Come forward, good stranger, and tell us of your need,
And with the blessing, what ain't fine, will be.

Requests to Yugash go here.

Forever blowing bubbles...

[Uh oh. Sounds like Yugash is grumped up and on a derisive streak.]

She would keep yeh all to dawdle over frivolities. This is no Fair Day, Mhaya! They've won no goose, answered not a riddle 'tween them, and I'm surprised there ain't more outcry of offense at such useless prizes!

Cry your pardon, Folken of World's End. Cry ( Read more... )

[Without any prompting (or electricity, funnily enough), shortly after midnight the jukebox at Thorn will light up its neons and begin to play this familiar old tune.

As it nears the end of the track, the vocals will slow to a sluggish finish as a few springs pop loose and the whole works begin to smoke, along with Matt's prized Donkey Kong machine. ( Read more... )

[There's a steady, rhythmic hiss of hot air, the pop and crackle of fire, and the low, steady humming of a laboring man.  Yugash has a nice singing voice.]

Pump the bellows harder, cullies,
Work the fires warm aglow,
Pretty sister wants a trinket
Spark'a darks will simmer low

This night fulla hot-spit-fire
Sinks into the blood and burns
Commala season, ( Read more... )

[There's a crinkling paper sound, none but careful knowing ears would know the sound of tobacco being rolled, and a soft snap like a flintspark.]

...And not a "Thankee-Sai" from a one of 'em. I tol'ja well, sissa, didn't I?

[A long, ponderous exhale. A low cantankerous hrrum of a grumble. Then the great bellows of lungs refill, sturdily.]

Laziness ( Read more... )