"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.
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.
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