Original Submissions containing 'crimbimbal' of type 'Logs'
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Not a Crimbimbal by Grey Area
Added on Aug 30, 2007In which an officer demonstrates modern law enforcement techniques and a half-giant is justifiably proud of his superior intellect.
The willowy, grey-streaked man has arrived from the north.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette has arrived from the north.
The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that lines this
spacious room at eye level. Splashes of blue, green and red cover the clay
brick walls in an enthusiastic but inexpert abstract mural, some spatters of
the same paint dotted across the red tiled floor. The room is filled with
clamor: the clink and clatter of dishes and drinks, instruments being tuned,
scraps of song, and a general constant roar of conversation. A small wooden
stage sits along the northern wall, two ragged velvet curtains framing it,
looped back with blue-dyed ropes. A wide archway leads out onto the dusty
street, while a smaller one to the west provides a glimpse of a smaller,
quieter chamber.
A wall here is designated as a message board.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette is standing here.
The willowy, grey-streaked man is standing here.
The hulking, ebon-skinned half-giant looms here.
The slight, indigo-whorled woman is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
The coffee-tressed young woman is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
A lean, grey-eyed bard leans against the stage.
A lean, spike-haired elf drums softly in the corner.
A tall, amber-eyed woman polishes glasses behind the boxy wooden bar.
The husky, weatherworn dwarf is here, seated at a large table, drinking ale.
The huge, sun-bronzed man surveys the room casually from a table here.
The bald, muscular woman slouches at a large table, drinking ale.
The small, dark-haired man sits at a table in the back, staring into his drink.
The solemn, club-footed man limps slowly along here.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant begins to lick his large, sugar coated hand free.
The willowy, grey-streaked man looks down at the slight, indigo-whorled woman.
Squinting one eye, the willowy, grey-streaked man looks at you.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette stands in the doorway next to the willowy, grey-streaked man, a thumb hooked in her leather swordbelt.
As he continues to lick his hand, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant looks down at the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette.
The coffee-tressed young woman shrugs.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant looks down at the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The willowy, grey-streaked man exhales irritably, taking a slow look around the tavern.
Pointing over at the willowy, grey-streaked man, voice rising, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant says, in sirihish:
"Hey! You can' have your sword o... oh. Um, nevermin Paryils."
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant begins guarding the coffee-tressed young woman.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant sidles a bit closer to the coffee-tressed young woman.
Amusedly, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Exactly."
The coffee-tressed young woman gives the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant's meaty arm a pat.
With a chuckle, the scarred, ashen-haired man reaches up to pat the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant's elbow.
The willowy, grey-streaked man asks the coffee-tressed young woman, in sirihish:
"'ey there, Agent. You mind terrible if I borrow one'a yer hunters fer a moment?"
The slight, indigo-whorled woman looks up at the willowy, grey-streaked man.
With a girlish grin, the coffee-tressed young woman asks the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Do I get 'em back when you're done with 'em?"
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the coffee-tressed young woman, in sirihish:
"Jest about good as new. Promise."
Chuckling, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Fair enough."
The scarred, ashen-haired man's teeth flash in a quick grin.
Glancing sidelong, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Pick one."
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak has arrived from the north.
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the north.
Looking between you and the slight, indigo-whorled woman, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Uh, alright..."
Pointing to you, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Maybe him. I dunno, I have no idea what this is for."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Right. Watch close."
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak looks over the crowd and waves to the coffee-tressed young woman.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man, watching him.
The scarred, ashen-haired man glances over at the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, then the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The coffee-tressed young woman watches curiously.
The slight, indigo-whorled woman glances back over to you, brow raised.
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to you, in sirihish:
"Best not t'struggle, fella."
The willowy, grey-streaked man hastily drops a dragon-etched, obsidian saber.
The willowy, grey-streaked man subdues you, despite your attempts to struggle away.
You stop guarding the coffee-tressed young woman.
Eyes widening, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"HEY!"
Holding his palms up, you say, in sirihish:
"Not planning on a fight, Lieutenant."
As he tugs you from the barstool, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Fetch m'sword."
Grabbing his arm, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"It's alright."
Stepping over quickly, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette picks up a dragon-etched, obsidian saber.
Looking increasingly alarmed, and confused, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant asks, in sirihish:
"But! Bu.. but! It's! He won' hurt 'im?"
