You who read this:
Fjord, Discoverer of the Western World, Lord Governor of Fjordnumenpalurin, Renowned Bane of Norsemen, and Dread Admiral of the Fleet Beneath the Setting Sun, has come home.
BUT, his stay will be short!
Fjord will gather a worthy folk and guide them to a new home of peace and prosperity in lands beyond wild. If you wish to know more of his adventure, and even petition to join the 2nd greatest voyage in the history of histories, meet him in the capital on the FIRST FULL MOON AFTER THE SPRING EQUINOX. Many wonders will you witness, much grandiose speculation confirmed.
DECLINE ATTENDANCE TO YOUR IMMORTAL REGRET
Moreover did I see
Before I crossed the sea
A curve beyond the heather
And beyond ... I will say nether
Round the World - Day 10
Land ho.
The sun is green.
The black spire thrusts heavenward from surreal aquamarine.
A hasty council on deck. All agree - we must investigate. the Aelfbane has sailed within 10 miles and dropped anchor. Our eagle-eyed Vortigern has reported only sheer black cliffs that reach up 500 yards, twice again as wide, and membranous-winged creatures catching thermal lift, circling, gliding, diving to the sea. He speaks as though it were beautiful ...
First contact is debated. A show of force! A humble approach in the Captain's Yacht. A Magic show! I like the magic show. We are peaceful. A small light show in the dark sky to draw an emissary to us. But then the sun is green. A sick, sweet, splendid green that couldn't possibly be harmless could it? The debate rages on and I leave them for a spell to update the log.
We encountered hideous humunoid creatures of the sea, and first contact was not pleasant; these shark-headed Merfreaks attacked without warning, but we wasted them with little effort. We have kept some of their skins as trophies and of course Tyr'n has various bits of them on display in various jars. "Large brains for shark heads, don't you think? I wonder if they are natural creatures, or some wizardly abomination of man and fish? It would take skilled hands indeed to accomplish such an unlikely hybrid. Skilled hands indeed ..." Tyr'n speaks as though it were beautiful ...
The encounter happened in calm water and led me to consider the wisdom of drifting on days like these. Therefore I have implemented a new strategy. Our crew will row. It will row and row and row. To combat fatigue, I exhaust my magical powers each day with 9 strength spells, cast on each crewman every other day (or thereabouts). It has had a transformative effect on morale. I reckon we are making 2 knots in calm water whilst our entire crew paces and remains battle ready. In a pinch, that many strong backs could move this lug at a spectacular clip.
We raced before a storm, south perhaps 150 miles. Another blew us west perhaps the same. The crew were in high spirits for Aelfbane to perform so well. Not a tear in her sail or a plank out of place! They hold their heads high and the party's respect for them grows.
And that's when the sun turned green and we spotted the spire far off. Well. I have made my decision. We are kings now. Kings of the sea. I will not fly to this spire. I will sail there. We have come this far by common means and should continue just so. Within 2 miles, We will have their attention.
Round the World - Day 6
The birds are gone.
They screamed their warning:
Turn back! Turn back! Land is behind you!
The birds are gone.
Intelligence is mute, save for our soulful boat. We have had no contact wth anyone since Sorak spotted oars in the water far off, two nights past. It is doubtful we were spotted. Helmut was not informed despite our long-range proximity to Scrape. Even a friendly encounter would have only delayed us. And of course, it could have been the Danes ...
Now that we are in the deep and settled into steady progress, The Party, so as to separate from The Crew, are free to meander. Kheops goes for daily gallops on his flying steed. Helmut has reached the bottom of the ocean in a feat of his own. When I write the famous tale, I shall dedicate some pages to it. One exploit among many that will become associated with the mission. The wizards are bored. I should make those wimps row!
Sorak is building a diving board. He has picked up carpentry since we last journeyed together. I must admit, the board matches the ship well, and is retractable. Wouldn't it be hilarious to force someone to exit the ship by that means? Simply walking over the edge and left to their fate. Not execution - call it "eviction".
All is well. No storms. No sea monsters. At current pace, we should be well within the three month window when we touch the Eastern shores. In living history no one has even attempted this. That knowledge hovers over the crew. But for all that, morale is high. May good fortune perservere.
They screamed their warning:
Turn back! Turn back! Land is behind you!
The birds are gone.
Intelligence is mute, save for our soulful boat. We have had no contact wth anyone since Sorak spotted oars in the water far off, two nights past. It is doubtful we were spotted. Helmut was not informed despite our long-range proximity to Scrape. Even a friendly encounter would have only delayed us. And of course, it could have been the Danes ...
Now that we are in the deep and settled into steady progress, The Party, so as to separate from The Crew, are free to meander. Kheops goes for daily gallops on his flying steed. Helmut has reached the bottom of the ocean in a feat of his own. When I write the famous tale, I shall dedicate some pages to it. One exploit among many that will become associated with the mission. The wizards are bored. I should make those wimps row!
Sorak is building a diving board. He has picked up carpentry since we last journeyed together. I must admit, the board matches the ship well, and is retractable. Wouldn't it be hilarious to force someone to exit the ship by that means? Simply walking over the edge and left to their fate. Not execution - call it "eviction".
All is well. No storms. No sea monsters. At current pace, we should be well within the three month window when we touch the Eastern shores. In living history no one has even attempted this. That knowledge hovers over the crew. But for all that, morale is high. May good fortune perservere.
Captain's Log - July 24 - 1 week before departure
One month of preparation before sailing around the world will seem completely insane to my people. Touched by the human curse they'll say. But I had no choice: the seasons change at the pace of men, not elves. The summer is slipping away.
The Carthy crew is ready. And I mean to reward them for their efforts. Tomorrow over lunch I'll give them the news. When our mission is complete, I will take the first two picks in the division of spoils. Hannibal shall have the third. the fouth shall go to the "most valuable crewman" and any picks I have left will be distributed by lot. The entire Carthy crew will split 1/2 of my share of the nonmagical wealth evenly. If they didn't have enough incentive to be loyal before, they certainly will now.
The Aelfbane is the most seaworthy vessel I've ever encountered, Squatter and sturdier than the much ballyhooed longship. She is in her element in a stiff breeze and remarkably sound in deep sea and high waves. I have no qualms with her Norse craftsmanship. My wish to see their race entirely vanquished in no way competes with my respect for their seacraft. Besides ... we captured this ship in battle - the spoils of war come with their own rules of heritage.
We are on schedule. I shall take an inventory tomorrow morning. No chickens.
The World is Round
Dear Zanzibar,
Pray forgive this intrusion into your studies, but my extensive time at sea has had such a profound impact on my world view that I must needs unload the burden of these startling discoveries lest my heart burst from my chest in anxious wonder! You, being from a part of the world so alien to us Northerners that even the stars pattern themselves in homage to gods unknown to us - you, so far from home that your soul must be overwhelmed with longing - you, who speak of the wondrous herbal treasures and strange, spicy foods of your homeland ... well, I just knew you'd be interested in what I had to say.
I will not quibble with you, Zanzibar, but I shall be as direct and forthcoming as you have always known me to be, and all I ask is that you consider my plan in all its daring and audacity and vision.
For the world is round, Zanzibar, round! It is a great ball that hangs in the heavens, and so certain I am of my hypothesis that I am willing to embark on the greatest of voyages to prove it, and what is more, I shall want to take you with me!
Yes, Zanzibar, you understand the implications, don't you? I say again that the world is round and though you traveled over mountains and desert and gods know what to reach our frosted lands, I have every reason to believe that your return could be a direct dash across the Western sea, a voyage of mere weeks instead of months! No Egyptians or Romans or Greeks to quibble with over safe passage, no highway robbers to protect yourself against, no silk road to traverse in turtle-paced caravans, none of these! No, your homeland lies SouthWest, my good man. Like an arrow, we shall draw from the port of Bordeaux and loose ourselves into the sea, straight and sure and swift to your home, making landfall on your shores with no stops in between.
I reckon the circumference of this great ball on which we live and die to be some 6000 leagues, and our journey no more than 1/4 of this distance, perhaps 4500 miles as the crow flies or the Aelfbane sales. Though a Teleport can land you on your home soil in the blink of an eye, only the mundane arts of modern travel could open our two lands to the most profitable and profound of trade routes! We shall render the Silk Road obsolete and open a dialogue between East and West that shall forever tilt the balance of power in our favour! We will be lords among lords, kings of the mercantile world! No challenge will ever be beyond our power again! And we must do it quickly, before some filthy Norse dog, filled with low cunning and malice as they ever are, stumbles upon my discovery through no more effort than sheer luck!
Your safe passage would come at the lowest of costs - to act as ambassador to your great merchants and find equitable and profitable trade opportunities for our two lands. With determined effort, we could begin this voyage no later than next Spring! Your home is just beyond the sunset, Zanzibar! Do you wish to be the first to circle the world? I eagerly await your response.
Yours in Earnest
Captain Fjord
dictated to and scribed by his humble servant Bobbers on June 23, In the 8th year of our Independence.
Pray forgive this intrusion into your studies, but my extensive time at sea has had such a profound impact on my world view that I must needs unload the burden of these startling discoveries lest my heart burst from my chest in anxious wonder! You, being from a part of the world so alien to us Northerners that even the stars pattern themselves in homage to gods unknown to us - you, so far from home that your soul must be overwhelmed with longing - you, who speak of the wondrous herbal treasures and strange, spicy foods of your homeland ... well, I just knew you'd be interested in what I had to say.
I will not quibble with you, Zanzibar, but I shall be as direct and forthcoming as you have always known me to be, and all I ask is that you consider my plan in all its daring and audacity and vision.
For the world is round, Zanzibar, round! It is a great ball that hangs in the heavens, and so certain I am of my hypothesis that I am willing to embark on the greatest of voyages to prove it, and what is more, I shall want to take you with me!
Yes, Zanzibar, you understand the implications, don't you? I say again that the world is round and though you traveled over mountains and desert and gods know what to reach our frosted lands, I have every reason to believe that your return could be a direct dash across the Western sea, a voyage of mere weeks instead of months! No Egyptians or Romans or Greeks to quibble with over safe passage, no highway robbers to protect yourself against, no silk road to traverse in turtle-paced caravans, none of these! No, your homeland lies SouthWest, my good man. Like an arrow, we shall draw from the port of Bordeaux and loose ourselves into the sea, straight and sure and swift to your home, making landfall on your shores with no stops in between.
I reckon the circumference of this great ball on which we live and die to be some 6000 leagues, and our journey no more than 1/4 of this distance, perhaps 4500 miles as the crow flies or the Aelfbane sales. Though a Teleport can land you on your home soil in the blink of an eye, only the mundane arts of modern travel could open our two lands to the most profitable and profound of trade routes! We shall render the Silk Road obsolete and open a dialogue between East and West that shall forever tilt the balance of power in our favour! We will be lords among lords, kings of the mercantile world! No challenge will ever be beyond our power again! And we must do it quickly, before some filthy Norse dog, filled with low cunning and malice as they ever are, stumbles upon my discovery through no more effort than sheer luck!
Your safe passage would come at the lowest of costs - to act as ambassador to your great merchants and find equitable and profitable trade opportunities for our two lands. With determined effort, we could begin this voyage no later than next Spring! Your home is just beyond the sunset, Zanzibar! Do you wish to be the first to circle the world? I eagerly await your response.
Yours in Earnest
Captain Fjord
dictated to and scribed by his humble servant Bobbers on June 23, In the 8th year of our Independence.
An Egyptian Souvenir for Bobbers
"So Bobbers, how are things?"
"Oh, very well, sir - a touch slow since the departure of Lord Faust, but I have kept myself busy repairing the tower. At your behest, no expense has been spared. I trust you found your chambers in good order?"
"No complaints. You have steered clear of the drink, I trust?"
Bobbers chuckled politely, "Absolutely, sir. But of course ..." And here his gaze lowered in a humbleness I approve, "L-Lord Faust insisted I partake of some bizarre concoction he dreamed up one evening. We were both possessed by powerful spirits that corrupted our senses and abandoned us to dark fantasies! Math have mercy!"
"Never fear. You have exonerated yourself, my good man. You did the right thing twice: first by obeying Faust, and second by confessing your sins to me. In this you have proven yourself twice loyal. And now, " I brushed aside his confession for more pressing matters, "If you'll accompany me to the holding cells?" Bobbers nodded and grabbed a torch off the wall and we trudged downstairs. At present the cell was empty, and yet even here Bobbers had proven his worth as I gazed into the dimly lit chamber with my keen elvish eyes. Nary a cobweb or speck of dust could I find, and the air was fresh with a hint of lemon. It would seem even my future prisoners would be receiving Bobbers' utmost care. I reached carefully into a hidden pocket inside my cloak and pulled out an harmless looking bird.
"Some sort of sparrow, m'lord?"
"A rock swallow, I am told. They are quite common in Africa and can be seen in cities and wilderness alike. It seemed the perfect choice for transformation."
"uhhh ... transformation, m'lord?"
I spared Bobbers a disarming grin as I placed the bird on the cell floor and stepped back into the corridor, slamming the door shut so we could observe through the tiny, barred window. "Bobbers, you are about to meet a very special creature who shall serve us as pet. Are you ready?" Bobbers nodded without taking his eyes off the bird. I waved by hands in the air, recited the incantation and presto! The swallow reverted to its old self: A rather ugly, altogether nasty canine with dripping yellow fangs and four, crazy eyes. Four eyes. Two heads. Bobbers gasped, caught the dog's attention and shrieked when it leaped at him and began furiously scratching at the door that separated the two. "Bobbers, meet Clifford, my big, two-headed, psycho dog."
"Gods of all creation, what a hideous beast! I pity any man forced to be in the same room as him!"
Poor Bobbers, no sense easing him into this one. "Yes, well, congratulations, Bobbers. I expect him to be domesticated by the time I return from my next adventure." The look on his face was indescribable.
"Surely, not me, m'lord! I'm a butler, not an animal handler!"
"As you say, Bobbers. You are the steward of this household. If you think this beast is out of your jurisdiction, then by all means find a trainer. But when I return, he will answer to my commands, or you and Clifford just may share bedchambers henceforth!"
"Yes, m'lord! As you say, m'lord!"
