Red Hot Hatred of Cedelene Torsh

She was not a very strong woman, but the poker struck him in the temple, the most vulnerable part of the human skull, and the blow proved fatal. Hirtella readily confessed to the crime, but due to the mitigating circumstances she was found guilty of manslaughter, not murder, and since she was a member of the upper crust she was spared a prison sentence and sent to an asylum instead, where she whiled away many happy hours writing in her diary and corresponding with her lover, Brudwuck Utharmun, who often visited her on weekends. THE END [[did not hit her husband<-Try again]]

(enchant:?page,(text-colour:yellow)+(bg:#a61e4d))He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down till her knees touched the floor, then put one hand behind her head and guided it to his groin, where she proceeded to pleasure his peter, her mouth massaging his twitching testicles and tickling his throbbing knob and slobbering all over his shuddering shaft till he let out a groan and geysered great gobs of goo. *Shlurp. Shlurp.* (text-colour:white)[[skip it<-Continue]]

A few minutes later, Cedelene Torsh entered the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of cooking sherry from a cupboard and took a swig to cleanse her palate of the naughty nectar. Churl was reasonably handsome and unreasonably rich, and he paid her most generously, more than most maids made, so she was willing to put up with his shenanigans. But all that changed later that evening after Hirtella returned home. Cedelene just happened to be passing by the study when she heard raised voices through the closed doors. She pressed her ear against the oak and listened. [[how dare<-Continue]]

“How dare you snoop in my writing desk!” Hirtella said. “I have every right! A husband’s right! This is my house and everything in it belongs to me, including your desk. And you! If you hadn’t closed your diary so hastily when I came in here this morning you wouldn’t have aroused my suspicions.” “So you pried the lock open, like a common thief, and violated my privacy!” “You’re in no position to judge my morals!” Cedelene bent down and peered through the keyhole and saw Churl gripping the open diary tightly in his hands as his wife tried to wrest it from his grasp. He began reading aloud, his face turning red, like his wife’s – but his hue came from anger, not humiliation. [[Skip the diary entry. I’m no snoop.]] [[Dig in to the dirty diary]]

Churl stopped reading and looked up. “Your mangled metaphors are almost as atrocious as your morality.” He burst out in a bitter laugh. Hirtella was not amused. “You’re a monster!” she screeched, still trying to grab the diary. “A nasty, noxious beast!” He sobered suddenly. “And you’re a harlot!” He spun to the left and hurled the diary into the fireplace. “No!” Hirtella cried. She took a step toward the fireplace, but he grabbed her arm, spun her around, slapped her face. *Thwack!* She stumbled, her back striking the wall. She grabbed the poker from the brass stand and ... [[hit her husband as hard as she could]] [[did not hit her husband]]

(enchant:?page,(bg:#ae3ec9))*April 14th Oh, how glorious to rendezvous with Brudwuck again! To feel his fervent fingers exploring every pleasure point, thawing the frigidity that has plagued me ever since I married Churleten! Oh, how I need the kneading of his pliant palms, how I savor the sensation of his succulent lips smacking upon my own! Churleten is such a cold fish. His manhood reminds me of a minnow. His mouth is like a mackerel’s. His body, a beached whale. And he’s about as affectionate as an abalone shell. When Brudwuck’s prodigious prong plunges into me like a steamboat piston, my heart thunders like a rampaging rhino, and when his molten lava erupts from his volcano and cascades out of my quivering cleft, I ...* (text-colour:yellow)[[Skip the diary entry. I’m no snoop.<-Continue]]

For a second Cedelene thought Hirtella was going to fight back. But instead she turned and thrust the poker into the flames, trying to snag the burning book. Churl gripped her wrist and twisted till she yelped in pain and dropped the poker to the floor. He slapped her again. And again. Harder. Cedelene slid open the doors and trotted into the room. “Mr. Figginthrost!” she cried. “That is no way to treat a lady, let alone your wife!” “How dare you intrude!” he snarled. “Servants do not give orders! Not in my house! Get out!” He turned back to his wife, raising his hand to deliver yet another blow. Cedelene picked up the poker. “Do not strike her again!” she said. [[he eyed<-Continue]]

