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It's a luminous day in the bazaar of Keleron, the Brass Citadel, which sails through the dunes on the great beetle's back. Conjurers and Geneforgers dwell on every floor of the MegaBibliotheca, a great twisted spire where all the world's most exotic and secret knowledge is collected. It's a reflectively polished building, which leans ominously over the rest of the city like the arm of a sundial, and drinks lightning and static from the sky during storms. The arcanely inclined gather here to peddle their scrolls and display their most rare and exotic creatures, all hoping to one day afford admittance through the vault-locked doors of the great library.

But it's not just business as usual in the city of sorcerors! A contest is being held by The Whisperers, a highly exclusive council of archmages who live in the great checkered bulb at the far end of the MegaBibliotheca. After the unexpected death of one of their longest-serving members, they have offered a seat at the council to the best BEASTMANCER there is! In the next 24 hours, whosoever can produce the most satisfied customers will be given unlimited access to all the secrets of the world.

https://perchance.org/0d5jkwxpbq

@hetero_malk @Mizal @Anthraxus @fresh_out_the_oven @goodnight_a

The contestants gather in the bazaar, as they often seem to do in this realm of competing nouns and suffixes. Minutes pass, stretching into tens of minutes and fifteens of minutes. Silence. A stillness settles. Are we in the right place? Isn't there supposed to be a customer?

They hear a rattling. Their attention is drawn to a barrel, left on its side and abandoned. The barrel rattles, then rattles some more. POP! The lid flies off, soaking the polished tiles  in pickled fish and brining liquid. Gasping, a  muscular man bedecked in polar bear fur (and not much else) wriggles out of the preserved morass. 

"Hello! I am Tom of Finland, and I am pickling and shipping myself to your fair land because I am in desperate needing of a creature that can help me survive the merciless nights of my homeland. The nights are lasting for years, and I am being assailed during them by Swedes, bears, and killer seals." 

He has a funny accent. Europeans are silly. 

There is no turn order or a formula for how to respond for this. This is a thread of us playing Blacksmith, which is basically the same game with items rather than creatures:

https://chooseyourstory.com/forums/creative-corner/message/29620

When it's your turn to be a judge/customer, you'll be PM'ed by the previous customer. It goes in order of who joined the game.

As far as card syntax rules, I'll say that a creation doesn't need to be just one of each card in that specific order. At bare minimum, it can be two cards. At maximum, I'd say 5. As long as it makes grammatical sense for what you're proposing, you can even use materials as items and vise versa, since they're both nouns.

"Sorry I'm late! Cross-planar traffic's a nightmare at this time of day."

A woman in a long leather trench coat hurries through the crowd. The people she brushes against recoil from the stench of sulphur and burnt toast emanating from her. Under her arm is a small brass cage, inside which there appears to be some sort of glowing mound.

When she reaches the centre of the crowd, the woman thrusts the cage above her head. From this perspective the mound is now seen to be a small reddish bird, its eyes abnormally large and beady and all its feathers fluffed out. All eyes on her, the woman launches into her spiel, gesticulating wildly at random intervals.

"This is the Stoned Phoenix that nests at the centre of the Shifting Labyrinth! When commanded, it can fly into the night sky and illuminate the battlefield up to a range of 60 feet! In addition, the phoenix radiates warmth and energy wherever it goes, perfect for those cold Scandinavian nights away from your loved ones.
"The best part, though, is that this fiery fiend can launch its talons of death at the face of any creature which happens to offend you, be it Swede, bear or seal! Nothing screams burning agony than literal red-hot claws to the eyeballs."

"Why is it stoned?" asks someone from the crowd.

"All the better. 'A stoned bird is a bird more than willing to be complicit in murderous deeds', as my long-dead mentor used to say. Just give the phoenix a whiff of this" - she pulls a cinnamon stick out of her coat - "once a day, and it'll obey all your commands. I'll warn you now though, give it the powdered stuff and it'll explode.
"Any other questions?"

"Who are you again?"

"Oh, right. I'm Sadie Rosenhoff, beast hunter for Jenkin's Bestiary and Garden Gnome Emporium. It's just down the road - there's currently a 50% off bargain on petrified cherubs if you're interested."
 

(Prefix, Beast, Suffix)

Congratulations on posting something that made me double over stifling laughter and saying "Oh no! OH NO!" out loud

A small commotion begins in the back of the room. Wind picks up; the swirls start on the floor and rise to the ceiling, kicking up dust and collecting loose papers. When the wind dies down, a woman stands where the gusts originated.

She dusts off her skirt and fixes her hat, then addresses the others. "Hello, I am The Sorceress." Her eyes scan the room, then stop upon reaching Tom. "You. It is you who called upon my aid."

With a wave of her hand, the wall begins to shake. "I am summoning a creature who will solve all the problems you described."

"This creature is, to begin with, belligerent." With those words, the wall crumbles slightly, as if responding to her for dramatic effect.

"This trait makes him an excellent deterrent to violent animals, including even Swedes," she adds with a smile.

"Speaking of Swedes, they have a unique contribution to this beast. You'll see what I mean momentarily."

Just as those final words leave her lips, a creature bursts forth from behind the wall. It's a mighty Impundulu, a human-sized bird covered in black and white feathers. He wears a strange armor that seems to be made from... human flesh? His belligerent nature is showcased by his snapping beak and immediate charge towards his summoner. She hold up her hand and the beast stills.

"Behold, the Scalp-Covered Belligerent Impundulu!" she declares, making a grand sweeping gesture towards the creature. "He's decorated with the scalps of your enemies, the Swedes! This is sure to bring terror to their souls, causing weak knees and screams for their mothers. On top of that, Impundulu can call down lightning and thunder from the sky, bringing light to the darkest night (like those of Finland) and bringing death to seals, who live in the water. As we all know, water is a conductor of electricity. As for the bears, his... rather feisty nature will ensure that they bother you no more."

She crosses her arms, clearly pleased with her offering.

Material / Prefix / Beast

The Finnish ape considers the offerings of the bazaar for several minutes. Eventually, his primitive faculties produce a crude approximation of human speech: 

"The stoned firebird is very impressive, but I am worrying that a bird that is on cinammon reefer will not be a stalwart companion. I must pass," he shuffles to the next on his frostbitten stump legs. A herring falls out of his pocket.