Ahhhhh, obedience: it is the tonic to years of ridicule. And now, I must dictate a letter of special interest to Zanzibar. I may have found a faster route to India which will save him months of travel. But how will he react when I tell him that he is as much from the far West as from the East?
"Oh, very well, sir - a touch slow since the departure of Lord Faust, but I have kept myself busy repairing the tower. At your behest, no expense has been spared. I trust you found your chambers in good order?"
"No complaints. You have steered clear of the drink, I trust?"
Bobbers chuckled politely, "Absolutely, sir. But of course ..." And here his gaze lowered in a humbleness I approve, "L-Lord Faust insisted I partake of some bizarre concoction he dreamed up one evening. We were both possessed by powerful spirits that corrupted our senses and abandoned us to dark fantasies! Math have mercy!"
"Never fear. You have exonerated yourself, my good man. You did the right thing twice: first by obeying Faust, and second by confessing your sins to me. In this you have proven yourself twice loyal. And now, " I brushed aside his confession for more pressing matters, "If you'll accompany me to the holding cells?" Bobbers nodded and grabbed a torch off the wall and we trudged downstairs. At present the cell was empty, and yet even here Bobbers had proven his worth as I gazed into the dimly lit chamber with my keen elvish eyes. Nary a cobweb or speck of dust could I find, and the air was fresh with a hint of lemon. It would seem even my future prisoners would be receiving Bobbers' utmost care. I reached carefully into a hidden pocket inside my cloak and pulled out an harmless looking bird.
"Some sort of sparrow, m'lord?"
"A rock swallow, I am told. They are quite common in Africa and can be seen in cities and wilderness alike. It seemed the perfect choice for transformation."
"uhhh ... transformation, m'lord?"
I spared Bobbers a disarming grin as I placed the bird on the cell floor and stepped back into the corridor, slamming the door shut so we could observe through the tiny, barred window. "Bobbers, you are about to meet a very special creature who shall serve us as pet. Are you ready?" Bobbers nodded without taking his eyes off the bird. I waved by hands in the air, recited the incantation and presto! The swallow reverted to its old self: A rather ugly, altogether nasty canine with dripping yellow fangs and four, crazy eyes. Four eyes. Two heads. Bobbers gasped, caught the dog's attention and shrieked when it leaped at him and began furiously scratching at the door that separated the two. "Bobbers, meet Clifford, my big, two-headed, psycho dog."
"Gods of all creation, what a hideous beast! I pity any man forced to be in the same room as him!"
Poor Bobbers, no sense easing him into this one. "Yes, well, congratulations, Bobbers. I expect him to be domesticated by the time I return from my next adventure." The look on his face was indescribable.
"Surely, not me, m'lord! I'm a butler, not an animal handler!"
"As you say, Bobbers. You are the steward of this household. If you think this beast is out of your jurisdiction, then by all means find a trainer. But when I return, he will answer to my commands, or you and Clifford just may share bedchambers henceforth!"
"Yes, m'lord! As you say, m'lord!"
Ahhhhh, obedience: it is the tonic to years of ridicule. And now, I must dictate a letter of special interest to Zanzibar. I may have found a faster route to India which will save him months of travel. But how will he react when I tell him that he is as much from the far West as from the East?
The Continuing Woo
Dearest Sandro,
I have yet to hear your response to my proposal. I do not worry, for I have been on the move all Winter and did not expect your message to find me easily. I am currently training in Egypt and do not expect to return until Spring. It is pleasant here ... and because of my association with Kheops, I am a "Friend of the Kingdom" and enjoy unparalleled freedom for a foreigner. I have found the loveliest gold brooch inlaid with turquoise that I will pin to your breast upon our next meeting. Yet this is but a trifle compared to the riches I intend to shower you with: the gold will pour from your hair to pile at your feet and your peers will go blind with envy when the Welsh sun focuses through the countless gems into brilliant beams to scorch their retinas! I love you, love you, love you!
No doubt you recall I have spoken of our party's latest recruit, the irritating Vexatious (Yes, Sandro, in Elvish, "irritating" and "vexatious" are indeed synonymous! Rest assured, she is no competition. Helmut delivered a wicked insult at her expense just the other day. He said, "If you were lying in the sand, my pet displacer kitties would mistake your for shit and try to bury you!" Ha! Very droll. Subtle as well, as Egypt has much sandy terrain and a notorious love affiar with felines. Helmut was no doubt warning Vexatious that Egypt may mean the end of her sorry life, slain at the hands of locals and her corpse left to rot on some abandoned beach.
He pummels her constantly with insults. Truth be told, I sometimes wonder if he does not insult her too much. I fear he may grow to enjoy her company if he continues to find merriment in her presence, no matter that merriment's original intent. I must never make that mistake. I feel it in my bones: if we let our guard down, she will rob us blind. She eyes my lucky ring with the same infatuous lust that she once reserved for Faust's magic crossbow. And, she is always writing in a journal of her own ... but with an intensity and calculation that makes me uneasy. Sandro, will you forgive me If I ever have to slay one of our own kind, and a female at that? Let us hope that day never comes.
If I have not heard from you by the Spring equinox, I will visit. It is near impossible to find a pretty elf face in this distant land, and anyway, yours is the only gaze that makes me happy. Will I find you in your fields, sowing the land with life and laughter? I will keep that image in mind until then.
With love,
Fjord
I have yet to hear your response to my proposal. I do not worry, for I have been on the move all Winter and did not expect your message to find me easily. I am currently training in Egypt and do not expect to return until Spring. It is pleasant here ... and because of my association with Kheops, I am a "Friend of the Kingdom" and enjoy unparalleled freedom for a foreigner. I have found the loveliest gold brooch inlaid with turquoise that I will pin to your breast upon our next meeting. Yet this is but a trifle compared to the riches I intend to shower you with: the gold will pour from your hair to pile at your feet and your peers will go blind with envy when the Welsh sun focuses through the countless gems into brilliant beams to scorch their retinas! I love you, love you, love you!
No doubt you recall I have spoken of our party's latest recruit, the irritating Vexatious (Yes, Sandro, in Elvish, "irritating" and "vexatious" are indeed synonymous! Rest assured, she is no competition. Helmut delivered a wicked insult at her expense just the other day. He said, "If you were lying in the sand, my pet displacer kitties would mistake your for shit and try to bury you!" Ha! Very droll. Subtle as well, as Egypt has much sandy terrain and a notorious love affiar with felines. Helmut was no doubt warning Vexatious that Egypt may mean the end of her sorry life, slain at the hands of locals and her corpse left to rot on some abandoned beach.
He pummels her constantly with insults. Truth be told, I sometimes wonder if he does not insult her too much. I fear he may grow to enjoy her company if he continues to find merriment in her presence, no matter that merriment's original intent. I must never make that mistake. I feel it in my bones: if we let our guard down, she will rob us blind. She eyes my lucky ring with the same infatuous lust that she once reserved for Faust's magic crossbow. And, she is always writing in a journal of her own ... but with an intensity and calculation that makes me uneasy. Sandro, will you forgive me If I ever have to slay one of our own kind, and a female at that? Let us hope that day never comes.
If I have not heard from you by the Spring equinox, I will visit. It is near impossible to find a pretty elf face in this distant land, and anyway, yours is the only gaze that makes me happy. Will I find you in your fields, sowing the land with life and laughter? I will keep that image in mind until then.
With love,
Fjord
January 4th, Year 8
Six of us, along with the Carthy crew, have once more put to sea, departing shortly after the Bordeaux Yule that marks the Winter solstice. Our destination is Cairo, via the port of Râ-Kedet. It has been a harrowing dash across The Sea: less than a fortnight to reach Carthage, the winter storms driving us on more than blowing us back. Aelfbane has served us well. It pains me that I should admire any craft of the Norse dogs, but this is the sturdiest vessel I have ever set foot upon ...
We are so awed by the splendour of Carthage, that we have agreed to lay over for two days. Helmut has gone in search of slaves to ship back to Scrape. Kheops sneers at everything, no doubt wishing we had by now "reached civilization" further east. I doubt the rest of us have ever been in a city this large. Hannibal, my first mate, tells me there are a million souls living inside and outside her walls, a number I can barely grasp, and yet utterly believe when gaping at the throngs perusing the main thoroughfares. Carthage is flowing in money and food. The locals name her "the Breadbasket of the World" and one need only stare at the finely cultivated wheat fields disappearing into the horizon to agree with them. Or for that matter, one need only visit the Great Market and smell the loaves of a thousand artisan bakers. The peasants are plump and content, the merchants are obese and amiable, and their commerce is everywhere. I asked Hannibal what gods his people serve, and he laughed, shaking his coin purse and rubbing his belly. Kheops, walking with us, shuddered and made an arcane gesture, as if to signal to his god that he was enjoying this luxury not at all. But even his eye was drawn to the hale prostitutes hanging over balconies, ready and willing in any combination of race and colour that a pervert could imagine. Hannibal assures me that even elf women have made small fortunes here with their bodies - unless they were slaves, of course.
After a night of revelry, my downtime has been curbed to more meditative pursuits. I speak of course of fletching. Ah, fletching! Today I put the finishing touches on a lovely full quiver: each head whetted to a perfect razor with magical assistance; my rune emblazoned on a single signature arrow; and because these are a special gift for a friend, in place of my regular black-dyed goose feathers I've chosen pink-dyed swan. Nothing in the world gives me such peace as this simple art. I ignore the irony.
We are so awed by the splendour of Carthage, that we have agreed to lay over for two days. Helmut has gone in search of slaves to ship back to Scrape. Kheops sneers at everything, no doubt wishing we had by now "reached civilization" further east. I doubt the rest of us have ever been in a city this large. Hannibal, my first mate, tells me there are a million souls living inside and outside her walls, a number I can barely grasp, and yet utterly believe when gaping at the throngs perusing the main thoroughfares. Carthage is flowing in money and food. The locals name her "the Breadbasket of the World" and one need only stare at the finely cultivated wheat fields disappearing into the horizon to agree with them. Or for that matter, one need only visit the Great Market and smell the loaves of a thousand artisan bakers. The peasants are plump and content, the merchants are obese and amiable, and their commerce is everywhere. I asked Hannibal what gods his people serve, and he laughed, shaking his coin purse and rubbing his belly. Kheops, walking with us, shuddered and made an arcane gesture, as if to signal to his god that he was enjoying this luxury not at all. But even his eye was drawn to the hale prostitutes hanging over balconies, ready and willing in any combination of race and colour that a pervert could imagine. Hannibal assures me that even elf women have made small fortunes here with their bodies - unless they were slaves, of course.
After a night of revelry, my downtime has been curbed to more meditative pursuits. I speak of course of fletching. Ah, fletching! Today I put the finishing touches on a lovely full quiver: each head whetted to a perfect razor with magical assistance; my rune emblazoned on a single signature arrow; and because these are a special gift for a friend, in place of my regular black-dyed goose feathers I've chosen pink-dyed swan. Nothing in the world gives me such peace as this simple art. I ignore the irony.
I've not written here since my flight from Scrape. It was an eventful Autumn, but being away from my ship has left me with little desire to write, except for the odd poem and letter. Nevertheless, I must needs note here that we recruited a new companion shortly after Cedrica's wedding. Vexatious, like me, is an Elf Warrior Mage. The similarity ends there:
One, She is a backwoods bumpkin with some sort of inexplicable hatred for goblins that goes well past healthy racism. She mentioned something about her parents - I'm not sure, I wasn't listening. She gives every indication of being some kind of sub-elf product of a warped evolution, emerging from her dreary, unrefined shanty-town on some distant hilltop to abuse the civilized world with her rustic "charms". She is also hideouly ugly and grating to the ears.
Two, against all reason and sane comprehension, she has chosen the short sword and crossbow as her weapons of proficiency - what inexplicable disdain she shows toward her heritage! Though she claims to be more intelligent than I, she would purposefully avoid using weapons that she was literally born to wield! What pride! What gall! How I loathe her!
But she is still an Elf ... that counts. But I would still hold my ship in higher regard ... and most of the crew. As for her standing in the party, she clings to the bottom rung and her feet dangle into the threshold of oblivion, and I need only step on her fingers should that time need arise.
I'm watching you "Vexy"!
One, She is a backwoods bumpkin with some sort of inexplicable hatred for goblins that goes well past healthy racism. She mentioned something about her parents - I'm not sure, I wasn't listening. She gives every indication of being some kind of sub-elf product of a warped evolution, emerging from her dreary, unrefined shanty-town on some distant hilltop to abuse the civilized world with her rustic "charms". She is also hideouly ugly and grating to the ears.
Two, against all reason and sane comprehension, she has chosen the short sword and crossbow as her weapons of proficiency - what inexplicable disdain she shows toward her heritage! Though she claims to be more intelligent than I, she would purposefully avoid using weapons that she was literally born to wield! What pride! What gall! How I loathe her!
But she is still an Elf ... that counts. But I would still hold my ship in higher regard ... and most of the crew. As for her standing in the party, she clings to the bottom rung and her feet dangle into the threshold of oblivion, and I need only step on her fingers should that time need arise.
I'm watching you "Vexy"!
A Proposal from less than ironic circumstances
Dearest Sandro,
I am presently attending a wedding in England. An old comrade has landed herself a princely fish. We saved him from a pit of human devilry in eastern Gaul known locally as The Temple (even for Norse, a grating word to the tongue) and returned him to a throne. The ceremony was brief, notable only in the sheer outrage the locals displayed when their mighty royal allowed a half-orc pirate to act as the bride's second. The rest of the bridal party attempted to play this up as light-hearted jestery; the guests, however, interpreted this ploy as either a statement on the bride's warrior past and the beast the prince had purchased in due course, or as a cautionary meditation on the groom's, shall we say, exploratory ambitions in gender relations. Neither statement was framed in positive light.
But most of what I have written is moot in framing this letter's purpose. For when I remember what we went through to reach this happy occasion, I cannot help but connect marriage with my own mortality, nor exhibit elvish patience in the choosing of life's companion. I wish, Sandro, for you to be her. Though I may not cross the barrier in elder's gowns, I can offer you as much life as creation permits in this short pause. Bear my children, inherit my fortunes, share home and hearth and sword and shield. You are a flower I plucked from thorns and now wish to nurture in a greener, happier garden. I can only pray this deed was noble enough to earn your hand. I am not a handsome elf. I will say no more, but wait for your imminent reply!
