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The Journies of Frank the Dude
By Ozimander J. Griswald
Created on 2003-07-09 15:01:27 (#1171603), last updated 2006-03-02
130 comments received, 57 comments posted
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53 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 2 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | Frank |
|---|---|
| Location: | Connecticut, United States |
BioTo some I am know as Frank. To others, Moses. And still to others, Frank again.
I was born in Mateszalka, Hungary in an old Church which housed the lost treasures of King Solomon. Many years later I attended a school in Connecticut. Then another one. The second was called Cheshire Academy and it is there I met some of the most amazing drug addicts that ever chanced upon New England. Later, while partaking in the Decemberists revolt against Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, I accidently found myself hopelessly addicted to Opium and the MMORPG World of Warcraft. Due to my failure, countless Russian Sorcerers died.
While fleeing the country, I happened upon an alcohlic Frenchman known to me as Philip but to others as Mister Hotbread. His head was as mighty as his hands and we fought our way through Prussian armies to the Sangraile. Mister Hotbread and I spent a bit of time wandering the frozen tundra, fighting off Turks and Mongolians when we crossed paths with an Italian Jew by the name of Baroni Graboff. He had a king's vandyke and a horse's member, which he kept carefully tucked in his satchel full of half-written books and lost and misued ideas. Our merry band of efeminite but mostly straight adventurers managed our way through Greece where he met a great philospher. Unfortunately, this man died. The heir to his legacy was a strategos by the name of Shelley. He joined us on this journey along with his Germanic hoplite and siege engineer, Autoban Fuchs. Our travels led us to Ireland, where we witnessed the great rising of an ancient sickle, the banishing of a vile fae trickster and the crowning of the King of Connacht (Connacht, which lies west of the River Shannon). This mans name was Diarmait Dougherty. He stood ten men tall with arms like tree trunks. His titles was lost though as the people realized his blood carried the hint of a Spainards, with his pale Irish flesh and his dark, ebony locks. We fled the country and made our way to America where he carved new tales, fables still told today. And even as the sun passes us again, there are more tales, still being woven by this band of men.
And of me?
I am but a simple bard. It is my job to chronicle these tales.
I was born in Mateszalka, Hungary in an old Church which housed the lost treasures of King Solomon. Many years later I attended a school in Connecticut. Then another one. The second was called Cheshire Academy and it is there I met some of the most amazing drug addicts that ever chanced upon New England. Later, while partaking in the Decemberists revolt against Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, I accidently found myself hopelessly addicted to Opium and the MMORPG World of Warcraft. Due to my failure, countless Russian Sorcerers died.
While fleeing the country, I happened upon an alcohlic Frenchman known to me as Philip but to others as Mister Hotbread. His head was as mighty as his hands and we fought our way through Prussian armies to the Sangraile. Mister Hotbread and I spent a bit of time wandering the frozen tundra, fighting off Turks and Mongolians when we crossed paths with an Italian Jew by the name of Baroni Graboff. He had a king's vandyke and a horse's member, which he kept carefully tucked in his satchel full of half-written books and lost and misued ideas. Our merry band of efeminite but mostly straight adventurers managed our way through Greece where he met a great philospher. Unfortunately, this man died. The heir to his legacy was a strategos by the name of Shelley. He joined us on this journey along with his Germanic hoplite and siege engineer, Autoban Fuchs. Our travels led us to Ireland, where we witnessed the great rising of an ancient sickle, the banishing of a vile fae trickster and the crowning of the King of Connacht (Connacht, which lies west of the River Shannon). This mans name was Diarmait Dougherty. He stood ten men tall with arms like tree trunks. His titles was lost though as the people realized his blood carried the hint of a Spainards, with his pale Irish flesh and his dark, ebony locks. We fled the country and made our way to America where he carved new tales, fables still told today. And even as the sun passes us again, there are more tales, still being woven by this band of men.
And of me?
I am but a simple bard. It is my job to chronicle these tales.
ConnectInterests (15):
acting, art films, computers, french cheese cake, laughing, making others laugh, movies, music, rainy days and nights, reading, roleplaying, singing, snowy days and nights, sunny days and finally, writing
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