Session Echo 19/05/22 Corrila Daevion'lyr
May 24, 2022 21:56:01 GMT
Velania Kalugina, Andy D, and 1 more like this
Post by Corrila Daevion'lyr on May 24, 2022 21:56:01 GMT
Obviously when you’re as gorgeous as me you do think about a career on the stage. Curiously, however, the sheer number of lecherous casting couch directors who found their dirty minds smeared over the wallpaper after auditioning me hindered my early attempts at showbiz.
As a result, I’ve been keeping myself on the downlow rather than strutting the boards showering the grateful with my talents. Especially as my own special talent might kill the grateful by accident.
It's hard, do you get me? Theatre, like for instance the mortal bard’s breakthrough slasher play the Wannbe King, His Sexy Wife and the Three Weird Witches, is supposed to be boring soliloquies about fatal flaws with all the murder taking place off stage. Theatre of the mind. But when it’s my mind in the theatre, the savage bloodbath isn’t reported by a nervous courtier, it’s usually the front three rows.
And yet, what is a girl to do when she needs a bit of currency and there’s an ad for performers in tonight's Treefolk Player’s Performance of 'Much Ado About Nuttin!'?
It’s Just. So. Me.
Got to be honest, at first sight the Nuttin Much theatrical agency didn’t look like it was tearing up the world of showbiz. It looked more like a moss-covered shop with algae-stained windows, and I may not be a marine biologist but I’m fairly sure that if you wash windows once every couple of years you can keep the plant life at bay.
There’s a troupe outside, though, consisting of an elderly woman who introduces herself as Bosalind “Boosya” Sugartooth, a kobold called Vythe who insists they're a dragon, a giant fey rabbit called Jennifur Cottontail because obviously and a hippie called Glade.
We’re mooching about going through a few vocal exercises – in my case, running through the vowels by reciting ‘what the fuck is going on?’ at various volumes – when the door opens, we’re wafted in, there’s a cove in a cloak and bugger all else and we’re offered a bag of nuts for our time.
I want to take a moment here to be very specific. This part of the story is not the part with my hilarious jokes about squirrels and nuts. The bag is not a jovial metaphor. It’s an actual bag of nuts.
The possibly misnamed Sugartooth grabs what looks like a seed with a self esteem problem and wolfs it down, so I start counting off the seconds until we’re dragging her corpse into the basement and working out which pockets to go through first when, stone me, if she doesn’t start shrinking.
Turns out I’m too big for this job. Not reputationally, although that will surely come, but in feet, inches, metres, cubits or barleycorns. Everyone else is gobbling these kernels and collapsing into themselves like a merchant’s member when he realises I’m not a hooker, I’m robbing his naked ass, so I chow down too because, honestly, I’ve got fuck all else to do and I’m broke.
At which point the cloak bloke steps out of the shade and says something like – my name’s Boss, that’s what you call me. And he’s a squirrel.
Yeah, whatever, just go with it. I’m only telling you what happened. We were hired by squirrels to do a play. Deal with it.
And also deal with us getting on a flying ship. I’m not going into details. Suffice it to say, the casting happens mid-flight.
There’s me, the taut, toned body of a supermodel after special forces training, and I end up with the comedy slot. I think they were going for a classic screwball piece where the heroines are drop dead gorgeous and slay them with the gags. (Why is theatrical lingo so murder-based? We shall find out.)
So the ship backs into a tree house where there’s a castle and suddenly the poop deck, or fo’csle or whatever the fuck it is, I’m not a sailor, look at my hands, is the stage.
We then launch into what can only be described as the worst performance of the worst play in history. Boss is in a lopsided crown, we have to pretend to attack him, there’s some business with some armour, and then I’m on.
