Fifteen Elvish ways to die (idea)

(all of Fifteen Elvish ways to die, no other writeups in this node)

(idea) by Igloowhite (4 mon) (print)   ?   (I like it!) Tue Feb 26 2002 at 23:02:40 C! info: 36 C!s given by: Jet-Poop, Gritchka, evilrooster, legbagede, jaubertmoniker, thefez, WickerNipple, DaveQat, Quizro, Byzantine, haze, Aresds, mauler, Lometa, JediBix783, kthejoker, peanut, randombit, Devon, czeano, K9, izubachi, Johnny, hapax, jessicapierce, Mitzi, Ereneta, OberonDarksoul, Andrew Aguecheek, Milen, graceness, Chras4, Demeter, Heisenberg, arcanamundi, Lord Brawl

Grayoleth is readying himself for his day's labors. He selects a shirt of white elvish linen, then goes to the closet to choose a tie. Unfortunately, the closet contains an Orc. Palthoas is cooking cakes under moonlight by the heat of a brazier. He shutters the windows against the cold, and wraps himself in a silver shawl to sleep. Forgetting to extinguish the fire, the fumes overcome him. On his way to the office, Halmorne is listening to an epic poem of battle on his CD player. He leans down to fast forward to his favorite part, his sedan quietly swerving into the oncoming truck. Thisalonar runs onto the tarmac to remove the forgotten chocks from behind the nose wheel of the passenger jet. A dove tumbles towards him, trapped in the suction of the engines. Can fast feet save both bird and elf? No. Nimble fingers are not enough to remove moon soda from its jammed position inside the machine. In fit of elvish fury, pull! Jhamonis is crushed beneath the machine, despite the warning of labels. Tidy creatures, elves insist on the cleanest of bathrooms. But don't mix bleach and ammonia. Lohaton's skill with the longbow is of no use to him now. A night out on the town. Within a leafy grove, Qwhuimkoln seeks to feed the swans, never seeing the school of piranha until too late. Who will light the Festival of One Thousand Suns? Rhalolas trusts to elvish luck and craft, and splices the evening lights into a hot circuit. Silver slippers in the wet streets make this a tragic miscalculation. Glindroleth takes a walk down the boulevard for a hot windgrass tea and star biscuits. 12 stories up, human workmen lose their grip on a window unit air conditioner. If only she'd gone out for soup instead... Bright sun and spring breezes make this the time of dances, shopping, and diaphanous scarves of magical silk. Aeioletia learns too late that such a garment is ill suited for use on an escalator. The police are in hot pursuit of a dangerous suspect. Synralon draws his pocket wand to cast a Blessing of Chase! to aid the constabulary. The short dark wand causes the police to think otherwise. Xaneprothel has milk white skin that smells of lylac and fresh baked bread. It drives the cruelly starved junkyard hounds into a blood frenzy. Deep patrol in Mirkwood. Dindraleen is on point, his infravison alert to the least movement in brush. But the spider filament is so fine, difficult even for the sharp eyes of an elf. The fiber triggers a fifty pound goblin claymore mine, cast in a fearsome face of black iron. Yillanean reviews the heavy dwarvish scroll, inscribed with ancient runes. He sings the dwarf song, so harsh and guttural in his delicate throat, "Two rights, two lefts, while the third moon shines, to avoid the flame pit." But elvish football was his preferred subject, translating the tenses of dwarvish rune verbs was never Yillanean's strong suit. Things get hot. The dark riders were not sleeping. They were only resting their eyes.

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