Preface from Prian's Player.
This log is a good view of Prian Borsail's view that nothing mundane, common, or unexpected could dare interupt his day or manner. It was Prian's view that, for example, a commoner could not swear at him and if it did happen, it couldn't have happened, and therefore would be completely ignored. In this case there was a rat infestation in Allanak and Prian refused to acknowledge these rats - ever. No matter what a rat did they could _not_ exist to Prian because that would mean, in some small way, he was also common. And, as we all know, Borsail are not common they are noble.
Prian was a noble's noble in every way, shape, and form. He ate, drank, breathed, and spoke nobility. He was of the Noble class and everything and everyone else was below him. I hope you enjoy his total lack of reaction to the rat. This was done purposefully and maintained because, once again, rats do not exist in his world. He lived in a realm shielded from the normal life by his position, birth, slaves, and servants who catered to his every whim. I hope you sit back and enjoy the log as much as I had fun acting out this scene originally.
Lifting his hand lazily, you ask the stocky, bronze-tinted man, in sirihish: "Lieutenant, wonderful. You have a report for me to hear?" The stocky, bronze-tinted man strides in with a quickened, steady pace, his cloak's thin material rippling about as he snaps into a forceful bow. The fragile, spindly-limbed man looks up to the stocky, bronze-tinted man. His head swivelling in your direction, dipping into a firm bow of motion, the stocky, bronze-tinted man says to you, in sirihish: "I have, My Lord. It concerns the Flesh.." The Grand Salon [NES] The fragile, spindly-limbed man is sitting on a plush, blue-cushioned divan. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman is sitting on a plush, blue-cushioned divan. The fragile, spindly-limbed man rests a hand on his leg while looking at the stocky, bronze-tinted man. Inclining his head slightly, you ask the stocky, bronze-tinted man, in sirihish: "Yes, I had surmised such. If you wish, you may sit. Pearl, refreshments?" The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman reaches for her ivory-capped mekillot bone cane. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman pushes off of a plush, blue-cushioned divan and rises to her feet. Leaning lightly on a bone cane, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman walks north. A mangled rat has arrived from the north. A mangled rat looks at the fragile, spindly-limbed man. A mangled rat snuffles a spicy ground scrab roll. The plumpish, sandy-blond man watches the stocky, bronze-tinted man, oblivious to a mangled rat. A mangled rat picks up a spicy ground scrab roll. A mangled rat eats a portion of a spicy ground scrab roll. A mangled rat buries its face in its half eaten spicy ground scrab roll, shaking as it feeds. The fragile, spindly-limbed man watches the stocky, bronze-tinted man. His gaze locked attentively upon your features, back straightening, the stocky, bronze-tinted man says to you, in sirihish: "I'll stand, My Lord.. I thank your most gracious offer." You think: "Speak a little slower Lieutenant.. I almost didn't hear each word" A mangled rat emits a feeble squeak, and stops moving for a moment. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman has arrived from the north, balancing a tray of wineglasses in her free hand. The fragile, spindly-limbed man looks about, his eyes resting upon a slave before looking back to the stocky, bronze-tinted man. A mangled rat eats a portion of a half eaten spicy ground scrab roll. The plumpish, sandy-blond man tilts his head momentarily and then cleans out his ear delicately with a slender finger. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman shuffles toward a plush, blue-cushioned divan, before spotting a mangled rat and letting out a girlish squeal as the tray falls from her hands. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman drops a wineglass. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman drops a wineglass. Returning his hand to his lap, the plumpish, sandy-blond man looks at the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman with an expression of surprise. The fragile, spindly-limbed man looks at the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman raising an eyebrow. A frown framing his lips, you ask the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "Pearl! What is the meaning of this?" The stocky, bronze-tinted man opens his mouth to speak, but snaps his attentions towards the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, his features pulling taut. A mangled rat crawls over the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman's shoe. Blushing furiously and pulling her stare away from a mangled rat before it crawls on her slipper and she squeals once more, poking at her own foot with her ivory-capped mekillot bone cane, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman exclaims to you, in sirihish: "A rat!" A mangled rat makes a feeble squealing noise. Lifting his hand upwards, you say to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "Nonesense! No rat would dare come in here. You've been working too hard" The stocky, bronze-tinted man flits his sharp gaze towards the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman's lower portion, then to the manged rat sprawled nearby. Shaking his head, the fragile, spindly-limbed man asks the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "That's a poor slave making the noise. Could you find out which one and have it punished?" The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman stares helplessly up at you, jaw partially open in a helplessly distraught expression. A mangled rat's eviscerated tail flops around the floor, its movements slower and slower. The stocky, bronze-tinted man's upper lip curls slightly, and his eyes shut for an extended period of time, then flutter open, shaking his head slowly. Looking towards the fragile, spindly-limbed man, you say to the fragile, spindly-limbed man, in sirihish: "Ahh.. that was a slave? I had thought it was the glasses clinking." Raising eyebrow, the fragile, spindly-limbed man says to you, in sirihish: "Really? Yes I do suppose that makes more sense." Nodding and pursing her lips, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to you, in sirihish: "Ye..yes, my lord. Forgive me..I think I was disturbed by the talk of dwarves. Allow me to bring someone in to iunish the slave." Waving his hand languidly, you say