Patrollogs
(Novel's decursing attempt)
[Tue Sep 24 2024]
In the centre of the wizard's tower
The centre of the tower appears to be a more basic living space - there's seating in the form of an upholstered leather couch, as well as some shelving. Most of the space in the middle of the room is set aside for what appears to be ritualism - a massive circular enclosure etched with telltale chalk-dust indicates as much.
It is night, about 90F(32C) degrees, Ankle high mist flows through the area. There is a waning gibbous moon.
Novel says "HUh. "
Novel says "hey anyone awake?"
Novel says "I've got this evil ass cursed piece of shit that needs fixing."
"Alright. So. Uhh. Shit." Novel says to himself, staring at the wood-handled item in his kitchen that he picked up when he reached for a kitchen knife. "...How the fuck do these things get in here? Why does this shit always happen to ME?" He asks, nobody in particular, pacing around the room to himself. He remarks to the toaster - which definitely doesn't talk - "NOBODY ASKED YOU, DAVE." The increasingly agitated tweaker stops, looking at the object with furrowed brow.
Novel experimentally flips his open palm over and shakes it. The dagger remains firmly glued to the underside of his hand. He waggles it. Then he shifts, taking the blade up in his other hand - it swaps easily - and then repeats the process with his left. "...Man, it's really fucking weird that it does that." He says to nobody in particular. Or maybe he's talking to Dave again. "Can't set it on fucking FIRE... what do they normally do? Oh yeah. Yeah! Salt." He goes rummaging around. He has plenty of salt.
Novel pulls things out. Table salt. Iodized salt. Sea salt. Pink salt. Large grain salt. Kosher sal- "Oh hey, it's Kosher, right? It's been blessed by a uhhh... fucking rabbi. Or something," the man reasons, pushing aside the rest of the half-empty boxers and containers aside as he opens his palm up upon the counter, hefting it up. He eyeballs the dagger like the menace it is, an interruption to his normal mayhem lifestyle. Then he salts the dagger, and his hand, staring at the two expectantly.
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Novel, sending him flying.
Novel is promptly sent flying directly into the fridge with a CRASH and a 'gurk' noise, eyes bulging comically and limbs spazzing out as he collapses onto the floor, twitching. He'd really like to say it's the first time he's done this. He'd also like to say that this is the first time a mysterious artifact has appeared in his house and electrocuted him.
Alas. Both of these things are, unfortunately, a lie, as he lays there on the floor smoking like porterhouse in The Most Dangerous Game. He rolls over, flopping spread-eagled on the tile. "Fuck you," He tells the wooden dagger with deep loathing.
Growing air pressure makes your ear's pop uncomfortably and deadens all sound.
Novel rolls over, pushing himself to his knees. Then he shudders, listing to one side, one hand clawing at his ear. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT YOU COCKGOBBLING PIECE OF SHIT THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN USE FOR ANYTHING." He starts to really wind up to it as he slowly straightens up to his full height, a looming, spindly scarecrow that's gone too deep and stuffed with too many Italian ryegrass plants as he slowly clenches an angry, angry hand around the hilt of the blade. "YOU CAN'T CUT MEAT. YOU CAN'T CUT VEGETABLES. YOU CAN'T CUT FUUUUUUUCKING TISSUE PAPER. I BET I COULD SHARPEN YOU AND THE BLOCK WOULD GET DULLER. WHO THE FUCK MAKES A WOODEN GODDAMN DAGGER?"
A section of Novel's clothing catches fire.
Novel reacts with the automatic speed that only someone in a kitchen could manage, immediately grabbing a towel, wrapping it around the flames to cut off oxygen and THEN shove it under cold water, the self-same arm still holding the blade as he flexes the limb beneath the water. "HOLY SHIT. WAS THAT FIRE? FIRE OUT OF THE SHITTY DAGGER MADE OUT OF -WOOD-. WERE YOU TRYING TO COMMIT SUICIDE? TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM NOVEL BY KILLING YOURSELF? WELL TOO FUCKING BAD," The man rants. The neighbors are, unfortunately, probably used to the man having episodes. "YOU'RE STUCK IN HERE WITH ME."
For several seconds the room grows painfully cold.
Novel clacks his teeth as frost forms over the limb, the water instantly freezing upwards to the faucet. He wrenches his arm free with a SNAP, sending glittering crystals everywhere as the water once again pours freely. He knocks his arm against the counter, more shards breaking loose, and his free hand flicking off the faucet. "HAH. Figured FIRE wouldn't work and then you're trying the fucking opposite? I BARELY FELT THAT. EVEN YOUR FUCKING COLD SNAPS ARE LESS GODDAMN BAD THAN THE BALL-HIGH FLOODING THAT HAPPENED FUCKING FOREVER. What a STUPID fucking item. You should just GIVE UP. You're GODDAMN PATHETIC and I can't even IMAGINE why the fuck you were in my KITCHEN."
With a final burst of power the curse on a wooden dagger is broken.
