The Create Inn, Day 21

“Baranbull, are you sure this is a wise decision? Why not just shut down the machine, that should stop him easily. It’ll be better than you going in there yourself!”

The scene unfolds with two men walking down a long hallway. The hallway was lavished with antiques; an ancient Chinese vase here, a valuable painting there. The shoes of the two men clicked loudly on the mahogany wood floor, not a scratch or blemish on the surface. The walls were paved in navy blue wallpaper with gold half-columns running from floor to ceiling. Anyone who knew Baranbull would know that he wouldn’t have anything less than real gold. Unusually, the ceiling and roof was made completely of glass; anyone looking up would see the sky. Those at the inn preferred sunlight to any lamp, but even so there were wall mounts that dangled chandelier-esque lights that were just as gold as the columns. And the effect was grand; it was almost as though they were walking through a palace. The men turned, heading into a similar hallway, though with red walls.

“I must insist, Ahri, you know that Mr. Valen is one of the most promising artists the Create Inn has ever seen! To go in while he’s like this is suicide! Even for you and that blasted machine!” The man speaking was Trevor McClain. He was a short, balding man; you know the type, someone who stays in an office all day doing paperwork. The bespectacled man had a crown of gray hair, the top of his head hairless. He was also slightly overweight, filling out his grey suit more than well enough to make it bulge. His face was wrinkled, making him appear older than he actually was, though not by much. If first impressions were anything, someone would immediately come off as him being a fidgety, panicky man whose sole love is, and always will be, his job.

Beside him, however, was a large, powerful man befitting of his name: Ahri Baranbull. He, too, was bald, but for different reasons; his head appeared to be shaved and waxed rather than balding. He, too, wore a suit. The black pinstriped suit made the man look like a mob boss, contrasting with his tanned skin and the passionate, almost lethal look in his baby blue eyes. Completing the collection was an angular face, a strong stature and several gold and platinum rings on his fingers. “Ha,” he said, “Why must you continue to worry about me? This is not the first time this has happened. And just because he is a Painter doesn’t mean he’ll be enough to keep me at bay. The Create Inn is at stake, you know how furious that makes me.”

“Yes, sir, but still! He’s preparing for you! He’s waiting for you to come!” The two stopped in front of a large, oak door with an elegant 2 near the top. Room two: Mitchell Valen; painter, gamer. Threat.

“Then we shouldn’t make our guests wait. You should go to the others, assure that they are safe. Nothing can leave the Worlds, anyways. Just make sure they are well cared for. Leaving is always the worst part.” Baranbull took a breath as a young brunette ran around the corner, carrying a small black box. She stopped in front of the Innmaster with heavy breaths as if she had run a long distance. Baranbull took the box carefully, as though the contents meant more than anything to him. “Thank you, Ms. Trovell. You are dismissed, please go with Mr. McClain and help him with our other guests.”

“Damnit, Ahri, you better be safe…” McClain warned with a dire tone. The two men met eyes and the smaller of the two shook his head, motioning to the girl and waving her off, following her.

“There is no need to worry. I am a master of my profession!” Baranbull said with a sharp laugh. The man opened the door and walked in, looking around. Each and every one of the sleeping quarters were masterfully decorated to please the guest in the time they were not spending in their World. This one was no different; it was certainly a room fit for a gamer. Over in one corner was a large white screen similar to one that anyone could find in a movie theater. Hooked up to a projector on the ceiling were several consoles, everything made from the NES to the PS3, all of which were on the wall in small cubbies. On the other side of the room was a vast collection of games for every system. The room held a dark atmosphere, perfect lighting for playing these games. Everything seemed ordinary, if a little excessive; everything except for a portal of light beside his bed. This was his entrance to his World, exactly as he would have wanted it. Baranbull stood in front of that portal now, letting the soft blue and green colors wash over him. He took a deep breath and slowly stepped inside.

The world around him disappeared, turning black, upon entering the portal. He remembered the days where he had led his first group of people into one of the Worlds; they had gotten so disoriented, a couple of them even threw up. But that changed quickly. You go through it once and you’re safe for the rest of your life. That was the easy part. But now, he could feel the force of Valen’s will pushing him away, urging him to stay out of this World. Baranbull pushed back; he would not be denied. And so he pushed through, the never-ending darkness giving way to a bright whiteness that stretched for as far as the darkness did. The Innmaster glanced about casually. Usually Valen’s World was full of life and wonders. Had he erased everything?

“Your kind is not welcome here, Baranbull. Get out now!” Came a great and booming voice. Valen, he was around here somewhere.

“I have come to save you from your sins, Mr. Valen. You mustn’t worry, you will be well taken care of. We’ll send you to the place that you belo-“

“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO DO BARANBULL! You’re going to feed me to that machine! Me and my World! I know better than those naïve fools.”

“Certainly not, we here at the Create Inn would never think of such a thing! The machine simply conserves your world, nothing more.”

