[IC]The Search for Jonathan Strange

Bah! Get back on your Troll lad! Come on! And a'ight, new chapter incoming today or tomorrow!

*giggles* Oh my, I seem to have forgotten the silly update! So yeah, here it is!

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“So, do be lettin’ me get ‘dis ‘un straigh’. Ah’ be stuck wit’…” And here the Troll High Priest looks around himself, to the Undead, to the Elves, the only Tauren, the Orc couple and his fellow kin. “’Dis. An’ fo’ a suicidal ques’ wit’ no chance o’ success whatsoevah’, ‘specialleh’ aftah’ ‘dat brillian’ display o’ mass ‘ysteria at ‘dat loveleh’ gatherin’ at ‘dah’ Violet Stand.”
“We must find ourselves a fitting transportation.” Atare speaks to Nathinios, fascinated by the masculine posture of the Blood Elf, disregarding his shiny eyes and silky, flowing blond hair.
Mindgraine, thoughtful, sits in the snows which lead to frozen wastes of Dragonblight. Disregarding the undead entirely, Zalgradis has resorted to the use of the meditation inducing mixture on his twin pipes. He strokes them, and feels long hard wood against his fingers. A curious smile stretches upon his lips. The Blood Elves banded together, speak to one another of zeppelins, boats and other, rather strange means of transportation. But then, a shriek is heard, echoing around them.

“NONONONO!” The undead rises up, shivering, shaking. “NO! THAT IS NOT THE ANSWER!” He wavers about, pointing fingers and poking arms, and a couple of breasts. One can say that he’s undead, not stupid. “THE TURTLES! DO YOU NOT SEE?! POKEGOCHI, THE BEAST OF A THOUSAND ORIFICES WILL CONSUME US! “ He shouts, panicking. “IF WE LEAVE BY SEA OR AIR, ON THOSE MACHINES, ON ROUTES UNKNOWN TOWARDS THE HORIZONS AND BEYOND, OR BETTER YET, THE EASTERN KINGDOMS WE SHALL STARTLE THE BEAST!” He yells with frantic gestures. “THE TURTLES THOUGH, THEY SMELL THEIR ORIFICES AND WILL DRIVE US AWAY! YOU CAN NOT EVEN BEGIN TO CONCEIVE, PERCEIVE THE HORROR WHICH AWAITS US! THE ELONGATED YELLOWNESS, CREATED BY THE MINGLED WASTES OF C’THUN AND YOGG’SARON COMBINED, FROM WHICH MUSHROOMS GREW, WHENEVER NOT A HOLE WAS IN PLACE!”
A collective “…what?” is heard.
“HEED MY WORDS FOOLS! WE CANNAE RISK TO FIND THE ORIFICES, FOR HE IS NOT ONE BUT MANY, AND WE SHALL BE CONSUMED BY IT, FOR YOUR FOLLY!”
“Heh, I ain’t complaining, I need to level my fishing anyway.” The Tauren says, inhaling slowly from his pipe.
Odd looks are exchanged, but so it comes to pass that our heroes find themselves in Unu’pe.

“I hate this blubbery scent of the walking Walruses.” Kozgugore sighs, shaking his head, looking down to his feet. They walk towards the turtle, when one of the obese morsels walks over to the group. “We have been expecting you. We were told you might want to come collect one of our Turtle transports to avoid strange incidents. I will now instruct you on how to steer the turtles. Please step through he—“
“WE ARE BEING ATTACKED!”
And they turn to see gigantic balls, rolling down the hill in the direction of the village! Are they dozens? Or hundreds? One can not tell. They had prepared for an invasion, but balls are beyond predictable.
One hits a structure as the others pop open. Wolvar crawl from the snow mounds which they leave, and holding their spears ferociously, they take three steps forward before erupting in a massive chain of vomit. Unable to stand, holding on to their spears, they gurgle and gargle, like a vicious cycle of regurgitation which spread to the Tuskarr. The fishy smell, mixed with the meaty bubbling vomit which now spread throughout the entire village’s floor. As people fall to their knees, splashing on the pools of the rotting substance, grabbing on to their stomachs as if it were their lives. A scream from the back, desperate, is heard.
“EVERY MOMENT I LIVE IS AGONY…! BLAAAAAAAAARGH!”
Cyaska, the sadistic Death Knight of the Ebon Hold, reaches for her pouch of Spice and takes it to her mouth, clearly amused. “Maybe… we should be leaving…” Morgeth says, backing away slowly, very slowly. Mindgraine, looking away to a small hare which attempts to flee from vicinity, approaches it, with the intent of saving it from this cataclysm. Suddenly, the dead Elf walks over in an attempt to say something, it’s eyes shining a bright deep blue. But vomit, again, all over, torrents of it, cover, drown the hare. Mindgraine, shocked, appalled, stares at the Elf, for what seemed to be minutes before in turn covering the Elf, in rotting solutions from his very own bowels. His is an uncontrollable flow, for he has no jaw.
People disgusted begin to hold back, holding their own mouths, but they fail horribly as yet more reactions erupt within the group. They attempt to push towards the turtle, standing, as if it were their life’s one task.
Slippery, smelly, and hard is the task of climbing the ramp. But finally on the turtle’s back, they breathe slowly, trying to hold on to whatever energies they have left as well as their remaining stomach content. Teeru looks to the Night Elf on the Deck. “How come you look so normal after all of this?”
She looks at him, with no reply, and looks away. She had vomited before. They stood before a severe case of bulimia. Chakuya, looking at the undead, for Death fascinated Him attempts to strike a conversation. “So, I couldn’t help but to notice that you have no jaw. As such… how do you speak?”
And here, the undead looks solemnly at him, and shakes his head, his tongue on the sides of his cheek. “I AM NOT BOUND BY YOUR MORTAL LOGIC!” And again, something oozes from his throat. Disgusted and disturbed he looks away.

