NAHM! Movement Phase (Last replacement request, I swear)

[Albert B. Rampage]

I've got a pain in my sawdust
That's what's the matter with me
Something is wrong with my little inside
I'm just as sick as can be
Don't let me faint, someone get me a fan
Someone else run for the medicine man
Ev'ryone hurry as fast as you can
I've got a pain in my sawdust

It's not a game it's war, plain and raw
Blood stain the wall, when I bring the chain with the saw
Bring the pain to your door like death was knockin
Unless you got my ends, I'ma make you twins with the Headless Horseman
Hell extortion, sell your soul, live your dreams
Don't pay the cost then [bam bam] say hello to the guillotine
A killer fiends for blood, screams of thugs like
fiends for drugs, I don't need no love

[Pentadragon]

I've got a pain in my sawdust
That's what's the matter with me
Something is wrong with my little inside
I'm just as sick as can be
Don't let me faint, someone get me a fan
Someone else run for the medicine man
Ev'ryone hurry as fast as you can
I've got a pain in my sawdust

It's not a game it's war, plain and raw
Blood stain the wall, when I bring the chain with the saw
Bring the pain to your door like death was knockin
Unless you got my ends, I'ma make you twins with the Headless Horseman
Hell extortion, sell your soul, live your dreams
Don't pay the cost then [bam bam] say hello to the guillotine
A killer fiends for blood, screams of thugs like
fiends for drugs, I don't need no love

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?

Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep ! - oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!

They loved her for her wealth -
And they hated her for her pride -
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her - that she died.

[babygirl86]

rickvoid didnt you say you have a knife? i think its safe to say we need to get rid of the crazy klller

[Harvey Pew]

I must lie down where all the ladders start,
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

[Iron Man]

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

[Pentadragon]

I beg of you, please have no fear
The World is Quiet here.

[rickvoid]

I'll certainly give it a shot, but only if everybody agrees to help. All I've got is this damn knife, god knows what that killer has.

Um, am I that only one that started with a weapon? Seriously, we're gonna need more than my knife I think. Besides, you guys don't want me to die yet. Seriously. Your futures may depend on my staying alive.

hint hint

[Pentadragon]

One for sorrow, two for mirth,
Three for a or funeral, four for a birth,
Five for silver, six for gold,

Seven for a secret, never to be told.

Eight for heaven, nine for hell,
And ten is for the devil himself.

[BlakAdder]

Things have taken a turn for the morbid in the last day or so...

Gardens-

Skitzer, The Pope’s Tiara, Chenhsi , Dybeck

Main Hall-

Pool-

Albert B. Rampage, Wolframnhart

Kitchen-

MafiaSSK

Dining Room-

Art Gallery-

Crazy Killer

, Iron Man, Vamparific, Crazy

Study-

The Jester, Kloud1516, Babygirl86, Veronica13, Rally Vincent, Harvey Pew

Servants’ Quarters-

Cybele, A Squirrel, Chelseafan, Rickvoid, Netlava

[rickvoid]

What is SSK doing in the Kitchen,

alone

?

I say we lock him in there with the crazy killer save us some time.

[Pentadragon]

Is it raining, is it snowing
Is a hurricane a-blowing

Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of Hell a-glowing
Is the grisly reaper mowing

Yes, the danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing

[MafiaSSK]

What is SSK doing in the Kitchen,

alone

?

I say we lock him in there with the crazy killer save us some time.

So you can tell who the killer is

[Harvey Pew]

So you can tell who the killer is

It is the bright red "crazy killer" in the Art Gallery with Iron Man and Vamparific - have fun guys!

rickvoid, I'm armed too.

[rickvoid]

So you can tell who the killer is

It is the bright red "crazy killer" in the Art Gallery with Iron Man and Vamparific - have fun guys!

rickvoid, I'm armed too.

I'd make a crack about showing you mine if you show me your's, but everybody has already seen mine.

So... what'cha got? Something better than my friggen knife I hope.

