This entry is part 12 of 13 in the series (Vexing) Devil's Advocate

378127_10150441621792624_1477312954_n“Here you go. That should be it,” I said to Manaforge Cinder as I handed him a cardboard box the size of my torso. I had managed to fit everything from my office into it.

“This is degrading,” the elemental responded with a hard stare. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed together, and the air around him smelled strongly of brimstone.

“Okay, no problem. Just go into the hallway and tell Lyzolda that she has to carry my stuff out, because you’re just too dignified for this kind of thing.” I crossed my arms and gave him an expectant look. 

He just grunted at me and walked out the door, box in tow. Vexing Devil gave him a shrug as he passed, but he didn’t bother to offer to lend a hand.

“You couldn’t put on some clothes to say goodbye to me? Not even a loincloth?” I smirked at Vexing Devil.

He just shook his head at me, but he smiled while he did it. “You’re absolutely sure about this? I still have the Tooth and Nail case up for grabs.”

I laughed, and even paused for a second to consider it. “Nope, I think I’ll leave that for someone else. There’s always gonna be another case, but someone else can handle it. This is the end of the road for me.”

Smug B@$#@^&. Go put on some pants.

It’s been a blast, but all good things must come to an end.

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This entry is part 9 of 13 in the series (Vexing) Devil's Advocate

378127_10150441621792624_1477312954_nI wasn’t a drinker – not anymore, anyway. Too many stupid drunken stunts quickly taught me that alcohol was not a chemical compound that I should be paired with. But right now, I was wondering if there was anything I could find nearby that was stronger than the whiskey stashed in my desk’s bottom drawer.

“What are you thinking?” A coy voice brought me out of my thoughts and back into the reality of my comfortable (if a little cramped) office.

“Hmm?” I looked up from my desk and into the familiar face of Jhoira of the Ghitu. It had been almost a year since we had met under friendly circumstances. Since last July, we had only ever seen each other from opposing sides of a battlefield.

We had spent time on the same battlefield before then too, but that had always been side by side. Summoning eldrazi together, devastating entire armies (and landscapes) with massive shows of force, countering our opponent’s best spells. Just the memories sent a rush of satisfaction coursing through me. I shook it off with a concerted effort. I had spent a lot of time, on a lot of battlefields, with a lot of generals.

But you never forget your first.

“I asked what you were thinking?” Jhoira smiled at me.

“I was wondering if I could make a cocktail out of pure grain alcohol and antifreeze. And how much of that I would have to consume for this situation to become palatable.” I responded with a wry smirk.

What is it about redhead's that always gets me?

What is it about redheads that always gets me?

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December 6, 2012


 By William aka BlueRam

By Jhoira (avatar by PolishTamales)

“Day 31: I finally succeeded i my time reversal experiment!
“Day 30: I might have a problem here.” ~Journal of the Prime Izmagnus




The following has been translated from near-indecipherable handwriting. At this time it is unclear if the original author knew what he was doing, or if he was just touched in the head. I’ve done my best to transcribe the records for your enjoyment, in their entirety, without misrepresentations. I would ask the original author what some of these notes meant, but unfortunately I was unable to track him down for comments. As such, I will provide commentary and translator’s notes when appropriate to explain certain references or to take an educated guess at what’s going on.

So for what it’s worth, I hope you enjoy this series of experiments concocted by one, William aka BlueRam.

Much regards,
Jhoira of the Ghitu

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This entry is part 4 of 10 in the series Cooking With Oats

Posted by Mike aka Mightily Oats

Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. ~Louis Hector Berlioz

The sun rises in the east, first kissing the soaring mountain peaks and slowly dripping into the glacier-ridden valleys. A frigid spring wind comes rushing from the north, insidiously disregarding my many layers of long underwear to fondle my dangly bits with its icy fingers. The frosty cloud of my exhalation mixes with that of my stalwart war-yak, shifting restively beneath me while he chews his cud. The sonorous tolling of a gong echoes through the valley, announcing the birth of another day.

This is monk country; where bald little men gather in their high-mountain factories to churn out philosophies, idioms and clever sayings that eventually end up in oddly shaped cardboard boxes that are called cookies by terminally optimistic restaurateurs. This is where the greater part of the R&D takes place for True Enlightenment. This is also the place where people come to learn how to break bricks with their face, pile drive a school bus and punch a castle to death.

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