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Like we can believe that, why didn’t you tell us about it in the first place, huh? Why so secretive?” Valen finally appeared in front of Baranbull. Like most people, he was shorter than the Innmaster, though that didn’t change his flair. He stood up to Baranbull’s shoulders, fully clad in a suit of silver armor that fit to his body. On his head, covering most of his face, was a silver helmet, orange tinted glass pushed up on top.

“Because we didn’t want guests like you to become greedy, you see. And I see that someone’s adopted a brand new look.” The Innmaster looked the figure up and down, noticing a paintbrush in the man’s hand. “We’ve come to notice that you’ve begun to suffer from having too much power. You are slowly becoming delusional. I must stop you, as I’m sure you know.”

“Like hell, Baranbull. Kiss my ass.” Valen lashed out, swiping the paintbrush out before him. The instrument splashed white, “cutting” the Innmaster in half. His legs were now separated from the rest of his body, but he still hovered in the air.

“Alas, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But, if it must be done.” Baranbull lifted the black box up to eye level and opened it. Inside, nestled safe and sound, was a harmonica. He pulled it out and turned, walking away from Valen.

“Please, you know that I know your rules. We’re not allowed to mess with the Worlds of another. It’s impossible, you said it yourself that not even you could.” Mitchell laughed out loud, a somewhat maniacal tone in his voice.

“Please forgive me, but it seems as though I have lied to you.” Bringing the instrument up to his lips, the Innmaster started playing. It seemed uninspired at first, like something you would hear from a depressed musician, but it slowly started turning into what sounded like a symphony. An entire orchestra seemed to have found its place behind him, sorrowful music filling the white void. Baranbull’s body started to fade back into focus, the white streak disappearing for his black, pinstriped suit to return.

“W-What are you doing!? This is my World! You can’t do that!” Valen screamed. With a flick of his wrist, paint splattered on an invisible canvas. Without looking, he moved his brush quickly, fanatically, before finally glancing at his work. He reached into the painting and pulled out a large, green, man-lizard. The colors on his paintbrush changed colors and he painted in front of him, creating a tablet-sized canvas. “You’ve messed with the wrong painter, Baranbull, I’ll show you!” He took hold of the canvas, holding it in one arm as his paintbrush flashed gray. He quickly scrawled and, as he did so, the lizard man came to life, hissing and growling as it looked around, tongue flicking out to taste the air around it. Valen continued, creating an armor casing for the beast, wearing it like the knights of old used to. The Lizardman looked surprised, but its master quickly painted the intelligence it needed. This was his Power, this was what he could do. The Painter was working on pure instinct now, constructing what he hoped would be Baranbull’s downfall.

“Ahh, as always, you are too predictable, Mr. Valen. A monster? A one on one battle? I accept your challenge!” Baranbull had taken the harmonica away from his mouth for just a moment before replacing it. The unseen orchestra stopped and Baranbull picked up the pace. His music became frantic, face paced, adrenaline pumping; exactly the opposite of what a harmonica usually is. In not but a few seconds, the music became tangible, flowing forth from his instrument only to fall on the floor. Note after note after note after note, there seemed no end until he finally stopped. With a smile, he bowed as if he had given a performance at Broadway.

“And what is this supposed to be? I produce a lizard, so you have some tar to capture it in? Dinosaurs are extinct, pal.” Valen said loudly. With one stroke of the brush, the Lizardman ran forward, leaping over the fallen music notes.

It didn’t make it far. Out of the notes rose a giant mechanical beast. Bronze armor plated the divine golem, gears of all shapes and sizes could be seen from all its joints, the complexity astounding. And the Lizardman had jumped right into it. Even though half complete, the machine grabbed the beast and squeezed hard, popping the monster out of existence even before it reached the grand height of forty stories.

“I had given you the chance, Mr. Valen, but you had to squander my good grace. I am going to take you by force, now.” Baranbull’s tone remained light as the mechanical beast stepped forward. “Even now, I am limiting your abilities in this World. It shall be restored and placed with the rest of those who have been saved.”

“Bullshit!” Valen yelled at the mechanical golem as it lifted its leg. The man started painting again, this time in the air around him. It had seemingly no effect on anything until the golem brought its gear ridden foot down. It stopped just inches from Valen’s face.

“Resistance is but a phase, Mr. Valen!” Baranbull yelled, impressed and amused by this man’s will to not be taken.

“Like hell it is!” The machine lifted its foot up again and brought it crashing down once more. Valen flinched from the effort, sweat dripping from his brow. It was taking all he had to keep this world under his control. Baranbull kept sapping away what little power he had left here, weakening him. And finally, he faltered. The shield broke under the giant’s massive force and he was squished. Satisfied, Baranbull released the monster from this world with a quick note on his harmonica. The Innmaster walked forwards with long strides.

