Upon a bald hill rising, within it stolen treasures and keepsakes, surrounded by forest to allow infiltration and much sneaking to and from in supply and criminal demand, was the thicket fort of mish-mashed wood of conflicting grains and styles. A fort designed by criminal bird and criminal enterprise in blind leading the blind committee. The left hands did not know what the right hands stole and kept here, nor was aware that any other hand than itself did work here at all. The fort kept it so. For a time suiting itself at least.
Wood laid upon stones in wild abandon of architects of reason, having no cohesion in arrangement or design, and shining junk, so much shining junk adorned to shield to what prizes were hidden here. Battlements of scrap, of bottles, mismatched palisades layered with tattered nothings. Draperies of distraction to the prizes, ill gotten thefts and gains, robberies successful and this place used irresistibly by so many ignorant of the other's treasures laid within. Hidden in plain junk, hidden in plain sight and written off by most as a bewildering oddity.
The magpies mysterious had gathered their nests of the useless, wings fluttering to steal and build. Wreathes of glass, magitech broken and perhaps dormant for one final sputtering, earthenware and base jewellery miscast and discarded, taken up to decorate the foundations. Arranged by everyone, gathered by no-one, set dressing shifted while no-one was looking. Originally abandoned from ordinary service by no-one remembers, when the woods had emerged by freak of the weave, made useless to whoever had originally manned and watched it. Now, in the broad day light, more than the robbing birds made this their roost to thatch with everything by kleptomaniac impulse.
The magpies were unionised making stealing an art gallery. And those that did ply their profession did flutter to and from, within their worthy stealings within the stolen decorative junk nothings.
A fort of detritus dedicated to gathering more of itself had poked out invitingly from the forest top, almost always did someone curious never find what was in plain sight but muddled by the collage confusion of it's construction. Gathered by years of growing impulses.
The birds had done much to begin with, the weave it's part in formation, the rogues of the world found it useful and set their things within. Jagged pastiche of the stolen, the worthless concealing the valuable, the pointillism of individual worth maddening to the understanding the worth of the greater canvas. A stash house to many, each not knowing the other's entrusting to it's lock boxes. The Dragongreed Fort, as it knew itself to be in what mind the earth that kept a theft for itself for a time could think of itself as.
A place that did seep the need of dragons to individual and group of criminal, to hoarde, bury, stash, sequester and more, it had needed more. It had many names this place before it made itself known, and many a stolen treasure kept safe for later fencing. Somehow, by luck or primal wit of this Dragongreed Fort, no party who thought this place a place to place their ill gotten gains had ever met the other. Sometimes a passageway away, escaping the other's notice in blissful ignorance.
Until one fateful day, The Dragongreed Fort decided to play a game. Decided to state it's name. It's mischief long in the making, it's hunger for excitement grown unbearable, and so, rescinded it's protection, did tell plain of it's secrets to any and all. First came it's name to memory. Now the place made itself known beyond, “The Stash,” or, “X that marks the spot,” or any other cant of thieves who thought themselves singular in their cleverness. Most knew it in mundane way as the Magpie Den. All woke up one day and knew one day it to be instead Dragongreed Fort. And so it was. Always thought it so. And none were the wiser of the rules of the place had now changed.
That fateful day followed another fateful day, all of arranged deemed right to collide right here, right now, their ways made, their treasured strewn and relocated.
Some say it was unfortunate bad timing by so many, though many would say once they had any hint of understanding once the smoke did settle after the panoply of blame, gains and explosions - with so many people visiting such a place for their individual reasons, it was bound to happen. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong scheme, ill timed curiosity to meet robber chased by the wanderlust justice seeker, and everyone in between and aside found themselves caught in Dragongreed Fort's scheme to amuse itself.
No party had divulged the X that marked the spot where so many magpies had sent their fingersmith thrifts to be sold another day when the heat was less hot. Until this day, all that had been buried true, found again with sureness each time to each entrusting party, did jumble itself, become lost within and replaced with another's entrusted item. Each party, person, investigator and criminal, had the veil lifted to their ignorance of other's acting so similar to them. And each other's presence.
