On the Mallardbanks

After over a year away from any sort of MUDding, I've decided to spend some time on the last MUD we played. (That would be the one where Mike and I were not run off with vorpal pitchforks for stuff like questioning the gods or sustaining a steamy interracial relationship, and by "interracial" I mean, naturally, selkie women and lizard studs.)

Without delving at all into wondering why now, of all busy and dangerous times, I am indulging in one of life's more addicting pleasures -- and no, I won't be sharing the URL here, although you can request details -- I'm just happy that my manor is still standing, unrazed by some imp's holy pfile wipe. A description of the opening "room" follows below

Filed under "Writing" because I have no idea how else to classify MUD room descriptions.

On the Mallardbanks
Dark autumn grasses part for the ducks from which the River Mallardine takes its name. Whether in nesting pairs or inquisitively wandering, their soft quackles question and answer the water's rocking lap.

Higher up, sturdy posts of maple mark the path to the elegant but cozy home above. Untended honeysuckle completes the fence, its fragrant drape concealing the two black swans with their bold cygnets.

Cutting into the bank is a modest dock of sun-bleached woods. A brightly painted boat bobs on its tether where the land curves to the west. Under the clear waters lie the polished rocks that permit splashy crossings to the northern bank.

Several paces from the river's edge, a carved bench sits under the shade of the pendulous oaks. Here, growing alongside then following up and around the ascending path, clusters of lilies lift a light, clean scent to the windows waiting above.

[exits: north (locked), south]

(Of course, MUDs being MUDs, this is really one long paragraph. And a lot of wishful thinking.)