“And yet another man has had to meet the Bronze Terror. It’s a pity, I would have asked Mr. Valen to stay with us.” Baranbull shook his head slowly as he stood over the unconscious body of Mitchell Valen. The World returned after that, pouring from Valen himself, it was as if the sun was shooting over the horizon for the first time; grass flashed into existence, flowing from the body to where trees and mountains, blue sky with yellow clouds and the sun along with two moons came into glorious existence. A bird, a four winged cardinal, chirped on its way down, landing on Baranbull’s broad shoulder. Playing another note, it too came into existence and landed on the ground. In a flash of light that scared away the odd looking bird, the portal appeared. He glanced down at Valen one more time. “Goodbye, Mr. Valen. I am afraid that you are no longer fit for our world.” And with that, Baranbull left Guest Room #2.

“Jesus Christ, you’re still alive?” McClain had been pacing up and down the hallway outside of Valen’s room, arms crossed and a worried look on his face.

“Of course, I’m insulted that you had any doubts, my old friend.” As McClain opened his mouth to protest, Baranbull held up a finger. “Hold that thought, you can save them for tomorrow. I have orders for you to relay.” McClain sighed and nodded, but never uncrossed his arms. “This world must be saved, and then promptly deleted.”


“And Mr. Valen?” McClain asked, glancing at the door.

“It is as we feared, he is no longer suitable for life outside of his own World.”

“The poor guy…”

“Yes, it is a pity, but he knew what was going on.” Baranbull lowered his head in sympathy before raising it again, still looking down at his friend. “Either way, what of the other guests?”

“They have been taken care of and they’re safely on their way.”

“Good, better than good, marvelous. Even though we have lost one of our most respective guests, I will call this endeavor a success! But, pray tell, what of our newest guests?”

“They reached the checkpoint at 6 o’clock today, Ahri. They’ll be here by noon tomorrow.”

“And the worlds?”

“Are being transferred for saving as we speak. It will be done tomorrow by the time the new guests will arrive.”

“Ahh, the good news just keeps on pouring in.” Baranbull replaced his harmonica back in the box and slid it into a pocket inside his jacket. “I shall retire for the night. Limiting the powers of a near god-like figure is no easy feat.”

“I would imagine not.” McClain said, now looking at the ground, not daring to take another glance at Room 2. That seemed to be where most of the power hungry ones had been placed. It was somewhat of an urban legend these days.

“Come now, Mr. McClain, raise your spirits. Think, we have nearly perfected the machine! We will no longer have to worry about such things. And so, I wish you good night, my friend.” Baranbull clasped McClain’s hand in his own and turned, walking back to his room with a smile on his face.

Tonight he would sleep well, for the Create Inn had just suffered another victory.

List of Rules and Such

Writer: Tiger of Wu
Musician: Wolf of Light
Storyteller: Coevalent
Sculptor: Rust
Painter: Kyinnla
Artist (ink): BSmith3

Note to those joining: I am a very picky person, impress me. That being said, I'm not an unreasonable person; if there's something you want that's not on the list and not taken, convince me and I'll let you. Easy enough, just as below.


NeoName: (Easy enough amirite?)
Character Name: (Also easy enough, amirite?)
Age: (lol)
Occupation: (trickier)
Art Genre: (One of the above/different genre if you can convince me)
Tools of the Trade: (What are you going to be working with in the World Room?)
Background: (Where, when, how, what. Nothing excessive, a paragraph at least, please. If anything, tell how you've come to this art form)
Other: (For all you other kinda folks out there, here's an other section)

[size=1][color=#666666]This message was edited by Rust on Oct 11 2009.

Character Listings

NPC's

Character Name: Ahri Baranbull
Age: 38
Occupation: Innmaster
Art Genre: Music
Tools of the Trade: Harmonica
Background: Baranbull's past is wrought with mystery at every corner. He seemed to appear out of nowhere; his life left no trail. Not even his vast fortune could be tracked to see how he came to be to this day. Either way, he quickly gathered the people that he needed, Trevor McClain and the rest of the Create Inn employees, and returned to being isolated. It is unclear as to how he learned the Harmonica as well, but he is very well played.
Other: Baranbull seen when he's needed or to make the daily morning speech; otherwise, he is always "somewhere else" (as in no one knows where he goes while he is not in his office or helping a Guest). He is a recluse, but a friendly one at that.

Character Name: Trevor McClain
Age: 53
Occupation: Financial Director
Art Genre: N/A
Tools of the Trade: N/A
Background: Trevor has all the necessary degrees in business to have caught Baranbull's attention when he came out into the mainstream. Trevor McClain had been down in the dumps when he met his new boss, having been fired from his job for the hindrance the depression was causing him. Baranbull gave him a chance. Although skeptical of the things he was being told, McClain agreed to go with Baranbull to see this wondrous machine for himself. Ever since, he has been a believer.
Other: McClain doesn't have any artistic talent at all. He, unlike Baranbull, stays in his office doing work. He is almost always reachable but never likes to be bothered.

