The Word Cloud

Here we go - the third installment of drivelling nonsense. By this time I must have had a coffee or something. It seems slightly less... aggressive.
The warnings still stand though; there are scenes of an adult nature and biology. Ok, there aren't, but if it gets people reading it then I'll do anything. Well, not anything. Obviously not anything. Most things. Anyhoo... on with the (other) drivel...

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Right, more characters…
Ok, so what we have here is a book about dreams. With absolutely no dream sequences in it… yet. Time to get jiggy with the dreamy shit.

So, the truth about the legends is the crux of this series. I'm looking to convey the vast difference between the glorious gung-ho stories of war and the gritty reality. I heard on the radio when I began this book about soldiers during the Second World War shooting over the heads of the enemy because they couldn't bring themselves to actually kill. Now if it's true and not hype, that is an amazing revelation. According to the story, it was very common too. The bit I don't get is how millions of front-line bods still lose grip with mortality when no-one is shooting at anyone…

Based, very weakly, on this premise I have my storyline; Bad guys are not so bad, the majority are press-ganged (or in fantasy terms; enthralled) into service, ergo reticent to play ball, but compelled to do so. Haven't worked out how or why just yet, but I'm getting there. Good guys are a bunch of dumb shits; because they get to come back to Paradise after they die, their lives tend to not be so… valuable. One or two heroes will just be some poor sod in the wrong place at the wrong time being given a damn good shagging by lady luck. And, because it's just not a fantasy novel without one, we will have a traitor… dun dun duuuuun. Cool.

So, our heroes; Halfir, Grinii we have met - maybe we'll give them a crew; lets see; A couple of fit young birds, some buff blokes and of course Mr Obligatory Traitor Esquire, I Thank You. 

Names.
Right; for the biog and all that shit;
Ok, One guy's going to be called Mad Adam Two Swords. At some point he can wax lyrical about the state of his armour. ROFL. Ahhh, man that's good. Google - trust me. Soddit; Lee Tanith! Madam Two Swords… damn, is mine far enough detatched to be non-plagiaristic?
Ah, fuck it. Who cares? It's there as a giggle. And Lee's book is not the same either. And she's a she… Madam Two Swords that is. Oooo, I wonder if the wax lyrical bit's in there. Toss. Best' go see if the library's got a copy…

Ok, onwards; My all time favourite name in the world bar none; Henrietta Chicken. Google… WTF? A naked rubber dog toy… man there are some real sick people on this planet. 

Who's next; Leonorah Spit. (Chuckle) Ahhh, I so cannot call her Spitroast, that would just be too unsubtle … can I? Hmmm… thinks…

Ok, another couple of Hero's; Oooo, bad guy; Gol Myne… oh yes, it says greed, it says dwarf, it says dirty, it says traitor! As for why; his brother… Sil Myne (snigger)… lost his life because of Halfir's incompetence and Gol has held a grudge ever since. Liiiiike it!
How about this… Gol and Sil did not die to get into Paradise…! So how'd they get in then? Aha!!!! There are two ways! You die OR you accompany someone who was born here!!!! Testing his theory, Irsi,  (Remember him - he's our bad guy, or protagonist, yeah baby! Boy I am learning sooo much from these books!) takes Gol and Sil into Paradise because, get this; Irsi was born there. Yes! So now, Gol and Sil are poodling around in Paradise illegally, and when Sil pops his clogs due to some as yet unknown stupidity of Halfir's, everyone is expecting him to return. But he doesn't! Because, he doesn't belong there! Yeeeeha! Soooo, where is he? Well, I'll tell you. He's only on the baddies side isn't he?! His appearance has changed; because, let's face it even Irsi rewards his faithful, up to a point… So he's going to be one of the other crew;

Right, the "baddies"; Ahh, my old favourite from my AD&D days with Penfold and Scoob… christ I was young… Bungus Iteer. Geddit? Give me a chance, I was… *cough* twenty *cough* or so when I thought that gem up. He has a brother… ahem. Chukkus. (Chortle) Ahhh Those were the days.  

Anyhooo - These are the gnarly veterans. Plus, lets see… two more "regulars"…ah. Ok. Deep breath. We have the quiet, unassuming burly minimal talker; Pall Martan. A play on EzBro1's real name. RIP. A tribute to my older brother. A true hero, honest, upright, honourable. And a right miserable git to boot. Bless him. 

