Forum Game Mirrorlands (Roleplaying game)


Susan Wormwood... is that... me? No, that doesn't seem right. I think I knew her once though. Or rather, met her... yes, at a social gathering. I was so excited to meet her... and then it all went wrong... As I snap out of my vague flashback, I take a look at the trainers. They really are quite tacky. I certainly can't wear them with my current outfit, so I will either have to find more casual clothes or find better shoes. And yet, I'm hesitant to discard my current outfit, lest it carry some information about my past with it. With a sigh, I set down the trainers and look for a higher quality shoe store in the village area.


I have always considered myself a fashion-conscious individual. I get it from my parents, both of them were "appearance matters" professionals, my Dad especially so, I ironed my suit trousers while he ironed his, did my tie like he did it. My parents thought this was incredibly cute. But then they were the kind of individuals who found everything cute. When I was 16 we were at a wedding with an open bar, I drank three glasses of wine and threw up on a statue of Venus, my parents found that "adorable".

But either way, I liked clothes, and I liked dressing well in them, even in a school where an uncreased blazer made you the pinnacle of uncool, I stuck to my guns, bore through the teasing, and I think I came out of it a better man. I don't take pride in many things, but I take pride in the way I dress.

Plus I'm fairly confident the few female encounters I had in my university years can be directly attributed to understanding matching colour palettes.

We walked through the town, passing a variety of homes; first beautiful beach homes, with plant pots outside and cute wooden plaques with names like, "The Sun Den" and "The Dolores's"; and then less beautiful homes, goblins scrambling over them, pointing their little crystals to add ivy or paving stones, gates, window ledges, chimneys, doors or windows; we passed the homes with nothing, homes where even the roofs hasn't been summoned, just solid pastel-colored cubes, devoid of all detail, sitting on either side of a road that was now nothing but a tarmac strip, goblins rushing around, frantically adding in details.

And then even the cubes were gone. And we were in the ruins.

You're stood on the edge of the town, behind you are the cubes of the incomplete homes, still under construction. In front of you is a desert of blown out foundations, charred earth, pieces of burnt wood, baking in the sun. There is an offensive lack of smell. I guess it bothers me more, as I smell through your nose, but these seaside towns, they're meant to smell of split ice cream and fish and chips, of the sweat of children and the tea that stubborn Britons insist on drinking, saying "warm drinks actually cool you down, you know, by encouraging you to sweat", which is of course absolute nonsense, The absolute nonsense required to justify drinking a 60 degree drink in 40 degree weather.

There's none of that here, no chatter, no smell, just this blazing heat on your skin and bare feet, the waves crashing into the beach and the seagulls crying, and the silent ruins all around you.

A goblin walks up to the foundations of a building, he picks up a fleck of paint and examines it carefully, before pulling five crystals from his large duffel bag. He places one crystal on each corner of the foundation, before stepping back and, with all the strength his scrawny arm can muster, hurling the fifth crystal into the middle. The moment the crstal hits the ground a pastel cube appears, right on top of the ruined foundation. The goblin smiles at his creation, looks up, and curses. His cube is three stories too high, more of an oblong really.

"What the not!" Cries a second Goblin, running over, "Why so tall, it's not meant to be this tall!"

"I dunno," Protests the other, "I did it the same as before, all of it, the cris'tals must be broken!"

There isn't a Clarks out here, so no hope of finding your shoes, turn back?

Roy and Lukas
Your objective is to escape the bull, and given that letting the bull kill you is also it's own form of escape, the only real way NOT to achieve your objective is by riding on it.

It turns out that bulls do not like being ridden. If they did like being ridden, Texans would have to find some other way to have fun, and it would probably involve shooting each other. (Like all English people I perceive the US to consist of vast swathes of desert populated by gun-obsessed rednecks, and then New York, where all the romcoms happen) Either way, you're now clinging onto the horns of an aggressively bucking bull in the middle of an abandoned road in a south English coastal town, surrounded by thatched roofs and Thatcher quote doormats.

So you do the reasonable thing, and lick the bull.

This works! The moment you lick the bull is freezes, standing completely motionless as you cling to it's back, even purring softly. Do bulls purr? This one does.

"This is a load of Bull right now" You mutter.
Last edited by a moderator:


I silently sigh. My feet are starting to ache, and this voice in my head is leading me on a wild goose chase. Determining that the strange voice might actually just be messing with me, I elect to ignore it completely, walk past the goblins, and keep going away from town.


The Village Idiot
Don't break stuff that MIGHT hurt the bull, break stuff that WILL hurt the bull. We can't deal with uncertainty.