Saturday, January 24, 2015

Cover letter for Merewen Calmacil, by the Preacher

Second Month of the Slime Reign
Third day of Bloxom
Year of Monkey

Dear Mr Urberex of Orc-B-Gone industries,

My name is Merenwen Calmacil, daughter of Elf Queen Lula. I writing to inquire about the job posting advertised in the town square, for Security and General Monster Slaying. First of all, I feel inclined to warn you that I hate questing and I will not lead or join any group for questing at all. Having said that, I have, in fact, completed a quest under the guidance of Sisinor the Graceful – whom you may recognize as the Chief Witch of the Good Charms Sisterhood.

I would fit nicely into any security and monster slaying culture and environment, as I have slain numerous kinds of fiends, demons, and creatures. I specialize in killing Skeleton Warriors, and have slain more than 600 in a single hour, and 1,751 in a single day. However, my wizard powers allow me to be versatile in all manner of slayings.

My wizard prowess is only enhanced by my skill in handling the Shield of Ubiquity, which as you know is a very large shield. This allows me to concentrate on causing as much havoc and bloodshed as possible amongst the enemy, with my various offensive spells such as “boom boom fire,” or “turn your knees to jelly,” and my personal favorite, “Honey I shrunk the villains.”

Speaking of jelly, you may have heard that I am the one who possess the Slimy Armour. Do not let this deter you from considering me, as the fabled smell of the armour is just that, a foul fable of feeble fibs. It was merely that the previous possessor of this legendary armour never bathed. As well, the armour has prevent many a giant squid or Cyclops from gaining a viable grip on me, so I would also be a valuable contributor to any giant slaying team that you might organize.

Since I am an Elf, I am obviously a team player, and a fantastic leader. I will keep all your assets safe from every type of monster or enemy you have or may encounter.

Sincerely,


Merenwen the Insensitive.


            P.S. If Bredohn Scratchy-beard of the deep cave clan also applies for this or any position within your company, be warned he is a lying squid face, and he stole my jewels of youthful appearance and is actually 110 years old.     

            

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Help Wanted, by Dima



January 20, 2015

Fortescu the Formidable
9th Boulder, Whimsy Way
East Grummaria, Lindia

The Pope
Papal Chambers
3rd Floor, Western Terrace Tower
Vatican City 9007889

RE:  COMPETITION NO. 765A – CAPTAIN OF THE SWISS GUARD

Dear the Pope,

The Holy See is seeking a motivated go-getter and loathsome sub-human to serve as the next commander of the Vatican Security Forces.  I am confident that my experience as a battle-hardened general in the insurgent LHA (Lord’s Halfling Army) makes me the ideal candidate to fill this position.  Not only am I motivated and decidedly non-human, but I frequently demonstrate the characteristic of keeping my musky odour to a merely nauseating (rather than incapacitating) level.  In short, I’m the man you need.

Your Popeliness, I am aware of the Swiss Guard admission requirements posted on your website.  A recruit must be a Swiss citizen, a Roman Catholic faithful, of a good moral ethical background, once a student of the military school in Switzerland, between 19 and 30 years old, at least 174 centimeters tall, in possession of a professional diploma, and unwed.  I am none of these.  But, as Your Popeliness has made abundantly clear, the Church is in the midst of change, and I believe that that change must extend to the Swiss Guard.  And besides, when you see my leet melee skills in my video resume (enclosed), you won’t be able to resist me.  My prowess with the Hammer of Kneecapping is unmatched, and I am eager to bring this exciting and novel method of defense to the Pope’s personal guard.

I have big plans, O Popely One, and big ambitions.  For example, one of my first acts as Captain of the Swiss Guard will be to replace the outdated piper outfits, currently the Guard’s province, with my own patent leather armour.  Not only will this strike new fear (or disgust) into the hearts of the heathen ne’er-do-well, but I am aware, thanks to my sources, of your own personal taste for such apparel.  I think it’s clear that the Vatican needs me, and I am ready to offer my services to your venerable institution.