The sinewy, weather-worn man grimaces faintly as he watches the willowy, grey-streaked man and you and steps off to the side of the northern archway.
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak looks at you.
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Right. Now hold onto him."
The willowy, grey-streaked man releases you, shoving you roughly into the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette's arms.
Her eyes widening briefly as she reaches for you, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Alright..."
The scarred, ashen-haired man lets himself be manhandled across the tavern into the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette's grasp.
Giving his arm a reasurring pat, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Nothing to worry about."
The slight, indigo-whorled woman glances from you to the coffee-tressed young woman, and then back again.
Leaning backwards against the bar, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"That there fella's a criminal. Hold him tight. Let's see yer arm lock."
The coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"It's just practice."
Watching you, only her brown eyes visible from behind her snug, garnet-set ivory mask, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak says to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Funny, he don't look like a criminal."
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette takes a firm grasp of your arms, nodding to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
Dryly, you say, in sirihish:
"Sorry. I'll try to look shiftier."
The willowy, grey-streaked man stands at a boxy wooden bar.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gives a momentary grimace and then runs a gloved hand across his forehead.
Nodding firmly, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
"Yeah, ya autta Milan. Try squintin yer eyes."
Conversationally, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Th' weak spots are his wrists an' elbows. Cross one'a his arms over th' other and press it against th' elbow."
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant shifts nervously back and forth.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette shifts her grip, frowning in concentration as she pins your arm across, pressing it tight against your elbow.
The scarred, ashen-haired man grins at the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak, twitching slightly as the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette digs a finger into a sensitive spot.
Tilting her head curiously, the slight, indigo-whorled woman turns in her seat, watching closely.
Tilting his head, the willowy, grey-streaked man asks you, in sirihish:
"How'd you rate that hold, fella?"
With a passing glance, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak looks at the short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak.
The short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak steps inside, attention immediately coming to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant fidgets his cream and sugar smeared hand upwards, fumbling briefly at the hilt of his long-hafted, spiked hammer before he relaxes.
Struggling futiley to move his hands, you say to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"That... Ooch. Yeah, that's pretty decent."
Leaning down to the coffee-tressed young woman, in a nervous, loud whisper, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant says, in sirihish:
"Um, some'n shoul tell th' Parilys that Firs Hunner Milan ain got no weak spots."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Good girl. Now if'n he tries an' struggles, yer in a good position to drop him by drivin' yer boot into th' back of his knee. Be sure you don't lose yer grip as he lowers."
Glancing over, her grip on your still firm as she stands behind you, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"You want me to do that now, sir? I don't want to hurt him."
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak chuckles softly to herself and trods over to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, waving a gloved hand.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant chews on the tips of fingernails, watching you.
The coffee-tressed young woman gives the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant's arm a pat.
Her tone cheerful, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak asks the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Hey Moorp, good ta see ya! Remember me, Sarge Tola o'Kurac?"
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Oh, he'll fall easy enough. Don't take much pressure to do it right, and I don't reckon he'll be strugglin' either."
The big fat man has arrived from the north.
With a wince, you say to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"I'm, uh fine with it."
The big fat man looks at you.
Voice picking up briefly, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"Don' hurt him! He ain done no wrong!"
The big fat man asks, in sirihish:
"Whaa?"
The coffee-tressed young woman stands up from a boxy wooden bar.
Quietly, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to you, in sirihish:
"Alright, then...hang on..."
Voice moving up in volume, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"Hey! He lookin more'n more like he hurtins!"
The short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak looks up at the big fat man, squinting.
The big fat man lumbers in, body jiggling.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette lifts a knee, pressing it into the back of your knee quickly and pushing you forward and down.
The coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Hey, let's go get you some fruitcake."
Calling across the room, you exclaim to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"I'm fine, Moorp, really... Oof!"
With a thud, the scarred, ashen-haired man drops heavily to his knees, propelled by the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette's well placed kick.
The big fat man looks at the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette.
Laughing gently and shaking her head, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Nah, he ain't hurtin'im. They're just wrasslin."
The coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"I think Cirwen just cooked up a fresh batch."
Eyes going as wide as small plates, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"HEY! That wasn' very nice!!"
Grabbing onto his arm, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Moorp."
Approvingly, ignoring the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, the willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Good. You feel how easy that is? All manipulation of joints."