[rickvoid]

Ooh. Just noticed something interesting. Here's the people currently in the game:
-Cybele
-Rickvoid
-Netlava
-Vamparific
-The Pope's Tiara
-Dybeck
-MafiaSSK
-Veronica13
-Harvey Pew
-babygirl86
-Rally Vincent
-Kloud1516
-Chelseafan
-A Squirrel
-Iron Man
-Chenhsi
-Crazy
-The Jester
-Albert B. Rampage
-Pentadragon
-wolframnhart

Here's the people listed in the places and statuses thread:
-Cybele
-Rickvoid
-Netlava
-Vamparific
-The Pope's Tiara
-Dybeck
-MafiaSSK
-Veronica13
-Harvey Pew
-babygirl86
-Rally Vincent
-Chelseafan
-A Squirrel
-Chenhsi
-The Jester
-Albert B. Rampage

These Players are not:
Kloud1516
Iron Man
Crazy
Pentadragon
wolframnhart

This doesn't mean that the players listed on the status page are innocent, but I think we can safely assume that those not on that list are not.

Just making an observation.

EDIT:

Vamp, you are in a room with three possible scum. I recommend you move.

I just forgot to put them in there. Don't read into it

[wolframnhart]

Things have taken a turn for the morbid in the last day or so...

Gardens-

Skitzer, The Pope’s Tiara, Chenhsi , Dybeck

Main Hall-

Pool-

Albert B. Rampage, Wolframnhart

Kitchen-

MafiaSSK

Dining Room-

Art Gallery-

Crazy Killer

, Iron Man, Vamparific, Crazy

Study-

The Jester, Kloud1516, Babygirl86, Veronica13, Rally Vincent, Harvey Pew

Servants’ Quarters-

Cybele, A Squirrel, Chelseafan, Rickvoid, Netlava

@rick dude im in the pool room with ABR

[Cybele]

Weep not for me, for I am dead.

[Cybele]

The White Road
by Neil Gaiman


"I wish that you would visit me one day, in my house.
There are such sights I would show you."

My intended lowers her eyes, and, yes, she shivers.
Her father and his friends all hoot and cheer.

"That's never a story, Mr. Fox," chides a pale woman
in the corner of the room, her hair corn-fair,
her eyes the grey of cloud, meat on her bones,
she curves, and smiles crooked and amused.

"Madame, I am no storyteller," and I bow, and ask,
"Perhaps, you have a story for us?" I raise an eyebrow.
Her smile remains.

She nods, then stands, her lips move:

"A girl from the town, a plain girl, was betrayed by her lover,
a scholar. So when her blood stopped flowing,
and her belly swole beyond disguising,
she went to him, and wept hot tears. He stroked her hair,
swore that they would marry, that they would run,
in the night,
together,
to his aunt. She believed him;
even though she had seen the glances in the hall
he gave to his master's daughter,
who was fair, and rich, she believed him.
Or she believed what she believed.

"There was something sly about his smile,
his eyes so black and sharp, his rufous hair. Something
that sent her early to their trysting place,
beneath the oak, beside the thornbush,
something that made her climb the tree and wait.
Climb a tree, and in her condition.
Her love arrived at dusk, skulking by owl-light,
carrying a bag,
from which he took a mattock, shovel, knife.
He worked with a will, beside the thornbush,
beneath the oaken tree,
he whistled gently, and he sang, as he dug her grave,
that old song...
shall I sing it for you, now, good folk?"

She pauses, and as a one we clap and holloa — or almost as a one:
My intended, her hair so dark, her cheeks so pink,
her lips so red,
seems distracted.

The fair girl (who is she? A guest of the inn, I hazard) sings:

"A fox went out on a shiny night
And he begged for the moon to give him light
For he'd many miles to go that night
Before he'd reach his den–O!
Den–O! Den–O!
He'd many miles to go that night, before he'd reach is den–O."