I look forward to hearing from you in the near future.  At your convenience, I can be reached by floating a message in a bottle down the Wizened River until it reaches East Grummaria, or by Twitter, @fortescugoeshalfsies.

Yours in catholicyness,

FF

Fortescu the Formidable



P.S.  Do you know Bradohn Scratchy-beard of the Deep Cave Clan?  Someone told me you might, and I’m trying to track him down because he owes me a lot of money.  So, yeah, anyway, let me know.

Cover Letter from Bradohn Scratchy-Beard, by Sasha



Noon Star, 5th day of Morning Sun, Year Eight of the Blood Dragon

Dear Cpt. Barabond,

                My name is Bradohn Scratchy-Beard of the Deepcave Clan. I have recently left the halls of my forefathers, where I spent my formative years mining for precious jewels and crafting armor, weapons, and other trinkets to sell to the residents of neighboring villages. The Cave of Deepcave, from which I hail, is well known far and wide as home to the finest dwarven craftsmen in all the land, and at least half of that reputation is a direct result of my fine handiwork.

                Despite my clear proficiency as a blacksmith, due to unfortunate circumstances involving a mighty dragon, a hoard of vast treasures untold, and absolutely nothing to do with losing a bet to my step-brother, I find myself without a home and in need of employment. No doubt you may wonder why I have not presented myself to the smithy down the road for a potential job offer, and I assure you it is because I have far surpassed his talent and would learn nothing under his tutelage, and not because he is an arrogant elf who I’d rather never speak to. Besides, a skilled craftsman such as myself has no need for further experience in the working of metals.

                No, I, Bradohn Scratchy-Beard, desire a change of pace. Though I don’t have much experience in the ways of the blade, I make up for it with my quick movements, personally-crafted mithril armor, and seemingly endless stockade of confusion potions that were acquired by one hundred percent legal means. I am sure that an esteemed company such as yours would be quick to employ a handsome and talented dwarf such as myself.

                As for my living arrangements, of which you will no doubt inquire since you are obviously going to hire me, I am but a simple man. A vast, three bedroom house will do (one room for me, one for my servants, and one for my collection of glass-blown dragon figurines), and constant guards will, of course, be necessary to keep away potential suitors, vagabonds, and angry-looking halflings to whom I absolutely do not owe any money. I would prefer to have seven days off a week, but if you absolutely require my services I suppose I could make you some mail every once in a while.

                As a gift to my future employer, I enclose a very rare bejeweled artifact that not only looks beautiful, but is also under an ancient curse – I haven’t checked it out yet, but I am fairly certain it’s one of those good kinds of curses that will bring your family gold for countless generations. Hopefully this offer of goodwill, as well as the many talents and interests that I possess as outlined in my enclosed resume, will persuade you that I am the best fit for your guild.

May your beard grow ever longer,
Bradohn Scratchy-Beard of the Deepcave Clan

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Popcorn Popping with Dead Guys by Lenitschka

I looked out the window and what did I see?
Boyfriend hanging dead men from my apricot tree.

He had brought such an bad surprise
The corpses still staring with their vacant eyes

I told him I didn’t want it and he better leave
Why couldn’t he listen when I listed pet peeves?

He said that it was art,
But it seemed to me

Boyfriend’s gift tastes were just not for me.

Frederick von Fredegar - by Sasha



The lounge was dingy, dark, and smelled distinctly of cigarette smoke despite the clear “no smoking” signs pasted on every visible surface.  The discouraged manager stood behind the bar, in the vain hope that one of the patrons might actually buy something. Neither the man in the dusty overalls who appeared to be sleeping in one corner nor the pair of wrinkled old woman casually sipping cheap wine – the only people in the room at the moment – seemed interested in making any more purchases.