He turns next to the hideous badger woman. "That is a terrible beast, and I am much liking the idea of Swedes shitting to death on an ice flow. However, I am not much liking the idea of me shitting to death on an ice flow from owning a dysentery monster, and must pass on this one too." 

Tom of Finland moves forward, carefully stepping over the dysenteric secretions. "This impundulu is intimidating, but the weather is bad enough I think. And I do not want the lightning to be striking me while I am swimming to catch the Pissfisch, which is much of my diet." 

At last, he turns his attention to the mighty orca. "This... is a beast of high quality. It can kill a seal, kill a Swede, and should the dread day arise when I am confronted with a Swedish seal, I'm sure it can kill that too. It is being a bonus that I can ride its back." 

He climbs on the orca's back and swims away, indicating his pleasure with the orc's selection. It occurs to everyone that Grammar the Punctual is probably not getting paid for this monster, given as Finns have not yet developed notions of currency. Point mizal. 

Scoreboard:

Mizal: 1

Everyone else: 0

Rosenhoff stares at the unicorn princess for a few moments, as if contemplating how much she could sell each golden hoof for on the black market. Then, realising that she’s standing in a crowded amphitheatre, and that the unicorn could very well skewer her in the process of dehoofment, she hastily gets down on one knee.

“Your Sparkliness, it is an honour to be able to offer my service to you. I am sorry to hear of your marshmallowy pet’s demise, may it rest in the Smoreish Havens. Thankfully, I happen to have the creature you should desire on my person.” Reaching into a pocket, she exclaims, “Behold!”

The entire crowd gape at the marvellous, wondrous… ball of neon yellow string. Rosenhoff blushes, shoving the string back into the pocket from whence it came and checking some of the other ones. “Sorry, that usually only happens when I’ve been drinking. Ah, here we go!”

Out of one of the larger pockets she draws forth a small glittery blue lamb, the cuteness of which sending the crowd into a hysterical chorus of ‘awww!’s. Rosenhoff smiles triumphantly.

“Behold! A Sapphire Lamb which, believe it or not, grew feet-first out of a large enough barnacle! I scoured the crags of six worlds for this wholesomest of wholesome creatures (though nothing can best the white grinning pup of Memec). It is only grown from the crustaceans of purest heart.

“This lamb’s wool is, if you look closely, made of tiny strands of sapphires, which when held up to the sun glint like the waves of the sea. Though the price of such wool is unimaginable, I beg that you take this lamb as an expression of your magnificence. May you sparkle and shine together!”

Material, Beast*, Suffix

Without ceremony or fanfare, a shiftless shape emerged from the crowd of sorcerors-- Distinguishable by a cloak of royal blue Samite-- And not much else. His features seemed entirely obscured by the shadows of his hood, as was the fashion of many a wizard. If he had glowing eyes, surely they would beam like searchlights out from the darkness-- But that would make him look suspiciously like one of those Gnomes who disappeared after the fateful Gnome Rapture. A single hand germinated from between the hems of his cape, as blue-black as the ball of polished volcanic glass it was holding.

"Hail and well met, Calliope Whinnifred of Cantaloupe," the man's voice went over her name with an ominous lack of intonation, as if he had carefully noted it down for use at a time much later than this, "A wholesome creature I have, for your consideration. For many years have I tracked it. It is rare to see, and rarer still to record. Its existence is only rumored in the atlases of the Oneironauts-- But at long last, I have found one."

Another hand reached on top of the ball, and seemed to squeeze it, until it grew out of his hands and shaped itself into an entire full-sized reindeer, clad in lush black fur, with that shimmering blue sheen to it as if it were some kind of an arctic panther. Its brow was crowned by fuzzy antlers, and its eyes possessed a certain silent, forlorn wisdom-- But not at all lacking warmth in their gaze. Serene and distant, possessed of a regal, Hayao-Miyazaki-ass animal nature. The caliginous caribou was at once striking and self-evidently good, as they observed even their chaotic surroundings with a hauntingly sovereign air, and proceeded to snuffle and lick the conjurer's outstretched hand (filled with chopped bell peppers) as gently as an old dog.

"Little is known of their nature, save that they wander between the layers of being, making their lives through unknown means. They spend much of their existence haunting the forest of dreams, where they can never be found-- They seem only to appear to mortals most in need of company, in their darkest hours. I should suspect, that in truly hopeless situations, these lost humans join the deer, to live in the forest of dreams forever. By a stroke of incredible luck, I captured this one as she was warming some lost street urchin and her dog in the winter snow! She is the only one of her kind to be seen by solid eyes in the Materia Mundi, and for a reasonable price, she can be yours!" The wizard's voice was smiling, "A real Obsidian Reindeer, That makes its home in the memories of those who have themselves been forgotten! Fitting pet for a princess, wouldn't you say?"

Material, Creature, Suffix

A fanfare sounds. A palanquin carried by a team of eunuchs is carried in. Behind the palanquin, is what appears to be a giant menagerie of premade beasts, being dragged by a team of elephants (in turbans). Pasha Malk, former lord of Skalreach and Most Serene Capybaliph has arrived. 

Before anyone can even finish their salaam, the Pasha is gesturing furiously at his eunuchs. "My lady," he says. "I have tinkered and experimented in my laboratory for many moons to create the beast you will see today. This beast is so pleasant, so mild-tempered, so good-natured that even if you were to rip him apart in a Dionysian rite, he would not even frown. May I present... the Magnanimous Antlered Cameleapord with a lion's tail!" 

Hearing its cue, the beast leaps out from the menagerie. True to the Pasha's word, it is a leopard with a camel's head. Its face bears an expression of placid, blissful imbecility. The Pasha strokes its tremendous moose antlers while its tail twitches amicably. 

"He's a good boy," the Pasha says. 

Prefix, prefix, beast, suffix 

Sorceress purses her lips. Never before had a customer made such a request, and she needs to collect and sort through every one of her thoughts in order to think of a beast to fullfill it. Closing her physical eyes, she turns her vision to inward things and focuses on summoning a creature befitting the unicorn's desires.

