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.
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.
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