but Trace had two buckles and didn't like leaving one ... dangling ... as it were. The wordsmith decided, then, to award the two, and let the winners share the honor.
So on the corkboard he posted two winners:
Wyld Weasel
Brute of the Week
--19 April thru 29 April --
Duel of Fists
Jen Starblade
Brute of the Week
--19 April thru 29 April --
Duel of Fists
And sent the parcels out to the engravers with instructions on what to do.
After the task was done, he collapsed on worn sofa in his office and slept, thinking, it would have been really nice to see Sade in that latex bodice. Might've given her the award just for that ...
((* please see Author's note in the OOC thread -- thank you.))
From: RDI Editor
For the week of: 4-19-99
4-26-99
The nightmares (*) kept him from awarding the Brute as he should have, but when Trace got a look at the votes from the refs, he puzzled over just what to do. It was interesting, how it split over the time he'd been incapacitated and he thought for a while on how to handle it.
He would have found it hard to give anyone an award for the previous week because there were single votes for different duelers. No two refs agreed. However, one vote carried over to the next week and gained more in his favor. Weasel's (WyldWsel) spanned the two weeks of referring. Then too for Jen Starblade (Talyn Star), who'd done well in just the past week.
The first option was to count the two weeks as one, but Trace had two buckles and didn't like leaving one ... dangling ... as it were. The wordsmith decided, then, to award the two, and let the winners share the honor.
So on the corkboard he posted two winners:
Wyld Weasel
Brute of the Week
--19 April thru 29 April --
Duel of Fists
Jen Starblade
Brute of the Week
--19 April thru 29 April --
Duel of Fists
And sent the parcels out to the engravers with instructions on what to do.
After the task was done, he collapsed on worn sofa in his office and slept, thinking, it would have been really nice to see Sade in that latex bodice. Might've given her the award just for that ...
((* please see Author's note in the OOC thread -- thank you.))
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Re: Brute of the Week: LeDucBlanc
Date: 5/4/1999 10:01 PM Central Daylight Time
From: WyldWsel
The Weasel was scanning the bulliten board on a slownight. Suddenly he grew verry intrested as he read.....
>Wyld Weasel
>Brute of the Week
>--19 April thru 29 April --
>Duel of Fists
>
>Jen Starblade
>Brute of the Week
>--19 April thru 29 April --
>Duel of Fists
Stunned, he just stood there looking like some slack jawed kid who found a pony under the christmas tree. " Well I'll be!"
The Wild Weasel
From: WyldWsel
The Weasel was scanning the bulliten board on a slownight. Suddenly he grew verry intrested as he read.....
>Wyld Weasel
>Brute of the Week
>--19 April thru 29 April --
>Duel of Fists
>
>Jen Starblade
>Brute of the Week
>--19 April thru 29 April --
>Duel of Fists
Stunned, he just stood there looking like some slack jawed kid who found a pony under the christmas tree. " Well I'll be!"
The Wild Weasel
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Re: Brute of the Week: For the Month of May
Date: 6/1/1999 11:17 AM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith roused himself from an unexpectedly deep slumber. His head felt like one gigantic lead weight poured into a fisherman's mold and left there to harden. Rising up from the bed became a Herculean effort and thrice he fell back to the cool beckoning of the bedclothes.
The awards had not gone out in a month and he dreaded the reprisals of the managerial staff. After all, he did not fight, he only issued awards. Then again, he was fighting with his coverlet as he fell from the bedside and landed hard on the rough wood flooring.
"Mercy," he murmured, if in prayer or oath not even he himself knew. The doctor, who's acquaintance he had recently made, had suggested a sleeping powder to ward off the dreams. Trace divined that he had been an alchemist's dream and that his coppers had been unwisely spent right up to the moment that he realized the powder had worked. He hadn't dreamt at all, during sleep. But during the day he'd been plagued by visions and so had given himself
a greater dosage than he ought to have of the powder in his evening tea. He'd slept for weeks.
Well, not precisely for weeks. But every two days when he would awaken, the visions came on him so strongly that he would immediately mix a new draught of the potion laden tea. His weary body, deprived of proper nourishment and normal cycles, could barely lift him from the floor.
When the gentleman came to gather the post, Trace called for help. The postman entered, against his better judgment to get involved with those upon his route, and took pity on the weak wordsmith. He lifted Trace to the squeaky chair of his desk and brought him some broth. They talked, at length, a rare thing for the wordsmith to do, and discovered in their own way that they had much in common. The postman's name was Jacob George, JG for short.
He was a small but strong man which made Trace, the tall and lanky, comment that JG ought to be in the rings. Jacob shook his head, and said that he was a peaceful man who had no interest in fighting. Trace smiled with perfect understanding. And, since Trace had no choice but to enlist the assistance of another in preparing the awards, weak as he was; and, since JG was there, he asked the postman for his help.
