A shadow rises in the crack of the open door. It glides inside, slurped up by the shadows of the room. Silently following the shadow came its caster, a tall thin chair walking independently. It wobbles across the room, still unsure of its new ability. It wobbles right up to the judges table. The occupant of the chair remains hidden in its shadows, only revealing her features tips by lighting a long thin cigarette. She leans forward into the light; her eyes are big and saucer-like; her nose crooked and bulbous like a vultures.
“Hullo.” She grins. She puffs. She moves back into the chairs shadow.
“The name’s Hester. Old Hester.” Her hand waves the sentence on, as though it’s not that important. What is important is “I want in.”
“What’d you say m’dear? Eh?”
OoC:
Hi there! The names Old Hester. Or Anne. How do ya do. How do ya do.
You probably ain’t heard of me. Not a lot have. Not any more. I enjoy role-playing an awful lot. In fact it’s one of the only things that brings me back to this game time and time again; the need to inject myself with some fresh self-invented fantasy. I created this character *dangles Hester like a puppet* sometime in 2002? It could have been a lot later. I don’t know any more. It’s lost in a memory.
I’m a long standing member of the former Society of the Black Rose, a once-regular on the roleplaying forum at tibia.com, a brief member of the Soldiers of Justice and several other guilds. The several others didn’t last too long.
I’m bankrupt at the moment from being robbed a while back. What’s ironic is I have a lot of money and items all in Port Hope, or Liberty Bay or one of the places I used to live. I left it there when I lost my premium membership. Fortune smiles kindly! I got a weeks worth of premium membership during the summer. Unfortunately I was completely naked and penniless so there was no chance of me raising the funds to go the wherever all my stuff was. Now I’m still in the same condition!
It doesn’t matter. The game isn’t really about that for me.
Of friends. I’ve got a handful! One of which is Sir Balder <waves>. Not a lot of them are active. Most of their bodies have been tossed down into that ever-deepening grave beneath Mount Sternum. And I miss them. Some a little. Some an awful lot. Life goes on.
So why the Red Rose? Chose you guys because you seem to be one of the last bunch of roleplayers around here! And a fun bunch; I’m a sucker for group events. Hope I’m right. I also appreciate the thought and careful planning that went into the structure and operation of the guild. Mm. Details. Love ‘em. And I’d really love to be a part of it all, make some new friends and bring back the good old days. You guys seem really great. And my Tibian self is feeling pretty lonely.
Have I covered everything? Hope so. If not, give me a whack and I’ll jump on it.
*drum roll* And for my Grande Finale, a short story I wrote two weeks ago. It’s over on the Tibian forums too in case you’ve seen it before. Hope you enjoy.
- Old Mother Hester.
The Smoking Shadow Chair [Closed]
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Old Hester
- Posts: 9
- Joined: Sun Mar 08, 2009 7:04 pm
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
I’ve never written anything like this before, anything true. I do write. A lot. But it’s mostly about far off places and dangerous adventures. That sort of thing. I suppose I’ve never written anything like this because anything else is honest. It’s not that I’m liar, not in the way that purposely hurts people or sparks fights. Though I do lie. Everyone lies. I lie about little things, things which, looking back, seem insignificant. I don’t know why I do it, it’s compulsive, I can’t help myself. I sort of think now that each lie is like a brick, and I’m adding them to a wall. I guess I’m building a wall because I don’t like the real world. I don’t like letting people into mine.
So here it goes: I’m writing something honest, something real. Someone told me to. I don’t know if it will work or not. I hope it does.
I remember he would sit at the edge of the pond, his gigantic hands on his lap and his face bearing down. When the summer sun had dried it out we would sit in the pond, lolling about and listening to his stories. The stories he told us weren’t the best, but we loved them all the same. That was probably because they came with a song and dance, a funny little rhyme, or a funny pull of the face. We loved him for that.
