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Words In This Update - 2088
Total Words So Far - 21126
Oh, by Our Lady Laeshann's most holy and generous bosom and infinite wisdom and all that is great about her, and so on in case gods read over your shoulder and need butt pats in order to not smite me for blaming them, why did I have the dreamy dream I just dreamed? Worst nightmare of my life, and I'm over six hundred years young. Let me scare the future generations with it a bit.
You know those dreams you get where they start off amazingly? So amazing that when you wake up you curse your brain for being so genius as to create something that doesn't exist for real? Except for the part where I'm totally stealing this idea anyways and working with it because this is divine inspiration and it's what we smartypants engineers do. Well, minus the scary part, but we're gonna get to that.
I was in a huge, awesome basement filled with all these wonderful contraptions I had invented to mass produce guns and plane parts with. You could outfit a whole army with these things in a couple days if needed, as opposed to the weeks of hard labor needed to get it all so precise. For the forge's heat source, I had a few dragonkin chained up and when you pulled their tails, they'd spew out flames and power the stuff. It was really efficient and you could keep them plied with just scrap ores to munch on now and again. A near limitless fuel source as at my finger tips for this. Lock was there, at the spot I'd need her used most, and looking miserable. As she should. Stupid prisoner. Should have known better. At least it's a fate better than death. Be happy.
And we were. A bit too happy. I was only wearing a platecoat on my tits for some reason, goggles and gloves on, boots clopping around, but otherwise naked. My gold cape hung on the wall next to a frame. I wanted to read it but at first I had this uncontrollable desire to lift Lock's tail up, light my forge, and then just....stare. At that perfectly formed ass. Her scales gleaming off of it like precious gems to bribe sock starved dwarves with. There was no malice in my raising action though, and my loins grew fat with desire as I gazed upon her. She didn't seem to mind either, hissing up at me and asking me if I was going to be a good boss and give her her overtime pay. I don't like how she said it. Curious, I gaze up to the frame on the wall and read it.
It was a marriage certificate from a drive-by chapel in Layabout congratulating us on our wedding. Just as Lock spread her legs and exposed the rest of herself to me, I see Tequila Morning's face appear where Lock's bits should be. “Wake up, it's time to take a piss! Don't mess yourself, honey! More money, more problems!” she says.
I bolted awake and toppled out of my chair loudly, a cold sweat soaking every bit of my being. As I hit the ground, I screamed in terror and got my belt tangled on a chair leg. Lock just opened one of her beady little eyes and snickered at me. She still looked pretty drugged, tongue wrapped around a bit of copper and slurping at it like a child would a jawbreaker. I almost wonder how much rust she ingests by eating old metal. Maybe that's why her scales are that color. I'd hate to see how that makes her shit and piss look. Speaking of, my crotch was fat and irritated, a bloated feeling overcoming me. I get up, fix my belt and my hair by spitting on my hand and slicking it back so I look classy, and make haste behind an old pile of tools and relieve myself. Guess I really did have to piss.
I just hope to fuck that Lock can't read minds and see what I saw and use this against me someday. I don't know who or what drove me to dream such vile acts, but at least now you can use it as a tale to scare your kids with if they're refusing to go to sleep. Obedience through the threat of terrifying nocturnal emissions. That will frighten them guaranteed, or your money back. Offer not valid though as I'm pretty sure I didn't take your money. If you're reading this I'm more than likely dead, how can I give your money back if I can't take it? Sucks to be the future if it doesn't have me in it.
“What's the matter, bossy shortstuff? You look a bit pale.” the stupid dragon teases me, only being recorded so you know I'm not making up any of her vileness. Pale? I'll show her pale. The only thing changing color around here will be her ass once I lay the smack down on it. Let's see how she likes matching her scales.
I get on up and investigate the mine cart I've been using to keep things in. It's unfortunately not wide enough to fit the engine I found, so we'll have to come back for that later. Good thing I've been marking down where I stash and find stuff just in case. I pick up the end of Lock's chain leash and hook her to one of the handles, having her pull it around as she leads, using her flames to light our path as I work on getting my hard hat back on. After one last cursory glance at this room, we begin our way towards the next hall.