One such beast bursts into existence with an explosion of glitter and sparkles. It's a living, breathing stuffed animal.

"Behold!" exclaims Sorceress. "The Plush Bison of Hearts!" She circles the creature as though showing off a used car. She stops and highlights the plush nature of the creature— "Soft, cuddly, everything a princess could want in a pet. Here, feel him."

"Bison are durable, unlike the frail marshmallow-sus. Mentally and physically fortified, this beast is well-equipped for all your companionship needs." She grins. "All of them."

"Another thing of note is the heart design showcased here on his forehead and along his left side. It's said that the decals indicate a big heart, ready to be filled to the brim with love and adoration for his new owner."

With a smug lift of her eyebrow, Sorceress turns her full attention to Calliope. "I'm sure you can see how this beast fits your specific qualifications more than any other beast imaginable."

Material, Beast, Suffix

As the summoners stood about the clearing in the bazaar, a cavalcade of cartoonish arab stereotypes comes stumbling in, viciously whipping an pitifully overloaded camel and lustfully gawking at the bared skin of those nearby. With a groan and final stream of spittle at the unlucky child that found herself directly in front of it, the camel collapsed. The Arabs wailed and tore at their garments as they stood by their caravan of similarly overloaded and near dead camels. Several of the camels wavered and seemed about to collapse.

The largest and most stereotypical, his fingers weighed with numerous thick gold rings and an overly oiled circle of mustache and beard rimming his mouth filled with gold and diamond grills, stepped forward and beseeched the collected beastmancers. "As-salaam 'alykum," he said in a voice as smooth and oily as his beard, "As you can see our poor camel has walked it's last, and none in the caravan are much better. Please create for a us a beast, prodigious in both it's capacity for carrying cargo and bearing the rough environment of caravan life. Rest assured we have ample gold and treasures to shower on one that can fulfill our needs!"

The various members of the caravans pushed dead and dying camels to the side to make room for carpets and hookas to be broken out.

“You require a beast of burden?” Sorceress asks with a voice as silky as satin.

With a flick of her wrist she summons a hulking hog. Scratches and blemishes cover his iron skin and his eyes are bloodshot. He snorts and a plume of smoke escapes his nostrils.

Her lips curl up in a smile. “A Crack-Addicted Iron Hog that EXPLODES on impact,” she declares. “A creature of immense strength. Note his robust physique, his obvious resistance to the elements, his high-strung and energetic nature.” The creature snorts again; his eye twitches as he stands perfectly still, staring at everyone.

“And,” adds Sorceress with a flourish, “his unique method of clearing obstacles." The hog, at that moment, rams itself into a pile of crates— an explosion of splintered wood and shrapnel erupts where he makes contact. "Efficient, wouldn't you agree?" she says. "And the explosion has very little effect on the hog himself. Just look at him, already prepared for another go."

The hog stands there, twitching and snorting. Sorceress gives him a fond smile. "He can go forever and ever, provided he recieves a steady stream of his preferred... nourishment. No need to worry about finding any food or drink for this one. Very useful for your kind, who always seem to have a plethora of drugs but a scant amount of food or water to go around."

"As for cargo," she continues, "his iron frame provides him with plenty of strength and fortitude; he should be able to pull or carry whatever you require of him."

Prefix, Material, Beast, Suffix

Like the Erymanthian boar?

Rosenhoff draws a whistle from one of her sleeves. “If I were you, I’d stand back,” she yells to the crowd before putting it to her lips. Instead of a shrill note, the whistle produces a sound not unlike a horse’s whinny.

From somewhere outside the building a brittle ‘crack’ is heard, then the rapid clip of hooves. A pony suddenly bursts through the entryway, charging towards Rosenhoff and braying enthusiastically. Members of the crowd who haven’t already moved now scramble to avoid being hit by the Pony Express.

The pony screeches to a sudden halt at Rosenhoff’s feet, panting heavily. It tosses its head once, then peers round Rosenhoff as if looking for something.

“Before you stands a Reprehensible Pony from the distant reaches of the place the Northmen call Norumbega. I call him Phil.” Rosenhoff glares at the pony as it tries to nudge her out of its way. “Reprehensible in that he’s an atrocious mareniser. Always looking for the next female horse to make his advances towards. Hence the whistle.

“Phil here is a reliable pony otherwise – I rode him here, in fact. The Norembegans use such ponies to haul ice up steep mountains, but I’m sure he can carry your cargo with ease, farther than your long-legged water humps could hope to manage.

“Besides which, he- STOP IT, PHIL!” Phil, having become bored of everything else, has seized her coat sleeve. Rosenhoff irritably fishes out a Mars bar and tosses it to the pony, which relinquishes her arm and snaps after the treat. Rosenhoff rolls her eyes. “As you can see, Phil has a bite so strong, only the scent of chocolatey goodness can persuade him to let go. If your caravan is attacked by, say, a hoard of bandits, or a pack of hyenas, or (gods forbid) a mongoose, Phil will sink his teeth into them until they wail for mercy and then some. Or until they procure a chocolate bar, by which time you will have soundly thrashed them.”

Prefix, Beast, Suffix

The Pasha is visibly irritated by these desert men. "Here, have a cat," he says. "It eats rats. It's nice to have a cat around. Behold, the cat." 

He produces what is clearly a stray cat that someone found here and presents it. It's orange. The cat meows, so he sets it on the ground. It scratches its head. 

Beast

The cloaked figure nodded ominously at the request, and its outstretched hands began to glow as it conjured--

A wooden THUNK noise, and a familiar voice saying, "HAH! Gotcha bitch!"

The light went out of his hands, and the wizard collapsed face-first onto the ground as he had been struck in the back of the head by a |Pinewood| |2x4| |of Mage-Slaying|! The muscular figure standing over him was clearly no sorceror, but a superstitious penguinite barbarian who had evidently tracked him here. His eyes widened, however, at the realization that he had tracked this wizard into the proverbial belly of the beast. Or in this case, the back of one. Here he was, hunting a wizard, all the way to the unholy center of FORBIDDEN, WITCHCRAFT COMMERCE! And he'd just clubbed a sorceror in the middle of a public square like some kind of troglodyte. This was fucked up. How was he meant to get out of this one!? There was only one way out. He'd have to pretend to be one of these beast-conjurers to throw off suspicion. But how would he come up with an animal for this?