Her voice was sweet and fine, but the voice of my intended is finer.

"And when her grave was dug—
A small hole it was, for she was a little thing,
even big with child she was a little thing–
he walked below her, back and forth,
rehearsing her hearsing, thus:
-Good evening, my pigsnie, my love,
my, but you look a treat in the moon's light,
mother of my child-to-be. Come, let me hold you.
And he'd embrace the midnight air with one hand,
and with the other, holding his short but wicked knife,
he'd stab and stab the dark.

"She trembled in her oak above him. Breathed so softly,
but still she shook. And once he looked up, and said,
—Owls, I'll wager, and another time, fie! is that a cat
up there? Here puss... But she was still,
bethought herself a branch, a leaf, a twig. At dawn
he took his mattock, spade and knife, and left
all grumbling and gudgeoned of his prey.

"They found her later wandering, her wits
had left her. There were oak leaves in her hair
and she sang,

'The bough did bend
The bough did break
I saw the hole
The fox did make

'We swore to love
We swore to marry
I saw the blade
The fox did carry'

"They say that her babe, when it was born,
had a fox's paw on her and not a hand.
Fear is the sculptress, midwives claim. The scholar fled."

And she sits down, to general applause.
The smile twitches, hides about her lips: I know it's there,
it waits in her grey eyes. She stares at me, amused.

"I read that in the Orient foxes follow priests and scholars,
in disguise as women, houses, mountains, gods, processions,
always discovered by their tails— " so I begin,
but my intended's father intercedes.
"Speaking of tales — my dear, you said you had a tale?"

My intended flushes. There are no rose petals,
save for her cheeks. She nods, and says:

"My story, father? My story is the story of a dream I dreamed."

Her voice is so quiet and soft, we hush ourselves to hear:
outside the inn just the night sounds: an owl hoots,
but, as the old folk say, I live too near the wood
to be frightened by an owl.

She looks at me.

"You, sir. In my dream you rode to me, and called,
–Come to my house, my sweet, away down the White Road.
There are such sights as I would show you.
I asked how I would find your house, down the white chalk road,
for it's a long road, and a dark one, under trees
that make the light all green and gold when the sun is high,
but shade the road at other times. At night
it's pitch–black; there is no moonlight on the White Road...

"And you said, Mister Fox — and this is most curious, but dreams
are treacherous and curious and dark—
that you would cut the throat of a sow-pig,
and you would walk her home behind your fine black stallion.
You smiled,
smiled, Mister Fox, with your red lips and your green eyes,
eyes that could snare a maiden's soul, and your yellow teeth,
which could eat her heart— "

"God forbid," I smiled. All eyes were on me, then, not her,
though hers was the story. Eyes, such eyes.

"So, in my dream, it became my fancy to visit your great house,
as you had often entreated me to do,
to walk its glades and paths, to see the pools,
the statues you had brought from Greece, the yews,
the poplar-walk, the grotto, and the bower.
And, as this was but a dream, I did not wish
to take a chaperone
—some withered, juiceless prune
who would not appreciate your house, Mister Fox; who
would not appreciate your pale skin,
nor your green eyes,
nor your engaging ways.

"So I rode the white chalk road, following the red blood path,
on Betsy, my filly. The trees above were green.
A dozen miles straight, and then the blood
led me off across meadows, over ditches, down a gravel path,
(but now I needed sharp eyes to catch the blood—
a drip, a drop: the pig must have been dead as anything)
and I reined my filly in front of a house.
And such a house. A Palladian delight, immense,
a landscape of its own, windows, columns,
a white stone monument to verticality, expansive.

"There was a sculpture in the garden, before the house,
a Spartan child, stolen fox half-concealed in its robe,
the fox biting the child's stomach, gnawing the vitals away,
the stoic child bravely saying nothing—
what could it say, cold marble that it was?
There was pain in its eyes, and it stood
upon a plinth upon which were carved eight words.
I walked around it and I read:
Be bold,
Be bold,
but not too bold.