And let's see, ah my own true hero; Hairy Henry. Or as I like to say T'hairy Henry… in a slightly French accent. Thinking Football. No, not football, football. Oh all right; soccer then. It's still bloody football. The other is just armoured rugby…  

Right, now; coz the bad guys are press-ganged we need a bunch of press-gangedee's… Or something… LOL - god my sides hurt! This naming stuff is a piece of piss! For her birthday I bought EzBird a gardening book; not that she likes gardening you understand but it's something for her to do whilst she's locked outside while I work in here in the warm… just kidding. She does have green fingers. They were blue but now they've gone mouldy… ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha. Ahhhh. Anyway…
So she does like gardening…ok?

In her book there are two types of mud one of which is ericatius - see where I'm going with this? You got it! Eric Atiusoyl. Eric Atuis Soil. Goddamn this is puuuuure genius! Ok, wandering into the kitchen we have… eccinatia tablets. Oh yes. We now have another guy, Equin Atia. Whoop!

Ok, this one's an odd one; Izzit. Young lad, I reckon. Bit of a klutz. We'll pad these guys out a bit in their biographies' later.  

Ahh. Now, this next chap is important. He's a minor-ish character but suffice to say he is my morality tale. Arth Rytchuss. (Arthritis) Is a very old man and does not want to be here at all. I'll be killing him off somewhere near the middle of the story. He's going to die out of fear. You know that saying; "you have nothing to fear but fear itself"? Well, whoever said that wants to come live round here for a fucking day or two.  

So there we are; nine baddies, oh wait that's only eight. Tits. What the fuck was I thinking? Oh yes! Sil… or, as we shall introduce him… Plazt Iq'nabaal. (Plastic Nipple. Ok, by this time I was running on empty and needed help. Don’t blame me, blame my nephew. ok?)  Just check google; yep surprisingly few Plazt Iq'nabaal's in the world. Oooooo, do you reckon people will start naming their kids after these characters…? Dear god I pity those kids, they are going to get the royal shit kicked out of them when they start school… Not just for their names but because their parents are so… thick.

Interestingly when I Google Plazt Iq'nabaal it says "No matches; did you mean Platz Iq'nabaal?" Oho? Thinks I. Let's check out this. Yes, I Say, I did mean Platz Iq'nabaal. What a silly typist I am. Ok says Google. No: Your search - Platz Iq'nabaal - did not match any documents… LOL.

What you people have to realise is; this is the third post and I'm still catching you up; as in you have a loooong way to go yet. That is if there is anybody out there… is there anybody out there? How do I get this bloody thing working? You know what I need? I need someone who is aux fait with IT, that's what I need. Oh, wait… ohhhh, now I get what they meant by "get out you useless lazy fat fucker…" Sheesh, if they had only said what they meant. Man, I don't do subtle.

So, we now have our cast of characters; all bar the dragons and some magii. But we'll come to them later. Except one Magi; 'coz you're going to love this…! He's the one, right, that controls the weather… ok? following me so far? Cool. Well he has got to be called something like John Kettley or Ulrika Johnson, oh wait no, too girly. So I plump for; da da daaaaaa Michael Fish! And why? Here you go you pseudo intellectuals; check out GHOTI. GB Shaw wanted to simplify the Ingrish language; and pointed out (by ignoring some fundamental rules) that GHOTI could be pronounced FISH. GH as in rouGH, O as in wOmen (Wimmin. Not wimmin, wimmin ahhh how crap that looks written down Mr Hill…) and TI as in naTIon; GHOTI. FISH. See? Ok! So our weatherman is Mr Ghoti. Now, Michael. Mick? Mick Ghoti? Mike Ghoti? Oooo, Wiki; are you ready for this? Albania! Not the Southern dialect (Tosk) but the Northern dialect (Gheg); is translated as Mhill. So now we have Gheg'mhill Ghoti. Michael Fish.

And we sooo do not want to be wasting opportunities like this! F = GH? Ghuckin' priceless mate. LOL.
How about a sword called… Nog'huque… work it out… ignore the apostrophe's they mean jack. Awesome. Ahh, I so need to get out more…

Next time, emohem words and language, place names and magical beasties and weapon…ies…

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Can you stand the pace? Seriously? Please, if you want me to stop, I will. Just send me a snail mail; addressed to me, naturally, but written on the finest 80gsm, slightly yellowed, antique parchment written in rare blue squid ink from the great barrier reef, and sealed inside a sharp folded, crisp £50 note...

:o)

Ez