Quickly, the bird-man pulled his hood over his head and waved his fingers around mysteriously, pulling on what seemed like the chain for a hound until a massive unseen shape began parting the crowd he had just appeared from like a wagon rolling through a cornfield.

"Men of the caravan! I presume you are all worldly folk who have heard tales of the direwolf. A far northernly beast, twice the size of a normal wolf, what devours men. May I present to you, a beast even MORE far northernly, that's even bigger, and eats bears! I was able to ride him all the way to this town, and followed his nose to track down this... Illusive witch-projection of myself, that I knocked out here."

What revealed itself was a mountainous, nasty creature that looked for all the world like a gray wolf stretched, squashed, and otherwise contorted with massive sinews and superfluous skin, into a great slimy-faced bulldog the size of a pony. The birdman barbarian tentatively reached through the almost visible cloud of dog breath to gently pat the creature's head, "Gents, I present to you, the VILEWOLF! Please take it with you."

|Descriptor| |Creature|

A man enters the room with cautious steps; he stands up ramrod straight, his eyes dart around the room, and his hands, tightly clasped together in front of him, tremble ever so slightly. He's clad in plenty of splendor and luxurious clothing, but in this sea of powerful figures, Bartholomew is but a father, small and fragile in comparison to the raw magic that surrounds him.

"Hello," he begins, uncertainty coloring his tone. He clears his throat. "Um, hello. I am Lord Bartholomew Puddlewink. I have... I have a request to make." He shifts on his feet, unsure of how to continue.

“I don’t know what to do,” he blurts out, voice strained. “My daughter... Elowen. She’s been tormented by these shadows in the corners of her mind— whispers that follow her everywhere. I can’t stand to watch her suffer, but the healers, they say there's nothing they can do.” His voice cracks. “Nothing. Can you believe that?

"Despite the efforts of countless healers, no cure has come. They speak in hushed tones about her ailment, offering potions and spells that seem only to dull the edges of her pain, never extinguish it. In their eyes, she is a lost cause— her fragile mind a puzzle too complex to fix. But I won’t— can't accept that. My daughter’s torment isn’t something that can be washed away with mere remedies. It’s something deeper, something unseen. So... so that’s why I'm here." He offers a small smile. "I was hoping you could help me. I need something... real," he tells the gathered Beastmancers.

A bitter laugh escapes him, weak and hollow. “I wish I could just... wave my hand and make it all disappear. But I can’t. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t even know if this is real.” His eyes go wide and desperation flashes across his face. “But you’re the ones with the answers. You’re the ones who can help me.”

He fidgets with his hands, still avoiding direct eye contact with any of the people in the room. "I need something to comfort her— a companion who can ease her fear."

The wizened asian summoner considered the despondant father for a long moment as the orc rambled on about his obviously enslaved fairy. That was a legal embroglio that he wanted nothing to do with. It would be best to wrap this up as quicly as possible before magi-cops and magi-civil-rights-lawyers showed up to bust up the place. He nodded, as much to himself as to anyone, and began another complex series of movements and contortions.

This one involved lots of somersaults and leaps, each jump slightly higher than the last. Finally he reached a pinnacle, rolling into a jump that launched him dozens of feet above the heads of the gathered crowd. At the peak of the jump, his single extended finger left a small tear in the sky. As he dropped back to earth, he was accompanied by a torrent of icy winds and a shower of royal blue sands. After just a moment two massive hands, calloused and brown but still vaguely human-like gripped the edges of the tear, ripping it wider. A massive orange furred ape, royal blue sand stuck in its fur dropped through the tear in the sky and landed next to the old asian man. The tear closed behind it, with a final burst of royal blue sand and icy wind.

The old summoner and the massive ape performed a complex and lengthy handshake that involved both hands and at least one playful face slap for each of them. Smiling and showing his red and yellow stained teeth, the asiatic summoner said, "Bartholomew, I am willing to lend you the services of my great friend Haldus, the Faithful Gigantophiticus From the swirling blue dunes of Saturn! He is highly empathic and capable of deep understanding of complex psychological issues, having been studying in isolated meditation for decades. He will faithfully accompany your daughter and help her learn to useful techniques for ignoring or accepting the terrible affliction that she is dealing with."

Prefix Beast Suffix<

Rosenhoff pulls out a small glass-stoppered phial of water, inside which floats a pale orange blob. Gesturing to an audience member who conveniently brought a glass tank with him, she theatrically unstoppers the phial and tips its contents into the tank. Defying all logic, water continues to flow from the phial until the tank is three-quarters full. The tank’s owner manages to hold the weight at chest-level, panting heavily, his face beetroot-red.

All that is left is the blob, which has wedged itself in the narrow mouth of the phial. Rosenhoff, unfazed, shakes the phial as you would a stubborn bottle of ketchup. Finally, with a loud ‘pop’, the blob tumbles into the tank, growing to the size of a football in the process. The blob, now that everyone can see it clearly, turns out to be a large fish with rubbery whiskers and an undersized top hat.

Rosenhoff turns and bows to Bartholomew. “Apologies for the delay. What your daughter needs is a Hilarious River Catfish.”

“How is that thing in any way hilarious?” asks a bemused spectator.

Rosenhoff stares incredulously at the spectator. “How is a fish in a top hat not hilarious? Besides which, this fish has a few special features. Watch.”

She plunges her arm into the tank, ignored by the placid catfish, and tickles its belly. The fish immediately flops upside down, bubbles streaming from its mouth, the top hat miraculously remaining on its head.

“It’s dying!!!” someone screams. Several people faint.

“It’s not! It’s not!” Rosenhoff shouts hurriedly. “It’s laughing!” The fish rolls back over, still snorting bubbles. “See? Not dead.

