Ye olde rather logicale time travel adventure
Because why the heck not.
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Thou awakest with thine face in ye olde mud. Around ye, ye can hear the soundes of HORSES, PEOPLE, and other NOUNES in CAPITAL LETTERES and COLOURED TEXTE. Thou canst smell and see NOTHING, though this is likely due to the facte that thy face is, in facte, in thy MUD.
Strangely, thou notest, thy INTERNAL MONOLOGUE appeareth to be in a rather bad and inconsistente attempte at ye OLDE INLGLISH.
Thinkinge back, thou canst remembre DRINKING last night in ye olde PUB until thou didst PASS OUTE. The words "88 MILES PER HOWAH" floateth through thy mind in the voice of a DRUNKEN VAGRANTE thou dost not knowe, but such wordse are quickly repressede by an overpowering neede to BREATHE.
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Thou awakest with thine face in ye olde mud. Around ye, ye can hear the soundes of HORSES, PEOPLE, and other NOUNES in CAPITAL LETTERES and COLOURED TEXTE. Thou canst smell and see NOTHING, though this is likely due to the facte that thy face is, in facte, in thy MUD.
Strangely, thou notest, thy INTERNAL MONOLOGUE appeareth to be in a rather bad and inconsistente attempte at ye OLDE INLGLISH.
Thinkinge back, thou canst remembre DRINKING last night in ye olde PUB until thou didst PASS OUTE. The words "88 MILES PER HOWAH" floateth through thy mind in the voice of a DRUNKEN VAGRANTE thou dost not knowe, but such wordse are quickly repressede by an overpowering neede to BREATHE.
Comments
Thou art lying in a puddle of MUD, on the side of a roade, in a medieval HAMLET. Before you is an olde PUB. Tis not the same pub in which thou gottest PLASTERED the night before, but rather a more differente pub of logs, splattered with mud. Farther downe the roade is the hamlet's MARKETPLACE, bustling with peasants, livestock, and mud. Beside it stretcheth ye olde ALLEYWAY. It too is somehow coated with mud, despite being paved with it, and smelleth not faintly of urine. Farther on, upon a hill, sitteth a stone CASTLE, surprisingly mud-free.
The peasants on the roade taketh no notice of thy muddy plighte.
Oh, and thou hast no WOOL to chew.
(I'll use any excuse to give someone that little lecture)
And I welcome the lecture! I'm always willing to learn new things.
Thou placeth thy hands against thy head and attempteth to access thy CLAIVOYENCETH. Tis unfortunate, then, that thy SPELLE LEVELE hath not advancede enough to use such a spelle. Instead, thy heareth thy infernal INTERNAL MONOLOGUE droneth on as follows:
Welcometh to thy SPELLE MENUE! As thou art level ONE, thy canst choose from three nigh-uselesse spelles:
PHASE DOORE: phaseth "away" from thine enemye
SHIELD: "protect" thineself from thine enemye
MAGIC ARROWE: fire a "deadly" projectile at thine enemye
Chooseth one, travelere!
Tis unfortunate, then, that thy thoughts are not clear enough to choose, due to a lack of OXYGENE to thy brain. Thou couldst use a BREATH.
Led by a powefule THIRST and dyinge braine cellse, thou walketh into the pub. It is filled with a number of UNINTERESTING PATRONS and a HAZY SMOKE. A burly, heavysette BARTENDERE doth polish the bar. Were I lazy and unwillinge to take the tyme to create a proper descriptione, I wouldst tell thee he looketh exactly like the keepere of ye olde bazaar in Ocarina of Tyme, but I am not so I shan't.
"Well met, friend!" the bearded bartendre doth roar. "Welcome to the Village of Place! What can I get for ye?" Thou noteceth, among the bottles, labels for potions of "INFLYCT INCONSISTANCE," "CURE SUPERFLUOUSE VOWELSE," "LETTERE POLYMORPHISM," and "LIVERE DEATHE". Tis unfortunate, then, that the labelse have fallen offe, and thou canst not telle to which bottle which labele belongse.
Thy need to BREATHE groweth ever stronger.
Rummage through inventory/pockets.
Sweet, beautifule OXYGEN! Thy STAMINA art restored! Thy maketh thyself a mentale note to continue to breathe in the future.
"Twain pence for a mug, friend!"
Thou searcheth thyself. Apparently, thou art wearing a muddy T-SHIRT and muddy JEANS. In thy pockets, thou findest thy KEYS, a length of STRING, thy POCKETKNIFE (with "patented" CUTCO double-D edge! A relic of your stint as a cutlery salesman), a SCROLLE of POLLYMORPHE: EQUINE, and a COPPER COIN, the face upon which thou dost not recognise.
Thou pulleth out thy SCROLL and begine to readeth the wordse. Immediately, thou feelest a change coming over thyself. Thy face elongates, thy digits fuse, thy nails strengthen into hoofse, and thou sproutest a horne and a taile! Thou art a unicorn!
Naturally, thy first thing thou dost do is wrecke the place.
The BARTENDRE trieth to stop thee, but he is quicklye knocked unconsciouse by a hoofe. (of course, as you will later explaine to the authoritiese, it could have beene anyonese hoof!) Moste of the PATRONS flee the buildinge in a panic, but verily some doth seek to defend themselves by throwing whatevere may be handy at thee. Thy feel several bottlese breakest against thy flank and face, and one errant missile strikest the rack of bottlse behinde ye bar, showeinge thee with various potionse and alcoholse.
Thy begin to feel immediate effects of ye potions. Your infliction of superfluous letters in your words appears to be cured!
Side effects are generally mild and include unusual taste (bitter or sweet), nosebleeds, headache, fatigue and sleepiness, cardiac arrhythmia, cardiac arrest, cardiac explosion, weakened eyesight, weakened teeth, dissolution of teeth, dissolution of internal organs, hives, acne, chicken pox, athlete's foot, sudden onset of unexplainable blisters in private places, dialation of pupils, fecal incontinence, brain damage, spontaneous uncontrollable travel through the fifth dimension, impotence, prostate cancer, sexual reversal, hair overgrowth, nausea, stomach cramps, hemorrhoids, leprosy, nationality confusion, diabetes type B, hepatitis type C, tetris type A, bouts of incomprehensible swearing, homicidal urges, and constant itching on that part of your back that's just out of reach. KEEP OUT OF REACH OF IDIOTS OF ANY AGE.