He eyed the poker. And Cedelene’s resolute expression. He lowered his hand. “You’re fired!” he roared. “And I shall make sure you never secure another position anywhere in this country, ever again!” He turned to his wife. “And as for you, you dirty little strumpet, I shall contact my solicitor in the morning and begin divorce proceedings. Before I’m through with you, you’ll be selling yourself in dark alleys for three thruppence a bang just to make ends meet!” [[later that evening<-Continue]]

Later that evening, safely ensconced in lodgings above the Mangled Cat Tavern in Smoth-Upon-Drear, Cedelene and Hirtella sat in the middle of a large pentagram Cedelene had drawn on the hardwood floor with a piece of red chalk she always carried in her bag. A black candle, also from her bag, was positioned at the top point of the star, giving off an eerie golden light as Cedelene spoke strange, arcane words and gazed at an amulet cupped in the palm of her left hand. (text-colour:white)+(bg:red)[[bloodstone main<-Bloodstone amulet]] (text-colour:white)+(bg:grey)[[moonstone main<-Moonstone amulet]] (text-colour:black)+(bg:white)[[onyx main<-Onyx amulet]]

Churl rose from his green dragon-hide chair, crossed to the bar and poured himself another brandy, then stood in front of the fireplace gazing at the crackling flames and taking several slow sips from his long-stemmed glass. He did not regret the departure of his wife. Streaks of gray now marred her auburn hair, and her once-firm body had grown soft in the wrong places. And she still refused to expand her romantic repertoire beyond the bland basics. But Cedelene! So young and fit and vibrant, and skilled in the erotic arts. If only... He shook his head. No point dwelling on that. Maids and mistresses were a dime a dozen. So were wives. He could easily replace them. He finished his drink and left the study, climbed the winding stairs to the second floor, walked down the hall to the master bedroom, glaring at the next door down. Hirtella’s room. Correction. *Former* room. He entered the master, changed into his nightshirt and approached his four-poster bed... “What the hell!” [[an oval<-Continue]]

An oval of pale gray light, about the size of a full-length mirror, materialized in front of him. He came closer, peering intently at the oval, then reached out and tried to touch the surface. His hand passed right through. *Must be an optical illusion. A trick of the moonlight. Tired eyes...* “Ahh!” He felt a sudden strong sucking sensation and tumbled across the threshold. [[bloodstone scenario<-Continue]]

He floated over a moon-bathed hill bristling with weathered tombstones. A gentle breeze rustled the tall, untended grass. His body slowed, hovered... *Foom!* He plunged to earth and kept going, tumbling head over heels, passing swiftly through the soil – which seemed as insubstantial as dust. Total darkness engulfed him. He came to an abrupt halt, his back slamming into something hard. He tried to raise his head. *Bonk!* He reached above him, pressing against a smooth, unyielding surface. He felt around to the left and right; bent his feet and probed with his toes. He was completely encased. Boxed in. Trapped. *Oh God! A casket!* [[he pounded<-Continue]]

He pounded his fists against the lid; scratched it with his fingernails. “Help! Oh dear God, please help me!” A soft sliver of blue light, about the size of his thumb, materialized in front of him, pricking the utter darkness. A familiar voice spoke. “You don’t deserve God’s help. Or his mercy. But I have lower standards. I shall offer you a way out.” “Cedelene?” “Who else?” “What have you done to me?” “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve buried you alive.” “How could you possibly do that?” “Sorcery.” “Balderdash! Sorcery is the stuff of fairy tales.” “The fairies would agree with you. But this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a horror story. And on that note I shall bid you a not-very-fond adieu.” “Wait!” “Yes?” “You mentioned a way out?” “I did. I’m willing to open one end of the casket for you. The head or the foot. Pick your path. Decide your destiny.” [[head<-Head]] [[foot<-Foot]]

