Haikus are easy.
5 syllables, then seven.
Then one line of five.
Printable View
Haikus are easy.
5 syllables, then seven.
Then one line of five.
Thanks for the help! I'd thought that was it, but I couldn't quite be certain.
I tried to do that.
It didn't work out for me.
That happens sometimes.
:smallbiggrin:
Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.
Haiku land here?
I see that is the case.
This is less one.
(Anyone see what I did there? :smalltongue:)
Yes, I saw
It was quite clever
Yes indeed
(Will the pattern coninue? 0.o)
It will
Next will be hard
I think
True indeed.
And in thought, as well.
But ninjas.
Not hard.
At all.
See? Three.
:smalltongue:
yreV
...
draH
So I guess the next step would be going far enough back that it springs forward?
That could prove to be difficult to pull off in a way that wouldn't let people down.
Well, somebody's got to do it so I guess it's going to have to be me.
Meow. (in).
43 players at the moment, so we're starting to get towards the normal size of Classic. :smallbiggrin:
There's about 24 hours of sign-ups remaining so there's still time to sign up!
Count me in!
Llama B
Hundreds of Haiku,
Swamp forums too rapidly here.
Stop the madness now!
Very nice Flabort.
Yes, Irony is quit fun,
And quite delicious.
Iron, though, is not.
In fact, it tastes very bad.
You should not eat it.
Okay, Fat Tony makes 44, and sign-ups are now closed.
Role PM's will follow over the next few hours, then the game will begin!
Perkins leads the way into Castle Gloom, chatting to Huxley as they go. Sir Chumleigh Borgsnorkler-Claypigeon has quietened down for now, probably overheating in his sickeningly sweet pink duffel coat. The large oaken double doors open soundlessly onto a huge vaulted entrance hall, the open staircase and array of period furniture all dusty and cobwebby with disuse and age. Sir Bogsnorkler-Claypigeon appears to be something of a hoarder, for every flat surface in the hall is crammed with random trinkets and brik-a-brak. Straw camels sit side-by-side with yellowing postcards of beautiful Skegness and rusting antique duelling pistols. Most of it is absolute rubbish, but a few keen eyes spot diamonds amongst the rough detritus of a long and well-travelled life.
“While you’re here the master’s servants will see to your every need. Sir Bogsnorkler-Claypigeon has lived alone here for a long time, and as such he’s invested a lot of money in keeping himself entertained. There’s a basketball court in the courtyard, as well as a freestyle break dancing area with in-built sound system. There are pool, snooker, table football and ping-pong tables upstairs in the games room, as well as a Ouija board for some reason. Fencing equipment, a bowling alley, a firing range, even a 200-seater cinema screen. Please believe me ladies and gentlemen when I say that you will want for nothing during your stay here.”
“Err, did you say basketball and… break dancing?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well, it’s just that old Chumleigh over there doesn’t look much like the break dancing type. Or the type to move around much at all, for that matter.”
“Oh you’d be surprised. The master holds the national endurance break-dance record for the over hundreds, and has the biggest collection of genuine hammer pants in the world.”
“You don’t say?! What about the 200-seater cinema? I take it the old man gambols across the seats like some kind of wrinkly Scooby-doo character?”
“No, all those seats are for the servants to watch X-Factor on Saturday nights. Have you ever heard those caterwaulers try and sing through cinema surround sound?”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed.”
The procession follows Perkins through the banquet hall and into an expansive drawing room, every wall crammed floor to ceiling with ancient tomes, dreadful romance and gumshoe novels, and old copies of Heat magazine. A huge pitcher of red liquid sits on a battered old antique table, surrounded by a forest of fine crystal wine glasses.
“Drink! I could murder a pint of Bugmanns!”
Sir Bogsnorkler-Claypigeon hurries into the room, having somehow discarded his candy-floss duffel coat. Instead he wears a massive sombrero made of nachos, salsa dip slopping over the brim as he goes.
“Well, it’s not fictional dwarven ale, but it is a rather fine red wine we brew here on the castle estate, which I hope you will find to your tastes.”
“Bloody well is Bugmanns, I can taste the Orc blood!”
Perkins sighs and gently lowers Sir Chumleigh into a big comfy chair, who then promptly falls asleep. Going back to the pitcher, he takes the envelope from his pocket and retrieves the lupine hairs, holding them above the wine uncertainly.
“This is the last chance to back out ladies and gentlemen. Do you really want to risk your lives to stop Moon Manor from falling into the hands of a few rustic farmers and tribes of wild chavs?”
“That’s not even a question! Throw those bristles in and pour away!”
Perkins does as asked, stirring the pitcher of wine with a silver ladle before pouring a thick opaque glass for each Moon. Huxley looks at the ladle, frowning in thought.
“I say Perkins, are all the castle's cutlery and utensils silver?”
“Why yes sir, everything from frying pans to spoons. Except for the tea strainers of course.”
“Of course. Whoever heard of a silver tea strainer?”
Perkins nods and holds out the first glass of lupine-infused wine to the gathered relatives of Old Man Moon. It seems that no-one wants to take it.
“Now come on Moon’s, don’t be shy! Who wants to go first?”
Werewolf Classic XIV: Tea Strainers of Terror is now underway!
Day 1 begins now and will end on Monday. Care to decide who should get the first taste of werewolf wine?
If anyone didn't get a role PM or has any questions, just ask myself and TigerFang.
Fleeing Coward.
Murska
letterslettersletters
*points at Fat Tony*
First name I remembered on the list. :smalltongue:
Derp herp herp.
Murska
Ha. Successful.Super Darkis a bad guy who wants someone to be lynched. :smalltongue:
((Note: Bandwagon starter, second vote. I know it doesn't mean anything in this context. If you like, you can take it as a retaliatory point.))
TsukikoJ
For being above us on the list-O-names . . .
He rides into town on his light warhorse, a dappled gray with streaks of mud. A rope is tied to lead the mule behind, which is pulling a covered cart.
Andre Fairchilde, Duelist, Paladin and occasional Avatar of Loki, Highwayman, and tavern owner has returned to town. Here to make a buck on the bloodshed and eventually be killed again, Andre leads his only friends to a ramshackle abandoned building near the center of the small village.
He dismounts, and knocks the dust from his cloak. He takes off the saddle, disconnects the distempered mule from the cart and leads them to graze. Lifting the tarp off the cart, he first grabs his axe.
He then uses the axe toopenchop the boards covering the front swinging doors and open the tavern. He scoops up the boards, and using them as kindling he pours wood grain alcohol on them to start a fire in the fireplace with a WHOOSH!
Looking around the memory laden tavern, Andre walks behind the bar and pulls out two familiar signs.
The first, he makes alterations to, and hangs from the inside of the window. The second he returns to the top of outside of the door.
The second says "Wolves Bane"
The first says "Open for business! Now Hiring! Dancers and Hosts wanted, Poker players Welcome."