“Now, you may have noticed that the top hat remains attached to the fish. If you try to touch the hat, well…” She reaches for the hat, but just as her fingers touch it the fish tilts itself upwards and opens its mouth. Now that Rosenhoff’s hand is inside the fish’s mouth, the fish presses its lips together, sealing the hand inside.

“It’s eating her hand!” the same person from before screams. Several more people faint.

“IT’S NOT!!!” Rosenhoff yells, exasperated. “It has no teeth! River catfish never do! All this fish can do is tickle you with its tongue a bit. It’s just very protective of its hat, and- Oh forget it.” She taps the hat, prompting the fish to let her go.

“I’m sorry that this fish can offer you no counselling or calming consumables,” Rosenhoff says to Bartholomew, “but I don’t think those things are what your daughter wants or needs. She needs more joy in her life, and this hilarious catfish can give that to her. What better way to fight fear than with laughter?”

Prefix, Material, Beast

Catching the sound of a little brass bell hanging from his belt, the birdman quickly left the marketplace, before arriving sometime later with a tremendous, lumbering thing snuffling and snorting as it attempted to get out from inside the net he was dragging it around in. Eventually, Sent procured his dagger and cut the beast free, releasing... A confused, but docile animal. It appeared, at first, to be some kind of enormous monkey with three legs-- Two armlike ones, and a single leg behind, all ending in clawed feet. It had shaggy fur that sparkled with droplets of water, repelled from its surface, with wide eyes, a kind of silly, gormless smile, and a bulbous nose.

"Lo and behold, the Amabiko Of the Rivers!" The barbarian said, "I caught him in my net just hours ago. Legend has it that these things come out of the water to deliver prophecies of good fortune followed by horrible curses-- But you can protect the area from the horrible curses merely by copying down what they look like and distributing the pictures everywhere. Surely you've all seen a drawing of one at some point! At any rate, he seems like a nice enough... Thing. A little smelly, I suppose. But it might help dispel your daughter's curse if you had your court artist draw a picture of this thing and mail it to everyone you know. It couldn't hurt!"

"I'll even do one for you, free of charge!" The barbarian quickly began thumbing through the belongings of the still-face-down wizard he'd hit earlier, hastily scrawling a picture of the creature onto a blank scroll, "Doesn't it make you feel better already? I think the more giant three-limbed primates people draw and distribute, in general, the better the vibes will be."



*Creature, Suffix, and I didn't use a second suffix, but from what somebody else played it seems we have a duplicate so I'd like another to replace it

I was tempted to pick Sent because of the drawing, but a creature who gives curses sounds counterproductive.

The lord's eyes light up when he sees the Ambrosia Butterfly. "Ambrosia! The food of the gods! I can think of no better cure for my daughter's affliction. And maybe it can get our family out of our crippling debt. I'm sure that'll help a little," he adds with a cheerful grin.

Scoreboard: Mizal 2 --- goodnight_a 1 --- fresh 1 --- Everyone Else 0

Throughout the proceedings a variety of pigeons have been watching from the rooftops. Now they coalesce into a swarm which funnels down into the market square below. In a whirl of feathers and a spray of bird droppings, the swarm transforms into a small boy dressed in a ridiculously big black robe. He speaks with a terrible lisp, likely due to his having several teeth missing and a fang in place of his left front tooth.

“I am Lord Rilquennoth, and I need the biggetht, baddetht creature the world hath ever theen for my dungeon lair! I’m a laughing thtock in the vampiric community becauth I wath turned before I could get all my adult teeth, giving me thith thtupid lithp. Every time adventurerth fayth me in battle they can’t take me theriouthly, which maykth killing them really boring.

It’th tho bad I can’t even hire proper monthterth! All the real bad oneth like Hydra and Minotaur don’t return my callth. Goblinth and orcth, puny ath they are, would rather fight each other to the death than work for me. My thcoreth on TripAdvithor have never been tho low! Look!”

He pulls out a holoscroll, which displays a list of highly negative reviews:

Tornack99: Rubbish maze, rubbish encounters, rubbish gift shop. Stay well away!

Adventures_lol: Was the first bit supposed to be challenging LOL

Woden’sBaned: You know a dungeon’s the pits when the fight before the big bad is against flumphs. FLUMPHS!!!

The Dark Lord puts the scroll away and wipes his eyes. “The flumphth are on the brink of rebellion, the grey oztheth are thtarving to death and I’m about to be kicked from the Villainouth League. I need thomething that will rethtore my honour and prethtige. I heard thith wath the playth to get really thtrong monthterth which obey without quethtion, tho here I am!”

The ancient martial summoner nodded sympathetically with the story of Lord Rilquennos. "It is a dangerous request you make, but one that can be fulfilled. Behold." the old man said. He began to spin in place, his hands making fould and disquieting gestures as he did so. Dark clouds gathered overhead, turning slowly. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as rain began to fall. A distant hum seemed to come from above the swirling clouds. The rain began to pound down harder as the ancient asian continued his spinning dance-like martial art. Mud and cobbles began to fly as his movements dug a magically deep hole.

The rain collected into a deep pool in the hole. The humming in the sky increased and with a flare of impossible radiance, a figured descended from the storm above to splash into the pool. The mermaid was beautiful, but harsh in feature, like the cruel queen that she must be. Atomic light seeped from her skin, eyes and mouth. She spun in the pool and in a flash erupted from the surface to hover majestically above the water line. She glared at Lord Rilquennos and said, "Your dungeon is doomed to failure and eniquity without me. Not only with your lisp worsen and your flumphs flatten, but your hair will fall out and you will develop a crippling lack of bladder control, even for an undead."

The asian summoner said, "Here in her terrible glory is the Atomic Siren Of Foul Omens! Look upon her and remember her words."

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@fresh_out_the_oven @hetero_malk @ISentinelPenguinI @Mizal

You have until Monday morning (7:00 GMT) to submit something or Anthraxus wins the point by default. No pressure :).

The bird fellow eyed his slobbering steed with some concern. He couldn't just try to pawn off a vilewolf twice in a day, eventually it was going to figure out he was trying to get rid of it and become quite upset with him. But surely there was a creature he could pawn off to this guy in a hurry. He might not know magic, but he did know the adventuring market-- And the hunting market. It was what got him into this mess in the first place. He hurried off again, and eventually came back dragging a large cage on wheels, covered by a tarp.