He heard the sounds of cracking wood and crumbling soil. A hole appeared in the head of the casket, revealing a small tunnel, growing longer by the second, bored by some unseen force. The blue light flew into it, quickly dwindling into the distance. “Wait!” With difficulty Churl rolled over onto his stomach, then dragged himself forward, his fingers and toes digging into the dirt as he wormed his way along the narrow passageway, his nostrils filled with the smell of freshly disturbed earth. After several minutes of exhausting effort, another light appeared up ahead – a pale pink glow coming from a hole in the floor of the passageway, about five feet long and two feet wide. The tunneling stopped. The blue light winked out. Churl crawled up to the hole, his nostrils sensing a fresh scent... Cologne? [[a thin hand<-Continue]]

He heard the sounds of cracking wood and crumbling soil. A hole appeared in the foot of the casket, revealing a small tunnel, growing longer by the second, bored by some unseen force. The blue light flew into it, quickly dwindling into the distance. “Wait!” Churl dug his heels and elbows into the dirt and began worming his way along the narrow passageway, his nostrils filled with the smell of freshly disturbed earth. After several minutes of exhausting effort he saw strong grayish light at the end of the tunnel. The blue sliver winked out. Churl redoubled his efforts, panting with exertion, his elbows aching as he got closer and closer to the tunnel’s mouth... Free! He stood up, his eyes widening as he looked around, surprised to see he was not in a graveyard, but ... [[a long trench<-Continue]]

A thin hand reached up and grabbed him and yanked him down into the hole. And he found himself in... Another casket! Atop a body – a man with a pasty white face and slicked-back black hair, and wearing a tuxedo ... with a wooden stake impaling the center of his white shirt, stained with dried blood so dark it was almost black. The man’s eyes were open – not glazed by death but gleaming with glee as he tugged Churl closer. “How splendid to have company at last!” the man said in a thick accent as his fetid breath blew into Churl’s face. “Welcome to your forever home, young man!” As Churl screamed and struggled frantically to break free, the man’s mouth opened wide, revealing fangs that sank hungrily into his neck. [[foot<-Try again]]

a long trench, stretching hundreds of feet, bisecting a dreary wasteland. A dead body lay several yards away, a young man in a khaki uniform with a metal helmet on his head that resembled an overturned soup bowl. The air smelt of shit and piss and rot and cordite, but Churl sucked it into his lungs gratefully; at least he wouldn’t suffocate. He raised his gaze and saw twenty more soldiers, living ones, clutching rifles with bayonets and peering over the top of the trench. Suddenly a rifle appeared in his own hands. And a helmet materialized on his head. And his tailored white silk shirt and black linen slacks transformed into ill-fitting khaki, his patent-leather shoes replaced by mucky, too-big boots. *What on earth...* “Up and at ‘em!” someone barked, startling him. He spun around. [[an older soldier<-Continue]]

An older soldier, sporting sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves, was thrusting an arm at the land beyond the trench – a desolate stretch marked by craters and corpses and coils of barbed wire. The other soldiers clambered up the side of the trench and started trotting across the bleak and blasted landscape. “What are you waiting for, doughboy?” the officer roared. “Are you addressing me?” Churl said. “Damn right I am! Get going, Charlie, or I’ll kick your bloody ass all the way across No Man’s Land myself!” “For your information, my name is not Charlie and I have no intention...” (text-style:"fade-in-out")[*KABOOM!*] [[an explosion<-Continue]]

An explosion erupted twenty yards away, hurling soil and soldiers into the air. Clods and body parts and blood rained down on the ground, only a few yards from where he stood. (text-style:"fade-in-out")[*KABOOM!*] [[another explosion<-Continue]]

Another explosion, much closer, knocked Churl on his ass. As he struggled to get up, his ears ringing, he turned toward the sergeant – who was slumped against the back wall of the trench, a piece of shrapnel protruding from his bloodied forehead, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Churl smirked. *Serves him right for speaking disrespectfully to his betters!* (text-style:"fade-in-out")[*KABOOM!*] [[a direct hit<-Continue]]

A direct hit turned the sergeant’s corpse into a cloud of red mush and shattered Churl’s eardrums and ruptured half his organs as part of the trench collapsed and a half ton of dirt landed on top of him. He tried to move. Couldn’t budge. *Oh dear God! Buried alive! Twice in one day!* And this time no sliver of light appeared to help him out of the darkness. *Cedelene, you perfidious bitch! You [[lied to me!]]* [[eventually<-Continue]]

