#brool

[maxpawb]

shout out to whatever this thing is

[ichigoginchan]

my beloved straw hat pirates <3

[harveyhawkscripts]

[M4M] Brool the Library Gargoyle [Gargoyle Speaker] [Soft Fantasy] [Romance]

Categories: M4M, Gay, Fantasy, Romance, Storm Sounds

Synopsis: The listener has fallen asleep at the local library, causing them to be locked in for the night. One of the library's local gargoyles, Brool, finds them asleep at one of the tables and accidentally wakes them up.

About Brool: "Brool" means a low roar or deep murmur. If that does not match the speaker's voice, feel free to change his name. Brool is lonely, less athletic than his fellow gargoyles, and enjoys literature. He has a scholar's mind and romantic heart, but he can also be awkward, overly idealistic, and at times downright rude. Also, he is very gay.

Google Doc

Ellipses (...) are listener replies

[Footsteps]

BROOL

Hm. The librarian forgot to draw the curtains again. Well, what better night than that of a full moon. A few dark clouds, but how gently the light illuminates their silver outlines. It's a perfect night for -

[Shifting]

Huh?

(Whispering) He's asleep. But what is he still doing here? The staff should have locked up half an hour ago. Did no one do a final sweep before closing?

(Whispering) And he had to fall asleep right in front of the romance section. There go my plans for the night.

(Whispering) Well... At least he is a handsome stranger.

[Shifting]

(Whispering) I should go -

[Thunk]

Agh! Shit, my tail!

…

Oh. Um. H-hello. Lovely night, isn't it? Aside from the storm rolling in, of course –

…

Ah, no no no no! Calm down, please don't scream. Please? I promise, I won't harm you.

Truly, I won't! On my honor.

...

I am a gargoyle. Perhaps you've seen me before? Up on the corner ledge on the front of the building?

...

Yes, that would be me! We gargoyles sleep during the day. Or, rather, we go into a dormant, half-awake state.

...

Hahaha! No, my dear. It's not like that at all. We aren't -- we don't turn to stone, goodness! We can move around if we so choose, gargoyles are simply nocturnal.

...

It may look so, but it's actually thick keratin, much like alligator skin.

...

Pardon?! Y-you would like to -- to feel it?

Ahem. Ah, it's fine. You managed to catch me a bit off--guard is all. However,... I do believe curiosity should be rewarded. And while usually such a request would be entirely improper... you may touch my arm.

...

My... your hands are very soft.

(Whispering) His fingertips are like rose petals...

Hm? Ah, nothing!

...

The other gargoyles? Yes, they're awake. Though they prefer to keep to themselves. They often wander off at night, so we don't spend much time together. They prefer more athletic pursuits, but I... Well, truth be told I'm not the strongest flier. Oh, I fly down to the docks on occasion, but never farther. Though, what I lack in strength I make up for in knowledge! I have an entire library at my claw-tips, after all.

...

Not every book, no. While I have attempted all of them - save for the newest arrivals - there are some not even I can stomach. And I consider myself quite liberal in my standards. Even if I don't particularly enjoy a book, I can usually still appreciate it. Some, though...

...

My favorite? Poetry. The classics, mostly. Bashō, Hughes, Dickenson. But, particularly, um... Neruda, Hemphill, and Essex.

....

(Disappointed) You haven't? Well, no matter! There are plenty of anthologies you can borrow here. I was actually going to take a book down to the docks to read, but those storm clouds are moving in quick. Ah, well. We can stay in and I'll show you my trove of knowledge-- I have a personal collection of books not even the librarian has heard of! What do you usually read?

...

Oh? I haven't heard that title. Is it a novel or a collection of essays, or...

...

An online comic strip. I see.

...

Nothing! There's nothing wrong with that at all! Any art is worth making, I just... From all of those journals and books strewn about the table, I assumed you were a scholarly type and into, you know... more intellectually stimulating material.

[Journal opening, pages flipping]

What the - these are all doodles of little sheep on dates! But, but then what are all of these -- ah, these are all... romance novels.

...

Date ideas. For the sheep. Of course. So... You aren't a prodigious scholar burning the candle at both ends?

...

You're a cashier who does art commissions on the side?

...

Well -- I don't know! Wishful thinking, perhaps? So I have a thing for the academic types, so what? When your only company is fantasy romance protagonists, you tend to idealize a bit in your head.

...

That's -- that's not what I meant, I --

...

No, I...

(Sigh) You're right. You must just want to return home, but here I am making such judgements and being unnecessarily rude. I haven't even asked your name. My apologies, dear. This is my first conversation with a human, you see. Perhaps we could try again?

...

Thank you, dear. My name is Brool. It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, how did you manage to sleep all the way through closing?

...

Yes, well. Unfortunately, those sugar-loaded energy drinks only keep you wired for so long. I assume the crash put you right out. Hm... the bus station is not too far of a walk if you would like me to escort you.

...

You don't have fare money? And you're new in town so you don't have a pass... That makes things a bit harder. You've memorized your address, haven't you? If it's not too far, maybe I can fly you there before the storm rolls in.