Novels Decursing Attempt 240925
(Novel's decursing attempt)
[Tue Sep 24 2024]
In the centre of the wizard's tower
The centre of the tower appears to be a more basic living space - there's seating in the form of an upholstered leather couch, as well as some shelving. Most of the space in the middle of the room is set aside for what appears to be ritualism - a massive circular enclosure etched with telltale chalk-dust indicates as much.
It is night, about 90F(32C) degrees, Ankle high mist flows through the area. There is a waning gibbous moon.
Novel says "HUh. "
Novel says "hey anyone awake?"
Novel says "I've got this evil ass cursed piece of shit that needs fixing."
"Alright. So. Uhh. Shit." Novel says to himself, staring at the wood-handled item in his kitchen that he picked up when he reached for a kitchen knife. "...How the fuck do these things get in here? Why does this shit always happen to ME?" He asks, nobody in particular, pacing around the room to himself. He remarks to the toaster - which definitely doesn't talk - "NOBODY ASKED YOU, DAVE." The increasingly agitated tweaker stops, looking at the object with furrowed brow.
Novel experimentally flips his open palm over and shakes it. The dagger remains firmly glued to the underside of his hand. He waggles it. Then he shifts, taking the blade up in his other hand - it swaps easily - and then repeats the process with his left. "...Man, it's really fucking weird that it does that." He says to nobody in particular. Or maybe he's talking to Dave again. "Can't set it on fucking FIRE... what do they normally do? Oh yeah. Yeah! Salt." He goes rummaging around. He has plenty of salt.
Novel pulls things out. Table salt. Iodized salt. Sea salt. Pink salt. Large grain salt. Kosher sal- "Oh hey, it's Kosher, right? It's been blessed by a uhhh... fucking rabbi. Or something," the man reasons, pushing aside the rest of the half-empty boxers and containers aside as he opens his palm up upon the counter, hefting it up. He eyeballs the dagger like the menace it is, an interruption to his normal mayhem lifestyle. Then he salts the dagger, and his hand, staring at the two expectantly.
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Novel, sending him flying.
Novel is promptly sent flying directly into the fridge with a CRASH and a 'gurk' noise, eyes bulging comically and limbs spazzing out as he collapses onto the floor, twitching. He'd really like to say it's the first time he's done this. He'd also like to say that this is the first time a mysterious artifact has appeared in his house and electrocuted him.
Alas. Both of these things are, unfortunately, a lie, as he lays there on the floor smoking like porterhouse in The Most Dangerous Game. He rolls over, flopping spread-eagled on the tile. "Fuck you," He tells the wooden dagger with deep loathing.
Growing air pressure makes your ear's pop uncomfortably and deadens all sound.
Novel rolls over, pushing himself to his knees. Then he shudders, listing to one side, one hand clawing at his ear. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT YOU COCKGOBBLING PIECE OF SHIT THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN USE FOR ANYTHING." He starts to really wind up to it as he slowly straightens up to his full height, a looming, spindly scarecrow that's gone too deep and stuffed with too many Italian ryegrass plants as he slowly clenches an angry, angry hand around the hilt of the blade. "YOU CAN'T CUT MEAT. YOU CAN'T CUT VEGETABLES. YOU CAN'T CUT FUUUUUUUCKING TISSUE PAPER. I BET I COULD SHARPEN YOU AND THE BLOCK WOULD GET DULLER. WHO THE FUCK MAKES A WOODEN GODDAMN DAGGER?"
A section of Novel's clothing catches fire.
Novel reacts with the automatic speed that only someone in a kitchen could manage, immediately grabbing a towel, wrapping it around the flames to cut off oxygen and THEN shove it under cold water, the self-same arm still holding the blade as he flexes the limb beneath the water. "HOLY SHIT. WAS THAT FIRE? FIRE OUT OF THE SHITTY DAGGER MADE OUT OF -WOOD-. WERE YOU TRYING TO COMMIT SUICIDE? TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM NOVEL BY KILLING YOURSELF? WELL TOO FUCKING BAD," The man rants. The neighbors are, unfortunately, probably used to the man having episodes. "YOU'RE STUCK IN HERE WITH ME."
For several seconds the room grows painfully cold.
Novel clacks his teeth as frost forms over the limb, the water instantly freezing upwards to the faucet. He wrenches his arm free with a SNAP, sending glittering crystals everywhere as the water once again pours freely. He knocks his arm against the counter, more shards breaking loose, and his free hand flicking off the faucet. "HAH. Figured FIRE wouldn't work and then you're trying the fucking opposite? I BARELY FELT THAT. EVEN YOUR FUCKING COLD SNAPS ARE LESS GODDAMN BAD THAN THE BALL-HIGH FLOODING THAT HAPPENED FUCKING FOREVER. What a STUPID fucking item. You should just GIVE UP. You're GODDAMN PATHETIC and I can't even IMAGINE why the fuck you were in my KITCHEN."
With a final burst of power the curse on a wooden dagger is broken.