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.
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