Cedelene did not lie. She offered him a way out of the casket; she never said it would lead to safety. [[eventually<-Continue]]

Eventually Churleten Figginthrost ended up in another casket, this time for keeps, reposing inside a lone tomb in the center of a park in the heart of a great city, guarded night and day by men in fancy blue-and-red dress uniforms and white gloves, holding rifles with sterling silver bayonets. And on the front of the tomb was a bronze plaque bearing a simple inscription: “Known but to God” [[try a different amulet<-Try a different amulet]]

(text-colour:white)+(bg:red)[[bloodstone scenario<-Bloodstone amulet]] (text-colour:white)+(bg:grey)[[moonstone scenario<-Moonstone amulet]] (text-colour:black)+(bg:white)[[onyx scenario<-Onyx amulet]]

He found himself inside a narrow passageway with clammy stone walls mottled with moss. Flames fluttered atop torches mounted in rusted sconces. Dust-covered caskets reposed in numerous niches. *A catacomb!* But there was no catacomb beneath the estate, just a small graveyard on a hill beyond the carriage house. Where the hell was he? He approached one of the niches and wiped a hand over the dust-coated brass plate on the side of the casket. “Edgalon Pontresser” The name meant nothing to him. He looked to his left; the catacomb ended in a blank wall twenty feet away. He went right, following the curving passageway past a dozen niches until he came to another dead end, a wall made of red brick, not gray stone. A wheelbarrow lay on its side at one corner, a lone brick still inside it. Next to that sat a deep-sided metal tray with a trowel at the bottom, embedded in a layer of dried, rock-hard mortar. A pickaxe leaned against the center of the wall. Why had the catacomb been sealed? And how had he gotten in there? *More important, how the hell do I get out?* He picked up the pickaxe and ... [[whacked away at the brick wall]] [[whacked away at the stone wall]]

He took a swing at the bricks. *Crack!* Again. *Crack!* Again. *CrackaRUMBLE!* A chunk of the wall tumbled to the floor. Beyond lay shadows. Churl grabbed a nearby torch from its sconce and thrust it into the opening, revealing a second wall, only a few feet beyond the first, made of stone like the rest of the catacomb. He stepped through the opening; saw something to the left... “Gaa!” A skeleton! It was hanging from the inner wall, wearing the ragged remnants of a jester’s costume, its wrists gripped by rusted manacles attached to short chains bolted to the stones. Churl chuckled. *Easy. No need to get jumpy. It’s just a...* “Aaaah!” [[the skeleton raised<-Continue]]

He swung at the stones. *Crack!* Again. *Crack!* Again. *CrackaRUMBLE!* A chunk of the wall tumbled to the floor. Beyond it was another barrier, this one made of oak. Churl went to work with his pickaxe, whacking away at the wood. *Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! BOOSHHHH!* The wood gave way and red liquid gushed forth in a torrent, knocking him down. The surge soon subsided to a slow flow and he scooped up a handful and tasted it. Wine. He had busted a wine cask. He started to chuckle. But something else now poured out of the massive cask – little blobs of soggy gray fur. And as the flood of wine settled into a large pool, this new wave rushed toward him – a wave of ... Rats! [[churl scrambled<-Continue]]

The skeleton raised its head, its fool’s cap falling to the floor as its hollow eye sockets filled with hellish red light. “You dare disturb my rest?” it rasped. It jerked its arms and the chains tautened, the bolts loosening just a bit. “Sweet Jesus!” Churl cried, dropping the torch. He turned around, leapt out of the opening and ran down the passageway. “Awaken, my brethren!” the skeleton shrieked, rattling its chains furiously. “There’s an intruder in our midst!” *Creeeak!* [[a casket lid flew<-Continue]]

