Vanchite Lunar conscript/entertainer:
He is Ratukal, he used to walk so tall, he'd want no one at all. Chased the girls around the world, danced on earthen floors. He'd have a drink and then he'd sink into nostalgic talk, they'd carry him home in the fallen snow, 'cause he was too drunk to walk. He�d sing a song and play the bagpipes, and tell stories of his travels near and far. Signed up to learn a trade but that dream didn�t go far. Then came the day he got sent off to war. Now he�s fighting Heortlings with his sword, not his bagpipes.
('The Ballad of Robbie Jones', the Levellers - quite mutilated to fit
into 100 words, sadly)
Heortling Trickster:
Mis-shaped, mistake, misfit. Raised on a diet of broken biscuits. He doesn't look the same as you, he doesn't do the things you do, but he lives round here too. He'd like to go to town but he can't risk it. He could get a smack in the mouth, just for standing out. He wasn�t supposed to be, he learned too much of Eurmal. He wants your homes, he wants your wives, he wants the things you won�t allow him. He won�t use swords, he won�t use spears, he�ll use the one thing he�s got more of: that�s his mind.
('Mis-shapes', Pulp)
One I actually am using right now (albeit not in 100 word format, and for a rather nasty NPC) in an online game of (mumble mumble):
I am just a drummer boy, and in the Wars I used to play, and I�ve called the tune to many a torture session. I have legalised robbery, called it belief. I have run with the money, I have hid like a thief. Re-written history with many other crooks, invented memories; I did burn all the books. I have tried to be meek, I have tried to be mild, but I spat like a woman and I sulked like a child. I have lived behind walls that have made me alone. Striven for peace, which I never have known.
('The Man's Too Strong', Dire Straits)
Probably some weird Jakaleeli nutcase, but, hey, you've got five words left over to add whatever keywords make sense (yeah, right):
"What's the frequency, Karstall?" is my hazia. I was brain-dead, locked out, numb, not up to speed. I thought I'd pegged you an idiot's dream, tunnel vision from the outsider's world. I wear your expectations like an armoured suit. I'd studied your tales, myths, legends. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy. I smile like a cartoon, tooth for a tooth. I said that irony was the shackles of youth. I wore a shirt of violent green. Butterfly tattoo, polished mirror, dogging the scene. I never understood, the frequency. Don't fuck with me.
('What's the Frequency, Kenneth?', R.E.M.)
-- Trotsky Gamer and Skeptic ------------------------------------------------------ Trotsky's RPG website: http://www.ttrotsky.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/
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