DAY 3 - Morning

[islandiastaff]

GOOD MORNING, ISLANDIA! It's time to hit the road!

[The usual. As soon as you're out of the lodge, enjoy the explosions.]

Today's gonna be a simple one - just a simple jungle trek, same as the first day! Can't use all our fun tricks right off the bat, now, can we?

But before we get going, let's talk about spy activity! That's right, they're as busy as ever, and their target is... YOU!

[As M.C points at her, Ema Skye is launched off into the Loser's Lounge. There she go!]

So long, Ema! Five spies to go, and now your group is short one Detective!

Happy hiking, folks!

Comments

[poetryandclarinet]

a.

[So walking again, huh? It's amazing how Wirt's able to walk so much without getting tired. Even before coming here to Islandia, he and Greg walked miles without too many breaks to get home, so really it's not much different now and he doesn't really have anything to complain about.

Well alright, that's a lie. There was something Wirt had a right to complain about, and it was these poorly rhymed hints carved into trees.

Rhyming poetry wasn't exactly Wirt's forte, he preferred poetry with more meaning and less strict rules, but he still did throw a rhyming one out there every now and then. It was still a complicated and sophisticated form of art! So seeing this... sad excuse for a rhyme was just offending to him, to be honest. And it was written all over his face as he was staring at one of the clues, with the most disgusted expression you've probably seen on the kid yet.]

b.

[While trailblazing, here are some things you'll find Wirt doing; forlornly staring off into space like the last trek the group had, getting his cape very stuck on a thornbush, or stepping right into a trap be it a net trap or pitfall or what have you. He doesn't have much of a good time with difficult journeys like this, as it should be clear by now, but at least he's giving some good effort despite how often he gets himself into SOME kind of trouble...]


d.

[Oh boy, did someone say resting? Though Wirt is good at walking for hours with no set destination or direction in mind, even he needs to take a break from the wilderness that was seemingly trying to hinder him. And you'll find him quite forlornly sitting on a stump, with his head in his hands. If you approach him, you can catch him speaking a poem to himself, even. What a weirdo.]

Do I not have the right, to see love again? To feel my heart beating, whenever I lay eyes on her beautiful face? For naught is my yearning in vain, but rather, it is my inspiration. Without love I am like a bird within a cage; a book without a page. That is, to say, it is the blood within my veins, and thus as each and every day passes, I grow weary, lost, uneasy.

My love, scattered across the graves, left behind within the woods, lying above the clouds; though I shant lay my eyes upon you once more, you will-- [He stops there and sighs disgruntledly, fixing his hat's position a bit as he thinks about what an awful poem he just spoke. He hasn't noticed anyone just yet, and he only hopes no one was around to hear him.]

d

[synchrownization]

[Hans has decided to take a break as well, and is searching for a seat close by when he hears someone speaking...a poem? He stops, interested, and listens, trying to pretend to keep finding a good place to sit.

...until he settles for a log beside Wirt's stump. He's smiling by then. Clearly he liked the poem.]

Did you write that? It's beautiful.

[poetryandclarinet]

[While Hans (seemingly) appears out of nowhere to compliment Wirt's poem, he flinches and falls off his stump, though only momentarily. He'll hastilly climb back onto the stump and clear his throat, obviously nervous.]

N-no I-I-I-- [Wait Wirt, it was a compliment. Calm down son.]

I- no, bu- I... yes. Y-yes, I did. Th- thank you.

[synchrownization]

You're welcome. [He smiles, withdrawing the hand that he had extended to help Wirt up when he sees Wirt manage to climb back onto the stump.] Do you write poetry often?

[poetryandclarinet]

I-I.. yeah, sometimes. Sometimes I do. [He smiles a little, glad that somebody actually likes poetry around here.]

[synchrownization]

That's great. [He sounds genuinely awed.] Has this game inspired you? [A laugh. A rhyme about their predicament would be fun.]

[poetryandclarinet]

I-it has a little. When you're a poet, almost anything can inspire you, to- to be honest.

[synchrownization]

Have you thought up some poetry while we're here?

D ALSO in case that weren't... clear...

[s2g]

[ Wolfwood isn't poetic. not much of Gunsmoke is. his is a tenuous grip on grammar and a tendency to dip towards the planet's typical twang more often than not. but he has verses for days; never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. the sun will not beat down on them, nor any scorching heat—even without the good book in hand, if you asked, you would receive.

and this sounds like a verse. but it isn't. he'd know. ]

Where'd you learn that one from?

heh no worries!

[poetryandclarinet]

O-oh! [He sounds a little surprised at Wolfwood's voice, and he clears his throat a little before speaking.]

I- I didn't really.. learn it. I wrote it but- but i-it's not that good, anyway. You'd hear better poetry from a professional.

[s2g]

[ there are professional poets? ]

Sounded pretty professional to me.

[poetryandclarinet]

N-no, no no no, I-I'm just, you know, a novice. I-I don't really have the qualifications, o-or the experience, to be a professional yet. [He appreciates Wolfwood's flattery though!]

[s2g]

All that to write a couple verses?

[poetryandclarinet]

A couple verses? [He sounds a little offended now!]

It-it takes a lot of time and practice to write poetry. You can't just throw words together and call it a poem, it takes... hours of studying the English language, present words and past, a-and even then it's extremely hard to get the words to line up perfectly!

[He huffs a little]

I-it's a lot of hard work to write "just a couple verses".

[s2g]

[ hands up. kid's got a sharp enough tongue, that's for sure. even if it's still softer than any blade he's seen. ]

Alright, alright, I ain't picking a fight. We don't got a lot of poetry where I'm from.

[ they don't have much of anything where he's from ]

[poetryandclarinet]

Oh. S-sorry. [He's just.... really passionate about poetry.]

[s2g]

S'fine. It was nice to hear, even from a novice.

[ there's something in his tone that implies the verbal equivalent of fingerquotes around "novice". ]

[poetryandclarinet]

Well... thanks. Not a lot- not a lot of people appreciate poetry, nowadays.

[s2g]

[ far as he can tell, it's probably because there's worse things to be focusing on. leastwise on Gunsmoke. things like outlaws. the organ black market. Knives, Legato. but... ]

So long as you're appreciatin' it, does that matter?

[poetryandclarinet]

Huh? [He looks a little confused, as if he doesn't exactly understand what Wolfwood meant.]

[s2g]

[ that's fine; most people don't come along with him on this philosophy even when they do catch his meaning ]

There's nothing wrong with people not carin' so much about it. If you do, if you really do, then what anybody else thinks about it doesn't matter. Sometimes it ain't so bad to be alone like that.

[poetryandclarinet]

Oh.. yeah, y-yeah I guess you're right. [Though it still sucks when no one else cares.. especially when he's been told before that apparently no one likes people who DO like poetry.]

[s2g]

Besides. You read 'em, don't ya?

[ poems, that is ]

[poetryandclarinet]

Of course I do.

[s2g]

Then you aren't the only one.

[ shrugs, like it's that easy. ]