A casket lid flew open and a second skeleton popped up, this one clad in a tattered suit. Some strips of desiccated flesh still clung to the skull – and a dried-out eyeball sat in one socket, resembling a cracked eggshell. The creature climbed out of its niche and lurched toward Churl, arms outstretched, as the last vestiges of its lips broke free and fell to the floor with crusty plops. Churl swung the pickaxe, connecting with the monster, breaking its breastbone, ripping through its ribs, snapping its spine. The top half of the skeleton clattered to the floor and broke apart. The cracked skull rolled toward Churl, coming to rest several feet away. The legs and pelvis remained upright for a few moments, then took one step and toppled over. Churl’s reeling mind fixated on the skull’s baleful stare. Seized by a crazed compulsion, he bent down and picked up the skull, shifted his grip on the pickaxe and drove the iron point into the eyeball. It ruptured with a satisfying “pop” and yellow goo spurted out. Churl hurled the skull against the wall, laughing as it shattered. *Creak!* [[he spun around<-Continue]]

He spun around. Another casket opening! Another skeleton climbing out! He charged to meet it, slashing viciously, busting it into pieces. A third casket creaked. Its occupant emerged. A growling Churl picked it apart as he had the others, then stood there in the middle of the passageway, his lungs heaving, his head swiveling back and forth, his wild eyes darting over the other niches, waiting for the next attack. But the caskets remained closed. When his breathing returned to near normal he marched to the far end of the passageway and began whacking away at the stone wall, determined to escape. There had to be a way out and he would find it if he had to demolish the entire catacomb... *Clickety, clickety, clickety... CLACK!* He froze. Glanced over his shoulder. “No!” [[no<-Continue]]

The ruptured ribcages of his fallen foes floated into the air, reforming into one big cage, opening up like a clam shell, flying toward him. He swung the pickaxe, but the cage darted to the side, avoiding the blow, then moved in, closing around him like an iron maiden, the sharp tips of the splintered bones puncturing his flesh, driving deep into his body. *Giiish!* [[whacked away at the stone wall<-Try the stone wall instead]]

Churl scrambled to his feet and tried to outrun them, but they soon overtook him. He fought back with pickaxe and feet, stomping, chopping, gooshing, but dozens of rats remained. Too many! They bit his ankles, scampered up his legs. One reached his nuts... “Aiieee!” He fell, splashing into the spilled wine, swatting at the repulsive rodents as they swarmed over his upper body. They reached his shoulders, his neck, their teeth tearing at his throat, and a different kind of red liquid gushed out to mingle with the wine. [[try a different amulet<-Try a different amulet]]

He stumbled and fell, landing on a couch upholstered in leopard skins. He looked up, startled to see he was no longer in his bedroom but a large pavilion with marble columns. A mosaic on the floor depicted a muscular naked man cavorting with two mermaids. A light rain pattered on the roof. A mountain loomed in the distance. In front of him was a low mahogany table laden with food and drink – cups and flagons of absinthe and mulled wine; bowls of grapes, olives, cherries and peaches; plates piled high with figs, dates and lemony pastries; platters of roasted pheasant, pressed duck and suckling pigs with apples in their mouths. The sumptuous spread made his mouth water – and so did the shapely olive-skinned woman who now settled down next to him on the couch, holding a bunch of grapes nestled in her cavernous cleavage. “Care for a nibble?” she cooed. [[he was tempted<-Continue]]

He was tempted, but the room was full of people – women dressed in low-cut, diaphanous gowns, and men clad in... Togas? He glanced down at himself, astounded to see he was wearing one too. *This must be a dream.* But dreams had no smells, and he distinctly detected the delicious aromas of the food – and the scent of the grape woman’s perfume. One of the men got up from an adjacent couch and staggered toward him with a crooked grin on his florid face. “That was quite a stumble!” he slurred. “I think you’ve had too much.” He bent down and picked up a golden flagon from Churl’s table. “I shall deliver you from temptation.” He took a swig, wiped his mouth, belched and swayed back to the other couch, carrying the flagon with him. [[a portly man<-Continue]]

A portly man rose from an ornately carved chair and clapped his hands and the party chatter faded to a respectful silence. This was clearly a man of great importance, for he wore a purple toga – and the dye used to make such cloth was quite rare and expensive in ancient times, reserved for royalty and the very rich. “Friends, I promised you some amazing entertainments. And Margus Portulius always delivers!” He gestured toward a royal blue curtain covering one side of the pavilion. [[“Come!”]]

