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I joined a fun email game, in french. The rules are simple: each player plays a character and exchange emails between each other. The story progresses through those exchanges. One of the players is the 'game master' who tries and orchestrates the events. I'm not sure exactly how he does that yet since he can't be part of every communication, or maybe he is. Anyway, there are no systemic rules (no dice involved), only imagination. All happens in a french village called Rosville.
I decided to play a 52 year old fortune-teller and medium, her name is Ingerith Kof-Banzil, niece of a previous mayor of the village. The game website details that this mayor had been assassinated, the killer is unknown.
I think this character is perfect for social interaction and allows manifold story developments.
The website is at http://www.13-rue-echafaud.fr , all in french.

So I was accepted in the game, Ingerith is given an apartment in the village. My first assignment was to contact the building's concierge, Ms. Floch, to arrange an appointment to receive the keys.

Here is the email I sent (translated from the french):

On the top of a hill, near a long country road, early after dawn.
Greenery, and green trees, rising heat.
The sun infiltrates the small windows of Ingerith's truck.
Ingerith, in brown cotton robes, half-lying on her armchair, sips a naturally gazeified tea while reading the email from Pierre Lefranc [the game master, playing the real estate guy who rents me the appartment].
She lightly smiles.

Her eyes turn and stare at the right of the screen, in emptiness.

Outside of the truck, a baby bird pierces his egg shell.

A few minutes pass by, Ingerith's body suddently giggle and joyfully exclaims "ah! Floch!'"
She taps:
"Ms. Floch,
I'm the new tenant of #42. I will arrive to Rosville Wednesday at 1pm and expect to find you at the entrance of the building in order to get the apartment keys.
Do you have whitewash? If not, get some, and please sprinkle the apartment door with a few grams of powder. Just a few grams, not more. No need to ask me why. In exchange, I bring you some rare discs of the grand master harpist Franz Rachmassorski, I think you like music...

Ingerith Kof-Banzil"

She presses "Send", rubs her hand in her hair and whisper:
"Rosville, my Rosville,...".
Her smile falls down. Frowning, she brings the hot tea cup to her lips, slowly.
The steam covers her face.

Outside the truck, the baby bird has fallen from his nest.


**************************************************************
En haut d'une colline, près d'une longue route de campagne, peu après l'aube -
Verdure, et arbre verts, chaleur montante.
Le soleil s'infiltre au travers des petits carreux de la camionette d'Ingerith.
Ingerith, en robes de cotton bruns, mi-allongée sur son fauteil, sirote une thé gazéifié au naturel tout en lisant l'email de Pierre Lefranc. Elle sourit légèrement.
Ces yeux tournent et se fixent à droite de l'écran, dans le vide.

Au dehors de la camionnette, un oisillon perce sa coquille d'oeuf.

Quelques
minutes passent, le corps Ingerith tout d'un coup se remue et s'éxclame joyeusement " ah! Floch! "
Elle tapote:
"

Mlle Floch,

Je suis la nouvelle locataire du numéro 42. J'arriverai à Rosville Mercredi vers 13 heures et compte vous trouver présente à l'entrée de l'immeuble afin d'obtenir les clés de l'appartement.
Avez-vous de la chaux blanche? Si non procurez-vous en, et veuillez soupoudrer la porte de mon appartement avec quelques grammes de poudre. Juste quelques grammes, pas plus. Inutile de me demander pourquoi. En échange, je vous amène quelques disques rares du grand maître harpiste Franz Rachmassorski, je pense que vous aimez la musique...

Ingerith Kof-Banzil
"

Elle presse "Envoi", se passe la main dans les cheveux et murmure:
"Rosville, mon Rosville,... ".
Son sourire retombe. Fronçant les sourcils, elle porte la coupe de thé chaude à ses lèvres, lentement.
La vapeur recouvre son visage.


Au dehors de la camionnette, l'oisillon est tombé du nid.
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August 2008

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