Upon entering the room, you are blasted with a storm of voices, all arguing at the top of their lungs. You balk and consider turning right back around. Curiosity makes you act otherwise, and shutting the door behind you, you step out from under a stone overhang into a room full of people.
People is used rather loosely, as some of the beings around the massive table in the center of the room don't look human at all. Some of them do, yet almost all of them look wildly different from each other. Taking a quick count, you deduce that there are nine beings around the table, all sitting in chairs.
Well, one of them is not. At the far edge of the table is a small, 4 or 5 foot tall anthropomorphic weasel who is currently standing in his seat, and leaning over the table with his little paws placed on the thick oak table. He is wearing mildly Renaissance, mildly modern clothing. His shirt bears the frills, sleeves and collar of the 1400's, yet his pants are slightly baggy, almost like cargo pants. He never seems to stop grinning, and pounds one of his paws on the table to gain attention before speaking.
To his right is a young man, around the age or 19 or 20, sitting calmly in his seat. His dirty blonde hair is drawn back in a ponytail that hangs down his back, and he sports a curious, spiked goatee. He leans back in his chair, resting his steel-plated boots on the clean table. He is dressed in long back robes with a metal breastplate beneath them, flashing slightly in the light from more braziers set about the room. He grips a long black staff with a strange, curving symbol at its tip, and wears a nonchalant expression, added in punctuated remarks to the conversation every so often.
Next is a remarkably burly looking fellow, wearing silver armor and a red uniform that fights his large body tightly. His dark brown hair is cut short, and he wears a hard expression, growling whatever he says. He carries two large, menacing looking guns on each hip, one of them swinging as he leans forward for a moment. A small radio set is connected to his ear, with a small microphone running down to his mouth. Apparently it isn't turned on at the moment, as he ignores it.
Sitting next to him is another very bizarre looking character. He is the second shortest being in the room, just topping five feet. Sitting slumped in the chair next to the very large man is a frail, balding old man. What little hair he has left is white, and he adjusts his spectacles to look across the table at the current speaker. He is wearing a doctor's white lab coat that hangs down to his small feet, and a name tag on his shirt identifies him as a Professor. You blink as you notice that he carries a crowbar with him as easily as another senior citizen would carry a cane, tapping it against the table whenever he wants to speak in his shaky voice.
Next up is a man who looks straight out of the Korean War. He holds in his hands a pilot's helmet with the American Air Force Star on it. His brown hair is mildly shaggy, and he has a thick beard that he scratches every so often, as if in thought. He speaks in a surprisingly friendly tone, as if he were everyone's Uncle. Clipped to his belt, aside from the standard pilot's equipment, is an extremely large shell casing, with the small, typed words on it dubbing it "The Good Stuff."
To his left and closest to you is undoubtably the least human character around the table. Instead of sitting in the chair, it is wrapped around it, due to the fact that the lower half of its body is like a snake's. It is a soft brown, almost an orange color, and its skin looks rough and slightly shiny, as though it were an insect's carapace. The upper half of its body is hunched over, yet it still towers over the people to either side of it. Its two arms bend at the elbow, arc up, and then turn into nasty-looking blades that curve downwards at a sharp angle. Its head is flat and elongated at the rear. The creature's jaws split into two portions that hang loosely out as a second set of teeth outside the true mouth, in which you catch a glimpse of a long, darting tongue.
The figure to its left is practically glowing. It is covered in the most peculiar armor you have ever seem, that seems to exude a soft blue glow. Looking down, you see that its legs bend twice like a cats, in a form known as digitigrade. The armor covers its entire body in patches, and rises at two points on the backs of its forearms. Its fingers are elongated and slender, covered with a wrinkly gray skin that seems inhuman. Its face is the final piece, though, as it has no mouth to speak of. Its eyes glow the same soft blue, and it takes you a moment to realize that although it is not physically speaking, you hear its voice in the conversation every now and then.
Sitting next to the alien creature is someone who could not look more medieval human. He wears a full suit of armor, complete down to the chain mail. His helmet rests on the table in front of him, and he sits rigid, either from proper manners or the suit of armor. A heavy broadsword hangs at his side, and he looks about the room with a neutral expression, mustache twitching every now and then as he calls out in a throaty voice that sounds as though it is used to giving commands.
The last one sitting at the table is also medieval, though more of a soldier instead of a commander. His suit of armor is not as full as the man at his right's, but he doesn't look like he cares. He practically glares around the room as though he despises each person. Every now and then he leans over to whisper something to the man at his left, who simply nods. The soldier's hair is a jet black, and slicked back with some substance. His widows peak is very pronounced, and his hard eyes help in giving him a sinister demeanor. He fingers his own sword repeatedly, almost obsessively.