I must return to the festivities. My comrade saved herself from the eternal disdain of her subjects with the loveliest of hymns, a most feminine and demure haunting of soft pipes. And she has promised to return for an encore as the sun sets. I shall not want to miss it, especially if she draws from her bawdy war ballads. Perhaps I shall recall the song in a future letter?
Yours in fond trust,
Fjord
p.s. Enclosed is my book of poetry for you to peruse at leisure, and learn the framework of my mind, if that is your wish.
(From Page 24)
Requiem for the Gill-less
When the water encloses the eyelids and seeps,
Into pores barely hidden beneath the clenched peeps,
And follows the orifice inside and around:
Well, one must accept he is finally drowned.
I am presently attending a wedding in England. An old comrade has landed herself a princely fish. We saved him from a pit of human devilry in eastern Gaul known locally as The Temple (even for Norse, a grating word to the tongue) and returned him to a throne. The ceremony was brief, notable only in the sheer outrage the locals displayed when their mighty royal allowed a half-orc pirate to act as the bride's second. The rest of the bridal party attempted to play this up as light-hearted jestery; the guests, however, interpreted this ploy as either a statement on the bride's warrior past and the beast the prince had purchased in due course, or as a cautionary meditation on the groom's, shall we say, exploratory ambitions in gender relations. Neither statement was framed in positive light.
But most of what I have written is moot in framing this letter's purpose. For when I remember what we went through to reach this happy occasion, I cannot help but connect marriage with my own mortality, nor exhibit elvish patience in the choosing of life's companion. I wish, Sandro, for you to be her. Though I may not cross the barrier in elder's gowns, I can offer you as much life as creation permits in this short pause. Bear my children, inherit my fortunes, share home and hearth and sword and shield. You are a flower I plucked from thorns and now wish to nurture in a greener, happier garden. I can only pray this deed was noble enough to earn your hand. I am not a handsome elf. I will say no more, but wait for your imminent reply!
I must return to the festivities. My comrade saved herself from the eternal disdain of her subjects with the loveliest of hymns, a most feminine and demure haunting of soft pipes. And she has promised to return for an encore as the sun sets. I shall not want to miss it, especially if she draws from her bawdy war ballads. Perhaps I shall recall the song in a future letter?
Yours in fond trust,
Fjord
p.s. Enclosed is my book of poetry for you to peruse at leisure, and learn the framework of my mind, if that is your wish.
(From Page 24)
Requiem for the Gill-less
When the water encloses the eyelids and seeps,
Into pores barely hidden beneath the clenched peeps,
And follows the orifice inside and around:
Well, one must accept he is finally drowned.
The Famous Flight of Fjord the Faerie
And so I fled.
I am writing this in a long boat some 25 miles from shore while my sole companion, Saddam, snores the night away. We returned to Scrape only two days ago after a fortnight's voyage to Wales and I had promised certain parties (namely Helmut and his Bitch) to behave myself. I faithfully kept that promise, right up until the very first opportunity to break it presented itself. Not going into details, five Danes will never see another sunrise and another's will be seen through the eyes of a chicken. Oh, how I love my new polymorph wand! I would pay a handsome sum to see the look on the poor bastard's face who lops that fowl's head off and sees his dinner revert to it's original state, a now headless human corpse. Har! Har! Har!
Anyway, my latest kill spree wasn't exactly clandestine, and I was spotted and pursued by several guards. Making use of my latest toy, A diving helmet that allows me to breath underwater and which once belonged to a legendary human hero, one Alexander the Great, I made my way back to the ship by way of the river. After whispering a word of thanks to the mothers of Macedon, I immediately made plans for departure. We have had good weather lately, and so I felt fairly confident (and still do) that I could make the 200 mile journey in only a small long boat with just one companion (I could not in good conscience leave my comrades without a ship so far from the mainland). We packed for a three week journey and put our backs into frenzied oar strokes, creating as much distance between us and that vile outcrop of infertile rock as we could before my latest frivolities were discovered and reported to the local authorities. It was Kheops that I feared the most - he and his winged boots and insufferable sense of duty. But my fears appear to have been for not; although I felt the uncanny and all too familiar sense of being watched (by both Helmut and Kheops' crystal balls, I suspect) no pursuit has been spotted or heard or felt over the flat, black, rippling horizon. We are now far beyond their reach, I should think, but I have taken the added precaution of heading NW toward Wales instead of due West to the nearest Gallic coast, or more likely, SE toward Bordeaux.
After Saddam had nearly exhausted himself from the rowing, we rested and let the sail do the work. There was a comfortable silence as we both enjoyed the gentle swaying of the boat and the flapping of the sail. Saddam and I are peas in a pod (another Celtic expression I have allowed to molest my vocabulary) in this regard. We detest the inanity of idle conversation. It is for this very reason that I chose him for the flight. Perhaps I should say instead that we are jerks in a boat. Tomorrow, however, I plan to put his conversational skills to the test: I intend for him to teach me Carthaginian in the vernacular (as if I sailor would know any other form!). Some swears to impress my crew are a must. I shall remember to ask Saddam to translate the following:
Fuck
Asshole
Shit
Piss
Cunt
Cocksucker
Motherfucker
Grandmotherfucker
Swanfucker (to show my capabilities for self-depracation)
Mastlicker
And of course, any sort of Carthy-centric curses that would have little meaning in a literal translation. It may surprise some elves to know that fair-haired mortal is not an insult in human tongues, but merely a statement of fact. Poor Firfinvans!
Dawn is breaking - time to wake Saddam. Still no sign of pursuit - nor storm clouds.
I am writing this in a long boat some 25 miles from shore while my sole companion, Saddam, snores the night away. We returned to Scrape only two days ago after a fortnight's voyage to Wales and I had promised certain parties (namely Helmut and his Bitch) to behave myself. I faithfully kept that promise, right up until the very first opportunity to break it presented itself. Not going into details, five Danes will never see another sunrise and another's will be seen through the eyes of a chicken. Oh, how I love my new polymorph wand! I would pay a handsome sum to see the look on the poor bastard's face who lops that fowl's head off and sees his dinner revert to it's original state, a now headless human corpse. Har! Har! Har!
Anyway, my latest kill spree wasn't exactly clandestine, and I was spotted and pursued by several guards. Making use of my latest toy, A diving helmet that allows me to breath underwater and which once belonged to a legendary human hero, one Alexander the Great, I made my way back to the ship by way of the river. After whispering a word of thanks to the mothers of Macedon, I immediately made plans for departure. We have had good weather lately, and so I felt fairly confident (and still do) that I could make the 200 mile journey in only a small long boat with just one companion (I could not in good conscience leave my comrades without a ship so far from the mainland). We packed for a three week journey and put our backs into frenzied oar strokes, creating as much distance between us and that vile outcrop of infertile rock as we could before my latest frivolities were discovered and reported to the local authorities. It was Kheops that I feared the most - he and his winged boots and insufferable sense of duty. But my fears appear to have been for not; although I felt the uncanny and all too familiar sense of being watched (by both Helmut and Kheops' crystal balls, I suspect) no pursuit has been spotted or heard or felt over the flat, black, rippling horizon. We are now far beyond their reach, I should think, but I have taken the added precaution of heading NW toward Wales instead of due West to the nearest Gallic coast, or more likely, SE toward Bordeaux.
After Saddam had nearly exhausted himself from the rowing, we rested and let the sail do the work. There was a comfortable silence as we both enjoyed the gentle swaying of the boat and the flapping of the sail. Saddam and I are peas in a pod (another Celtic expression I have allowed to molest my vocabulary) in this regard. We detest the inanity of idle conversation. It is for this very reason that I chose him for the flight. Perhaps I should say instead that we are jerks in a boat. Tomorrow, however, I plan to put his conversational skills to the test: I intend for him to teach me Carthaginian in the vernacular (as if I sailor would know any other form!). Some swears to impress my crew are a must. I shall remember to ask Saddam to translate the following:
Fuck
Asshole
Shit
Piss
Cunt
Cocksucker
Motherfucker
Grandmotherfucker
Swanfucker (to show my capabilities for self-depracation)
Mastlicker
And of course, any sort of Carthy-centric curses that would have little meaning in a literal translation. It may surprise some elves to know that fair-haired mortal is not an insult in human tongues, but merely a statement of fact. Poor Firfinvans!
Dawn is breaking - time to wake Saddam. Still no sign of pursuit - nor storm clouds.
A letter to Silareth Smusarek, Master of Bladecraft
Lord Smusarek,
My name if Fjord, son of Thonwas, of the house of Coldwater. I am writing you today for no other reason than to bestow upon myself the honour of your fleeting attentions! Pray forgive the audacity of one as low as I for ingratiating myself in this most obvious and tactless manner! Nevertheless, I am a fanatic of your work and nothing would give me more pleasure than to one day meet you in person and witness the cradle of the greatest swords in the history of the world.
As you may know, my father was a trusted companion of Thurinir Thand, and so you might say that I have inherited a lineage of reckless passion. And yet, I am not my father. I cannot simply be his instrument of revenge, his proxy in the greatest of all struggles between greaters and lessers. That Fjord died on the battlefield, and when he was brought back from the nothingness, his father's sense of vengeance had been surpassed by his own. You see, it was a magic maker who slew me, rather than a worthy warrior. I felt cheated, but absolutely certain that my return must be for something more.
Look at me carrying on as if you care about any of this! Anyhow, I have returned to a passion from my childhood (Oh, what times those first 90 years were!) and I now fancy myself a writer of burgeoning repute. I wrote an ode to you and your fine work (a humble trifle, but saturated in admiration), and you will find it on page 14 of my first collected book of poems, which I have enclosed with this letter. Note that I have been dabbling in magic this past year, and that the rune on the front is a magical wizard mark! The title of the book is also there, but invisible, and only a detect magic spell can reveal it! I intend for all of my future works to have this pretentious flourish as well.
I thank you for your time and attention, Lord Smusarek, and wish you good health and immortality, as all great elves deserve.
(From page 14)
Ode to "Smu"
Your legend was forged in temporal embers ...
... so to speak;
and yet your work continues -
hammering the iron;
breathing the smelt;
sweating the particulars;
casting off the cares of the higher planes.
For what joy is there:
in realms of staticicity?
in the quenched passions of the singing blade?
in the flux of melting ore than can never freeze?
Only here can your legend be eternal.
Only here can I grasp it in tactile memory:
Silareth Smusarek Steel.
My name if Fjord, son of Thonwas, of the house of Coldwater. I am writing you today for no other reason than to bestow upon myself the honour of your fleeting attentions! Pray forgive the audacity of one as low as I for ingratiating myself in this most obvious and tactless manner! Nevertheless, I am a fanatic of your work and nothing would give me more pleasure than to one day meet you in person and witness the cradle of the greatest swords in the history of the world.
Save one furlough (and one death/resurrection), I have spent the past five years in the lands of man, campaigning almost unceasingly against the vile Norse. But every time that I draw my sword from its scabbard, though it may radiate with powerful magic, I cannot help but wish that it had been crafted by an Elf, by you in fact. But, such are the fancies of many young faeries, I suppose. It is fortunate that my father taught me the exquisite Elf craft of the bowyer/fletcher, so that at the very least, the arrow I notch and the bow I draw need never be sullied by the lesser races.
As you may know, my father was a trusted companion of Thurinir Thand, and so you might say that I have inherited a lineage of reckless passion. And yet, I am not my father. I cannot simply be his instrument of revenge, his proxy in the greatest of all struggles between greaters and lessers. That Fjord died on the battlefield, and when he was brought back from the nothingness, his father's sense of vengeance had been surpassed by his own. You see, it was a magic maker who slew me, rather than a worthy warrior. I felt cheated, but absolutely certain that my return must be for something more.
Look at me carrying on as if you care about any of this! Anyhow, I have returned to a passion from my childhood (Oh, what times those first 90 years were!) and I now fancy myself a writer of burgeoning repute. I wrote an ode to you and your fine work (a humble trifle, but saturated in admiration), and you will find it on page 14 of my first collected book of poems, which I have enclosed with this letter. Note that I have been dabbling in magic this past year, and that the rune on the front is a magical wizard mark! The title of the book is also there, but invisible, and only a detect magic spell can reveal it! I intend for all of my future works to have this pretentious flourish as well.
I thank you for your time and attention, Lord Smusarek, and wish you good health and immortality, as all great elves deserve.
Your most doting and accommodating servant,
Fjord
Fjord
(From page 14)
Ode to "Smu"
Your legend was forged in temporal embers ...
... so to speak;
and yet your work continues -
hammering the iron;
breathing the smelt;
sweating the particulars;
casting off the cares of the higher planes.
For what joy is there:
in realms of staticicity?
in the quenched passions of the singing blade?
in the flux of melting ore than can never freeze?
Only here can your legend be eternal.
Only here can I grasp it in tactile memory:
Silareth Smusarek Steel.
Fjord the DRAGON SLAYER!!!!!!!
And Hello!
We sat around staring at all the treasure. There was more here than I had ever seen in one spot, but then, I would have been disappointed if my first ever dragon lair was anything but splendid. We found a good cache of vintage Elven wine and all of us drank it with gusto, although Kheops wisely set aside the lion share of the booze as part of the loot. Still, this left us with ten gallons to drink in one sitting! Alas, poor Hordak could not partake, as his injuries were so severe that he could do nothing but lay there and groan. Fortunately, our healers had managed to stabilize him. After we had blown through half of the alotted portion, each party member was encouraged by a thoroughly inebriated Helmut, self-proclaimed master of ceremonies, to give a toast in celebration of this glorious day! We even forced some of the fine Elven vintage on Kheops during the roast dragon supper. Kheops is a notorious abstainer of the lustful sphere (He once boasted that the pharaoh's youngest and most fetching daughter had attempted and failed to seduce him during a wet season festival. I congratulated him for his resolve, but some others jeered and questioned his and his god's manhood - all in jest of course).