"I tethered little Betsy in the stables,
between a dozen night black stallions
each with blood and madness in his eyes.
I saw no one.
I walked to the front of the house, and up the great steps.
The huge doors were locked fast,
no servants came to greet me, when I knocked.
In my dream (for do not forget, Mister Fox, that this was my dream.
You look so pale) the house fascinated me,
the kind of curiosity (you know this,
Mister Fox, I see it in your eyes) that kills cats.

"I found a door, a small one, off the latch,
and pushed my way inside.
Walked corridors, lined with oak, with shelves,
with busts, with trinkets,
I walked, my feet silent on the scarlet carpet,
until I reached the great hall.
It was there again, in red stones that glittered,
set into the white marble of the floor,
it said:
Be bold,
be bold,
but not too bold
Or else your life's blood
shall run cold.

"There were stairs, wide, carpeted in scarlet,
off the great hall,
and I walked up them, silently, silently.
Oak doors: and now
I was in a dining room, or so I am convinced,
for the remnants of a grisly supper
were abandoned, cold and fly-buzzed.
Here was a half-chewed hand, there, crisped and picked,
a face, a woman's face, who must in life, I fear,
have looked like me."

"Heaven defend us all from such dark dreams," her father cried.
"Can such things be?"

"It is not so," I assured him. The fair woman's smile
glittered behind her grey eyes. People
need assurances.

"Behind the supper room was a room,
a huge room, this inn would fit in that room,
piled promiscuously with rings and bracelets,
necklaces, pearl drops, ball gowns, fur wraps,
lace petticoats, silks and satins. Ladies' boots,
and muffs, and bonnets: a treasure cave and dressing room—
diamonds and rubies underneath my feet.

"Beyond that room I knew myself in Hell.
In my dream...
I saw many heads. The heads of young women. I saw a wall
on which dismembered limbs were nailed.
A heap of breasts. The piles of guts, of livers, lights,
the eyes, the...
No. I cannot say. And all around the flies were buzzing,
one low droning buzz.
-Bëelzebubzebubzebub they buzzed. I could not breathe,
I ran from there and sobbed against a wall."

"A fox's lair indeed," says the fair woman.
("It was not so," I mutter.)
"They are untidy creatures, so to litter,
about their dens the bones and skins and feathers
of their prey. The French call him Renard,
the Scottish, Tod."

"One cannot help one's name," says my intended's father.
He is almost panting now, they all are:
in the firelight, the fire's heat, lapping their ale.
The wall of the inn was hung with sporting prints.

She continues:
"From outside I heard a crash and a commotion.
I ran back the way I had come, along the red carpet,
down the wide staircase—too late!—the main door was opening!
I threw myself down the stairs-rolling, tumbling—
fetched up hopelessly beneath a table,
where I waited, shivered, prayed."

She points at me. "Yes, you, sir. You came in,
crashed open the door, staggered in, you sir,
dragging a young woman
by her red hair and by her throat.
Her hair was long and unconfined, she screamed and strove
to free herself. You laughed, deep in your throat,
were all a-sweat, and grinned from ear to ear."

She glares at me. The color's in her cheeks.
"You pulled a short old broadsword, Mister Fox, and as she screamed,
you slit her throat, again from ear to ear.
I listened to her bubbling, sighing, shrieking,
closed my eyes and prayed until she stopped.
And after much, much, much too long, she stopped.

"And I looked out. You smiled, held up your sword,
your hands agore—blood— "

"In your dream," I tell her.

"In my dream.
She lay there on the marble, as you sliced,
you hacked, you wrenched, you panted, and you stabbed.
You took her head from her shoulders,
thrust your tongue between her red wet lips.
You cut off her hands. Her pale white hands.
You sliced open her bodice, you removed each breast.
Then you began to sob and howl.
Of a sudden,
clutching her head, which you carried by the hair,
the flame red hair,
you ran up the stairs.