His house and everything around it was magical. It was huge, though not particularly old or pretty. Inside was just as magical. They had the strangest collections; old statuettes and clocks, paintings and vials. Above the mantle place hung five pipes. It was them and the tall grandfather clock in the hall that would always remind me of him: The pipes because they were his and he used to smoke them in a time beyond my memory, and the grandfather clock probably because of its name and the song that I had heard countless times there: ‘My Grandfathers clock was too tall for the shelf.’ That one.
Their garden was enormous and wild. When I go there now it still is enormous, which is testimony. It’s wilder too, though I’ve heard they’ve cut most of it down. I don’t want to see that, I like remembering it wild.
There’s a forest behind the stone wall at the end of their garden. Its trees are skeletal and cold, like something from some strange nightmare. I’ve written a lot of stories about them but this is the first true one.
Around the fire in the living room or the table in the kitchen corner, they would always tell stories about that broken wood . There were stories about other things too; him at sea; everyone abroad; faceless neighbours; things that were never real, ghost stories. I loved listening to those conversations. I miss them. I see everyone less and less now. Maybe it’s because in my memory time slips by like water.
Back then they had a shaggy, black Kerry Blue whose name was Dusty. He had found him on the coast and brought him home one afternoon. He was one of the family long before me. I was 6 when he was killed. He was hit by a car. I think it may have been during the school year. They told me he was getting old anyway and that it had almost been time for him. I remember thinking then that he had been hit by a car before but he survived. I didn’t know why he didn’t survive the second time.
I wasn’t there when the driver brought him up to the house. I wonder how they reacted; I never found out. The house was a little quieter after that.
I was older when we started playing the Sherlock Holmes game. He would play Watson and I’d play the great detective. We’d trump about the garden, and when they’d take us off for the day to some old forest walk or once-castle grounds, and we’d trump about there too, inventing myriad villains and countless clues. We’d invent characters for anyone else who had come along that day though we never kept track of who was who, so they changed form and lost shape. It didn’t matter to us anyway. We were all that mattered: the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
He gave me one of his pipes; it made me seem more authentic. I would always take them down anyway, biting on the mouthpiece and learning to love that old taste of tobacco. I still have the pipe on a shelf in my bedroom though it’s broken in two. I’ve tried to glue it, but it always breaks again.
There’s a wallet made of worn leather that he gave me. Before him it had been his brothers, so it has become something of a heirloom. My mum told me afterward that his brother had been mugged and killed in the United States years ago, and that he had made wallets to make a living. He hadn’t told me when he gave it to me and it was only then, in the car coming home, that I realised how much it must have meant to him and how difficult it must have been to give it to me.
He gave me a bird another year. Whether for birthday or Christmas I don’t know any more. It was a cockatiel, yellow and orange and beautiful. I loved it, and named it Watson. It was days, or maybe years later, that my mum told me it had been a lovely thing to do; naming it after the games we used to play; that it meant a lot to him. I had never thought of it like that before.
Watson, the bird, would only come out of his cage for me. While I watched television or read a book he would sit beside me on the couch arm or on my head or on my shoulder, twittering. I loved the feel of his beak nibbling at my fingers or ears.
We eventually had to give him away. I hate to admit it now but I suppose I grew bored of him; of the cleaning; of the tweets that had become shrill. There was an animal farm my mum knew of close by and we brought him there.
Then came secondary school. Things were rougher. I saw him less and less after that, growing older every year, both of us. Nothing distinctive stands out. I wish I could write more but I can’t. Or at least my memory wont let me. There were more stories along the way, serious ones about his trips abroad: him punching a pair of British sailors; buying and bringing home fake rubies, long claimed by the nooks of the house; seeing Greece. Japan. The Panama Canal. They were endless.
He had a heart attack last year and was admitted to hospital. He had a triple bi-pass but he got out of the hospital as fast as he could.
Now he’s in hospital again.