Character Name: Layla Trovell
Age: 27
Occupation: Baranbull's personal assistant/head maid
Art Genre: N/A
Tools of the Trade: N.A
Background: Layla is another unknown, seemingly plucked out of thin air after Baranbull found McClain. Back then, she could be considered underfed and weak, but she had grown strong under Baranbull's tutelage. She also has a fond interest in the Arts, which is the other half of what brought her to the Inn so readily. It was up to her to pick the rest of the employees and she has yet to disappoint her employer yet.
Other: Though attractive, and with so many suitors coming and going through the Inn, Layla has yet to glance twice at any of them in a lustful manner. She is also slightly skilled at drawing, but any attempts in a World Room have come out unsatisfactory.

Player Characters

NeoName: Tiger of Wu
Character Name: Bradford K. Brown
Age: 34
Occupation: Various (actor, artist, dancer, designer (of many things), director, musician, producer, sculptor) but predominantly author.
Art Genre: Writing
Tool of the Trade: An ebony plated pen with gold, cursive text that reads 'Freedom'.
Background: Though born to a wealthy family Bradford was not raised well, his father a man who took pride in his work and nothing else and his mother being an abusive alcoholic. The maids and butlers wouldn't dare go near the boy, fearing how his parents would react, and without a real upbringing he had no real social skills making him very lonely. Psychiatrists referred to him as an escapist, someone who would become absorbed in various mediums such as reading and television as a way to ignore reality.

As he grew up Bradford began being actively involved in these mediums, learning various arts. Whilst an above average dancer and a more than adequate painter he always excelled in writing. He would go between cities and towns dancing and acting in films, plays, television shows and selling his paintings, designs and sculptures when the inspiration took him but always, without fail, would he be working on a book at the same time. He has made books from all kinds of genre from fictitious fantasy and sci-fi novels to biographical and instructional books. He claims that no message can be truly conveyed through anything but the written word.

As he progressed through life Bradford became fairly famous and began making his own films and plays, all the while working on books in between.
Other: Though experienced in many art forms he has never, even to experiment, sung. He will only listen to music if it is without a Human voice.



NeoName: Coevalent
Character Name: Cornelius Grimly
Age: 78
Art Genre: Storytelling
Tools of the trade: Good Ol' Voice Box

Background: Cornelius...though everyone calls him Grim...had always been a very vocal person. When he was born he came out screaming without the need for the doctors slap on the behind. The day before he turned two he debuted his talent for a local township event. A passing gypsy gang heard the boy and was stunned, so in the deep of the night, they snuck into the campsite and kidnapped the boy. They filled his brain and trained his tongue to speak with the enchanted tales of their history, mythology, and folklore. At 16 he finally left his adopted family and set out to learn his fill of the world and all that it had to offer. Across all 7 continents he travelled and picked the imagination off of every cultural forest. Till one day residing in a monastery in the mountains he received a letter from Mr. Baranbull inviting to his inn. This is how he came to be here.

Other: He is a very easy to get along with old gent. His long white beard hangs down to his mid waist but the tip of it is usually found in his mouth, as he has a tendency to chew on it. a small pair of spectacles sit on the edge of his nose always seeming to fall off but always remaining sturdy. He speaks with his hands and possesses a great deal of body language with his story telling so it is easy to get caught up in his stories, a trait of a true linguist.


NeoName: BSmith3
Character Name: Archibald (Archie) Wilson
Age: 35
Occupation: Unemployed
Art Genre: Pen & Ink
Tools of the Trade: A brilliant white quill and ink bottle. Very old-fashioned.
Background: From a small child, Archie was fascinated with drawing. The idea that 2-dimensional lines on a sheet of paper could create a complex drawing was marvelous to him. He took his love of art through school, almost getting a free ride through college. It was in his Junior year at Suffolk University, however, that his parents were the victims of a horrific car crash. His father was killed and his mother wound up in a coma. Unable to focus, Archie began to fail his classes, and soon after dropped out of school entirely. With his whole life turned upside-down, young Archie began scrapping together a living doing odd jobs, almost completely forgetting about drawing. Fourteen years later, he was laid off from his once-steady job as secretary at a processing plant, and, with nowhere else to go, picked up his pen once again. One day, at his dingy apartment in Providence, a strange invitation arrived among the bills…
Other: He is a fervent believer that only you can run your own life. His mistrust of others tends to be his one fault.

NeoName: Rust
Character Name: Warren Fox
Age: 26
Occupation: Fantasy Sculptor
Art Genre: Sculptor
Tools of the Trade: Clay, hammer and chisel
Background: Ever since Warren was a child, he was interested in those pewter and granite dragons that he always saw in the catalogs his mother received in the mail. He obsessed over these things, removing the pictures from the catalogs and putting the clippings on his bedroom walls. Though his mother never actually bought one of these dragon sculptures for him, she did give him the next best thing. At a flea market, he ran to his mother pointing to an old box with a dragon on it. Inside was a block of stone, an old hammer and chisel, and instructions. From there he knew his new past time, and he's been doing it ever since.
Other: He's a lover of food, never turning down a new dish. Though he likes food without it, he always carries around a bottle of habanero hot sauce.

