Salut, Bien dormi les jeunes? Et pour les parisiens qui n'ont pas pu venir...Dommage pour vous, c'était bien sympa hier soir! :-) Sinon, je reposte de vieux mails de Quisar d'il y a longtemps...Donc: If the elders played Amber DRPG (meta-alert), Benedict wouldn't win every battle either, because Fiona would manipulate the GM shamelessly, while Flora would have him round her little finger. Then Caine would make veiled Threats as to what might happen if he didn't succeed. Brand would try to kill the GM and take over the game. Random wouldn't care as long as the drinks and nibbles didn't run out. Eric and Corwin would start arguing the rules, and end up having to take it outside. Gerard would try to work out the plot, because someone has to. Bleys' character would most likely be off in Shadow having fun. Julian sees no virtue in such trivial pastimes. Well, at the risk of being electronically lynched...how about Magic? Fiona's deck would consist mostly of enchantments, Gerard would favor big high-powered creatures, Benedict would use all the colors in combinations calculated for the maximum possible efficiency, Caine would use the particularly nasty sorts of cards that screw over everybody but would hurt his opponents worse than himself, Julian would pay top dollar to get four "Master of the Hunt" and create the ultimate green deck, Llew's would of course be mostly blue, and Random...heck, Random would just sit back and run a betting pool on whether a particular card would be brought out within X numbers of turns, or something like that. Brand would decide he wasn't satisfied with the game as it stood, and launch an ambitious scheme to burn everybody's cards and design his own CCG. Flora would consider the whole game too gauche to bother with, but she might collect the original artwork (or possibly the original artists!) for aesthetic reasons. Why does Julian hate Corwin? (quoique celui-ci est inédit sur la ml...) There's no answer for this in the books. However, Judd M. Goswick regaled the list with the following tale, which speaks for itself: Julian's self-control slipped only once, when Corwin kissed his cheek. In that single moment, Julian's hand strayed and "BZZZT!" the nose of the Oberon Trump shone red and Julian looked down to see that in attempting to remove the Jewel of Judgment from the card, he had hit the edge of the card with the Tweezers. Corwin then drew the "Crown" card, took the tweezers and fetched it with no problem, as Julian was still shocked. He then laid claim to the throne until Oberon sent him to his room. Just before he was taken away, Julian threw his tumbler of "Juicy-rific Kool-Aid" at Corwin's face. "I'll have your eyes for this, Corwin!" He had spoken too soon and the disappointment on Overon's face was apparent. He had lost his self-control twice in one sitting. All Dworkin could do was look up from his paper and ask Julian, "How do you know about the eye thing?" How Would the Elders Deal with the Internet? Benedict: PGP-encrypts/signs his posts. Usually posts succinct answers which go ignored by the primary arguers, but are quoted off-line by admirers for weeks. Eric: Has a little .sig of the Jewel of Judgment. Corwin: Not only has the stamina to keep up with the gun-control/nazi/religion/Mac v. PC debates, but immortalizes them in song for the filk newsgroups. Has long been considered a net.kook. Deirdre: Only posts in women-strong newsgroups, is signed up to a number of feminist listservs... and goes shopping on the web for black leather clothing and stylish weaponry. Caine: Has the world's best anonymous server... and each account he replies from is "mysteriously killed" before you can respond directly. Somehow, he still gets all of his mail. And yours. Julian: Bah. Computers? They're only good for playing hunting games, and that still pales to the real thing. Where can I get to the DOOM shadow? Gerard: Carefully and meticulously reads and replies to the home brewing areas. Otherwise, except for useful navigational information he can download, is careful not to get into controversies. He is, after all, not a clever man. Fiona: Has put all of her pet daemons to work electronically. Bleys: Can't seem to stay away from that flashy < (<) tag. Does all the family's web pages, but has changed the font size on his own one step larger than anyone else's. Brand: Argues with himself on all of Corwin's issues. Posts frequently to any newsgroup about destroying or conquering the world. Can't set his follow-ups straight because he thinks world domination IS a matter of cooking and raising aquarium fish. Flora: Has mastered the Internet, but spends most of her on-line time in advice-giving chatrooms. Random: Has used the web for stocks, gambling, and adult web connections. Answers e-mail irregularly, and always with a different .sig line from a Shadow band he likes. Flora is good at Winning, which IMC means that she packs more Good Stuff than I let PCs have. ------------------------------------------- The Good Stuff, The Bad Stuff, and the Ugly ------------------------------------------- Florimel rode the dusty trail into town taking a perfect posture on her utterly gorgeous Appaloosa. She, of course, was wearing a matching pattern of gradual polka dots, and a hat at just the most attractive angle. She had brand name saddle bags, a delicate water spritzer, and a Lady's Fashion gun belt. The sky was a perfect blue as the old clock in the middle of the town began its twelfth hour chant. Florimel slid off of the horse in a way ever-so-modest, but pleasantly alluring. She checked her hair and complexion in a hand-held mirror that slid into a little compartment on her belt. Finding that everything was, of course, perfect, she began her strut (lady-like, but confident) into the road. The diamond-studded spurs made a bell-like sound as her fashion footware disturbed the loose earth in the town square. After a few delicate steps, she stopped, and placed one fair white hand upon the pistol at her belt, the other hand resting complacently (if with a certain lovely flair) at her hip. She swaggered in a elegant and refined manner, and gestured with her comely chin towards her opponent, who had just swaggered into view. A bit of a crowd began gathering, peeping open blinds and pulling aside curtains to see the imminent gunfight. They admired Flora's fashion sense. Several prominent photographers wept seeing the danger the Amberite female was putting her complexion in, with the rugged western wind blowing. Flora adjusted her hat ever-so-slightly. Her opponent drew in a harsh breath, and gave her The Stare. They sized each other up. "You can't beat me, Flora," the man said. "I'm first rank in Warfare. The book says that unless you have a trick up your sleeve," he glanced from side-to-side, "which you don't," he added, confidently, "I win." Flora smiled, showing her ultrawhite teeth. "Maybe." The word fluted towards the man with just the right amount of gunfighter panache. "No `maybe' about it," the man said, resting his hand on the hilt of his revolver. "As soon as my hand touched this little baby, this became a Warfare situation." Flora nodded. There was an anguished moan from the photographer crowd as one man sobbed openly. "And yet," her tone was flippant, but held enough doubt to gather more with them as her words travelled across the parched landscape between them. "What? I win. There's no, 'and yet,'s or 'maybes' or..." At the exact same moment, both of them drew their weapons. The man dropped. Flora strode with a certain aesthetic grace over to her dying opponent. "Maybe," she said, again, "maybe I bought up. Or maybe, just maybe, I had so much good stuff that even if my aim wasn't perfect, my hand would twitch. Or maybe your gun would fail to shoot. Or maybe the aerodynamics of this Shadow would work in my favour. Or maybe," she sighed, dramatically. "Maybe great gaping bullet holes wouldn't match my outfit." She spun around on her well-turned heels and went back to her horse. With delicate care she returned to her saddle, and rode, stately, out of town and into the dramatic sunset.