All the guests stood up, murmuring excitedly as they grabbed their flagons and made their way to the curtain. Two slave boys pulled it aside, revealing a balcony overlooking an oval race track, open to the sky, its surface muddy from the rain. Three women were on the track, mounted on ... *Unicorns? I thought they were just myths!* Yet here they were, three horned horses, snow white with pink and purple markings on their flanks. And the riders? Even more astonishing – young women, naked from the waist up, clutching swords, their black troll-leather skirts pleated with shining brass plates. The rider on the left was a sturdily built brunette with wavy, shoulder-length hair. The one in the middle was a wiry blonde, her straight hair tied back in a pony tail. The one on the right, a close-cropped redhead. A slave stood beside the track, holding a wooden pole with a pink handkerchief tied to the top. At a signal from Margus, he snapped the pole down and the race was on. [[as the onlookers<-Continue]]

As the onlookers roared encouragement, the unicorns thundered and splashed around the muddy track, throwing up sprays of muck that nearly reached the balcony where the spectators stood. As the busty riders dashed by, their slime-slick breasts jiggling like crazy, Churl was grateful the loose-fitting toga hid his erection from view – although all eyes were on the race, not him. The brunette and the blonde took the lead over the redhead and began fighting each other, their swords clashing. Halfway around the fourth lap the brunette managed to get through the blonde’s parries and shoved her blade into her opponent’s ribcage. The blonde sagged, then slid off her steed, splatting into the mud, the sword protruding from her side. The brunette pumped a fist into the air and glanced over her shoulder, grinning in triumph at the redhead. “One lap to go!” Margus announced, yelling to be heard over the clamoring crowd. [[the redhead whacked<-Continue]]

The redhead whacked her mount’s ass with the flat of her blade, urging the steed to greater speed, but to no avail; the brunette passed the finish line two lengths ahead of her. But as the victor slowed down, the blonde’s riderless unicorn charged in, lowering its head and ramming its horn into the hindquarters of the brunette’s beast. The animal reared up in agony, throwing off its rider, who landed on her ass in the mud. As she struggled to her feet, the blonde’s mount rose onto its hind legs and tried to trample her, but she dodged aside – only to fall prey to the redhead, who charged in, leaning so low she was almost horizontal, and swept her blade across her foe’s neck. *Swipff!* The brunette’s head splashed into the mud. Her body remained upright for a few moments before it, too, fell. *Poosh!* [[the redhead brought her steed<-Continue]]

The redhead brought her steed to a skidding halt and dismounted, then strutted over to her decapitated competitor, grabbed the severed head by the hair and held it aloft as the crowd went nuts. The man who had swiped Churl’s flagon turned to his host. “What a magnificent spectacle, Margus!” “Thank you, Aurudius.” “Tell me, where ever did you find such brutal beauties?” “I bought them at a slave auction in Throce several months ago.” “Ahh. I might have known!” Margus beckoned to the redhead. She dropped the severed head, sheathed her sword and approached the balcony railing, bowing low as rain streamed down her face and bathed her blood-spattered breasts. Margus reached into his toga and took out an onyx amulet. “Tacitania Pruvalio, although you did not cross the finish line first and you received assistance from a competitor’s steed, you are the last girl standing and that is the only true measure of victory in any field of endeavor. I hereby declare you champion and I grant you freedom!” [[he tossed<-Continue]]

He tossed her the amulet. She caught it and slipped it around her neck, then bowed again as the pendant settled into the deep cleft between her breasts. “You are most generous, master. A thousand thanks.” As she strolled back to her unicorn, Margus faced the diners. “Come, let us return to the tables and Continue our feasting, for there are many more delicious dishes yet to be served. And more engrossing entertainments to enjoy.” Churl barely heard him, his eyes riveted to the gladiatrix’s glutes as she remounted her steed. “That’s enough,” a voice said. [[the scene dimmed<-Continue]]