NeoName: Wolf of Light
Character Name: Richard Alstram
Age: 68
Occupation: Piano tutor. Richard lives in a small New England township, and gives lessons from his homely domicile.
Art Genre: Music. Richard is a pianist of great skill and passion.
Tools of the Trade: A Steinway Grand Piano. The black instrument is sleek, exceptionally wide, and is Richard's preferred brand. He maintains the piece set out for him at the Inn religiously, and polishes the keys before and after every session.

Background: Richard Alstram was a concert pianist of some renown in his heyday, praised and lauded by high society for his passionate performances, most notably of which were Chopin. Having grown up in the town he now lives in, Richard abandoned the life of luxury which his concerts would most certainly have brought him, choosing to "waste his talents teaching snot-nosed brats in New Hampshire". His refusal to perform professionally is based on what he perceives as social stereotype being adhered to. He claims that the lack of passion in those for whom he played irritated him no end, and instead he attempts to set the fires of creativity blazing in the unburdened hearts of children- "those who truly appreciate the beauty".
Richard discovered his talent at a very young age, and was writing his own pieces by his 15th birthday. It was under his mother's influence that the reluctant young Alstram first took up the piano. Richard was at first skeptical of music on the whole, but in time he came to adore his art-form, and is exceptionally sensitive to those who "mistreat innocent music".

Other: Richard is a charmingly soft-spoken old man, and is very passive in his dealings with other people, despising confrontation in all of it's forms. He will eloquently extricate himself from almost any argument he deems too serious, and prefers not to voice his opinion on matters of controversy.

NeoName: Kyinnla
Character Name: Kamerla “Kammy” Isidro
Age: "29"
Occupation: Art teacher
Art Genre: Painting
Tools of the Trade: Globs of color, pallet and paintbrushes not required
Background: Kammy was born and raised a city girl. Her parents traveled around quite a bit from city to city across the world. When she was about six or so, she threw a fit about having to move again by throwing the objects closest towards her. As these were paint cans and rather heavy paint cans at that, Kammy instead opened them up and threw the paint on the wall.
Years after that incident now, she is teaching at an ordinary high school as an art teacher after graduating from a prestigious (and rather expensive) art university which had just enough other classes for students to become teachers as well. Her biggest problems used fighting with the school board about freedom of expression and arguing with her parents about her having “wasted” their money on that college to become an art teacher until receiving a strange letter in her mail.
Other: Kammy likes to cut up old pieces of furniture and bills to create interesting, new pallets.


[size=1][color=#666666]This message was edited by Rust on Oct 17 2009.

Day 1

Warren Fox stared down at his first meal at the Create Inn in awe. He had reached the Inn only minutes before and he was already being treated like royalty! Roasted duck, thick sirloin steaks, port, brown rice, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, three kinds of gravy and several different fruits and vegetables. Warren was in heaven, just as the letter seemed to have promised him. He couldn’t believe this was real, there had to be a catch.

The 26 year old sculptor was tall, nearing the 6’3” mark, and lanky. That’s not to say he was skinny, oh no, he just had long arms and legs that seemed disproportional for his tall frame. He hardly saw it as a problem, himself; all of his clothes, such as the dark two piece suit he was wearing, were custom tailored to his measurements. At the moment, his green eyes stared hungrily at the table, his tongue nearly falling out of his mouth as he licked his lips. His nostrils flared when he breathed in, nearly fainting from how amazing the food smelled. They must have the second best chef in the world here (second only to his mother, of course)! Strong, lithe fingers reached for his knife and fork. He grasped them with a firm grip; they were heavy. Warren wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that they were made out of pure silver. Placing the silverware back down, he reached up and ran his fingers through his well kept, if somewhat greasy, brown hair. He couldn’t eat yet, not without their host present. His mother taught him manners when he was still a wee child. Instead, he let his eyes roam the extravagant dining room.

The place was simply beautiful. The floor in the large dining room was made of a glossy gray stone. Warren could see that it was marble; not only that, but it was a nearly perfect slab. He didn’t move his chair in fear of scuffing such a beautiful floor. His gaze wandered from there. The wallpaper was hunter green with yellow stars, the generic sort. It seemed to fit perfectly, though. Turning his eyes to the table, he saw how painstakingly careful the creator was. It was made of a dark wood, the type of which the sculptor didn’t recognize. Resting above the table was glass, one top of that was the food. But under that was pure beauty; the table’s creator had carved a picture of the Gods of Olympus. Every detail could be seen, not a single thing had been missed from the scene.