Over the years we’ve grown older. It’s in the beginning and end we change the most. I’ve notice him change. He’s old now and I’ve grown older too. There’s no games any more, no more fireside or kitchen table stories. I loved listening to those conversations. I miss them. I see everyone less and less now. Maybe it’s because in my memory time slips by like water.
So here it goes: I’m writing something honest, something real. Someone told me to. I don’t know if it will work or not. I hope it does.
I remember he would sit at the edge of the pond, his gigantic hands on his lap and his face bearing down. When the summer sun had dried it out we would sit in the pond, lolling about and listening to his stories. The stories he told us weren’t the best, but we loved them all the same. That was probably because they came with a song and dance, a funny little rhyme, or a funny pull of the face. We loved him for that.
His house and everything around it was magical. It was huge, though not particularly old or pretty. Inside was just as magical. They had the strangest collections; old statuettes and clocks, paintings and vials. Above the mantle place hung five pipes. It was them and the tall grandfather clock in the hall that would always remind me of him: The pipes because they were his and he used to smoke them in a time beyond my memory, and the grandfather clock probably because of its name and the song that I had heard countless times there: ‘My Grandfathers clock was too tall for the shelf.’ That one.
Their garden was enormous and wild. When I go there now it still is enormous, which is testimony. It’s wilder too, though I’ve heard they’ve cut most of it down. I don’t want to see that, I like remembering it wild.
There’s a forest behind the stone wall at the end of their garden. Its trees are skeletal and cold, like something from some strange nightmare. I’ve written a lot of stories about them but this is the first true one.
Around the fire in the living room or the table in the kitchen corner, they would always tell stories about that broken wood . There were stories about other things too; him at sea; everyone abroad; faceless neighbours; things that were never real, ghost stories. I loved listening to those conversations. I miss them. I see everyone less and less now. Maybe it’s because in my memory time slips by like water.
Back then they had a shaggy, black Kerry Blue whose name was Dusty. He had found him on the coast and brought him home one afternoon. He was one of the family long before me. I was 6 when he was killed. He was hit by a car. I think it may have been during the school year. They told me he was getting old anyway and that it had almost been time for him. I remember thinking then that he had been hit by a car before but he survived. I didn’t know why he didn’t survive the second time.
I wasn’t there when the driver brought him up to the house. I wonder how they reacted; I never found out. The house was a little quieter after that.
I was older when we started playing the Sherlock Holmes game. He would play Watson and I’d play the great detective. We’d trump about the garden, and when they’d take us off for the day to some old forest walk or once-castle grounds, and we’d trump about there too, inventing myriad villains and countless clues. We’d invent characters for anyone else who had come along that day though we never kept track of who was who, so they changed form and lost shape. It didn’t matter to us anyway. We were all that mattered: the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
He gave me one of his pipes; it made me seem more authentic. I would always take them down anyway, biting on the mouthpiece and learning to love that old taste of tobacco. I still have the pipe on a shelf in my bedroom though it’s broken in two. I’ve tried to glue it, but it always breaks again.
There’s a wallet made of worn leather that he gave me. Before him it had been his brothers, so it has become something of a heirloom. My mum told me afterward that his brother had been mugged and killed in the United States years ago, and that he had made wallets to make a living. He hadn’t told me when he gave it to me and it was only then, in the car coming home, that I realised how much it must have meant to him and how difficult it must have been to give it to me.
He gave me a bird another year. Whether for birthday or Christmas I don’t know any more. It was a cockatiel, yellow and orange and beautiful. I loved it, and named it Watson. It was days, or maybe years later, that my mum told me it had been a lovely thing to do; naming it after the games we used to play; that it meant a lot to him. I had never thought of it like that before.
Watson, the bird, would only come out of his cage for me. While I watched television or read a book he would sit beside me on the couch arm or on my head or on my shoulder, twittering. I loved the feel of his beak nibbling at my fingers or ears.
We eventually had to give him away. I hate to admit it now but I suppose I grew bored of him; of the cleaning; of the tweets that had become shrill. There was an animal farm my mum knew of close by and we brought him there.