===
JG posted the announcements for each of the winners for the month on the corkboard in the Outback. For each, Trace sent the buckle, via JG, and a note with his personal congratulations.
For the week of 3 May, the Brute Award Buckle, engraved, was sent to the tiger woman, Maetel (Maetel Cat). Trace wasn't sure where she'd wear the buckle, as she only ever seemed to wear shorts, and not belt, but that wasn't his concern.
For the week of 10 May, the Brute Award was sent to Aargh Wolf (MagikWolfy). Relatively new to the rings he had beaten some long time duelers and earned the buckle.
For the week of 17 May, the Brute went to one Cora Andersn (CoraAndersn), about whom Trace knew nothing at all except that in her very first duel in Fists had won 5-0. That was impressive enough but later in that same evening she had apparently beaten Maetel. That got a first-comer the Brute in both Trace's and JG's estimation. (JG, by the way, was enjoying himself thoroughly in helping out the wordsmith with the awards. It was far
more exciting to read over the statistics and choose a winner than delivering the mail. Old lady Hanover's monthly assistance purse would only be a little late today...)
For the week of 24 May, Trace awarded the Brute to one time Diamond Jeffrey Oakenshield (J Oaknshld) for losing to the current Diamond Jessie Troyan. (Perhaps the medication had clouded him a bit, but it seemed right to him at the time.) The wordsmith figured just getting in the ring with Diamond Jess was stress and strain enough on almost any dueler but that the dwarf had several strikes against him -- being a swordsman and
all that, and so short! -- to start with that it was only fair that in losing to Jessie, Jeff ought to win.
From: RDI Editor
The wordsmith roused himself from an unexpectedly deep slumber. His head felt like one gigantic lead weight poured into a fisherman's mold and left there to harden. Rising up from the bed became a Herculean effort and thrice he fell back to the cool beckoning of the bedclothes.
The awards had not gone out in a month and he dreaded the reprisals of the managerial staff. After all, he did not fight, he only issued awards. Then again, he was fighting with his coverlet as he fell from the bedside and landed hard on the rough wood flooring.
"Mercy," he murmured, if in prayer or oath not even he himself knew. The doctor, who's acquaintance he had recently made, had suggested a sleeping powder to ward off the dreams. Trace divined that he had been an alchemist's dream and that his coppers had been unwisely spent right up to the moment that he realized the powder had worked. He hadn't dreamt at all, during sleep. But during the day he'd been plagued by visions and so had given himself
a greater dosage than he ought to have of the powder in his evening tea. He'd slept for weeks.
Well, not precisely for weeks. But every two days when he would awaken, the visions came on him so strongly that he would immediately mix a new draught of the potion laden tea. His weary body, deprived of proper nourishment and normal cycles, could barely lift him from the floor.
When the gentleman came to gather the post, Trace called for help. The postman entered, against his better judgment to get involved with those upon his route, and took pity on the weak wordsmith. He lifted Trace to the squeaky chair of his desk and brought him some broth. They talked, at length, a rare thing for the wordsmith to do, and discovered in their own way that they had much in common. The postman's name was Jacob George, JG for short.
He was a small but strong man which made Trace, the tall and lanky, comment that JG ought to be in the rings. Jacob shook his head, and said that he was a peaceful man who had no interest in fighting. Trace smiled with perfect understanding. And, since Trace had no choice but to enlist the assistance of another in preparing the awards, weak as he was; and, since JG was there, he asked the postman for his help.
===
JG posted the announcements for each of the winners for the month on the corkboard in the Outback. For each, Trace sent the buckle, via JG, and a note with his personal congratulations.
For the week of 3 May, the Brute Award Buckle, engraved, was sent to the tiger woman, Maetel (Maetel Cat). Trace wasn't sure where she'd wear the buckle, as she only ever seemed to wear shorts, and not belt, but that wasn't his concern.
For the week of 10 May, the Brute Award was sent to Aargh Wolf (MagikWolfy). Relatively new to the rings he had beaten some long time duelers and earned the buckle.
For the week of 17 May, the Brute went to one Cora Andersn (CoraAndersn), about whom Trace knew nothing at all except that in her very first duel in Fists had won 5-0. That was impressive enough but later in that same evening she had apparently beaten Maetel. That got a first-comer the Brute in both Trace's and JG's estimation. (JG, by the way, was enjoying himself thoroughly in helping out the wordsmith with the awards. It was far
more exciting to read over the statistics and choose a winner than delivering the mail. Old lady Hanover's monthly assistance purse would only be a little late today...)