That wasn’t all that was in the room. The walls were lined with the busts of famous leaders; Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Genghis Khan, to name a few. They were made of a pure white stone. Alabaster, perhaps? The mineral made a great canvas for a chisel and Warren had always wanted to work with it. His attention turned to the far side of the room. There was a short platform that spanned the width of the room. Atop this platform was a small podium for which someone (presumably Baranbull) to address them. Finally, his eyes reached the ceiling. Unexpectedly, it was glass! Crystal clear, too. He could see the clouds floating lazily by, the moon in plain view even though the sky was still blue.

Absentmindedly, the sculptor pulled the invitation from his pocket. Everything about it seemed high class; the scrawling script, the soft paper, the wax seal and emblem. He remembered when he first received it. His roommate Alyssa (a completely platonic relationship, of course) brought his mail to his workshop, commenting on how nice it looked. She had seemed giddy from delivering such a letter and was sure to be there when he opened it. The rest was history. She soon broke his skeptical mood and the next thing Warren knew he was at the airport, en route to Italy, and on a boat to an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Now he was sitting in a strange dining room with five strangers, waiting for an even stranger and mysterious man to appear.

Then, as if summoned by their curiosity itself, the large oak double doors that the group came from opened. All six of the people turned at the same time. Standing in the doorway was a balding, elderly man in a three piece suit and a young, attractive brunette with a suit jacket and matching skirt. All of the guests stared at the man; surely such a man could not be the same man who wrote the letter. The elderly man hobbled towards the podium slowly, with a limp, the woman following close behind him. The guests, Warren included, still found it hard to believe that this was the man who wrote the charismatic letter of invitation. Could this man really be the Innmaster, Baranbull? The man finally reached the podium and he turned to face the group. His eyes roamed from one person to another, then the next, and again, until he had silently greeted all six of the guests. Bringing an old fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat.

“Welcome, honored guests,” he spoke, his arms rising to either side of him in greeting. “Welcome, to the Create Inn.”

---

OOC

[size=1][color=#666666]This message was edited by Rust on Oct 19 2009.

Delicious.

Delectable.

Divine.

Archie was sure there were more D’s he could use to describe the meal in front of him, but he was too busy stuffing his freckled face to think of them. Reddish-brown hair obscured his features as his head hung low over his plate. A couple of the other guests shot him looks; either they didn't think his shabby outfit (consisting of a stained gray t-shirt, a tattered navy overshirt, ratty jeans, and a Red Sox baseball cap) was fitting for the majestic hall in which they were seated, or they were of the mind that it wasn’t proper to eat without their host. Pah. Archie never understood the need for customs and courtesies. The food was in front of him, and so he was digging in.

Besides, he reasoned with himself, how long had it been since he'd had an actual meal? A trip to a restaurant was a once-a-month treat, if that. And he was getting sick of Ramen noodles. Even if their Chicken flavor was quite good. The food now in front of him was first-rate, far better than any restaurant the city of Providence could offer... or, so he assumed. He'd never been to the high-end eateries of his city. He rarely even left his apartment nowadays. Until the day the invitation came...

Bill... bill... catalog offer... overdue library book... bill... you may have won $1,000,000... bill... bill... and... a strange envelope, embossed with a coat of arms he'd never seen before.

Archie paused, examining the envelope curiously. What could it be? It was addressed to him, so it wasn't a mistake. Maybe someone had mailed him Anthrax. ....Why the hell had he just thought that? Hey, it'd be more exciting than a bill, at the very least. Hesitating no longer, he slid an ink-covered finger under the envelope's flap and unceremoniously ripped it open, throwing the letter's empty packaging onto the coffee table.

The letter was hand-written, in a small, looping font. No one should have that kind of penmanship. As Archie scanned the letter, his right eyebrow arched in surprise and skepticism. But as he continued to read, his incredulity began to wane. And when he unfolded the bottom half of the letter, and a plane ticket fell onto the dingy floor, he was absolutely delighted... delighted...

“Delightful!”

...Shit. He'd just said that out loud. And with his mouth full of mashed potato, too. Luckily for him, the other guests' attentions were suddenly focused on the door, through which a small, bald man and a rather pretty brunette had entered. The old man made for the podium at the head of the hall, but Archie was focused on the girl. She was... stunning. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with a steely radiance, and her sleek brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail - the only thing about her he didn't care for. She would be so hot with her hair down. If he judged its length correctly, it would fall splendidly to the tops of her perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small, round, perky, probably - no, definitely - soft.........

He was so busy ogling the girl that he missed what the old man was saying. Ah, well. Couldn't have been too important. He turned back to his food. Dreamy.

This message was edited by BSmith3 on Oct 17 2009.

The hall was filled with an incessant need for knowledge. Grim could feel it. He could also tell that just like himself, no one knew exactly why they had been summoned to this place. He could ALSO tell by the look of everyone, they all had within them a great potential, a gift of some kind and he gathered that their host was aware of it just as much as he was. But insinuations and predictions needed to wait. There was food to be had!

A bountiful meal was set forth in front of him. Grim had been all over the world and his taste buds had become quite familiar with many a fine dish, but in front of him appeared an enormous array of mouthwatering morsels that he could understand why the gentleman across the way had just exclaimed “Delightful.”