Then came secondary school. Things were rougher. I saw him less and less after that, growing older every year, both of us. Nothing distinctive stands out. I wish I could write more but I can’t. Or at least my memory wont let me. There were more stories along the way, serious ones about his trips abroad: him punching a pair of British sailors; buying and bringing home fake rubies, long claimed by the nooks of the house; seeing Greece. Japan. The Panama Canal. They were endless.
He had a heart attack last year and was admitted to hospital. He had a triple bi-pass but he got out of the hospital as fast as he could.
Now he’s in hospital again.
Over the years we’ve grown older. It’s in the beginning and end we change the most. I’ve notice him change. He’s old now and I’ve grown older too. There’s no games any more, no more fireside or kitchen table stories. I loved listening to those conversations. I miss them. I see everyone less and less now. Maybe it’s because in my memory time slips by like water.
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
Application noticed. Thank you very much for your nice story! I like how you write.
Contact me in-game.
Take care,
Contact me in-game.
Take care,
Chikilina
Propraetor of the Red Rose
Propraetor of the Red Rose
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
Nice story !!
I hope know more about you ;]
See ya!
I hope know more about you ;]
See ya!
Skyzo, the Banshee.
Proud member of the Red Rose.
Proud member of the Red Rose.
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
<shouts> OLD HESTER, Hurra!
Good to see you here old friend, do you have some of your special whiskey left? <grins>
-----
Good Luck with ya application
Good to see you here old friend, do you have some of your special whiskey left? <grins>
-----
Good Luck with ya application
A crazy axe fighter and a mead lover.
Nirdor from Farajdvheim, Eanor.
Range vegen blir ikkje rett, enda om mange følgjer den.
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Old Hester
- Posts: 9
- Joined: Sun Mar 08, 2009 7:04 pm
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
Thanks for the warm welcome guys!
I'll be away for a week, but as soon as I'm back Chikilina I'll track ye doon! =]
And yup Nirdor m'dear! It's still lying around in some of these shawls *rummages about* Aha! Here we are. Good to see you again! I didn't realise you were a member! *hugs tightly*
I'll be away for a week, but as soon as I'm back Chikilina I'll track ye doon! =]
And yup Nirdor m'dear! It's still lying around in some of these shawls *rummages about* Aha! Here we are. Good to see you again! I didn't realise you were a member! *hugs tightly*
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Sir Balder
- Propraetor
- Posts: 1990
- Joined: Sat Nov 01, 2008 11:41 pm
- Location: Wherever adventure is.
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
Hello Hester,
Nice to see you around, and interested to join us. Sharing an intriguing story, as always <smiles> Best of luck!
Yours,
Nice to see you around, and interested to join us. Sharing an intriguing story, as always <smiles> Best of luck!
Yours,
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Rob'Doomsday
- Propraetor
- Posts: 3538
- Joined: Sat Nov 01, 2008 9:08 pm
- Location: Fibula
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
Nice to see you around!
And very nice story... Hope to speak to you soon after holidays...
Regards,
Rob
And very nice story... Hope to speak to you soon after holidays...
Regards,
Rob
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Old Hester
- Posts: 9
- Joined: Sun Mar 08, 2009 7:04 pm
Re: The Smoking Shadow Chair
I hate to do this after applying but if it's okay I'd like to retract my application with Old Hester. Sorry about that. I've got a fealty to an old friend and it's long overdue. I'm sorry.
A question though, to apply with other characters do I have to write a seperate application? It's cheeky and impudent, and I'm very very sorry about that. But I'm indebted to this friend. I understand if you want to stone or burn me after this! Sorry again!
Thanks for reading.
Old Hester.
A question though, to apply with other characters do I have to write a seperate application? It's cheeky and impudent, and I'm very very sorry about that. But I'm indebted to this friend. I understand if you want to stone or burn me after this! Sorry again!
Thanks for reading.
Old Hester.
OMG