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Author Topic: The Charm of Shain the Shaman, Wonderful Spirit Handler Extraordinaire  (Read 12366 times)
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I'm a hypogrifte!

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« on: November 22, 2013, 02:40:13 AM »

I've prepared a little something for the forum. Not sure why, but I haven't done anything creative in a while (or ever), so it might make up for that. I'm not that good at writing or narrating, but I hope it's entertaining enough. Enjoy. Or if you don't like me or my prose, consider yourself lucky and don't read.

Kraud - Kukri-wielding businessman and ex-York patrolman. The Salt of the ghost hunting crew "Salt and Pepper".
Shain - Shaman barely keeping it together. The Pepper of the ghost hunting crew "Salt and Pepper".
Mme Gifle - Victim of a shade crime in need of assistance.
A ghost - He hates the living.

* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance blahblahblah


The rain had gone on for just over half a week. Three newly added tires of a grumbling 1930s jeep dragged twin trails of moistened shards along the crackled gravel road. The last tire could not be changed because its occupants had zero of anything.

The roaming iron cage haulted and feet pattered against splashing brown puddles. Gravel and other paving material could not be placed in all convenient locations because certain people enjoyed thwarting one of the roadmakers, as he had an accent and wore a turban. Nice people. One thing nobody really hated was a nearby tree, and even it got a bad run, because the shorter of the duo unleashed his yellow spoor on it.

Zero of anything. Especially grace.

After looping a special knot in his trousers, the now relieved shaman hooded a cowl over long, wavy hair, and ruffled his worn surtout, which had variegated aborigine patterns embroidered on it. Nobody knows where he got the surtout, though the colorful threads were obviously inherited from his village. He caught up with his partner, and they reached a Creole house together. The taller of the two kept his umbrella over himself only, strong biceps declining to help the less fortunate.

Two door knocks. The wooden slab angled open. A pretty but sad looking face. Young twenties, likely close to age as the eccentric medicine man.

A hardened face subtly reeled back, then addressed the potential donatee.

"We're here for the ghost." He kept a straight face and tightened his jaw.

Like I said, no grace.

I liaised. "Bonjour, my associate's name is Kraud, I am called Shain. We're here to help, mademoiselle..."

"Gifle. Madame Gifle."

Oops. Thankfully she didn't seem insulted.

Inside there was tea, still hot. Kraud didn't touch his, and with shoulders hunched, I noisily sipped at mine because it tasted like rosehips, fragrant bark, and red striped candy. Very tasty. I tried to avoid thinking about what she smelled like, and tried extra hard to not get up and sniff at her. She explained her situation, of the slowly failing farm, and the encroaching natives (of whom I was both like and not like), and now the haunting, which unfortunately, but conveniently for our business, coincided with the chapel being burned by what most blamed on the natives; benches and occupants included. Surely nobody local meant for such things to happen. Her troubles soon reached their tip.

"I read every letter of advice the priest's son gave, and nothing seems to expunge the spirit. Nobody knows what to do and people think I'm crazy. I-I dont know what to--" She broke into a sob.

Kraus got aggravated. "Wow, are ya :palm:ing kiddin' me? Shut the up you desperate ninny. Tryta get a grip long enough for us so we can blow this over." Even if he wanted to bed her, his more insufferable habits took over, being an ekhm.

As I write of past events, I could have editted the scene to present Kraud as more sympathetic, like so:

"I read every letter of advice the priest's son gave, and nothing seems to expunge the spirit. Nobody knows what to do and people think I'm crazy. I-I dont know what to--" She broke into a sob.

"Miss, everything will be all right, that's why we're here. This is a simple routine for us, and after we're done, with your permission, we can hang wards that will look like ordinary decorations around your house, so that no ghost can bother you any longer, and you'll be able to live in your warm home with fewer worries. All of this will be like a mere memory of a bad dream, and then your husband's ship will arrive.

But I didn't because I didn't like him.

I asked for the location of where the haunting was first encountered, and she directed us to the underground cellar, which was well furnished, but was dusty and not well stocked, though the floor was recently washed. So far it was a normal case and I instructed her to wait upstairs, out of harm's way, because we would soon be done. Well, I would be done, anyway.

"Yea yeah, whatever (he grabbed a handful of mints from a crate and began crunching, with the wrappers on). Just do your freaky deaky . And remember, it's an 80-20 split because you had to drag me here. I'll be back."

He didn't say where he'd be back from, but I knew where because it's where he always went when he was horny and melancholy. I should mention that Kraud is the "first" half of Salt and Pepper, our little spirit erasing gig, but doesn't know anything about houdou, and I'm basically his nanana.

"I'm going to need the enchanted golf club."

"Yeah and I'll beat yer punk with it if y'keep pestering me."

"There's six other clubs in the--"

"And I need all seven to get lucky."

"But how will I--"


He instinctively kneed his way to the cellar's second exit to outdoors, and snuck out from the job. I could hear the jeep make its way to the golf field he so frequented. Even though it was raining and better things could be done.

I now had alone time in the room.

