It captures all who come into its presence. This game has had a few incarnations here in the forum with varying degrees of success. Think of it as an RPG with no strings attached. Write in the style of whatever genre makes you happy. If the prior poster wrote titanium slick Sci-Fi, there's no reason yours can't be a sunburnt, grit encrusted Western. Your character is up to you to define. The object is simple: Get the Golden Orb from the last person in a creative and thought provoking way. Only two rules. Your post must be no less than 250 words and murder is a no-no. If you see that the last post violates one of these (e.g. "Bop you on the head, orb is mine."), feel free to reference the penultimate post and go from there. And so it begins... Knocking around the dusty shelves and stacks of the little antique store, the perfume of old paper and even older wood was heavy in the air. I scanned the many curios and cases wherein small items were housed in a menagerie of cheap sparkle and tarnish. That's were they always were, what I was after. Fountain pens. And yes, there was a Parker Duofold and a little Sheaffer, both from the 1930's, together in front of what looked like a brass billiard ball. The owner of the store shuffled over when I waved and his boney hands shook as he tried one key after another to open the case. The right key was found and as his hand bobbed its way to the pens, he touch the brass sphere and it rolled to the edge of the case knocking the inside of the glass. It released an unexpectedly sweet note, high and fine as a crystal bell. I haggled for some minutes on the price of the pens and then relented, asking instead for him to throw in the sphere to seal the deal. The owner smiled and the bargain was struck. I waved away the paper bag he offered, slipping the the pens into my pocket and clutching the sphere. The patina of it's softly golden surface was warm silk in my hand and it was heavier than I expected. A tune came into my head, like a song you might hear in passing that you can't stop humming. I left the shop clutching the sphere, the pens in my pocket forgotten. I never noticed that the old fellah who owned the shop was humming the same tune. The tune grew louder and the sphere shone brighter than it had cause to on this overcast day. What was this thing?