Helmut started:
"To Elves, those little faeries sure know how to make great shit! This wine, those arrows, and especially ol' Bag Face Dragon Slayer over there with his mighty bow! (pointing to me, still wearing the sack over my head with eye and mouth holes cut out. Helmut was referring to the fact that I had delivered the fatal shot to the dragon using my own self-crafted strength bow and a stash of magic Elven arrows we had found.)
"Here! Here!" the others cried, and even Durale raised her glass and drank to my health. That conniving Bitch. I'll not turn my back on her! Not EVEN ONCE!!! I supposed it was my turn to speak, that's how these ... social customs work. Not even being drunk with my comrades could make me comfortable in a crowd.
"Well, it was nothing really, I just, you know, was trying not to miss him, and uhhh, yeah, I hit him. " Helmut roared with laughter, but the others just sort of shrugged and talked amongst themselves in hushed murmurs. Damn it! Why am I such a fucking lamp post? I quickly shifted away what little attention was left on me.
"Well Kheops, you certainly took a lot of damage in that battle. You must feel very proud!" Kheops stiffened and gave me an indignant sniff. "Well, not all of us can be flying magicians, Elf. If that dragon wasn't concentrating on me, she would have been looking in your direction, I dare say!"
Durale jumped to Kheops defense. "After all, your dragon scale mail ensured that the dragon would concentrate on you before others. That was a very noble deed! To Kheops!" The others agreed and gave him a rousing three cheers that far surpassed their toast to me. Kheops' eyes gleamed and Durale winked at me mockingly. She knew I had been trying to give Kheops a compliment in the first place. Grrrrrr.....
Jorja was more intoxicated that any of us. She raised her cup and shouted, "HERE'S TO HOW FUCKING RICH WE ALL ARE! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!" And even I roared myself hoarse at that one, my embarassment forgotten and good times returned!
Sorak went next. He stood up, backed off, raised both his swords in an elaborate pose and cried "YAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!" and absolutely stunned us all with the most amazing acrobatic blades demonstration. Vortigern leapt to his feet and added magical lighting and smoke effects. Everyone drank and cheered and Sorak got a standing ovation as he finished by backflipping over the dragon carcass and landing in his original sitting position, both swords returned to their scabbards in midair. Cooooooooool, Elf!
Hordak managed to bestir himself enought to give a stirring speech in Orcish. "My brothers and sisters, we have conquered, we have overcome any odd, we have tasted greatness. For today, we can name ourselves the hunter of the most dangerous prey, and feast on not just dragon's flesh, but on the dragon's power. We have earned our place in songs and tales. We have touched glory. To US!"
Helmut translated. "Hey, we are awesome! We killed that fucking dragon and everyone is going to remember us for it! Woo!" Everyone cheered, but Hordak, knowing I speak Orcish, looked at me questioningly. I merely shook my head in answer, confirming that something had been lost in the translation. Hordak layed back down and groaned some more. Poor bastard.
Kheops raised his cup in turn to Durale. "To Durale's handy scroll and her bravery and cooperation among strangers! Truly you have earned our thanks and friendship!" We all saluted her, even I, and she acknowledged us with a nod and almost bashful smile. Bleh. But, she did deserve the praise. Her scroll had given us timely respite against Vesicant's noxious breath weapon, and she had actually taken on the dragon in melee. She is no coward, that is for certain.
Vortigern shot a spark from his lightening wand into the air and shouted "Here's to good times! Also, to being cured of my short and sweet addiction to opium!" and we all cheered and drank some more, and this continued for some time.
We must now figure out how to get all of this loot back to the ship and decide what we are to do next. Helmut's position as mayor has been both strengthened and weakened by this bold move, and he no doubt is carefully weighing his next move. Sost's and the dragon's demise have left a power vacuum at court that for now is filled by us, but when the captains return from their raiding, they will not be pleased with this upstart and the chaos he and his friends have brought to Scrape. It should be interesting. For me, the urge to depart has never been stronger... but then again, the opportunity to wage a naval battle against a Norse captain is yet another chance at glory. Decisions, Decisions.
We sat around staring at all the treasure. There was more here than I had ever seen in one spot, but then, I would have been disappointed if my first ever dragon lair was anything but splendid. We found a good cache of vintage Elven wine and all of us drank it with gusto, although Kheops wisely set aside the lion share of the booze as part of the loot. Still, this left us with ten gallons to drink in one sitting! Alas, poor Hordak could not partake, as his injuries were so severe that he could do nothing but lay there and groan. Fortunately, our healers had managed to stabilize him. After we had blown through half of the alotted portion, each party member was encouraged by a thoroughly inebriated Helmut, self-proclaimed master of ceremonies, to give a toast in celebration of this glorious day! We even forced some of the fine Elven vintage on Kheops during the roast dragon supper. Kheops is a notorious abstainer of the lustful sphere (He once boasted that the pharaoh's youngest and most fetching daughter had attempted and failed to seduce him during a wet season festival. I congratulated him for his resolve, but some others jeered and questioned his and his god's manhood - all in jest of course).
Helmut started:
"To Elves, those little faeries sure know how to make great shit! This wine, those arrows, and especially ol' Bag Face Dragon Slayer over there with his mighty bow! (pointing to me, still wearing the sack over my head with eye and mouth holes cut out. Helmut was referring to the fact that I had delivered the fatal shot to the dragon using my own self-crafted strength bow and a stash of magic Elven arrows we had found.)
"Here! Here!" the others cried, and even Durale raised her glass and drank to my health. That conniving Bitch. I'll not turn my back on her! Not EVEN ONCE!!! I supposed it was my turn to speak, that's how these ... social customs work. Not even being drunk with my comrades could make me comfortable in a crowd.
"Well, it was nothing really, I just, you know, was trying not to miss him, and uhhh, yeah, I hit him. " Helmut roared with laughter, but the others just sort of shrugged and talked amongst themselves in hushed murmurs. Damn it! Why am I such a fucking lamp post? I quickly shifted away what little attention was left on me.
"Well Kheops, you certainly took a lot of damage in that battle. You must feel very proud!" Kheops stiffened and gave me an indignant sniff. "Well, not all of us can be flying magicians, Elf. If that dragon wasn't concentrating on me, she would have been looking in your direction, I dare say!"
Durale jumped to Kheops defense. "After all, your dragon scale mail ensured that the dragon would concentrate on you before others. That was a very noble deed! To Kheops!" The others agreed and gave him a rousing three cheers that far surpassed their toast to me. Kheops' eyes gleamed and Durale winked at me mockingly. She knew I had been trying to give Kheops a compliment in the first place. Grrrrrr.....
Jorja was more intoxicated that any of us. She raised her cup and shouted, "HERE'S TO HOW FUCKING RICH WE ALL ARE! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!" And even I roared myself hoarse at that one, my embarassment forgotten and good times returned!
Sorak went next. He stood up, backed off, raised both his swords in an elaborate pose and cried "YAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!" and absolutely stunned us all with the most amazing acrobatic blades demonstration. Vortigern leapt to his feet and added magical lighting and smoke effects. Everyone drank and cheered and Sorak got a standing ovation as he finished by backflipping over the dragon carcass and landing in his original sitting position, both swords returned to their scabbards in midair. Cooooooooool, Elf!
Hordak managed to bestir himself enought to give a stirring speech in Orcish. "My brothers and sisters, we have conquered, we have overcome any odd, we have tasted greatness. For today, we can name ourselves the hunter of the most dangerous prey, and feast on not just dragon's flesh, but on the dragon's power. We have earned our place in songs and tales. We have touched glory. To US!"
Helmut translated. "Hey, we are awesome! We killed that fucking dragon and everyone is going to remember us for it! Woo!" Everyone cheered, but Hordak, knowing I speak Orcish, looked at me questioningly. I merely shook my head in answer, confirming that something had been lost in the translation. Hordak layed back down and groaned some more. Poor bastard.
Kheops raised his cup in turn to Durale. "To Durale's handy scroll and her bravery and cooperation among strangers! Truly you have earned our thanks and friendship!" We all saluted her, even I, and she acknowledged us with a nod and almost bashful smile. Bleh. But, she did deserve the praise. Her scroll had given us timely respite against Vesicant's noxious breath weapon, and she had actually taken on the dragon in melee. She is no coward, that is for certain.
Vortigern shot a spark from his lightening wand into the air and shouted "Here's to good times! Also, to being cured of my short and sweet addiction to opium!" and we all cheered and drank some more, and this continued for some time.
We must now figure out how to get all of this loot back to the ship and decide what we are to do next. Helmut's position as mayor has been both strengthened and weakened by this bold move, and he no doubt is carefully weighing his next move. Sost's and the dragon's demise have left a power vacuum at court that for now is filled by us, but when the captains return from their raiding, they will not be pleased with this upstart and the chaos he and his friends have brought to Scrape. It should be interesting. For me, the urge to depart has never been stronger... but then again, the opportunity to wage a naval battle against a Norse captain is yet another chance at glory. Decisions, Decisions.
The Treehouse
"So, Fjord ..." Sorak trailed off.
"Yeah?"
"What are you going to do about Durale?"
"The Bitch, Sorak, you mean The Bitch"
Sorak shrugged. "The Bitch, then."
I cast an alarm spell before answering.
"Well, she was pretty good in the temple. She did her job - finished her job. We have no other thief except for Van. We'll need her for what's next, I suppose. "
Sorak perused the treehouse interior, admiring the fine Elven craftsmanship. He stopped to inspect a cupboard and found a flagon of table wine. He held it up for me to see and I nodded my approval. Sorak talked while he poured. "What about after ... assuming we live?"
"Unless I can think of a better plan, I'll let her make the first move. If she tries while we're sleeping, the alarm should give me a chance to react."
Sorak handed me a cup. The wine smelled faintly of acorns. Sorak raised his cup in a toast. "Well, here's to dragon slaying, Fjord."
"To dragon slaying, Sorak"
Another dragon. Huge and terrible and spewing poisonous gas from every oriphace. I swished a mouthful of the wine around before swallowing. "We might really die this time."
Sorak shrugged again. "You always say that."
"But this time I really feel it in my bones."
Sorak laughed "You always say that, too!"
"At any rate, do you have a contingency plan?"
"I suppose contingency must mean backup?"
"More or less. If you are wiling to overlook certain nuances."
"Hmmph. There you go again, being all ... what's that word you taught me?"
"Erudite."
"... being all erudite. And for your information, I do have a ... contingency plan. If the dragon kills everyone else, I run for my life."
I slipped a scroll tube out of my cloak and showed it to him. Well, if I'm alive too, remind me that I'm carrying this, and stick close."
Sorak laughed again and proceeded to drain his cup. "Ok, Mr. Wizard Man. I'll remember that you have that fancy scroll."
"That's Mr. Wizard Elf, mister."
"Right, right. Gods, you are a touchy one."
"Only regarding certain adherences to protocol."
Sorak rolled his eyes and poured himself another cup. I continued to brood over my first.
"Sorak..."
"Yeah, Fjord?"
"Did I ever tell you that I wrote a last will and testemant?"
"A will, eh? Do I get anything fancy?"
"Definitely. But I didn't bring up the subject to bother you with details. I've a favour to ask."
"Name it."
"I want you to promise me that my parents will get a share of the money."
"Done."
We clasped arms and drank to it.
And now I will rest a bit easier, knowing that my affairs are in decent order. This may be my last entry. If it is, well:
Goodbye.
"Yeah?"
"What are you going to do about Durale?"
"The Bitch, Sorak, you mean The Bitch"
Sorak shrugged. "The Bitch, then."
I cast an alarm spell before answering.
"Well, she was pretty good in the temple. She did her job - finished her job. We have no other thief except for Van. We'll need her for what's next, I suppose. "
Sorak perused the treehouse interior, admiring the fine Elven craftsmanship. He stopped to inspect a cupboard and found a flagon of table wine. He held it up for me to see and I nodded my approval. Sorak talked while he poured. "What about after ... assuming we live?"
"Unless I can think of a better plan, I'll let her make the first move. If she tries while we're sleeping, the alarm should give me a chance to react."
Sorak handed me a cup. The wine smelled faintly of acorns. Sorak raised his cup in a toast. "Well, here's to dragon slaying, Fjord."
"To dragon slaying, Sorak"
Another dragon. Huge and terrible and spewing poisonous gas from every oriphace. I swished a mouthful of the wine around before swallowing. "We might really die this time."
Sorak shrugged again. "You always say that."
"But this time I really feel it in my bones."
Sorak laughed "You always say that, too!"
"At any rate, do you have a contingency plan?"
"I suppose contingency must mean backup?"
"More or less. If you are wiling to overlook certain nuances."
"Hmmph. There you go again, being all ... what's that word you taught me?"
"Erudite."
"... being all erudite. And for your information, I do have a ... contingency plan. If the dragon kills everyone else, I run for my life."
I slipped a scroll tube out of my cloak and showed it to him. Well, if I'm alive too, remind me that I'm carrying this, and stick close."
Sorak laughed again and proceeded to drain his cup. "Ok, Mr. Wizard Man. I'll remember that you have that fancy scroll."
"That's Mr. Wizard Elf, mister."
"Right, right. Gods, you are a touchy one."
"Only regarding certain adherences to protocol."
Sorak rolled his eyes and poured himself another cup. I continued to brood over my first.
"Sorak..."
"Yeah, Fjord?"
"Did I ever tell you that I wrote a last will and testemant?"
"A will, eh? Do I get anything fancy?"
"Definitely. But I didn't bring up the subject to bother you with details. I've a favour to ask."
"Name it."
"I want you to promise me that my parents will get a share of the money."
"Done."
We clasped arms and drank to it.
And now I will rest a bit easier, knowing that my affairs are in decent order. This may be my last entry. If it is, well:
Goodbye.
Scrape - Day 5
We are currently sneaking through Scrape's only religious site, a temple dedicated to the worship of evil dragons (particularly the one that lives in the hills somewhere in the interior) and presided over by Sost (a pious and ambitious Roman that Kheops would love to cleave in two they tell me. I have never seen him). Actually, I'm in Helmut's pocket, as are most of us except for Vortigern and Durail, the aforementioned "Bitch".
