From alt.pub.dragons-inn Tue Aug 30 16:45:50 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7595 Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!src.dec.com!crl.dec.com!jac.zko.dec.com!leggy.zk3.dec.com!orb!not-for-mail From: hutch@ibeam.jf.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [CIA] Singular Threads Date: 26 Aug 1994 06:10:20 -0000 Organization: Duchy of Wabesylvan Obspauk Lines: 82 Sender: news@Orb.Nashua.NH.US Message-ID: References: <33jbjq$qa9@hpscit.sc.hp.com> In-Reply-To: <33jbjq$qa9@hpscit.sc.hp.com> from "Jim Aites" at Aug 26, 94 00:05:14 am X-Mailer: ELM [version 2.4 PL11] Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +Foxmore is a bit late arriving for breakfast with the others. "Sorry, I +did manage to find the practice room here in the Inn, but once I got +wrapped up in using my personal weapon, I lost track of time and stayed up +too late. # er...as you all know, "The real world *always* wins!" Miro (who at this point has not joined them at their table, since all are there when he sits down) looks at him from another table and smirks uncontrollably at the phrase "wrapped up in using my personal weapon" but is looking quite another direction, his hood over his head, when Foxmore glances back at him. +"Oh," he adds as he sits down to eat. "BTW - my weapon is really a tool +that I've managed to modify. Nothing 'mass-destructive' about it, but it +should stand me in good stead as it looks nothing like a sword...just acts +like one...as long as the static field holds up." The elf blinks. "Any technology," he says, "that is distinguishable from magic, is insufficiently advanced." He goes to join them at their table (as you've already seen.) +Jones responds, and says to Miro "Clearly, you already +know something about me...[Jones is dressed in a suit, +tie, and the trenchcoat just as he was yesterday...he +still has the machine gun underneath the coat...he looks +a bit tired, as if he didn't sleep very well.] Miro nods. "Aye. You're Foxmore and the fellow in the ship suit here is Jones." "No, no," Jones says. "I'm Jones. He's Foxmore." +Jones then +gestures to [and names] Guldur, Foxmore, and Gray... +[and Rathan too, in the event the barbarian is present] +since the previous evening, they all seem unusually +quiet. Jones wonders if they might have had the same +rather ominous dream....are they rethinking their +involvement in the project? "Oh. Sorry, lad. Me mind wanders sometimes, and tis clear that there's a wee bit too much coffee in me poteen." He glares at the cup, then takes a clear glass and pours from the coffee cup into the glass -- only, the coffee stays in the cup, and only the liquor goes into the glass. "Better," Miro says, and drains the glass. +[Jones] then says to Miro "Please forgive my ignorance, but +I haven't had the good fortune to meet any elves previously. +[Jones is doing his best to be polite and diplomatic... +Miro looks like a professional; but what kind of professional +is more open to question] +I've heard you're particularly good at moving silently... +I don't suppose you'd be interested in a 'piece of the +action' on a somewhat riskier venture.....? "Movin' silent," Miro grins. "Aye, and we're all vegetarians and sleep wi' the trees." He waves at the waitress. "Anythin' without oatmeal in it, darlin'," he orders. Returning his attention to the table, he shakes his head. "Sorry, boyo, but I cannae leave the city. Now, as to the profession I'm in, well, in times past I have been a guard, a borderer, a conjurer and an insurgent, a guide and a bard and betimes a merchant, which in some lands is nae far from bein' a thief, but in Generica it's respectable in all. Sure and it all depends on what the day brings me, and today it brings me tae bein' a smuggler. Which is t' say, I be a carter and ye be me wares." A startled look crosses his face. "The price, you asked me, did ye not? Well. The only thing a' true value is knowledge, me lads. My fee for gettin' ye unseen tae the far side o' town, and for the bedevelin' a' those foolish lads wi'the silly signs outside, will be some bit a' yer personal history." He looks disappointedly at the glass that used to hold poteen. "And, perhaps, a drap' a' that foine scotch whiskey."