Plot
From the instruction booklet:
Axil the Able stood in three inches of stagnant water and surveyed one of the most dismal dungeons he had ever been thrown into… 30 seconds earlier, he was sitting in front of the ox-roast in that famed haunt of the Occult, The Golden Thurible engaged in his favourite pastime of Wizard-Baiting. What a good story Axil was telling — a new one about Therion, a certain moon creature and a rather gullible Elf — really, the sudden silence of his audience should have warned him. The crowd parted as Therion strode across the floor, dangerous in all his ten degrees. Therion raised a twig-like index finger and flung Axil several hundred leagues across Graumerphy, into the dungeons beneath the dreary castle called Collodon's Pile. In the dark twilight, Axil tutted — and then took stock. He was, at least, clothed: he carried a large leather pouch, and on a nearby table, there was a book. The title read as follows: The Net of Gugamon — a grimoire: wherein is contained the proper rites for the Convocation of various Demonly Princes, the procurement of lesser spirits, together with sundry workings, conjurations, manifestations, symbols relating to all manner of Astral Phenomena and so on for several more pages, in the rather turgid style thought necessary for such books. Unfortunately, apart from the title, there seemed to be little more than a rather tattered contents page. But they didn't call him Axil the Able for nothing. So, with a flourish, he marched for the door in search of a way out.
Read more about this topic: Heavy On The Magick
Famous quotes containing the word plot:
“After I discovered the real life of mothers bore little resemblance to the plot outlined in most of the books and articles I’d read, I started relying on the expert advice of other mothers—especially those with sons a few years older than mine. This great body of knowledge is essentially an oral history, because anyone engaged in motherhood on a daily basis has no time to write an advice book about it.”
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“James’s great gift, of course, was his ability to tell a plot in shimmering detail with such delicacy of treatment and such fine aloofness—that is, reluctance to engage in any direct grappling with what, in the play or story, had actually “taken place”Mthat his listeners often did not, in the end, know what had, to put it in another way, “gone on.””
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—Woodrow Wilson (1856–1924)