"As soon as you were out of sight,
I fled through the open door.
I rode my Betsy home, down the White Road."

All eyes upon me now. I put down my ale
on the old wood of the table.
"It is not so,"
I told her,
told all of them.
"It was not so, and
God forbid
it should be so. It was
an evil dream. I wish such dreams
on no one."

"Before I fled the charnel house,
before I rode poor Betsy into a lather,
before we fled down the White Road,
the blood still red
(and was it a pig whose throat you slit, Mister Fox?),
before I came to my father's inn,
before I fell before them, speechless,
my father, brothers, friends— "

All honest farmers, fox-hunting men.
They are stamping their boots, their black boots.

" —before that, Mister Fox,
I seized from the floor, from the bloody floor,
her hand, Mister Fox. The hand of the woman
you hacked apart before my eyes."

"It is not so— "

"It was no dream. You Creature. You Bluebeard."

"It was not so—"

"You Gilles de Rais. You monster."

"And God forbid it should be so!"

She smiles now, lacking mirth or warmth.
The brown hair curls around her face,
roses twining about a bower.
Two spots of red are burning on her cheeks.

"Behold, Mister Fox! Her hand! Her poor pale hand!"
She pulls it from her breasts (gently freckled,
I had dreamed of those breasts),
tosses it down upon the table.
It lies in front of me.
Her father, brothers, friends,
they stare at me hungrily,
and I pick up the small thing.

The hair was red indeed, and ranks. The pads and claws
were rough. One end was bloody
but the blood had dried.

"This is no hand," I tell them. But the first
fist knocks the wind from out of me,
an oaken cudgel hits my shoulder,
as I stagger,
the first black boot kicks me down onto the floor.
And then a rain of blows beats down on me,
I curl and mewl and pray and grip the paw
so tightly.

Perhaps I weep.
I see her then,
the pale, fair girl, the smile has reached her lips,
her skirts so long as she slips, grey–eyed,
amused beyond all bearing, from the room.
She'd many a mile to go, that night.
And as she leaves,
from my vantage place on the floor,
I see the brush, the tail between her legs;
I would have called,
but could speak no more. Tonight she'll be running
four–footed, surefooted, down the White Road.

What if the hunters come?
What if they come?

Be bold, I whisper once, before I die.
But not too bold...

And then my tale is done.

Weep not for me, for I am dead.

[Crazy]

I'm not scum. Don't worry.

[Vamparific]

im not moving i wanna die !!!!!!

[rickvoid]

Things have taken a turn for the morbid in the last day or so...

Gardens-

Skitzer, The Pope’s Tiara, Chenhsi , Dybeck

Main Hall-

Pool-

Albert B. Rampage, Wolframnhart

Kitchen-

MafiaSSK

Dining Room-

Art Gallery-

Crazy Killer

, Iron Man, Vamparific, Crazy

Study-

The Jester, Kloud1516, Babygirl86, Veronica13, Rally Vincent, Harvey Pew

Servants’ Quarters-

Cybele, A Squirrel, Chelseafan, Rickvoid, Netlava

@rick dude im in the pool room with ABR

The seperate thread that's dedicated to the statuses and detailed information about each room. You can get there from his first post. You are not listed in it. I'm not 100% sure why, but there has to be a reason.

See Rick's post

[Pentadragon]

What kind of monster have I let myself become?

In the light of day I lead a normal life, but when it becomes night, I become some one else

I have killed an immense unbelievable sum
The other one, I have no memory of this someone else.

From what I know I have a sadistic taste for men
Even though I am married and a well respected gent
After my sexual acts, I get so enraged with myself, I kill to totally wipe it away, and maybe I won't do this again
To my knowledge so many to hell I have sent.

[dybeck]

move: dining room

[Crazy]

move: dining room

, I guess.

[kloud1516]

move: Main Hall

the study has become too conjested for my taste.

@ Rick:

you might want to check your list again, for I have been in the study for quite some time. . .