"Boy, I can tell you're new to the Dark Lording business, and let me tell you-- What you're probably thinking of, something like a 'final boss', big setpiece creature that can withstand an entire six-man party of experienced warriors and wizards wailing on it for 6-7 sets of roughly six-second intervals... Out of your price range. And I mean that with absolutely no offense to you! But let's say, best case scenario, you can afford any asking price, and you take a dragon home today. A brand new one, no old scars or secret weaknesses, no familial curses, no prophecies about how a little boy from a village it burned down was destined to shoot it out of the sky. Just a normal dragon, hatched by a little old druid who only used it to torch the neighboring wheatfields on Sundas. First of all, you're gonna need to make sure you have the SPACE for a monster like that. So I hope there aren't any big halls you were hoping to rennovate for a minions barracks or a grand throne room or a library of evil tomes or something like that. THEN you're most likely going to have to buy enough treasure for that thing to guard and/or sleep on. Normally when you already have a monster like that, that sort of thing just accumulates naturally as a ton of adventurers die in your dungeon. But it's clear that you don't, so you're going to have to pay for it out of pocket or the thing is probably just going to try and migrate to a richer dungeon! Now let's say you have all that handled-- You must make sure it's either not too smart, or you have some kind of magic object that controls the beast, because otherwise it's going to decide eventually that it's not really your dungeon anymore, isn't it? The dragons that can talk are the worst ones for that kinda shit. I've seen it befall many a young ner-- Necromancer like yourself! And then, after all that, you have to factor in the monthly cost of feeding something that big! And let me tell you, I've wandered to the end of enough wretchedly bare tombs, utterly DEVOID of ancient riches, to know that a cow, maybe two or three goats if you're lucky enough to get a mid-size dragon-- Is a terrible monthly cost to reckon with when you're already struggling to pay off Wizard School loans."

The bird man reached for a corner of the tarp, and yanked it down, revealing a shimmering shadowy shape with a pair of baleful golden eyes.

"You don't want a big setpiece monster that comes with all the fuss-- Most likely, you also don't wanna have to clean up after a climactic final battle with high-level adventurers every week. What you need is something simple, cheap, independent, that can take care of itself, and furthermore, something effective. You're not gonna be receiving shitty reviews from adventurers anymore, because THEY'LL ALL BE DEAD!"

The enormous cat-- Because that's certainly what it was, seemed to take issue with the sudden loud noises and gesticulation from the birdman, but rather than lash out like a normal leopard or something of the like, it calmly stood up-- And a fucking SWORD flew straight at the barbarian's penguinous head with the speed and certainty of an arrow. Only because the barbarian seemed to be expecting an attack like this did it miss, and embed itself loudly in the cobbles next to him. A circle of blades hovered around the beast like a slowly rotating halo.

"What you see here is an apex predator of the mysterious occident-- Much like a tiger, it lives in the trees, walks silently without tracks, and eats whatever it pleases. But it's more terrifying than even a tiger! The favorite meal of this creature is a kind of small water-dragon, which is armored all over its body. But it is least armored in the back of its neck, which has to move for it to be able to open its mouth. This beast hunts with such horrifying precision that it can see this beast even as it camouflages itself in the water, and drop down from the branches above to crunch its spine in its jaws! This one in particular was born with completely black fur, so that it blends in with the shadows. It was also enchanted by a foolish wizard, who saw fit to give the animal the ability to conjure and hurl swords with its mind. So you know it's had a lot of experience fending for itself in a dungeon without needing much maintenance." The barbarian was grinning like an insane person by this point, "This is how you get a dungeon with reputation! The reviews might drive people off at first, but now that people think the place is easy pickings, you're going to have hundreds of newbies disappearing in droves! If there are any survivors, they'll be telling a different story! All adventurers will live in fear of the |Panther| |Of Swords|!"

*Creature, Suffix, and another suffix please because it seems I keep getting Anthraxus's cards

Sorceress sighs, adjusting the brim of her hat as she surveys the pitiful excuse for a dark lord before her. “It seems to me, Lord Rilquennoth, that what you need is a Feral Borbothis that speaks fluent French," she tells him, taking her time with each syllable as if speaking to a particularly dim student. “Large. Unpredictable. Extremely violent. And, crucially, known to strike fear into the heart of even the most seasoned adventurer.”

She laughs. “Because nothing unsettles a group of adventurers quite like being torn limb from limb while a monstrous beast corrects their pronunciation of croissant! Besides, everyone knows French is the most heinous language.” Her eyes gleam as she continues. “Imagine, if you will, a slimy, toothy horror slithering toward your would-be heroes, snarling about l'existentialisme while quoting Voltaire.

"It's rather hard to control and impossible to tame, but that’s part of the appeal. No one will think you hired it. They’ll assume it chose your dungeon, which instantly grants you credibility. And if it happens to kill any adventurers who come through? That’s just a bonus.

"Oh! And they taste good."

Sorceress crosses her arms, clearly pleased with herself.

prefix, creature, suffix

Lord Rilquennoth stares at the Pasha’s gift in disgust. “Perthonally enthulting and horribly dithguthting. And thuch a creature only inviteth people to thay that my dungeon thtinkth. No way.”

The Dark Lord turns to the siren and the borbothis. “Though thethe are wonderful for tormenting adventurerth, neither theem quite right for my dungeon. The thiren already theemth to be preparing to commit (at leatht pthychological) mutiny, and the eel thing ith, ath you dethcribed it, ‘impothible to tame’. Being uthurped by my own monthterth will make me an even bigger laughing thtock, tho thankth, but no thankth.”

He lingers on the bear, before shaking his head. “Much ath I love a bear of math dethtruction, I’ve theen too many adventurerth uthe fire-baythed thpellth in enclothed thpaceth and blow up. Thimilarly, thith bear may detonate if expothed to much of anything. Imagine it: my dungeon blown to bitth becauth someone decideth to have a drink during the battle! Maybe another time.”