"Halt, cease, desist, STOP!" the weasel suddenly hollers at an astounding volume for such a little critter. Everyone remarkably falls silent, and the even the weasel looks surprised. Before conversation begins again, the weasel takes the opportunity to speak.
"Okay, everybody. We need to take order here if we're going to make any decisions. The Lair hasn't been updated in a while, and everybody's waiting," he states firmly, his otherwise cute voice hardened to a commanding tone.
"Everybody, as in our entire group of two fans," says the black-robed man nonchalantly, looking up at the ceiling.
The weasel favors him with a nasty look. "Thanks for contributing, Falyxron. Maybe if we got something up in the lair that people actually want to see . . ."
This caused Falyxron to sit up straighter in his chair, removing his arms from behind his head. "And you are suggesting what?" he scowled, mood dropping.
"Maybe we should aim for something that appeals to more people than just a cult--" this brought a snort from Falyxron "--of people that play a specific game," returned the weasel smoothly, playing the verbal chess game.
"I would protest to that, Dweasel," a voice that seems to emanate from the tan, armored alien. The blue glow shines brightly as the words continue. "Most of us are dedicated to specific games, and such games can create a rather large following."
The being's words are met with nods and grunts of consent around the table. Dweasel, realizing he overstepped his bounds, nods agreeably and gestures for someone else to stand as he slowly takes his seat. There is a pause and the commander in armor rises to his feet, metal plates clanking.
"I agree with Lord Rangok's sentiments," he begins, nodding to the alien, who's eyes give a visible twinkle. "I think we'd be better off pursuing the Tournaments Section of the Lair, because that would appeal to several groups of people. If we're trying to get traffic, that would be better than . . ." he scratches his goatee, a smile coming to his face. He takes his seat and allows the next person to stand.
The formerly quiet pilot takes the stand, standing with the creak of leather. He adjusts his jacket, coughs, and speaks in that friendly, "Uncle-like" tone. "Now, I think that's where you're going wrong, Your Lordship," he says, not looking at anyone in particular, but more of staring past them. "The Quotes are pretty much of Universal Appeal. I mean, you don't have to be into a certain game to like them, and they're pretty much fun for everyone. Not many people know the name Ace Williams when they see it, but when they see a quote from me, they can still laugh."
Barely waiting for the pilot to take his seat, the medieval soldier stands up, armor scraping the edge of the table in his haste. "But they've become such a large thing that they take time from other, more direct methods of attracting traffic. The Quotes Section isn't so much an attraction, but a crowd pleaser just to attempt to convince people already here to stay. If we abandoned efforts in the Quotes Section, then we could work on other things . . . things like stories."
"Easy, Marchaka," mutters the commander in one seat over, and the soldier scowls, slowly taking his seat again. His position in the argument does not stay empty, however.
The shocking voice of the insect-like alien rasps through the room, catching everyone's attention. It rises from it's position coiled around the chair to looking over it, double jaws, hanging loosely. "Now there's something. All of you have forgotten what this place began as. Do you recall now? It was stories. Albeit they weren't the greatest then, but with practice comes perfection, or something close to it. So many stories could have been written in the time wasted with these other ideas that went nowhere," the creature spits, apparently outraged. It suddenly slams one of its bladed arms down on the table, the sharp blade piercing clear through the table. "Look at the Stuff Section! That never even got a decent name! Remember what it was called before? The Complete Waste of Time Section!"
The creature sinks back down around the chair, angrily emitting a sound that sounds like a cross between snarling and purring. Everyone is momentarily stunned, but then a small, creaky voice speaks up. Eyes turn to the small Professor, who gets to his feet with the aid of his crowbar.
"You all know I wasn't around at that time. I only joined you folks recently. But if there's one thing I learned in the time I've been here, it's that not many people come here looking for hard, solid stuff. I believe that we should continue to have Derek's Lair as just a place to come and . . . well, waste time if you want to put it like that, Infestor," he admits, looking over at the coiled shape. "All in all . . . I think we're being too dedicated here, if such a thing is possible. Let's just . . . keep it fun."
There is a collective nod around the table, as everyone slowly agrees, some grudgingly. The heavily muscled man stands as the old man takes his seat. "Thanks for putting things in perspective, Professor Spud. Well, everyone. Time to break this meeting up. See you all next time."
A round of goodbyes and "See ya, Jingles" goes around, and the entire table full of people suddenly shimmers and disappears from sight in a haze of silver lights. You are left alone in the large stone room, now lacking a table, people, and a good lot of personality. On the other end of the room is a door, however, probably to Derek's Lair itself.