This was the crowd that Frederick von Fredegar saw when he walked into what was supposed to be his next gig. Frederick wasn’t surprised – he hadn’t played for anyone other than his roommate Jordie for two months, and even before that he’d never seen anything close to a full house. He had hoped that changing his image, actually putting on a suit instead of whatever he’d been wearing that morning and using his actual name instead of “Freddie Freddie” would help, but this clearly wasn’t the case.

Frederick sauntered casually up to the bar, trying to project a sort of cool and detached persona. He balanced his guitar carefully on a couple of bar stools and looked expectantly at the manager, who glanced up briefly from his iPhone.

“What can I get for ya?” the manager asked.

“I’m Frederick,” said the musician. The manager raised an eyebrow, so he continued. “Von Fredegar?”

Nothing. Frederick rested an arm on the bar. “You hired me to play tonight.”

“Oh yeah,” said the manager. “Look, the gig’s off. Sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Frederick asked, too abruptly. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but he really did need the money. “We had a deal. Do you know how many commitments I had to blow off for this?”

The manager rolled his eyes. “Oh I’m sure you had tons of offers, kid,” he said sarcastically. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“There must be something,” said Frederick.

“Look around,” said the manager, gesturing to the total of three patrons in the building. “You don’t want to play here. Go home.”

Frederick was momentarily at a loss. He picked up his guitar, planning on making some witty remark and serenely leaving the bar to keep the last of his dignity, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Rent was due in a week. He sighed and turned back to the manager. “Come on, please let me play. I need the cash.”

“So do I,” said the manager before he turned away. Angry that he didn’t even get the last word, Frederick kicked over a barstool and stormed toward the exit. He wrenched open the door, letting in the freezing night air and almost running into the girl standing behind it.

“Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed, stepping back a few paces. “You go first.”

The girl was wearing a beige coat with a red scarf wrapped around her neck, her dark brown hair covered in snow. Everything from her perfectly applied eyeliner to her designer boots screamed that she was out of place in the establishment Frederick had just left. He paused before realizing he was still standing in the doorway.

“Oh – um, sorry, excuse me,” he said, maneuvering himself out of the doorway, which proved more difficult than he anticipated when he had to get his guitar out of the way and was keenly aware of how long it was taking him.

“There. Sorry about that,” he said.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” the girl said cheerfully. “Have a good evening!”

“Yeah, you too,” said Frederick. He turned to go, but stopped himself once again, slowly turning around on his heal just as the girl was about to enter the bar.

“Hey – um – weird question, but what brings you to the –” he glanced at the sign above the door “– the Drunken Pirate this evening? It doesn’t – well, it doesn’t seem like the sort of place that you’d –” he stopped, realizing that he probably shouldn’t be making assumptions and had gone on too long already anyway.

“Oh,” the girl laughed. “No, it’s not really my kind of place. But I heard it from a friend that someone was playing here tonight, and I’m sort of a fan of them.”

“Really?” Frederick asked, his voice cracking a little with excitement, which definitely did not match his cool and collected charade. “I mean – who is it?”

“This guy named Freddie Freddie,” said the girl, and Frederick almost cried out for joy. “I know it sounds stupid, but he’s put a bunch of stuff on Soundcloud and I really like it… I was hoping to hear him play in person.” She looked at Frederick’s guitar. “You wouldn’t happen to be…?”

“Oh, no, I was just passing by,” said Frederick instinctively, before realizing what he was saying to possibly his only fan in the world. He mentally reprimanded himself before quickly try to find a way to remedy the situation without looking like a complete idiot. “You know, I heard he – Freddie Freddie – I heard he cancelled tonight. But I think he’s playing tomorrow! At Jolt. Um. If you wanted to meet him.”

“You know, I think I would,” said the girl. “I’ll see you – him – at ten?”

“Sure, “ said Frederick. “Yeah.” And he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he quickly turned around and bolted down the snow covered sidewalk, not looking back in case he managed to make an even bigger fool of himself.