to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "Of course. I will see to it that a pleasure slave is sent to your chambers. I doubt your Lord would mind." Clearing her throat with a gesture of her head toward a mangled rat, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to the stocky, bronze-tinted man, in sirihish: "Lieutenant..I've dropped a span of wool...could you please retrieve it? I would hate to injure my leg.." A mangled rat looks up at the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman. Blinking and shaking her head, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to you, in sirihish: "Thank you, my lord..that is kind..but Senior Lord Vedelarin prefers I abstain." Passing his gaze towards the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, and giving a forceful inhale, his blade-backed hand's stiffly-enveloped fingers flexing with a dull creak, the stocky, bronze-tinted man says to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "I'll do so, Administrator. We can't have your leg acting up." Bowing his head deeply, the stocky, bronze-tinted man says to you, in sirihish: "A moment, My Lord." The pale, ebon-haired youth has arrived from the east. As a light brown eyebrow arches upwards, you say to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "Indeed? How unfortunate for you. Very well, at least take some time with a massage." At your seat, the fragile, spindly-limbed man says in sirihish, in an amused tone to you: "You would think this wool was a bahamet the way everyone is reacting." Moving into the room the pale, ebon-haired youth slips amongst the alabaster statues to stand a few paces away from a plush, blue-cushioned divan with his gaze low. A mangled rat crawls up onto the divan feebly. The fragile, spindly-limbed man pushes off of a plush, blue-cushioned divan and rises to his feet. Quickly moving away from a plush, blue-cushioned divan, the fragile, spindly-limbed man asks, in sirihish: "Highlord! What on zalanthas is that!?" The stocky, bronze-tinted man turns deftly on a heel, the thin material of his cloak fluttering out with a swift motion as he darts for a mangled rat. The fragile, spindly-limbed man looks down at a mangled rat. Waving his hand lazily, you say, in sirihish: "They get excited by some small things" The stocky, bronze-tinted man attempts to grab a mangled rat, but it wrestles away. In a convulsive motion, a mangled rat defecates on the divan. A mangled rat rolls over, legs flailing. A mangled rat cries out in pain. A mangled rat crumples to the ground. The stocky, bronze-tinted man widens his eyes as the small object wriggles from his grasp, then flops over. Bringing a hand to his mouth, the fragile, spindly-limbed man asks, in sirihish: "Highlord! Is that.... another slug?" A frown forming upon his lips, you ask the fragile, spindly-limbed man, in sirihish: "That is the divan dearest cousin. Have you been taking spice?" The fragile, spindly-limbed man looks at you, his face riddled with confusion. Gesturing to a glob of tar-like, jet-black mush, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to the pale, ebon-haired youth, in sirihish: "Well, don't just stand there, boy... one of the lamps has sputtered some ...some...kind of debris. Clean it." Nodding quickly the pale, ebon-haired youth lifts the cushion from the divan with a glob of tar-like, jet-black mush and the body of a mangled rat on it and scurries away. The pale, ebon-haired youth picks up the body of a mangled rat.T he Grand Salon [NES] The pale, ebon-haired youth picks up a glob of tar-like, jet-black mush. Flitting his gaze between you and the fragile, spindly-limbed man, the stocky, bronze-tinted man says, in sirihish: "Worry not, My Lords.. this is nothing. Happens when art of abstract qualities is around. The lanterns sputtered.." Carrying a blue cushion, the pale, ebon-haired youth walks east. After blinking several times, the fragile, spindly-limbed man asks you, in sirihish: "Would you like to accompany me to..... to the Gazebo dearest cousin?" Waving his hand languidly, you say, in sirihish: "Do settle down everyone. Come, let us to the gazebo, perhaps the fresh air will be useful" A smile gracing his lips, you say to the fragile, spindly-limbed man, in sirihish: "A wonderful thought dearest cousin" You push off of a plush, blue-cushioned divan and stand up. Smiling weakly, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman shuffles to your side and dips her head. The Grand Salon [NES] The stocky, bronze-tinted man falls in behind you. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman falls in behind you. You think: "So exciteble." The stocky, bronze-tinted man inclines his head deeply, striding towards the small group. Looking towards the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman and arching an eyebrow, you ask, in sirihish: "The drinks?" Blushing and glancing to the tilted wineglasses, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to you, in sirihish: "I will have the boy bring new, my lord." Gesturing towards the ballroom, the fragile, spindly-limbed man says to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "Please fetch us _clean_ glasses and refreshments. Ones that haven't been contaminated with sl.... lanterns...." Inclining his head gracefully, you say, in sirihish: "Of course." Upon the Verandah [NESW] The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman has arrived from the west. The stocky, bronze-tinted man has arrived from the west. The fragile, spindly-limbed man says to the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman, in sirihish: "No, no. Could _you_ please. I don't want it to make a mistake." The fragile, spindly-limbed man falls in behind you. Tessellated Courtyard [NESW] The fragile, spindly-limbed man has arrived from the west. The hobbled, flaxen-haired woman has arrived from the west. The stocky, bronze-tinted man has arrived from the west. The pale, ebon-haired youth has arrived from the west. A smile gracing his lips as he takes a deep breath, you say, in sirihish: "The air does seem fresher out here." Bowing her head and turning for the salon, the hobbled, flaxen-haired woman says to the fragile, spindly-limbed man, in sirihish: "Of course, my lord. Perhaps the Lieutenant could inform the on duty guard of the problem with..the lanterns, as well." The fragile, spindly-limbed man nods once before turning to you. The fragile, spindly-limbed man says to you, in sirihish: "Yes. I do find it more pleasant out here." Moving to stand a few paces from the group the pale, ebon-haired youth gazes adoringly at your feet.
Submitted by Marko.