Finally, Rilquennoth admires the Panther of Swords. “Itth thneaky and deadly. Doethn’t really need my time or attention. Lotth of thpiky bitth. Pluth, it hath fangth. I love it! Maybe thith cat will win me ‘Twist on the Villain Cat Cliché’ in the League’th award theremony.”

So saying, the demanding young(ish) vampire turns back into a flock of pigeons, which then grasps the panther’s fur and hauls it into the air. The crowd watches in stunned silence as the panther and its peculiar escort disappear over the rooftops.

Point to ISentinelPenguinI.

Pasha Malk, who has been missing for what feels like days, bursts out of his eight wheel luxury carriage pulled by an entire camel train. Behind him are two eunuchs, visibly struggling to contain a beast that is writhing kicking from under a velvet curtain.

"My friends, I have assembled this creature according to ancient texts so blasphemous that they are proscribed by the wise masters of the Turd Council. I must apologize for my lateness: I had to receive special dispensation from the Porcelain Throne just to assemble this beast. It is a creature of the night that sups on human blood, its very existence is an object of study by the Time Wizards of Chronomatica, and by Allah, it smells fucking terrible. May I present the.... 

SHIT NOSFERATU THAT INHABITS THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE TINDALOS CORNERS OF TIME." 

At a signal, the sackless warriors unveil the monster. One of them produces a pink parasol that he uses to shield it from the sun. 

"It is, as the name suggests, a  dreadful vampire made of poop.  A cunning observer will also notice that geometry seems to fail in the creatures presence:  it has an aura of Non-Euclidean Poop Math, sure to confound and torment any heroes who attempt to slay it. Of course, the Tindalos Corners of Time have no sunlight, so the creature can be slain easily by solar radiation: however, as this is meant to guard a dungeon lair, that is of no concern. Please take it. I really don't want to have to put it back in the carriage." 

Meterial, creature, suffix. 

Like the lights in a building clicking off one by one, the bustle of the main city thoroughfare seemed to fade to silence as  thunderous trumpet calls cut through it like a knife. Pedestrian and kiosk alike began to clear out of the way as, aside from the great brass tower, another shadow now darkened the market square.

Pulled by an enormous floating nautilus like a carriage, seemed to be an entire palace-- All columns and onion-domed rooves, festooned with vibrantly painted bas reliefs. Detailed figures, with motifs of winged serpents and elephant heads. Its gold leaf accents had begun to flake away from the wind and sand of the trip here, and the shimmering white beneath would reveal that the entire building had seemingly been carved from a single piece of nacre the size of a trireme. All this and seemingly more, hovered over the marketplace of the City of Brass on the mists of a white cloud.

The trumpets ceased to play. Jingling chains and screaming hinges now heralded the arrival of a massive unfolding staircase of marble and gold-plated steel. A parade of figures in similarly gilded armor marched down the steps in a great martial parade, cuirasses shaped like muscular torsos, and helmets with the leering, snarling faces of lions. When their feet touched the ground they threw themselves down upon it in prostration, their fanged helmets causing a cacophony against the street cobbles. Like a shimmering blue tongue tattooed with byssus thread, a silk carpet poured itself from between the columns of the palace, down the steps, and over the bowing men. A set of evidently more elite guards, with burgundy capes and slashed sleeves and pantaloons over their limb armor, marched out to carefully weigh the rug down to the shape of the steps with heavy golden poles. Only then, with long, curl-toed shoes, did someone dare to walk on it.

"Hear ye, sorcerers of Keleron!" Came the booming voice of a man dressed in a truly preposterous amount of red and gold fabric. His clothes barely held the shape of a man, and swelled out from his body like the feathers of a terrified owl. His hat was a conical tower of velvet, with strings of precious stones along the slight brim to hide his face. He was accompanied down the steps by censer-swinging priests of some kind, who averted their gaze from him as he spoke, "You are about to find yourself in the presence of the most serene, the most pious, the most magnificent Emperor-- His Excellence, The Luminous One, Heir to the Sun, Liege of the Eight Winds..."

The herald's list of titles, evidently memorized by heart, lasted much longer than his trip down the stairs, over the backs of the soldiers, and finally to earth. He was still listing them off when the first pair of giants appeared.

8 muscular women-- Or so their armor would have us believe-- Each no shorter than 7 feet tall, carried a brass sphere the size of a small house on their shoulders like a palanquin. No matter how the rods tilted as they moved down the steps, the ball between them remained perfectly upright, suspended between two free-rotating rings.

The herald was still listing titles as the giants stepped to the side, off of the backs of the small guards, and set the sphere down completely. The rods tilted to steady the ball somewhat-- But what really seemed to hold the ball in place was the miserable men squirming out of the way underneath it, desperately clutching it with their bodies through the carpet like fingers from behind a mitten.

It was then that the doors on the front of the sphere opened, and revealed a human figure draped in purple cloth, on a cherrywood throne. His face was obscured by an expressionless golden mask, with many prongs in the shape of the sun's rays. And that motherfucking Herald was still going.

Perched on the lap of the festooned figure and spilling turbulently from its lap in a cascade of emerald eyes, was a peacock. It seemed... Not exactly appreciative, but not at all to mind being clutched and scratched like any housecat by the emperor's seven-fingered hands, banded by dozens of quietly clinking rings.

The herald has, by now, really worked himself up, "THE MERCIFUL, THE MAGNIFICENT, THE UNIFIER OF THUNDER VALLEY, THE DESTROYER OF THE HEPATIZON LEAGUE, THE TRUE AND RIGHTFUL EMPEROR OF LEGUMIA! LONG HAS HE REIGNED, MAY HE REIGN FOR A CENTURY MORE!"

The Herald was silenced with a single snap of the Emperor's fingers.

"Are we forgetting something, Lloyd?" The emperor's voice echoed from behind his mask, yet somehow projected out into the crowd assembled.

The herald's booming voice trembled with fear, "I... I pray not, my supreme liege."

"It seems you neglected to tell them who the True and Rightful Emperor of Legumia is!" The emperor leaned toward the herald on his chair, resting a metal cheek on an enclosed, gangly fist, "My name should be on the lips of every mortal under the firmament. This is most unprofessional!"