One of Helmut's most prized (and jealously guarded) possessions is the Hankie Hole. Imagine a hankie that rolls out into a 15' diameter circle. Once unrolled it suddenly becomes a portal into extra-dimensional space, straight down for 10'. In here, Helmut keeps his gear, a few bunk beds, his money and other odds and ends. From time to time, he carries us in that same hole (while the hankie is once more rolled up and secured in his pocket) in order to sneak deep into an enemy strong hold and then let us out for the attack.
And so here we are.
It goes without saying that he resents us using his personal property in this way. He is a curious one: friendly, generous in spurts, honest about his intentions, a good one to have at your side in a fight, and as twisted and bloodthirsty as the rest of us; and yet he is also stingy and mean-spirited, and I dare say even abusive toward us when we rely on his ways and means. Well, as Sorak would say, "That's just Helmut being Helmut." But Sorak isn't exactly renowned for his wisdom.
And ever since Helmut became mayor, he's gotten even worse. I blame The Bitch, that conniving Danish tart that he spends so much time with these days. She was not 5 feet from me in the hole only moments ago while Helmut dimension-doored into the main hall of the temple. When Helmut first opened the hole to let her in, I choked down the urge to attack and tried to stay inconspicuous (a difficult task for a bald-headed elf dressed in the raiment of war). She stared at my boots and cocked an eyebrow as Jorja whispered something in her ear.
"Hey Fjord, nice boots!" jeered Helmut, keenly aware of my miscue. My boots! How could I have been so foolish? My Boots of the North are far too unique in design not to be noticed in this town, and Ixie has worn them on every occasion, as has Fjord the Faerie on every occasion. Helmut laughed and lauged as he closed the hole back up. Well, there's no way she couldn't know who I am. It now must be clear to her that I am Ixie, no Celtic wizard at all, but the ugly, scowling and altogether humiliated elf standing so close to her.
I'm probably going to have to kill her - before she kills me first.
But for now, she is our resident thief and far too useful. Besides, who knows how Helmut would react? Perhaps I'll let her attack me, and then I would only be defending myself ... some careful planning is in order I would think. Although, I haven't been careful at all recently, so I may be out of practice.
One of Helmut's most prized (and jealously guarded) possessions is the Hankie Hole. Imagine a hankie that rolls out into a 15' diameter circle. Once unrolled it suddenly becomes a portal into extra-dimensional space, straight down for 10'. In here, Helmut keeps his gear, a few bunk beds, his money and other odds and ends. From time to time, he carries us in that same hole (while the hankie is once more rolled up and secured in his pocket) in order to sneak deep into an enemy strong hold and then let us out for the attack.
And so here we are.
It goes without saying that he resents us using his personal property in this way. He is a curious one: friendly, generous in spurts, honest about his intentions, a good one to have at your side in a fight, and as twisted and bloodthirsty as the rest of us; and yet he is also stingy and mean-spirited, and I dare say even abusive toward us when we rely on his ways and means. Well, as Sorak would say, "That's just Helmut being Helmut." But Sorak isn't exactly renowned for his wisdom.
And ever since Helmut became mayor, he's gotten even worse. I blame The Bitch, that conniving Danish tart that he spends so much time with these days. She was not 5 feet from me in the hole only moments ago while Helmut dimension-doored into the main hall of the temple. When Helmut first opened the hole to let her in, I choked down the urge to attack and tried to stay inconspicuous (a difficult task for a bald-headed elf dressed in the raiment of war). She stared at my boots and cocked an eyebrow as Jorja whispered something in her ear.
"Hey Fjord, nice boots!" jeered Helmut, keenly aware of my miscue. My boots! How could I have been so foolish? My Boots of the North are far too unique in design not to be noticed in this town, and Ixie has worn them on every occasion, as has Fjord the Faerie on every occasion. Helmut laughed and lauged as he closed the hole back up. Well, there's no way she couldn't know who I am. It now must be clear to her that I am Ixie, no Celtic wizard at all, but the ugly, scowling and altogether humiliated elf standing so close to her.
I'm probably going to have to kill her - before she kills me first.
But for now, she is our resident thief and far too useful. Besides, who knows how Helmut would react? Perhaps I'll let her attack me, and then I would only be defending myself ... some careful planning is in order I would think. Although, I haven't been careful at all recently, so I may be out of practice.
The Scrape General Election
To be mayor, to be king,
One must do only one thing:
Grab a sword or grab an axe,
Goad the incumbant into a match,
To the death or the submit,
In Helmut's famous fighting pit,
Whilst the Scrapers make their bets;
Democratic as it gets!
One must do only one thing:
Grab a sword or grab an axe,
Goad the incumbant into a match,
To the death or the submit,
In Helmut's famous fighting pit,
Whilst the Scrapers make their bets;
Democratic as it gets!
Fight Night will be minus one elf.
Vortigern has basically brushed off his fight with me, and that makes me equal parts furious and resigned. He is meditating and sleeping and blah blah blah. If he would only follow my advice and keep his manna burn low, he wouldn't have to recuperate all at once in marathon sessions! But he just laughs my concerns aside, patronizing me with sarcasm-laced wisdom: Now Fjord, remember that I am a priest and a wizard. When you learn a few more spells and gain some more experience, you'll be called on by the party more often as well. That manna burn adds up when you're casting more powerful spells!
Whatever. I did some prancing around Carthy town in my fancy faerie fighter gettup, but soon grew bored. I believe I trashed Vortigern enough as a coward (I called him simply, my opponent that coward who smokes opium all the time) to gain a bit of credibility. Perhaps I should go back to Brule's and do some more prancing. Perhaps I could fight a nobody. I should crash the Puking Buzzard and call some orc a grandmotherfucker. That's a sure ticket to the pit, I'm betting. Oh, we bought an elf out of slavery, so that's good. Forget her name. I'll have to ask somebody before I see her again. It's always so embarrassing when you forget someone's name! She's agreed to be my escort for my fights in the pit. Fjord the Faerie just got cooler. It will compensate for that ghastly scar on my neck and face.
If I have any fights that is. Sheesh. I mean, come on! I even have a character made up with a fancy cloak and everything! Damn that Vortigern! Next time I see him, I'm gonna be all like, Oh yeah, Vortigern, well you might be smarter, wiser and more powerful than I am, but at least I'm not a fuckin' dope-fiend!"
Although I must admit, that opium seems mighty tempting sometimes. I can never seem to relax. My sword hand twitches. My wand hand flicks. I'm told I shudder and mutter curses in my sleep. Just let me fight one Norse puke, let me beat him to death with my bare hands and sink my thumbs into his eye sockets and the gnawing of my mind will subside for awhile!
ARRRGHHGHGHGHGH!!!!!!
Whatever. I did some prancing around Carthy town in my fancy faerie fighter gettup, but soon grew bored. I believe I trashed Vortigern enough as a coward (I called him simply, my opponent that coward who smokes opium all the time) to gain a bit of credibility. Perhaps I should go back to Brule's and do some more prancing. Perhaps I could fight a nobody. I should crash the Puking Buzzard and call some orc a grandmotherfucker. That's a sure ticket to the pit, I'm betting. Oh, we bought an elf out of slavery, so that's good. Forget her name. I'll have to ask somebody before I see her again. It's always so embarrassing when you forget someone's name! She's agreed to be my escort for my fights in the pit. Fjord the Faerie just got cooler. It will compensate for that ghastly scar on my neck and face.
If I have any fights that is. Sheesh. I mean, come on! I even have a character made up with a fancy cloak and everything! Damn that Vortigern! Next time I see him, I'm gonna be all like, Oh yeah, Vortigern, well you might be smarter, wiser and more powerful than I am, but at least I'm not a fuckin' dope-fiend!"
Although I must admit, that opium seems mighty tempting sometimes. I can never seem to relax. My sword hand twitches. My wand hand flicks. I'm told I shudder and mutter curses in my sleep. Just let me fight one Norse puke, let me beat him to death with my bare hands and sink my thumbs into his eye sockets and the gnawing of my mind will subside for awhile!
ARRRGHHGHGHGHGH!!!!!!
Fjord the Faerie
How ridiculous is Scrape? We have been here four days and: Helmut is mayor; Hordak is the Garbage Pit Fighting Champion (self-styled "Scrape Fighting Association heavyweight champion of the world"); Vortigern has been smoking opium without pause and I (or at least my alter-ego "Ixie") have gone on a killing spree.
***Note*** I have confirmed that another five Danes perished horribly in the fire at the Shrieking Phantom.
Becoming mayor was rather straightforward. Helmut goaded then-mayor Yorin into a fight in the Pit, and with a little clandestine help from his friends, handily defeated Yorin and was carried back to the Mayor's palace as a hero.
I should also mention that Kheops has been named the sheriff of town, Sorak has found himself a mate (an attractive elf named Telco from his own homeland, no less) and Jorja, if the rumours are true, is currently participating in a orgy deep underground in the dark palace harem of a mad Dwarven prince.
Tonight, my plan is to make my first appearance as myself (sort of). I am wearing the fine cloak I purchased at the auction in Bordeaux and intend to bandy about town as FJORD THE FAERIE, the infamous Elf warrior and gladiator! Tomorrow night I will do battle with Vortigern in an old fashioned knife fight, and so I intend to raise publicity (a curious word I learned from Marcus, who once told me no event is successful without publicity) by openly questioning my opponent's manhood. After all, the fight was supposed to be tonight, but Vortigern cancelled at the last minute, claiming he had to study and meditate. I will tell all who will listen that he is afraid of me and my 18/01 strength and he will suffer the consequences, TOMORROW NIGHT!!!
But Ixie will return when the time is ripe. After all, a day in Scrape is like a century to an Elf.
***Note*** I have confirmed that another five Danes perished horribly in the fire at the Shrieking Phantom.
Becoming mayor was rather straightforward. Helmut goaded then-mayor Yorin into a fight in the Pit, and with a little clandestine help from his friends, handily defeated Yorin and was carried back to the Mayor's palace as a hero.
I should also mention that Kheops has been named the sheriff of town, Sorak has found himself a mate (an attractive elf named Telco from his own homeland, no less) and Jorja, if the rumours are true, is currently participating in a orgy deep underground in the dark palace harem of a mad Dwarven prince.
Tonight, my plan is to make my first appearance as myself (sort of). I am wearing the fine cloak I purchased at the auction in Bordeaux and intend to bandy about town as FJORD THE FAERIE, the infamous Elf warrior and gladiator! Tomorrow night I will do battle with Vortigern in an old fashioned knife fight, and so I intend to raise publicity (a curious word I learned from Marcus, who once told me no event is successful without publicity) by openly questioning my opponent's manhood. After all, the fight was supposed to be tonight, but Vortigern cancelled at the last minute, claiming he had to study and meditate. I will tell all who will listen that he is afraid of me and my 18/01 strength and he will suffer the consequences, TOMORROW NIGHT!!!
But Ixie will return when the time is ripe. After all, a day in Scrape is like a century to an Elf.
Scrape - Day 4
It is nearly impossible to fathom that we docked in Scrape (a vile town of scum and villainy, so they say) only three days ago. I have lost count of the Danes I have slain. If feels ... agreeable to purify the streets of these heathen Norse dogs. A flaw in all great killers is their lust for infamy - they cannot help but incriminate themselves in the recounting of their exploits. But should Helmut's bitch ever discover that I am Ixie, well, she will remember me, I swear it! I certainly have no qualms in recording my more memorable kills for posterity:
1) The two guards in the tannery in the Carthage quarters. Unfortunately for them, they were also on the payroll of one of my charmed pals, a lowlife Carthy named Van. He didn't bat an eye when I gutted his employees and gave excellent advice in weighing down the corpses before tossing them in the river.
2) Two more guards on the bridge during the Norse-Orc brawl of Day two. I learned later that Helmut had started the fight. I'm not even certain anyone noticed that it was I who killed them in all that chaos.
3) Yet another guard from the roof of the Shrieking Phantom, sniper-style with my bow. I regrettably lost my rope and grappling hook. The Bitch also noticed the fletchings of an Elf master, Jorja tells me. I am pleased. The more she knows about me, the more she will have to fear.
4) The very next morning, I revisited the Shrieking Phantom to find it's roof was now patrolled. Someone was finally taking notice. By the time I was finished today, Ixie was the talk of Scrape. I count five Danes slain and the Phantom a smoldering ruin. I was home in time for breakfast.
And Jorja stands accused for my crimes and must fight mayor Yorin in the pit! I am both amused and insulted. For now, the Ixie mask comes off. I must attend the fight to protect a comrade. After all, there is plenty of time - we've only just arrived ...
1) The two guards in the tannery in the Carthage quarters. Unfortunately for them, they were also on the payroll of one of my charmed pals, a lowlife Carthy named Van. He didn't bat an eye when I gutted his employees and gave excellent advice in weighing down the corpses before tossing them in the river.
2) Two more guards on the bridge during the Norse-Orc brawl of Day two. I learned later that Helmut had started the fight. I'm not even certain anyone noticed that it was I who killed them in all that chaos.
3) Yet another guard from the roof of the Shrieking Phantom, sniper-style with my bow. I regrettably lost my rope and grappling hook. The Bitch also noticed the fletchings of an Elf master, Jorja tells me. I am pleased. The more she knows about me, the more she will have to fear.
4) The very next morning, I revisited the Shrieking Phantom to find it's roof was now patrolled. Someone was finally taking notice. By the time I was finished today, Ixie was the talk of Scrape. I count five Danes slain and the Phantom a smoldering ruin. I was home in time for breakfast.
And Jorja stands accused for my crimes and must fight mayor Yorin in the pit! I am both amused and insulted. For now, the Ixie mask comes off. I must attend the fight to protect a comrade. After all, there is plenty of time - we've only just arrived ...
S.S. Elfbane
"The ship is yours, Captain!" shouted Vortigern, and lead the crew in a rousing three cheers.By this time, Helmut had returned from below deck and interjected heatedly, "Whoa there, Fjord, what's this talk about it being your ship?!? I don't see your name on it!" His remark was met with barely stifled snickering amongst the group as Kheops cleared his throat and directed Helmut to peer over the side. There, gleaming in the reflected sea light, was the same rune Helmut had watched me magically etch upon the Wizard's Tower door.