Those that had come here empty handed found themselves finding great treasures, some short changed when turning to their secret spot, others gaining more than they bargained for, and others stumbling onto stand offs between robbers blaming robbers for their wrongful stealing of what they themselves had stolen. The Dragongreed Fort had given it's name and sent invite, now shell game shuffled the prizes to stumble upon, misplace and reward and tease, the guilty crying that the other was guilter, the confused and curious faced with opportunities in the arguments. The turn, the reveal, the Fort now a host to people who could find each other and not things where they should be.
The blame began immediately. The literal plagiarism would begin explosively, it was a matter of when, not if. Opportunists found themselves beset by fellow opportunists, the entire place turned renegade to their safeties. The thieves did point at other thieves, claiming truly in their confusion that they were guilty of thieveries. Those stumbling onto treasures unknowing found themselves accused all the same anyway.
In later days once the place was mundane again, many would claim they had been there to beef up their salad days in tales of experience, but those who were actually there knew their part particular. The mood as confusion hawked opportunity and all turned to smoke, debris, clatterings of junk and prizes smuggled and others broken and made worthless. Confusion in the roulette treasure hunting, rules changing as cards were played during gambling pot gone all in, strangers meeting strangers and knowing not what to think. Hands filled with the other's lot. Misdirects and feigns encouraged by the circumstance. And the rest, unknowable and riddle no-one would ever decipher completely.
But now, in this moment, the Dragongreed Fort had everything for the taking, and everyone littered about it's junk and misplaced prizes, with eyes to see the other for the first time, the madness spiralling as meetings did happen, justice for the the thieving snatched and run off with in loudness, explosions moments away. Some stood in corridors blaming the other as each held each other's treasures. Others just drew their weaving power and hoped to make it out of with their hide intact despite the inevitable crossfire to come, sensing the volatility everywhere set to go off with them deeply in it.
Like a mass panic, like an all consuming pub brawl, those with sense to know how sense was slipping for anarchy did act as they felt they could in the powder keg fizzling around them.
The Dragongreed Fort did it's utmost to keep supplying tinderboxes, setting fuses and prizes to strike them for in the form of strangers meeting. Any cause arranged to kick off proper.
One thing would be commonly said, rippling and colliding sentiment within and through the Fort's passageways, nests of mismatched items and affects, battlements, and all the rest. The forest just one more turn of the corridor away, dismaying by another baffling labyrinth display of winding magpie collections. The pathways refusing exeunt until the Dragongreed Fort had all it's fun with those gathered. Enough had to be misplaced shattered and blown up before the place would let them escape with their hide, loot and stories to regale about scars and finds displayed. The saying was thus:
What the fuck is going on?
Wood laid upon stones in wild abandon of architects of reason, having no cohesion in arrangement or design, and shining junk, so much shining junk adorned to shield to what prizes were hidden here. Battlements of scrap, of bottles, mismatched palisades layered with tattered nothings. Draperies of distraction to the prizes, ill gotten thefts and gains, robberies successful and this place used irresistibly by so many ignorant of the other's treasures laid within. Hidden in plain junk, hidden in plain sight and written off by most as a bewildering oddity.
The magpies mysterious had gathered their nests of the useless, wings fluttering to steal and build. Wreathes of glass, magitech broken and perhaps dormant for one final sputtering, earthenware and base jewellery miscast and discarded, taken up to decorate the foundations. Arranged by everyone, gathered by no-one, set dressing shifted while no-one was looking. Originally abandoned from ordinary service by no-one remembers, when the woods had emerged by freak of the weave, made useless to whoever had originally manned and watched it. Now, in the broad day light, more than the robbing birds made this their roost to thatch with everything by kleptomaniac impulse.
The magpies were unionised making stealing an art gallery. And those that did ply their profession did flutter to and from, within their worthy stealings within the stolen decorative junk nothings.
A fort of detritus dedicated to gathering more of itself had poked out invitingly from the forest top, almost always did someone curious never find what was in plain sight but muddled by the collage confusion of it's construction. Gathered by years of growing impulses.