The audience were absolute animals. I mean, they actually were animals. Ducks and squirrels and the like. Well, I know what the crowd wants, partly because I read a few of their minds, so while the others are doing whatever they do, I’m off…
“I’m working for this squirrel, but I don’t know why. He pays peanuts. Thank you sir, I'm here all week. I worked hard to get the job though – I really went out on a limb – but I should have checked with the squirrel prophet Nutradamus. He would have warned me the boss is a tough nut to crack. I know, sorry, that was acorn-y joke. Don't throw that ma'am, it's too heavy. He’s got a gang of friends he stays with during the winter. Hiber-mates. Because it sounds like hibernates sir. But I got in trouble for sorting him and his friends by height. They didn’t like me critter sizing. Again, sir, critter is another word for squirrel. Ask anyone. Anyone except me, I'm doing the jokes. But he went into a bar and said; "Hey bartender, you got any nuts?" The bartender says, "Get out of here you squirrel " Next day he ran into the same bar, and said " hey bartender you got any nuts?" The bartender said, " Get out of here squirrel, we don't serve your kind here. If I see you in here again, I'll nail your ass to the wall!" The next day he ran into the bar and said, " hey bartender, you got any nails?" The bartender said, "I ain't got any nails!" So, the squirrel said, " Then do you got any nuts?"”
And I’m going on like this, which is all killer, no filler, amirite, but there’s all sorts of shenanigans, gubbins and malarky going off backstage. Long story short, this cake covered captain appears leading guards clad in nut-based armour lugging a coconut canon and it’s only when they open fire sending a giant conker flying towards the stage that I realise they’re not part of the performance.
It turns out – and I realise you’ve probably twigged already (twigged… because we’re in a tree? I’m wasted here) – we weren’t there to do a play, we were there to either kidnap or rescue a princess depending on your point of view.
Everyone was shell shocked, natch, but we set to work with a will and mowed down pretty much everyone who wasn’t actively fleeing. It was quite like old times, and I was getting into the swing of things when Boss and co figure discretion is the better part of decimating the audience, we cast off fore, aft and ift and soon the ship’s careening through the air like the severed hand of an over-friendly border guard.
Then we’re back at the agency and back to 6’2” of heartbreak before you can say ‘I am perfectly prepared to waste the military of a small sovereign power but I would be more efficient at it if you told me that was the scheme’ when the fluff tailed rats offer up a grudging coin.
I pocket the thing, because loot is loot, but given they add the cheery note that we now have mortal enemies who will devote their lives to hunting us down and killing us I’m thinking maybe I should have rinsed the shop for trinkets.
But then I figured, I’ve lost count of the number of people devoting their lives to hunting me down and killing me and I still find time to hydrate, work out, get eight hours and look like this without make up so I’ll be fine.
You want to hear another joke?
As a result, I’ve been keeping myself on the downlow rather than strutting the boards showering the grateful with my talents. Especially as my own special talent might kill the grateful by accident.
It's hard, do you get me? Theatre, like for instance the mortal bard’s breakthrough slasher play the Wannbe King, His Sexy Wife and the Three Weird Witches, is supposed to be boring soliloquies about fatal flaws with all the murder taking place off stage. Theatre of the mind. But when it’s my mind in the theatre, the savage bloodbath isn’t reported by a nervous courtier, it’s usually the front three rows.
And yet, what is a girl to do when she needs a bit of currency and there’s an ad for performers in tonight's Treefolk Player’s Performance of 'Much Ado About Nuttin!'?
It’s Just. So. Me.
Got to be honest, at first sight the Nuttin Much theatrical agency didn’t look like it was tearing up the world of showbiz. It looked more like a moss-covered shop with algae-stained windows, and I may not be a marine biologist but I’m fairly sure that if you wash windows once every couple of years you can keep the plant life at bay.
There’s a troupe outside, though, consisting of an elderly woman who introduces herself as Bosalind “Boosya” Sugartooth, a kobold called Vythe who insists they're a dragon, a giant fey rabbit called Jennifur Cottontail because obviously and a hippie called Glade.
We’re mooching about going through a few vocal exercises – in my case, running through the vowels by reciting ‘what the fuck is going on?’ at various volumes – when the door opens, we’re wafted in, there’s a cove in a cloak and bugger all else and we’re offered a bag of nuts for our time.
I want to take a moment here to be very specific. This part of the story is not the part with my hilarious jokes about squirrels and nuts. The bag is not a jovial metaphor. It’s an actual bag of nuts.
The possibly misnamed Sugartooth grabs what looks like a seed with a self esteem problem and wolfs it down, so I start counting off the seconds until we’re dragging her corpse into the basement and working out which pockets to go through first when, stone me, if she doesn’t start shrinking.