...

You live near the docks. You are quite the unlucky human tonight, aren't you, dear?

...

Oh? And why not?

...

(Flustered) Well, I, uh -- that's -- um. Ahem. That's. Very kind of you to say. I find myself enjoying your company, as well.

Now, as for your situation. How about you stay here for the night? You would be heading right into the storm if you left, and the librarian has a sofa and some snacks in her office. You can sleep there.

...

Of course. The librarian always forgets to lock it. She's getting up there in age. It should be perfect.

...

Is that so? You certainly seemed tired when you were slumped over your notebooks.

...

Haha! I'm just teasing, dear. I understand it would be hard to sleep in these circumstances. Come along. The storm hasn't reached us yet. It may be a bit bluster, but we may have time for a stroll in the garden before the rain comes.

...

No need to worry. The library's security alarm will take but a moment to disable, then we can go through the employee door in the back.

[Sound of wind, rustling, maybe wind-chimes]

Why do you look so nervous? Is something wrong?

....

The storm... Frightens you? Oh, don't be silly, dear! Right now it's just wind and distant thunder. There's nothing to worry about. Besides, I'll be there to catch you if a gust of wind tries to sweep you away.

…

Ah, fresh air... mmh, feels good to finally stretch my wings... Ah, human? Why are you staring?

...

Beautiful...? Oh! It is beautiful, isn't it? The local schoolkids planted this garden. I often come out here to read Bashō . "The face of a flower/ is it feeling shy/ the hazy moonlight."

(Sigh) Ah, the haiku. Truly, one of the most evocative forms of poetry despite its brevity. I must admit, the ability to be concise is lost on many a poet, myself included –

…

Hm? Me?! No - well, yes, I did just say - but I'm hardly any good! Not by any professional standards. It's simply a hobby, really.

...

You would? Well... My poetry is rather special to me. It's very personal, you see, so I rather like to keep it private. We've only just met each other and –

[Thunder]

Goodness! Are you alright? I didn't know humans could jump so high.

...

Right, the storm. Would you like to go inside?

...

Are you sure?

...

Hold my hand? I... suppose that would be alright, if it would make you feel better... Oh, human. You're trembling. Here, let me shield you from the wind with my wing. There we are. How's that, dear?

...

Good.

...

Oh, it's not that. I just haven't shared my poetry with anyone before. As you can imagine, I've scarcely had the chance.

...

Certainly not! The others don't share my appreciation for the literary arts. I doubt they would take my work seriously.

That isn't to say I dislike them! They're good folk; we've protected the library together since it was built. We simply have nothing in common.

...

Gargoyles are creatures made of magic. Historically, humans aren't often fond of magic. And if they are, it's only for their own benefit.

...

Well, the library is my place. Every gargoyle has a place they protect. My family has lived in this town for generations, and the library is where I feel the most at home. I can't quite explain what it feels like, it's just an instinct.

 ...

This again? You really aren't going to let it go, are you?

...

Hm... I suppose a fresh pair of eyes would be helpful... How about this? We're still getting to know each other. Let's see where the night takes us, dear. We can talk, and when you're ready to sleep you can retire to the librarian's office. I'll write a poem especially for you while you rest, then once the storm passes I'll take you home.

...

Yes, then you can read my poem.

...

It's perfectly fair. You can tell me what you thought of it tomorrow night.

[Thunder, rain]

Damn it all, looks like the storm caught up to us.

...

Oh, don't fret! It's alright, dear. Come on, take my arm. Back inside we go.

...

Ahaha, don't worry about that, dear. The water will drain through the spout whether I'm there or not.

...

Of course it counts. Who here is the gargoyle?

…

The rain doesn't bother me in the slightest. It slides right off my skin. It can be a pain to fly in, but other than that I find it rather refreshing. Now, let's warm you up and get you something warm to eat.

[Time Skip]

There you are, my dear. It isn't much, but this portable heater should keep you warm through the night. Have you had enough to eat?

...

Good. As forgetful as the librarian is, she always keeps her snack drawer fully stocked. Now, try to get some rest. I'll wake you early to fly you home.

What's wrong? Are you still on edge?

...

A bit....Very well. I'll stay by your side until you fall asleep. Lie back and relax, my dear. When you wake the storm will have passed.

...

Yes, and I will have written your poem. If there's time before the library opens, I may even recite it to you.

...

Yes, really. Now goodnight, my dear.

[Pen/pencil on paper]

END

[lascitasdelashoras]

Louise Brooks with bust of Dante Alighieri

[word-for-today]

Word for today: brool

A deep murmur

[vickyvicarious]

Jonathan's descriptions of the spring scenery of eastern Europe and the beautiful nightsky in the soft moonlight were all lovely but can we talk about Mina's describing the signs of the ominous tempest too?

Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem "men like trees walking."