(enchant:?page,(text-colour:#212529)+(bg:#ced4da))The scene dimmed and a gray mist enveloped Churl. A blue sliver of light hovered in front of him. “I’ve come to take you home, Churl,” a familiar voice said. “Cedelene?” “Yes. Hirtella has had a change of heart. She wanted to leave you stranded here, but she can’t bring herself to go through with it.” “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me she made the portal that brought me here?” “I did, at her behest.” “I don’t believe you!” “You’re here, aren’t you?” “No mere maid can command such magic!”” “I am many things, none of them ‘mere.’ But we can talk about that later, after I take you home. Just give me a few moments to reopen the portal...” “I’m not leaving till the party’s over. I want to see the other spectacles Margus promised, and sample some of that food. It looks delicious.” “I’m afraid the party *is* over. This place...” [[Churl interjects: “...is a damn sight livelier than Smoth-Upon-Drear! Go away and come back later.”]] [[Churl allows Cedelene to finish her sentence]]

“The spell that summons the portal is growing weak,” she said. “You must leave now. Because soon...” “You forget your place, Cedelene. Servants do not command masters – especially servants who have just been fired.” “Listen to me...” “Begone, you silly wench!” Sigh. “Very well. You had your chance.” The blue light flickered and vanished like an extinguished flame. The gray mist evaporated. The sounds of merriment returned. And then came a new sound – a low rumble that quickly rose in volume till it rattled the dishes on the tables. The diners fell silent, their heads turning to look at the mountain, where a plume of smoke was rising. Aurudius turned to his host. “Is this the next entertainment?” The face of Margus paled as he slowly stood up, staring at the smoke now billowing forth in massive, roiling clouds lit up from beneath by garish red light. “Vasovios!” he cried in despair. “Oh dear Gods, Vasovios awakens! Citizens of Plompae, we must...” (text-style:"fade-in-out")[*BAMBAVUMBAROOM!*] [[the horizon<-Continue]]

“...is about to be destroyed.” “Destroyed? How?” “That’s Mount Vasovios in the distance. And it’s ready to erupt at any moment.” “Vasovios? Good heavens! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Thirty seconds later he was back in his bedroom, where Hirtella stood waiting with a nervous smile on her lips. Cedelene stepped through the portal a moment later, closing it behind her with a wave of her left hand. Churl grinned. “Well, well, well, that was quite a jaunt! I’m impressed, ladies. Truly impressed! I had no idea I was dealing with such formidable women!” His toga had reverted to a shirt and trousers, and the women couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his crotch. A blushing Hirtella averted her eyes. Cedelene rolled hers. “I owe both of you an apology,” Churl said. “I deplore my recent conduct and implore you to forgive me.” Hirtella chewed her lip pensively, glancing at Cedelene. Had Churl truly learned his lesson? Would he turn over a new leaf? Cedelene’s only answer was a shrug. THE END [[Churl interjects: “...is a damn sight livelier than Smoth-Upon-Drear! Go away and come back later.”<-Try the other path]]

(enchant:?page,(text-colour:black)+(bg:#ff8400))The horizon exploded as the volcano unleashed a gigantic stream of molten lava joined by a huge cloud of ash and smoke that blotted out the sun. Margus and his guests fell to the floor, praying and howling as the monstrous force blasted into the pavilion, collapsing the columns, rupturing the roof, covering the cowering crowd. Within moments the partygoers were reduced to seared, suffocated, crushed corpses, trapped in glowing glop that eventually cooled, imprisoning them like fossils, frozen in their death agonies. (text-colour:white)[[epilogue<-Epilogue]]

Several centuries later archaeologists would excavate the site, and one of the first petrified corpses they found would belong to a man who, in more ways than one, had met a most untimely death. THE END

As the feather duster brushed his hardened sausage, Churleten Figginthrost’s eyes lit up with lust. “You really should put that away, sir,” the maid said as she playfully gave his manhood one last swipe. “What would your wife say if she came in here and saw you waving your stick around in broad daylight like you was a bloody magician or one of them fancy music conductors?” She started to turn away. He seized her arm. “Hirtella went shopping,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “She won’t be back till dusk.” “But I’ve got me duties to perform, sir. There’s furniture to dust and dishes to wash and door knobs to polish...” “I’ve got a knob you can polish, Cedelene!” [[skip it<-Skip the filth. I like wholesome stories the entire family can enjoy]] [[WARNING: NSFW<-Feed me the filth]]