As if startled by the very word 'unprofessional', the Herald yelped and fell to his knees, "I BEG OF YOU A THOUSAND PARDONS, YOUR EXCELLENCY! I HAVE FAILED YOU! I AM SO USED TO HEARING YOUR NAME ECHOING THROUGH THE HALLS OF OUR HOMELAND AND CARVED INTO THE WALLS OF OUR TEMPLES, I THOUGHT THAT THESE PEOPLE HAD ALREADY KNOWN! SO SPLENDID WAS THE CITY OF BRASS THAT I HAD MOMENTARILY FORGOTTEN THAT I WAS BUT A VISITOR TO THIS MOST BACKWARDS BARBARIAN PLANET, A STAR'S GRASP AWAY FROM YOUR SERENE RULE! I HAVE FAILED YOU AS ONLY THE LOWEST COULD HAVE FAILED! I AM NOT FIT TO BE YOUR JESTER!"

Somewhere in the folds up on folds of his clothing, on one of the golden chains of his waist, the herald found a wickedly curved dagger in an ivory sheathe-- And reached up under the beads to cut his own throat, spilling blood all over his finery.

"Jesus Space-Christ," The Emperor huffed at this display, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, (and a stifled, half-second scream of agony from the dying man) Lloyd was engulfed in hissing blue flame until naught remained of his entire person but a smear of ash, "Have that man's family notified of their status as nobility in my court, because Lloyd's such a fucking Drama Queen."

The Emperor turned back to the crowd assembled, "Sorry about that, everyone. Where were we? Ah, right. My name, as you may or may not have heard, is Saratoga Spleench IV. My dynasty has reigned over Arda for seven generations! Twelve, if you count the non-consecutive emperors, but I didn't come here to brag. I need help, and the one who helps me shall be rewarded handsomely!"

"There is a magisterial house in my court I have come to despise. The Lord Governor of Pukklwyd and his sons are backstabbing social climbers to a man. I know, most courtiers are, but there's no lengths they will not sink to in their harebrained grasps for any amount of power among their peers. They compromise the peace between my most powerful vassals and their delegates, and frivolously spend the resources of their own entrusted provinces on campaigns of flattery and corruption. I know not what will satisfy them, save for my own throne... But if that's the case, they have no idea what they're after. Also, they're quite ugly, and I wish them gone as a matter of principle.

Technically, it's within my right to revoke their titles right out, but because they were elected by a council of their subordinates, I fear it might lead to furor in the realm. My plans for this world are many-faceted, and to spend any time crushing rebellion in my own states would set back my intricate statecraft by fifty years! It's a real pain in my ass!

Aggressive action is right out-- What I need is a gift, to reward House Pukklwyd for their dutiful service. A spiritually sacred creature befitting of my station-- But so expensive to take care of that they cannot accept it, for if they do, it will financially ruin them and make their family unfit for peerage. Something so precious, that if it died in their care, it would be legally and morally permissible for any of their numerous rivals to kill the Lord Governor for the offense. And if they should refuse their emperor's gift..."

The emperor shrugged, and made a coy, inarticulate grunt to the tune of "I-dunno!" as the priests below started setting up a small funerary incense in the center of Lloyd's bone-shadows.

Rosenhoff grins evilly. She pulls off the dirty knitted hat she’s definitely always been wearing, then deftly turns the hat inside out, causing a large black-cloth-covered package and several reels of ribbon to spill out of it. The package is deer-shaped, bound with more ribbon, and wriggles furiously around on the ground. Rosenhoff gives it a nudge, and it goes limp.

“This, I assure you, is a Moonstone Leucrota from the moonless dark surrounding the City of Agartha, many miles beneath the ground. The most volatile beast I have ever had the displeasure of gift-wrapping.

“It requires 6 miles exercise in a straight line – if it deviates from the line by an inch, it will explode. It must not come into contact with any light at all – to do so would be to cause it to explode (such is the reactivity of moonstone around Agartha). Thus, House Pukklwyd will be forced to build a 6 mile-long lightless corridor, or hollow one out of the earth, which I’m sure will take a chunk of their savings. In addition, this beast only eats blue moonstones harvested under a blue harvest moon, and must be fed twice a day or explode.

“A further complication to this ‘gift’ is that the Moonstone Leucrota is revered by the people of Agartha. Each year they have a special ceremony to celebrate the animal, ending with the transformation of one of the people into a leucrota. Causing a Moonstone Leucrota to explode is, as a result, tantamount to murder in their eyes.

“As I see it, it’s a win-win situation: House Pukklwyd either go bankrupt, or the creature explodes in their faces, humiliating House Pukklwyd forever and angering the entire population of Agartha. We’re talking pitchforks and flaming arrows of death levels of anger here.”

Material, Beast, Suffix

The wizened wizard considered the Emperor and his words for a long moment. Finally coming to grips with the request, he strikes an difficult and complex pose. Unlike his previous summons, this involved not ornate dancing kata or flashy magic. He stood like a statue for several minutes, long enough that some of the other summoners began to take steps to do their own thing, perhaps thinking that the old man had merely fallen asleep in the middle of his attempt.

Finally, he unfurls from his posture, his hand making a sharp slicing motion through the air. The air ripples and splits like a sliced curtain. There is a sudden roar and a massive, dirty, red-haired, three-toed Voormi charged through the opening a crude stone axe held high over its' head.

The change in lighting and temperature from the dark snowy landscape beyond the slice caused the Voormi to come to a sudden stop and looked down to say, "Oh, it's you. What's up?" The ancient summoner pinched the slice closed and points to the Emperor. "This one seeks to reward you to the varous noble houses in his kingdom to bring them hardship." he said in response. The Voormi considered the Emperor and asked with wizard, "Are they hot?"

The wizened sage nodded to the Voormi and said to the Emperor, "Please consider my friend here for this. Not only will his unique look and manners make him an obvious precious gift, his propensity for fucking the wives of his associates and his arrogant approach to only speaking to those he considers worth the time will set your noble houses against themselves in no time at all I present the Voormi that fucks your and talks, but only if it thinks you are worth the time!" The Voormi bows at the Emperor but says nothing.

Creature Suffix Suffix