As Shizaru, Grim’s pet monkey, sat in front of him helping himself to a plantain, Grim reminisced on the odd circumstances, which came to bring him to this luxurious hall.

He had just finished visiting an old scholarly friend in Peking, China and was on his way back up to his hotel room when the man at the front desk grabbed his attention.

“Mr. Grim, sir!”

“Please, just Grim thank you.”

The man ignored Grim’s request for informality, “Yes sir, there is a letter for you here at the desk.”

Grim analyzed what the man had said. Grim had never had a letter delivered to him before as he had never been in an established home long enough to need one. Which only added more suspicion as to HOW someone had found where he was. Perhaps the oddest thing of all was that Grim had only been here one day leading him to suspect the letter was either from someone in the city or from a psychic.

“Thank you Mr. Ying.” Grim said as he relieved the man of his package. A small interestingly wrapped envelope. It looked as though it might fall apart at any moment yet held firm. As he unraveled it and read its contents he understood what he must do. His business at this “Create Inn” must not be taken lightly.

“Mr. Ying. Please have my things prepared for travel immediately I’ll be leaving now.”

Mr. Ying, a small man opposed Grim for a moment, “But sir, you have paid for another three da...”

Grim waved him away before he could finish. “Mr. Ying there are more important things at hand keep the money and give the room to a needy person for the rest of the time. And please prepare my things it is urgent.”

That seemed so long ago yet it was merely days and now he sat here dining on sweet meats, buttery breads and fine wines listening to his humble host and a delightful young woman greet them. Shizaru sat on his lap small golden cup of ale in hand. The Hall seemed homey but Grim suspected something beneath the surface of it all and he pondered what it could be while he dug into his meal.

“What?! What?! Those government bastards don’t think sacrificing Anna was enough for them?! Now they demand that my wife be taken away from me too?! I won’t stand for this!” Wilson L. Isidro yelled, shaking the letter they had received in the mail. He had been mentally unstable since the death of his daughter, Anna Isidro. She was overall more like her father than her mother, but Anna talked with her mother more as she and her father couldn’t see eye to eye on most subjects.

“What are you blabbing on about, Wilson?” His wife, Kamerla, asked while walking into the living room of their apartment. She had been painting in their daughter’s old bedroom. After Anna left for college, the room was still a place for her to come back to if she ever wanted to visit her parents and she often did. Her mother always kept an easel ready for the girl as Anna had inherited her mother’s love for painting, but she had also inherited her father’s love of logic as she was going to school to be a doctor, not an artist. The man didn’t approve of replacing Anna’s old bedroom for a complete art studio a year after she died. Kamerla told him they had to move on and put something in her memory. He still didn’t like it as proven during his many mental meltdowns, screaming about Anna’s room and how it needed to be fixed for when she was coming home.

“The damn government!” he yelled again. “Those rotten bas-” He stopped himself from continuing, too amazed at his wife taking the letter out of his hands. Just the design of it was beautiful. Something high class people would use to send out invitations maybe. Well, definitely something her parents would have received if those two world travelers were actually alive. They were currently (as far as Kamerla knew) somewhere in Africa (having lost contact years ago) after deciding to undertake missions such as creating museums for African art, helping to create textbooks, and skipping contests.

‘The Create Inn? Hmm…sounds interesting.’ The idea certainly appealed to her or at least the idea on paper and how it was presented to her. But what about Wilson?

Kamerla looked up at her husband of many…many years. He wasn’t very old, barely considered old as he was only forty-four years old and yet the man could not be only by himself. Wilson been the president of the local university, but was forced to retire five months after his daughter’s funeral. Kamerla had taken him to the doctor after knocking him out to make him go. He was examined and easily determined insane. Wilson would randomly destroy the house he had worked so hard to look nice. He had been placed immediately in a mental institution and was a little vacation as he had displayed good behavior recently.

It was clear he would have to be spending the rest of his life there. He was the type of person who would rather drown than say he was wrong. Wilson fought what he believed as “stupid” or “evil”. He was too hardcore at times.

Kamerla shook her head as she brought herself back to the present which was a present. All the food and the beautifully decorated room didn’t even bring her back to her childhood as the scenery around her was not even close to this breathtaking.

As she leaned forward to take a bite from her fork, Kamerla’s silvery blond hair fell annoyingly with her. With a sigh, she gently lifted it, putting it behind her shoulders before curling it around her ear.

Kammy, as her teachers and her fellow teachers would call her, always had light blond hair, not to the point of being platinum however. Teaching started making her hair have a silverish tone and losing her daughter (and basically her husband) helped her silver hair rate explode.

She had wondrous blue eyes. They were the shade of the lake when the sun starts to rise. Her eyes have a motherly sense to them, very friendly and trusting, but quite harmful if double-crossed.

Kammy stood at five feet and eight inches and her skin tone lightly tan, mostly from painting on the balcony of her apartment.