It's pretty straight forward, with one small room to the left that only I can fit in and just another room with a rail track leading uphill on it. I take time to leave Lock out and lumping it as I poke my nose and ears where they don't belong, but totally do now, ducking into the smaller room to see a small winnowing machine here. It's in mediocre condition, but still workable. Definitely salvageable and would fit in Kattu's wagon, giving her my end of the bargain. This should more than make up the trade, provided that I have a week or so to clean it up and improve it. I bet I could modify some part of it to make it quiet, so nobody's attention is drawn to us whenever she's doing something like separating the yort fungus off of those damn cacti she likes to have us all gnaw on so much. I do wonder if yort would grow on that prick plant of hers, as nothing would be funnier to me than seeing a plant contract a form of genital warts.
I should note down that yort fungus and its more tropical cousin, the jukle shroom, are exceedingly difficult to clean but culturally vital plants to us elves the world over. Historically, we've given them to our huntsmen and women to produce a berserker's rage in their heads, helping them overcome the biggest game with even the smallest axes or helping us stand our grounds in an invasion. It's a risky maneuver, as it takes a lot of time to extract a good form of the ingredient that triggers it, and costly if it doesn't work and we've no backup plan, but records show favorable results. The yort are weaker than the jukle, but it's still valuable, as importing the jukle shrooms from their point of origin can be a huge bitch on our wallets. The all-female Labryssinian warrior tribe south west of here are elves who have trained what they call the disciplinarian platoon of their army, consisting of ax wielding and whip happy madwomen, and prefer to keep their supply of jukle to themselves in case this platoon needs it. What's funny is that both the yort and the jukle are known as the Ever Bulging Cup, for both how much they look like bulging fat cocks in jockstraps or codpieces. and how rippling they make your muscles. What's funnier is the fact girls use these the most. Make of these implications what you will. If Kattu could refine the yort better with this machine, it'd prove a great asset to us. Perhaps we can have her look into crossbreeding the yort and jukle eventually and see if it satisfies everyone's needs. Nothing better sounding than some drug money to fund my plane army.
In case that sentence makes me look worse than you must already think I am, keep in mind trade routes for narcotics are pretty open during The Golden Age, and provide a steady source of income for many people of all tribes. It's not any of my business what you cram in your craw, just as much as it's none of your business how messy that dream I had earlier got. I wouldn't use most of this shit myself, not with how I like being able to remember my drug induced ideas and knowing my handwriting goes to crap when I'm high so I can't even tell what notes I made during these instances, but it's your brain bits you're killing. Go for it, and give me the cash. The only way I want to get high right now is by finishing this damn plane of mine and flying. Then getting a secondary high off of watching those leatherlickers bow down to me and build all the statues in my honor.
I pulled that winnowing machine out like a pro, shimmying it slowly so it wiggled out as intact as possible, using all my might to place it heads up in the mine cart. It barely fit, even that way, but I'm not about to trust Lock dragging it out on her own. At least let's give it a sweet ride. We can even give it a cool paint job once I'm done refurbishing it and giving it race stripes and a badass name sure to make everyone's panties wet. Especially the men's. You know you've made a terrifying name when the guys will willingly slap panties on for you just to scream in terror in. I highly recommend it and it makes a good party trick. Just don't wear boxers and shove a yort shroom between the legs if you're a lady. Getting high through your crotch is the worst thing ever. Not that I'd know. Hell, don't do it if you're a guy either. That's got to irritate all sorts of somethings. Definitely not the good party trick you're looking for.
It also appears that while I was giving some good economics and agriculture history here for you future scholars to appreciate, Lock had taken one of my canteens off my belt and is slurping out of it, swishing backwash in there. She didn't even ask. Rude. I go to bash her with a hammer when I remember that I left them with Kattu. Damn. At least I take my pen here and draw on her stupid face. I hope you like dick plants and dick shrooms and other assorted funny business. Ugh, she can keep that flask now. I don't want no corrosive sulfur and puke scented dragon drool on my drink. Onwards, I say.
The exit is nearby. About damn time. It's light out, near lunchtime it looks. I'm pressing onwards now, only to be greeted with a sense of uneasiness. Did anyone else think that escape was a bit too easy? Yeah, so did I. Something tells me I need to tuck Lockblocker and my mine cart to the side and get The Marshal out, making sure he's in working order still and preparing him with powder and bullets. He's been a good, quiet chap the whole trip, and for that I am thankful. Gonna swish my mouth out with lemonade, too, and refresh and energize myself. Lock gets one more dose of seeds and some pyrite crumbles to keep her entertained and out of trouble. By which I mean not giving me trouble. Though isn't her whole existence trouble to begin with? What a conundrum. I'll solve it later.
I'll be back after I poke my head out and make sure the path to the wagons is clear.