The birds had done much to begin with, the weave it's part in formation, the rogues of the world found it useful and set their things within. Jagged pastiche of the stolen, the worthless concealing the valuable, the pointillism of individual worth maddening to the understanding the worth of the greater canvas. A stash house to many, each not knowing the other's entrusting to it's lock boxes. The Dragongreed Fort, as it knew itself to be in what mind the earth that kept a theft for itself for a time could think of itself as.
A place that did seep the need of dragons to individual and group of criminal, to hoarde, bury, stash, sequester and more, it had needed more. It had many names this place before it made itself known, and many a stolen treasure kept safe for later fencing. Somehow, by luck or primal wit of this Dragongreed Fort, no party who thought this place a place to place their ill gotten gains had ever met the other. Sometimes a passageway away, escaping the other's notice in blissful ignorance.
Until one fateful day, The Dragongreed Fort decided to play a game. Decided to state it's name. It's mischief long in the making, it's hunger for excitement grown unbearable, and so, rescinded it's protection, did tell plain of it's secrets to any and all. First came it's name to memory. Now the place made itself known beyond, “The Stash,” or, “X that marks the spot,” or any other cant of thieves who thought themselves singular in their cleverness. Most knew it in mundane way as the Magpie Den. All woke up one day and knew one day it to be instead Dragongreed Fort. And so it was. Always thought it so. And none were the wiser of the rules of the place had now changed.
That fateful day followed another fateful day, all of arranged deemed right to collide right here, right now, their ways made, their treasured strewn and relocated.
Some say it was unfortunate bad timing by so many, though many would say once they had any hint of understanding once the smoke did settle after the panoply of blame, gains and explosions - with so many people visiting such a place for their individual reasons, it was bound to happen. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong scheme, ill timed curiosity to meet robber chased by the wanderlust justice seeker, and everyone in between and aside found themselves caught in Dragongreed Fort's scheme to amuse itself.
No party had divulged the X that marked the spot where so many magpies had sent their fingersmith thrifts to be sold another day when the heat was less hot. Until this day, all that had been buried true, found again with sureness each time to each entrusting party, did jumble itself, become lost within and replaced with another's entrusted item. Each party, person, investigator and criminal, had the veil lifted to their ignorance of other's acting so similar to them. And each other's presence.
Those that had come here empty handed found themselves finding great treasures, some short changed when turning to their secret spot, others gaining more than they bargained for, and others stumbling onto stand offs between robbers blaming robbers for their wrongful stealing of what they themselves had stolen. The Dragongreed Fort had given it's name and sent invite, now shell game shuffled the prizes to stumble upon, misplace and reward and tease, the guilty crying that the other was guilter, the confused and curious faced with opportunities in the arguments. The turn, the reveal, the Fort now a host to people who could find each other and not things where they should be.
The blame began immediately. The literal plagiarism would begin explosively, it was a matter of when, not if. Opportunists found themselves beset by fellow opportunists, the entire place turned renegade to their safeties. The thieves did point at other thieves, claiming truly in their confusion that they were guilty of thieveries. Those stumbling onto treasures unknowing found themselves accused all the same anyway.
In later days once the place was mundane again, many would claim they had been there to beef up their salad days in tales of experience, but those who were actually there knew their part particular. The mood as confusion hawked opportunity and all turned to smoke, debris, clatterings of junk and prizes smuggled and others broken and made worthless. Confusion in the roulette treasure hunting, rules changing as cards were played during gambling pot gone all in, strangers meeting strangers and knowing not what to think. Hands filled with the other's lot. Misdirects and feigns encouraged by the circumstance. And the rest, unknowable and riddle no-one would ever decipher completely.
But now, in this moment, the Dragongreed Fort had everything for the taking, and everyone littered about it's junk and misplaced prizes, with eyes to see the other for the first time, the madness spiralling as meetings did happen, justice for the the thieving snatched and run off with in loudness, explosions moments away. Some stood in corridors blaming the other as each held each other's treasures. Others just drew their weaving power and hoped to make it out of with their hide intact despite the inevitable crossfire to come, sensing the volatility everywhere set to go off with them deeply in it.