Mina's descriptions are beautiful! I mean, obviously in a super creepy, ominous way, but she brings that feeling to life so well. I can picture this scene so clearly. And it's not just a physical description. This is a reflection of Mina's emotions, her weariness (everything grey) and fear (like clouds stretching like fingers, presage of doom), her uncertainty (horizon lost, dark figures half shrouded in mist)... and it all coalesces into this sense of some terrible news (about what's happened to Jonathan) or event (potentially with Lucy's sleepwalking) impending.

And then right after this, her new friend comes up to tell her that he's dying, that death is coming for all of us and it's the only thing you can count on. He meant it in a very sweet way, preparing himself and her for his death specifically, but no wonder she started to cry! I mean, not that the idea of losing him wouldn't be very sad normally, but right now there's all this added weight to his words.

[grey-in-color]

To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem "men like trees walking."

Bram Stoker: Dracula

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

August 6th

Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter.

She would literally go get him aaaaaw 🥺

Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs.

I sure hope this isn’t a metaphor for anything…

Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem "men like trees walking." The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk....

[Surrounded by grey mist]

This is fine.

I'm afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past; but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone.

"Merde, le vieux y va mourir”

— Nina, trying to read Irish classics while sipping on cinnamon liquor

"But I'm content, for [death]'s comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in the air; I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call comes!"

Hmm…

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

"I can't make her out," he said; "she's a Russian, by the look of her; but she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow."

HMMMMMMMMMMM………

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[maxpawb]

💜

[dracula-dictionary]

Dracula Dictionary, August 6th

vastness: very great in size, extent, or quantity

brool: a murmuring sound as of wind blowing through a forest

presage: or warning of a future occurrence; an omen

ground swell: waves generated by winds a long way away, possibly arriving at shore without local winds

scuppers: an opening in the side of a ship at the level of the deck to allow water to run off

[fugengulsen]

Humanity

What simple profundities

What profound simplicities

To sit down among the trees

and breathe with them

in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them

who pollute the sky

with heavens

the below with hells

Well, humankind,

I’m part of you

and so my son

but neither of us

will believe

your big sad lie

Gregory Corso

[eraserheadbabyfever]

can i have a muppet spouse !!! pls and thank you ^_^

you are married to Brool, a musician and follower of Cantus on Fraggle Rock

[immediatebreakfast]

Haunting feelings of something coming to Whitby, and everything around it preparing for whatever coming aside, Mina's writing today is so sad and gothic, yet so beautiful at the same time.

So far, we have seen Mina practice how to write like a journalist. Recounting entire conversations from memory, putting down relevant information between wonders that captivate the reader, and noting every detail that she deems important.

Yet, in Mina's writing there is always this spark of what we could call gothic writing that is never far away from her, and it's when she writes about everything which such intensity that it feels like Mina can't put her pen down until she has poured her heart on the page.

"To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers."

When everything is all grey, and dark around you, it could be very easy to simply let yourself be consumed by the feelings that such weather brings. Moreover, it could be easy to fall into the trap of simply describing everything in a sad, and defeating tone.

"All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom."

However, Mina takes this opportunity to learn how to describe the weather, as any good journalist would, while holding her gothic right at the tip of her pen. She tells of how even with all of the grey clouding Whitby, the sheer vastness of the sea, the cliff, and the sky doesn't let itself be shortened. With heaviness in her heart Mina gives a beautiful paragraph that highlights the hidden calmness between all of the grey.

[a-calico-rabbit]

Got bored. Decided to write a short story.

It walked the path it knew it knew, Yet memory was not accrued. Their aged body gone to fallow, The Wizard sighed as sparrows flew.

It thought of time as its tool, But the mind it thought a fool. To let their power have its way, The brain would have to be bullswool!

Turned back again to the way, It thought upon the lack of day. The Wizard was called to end the night, And set to the task for which they came.

A change once seen and set in stone, It pulled from Its unsettled tome. While crooked fingers trace’d sigil, The Wizard brool worked air to tone.

Its little pictures marks like clef, Those twisting figures epithet. Withered vestige last remain’d there, Of tongues long lost on final breaths.

It held the Word within its scrawls, That slithered fro those ancient claws. Spoken written demands they’d given, Their mouth and hands their only awls.

Bring then again for I am needing, It asked of them their eldritch heeding. For a moment to have pass’d again, The Wizard called with all their being.

It willed the World into key, To note upon it as it pleased. The Wizard quoted change as Spell, And Spell wrought change as Magic.

And so the night thus turn’d to day, The good they’d caused their only pay. The rays of sun danced on the path, And lighted up their long away.

[muppetydyke]

Muppet Mainstage, May 24th, 2024

“Music Makes us Real (Ping!)” was written by Philip Balsam and Dennis Lee for season 2, episode 7 of Fraggle Rock (1984). The song is sung by Cantus (Jim Henson) and the other minstrels (Steve Whitmire as the guitar playing Murray, Tim Gosley as the stringed instrumentalist Brool, Terry Angus as the cymbalist Brio, and Jerry Nelson as the bongo playing Balsam). Together the group explains the life of a traveling musician, through song of course.