For the week of 24 May, Trace awarded the Brute to one time Diamond Jeffrey Oakenshield (J Oaknshld) for losing to the current Diamond Jessie Troyan. (Perhaps the medication had clouded him a bit, but it seemed right to him at the time.) The wordsmith figured just getting in the ring with Diamond Jess was stress and strain enough on almost any dueler but that the dwarf had several strikes against him -- being a swordsman and
all that, and so short! -- to start with that it was only fair that in losing to Jessie, Jeff ought to win.
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Re: Brute of the Week: For the Month of May
Date: 6/2/1999 3:27 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Maetel Cat
Maetel usually slept in the Outback's storeroom, ever since Duece had told her she could.
None of the others working there seemed inclined to argue, or to attempt to throw her out, so it worked well.
This early afternoon, she was laying infront of the couch on her "Welcome?" mat, trying to figure out how to play with her new Basset Hound puppy. The puppy had been a gift, to "help learn responsibility."
When the postman came into the Outback, Maetel had just discovered that her puppy, Tochiro, liked to play fetch.
"Excuse me ma'am," said JG, more than a little taken aback by the odd sight before him. "You wouldn't happen to be Maetel, would you?"
Maetel nodded rapidly, bounding to her feet in an instant. "Maetel is for be Maetel, is so. No for is time for to make-do fight-thing now."
It took JG a little while to decipher that, then he chuckled a bit. "No, thank you. I'm just here to deliver this to you."
With that, he took out the box with Maetel's Brute of the Week belt buckle in it.
Maetel eagerly leapt over the couch......and most of the room.....landing infront of the postman with a bright grin. "Maetel like for to get present" She peered long and hard at the box, her ear twitching. "What is?"
JG chuckled again, catching his breath after witnessing the tiger-woman's leap. "Why don't you open it and find out?"
Maetel grinned, quickly unwrapping the box and peering inside. She peered at the buckle for a few moments, then blinked and looked back at the postman. "Maetel see Maetel name.....what is?"
Jacob barely avoided laughing outright, but his smile was broad as he answered. "It's a prize, I'm told... a belt buckle. Apparently you are a very good fighter."
Maetel nodded again, grinning widely. "Talk-funny-Deuce-man for to say Maetel make-do much-good fight-thing many time. Maetel like for to make-do fight-thing, is be much fun."
"I'm sure it is," replied Jacob. "You keep on having fun then, I've got more deliveries to make."
Maetel nodded, waved, then leapt back over to the couch. The buckle went into her vest pocket along with the gemstones she'd been given to mark each new rank she'd earned. No one had explained any of it to her yet, nor the signifigance of each stone.....but it wasn't something she thought about.
As Jacob left, Maetel was already playing with Tochiro again, grinning at the way the puppy would sometimes step on his own ears.
From: Maetel Cat
Maetel usually slept in the Outback's storeroom, ever since Duece had told her she could.
None of the others working there seemed inclined to argue, or to attempt to throw her out, so it worked well.
This early afternoon, she was laying infront of the couch on her "Welcome?" mat, trying to figure out how to play with her new Basset Hound puppy. The puppy had been a gift, to "help learn responsibility."
When the postman came into the Outback, Maetel had just discovered that her puppy, Tochiro, liked to play fetch.
"Excuse me ma'am," said JG, more than a little taken aback by the odd sight before him. "You wouldn't happen to be Maetel, would you?"
Maetel nodded rapidly, bounding to her feet in an instant. "Maetel is for be Maetel, is so. No for is time for to make-do fight-thing now."
It took JG a little while to decipher that, then he chuckled a bit. "No, thank you. I'm just here to deliver this to you."
With that, he took out the box with Maetel's Brute of the Week belt buckle in it.
Maetel eagerly leapt over the couch......and most of the room.....landing infront of the postman with a bright grin. "Maetel like for to get present" She peered long and hard at the box, her ear twitching. "What is?"
JG chuckled again, catching his breath after witnessing the tiger-woman's leap. "Why don't you open it and find out?"
Maetel grinned, quickly unwrapping the box and peering inside. She peered at the buckle for a few moments, then blinked and looked back at the postman. "Maetel see Maetel name.....what is?"
Jacob barely avoided laughing outright, but his smile was broad as he answered. "It's a prize, I'm told... a belt buckle. Apparently you are a very good fighter."
Maetel nodded again, grinning widely. "Talk-funny-Deuce-man for to say Maetel make-do much-good fight-thing many time. Maetel like for to make-do fight-thing, is be much fun."
"I'm sure it is," replied Jacob. "You keep on having fun then, I've got more deliveries to make."
Maetel nodded, waved, then leapt back over to the couch. The buckle went into her vest pocket along with the gemstones she'd been given to mark each new rank she'd earned. No one had explained any of it to her yet, nor the signifigance of each stone.....but it wasn't something she thought about.
As Jacob left, Maetel was already playing with Tochiro again, grinning at the way the puppy would sometimes step on his own ears.