To everyone's relief, Helmut roared with laughter. "Did you make up the design yourself, Fjordy? It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen!"
I was slightly indignant. "I spent a lot of time on that, jerk! It's geometrical proportions are meticulous to the extreme!"
"Your ass's georectical distortions are ridiculous to the extreme!" Helmut mocked, and the crew laughed along with him. Helmut then lead the crew in a rousing rendition of "Fjord the Faerie", a crude and slightly offensive ditty that among other things, questions my maternal grandmother's femininity. No one has laid claim to authorship, but I have always suspected Cedrica - the tune is far too melodious. I stomped away in a huff.
"Are you sure these dude are your friends?" asked Sven, the only survivor of the crew we had just wiped out, and whom I had charmed and protected in order to make use of him later. He had followed me to the bow, where I stood gazing across the waters.
"Oh, they're not so bad, but I can only take their banter in measured doses. Speaking of which, stay away from the half-orc - his temper is as black as his humour."
"Which half-orc?" Right. I had forgotten about Hordak, who sat cleaning the blood off that big ugly bastard sword of his. He cared not that the rest of him was covered in blood as well. He looked like some demon spawn of the underworld, sent here to sacrifice the living on the altar that was his own body. The joy in his eyes did nothing to assuage the appearance.
"Both of them. Now, how about we get that sail up?"
"Aye, Aye, Captain!"
June 6th, Year 7 - Bobbers
The first order of business upon arriving in Hommlett was to find a good valet. I am not a shrewd businessman, and interaction with the masses appeals to me not. But, I now have other skills to compensate for my interpersonal shortcomings.
At the local tavern, I found a likely “candidate.” He was the very picture of hard-luck drunk: handsome but disheveled, and his attire was tailored yet grungy. Here was a man who used to be decently successful but has descended into the self-pitying madness of full-time boozer. I sat down next to him, politely clutching his forearm, and I muttered a few words. The initial alarm of being confronted by this well-armed and mean-eyed elf was replaced with a smile of absolute familiarity and trust. I asked him, “How have you faired since we last spoke, friend?”
He thought hard, agonizing to recall a meeting that never happened. Finally, I saw his brow unfurrow as he gave up and simply told me of his current state of affairs.
“My wife ran off with the cook. Then I started drinking more. Then I lost my job. That was last month. This month, I’m just drinking more.”
“And what did you do for a living?”
“I was a caretaker for lord G___.”
He’s Perfect.
“Well, friend, fear not! Now you work for me! Come to the tower at dawn. Get a good night’s rest: you are going to be busy. Just ask for your good buddy Fjord.”
“I will milord! I will!”
“I think I’ll call you Bobbers. It’s a nice name for my new doorman, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s perfect, milord. My last employer called me “Lumber Monkey!”
“Well Bobbers, I’ll certainly treat you with more respect that that, I can promise you. But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”
“Whatever you ask, milord! I am yours to command.”
“Promise me that you’ll lay off the booze. For good.”
His exuberance caught me slightly off guard as he leapt to his feet and declared for all to hear, “Math have mercy! I’m a wino no more!” And he staggered out the front door, laughing maniacally.
The bartender merely shook his head. “Third time this week he’s done that.”
I wonder if I should tell Faust that he’s charmed … I’m sure he’ll figure it out soon enough. Such a clever little gnome.
At the local tavern, I found a likely “candidate.” He was the very picture of hard-luck drunk: handsome but disheveled, and his attire was tailored yet grungy. Here was a man who used to be decently successful but has descended into the self-pitying madness of full-time boozer. I sat down next to him, politely clutching his forearm, and I muttered a few words. The initial alarm of being confronted by this well-armed and mean-eyed elf was replaced with a smile of absolute familiarity and trust. I asked him, “How have you faired since we last spoke, friend?”
He thought hard, agonizing to recall a meeting that never happened. Finally, I saw his brow unfurrow as he gave up and simply told me of his current state of affairs.
“My wife ran off with the cook. Then I started drinking more. Then I lost my job. That was last month. This month, I’m just drinking more.”
“And what did you do for a living?”
“I was a caretaker for lord G___.”
He’s Perfect.
“Well, friend, fear not! Now you work for me! Come to the tower at dawn. Get a good night’s rest: you are going to be busy. Just ask for your good buddy Fjord.”
“I will milord! I will!”
“I think I’ll call you Bobbers. It’s a nice name for my new doorman, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s perfect, milord. My last employer called me “Lumber Monkey!”
“Well Bobbers, I’ll certainly treat you with more respect that that, I can promise you. But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”
“Whatever you ask, milord! I am yours to command.”
“Promise me that you’ll lay off the booze. For good.”
His exuberance caught me slightly off guard as he leapt to his feet and declared for all to hear, “Math have mercy! I’m a wino no more!” And he staggered out the front door, laughing maniacally.
The bartender merely shook his head. “Third time this week he’s done that.”
I wonder if I should tell Faust that he’s charmed … I’m sure he’ll figure it out soon enough. Such a clever little gnome.
Dear Faust,
Fear not! I am alive and well. I have spent these past months at home resting, training, and above all, thinking. With all due respect, I have come to the conclusion that most wizards are conniving, insufferable, baseborn scum. I have been burned, gassed, petrified, feared, doused in acid, tricked, cursed, and even killed by these magic-making lowlifes, and I owe them nothing short of the cold, steel kiss of death! Note that I said "most".
I admit that at first, I returned home in humiliation, with little intention of returning to Gaul under any circumstance. After long talks with my father, however, I am beginning to understand that my suffering has only been in vain because I have not acted on this burgeoning hatred of the supernatural. No elf can despise magic without despising himself in turn. The paradox has cleaved me inside, baring my soul to the winds of corruption. But, as I have come to realize, there need be no paradox. It is not even abnormal for an elf to feel wronged when something so inherent to his own character is used against him so often. Nor is it abnormal for said elf to feel vitriolic disdain for beings of the lesser races who make such a bloody mockery of powers beyond their comprehension.
Naturally, my thoughts of late have turned to vengeance, vengeance in its most ironic form. You claim you know what I am really up to? Then you must also understand that nothing can change my mind. Since it was those Norse magic makers and their butcher armies that have wronged me (and my kind) the most, I will start with them. Who can say where I will finish?
But you, my dear friend, shall have clemency from my wrath. Not only for our comradeship, but also because you at least embrace an art that already flows through your tiny veins, trickster though it makes you!
I fear my dreams of Fjord the Hero have perished in the flames. They are ashes on my parched lips. I thirst for nothing but the blood that will drip from Euranna's blade. There will be no retribution from the crimes that I intend to inflict!
But you will see me again,
Fjord
Fear not! I am alive and well. I have spent these past months at home resting, training, and above all, thinking. With all due respect, I have come to the conclusion that most wizards are conniving, insufferable, baseborn scum. I have been burned, gassed, petrified, feared, doused in acid, tricked, cursed, and even killed by these magic-making lowlifes, and I owe them nothing short of the cold, steel kiss of death! Note that I said "most".
I admit that at first, I returned home in humiliation, with little intention of returning to Gaul under any circumstance. After long talks with my father, however, I am beginning to understand that my suffering has only been in vain because I have not acted on this burgeoning hatred of the supernatural. No elf can despise magic without despising himself in turn. The paradox has cleaved me inside, baring my soul to the winds of corruption. But, as I have come to realize, there need be no paradox. It is not even abnormal for an elf to feel wronged when something so inherent to his own character is used against him so often. Nor is it abnormal for said elf to feel vitriolic disdain for beings of the lesser races who make such a bloody mockery of powers beyond their comprehension.
Naturally, my thoughts of late have turned to vengeance, vengeance in its most ironic form. You claim you know what I am really up to? Then you must also understand that nothing can change my mind. Since it was those Norse magic makers and their butcher armies that have wronged me (and my kind) the most, I will start with them. Who can say where I will finish?
But you, my dear friend, shall have clemency from my wrath. Not only for our comradeship, but also because you at least embrace an art that already flows through your tiny veins, trickster though it makes you!
I fear my dreams of Fjord the Hero have perished in the flames. They are ashes on my parched lips. I thirst for nothing but the blood that will drip from Euranna's blade. There will be no retribution from the crimes that I intend to inflict!
But you will see me again,
Fjord
A letter from the swamp
October 8th
Dear Fjord,
All is not well. Against my better judgment (as usual), several of us have taken up with a gang of would-be heroes on an errand of such lofty expectations that I expect to perish in a most brutal and violent manner within a fortnight. Coincidentally, I find myself thinking of you. How are you, my old friend? By all accounts, that business with the stone has sent you into a declination of epic proportions. I do hope this letter finds you hale and if not happy, at least somewhat contented. I would rather that than to learn that you have shed your mortal coil in a fit of blind despair and even now the crows peck at your rotting eyeballs whilst you gently swing from a noose made from your own hempen rope. You were always so fond of your knots ...
Thinking of your untimely demise has boiled the guilt within me to critical mass. I crave the relief of your forgiveness, Fjord! It was I who stole your journal and read so many of your entries. Though you know me to me a thief of some renown, I assure you that I stumbled upon your sacred texts quite by accident. It was during one of our more insane ventures into that vile temple and you were holding the front line as befits your rank and equipment. I had exhausted my spell-casting abilities and and retreated to our horses to hold the rear (hide). I remembered that you had one of the party's last Kheeotum's ointments and busied through your belongings to find it before one of us (even you, perhaps) was dragged half dead from that inferno.
At first, I only took note of it in passing, as the task at hand kept my nimble fingers busy rummaging through your surprisingly unorganized backpack. Afterward, it occurred to me that the ointment was probably in your belt pouch. In hindsight, I now realize that the ointment is always in your belt pouch and my search had been in vain from its onset: a moot point. After a time, I grew bored and the temptation of reading the most closely guarded (well, not really, since you left it with your horse while you went to kill trolls, bug-bears and the like) writings of a friend grew from the faintest flicker to a fiery passion that could not be denied!
Well, now you know. Perhaps I could lend my somewhat advanced authorial knowledge to a critique of your poetry as compensation? Fjord, you have real potential! I do hope you have kept at it during our time apart. Kheops mentioned in passing that you had gone to school to learn to read and write. I'm afraid our brave paladin is easily befuddled by higher intellectual pursuits. My pointed questioning of him has led me to believe that you are not merely learning basic literacy (since I know you have a full grasp of Elvish at least) but are rather studying the exquisite craft work of the Elvish epic! By now, I am sure that you realize that your own poetry is every bit the match of the ancients in vigour, yet lacks the refinement and subtle adhesiveness that separates amateurs from professionals. Yes, even I, a simple gnome, have appreciated the works of Isilwen Anawamane in my travels.
Do not be insulted, by good friend! If your writing was poor, I would not be offering this advice at all. It is only because I believe in your talent and confidence that I would even venture this criticism from a festering bog betwixt forays into a temple overrun by lizard men, trolls and magically enhanced alligators. I say again, do not despair. Find yourself. Improve yourself. Return to us a new Elf, if you wish, but remain Fjord. I miss the oft overlooked comfort of intelligent conversation. Your replacement is an idiot Satyr piper who seemingly begs for death on every mission yet survives to the vocal disappointment of all. His playing is so terrible that half the time he puts his audience to sleep and the other times they flee in terror!
Your colleague and friend,
Faust
p.s. Another confession: I know what you're really doing in Sweden. Tyr'n did his best not to tell me, but I have a knack for hearing the unsaid. Your secret is safe with me, but I would encourage you to abandon this madness! Too late, you say? Well, when you get back, there is much that I can teach you ...
Dear Fjord,
All is not well. Against my better judgment (as usual), several of us have taken up with a gang of would-be heroes on an errand of such lofty expectations that I expect to perish in a most brutal and violent manner within a fortnight. Coincidentally, I find myself thinking of you. How are you, my old friend? By all accounts, that business with the stone has sent you into a declination of epic proportions. I do hope this letter finds you hale and if not happy, at least somewhat contented. I would rather that than to learn that you have shed your mortal coil in a fit of blind despair and even now the crows peck at your rotting eyeballs whilst you gently swing from a noose made from your own hempen rope. You were always so fond of your knots ...
Thinking of your untimely demise has boiled the guilt within me to critical mass. I crave the relief of your forgiveness, Fjord! It was I who stole your journal and read so many of your entries. Though you know me to me a thief of some renown, I assure you that I stumbled upon your sacred texts quite by accident. It was during one of our more insane ventures into that vile temple and you were holding the front line as befits your rank and equipment. I had exhausted my spell-casting abilities and and retreated to our horses to hold the rear (hide). I remembered that you had one of the party's last Kheeotum's ointments and busied through your belongings to find it before one of us (even you, perhaps) was dragged half dead from that inferno.
At first, I only took note of it in passing, as the task at hand kept my nimble fingers busy rummaging through your surprisingly unorganized backpack. Afterward, it occurred to me that the ointment was probably in your belt pouch. In hindsight, I now realize that the ointment is always in your belt pouch and my search had been in vain from its onset: a moot point. After a time, I grew bored and the temptation of reading the most closely guarded (well, not really, since you left it with your horse while you went to kill trolls, bug-bears and the like) writings of a friend grew from the faintest flicker to a fiery passion that could not be denied!
Well, now you know. Perhaps I could lend my somewhat advanced authorial knowledge to a critique of your poetry as compensation? Fjord, you have real potential! I do hope you have kept at it during our time apart. Kheops mentioned in passing that you had gone to school to learn to read and write. I'm afraid our brave paladin is easily befuddled by higher intellectual pursuits. My pointed questioning of him has led me to believe that you are not merely learning basic literacy (since I know you have a full grasp of Elvish at least) but are rather studying the exquisite craft work of the Elvish epic! By now, I am sure that you realize that your own poetry is every bit the match of the ancients in vigour, yet lacks the refinement and subtle adhesiveness that separates amateurs from professionals. Yes, even I, a simple gnome, have appreciated the works of Isilwen Anawamane in my travels.
