Dudley's dungeon

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Thursday, 1 July, 2004 by Dion Nicolaas
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@ "It's summer outside. Time for outdoor festivals!"
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@ "What do I get?"
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@ "RockBilbo saw that the moment had come when he must do something.
He could not get up at the brutes and he had nothing to shoot
with; but looking about he saw that in this place there were
many stones lying in what appeared to be a now dry little
watercourse. Bilbo was a pretty fair shot with a stone, and
it did not take him long to find a nice smooth egg-shaped one
that fitted his hand cosily. As a boy he used to practise
throwing stones at things, until rabbits and squirrels, and
even birds, got out of his way as quick as lightning if they
saw him stoop; and even grownup he had still spent a deal of
his time at quoits, dart-throwing, shooting at the wand,
bowls, ninepins and other quiet games of the aiming and
throwing sort - indeed he could do lots of things, besides
blowing smoke-rings, asking riddles and cooking, that I
haven't time to tell you about. There is no time now. While
he was picking up stones, the spider had reached Bombur, and
soon he would have been dead. At that moment Bilbo threw.
The stone struck the spider plunk on the head, and it dropped
senseless off the tree, flop to the ground, with all its legs
curled up.
        [ The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien ]

Copyright (c) 1994, 1995, 1996 by the NetHack Development Team
Copyright (c) 1994 by Boudewijn Wayers
NetHack may be freely redistributed. See license for details.
TrollThe troll shambled closer. He was perhaps eight feet tall,
perhaps more. His forward stoop, with arms dangling past
thick claw-footed legs to the ground, made it hard to tell.
The hairless green skin moved upon his body. His head was a
gash of a mouth, a yard-long nose, and two eyes which drank
the feeble torchlight and never gave back a gleam.
[...]
Like a huge green spider, the troll's severed hand ran on its
fingers. Across the mounded floor, up onto a log with one
taloned forefinger to hook it over the bark, down again it
scrambled, until it found the cut wrist. And there it grew
fast. The troll's smashed head seethed and knit together.
He clambered back on his feet and grinned at them. The
waning faggot cast red light over his fangs.
        [ Three Hearts and Three Lions, by Poul Anderson ]

Copyright (c) 1994, 1995, 1996 by the NetHack Development Team
Copyright (c) 1994 by Boudewijn Wayers
NetHack may be freely redistributed. See license for details.
and his Band of Orcs!"


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