Her pink lips wiggled slightly as she chewed. Kammy never wore make-up. She found it to be a waste of money. Why buy goop to put on your face to only take it off at night? Buying paint was a common sense type of deal. You buy the goop to make a picture from it and the picture will last forever (for a very long time if it is not burnt to a crisp or broken in to pieces or fed to an alligators like Sappho’s poems).

Kamerla looked up at their host, suddenly feeling like one of her students who spaced out for a second. She always did have a spacing-out problem (when she was not busy ranting).

OOC: Sorry about it being posted much later than I had said. My computer had insisted on having internet issues.

The delightful banquet was lost on Richard, who's thoughts were presently focused on his favourite rendition of one of Chopin's nocturnes. As he was wont to do, Alstram had begun to tap his fingers on the table in time with his mental instrument, subconsciously playing the lament on the table heaving with delicacies. His fingers tapped frenetically at the varnished wood of the table, and he snapped back into reality to find himself on the receiving end of more than one questioning glance. His "playing" had been interrupted by the clink of cutlery in an otherwise silent hall. Richard noted that a young man in attire of questionable...well, just generally questionable attire, really- had already set upon his meal like a ravenous wolf, ignoring the blatant coughing and angry stares being thrown at him. Richard did not participate. If he had his way, he'd be tearing through the wondrous feast as well, but a concert pianist of almost seventy years was expected to have a certain sense of etiquette and bearing, so it wouldn't really do to commit such a social faux pas- particularly not in a location such as this.
Richard waited patiently and surveyed the other guests seated on his flanks at the great table. To his left sat a man even older than the pianist, absent-mindedly chewing on his cloud-like beard, and to his right a silver-haired maiden who seemed to be paying rapt attention to the wall in front of her. The seconds ticked away and Richard was content to let them go, though he was feeling rather put-out about having been kept so long. His thoughts returned once more to the day he had received the invitation.
It had been a crisp autumn day, the fresh breeze carrying with it the fallen leaves of crimson and gold. Richard had sat in his conservatory with a young student, coaxing out a gentle melody with the child's fingers. He had ignored mistakes made, feeling they were simply a part of the learning process- music was an art form, not laborious toil. As he walked the young lady to the door, he had spied the letter nestling in a pile of bills and junk mail. Apprehensively he had broken the thick wax seal, and was shocked by the proposition. He had, in a flurry of excitement he had not felt the likes of in years, cancelled his classes indefinitely and packed his bags, setting off at once for the Create Inn. Here was a chance to portray musical beauty as it was meant to be portrayed!

The great doors of the hall opened, and a rather unimpressive figure took his place at the top of the hall, a young and rather pretty girl standing behind him. The balding man announced the group, and as one being they all thought "Baranbull? Not a chance" in some way or another. The enigmatic owner of the magical establishment they had been summoned to was most certainly not resemblant of a banker.

"How many that deserve my attention?"

"Just the one."

"Fine, bring it to me. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, so then after he puts on the jacket he's teleported to a type of alternate world where he's told he must become what is called a duelist to appease this strange deity. The deity tells him that whenever it dictates he must wear the jacket and become Camo Man, then the voice echoes in the background 'man man man man' and the title credits roll." Bradford waited for his companion to give her opinion. She looked at him, deep in thought.

"Meow." She replied sweetly, rubbing her cheek against his stomach. He scratched behind her ear.

"Whilst that's true it doesn't change the fact that holding out on studios is what got me so far. If I allow them to dictate how it should be handled the entire industry would rust away and die. My pride is the oil keeping our robot working. If-" The large doors to the mans office opened as his PA, a man named Sanjeev Bhaskar, walked in holding a letter. He said nothing, simply handing it to his boss and waiting as he silently read it. A short and swift smirk. "Pack our bags."









A light mist was atop Sanjeev's head as he carried Bradford's luggage, forbidden to pawn it off onto the various maids and butlers in spite of their offers to help. As he took their belongings to Bradford's room the man himself was taken to a luxurious dining room, the other guests having mixed reactions at his tardiness. He apologized, seeing he was the last there, and took his seat before remaining silent for as long as he could. With a small black notepad and his pen he observed the others and wrote down his thoughts and feelings on them.

'Brash, unclean, poor,' He looked around. 'Elegant but troubled... eyes... broken,' He looked around again. 'Observant, wary, simple,' He continued scouring the table, not caring that the others could blatantly see his actions. '... monkey... monkey... monkey...' A last look. 'Airhead.'

"Delightful!" The exclamation rang out. Bradford crossed out the term brash and replaced it with moron before his attention was taken by the large oak doors, opening as an elderly man and young woman walked through them. He took notes on both of them and their actions as they moved to the podium and the man began to speak.

---

Apologies for the unnecessary delay, things were being things and stuff was all stuff and whatnot. If its any consolation Rust was on my ass about it pretty much all the time. Let's get Create-Innve.