Do not be insulted, by good friend! If your writing was poor, I would not be offering this advice at all. It is only because I believe in your talent and confidence that I would even venture this criticism from a festering bog betwixt forays into a temple overrun by lizard men, trolls and magically enhanced alligators. I say again, do not despair. Find yourself. Improve yourself. Return to us a new Elf, if you wish, but remain Fjord. I miss the oft overlooked comfort of intelligent conversation. Your replacement is an idiot Satyr piper who seemingly begs for death on every mission yet survives to the vocal disappointment of all. His playing is so terrible that half the time he puts his audience to sleep and the other times they flee in terror!
Your colleague and friend,
Faust
p.s. Another confession: I know what you're really doing in Sweden. Tyr'n did his best not to tell me, but I have a knack for hearing the unsaid. Your secret is safe with me, but I would encourage you to abandon this madness! Too late, you say? Well, when you get back, there is much that I can teach you ...
That an Elf should despise magic ...
In retrospect, this should not be surprising. An otherwise intelligent being puts his faith in a magic stone and it fails him, bathing him in a wash of humiliation. It is not irony. It is the furthest thing from irony. It is the most likely outcome.
Should songs be sung of me in later years, let it not be said that Fjord the Elf was without flaw. Too conceited for a journal? Perhaps. And I suppose I must put to parchment the whole sordid affair so that future adventurers might learn from my folly.
Yes, that's perfect. Fjord's Folly, the cursed stone, the great prank of the Temple of Elemental Evil. It lies on a river bed now, waiting for it's next victim to tease with promises of greatness. I do not regret leaving it intact. Only when it has someone else in its clutches will I ever truly feel free of it. I have no doubt it will be found.
No. I am simply too angry to speak of this right now! The short version:
1) My comrades and I slay some lowlifes and we divide their possessions.
2) I happily choose the so-called "magic stone of earth" with dreams of gaining unimaginable strength and power. Others in the party offer generous trades, but I wisely refuse.
3) I must wait 30 days to feel the effects and it becomes the longest month of my already long life, not the least because we waged unceasing battle against the Temple of Elemental Evil and a large Norse army intent on capturing Hommlet.
4) Finally, I feel the power of the rock flowing through me and even my muscles seem thicker and more taut than I have ever felt them. I feel that I could lift a boulder over my head and sling it into the heavens!
5) My associates aren't convinced, however, and inform me that they've never seen me so hunched and frail. Incredulous at their obvious jealousy, I prove to them my awesome strength by lifting a local Celt (one Ernst DeGaul "the Small", who weighed at least 25 stone) over my head and hurling him 15 yards across the courtyard.
6) Actually, I get him barely 3 inches off the ground before my back crumples and Ernst the Small lands on top of me, breaking two of my ribs. It takes three men to lift him off and I am carried away to a chorus of cheers, sneers and guffaws.
7) To add to my suffering, I discover that this rock is not only useless, but actually cursed and I am perhaps half as strong as I was a month ago! The rock is now bound to me and I could not cast it away without it finding me again in short order. I learn I will slowly wilt away to nothing within the year if nothing is done.
8) Marcus, Tyr'n and Vortigern come up with a solution involving several spells and I am saved from that dreadful fate, but the regret, the sense of loss and most of all the humiliation and hatred will remain with me forever.
I am supposed to be savouring a great victory (which I will discuss at a later time when I am feeling more victorious); fo now, the only thing on my mind is revenge.
And I will have it. I will have revenge on magic itself and all those who dare to use it against me!
Should songs be sung of me in later years, let it not be said that Fjord the Elf was without flaw. Too conceited for a journal? Perhaps. And I suppose I must put to parchment the whole sordid affair so that future adventurers might learn from my folly.
Yes, that's perfect. Fjord's Folly, the cursed stone, the great prank of the Temple of Elemental Evil. It lies on a river bed now, waiting for it's next victim to tease with promises of greatness. I do not regret leaving it intact. Only when it has someone else in its clutches will I ever truly feel free of it. I have no doubt it will be found.
No. I am simply too angry to speak of this right now! The short version:
1) My comrades and I slay some lowlifes and we divide their possessions.
2) I happily choose the so-called "magic stone of earth" with dreams of gaining unimaginable strength and power. Others in the party offer generous trades, but I wisely refuse.
3) I must wait 30 days to feel the effects and it becomes the longest month of my already long life, not the least because we waged unceasing battle against the Temple of Elemental Evil and a large Norse army intent on capturing Hommlet.
4) Finally, I feel the power of the rock flowing through me and even my muscles seem thicker and more taut than I have ever felt them. I feel that I could lift a boulder over my head and sling it into the heavens!
5) My associates aren't convinced, however, and inform me that they've never seen me so hunched and frail. Incredulous at their obvious jealousy, I prove to them my awesome strength by lifting a local Celt (one Ernst DeGaul "the Small", who weighed at least 25 stone) over my head and hurling him 15 yards across the courtyard.
6) Actually, I get him barely 3 inches off the ground before my back crumples and Ernst the Small lands on top of me, breaking two of my ribs. It takes three men to lift him off and I am carried away to a chorus of cheers, sneers and guffaws.
7) To add to my suffering, I discover that this rock is not only useless, but actually cursed and I am perhaps half as strong as I was a month ago! The rock is now bound to me and I could not cast it away without it finding me again in short order. I learn I will slowly wilt away to nothing within the year if nothing is done.
8) Marcus, Tyr'n and Vortigern come up with a solution involving several spells and I am saved from that dreadful fate, but the regret, the sense of loss and most of all the humiliation and hatred will remain with me forever.
I am supposed to be savouring a great victory (which I will discuss at a later time when I am feeling more victorious); fo now, the only thing on my mind is revenge.
And I will have it. I will have revenge on magic itself and all those who dare to use it against me!
Elda Alda Talantorne
A fluttering petal, to land in silence on the frozen world.
Encased in deep thought, wisely waiting for the sun to appear.
From the last tree on one earth, to the first in the new.
The first eon was ours, and we planted alone.
And now we recede to a withering stem,
where once the whole world reflected our souls.
What powers remain in our roots cling desperately
to creation, but our grip is not eternal.
We made time. Now time unmakes us.
It is the oldest tale; it is older even than vengeance.
But where the kingdoms of men burn quickly,
ours are left to rot in introspect ...
The march to battle is shortened in preoccupation.
Naith complains of the stable food with a regal air,
As if the stable hands were incompetent servants and he their all-too-forgiving lord.
The last hill is mounted before I soothe his offended mane.
And there are the nemeses, gloating almost tangible pride beneath their banners and their volitant lord.
“Wizards!” I mutter in a sudden mood of hatred or fear.
I am consumed with the irrational desire to loose all my arrows and flee.
Now it is Naith's turn to soothe me, and I avoid the coward's humiliation.
Together we descend, and the fear morphs suddenly to the lust of war,
Down comes the sword, an ally of rage and insanity -
Let fly the the arrows in a furious rain of anonymous destruction!
If in madness I could consume them all and myself, I would perish in fiery content!
And the lust exhausts itself – or drowns in blood and fire, and Naith and I survey the ruin.
The wizard escapes, our attentions on his minions. A general and a catapult is he.
Victory is fraught with conditions and failures, which many among us name defeat.
But the skirmishes are brief and the war eternal. For now, mistakes are permitted.
Encased in deep thought, wisely waiting for the sun to appear.
From the last tree on one earth, to the first in the new.
The first eon was ours, and we planted alone.
And now we recede to a withering stem,
where once the whole world reflected our souls.
What powers remain in our roots cling desperately
to creation, but our grip is not eternal.
We made time. Now time unmakes us.
It is the oldest tale; it is older even than vengeance.
But where the kingdoms of men burn quickly,
ours are left to rot in introspect ...
The march to battle is shortened in preoccupation.
Naith complains of the stable food with a regal air,
As if the stable hands were incompetent servants and he their all-too-forgiving lord.
The last hill is mounted before I soothe his offended mane.
And there are the nemeses, gloating almost tangible pride beneath their banners and their volitant lord.
“Wizards!” I mutter in a sudden mood of hatred or fear.
I am consumed with the irrational desire to loose all my arrows and flee.
Now it is Naith's turn to soothe me, and I avoid the coward's humiliation.
Together we descend, and the fear morphs suddenly to the lust of war,
Down comes the sword, an ally of rage and insanity -
Let fly the the arrows in a furious rain of anonymous destruction!
If in madness I could consume them all and myself, I would perish in fiery content!
And the lust exhausts itself – or drowns in blood and fire, and Naith and I survey the ruin.
The wizard escapes, our attentions on his minions. A general and a catapult is he.
Victory is fraught with conditions and failures, which many among us name defeat.
But the skirmishes are brief and the war eternal. For now, mistakes are permitted.
April 1 - Strength Bow
My father taught me how to fashion bows and fletch arrows. When he was still a young elf, he served as an archery captain for Thurinir Thand, the notorious campaigner against Norse strongholds on the borders of our land. Against the wishes of our greatest lords did he lay waste to many a company of these barbaric foes and seek (unsuccessfully) to provoke a much greater conflict.
For twenty years Thurinir dashed to and fro, destroying, burning, exterminating, and also eluding the elf patrols sent to stop him. When they finally caught up to him, he was found all alone, exploring a virgin forest in the far north and singing to himself. He had received timely counsel of their closing pursuit and ended his campaign, releasing all of his men (and women, I might add) to return home and live in peace. My father's parting was one of particular anguish, for Thurinir had been more like a father to him than a leader. As the wary patrol approached this living legend, he drew his longsword and laid it on the forest floor and knelt before it. He asked his fellow elves for two favours: that his soldiers be dealt with mercifully, and that they execute him now without prejudice or delay, for he refused to live in a realm where elves slowly wilted into oblivion, like a majestic elm choked of its nutrients by lesser weeds.
My father returned home and promised to never take up arms against the Norse again unless elfdom itself was in dire peril. He said nothing, however, of his children. And so father taught me everything he knew of warfare, from the making and using of weapons and on to tactics and strategies as learned from one of the greats during two decades of constant warfare. Many of our kind were raised to hate the Norse, but I was raised to slay them as well.
No composite bows for us, son. They are beneath the skill of elves. Find a worthy yew and carve your bow from a single piece of it. Heartwood in, sapwood out, as the tree itself exists in nature. Do not rush the construction - yew takes time to work, but is worth the effort; your patience will be rewarded justly. If you find a yew with no flaws, treasure the wood as your own offspring, for even in an elf's span of years, you may not find another. From this wood you will fashion your greatest stave.
Father told me this and much more. He spoke of elder times, when even the world was young and the yew was a lesser species, reserved for the use of man yet to come, for more noble trees existed that were both potent and malleable, and from which bows and arrows could be produced that when used together could pierce heavy steel plate at a hundred yards.
Everyday I would train, spending twice the time on the bow as I would on the sword, for it was imperative that I possess the skill required to bend a bow of the strength that my father insisted I use. To this day, I must train regularly or risk losing that ability forever. It has already been overlong since I ruined my own strength bow and was forced to borrow this common version, made from oak and strung with hemp. But even as these memories flow over me in waking dream, I am already half-way finished my new bow, and with any luck, it will surpass the power of my old one.
At my best, I could pierce seasoned oak up to six inches. With my strength stone and this new bow, perhaps I could set a new personal best. We shall see. The stone has been in my possession for nigh on three months now, and I can already feel its potency rippling through my flesh.
For twenty years Thurinir dashed to and fro, destroying, burning, exterminating, and also eluding the elf patrols sent to stop him. When they finally caught up to him, he was found all alone, exploring a virgin forest in the far north and singing to himself. He had received timely counsel of their closing pursuit and ended his campaign, releasing all of his men (and women, I might add) to return home and live in peace. My father's parting was one of particular anguish, for Thurinir had been more like a father to him than a leader. As the wary patrol approached this living legend, he drew his longsword and laid it on the forest floor and knelt before it. He asked his fellow elves for two favours: that his soldiers be dealt with mercifully, and that they execute him now without prejudice or delay, for he refused to live in a realm where elves slowly wilted into oblivion, like a majestic elm choked of its nutrients by lesser weeds.
My father returned home and promised to never take up arms against the Norse again unless elfdom itself was in dire peril. He said nothing, however, of his children. And so father taught me everything he knew of warfare, from the making and using of weapons and on to tactics and strategies as learned from one of the greats during two decades of constant warfare. Many of our kind were raised to hate the Norse, but I was raised to slay them as well.
No composite bows for us, son. They are beneath the skill of elves. Find a worthy yew and carve your bow from a single piece of it. Heartwood in, sapwood out, as the tree itself exists in nature. Do not rush the construction - yew takes time to work, but is worth the effort; your patience will be rewarded justly. If you find a yew with no flaws, treasure the wood as your own offspring, for even in an elf's span of years, you may not find another. From this wood you will fashion your greatest stave.
Father told me this and much more. He spoke of elder times, when even the world was young and the yew was a lesser species, reserved for the use of man yet to come, for more noble trees existed that were both potent and malleable, and from which bows and arrows could be produced that when used together could pierce heavy steel plate at a hundred yards.
Everyday I would train, spending twice the time on the bow as I would on the sword, for it was imperative that I possess the skill required to bend a bow of the strength that my father insisted I use. To this day, I must train regularly or risk losing that ability forever. It has already been overlong since I ruined my own strength bow and was forced to borrow this common version, made from oak and strung with hemp. But even as these memories flow over me in waking dream, I am already half-way finished my new bow, and with any luck, it will surpass the power of my old one.
At my best, I could pierce seasoned oak up to six inches. With my strength stone and this new bow, perhaps I could set a new personal best. We shall see. The stone has been in my possession for nigh on three months now, and I can already feel its potency rippling through my flesh.
September 10 - Aftermath
We have driven off the Norse, but at a terrible cost. More Bobs lay rotting in the field than return to Hommlet. The locals celebrated our victory, but the festivities were subdued with the specter of death and the very real fear of more warfare in the Spring. Until the next campaign season, Hommlet can rest, but every household mourns a father, son or brother; they prepare for a hard and lonely winter. I have ugly memories of the battle and can find no respite here. It had been my intention to ride off with haste, but Tyr'n convinced me to wait for him to teleport me and save weeks of travel.