Turns out I’m too big for this job. Not reputationally, although that will surely come, but in feet, inches, metres, cubits or barleycorns. Everyone else is gobbling these kernels and collapsing into themselves like a merchant’s member when he realises I’m not a hooker, I’m robbing his naked ass, so I chow down too because, honestly, I’ve got fuck all else to do and I’m broke.
At which point the cloak bloke steps out of the shade and says something like – my name’s Boss, that’s what you call me. And he’s a squirrel.
Yeah, whatever, just go with it. I’m only telling you what happened. We were hired by squirrels to do a play. Deal with it.
And also deal with us getting on a flying ship. I’m not going into details. Suffice it to say, the casting happens mid-flight.
There’s me, the taut, toned body of a supermodel after special forces training, and I end up with the comedy slot. I think they were going for a classic screwball piece where the heroines are drop dead gorgeous and slay them with the gags. (Why is theatrical lingo so murder-based? We shall find out.)
So the ship backs into a tree house where there’s a castle and suddenly the poop deck, or fo’csle or whatever the fuck it is, I’m not a sailor, look at my hands, is the stage.
We then launch into what can only be described as the worst performance of the worst play in history. Boss is in a lopsided crown, we have to pretend to attack him, there’s some business with some armour, and then I’m on.
The audience were absolute animals. I mean, they actually were animals. Ducks and squirrels and the like. Well, I know what the crowd wants, partly because I read a few of their minds, so while the others are doing whatever they do, I’m off…
“I’m working for this squirrel, but I don’t know why. He pays peanuts. Thank you sir, I'm here all week. I worked hard to get the job though – I really went out on a limb – but I should have checked with the squirrel prophet Nutradamus. He would have warned me the boss is a tough nut to crack. I know, sorry, that was acorn-y joke. Don't throw that ma'am, it's too heavy. He’s got a gang of friends he stays with during the winter. Hiber-mates. Because it sounds like hibernates sir. But I got in trouble for sorting him and his friends by height. They didn’t like me critter sizing. Again, sir, critter is another word for squirrel. Ask anyone. Anyone except me, I'm doing the jokes. But he went into a bar and said; "Hey bartender, you got any nuts?" The bartender says, "Get out of here you squirrel " Next day he ran into the same bar, and said " hey bartender you got any nuts?" The bartender said, " Get out of here squirrel, we don't serve your kind here. If I see you in here again, I'll nail your ass to the wall!" The next day he ran into the bar and said, " hey bartender, you got any nails?" The bartender said, "I ain't got any nails!" So, the squirrel said, " Then do you got any nuts?"”
And I’m going on like this, which is all killer, no filler, amirite, but there’s all sorts of shenanigans, gubbins and malarky going off backstage. Long story short, this cake covered captain appears leading guards clad in nut-based armour lugging a coconut canon and it’s only when they open fire sending a giant conker flying towards the stage that I realise they’re not part of the performance.
It turns out – and I realise you’ve probably twigged already (twigged… because we’re in a tree? I’m wasted here) – we weren’t there to do a play, we were there to either kidnap or rescue a princess depending on your point of view.
Everyone was shell shocked, natch, but we set to work with a will and mowed down pretty much everyone who wasn’t actively fleeing. It was quite like old times, and I was getting into the swing of things when Boss and co figure discretion is the better part of decimating the audience, we cast off fore, aft and ift and soon the ship’s careening through the air like the severed hand of an over-friendly border guard.
Then we’re back at the agency and back to 6’2” of heartbreak before you can say ‘I am perfectly prepared to waste the military of a small sovereign power but I would be more efficient at it if you told me that was the scheme’ when the fluff tailed rats offer up a grudging coin.
I pocket the thing, because loot is loot, but given they add the cheery note that we now have mortal enemies who will devote their lives to hunting us down and killing us I’m thinking maybe I should have rinsed the shop for trinkets.
But then I figured, I’ve lost count of the number of people devoting their lives to hunting me down and killing me and I still find time to hydrate, work out, get eight hours and look like this without make up so I’ll be fine.
You want to hear another joke?