I was prepared to be not prepared to be unprepared for the job, and so unsheathed a reed flute from my pack. I positioned it perpendicular to my face to avoid homoerotic accusations. Minty tea breath condensed, and I began roving disjointed patterns. The shrieking howls pierced the silence of the otherwise cozy room.

I played for a span of fifteen breaths, then played even further. threads of noise danced in the air like snowflakes that were actually daggers. The atrociously mutilated sounds that otherwise could have been music weaved a sonal web through the air like a spider on LSD.

Then it appeared.

"STAAAHP. THAT." grouched a spirit.

"It was the only way I could have drawn you out" I noted.


The apparation glared and superfluously expanded his lungs. The wailing began. I smiled. Little did he know that I had ingeniously planned a counter by placing in my ears sedated bugs that would eat at my eardrums after being startled by any sound louder than what is safe for human ears.

"Your strange ideas of flirting won't work, I am immune."

"WOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooo!!! YEAAAAAAH I'M A GHOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSTTTT, WOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooo!!!" I didn't hear that actually, but they're all the same really.

I calmly removed a gourd, a bowl, and a talisman with Latin and aborigine chants on it. Neither of the words of either dying language were holy, it's just that ghosts will try to flee from anything if it looks pretentious enough. The gourd from the water went in the bowl, and the talisman went in the water. The liquid filled the concave etches of the talisman, and the water was now irritating to dead things. It would be done fast.

He mouthed what looked like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OH NO, GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!!"

"IN THE NAME OF THE GREAT SPIRIT PIPI, BEGONE, DOVCHEVS BAGGVLVM." Pipi was a god who looked like a severed chicken head, a symbol common in houdou.

I spritzed on the spectre, and unlike the tree from earlier, he deserved it. He cried out, this time during his second mortification, and he disintegrated like an unthawed turkey dropped in a boiling pot. I chose that awkward simile because he went down anticlimactically sort of like how the White Witch died in Narnia. Why he chose to haunt this house went unknown to me, but it may be because someone's business was faltering and manual dexterity went to ill fortuned purposes. And in that small but triumphant moment, I had defeated a dangerous poltergeist using nothing but my wits and crude magic trickled down from ancestors more skilled than me.

I want to say that I got the girl, but I only had a certain kind of charm. Instead, after pressing a magic stamp in ink and laboriously hexing every wall and corner of the house what seemed like a thousand times, a present and inebriated Kraud persuaded me out of the house, and shoved the bag of now bent golf clubs in my grasp, and attempted to get lucky inside. I am pleased to say that I heard a smack, followed by floor and furniture rumbling, then a shot, as the madame was resourceful and had a bigger weapon under her clothes. And Kraud going down so shamefully, what a dork. Because there was much confusion in the local law enforcement, who could not properly inspect a case, we agreed that neither of us liked him very much, and would plausibly blame the death on the rebelling natives, who looked different and did not share the same language. I now received the entirety of the payment, and after Kraud's house was apportioned to the scheming bank, moved in with the madame's family as a new helping hand. But this would not be the last time I would use my talents to help others, for I am Shain the Wonderful Shaman.


Fester Shinetop
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Sipping on gin and Mango juice.

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« Reply #1 on: November 23, 2013, 01:46:37 PM »

Encouraging words of appreciation.

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drama queen in recovery.

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« Reply #2 on: November 23, 2013, 08:02:12 PM »


Are these retired characters of yours or did you just make them up for the story?

It's hard for me to judge comedic writing. sounds good though

Shroombaker says “Who was it that was looking for Dani
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« Reply #3 on: November 24, 2013, 07:59:43 PM »

They're invented for my convenience for narrating. I was originally going to do a Neil and Seether buddy cop story, but that would require research, accuracy, lack of excessiveness, etc; so instead, this.

If I did do a Neil and Seether story, here's how a scene would work:

Scene: Criminal being interrogated in a locked room.

Cold Seether *gruff voice*: There's dark going ons mulling right now you little maggot on society's rotting arse; you'd best be compliant.

Criminal: So what is this the good cop, bad cop routine? Oldest shiet in the book. *smug* So, *thumbs corner of lip with superiority* where's my attorney?

Neil Tathers *charging forward with fervor*: WRONG! BAD COP, BAD COP! *slams his face against the desk*

Criminal: Mama!


NT: SPIT IT OUT OR I'LL MAKE YOU SPIT IT OUT! *beats criminal silly with a wooden club, knocks over innocent furniture*

I'm pretty sure neither of them have ever went that insane.

Thanks and adjectivally-hinting foreshadows of possible future plot line.
Neil Tathers
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« Reply #4 on: November 25, 2013, 01:31:46 AM »

We have gone that insane before.

And good story.

Black Rum
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« Reply #5 on: November 25, 2013, 07:07:19 PM »

That was a jolly good story. Really entertaining to read and the characters are quite unique. Using pretentious superstition to scare ghosts and having an ill-mannered brute go golfing is just something you don't really stumble on elsewhere.

Name's Black Rum this here's my buddy Smarties. We're mostly hanging around the Misfit and campfires. Come and drink with us we'll get along nicely. That is as long as you're not French. 'Curse the French! Bwaa!' Damn straight little buddy.

I'm also Benoit Camenzind.
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