A short history. Part II of II (Well, it's not exactly short, but it's the best I can do)

So, from where we left off, Trogdor sat in the cage, being wheeled out through the front gates of the city towards where Penistus set up camp. Despair set in. He was so angry and sad and tired and... Trogdor took a little nap.

This paragraph is where shit happens. There.

Trogdor woke up with a jolt. It felt like a broken leg. Oh, and he'd read about tuberculosis before. Apparently you cough a lot of blood. Treatment would be expensive. Strange, though, as he was lying in a pool of what looked like his own blood. Well, he really didn't suppose it could be the blood of anyone else. He felt rather tired. Good old lazy Trogdor he thought to himself. He marveled at his ability to feel sleepy after waking up from a good nap. Trogdor grinned to himself, and took another long nap.

The most esteemed Prelate Bushi was on one of his morning walks when he saw the young dragonborn lying on the ground. He cursed in what seemed to be Abyssal, and walked over to the seemingly dead body. A few kicks later, the creature stirred, and coughed up a bit of blood.

"What... What fuck?", asked the esteemed one. Trogdor groaned, "Tuberculosis... Broken bones... Dying..." The Prelate responded by kicking the bloodied one in the ribs. Trogdor mustered up his last bit of energy and flipped him the bird, before kissing the ground for the third time in 3 hours(I have heard of rogues who shatter that record without breaking a sweat, though). Bushi decided that he would take this feisty young one in, and feed him, and watch him grow. Don't ask why, but such is the character of The Most Esteemed Prelate Bushi Ren. This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Thus ends the history of the dragonborn, to be continued in future stories about his training under the Prelate.

On a side note, the one and only language Bushi speaks in Common. The only thing abyssal about his language is his grammar and vocabulary.

By the way, take a gander at this.

Two terribly interesting poems.

User: AATD

Violet

Violet wants to play a game.

A game where we can all have fun

She strips out of her clothes and ties me up

And whips me into submission



Submission.

Cold cruel submission

I enjoy submission,

Do you?



I play along with Violet

We delight in the flow of our blood

The pain is excruciating

How fun.



The pain brings pleasure,

Pleasure beyond words.

Pleasure which is brought by open wounds,

Wounds of a masochist



She, the sadist

I, the masochist

We coexist in this romp

We need each other



She hurts me

I feel wonderful

I receive punishment from her,

I'm sure she loves it too



The chains and the toys,

Glittering prizes in our eyes.

We play with them like school children

Hurting each other with them



Our tears and wounds bring joy,

Not pain.

But the laughter brings pain,

Not humor



Once again the game is ended,

To continue another day

But next time I'll get Violet, I swear

For the castration she gave me today.



Indeed a very disturbed child this one is. But, let's take a look at the next one

User: Mazohyst

Disinfectant

The old man,

lying in his hospital bed,

Waiting for death to carry him away.

The smell of the disinfectant,

piercing the senses

of the waiting relatives.

Waiting for the moment,

waiting for death to carry him away.



Do you regret now?

What you should have said,

but have not done?

What you should have done,

but have not done?

What awaits you?

The gaping black abyss of the unknown,

the place we all go...



When your mother died,

you wondered what she felt...

now you feel it yourself...

Is it nice?

The moment approaches.

You see it on the faces of your family.

They stand around the bed...

Looking at you,

you, with those tubes sticking out your body.



The young ones,

watching in fascination

as the heart monitor beats...

Even now, you feel the strain

it takes to keep it beating

waiting for that final moment,

Waiting for death to carry you away.



There... you hear it now

The call to leave.

Your family stands, helpless

begging you to stay.



You can't hear it anymore

Your mind, your consciousness, your soul,

drifting away into nothing



The droning beep...

heralding your departure

heralding the moment,

that death took you away.



Definitely more... readable than the previous one.

Sometimes I wish I could write poems. To sell and make lots of money. HA HA HA!

DINNER TIME!