“Well, at the very least we are now full proof against the Turtle’s rocking.” Archal speaks. “Sea sickness is an issue no longer.” He nods to himself, self accomplished despite the sickening remains on his robes.
“’Dis be remindin’ ma’. Did we bo’dah’ ta’ brin’ provisions?” And people cover their faces with their palms, save for the Tauren which happily fishes away in the turtle’s tail. “That’s entirely your problem.”

Days have passed, and they arrive upon Tirisfal Glades. Murlocs run wildly to receive them, with harpoons in hand. Meeting with Seabreeze, name tenderly given to the turtle by this odd crew, they run away, thinking that perhaps the mindless dead which populate the area are a better meal.
Seeing as how there is no port in Tirisfal Glades, they decide to park the Turtle there, and leave Archal to safe keep it. Smiling, perhaps a little too much, they leave the Elf behind, on their way to Brill. Little did they know that Archal, left alone to boredom would consider practicing the dark arts of demonology.

Upon arriving in Brill, they nominate Mindgraine as their spokesman, seeing as how they are in Lady Sylvanas' lands. They sit and wait as they speak in gutterspeak for what seem to be endless hours. Finally, the undead returns, agitated, but seemingly happy. “I have arranged things, as requested. We shall ham and eggs in our breakfast as well as a cat. We are also permitted half a slice of bread and flagon of water.”
“Wait, a cat?” Nathinios looks at him, perplexed.
“You got uz a cat?” The Orc male looks at him. “What would ye want a cat fer?” His mate looks at the undead.
“Company? Through the night? And maybe dinner?”
“Did ye get us a room?”
“A room?”
“Nathinios, can you please take over?” Atare begs him.
“Out of my way, corpse.” The undead is pushed aside by the Blood Elf male, with a swollen chest which would be filled with manly hair, were he not from a feminine race by definition.

A few minutes later “Sadly, there are only three rooms available. You will have to share amongst you for tonight.” Agitated whispers fill the air, but at that moment, shouts and yells are heard. A great commotion comes from the exterior of the Inn.
They rush outside, to hear the source of the noise. “HELP! CIVIL WAR! HIGH APOTHECARY PUTRESS AND THE DEMON VARIMATHRAS HAVE TAKEN OVER THE CITY! CARNAGE! WAR! WE ARE LOST!” While simultaneously from the opposite direction, Archal appears.
“HELP! I HAVE MADE A HORRIBLE MISTAKE! WHILE TRYING TO MEDITATE AND ACHIEVE ENLIGHTENMENT IN THE DARK ARTS OF DEMONOLOGY I HA—“
He is interrupted by the huge sound of thunderous impact. Seabreeze had developed a strange mutation. Puffy rabbit feet. And it only just landed. They looked at Archal and then to the panicked refugee. “Please heroes, you must help us…”

Explosions, green slime, mist and goo explode from within the city’s walls. The aberration leaps once more. Reinforcements begin arriving.
“Oooh, shit…”

Hahahaha! Please, please, please keep writing the next chapters! I am literally cracking up here - I'm actually tearing up from laughing! Absolutely and positively brilliant!

Slack, slack, slack, naught but slack! DO NOT MAKE ME USE THE WEAPON YOU KNOW OF, SHROGANWITHOUTANAPOSTROPHE.

Yesterday we wrote two pages worth of new Chapter D:

Stop whipping us!

Shrogan wrote:“Heh, I ain’t complaining, I need to level my fishing anyway.”

I wet myself. There's a reason I love you Shro'gan.