Lips twitching faintly, the short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak tilts her head, watching on.
The big fat man watches the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette with a frown, tapping his bone-bladed halberd to the floor as he pads around the large crowd.
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant crushes his cream-filled pastry horn in his large hand.
The ebon-braided, flint-eyed man has arrived from the west, slipping through the oddly-angled doorway.
Bobbing her head, the figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak says to the coffee-tressed young woman, in sirihish:
"Yeah. fresh food. Sounds like a real good idea."
As a huge shower of cream particles rains down around him, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant discards his cream-filled pastry horn.
The slight, indigo-whorled woman lifts her head a bit, watching you with a raised brow and a bit of a grin.
Nodding, now half-kneeling on you, your arms behind your back, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Yes, sir, I see that."
Pulling his arm as she starts away from the bar, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"C'mon, let's go get some fruitcake."
The big fat man looks at the willowy, grey-streaked man.
Cream still dripping from his hand, not moving under the coffee-tressed young woman's guidance, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"They're hurtin hims!"
The short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak flicks her tongue out, catching a tiny glob of cream that lands on her cheek.
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to you, in sirihish:
"Now from here, seein' as how he's bein' a problem, you can pull him into a choke-hold and drag him back to his feet to be branged to th' jail. Try it."
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"Fruitcake not gonna taste good if Milan blood all over!"
The scarred, ashen-haired man winks at the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant from his kneeling position on the floor.
Tugging at his arm, the coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"They're not hurting him."
The hulking, ebon-skined half-giant's jaw drops as he watches your face.
The coffee-tressed young woman asks the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"Those raptors did much worse, remember?"
The big fat man looks up at the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant.
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak looks at the big fat man.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette nods to the willowy, grey-streaked man, quickly moving one hand up and around your neck and beginning to pull you up as she rises.
The coffee-tressed young woman says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in sirihish:
"See, he's alright."
The sleepy-eyed, ebon-tressed woman has arrived from the south.
Immediately perking up, beaming brightly down at the coffee-tressed young woman, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant exclaims, in sirihish:
"See! He's jokin! I told jas! Firs Hunner ain got no weak spots!"
Watching the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette with his arms crossed before him, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant, in northern-accented sirihish:
"Don' worry. Ah'm sure Milan could put up a much better fight than this if he had the urge."
The sleepy-eyed, ebon-tressed woman looks up at the big fat man.
The willowy, grey-streaked man asks the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"There y'are. You see how it's done?"
The scarred, ashen-haired man is dragged bonelessly to his feet.
Quickly glancing around at the crowd before looking back to him, holding you in a chokehold now, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to the willowy, grey-streaked man, in sirihish:
"Yes, sir."
The willowy, grey-streaked man says to the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette, in sirihish:
"Good enough. You can let 'im go now. Turns out he ain't a criminal after all."
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette releases you, and you immediately move away.
The sleepy-eyed, ebon-tressed woman sits at a boxy wooden bar.
The figure in a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak slaps her palms together in applause.
The big fat man clucks at the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette like a jozhal.
The willowy, grey-streaked man taps two fingers on the bartop, glancing over at the tall, amber-eyed woman.
The tow-headed, pallid young woman has arrived from the north.
Rubbing his throat as he finds his feet again, you say, in sirihish:
"That sure is a relief."
With a wide smile as she takes her hands from you, the vibrant, bead-tressed brunette says to you, in sirihish:
"Thanks, Milan."
The tall, amber-eyed woman trades a miniature barrel to the willowy, grey-streaked man.
The coffee-tressed young woman looks up at the big fat man.
The short figure in a hooded, ebony cloak gently tugs her hood down further to hide her face, idling at the entrance.
Sliding it across the bartop, the willowy, grey-streaked man gives you his miniature barrel.
With a snort, finally moving towards the coffee-tressed young woman, the hulking, ebon-skined half-giant says, in sirihish:
"Hmph. Paryl ain so smart as Moorp. Moorp knew he wasn' a crimbimbal all th' time."
The willowy, grey-streaked man has arrived from the north.
The vibrant, bead-tressed brunette has arrived from the north.
The Main Room of the Bard's Barrel [NSW]
A myriad of grinning skulls, each painted with bright colors laid
over the pallid bone, stare down from the broad wooden shelf that...
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