-Basira Nejem
Dated seventh day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is about how many bullets I feel like I should pour into something about now
Total Words So Far - 21126
Oh, by Our Lady Laeshann's most holy and generous bosom and infinite wisdom and all that is great about her, and so on in case gods read over your shoulder and need butt pats in order to not smite me for blaming them, why did I have the dreamy dream I just dreamed? Worst nightmare of my life, and I'm over six hundred years young. Let me scare the future generations with it a bit.
You know those dreams you get where they start off amazingly? So amazing that when you wake up you curse your brain for being so genius as to create something that doesn't exist for real? Except for the part where I'm totally stealing this idea anyways and working with it because this is divine inspiration and it's what we smartypants engineers do. Well, minus the scary part, but we're gonna get to that.
I was in a huge, awesome basement filled with all these wonderful contraptions I had invented to mass produce guns and plane parts with. You could outfit a whole army with these things in a couple days if needed, as opposed to the weeks of hard labor needed to get it all so precise. For the forge's heat source, I had a few dragonkin chained up and when you pulled their tails, they'd spew out flames and power the stuff. It was really efficient and you could keep them plied with just scrap ores to munch on now and again. A near limitless fuel source as at my finger tips for this. Lock was there, at the spot I'd need her used most, and looking miserable. As she should. Stupid prisoner. Should have known better. At least it's a fate better than death. Be happy.
And we were. A bit too happy. I was only wearing a platecoat on my tits for some reason, goggles and gloves on, boots clopping around, but otherwise naked. My gold cape hung on the wall next to a frame. I wanted to read it but at first I had this uncontrollable desire to lift Lock's tail up, light my forge, and then just....stare. At that perfectly formed ass. Her scales gleaming off of it like precious gems to bribe sock starved dwarves with. There was no malice in my raising action though, and my loins grew fat with desire as I gazed upon her. She didn't seem to mind either, hissing up at me and asking me if I was going to be a good boss and give her her overtime pay. I don't like how she said it. Curious, I gaze up to the frame on the wall and read it.
It was a marriage certificate from a drive-by chapel in Layabout congratulating us on our wedding. Just as Lock spread her legs and exposed the rest of herself to me, I see Tequila Morning's face appear where Lock's bits should be. “Wake up, it's time to take a piss! Don't mess yourself, honey! More money, more problems!” she says.
I bolted awake and toppled out of my chair loudly, a cold sweat soaking every bit of my being. As I hit the ground, I screamed in terror and got my belt tangled on a chair leg. Lock just opened one of her beady little eyes and snickered at me. She still looked pretty drugged, tongue wrapped around a bit of copper and slurping at it like a child would a jawbreaker. I almost wonder how much rust she ingests by eating old metal. Maybe that's why her scales are that color. I'd hate to see how that makes her shit and piss look. Speaking of, my crotch was fat and irritated, a bloated feeling overcoming me. I get up, fix my belt and my hair by spitting on my hand and slicking it back so I look classy, and make haste behind an old pile of tools and relieve myself. Guess I really did have to piss.
I just hope to fuck that Lock can't read minds and see what I saw and use this against me someday. I don't know who or what drove me to dream such vile acts, but at least now you can use it as a tale to scare your kids with if they're refusing to go to sleep. Obedience through the threat of terrifying nocturnal emissions. That will frighten them guaranteed, or your money back. Offer not valid though as I'm pretty sure I didn't take your money. If you're reading this I'm more than likely dead, how can I give your money back if I can't take it? Sucks to be the future if it doesn't have me in it.
“What's the matter, bossy shortstuff? You look a bit pale.” the stupid dragon teases me, only being recorded so you know I'm not making up any of her vileness. Pale? I'll show her pale. The only thing changing color around here will be her ass once I lay the smack down on it. Let's see how she likes matching her scales.
I get on up and investigate the mine cart I've been using to keep things in. It's unfortunately not wide enough to fit the engine I found, so we'll have to come back for that later. Good thing I've been marking down where I stash and find stuff just in case. I pick up the end of Lock's chain leash and hook her to one of the handles, having her pull it around as she leads, using her flames to light our path as I work on getting my hard hat back on. After one last cursory glance at this room, we begin our way towards the next hall.
