- Messages
- 23
- OOC First Name
- Netteka
- Wand
- Cherry. 10 inches. Supple. Dragon Heartstring
Tip 'o advice: think before you agree to something that sounds fantastic. Oh and if you are being assured by your friend that this venture is perfectly fine, safe and generally wonderful before you've even opened your mouth, run. Just run.
Alex shut his notebook, meticulously closed his ink bottle and put his quill away. If the only way he could remember those words was to tattoo them on his chest with a rusty needle and a bottle full of venomous ink, then he would. If only he had heeded that advice, he would not be stuck in Africa, in the middle of some forest with an entirely unpronounceable name and surrounded by half a camp full of people who couldn't understand a word he said. Oh, and he wouldn't have been attacked by a crazed Runespoor the first day camp set up or ten days later, have that same camp blown to tiny-teeny bits because someone had pissed off an Erumpent. Though nothing bad had happened for a week, he still felt uneasy. Bad things normally come in threes.
He could almost hear the conversation he'd had with his friend, Helen, back in New Zealand: "Well, I am going out to Africa with Uncle Rob! Yes, that uncle, the one who stripped naked during Cousin Sally's graduation party and started dancing on the roof. Don't mind that. Well, he has roots in Africa and he is gonna go and help this little village out that is having a terrible time with this Fwooper colony! Already about a dozen have gone mad. I'm gonna help and I want you to come to! It'll be an adventure! And I hear we can make a nice profit after we're done with the Fwoopers! Streelers--those color changing snails--that come directly from Africa--instead of the ones bred in Europe--go for rather a lot. Your sis can come to if she wants!"
Alex vaguely wondered where his brain had vanished to that day and the week following the day. Why he didn't jump ship on the journey to Africa remained a mystery to him. Anything that involved turning a profit while dealing with a crazy uncle, a colony of Fwoopers and poisonous snails should automatically be turned down just on principle.
"Ah well, nothing to be done," he said in his slow, deep voice. He ran a well tanned, dirty hand through his black hair and then over his large, arched nose. Nothing could be done until Sally came back from whatever larks she was kicking. She was somewhere in the middle of this large, hot forest. Speaking about hot, it must be a hundred and ten degrees Farenheit in this tent!
Alex stood up, or tried to. A six foot tall young man can't really stand in a small tent. He pushed open the flap and stepped into a large clearing lined with tents. It was near midday, the sun smiling down on the campers. Alex stretched, feeling his T-shirt unsticking itself from his back, though his baggy shorts were stuck to him like glue. It was still stifling, but at least there was a very slight breeze.
He glanced around. No Helen and oddly enough, no Rob. "Where would dear Helen be, I wonder," he said to nobody in particular.
Alex shut his notebook, meticulously closed his ink bottle and put his quill away. If the only way he could remember those words was to tattoo them on his chest with a rusty needle and a bottle full of venomous ink, then he would. If only he had heeded that advice, he would not be stuck in Africa, in the middle of some forest with an entirely unpronounceable name and surrounded by half a camp full of people who couldn't understand a word he said. Oh, and he wouldn't have been attacked by a crazed Runespoor the first day camp set up or ten days later, have that same camp blown to tiny-teeny bits because someone had pissed off an Erumpent. Though nothing bad had happened for a week, he still felt uneasy. Bad things normally come in threes.
He could almost hear the conversation he'd had with his friend, Helen, back in New Zealand: "Well, I am going out to Africa with Uncle Rob! Yes, that uncle, the one who stripped naked during Cousin Sally's graduation party and started dancing on the roof. Don't mind that. Well, he has roots in Africa and he is gonna go and help this little village out that is having a terrible time with this Fwooper colony! Already about a dozen have gone mad. I'm gonna help and I want you to come to! It'll be an adventure! And I hear we can make a nice profit after we're done with the Fwoopers! Streelers--those color changing snails--that come directly from Africa--instead of the ones bred in Europe--go for rather a lot. Your sis can come to if she wants!"
Alex vaguely wondered where his brain had vanished to that day and the week following the day. Why he didn't jump ship on the journey to Africa remained a mystery to him. Anything that involved turning a profit while dealing with a crazy uncle, a colony of Fwoopers and poisonous snails should automatically be turned down just on principle.
"Ah well, nothing to be done," he said in his slow, deep voice. He ran a well tanned, dirty hand through his black hair and then over his large, arched nose. Nothing could be done until Sally came back from whatever larks she was kicking. She was somewhere in the middle of this large, hot forest. Speaking about hot, it must be a hundred and ten degrees Farenheit in this tent!
Alex stood up, or tried to. A six foot tall young man can't really stand in a small tent. He pushed open the flap and stepped into a large clearing lined with tents. It was near midday, the sun smiling down on the campers. Alex stretched, feeling his T-shirt unsticking itself from his back, though his baggy shorts were stuck to him like glue. It was still stifling, but at least there was a very slight breeze.
He glanced around. No Helen and oddly enough, no Rob. "Where would dear Helen be, I wonder," he said to nobody in particular.