There’s a certain salon in London, one you frequent often. It’s no stranger to heated arguments, raised voices, the occasional thrown fruit or vegetable. Yesterday, however, things got a bit more personal than they usually do. Things were said. Declarations were made. Ears were grabbed. Outfits were insulted.
Fools were made of selves.
Now the head fool, Flesh-Stick, the "I’m in the wrong genre" Psycho Bandit, has stopped coming to the salon.
For some, this is probably a relief. The noise in the salon has been reduced to a dull roar and the various breakables (including the fourth wall) are still intact. But perhaps you find yourself missing him a bit…perhaps even worrying about him. He was awfully upset when he stormed out. It might be a good idea to check up on him, just to make sure he didn’t stick his head inside his bifurcated owl or something (he’s upset, but not particularly bright, after all).
So you stop at the giant zee znail zhell he calls home, but he isn’t in. Which is a bit surprising, since it certainly SOUNDS like he’s in, but the screaming turns out to be coming from three mandrakes, two monkeys, three urchins and a St. John’s Lily that is heavily laden with "fruit." You might also hear a voice that sounds a bit like the former Provost of Summerset shouting for help from the basement, but he deserves to be locked down there like the lousy cockroach that he is. So that was probably the wind.
There’s no sign of Fleshy, though. Thankfully, a kindly white rat tells you that Flesh-Stick has been staying at his old lair in the marshes for some time now, trying to get his memories back. You thank her and head off.
But of COURSE he isn’t there. That would be too easy. There’s only a trail of footsteps leading deeper into the marsh. Apparently, if he has to suffer, so do you. Why did you miss him again? The reason is getting harder and harder to recall.
Off you trudge. Judging by the footsteps, the psycho bandit’s stride is deliberate and determined, but the trail is meandering. It’s almost like he’s searching for something. For a while, the trail lingers near the Prim Baronet’s marsh house, but eventually takes a sharp turn deeper into the marsh. You follow.
Eventually, your efforts bear fruit. Wet, slimy, smelly fruit, but fruit nonetheless. You soon realize the footprints are following an actual trail through the marshes. Narrow, wet, and beginning to be overgrown, but there.
It leads you to a large house that is almost completely overgrown with vines and creepers. The door is open (although it looks like someone had to hack at the surrounding foliage to do so) and the footprints lead to it.
Finally! Your shoes are stained pond-scum green, your stockings will never be the same, and you think a leech might’ve crawled up your…ankle. But you made it. And…is that a figure you see through the window?
You move closer. Yes! There he is! Flesh-Stick!
You have no idea why you heard those last two sentences in a little girl’s voice.
(OOC: a couple of players expressed interest in speaking with Fleshy after the salon debacle, so here is a place to do so. My replies might be slow, as I have to go to bed and I work tomorrow, but I’ll reply when I can! :) )
edited by Kukapetal on 8/7/2016