It's pretty straight forward, with one small room to the left that only I can fit in and just another room with a rail track leading uphill on it. I take time to leave Lock out and lumping it as I poke my nose and ears where they don't belong, but totally do now, ducking into the smaller room to see a small winnowing machine here. It's in mediocre condition, but still workable. Definitely salvageable and would fit in Kattu's wagon, giving her my end of the bargain. This should more than make up the trade, provided that I have a week or so to clean it up and improve it. I bet I could modify some part of it to make it quiet, so nobody's attention is drawn to us whenever she's doing something like separating the yort fungus off of those damn cacti she likes to have us all gnaw on so much. I do wonder if yort would grow on that prick plant of hers, as nothing would be funnier to me than seeing a plant contract a form of genital warts.
I should note down that yort fungus and its more tropical cousin, the jukle shroom, are exceedingly difficult to clean but culturally vital plants to us elves the world over. Historically, we've given them to our huntsmen and women to produce a berserker's rage in their heads, helping them overcome the biggest game with even the smallest axes or helping us stand our grounds in an invasion. It's a risky maneuver, as it takes a lot of time to extract a good form of the ingredient that triggers it, and costly if it doesn't work and we've no backup plan, but records show favorable results. The yort are weaker than the jukle, but it's still valuable, as importing the jukle shrooms from their point of origin can be a huge bitch on our wallets. The all-female Labryssinian warrior tribe south west of here are elves who have trained what they call the disciplinarian platoon of their army, consisting of ax wielding and whip happy madwomen, and prefer to keep their supply of jukle to themselves in case this platoon needs it. What's funny is that both the yort and the jukle are known as the Ever Bulging Cup, for both how much they look like bulging fat cocks in jockstraps or codpieces. and how rippling they make your muscles. What's funnier is the fact girls use these the most. Make of these implications what you will. If Kattu could refine the yort better with this machine, it'd prove a great asset to us. Perhaps we can have her look into crossbreeding the yort and jukle eventually and see if it satisfies everyone's needs. Nothing better sounding than some drug money to fund my plane army.
In case that sentence makes me look worse than you must already think I am, keep in mind trade routes for narcotics are pretty open during The Golden Age, and provide a steady source of income for many people of all tribes. It's not any of my business what you cram in your craw, just as much as it's none of your business how messy that dream I had earlier got. I wouldn't use most of this shit myself, not with how I like being able to remember my drug induced ideas and knowing my handwriting goes to crap when I'm high so I can't even tell what notes I made during these instances, but it's your brain bits you're killing. Go for it, and give me the cash. The only way I want to get high right now is by finishing this damn plane of mine and flying. Then getting a secondary high off of watching those leatherlickers bow down to me and build all the statues in my honor.
I pulled that winnowing machine out like a pro, shimmying it slowly so it wiggled out as intact as possible, using all my might to place it heads up in the mine cart. It barely fit, even that way, but I'm not about to trust Lock dragging it out on her own. At least let's give it a sweet ride. We can even give it a cool paint job once I'm done refurbishing it and giving it race stripes and a badass name sure to make everyone's panties wet. Especially the men's. You know you've made a terrifying name when the guys will willingly slap panties on for you just to scream in terror in. I highly recommend it and it makes a good party trick. Just don't wear boxers and shove a yort shroom between the legs if you're a lady. Getting high through your crotch is the worst thing ever. Not that I'd know. Hell, don't do it if you're a guy either. That's got to irritate all sorts of somethings. Definitely not the good party trick you're looking for.
It also appears that while I was giving some good economics and agriculture history here for you future scholars to appreciate, Lock had taken one of my canteens off my belt and is slurping out of it, swishing backwash in there. She didn't even ask. Rude. I go to bash her with a hammer when I remember that I left them with Kattu. Damn. At least I take my pen here and draw on her stupid face. I hope you like dick plants and dick shrooms and other assorted funny business. Ugh, she can keep that flask now. I don't want no corrosive sulfur and puke scented dragon drool on my drink. Onwards, I say.
The exit is nearby. About damn time. It's light out, near lunchtime it looks. I'm pressing onwards now, only to be greeted with a sense of uneasiness. Did anyone else think that escape was a bit too easy? Yeah, so did I. Something tells me I need to tuck Lockblocker and my mine cart to the side and get The Marshal out, making sure he's in working order still and preparing him with powder and bullets. He's been a good, quiet chap the whole trip, and for that I am thankful. Gonna swish my mouth out with lemonade, too, and refresh and energize myself. Lock gets one more dose of seeds and some pyrite crumbles to keep her entertained and out of trouble. By which I mean not giving me trouble. Though isn't her whole existence trouble to begin with? What a conundrum. I'll solve it later.
I'll be back after I poke my head out and make sure the path to the wagons is clear.
-Basira Nejem
Dated seventh day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is about how many bullets I feel like I should pour into something about now