As for our own party, we have few complaints. Sorak has claimed another trophy: a priest/bard this time, none of our company were slain (although Tyr'n's acid arrow wound nearly finished him off) and we have divided the recent spoils with our usual zeal. I have taken a Cloak of Protection for myself, a worthy prize, not the least because I saw Sorak eying it this past week.
We have a busy itinerary: I will visit my parents in Sweden and while there, find a worthy literary instructor to help me with my burgeoning poetry. Then it is off to Switzerland to visit the famous Dwarven armories. There, we will have our white-dragon scale fitted. I don't expect a warm welcome among the Dwarves, but fortunately their love of gold out-paces their hatred of the Elves. Finally, Tyr'n and I will arrive at the Portal, our ultimate destination, where I will rest and write. I will not leave there until at least early May.
If the Norse return, Hommlet will have to manage without me. I have other plans for the Summer, but I dare not put them down on paper here. I suspect certain party members have been reading my journal. Whoever you are, may you join Prindel in Faerie hell!
As for our own party, we have few complaints. Sorak has claimed another trophy: a priest/bard this time, none of our company were slain (although Tyr'n's acid arrow wound nearly finished him off) and we have divided the recent spoils with our usual zeal. I have taken a Cloak of Protection for myself, a worthy prize, not the least because I saw Sorak eying it this past week.
We have a busy itinerary: I will visit my parents in Sweden and while there, find a worthy literary instructor to help me with my burgeoning poetry. Then it is off to Switzerland to visit the famous Dwarven armories. There, we will have our white-dragon scale fitted. I don't expect a warm welcome among the Dwarves, but fortunately their love of gold out-paces their hatred of the Elves. Finally, Tyr'n and I will arrive at the Portal, our ultimate destination, where I will rest and write. I will not leave there until at least early May.
If the Norse return, Hommlet will have to manage without me. I have other plans for the Summer, but I dare not put them down on paper here. I suspect certain party members have been reading my journal. Whoever you are, may you join Prindel in Faerie hell!
To Man
May your kingdom outlast memory,
A slow death old in bed,
To reflect upon the struggle,
And pass on wisdom in its stead.
But remember that long after,
The elves remain and sing,
Of Man! the cursed and mortal,
Who died more than he lived.
September 5th - Practice
When have I last lifted a sword for practice instead of battle? While the wizards held a final meeting to make sure their tactics were in order (they are not, but what is that to me?), Sorak persuaded me to put down my journal and take a few cuts in the yard. We grabbed blunted longswords, wooden shields, and donned leather armour. Some Bobs gathered round to watch the spectacle of two Elves in a friendly duel. I suppose he had good reason for it, since he fights so often in complete darkness, but the crowd thought it a tremendous stunt when Sorak also donned a blindfold. “Come on Fjord, don't you want to learn a new skill? You fight beside me, and you're going to need it.”
“When do I ever fight beside you, anyhow? You're usually flying through the air or prancing around with the wizards.” I took an easy swing at his body and he spun away, slashing at me from the side, but I lifted my shield in the nick of time.
“Oh ho! So that's your problem, is it? Feeling left out?” He lunged at me, attempting to spear my ribs, but I slapped his sword aside and dodged behind him. For a moment's whisper, he didn't know where I was and I kicked him in the back. He staggered forward a few steps but I didn't get a chance for another shove. Again he spun away and this time came at me full tilt. I raised my shield to block the swing I thought was coming, but instead he slammed his shoulder into me and knocked me to the ground.
“Bloody Swede! Don't you forget who's stronger here! We're supposed to be working on swordsmanship” I rolled away and came to my feet in time to greet his rain of blows. He knocked the sword out of my hand and mercilessly pounded on my armour and shield until I again fell down and suddenly his sword was at my throat.
“I guess I win the first round.” Some of the Bob's hooted and cheered. Still blindfolded, he kicked my sword in the air with his boot, sheathed his own and caught mine, all in one fluid motion. I gathered myself up and he handed me my sword hilt first. Feeling slightly humiliated, I backed off to collect myself. Sorak took off his blindfold and looked at me earnestly.
“Honestly though, I know how it must seem. You look at me as some pawn of these magic makers, following their orders as blindly as I often fight. I know you judge me.”
“It isn't the magic that bothers me, my cousin, nor do I judge you any more harshly than I judge myself. It is simply that these young mortals are rash in their decisions. For a group that has been through so much death and bloodshed in so short a time, there seems to be no perspective, no reflection on our purpose here. A wizard, a druid, a bard and a Half-orc are right now locked in a room, as you said, moving us around on a map as if we were pawns. Yet, their ages put together don't add to even one of us.”
“It is their war, Fjord.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Well, I am here to bring misery and death to the Norse. I thought we at least agreed on that.”
“We did, Sorak, we did. Gods know, I have even more reason to hate the Norse than you do, but I grow weary of our methods.”
“Well, you did die a few days ago. That can't be a pleasant experience for an Elf. Perhaps you need a break.”
“Perhaps I do.”
“But remember this, my Scandinavian kin, I am no pawn. Every order I have ever received was interpreted as a suggestion. I am my own Elf.”
We fought the next round without the blindfold or the tension. He was stronger; I was quicker. His experience was barely matched by my fencing skills. The Bobs were treated to a fine dance as we slashed and parried and whirled, and although I managed to poke him a few times with subtle feints and counters, he slowly wore me down. In battle, it wouldn't have taken him long at all. Not to mention that his sword would have us dueling in a sphere of darkness.
Perhaps I should learn blind-fighting.
September 5th - Dragon Slaying
My heart just wasn't in it. It was everything I look for in a mission: a worthy foe, excellent coordination, a specific and daring objective, and gods yes, an exit strategy that we all agreed upon. Even Kheops the Paladin, he whom we often had to drag out of the temple (unconscious or otherwise), was satisfied with just the dragon. And what a dragon it was! An elder white with breath as cold as the Scandinavian dawn and a tail that could snap a troll in two. It was almost beautiful. The tracers of light from Euranna's swings inscribed a composition of bravado and glory in the crisp midnight, punctuated with roars of agony from the great lizard as the blade bit into the neck.
I even bring home a souvenir – enough hide to fashion a new suit of beautiful white scale to match the well-worn black. Sorak grinned at me like a madman as he carved out his own piece. “It's better quality than the black, you know. If those fucking Norse think they can't lay a finger on me now, just wait until they meet me wearing this!” Good ol' Sorak, priorities always in the right place.
Speaking of madmen, Helmut swaggered up to me as we prepared to leave, laughing at some private jest with his sword (which, he claims, talks to him in a voice that only he can hear) “Hey Fjord, wanna lick my sword clean? HAR!” But as I stated, my heart wasn't in it. The usual snide comebacks weren't forthcoming, and I didn't feel like playing along by actually having a taste of the blood. Instead, I ignored him, and he was soon distracted by an opportunity to make offensive gestures toward Kella. “Maybe she'd like to lick my sword, eh? Or she might if her face wasn't buried between Cedrica's legs all the time. HAR!”
The thrill of victory eluded me. I had hoped that rushing back into battle would be therapeutic after my death at the hands of that vile lich. The humiliation of dying with nary a scratch on me was a chilling reminder that each moment was heavy with mortality. Why would the gods give any individual the power to kill without contact? A wave of a hand, a few dark mutterings and Fjord falls lifeless to the earth. What prevents this from happening again? They tell me they got him in the end, that the battle was a great victory. It consoles me not at all. And slaying this dragon wasn't slaying my inner demons.
It won't be long before the real battle begins. Time to put these thoughts aside. Soon I can rest, but for now, the daily bloodbath continues.
Memories of the Temple
I remember the trolls bleeding bile and burning,
I remember the smoke rolling through the deep,
choking out the darkness, challenging vitality.
I remember the window into heaven,
the nonchalance of those semi-deities,
the break from the norm of slaughter and downward traversing.
The final curtain, the human gods and their fantastical struggle,
the wonder in Kheops' eyes. In my century of life, can I say I have seen stranger?
I remember it all, except ...
Why did I come in the first place?
I remember the smoke rolling through the deep,
choking out the darkness, challenging vitality.
I remember the window into heaven,
the nonchalance of those semi-deities,
the break from the norm of slaughter and downward traversing.
The final curtain, the human gods and their fantastical struggle,
the wonder in Kheops' eyes. In my century of life, can I say I have seen stranger?
I remember it all, except ...
Why did I come in the first place?
September 3rd - Resurrection
The giant had fallen, in which I had some small part. With no other foe to challenge me in melee, I sheathed my sword and pulled out my bow, intent on snagging earthward some vain enemy who had managed to kiss the sky. Unscathed, unnerved, unwavering, I bent the bow and ...
died.
And suddenly I was alive and well and back in Sweden. There was Tyr'n observing me with his cool, dispassionate eyes, his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. Another priest of his order (a master, I discover later, and the one responsible for bringing me back) exhaled in relief, nodded at Tyr'n and excused himself.
This was no house of Elrond, full of life and song, but a cave of surgical purpose, dark and dreary, clean yet saturated with the stench of death. There was light, but it seemed to draw the shadows in rather than cast them away. I had never seen Tyr'n look so comfortable as he didhere. We were both in Sweden, but only one of us was truly home.
"You passed away, but have now returned. Rise, there is work to do." I never expected Tyr'n to smile, and he didn't, but can a Elvish Necromancer make a joke?
And then I remember seeing Prindle drop lifeless to the ground in much the same fashion as I must have. "How is our little cousin?"
"He has gone wherever Pixies go when a Lich would see him dead." Poor, sweet, inane Prindle. He had nothing to trade for life, like my own potion of longevity.
"And so it was the Lich after all?"
"Of course. A powerful spell. You should consider yourself honoured to fall to such a worthy foe."
By now I'd gotten off the bed and I was reaching for my gear. "All wizards are cowards. I have looked every being I have killed in the eye."
Tyr'n nodded and this time he did smile. "So have I. But some I have had to ... animate after the fact in order to accomplish the task."
I intend to work out my frustration on Norse armies.
died.
And suddenly I was alive and well and back in Sweden. There was Tyr'n observing me with his cool, dispassionate eyes, his hands hidden within the folds of his robe. Another priest of his order (a master, I discover later, and the one responsible for bringing me back) exhaled in relief, nodded at Tyr'n and excused himself.
This was no house of Elrond, full of life and song, but a cave of surgical purpose, dark and dreary, clean yet saturated with the stench of death. There was light, but it seemed to draw the shadows in rather than cast them away. I had never seen Tyr'n look so comfortable as he didhere. We were both in Sweden, but only one of us was truly home.
"You passed away, but have now returned. Rise, there is work to do." I never expected Tyr'n to smile, and he didn't, but can a Elvish Necromancer make a joke?
And then I remember seeing Prindle drop lifeless to the ground in much the same fashion as I must have. "How is our little cousin?"
"He has gone wherever Pixies go when a Lich would see him dead." Poor, sweet, inane Prindle. He had nothing to trade for life, like my own potion of longevity.
"And so it was the Lich after all?"
"Of course. A powerful spell. You should consider yourself honoured to fall to such a worthy foe."
By now I'd gotten off the bed and I was reaching for my gear. "All wizards are cowards. I have looked every being I have killed in the eye."
Tyr'n nodded and this time he did smile. "So have I. But some I have had to ... animate after the fact in order to accomplish the task."
I intend to work out my frustration on Norse armies.
Longsword
You North have found the right of it,
The sword must needs be long,
But ere you hammered your first iron flat,
We had put our great steel into song.
My favourite, Anor, that fell from the sun,
Tempered by Tethrin Veralde',
Wielded to end a great darkness that gripped
Our shores and our skies and our vals.
The sword must needs be long,
But ere you hammered your first iron flat,
We had put our great steel into song.
My favourite, Anor, that fell from the sun,
Tempered by Tethrin Veralde',
Wielded to end a great darkness that gripped
Our shores and our skies and our vals.
A Song for the Lich
Can that which is dead die again?
Undead is different you say?
Living or no, bone shall eat steel,
Euranna! I'll sing as I swing.
Undead is different you say?
Living or no, bone shall eat steel,
Euranna! I'll sing as I swing.
September 1st - Prindle Day
A voice in the dark: "Let today be known as Prindle Day!" Today I donned my new Elvish chain. A nice fit. Nice and free after months in the dragon scale. There was this tree-climbing "incident" where it came in handy. Gods know I would still be on the ground being eaten, left for dead by my party, if I had been unable to climb.
Damned wolves. What have they left in my blood? And that nerdy gnome and his fortress cube; of all the times to be experimenting! These wizards and priests will be the death of me - our side or theirs, it seems to make no difference.
Damned wolves. What have they left in my blood? And that nerdy gnome and his fortress cube; of all the times to be experimenting! These wizards and priests will be the death of me - our side or theirs, it seems to make no difference.
August 27th - Ashes
So the Temple of Elemental Evil has burned for its sins. Now what comes? A Norse army, intent on stamping out yet another wildfire, some undead monster with bagpipes (sigh), perhaps a dragon as well. Does this land not know rest? Would that I could retire long enough to at least make a new bow.
Still, I long for battle beneath open skies after so long in the dungeon. I feel as though I have been through the forge, folded and hammered into something sharper, stronger and greater than I once was. Now is the time of Fjord! May Odin and all the rest take pity on these vile raiders. I will be rid of them long before I have become a god myself. Now, which rings to wear into battle ...
Still, I long for battle beneath open skies after so long in the dungeon. I feel as though I have been through the forge, folded and hammered into something sharper, stronger and greater than I once was. Now is the time of Fjord! May Odin and all the rest take pity on these vile raiders. I will be rid of them long before I have become a god myself. Now, which rings to wear into battle ...
Ring of Free Action
No wizard can hold me, beguile, defeat me,
No priest can call heaven or hell down upon me,
No warrior save one could press an attack,
And hope to gain still standing and hale.
A ring, one of many, so subtle and great,
Is but a part of my raiment of refuge,
The greatest of which can never be parted,
The blood of an Elf, the undying flesh.
No priest can call heaven or hell down upon me,
No warrior save one could press an attack,
And hope to gain still standing and hale.
A ring, one of many, so subtle and great,
Is but a part of my raiment of refuge,
The greatest of which can never be parted,
The blood of an Elf, the undying flesh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)