Like a mass panic, like an all consuming pub brawl, those with sense to know how sense was slipping for anarchy did act as they felt they could in the powder keg fizzling around them.
The Dragongreed Fort did it's utmost to keep supplying tinderboxes, setting fuses and prizes to strike them for in the form of strangers meeting. Any cause arranged to kick off proper.
One thing would be commonly said, rippling and colliding sentiment within and through the Fort's passageways, nests of mismatched items and affects, battlements, and all the rest. The forest just one more turn of the corridor away, dismaying by another baffling labyrinth display of winding magpie collections. The pathways refusing exeunt until the Dragongreed Fort had all it's fun with those gathered. Enough had to be misplaced shattered and blown up before the place would let them escape with their hide, loot and stories to regale about scars and finds displayed. The saying was thus:
What the fuck is going on?
OOC - So What The Fuck Is Actually Going On In This Thread MrTophat?
Welcome to John Woo weave shoot out, the demolition room where all is collateral damage to be written! Bakromancer and myself will be providing henchmen, robbers and confusion, and firepower to duck, dive and weave within, pins to knock down with whatever spellcraft is up your character's sleeve. We have faith in your desire for magic user shoot out chaos, with Bakromancer and myself littering scenes with peoples to mow down and survive from, or each other. Feel free to indulge in littering scenes with whatever you need to send a bowling ball of magic in what way you feel is right. Kicking over sandcastles with Weave is encouraged and welcomed, collateral damage of the scenery and Bakromancer and mine's peoples is practically mandatory. Have fun, and if you're still finding yourself asking, 'What the fuck is going on,' feel free to tag myself in plotting and planning in the discord, or PM me directly in discord and ask away.
This thread is setup to be loud, quick, and explosive in tone. A demolition fort designed for smashing and grabbing what you can is for your characters to roam, and you as players to add what you feel is fun.
You may make an entrance or exit at any time, may your conscience be your guide on how much property damage to inflict, and what riches your character might abscond with. Bakromancer and myself will be for the most part be willing to have our cast and everything around them blown to smithereens. All I ask is that you embrace the spirit of John Woo shoot outs, of loudness, debris, madness of firepower, reloading spells, exploding barrels of magitech, except instead of bullets in the chamber we have the weave to lay down firepower with. Magic be the weapon of choice. Good luck out there, have fun, and of course...
Stay frosty
And stay dangerous
Welcome to John Woo weave shoot out, the demolition room where all is collateral damage to be written! Bakromancer and myself will be providing henchmen, robbers and confusion, and firepower to duck, dive and weave within, pins to knock down with whatever spellcraft is up your character's sleeve. We have faith in your desire for magic user shoot out chaos, with Bakromancer and myself littering scenes with peoples to mow down and survive from, or each other. Feel free to indulge in littering scenes with whatever you need to send a bowling ball of magic in what way you feel is right. Kicking over sandcastles with Weave is encouraged and welcomed, collateral damage of the scenery and Bakromancer and mine's peoples is practically mandatory. Have fun, and if you're still finding yourself asking, 'What the fuck is going on,' feel free to tag myself in plotting and planning in the discord, or PM me directly in discord and ask away.
This thread is setup to be loud, quick, and explosive in tone. A demolition fort designed for smashing and grabbing what you can is for your characters to roam, and you as players to add what you feel is fun.
You may make an entrance or exit at any time, may your conscience be your guide on how much property damage to inflict, and what riches your character might abscond with. Bakromancer and myself will be for the most part be willing to have our cast and everything around them blown to smithereens. All I ask is that you embrace the spirit of John Woo shoot outs, of loudness, debris, madness of firepower, reloading spells, exploding barrels of magitech, except instead of bullets in the chamber we have the weave to lay down firepower with. Magic be the weapon of choice. Good luck out there, have fun, and of course...
Stay frosty
And stay dangerous
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