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Currently, blasting my way through Mass Effect 2 drinking gallons of coffee and inbibing happiness.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Ye Olde Farts Klub
Welcome to my arms, my beamish boys!
I hope you shall fill these archives with gossip so wicked and stories so amazing you will note note of your seat.
Begin! I pray...
JJ
I hope you shall fill these archives with gossip so wicked and stories so amazing you will note note of your seat.
Begin! I pray...
JJ
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Return To Yarden
"Fetch me my Bastard Sword, my beamish boy?". A gem-studded goblet hastily snatched with fat finger and thumb off of from the great banquet table, thrust to thirsty, swollen lip of a lesser warlord. "Upon thy return to this stinking pit some call Civilization, I wilt smite thee down and gouge out yourn eyes balls from thy sockets and feed them to my cat, Twin-kel. Let it be a learnt n'ere to cross paths of Lord Rupert the Bear-Killer."
A dull and distant sun rose over bleak horizon, grey-red and orange. The air was parched and chill. The land ravaged by the ceaseless winds from the Great Northern Plateau. 'pon this sparse and bitter plain, two figures struggle against biting gale, hunched together, obscure. In such moment, if one were to view this from the first, thoust would feel sorry for lonely a-pair as each effortful step brought them fractionly closer to their destiny, to their fate.
"Who art thou? From whence did thou cometh? Et whither art thou goeth?" A skeletal hand waved 'cross all-seeing sphere of crystal.
Onward, lowly figures struggle against savage elements of the High Plains of Algernone. It were as if the very Gods set a deadly trial game for misdemeanors past. And yet, also lay there divine sympathy. Thy very Earth itself knew of the goodly deeds that lay latent in these spawn. For whatever dark devices they had carried in previous incantation, it were always directed at those that were of true scum, ignorant oaf or cruel warlocks. Yes, they were never of evil stuff, yet it can be said they gained some pleasure from their ill-gotten path. And though it forever meant that their lives would be ones of dire hardship, excruciating pain and lonely despair, through each other the brave ones would find the joy that only friendship can bring.
But let us not lament over such noble heroes, for they would not approve.
Strongly they press forward toward that great and ancient city. A city full of fat life and hollow death, of insurmountable riches and bottomless poverty, of love-induced happiness and drunken sorrow. Of fair maidens trapped high in lonely towers and power-crazed lords who dined greedily on the misfortune of others. Of rat kings and deep, dark sewers that myriaded a vast network of passages and tunnels beneath the city of which few local residents were even aware.
It had been a long time since the adventurers had set foot in this grand metropolis. Longer than either dared or even cared to remember. The time of their leaving, or the events that surrounded it, neither could quite locate. It was a memory slightly out of reach, hidden by a dull ache which implied it had not been a happy departure. They were not even sure they had left at the same time. In fact, of this, they were fairly certain. It felt of betrayal and treason, perhaps even between each other, though neither could recollect or confirm. And yet, something untoward had happened. The great warrior Wart, had been ungraciously dumped 'oft the city wall and crawled, slimed-covered out of the endless sewage waters that abutted the Western flank of the city of Yarden. Meron, at a different place and point in time had crept away in the dead of night through a sewer vent on the Eastern abutment. Why this had occurred none could remember or be bothered to recall. Such was the stinking fragment that remained in their thick, tiny skulls.
Wart had crawled up onto the plains and taken humble shelter in the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Alone, with only scraggy goats for company, he had writhed upon belly, weak and feeble, on the earth in search of weevil and grub for bodily sustenance.
Meron, on the alter hand, had boarded an outgoing junk-vessel and took refuge in the stinking, leaky hold where he had lain for several grueling nautical days in feverish sweat, drifting in and out of past and future plains. He had finally sneaked out of his cache and onto the mainland after he had heard the squawking of gulls and felt the bump of embarkment. Where he were, he knew not.
Many moons passed until finally they were united. In some dark tavern on the edge of Dingley Woods in the far South.
Wart, forever alone and lonely, had wandered aimlessly through the land. Sleeping in barns or outhouses, he had stolen mangey carrots and radish vegetables from decrepit farms and walled gardens from one village or town after another. Some megre employment, it is said, had come his way, but it was always poorly paid and demeaning to his stature. He had abandoned hope and became a reckless drunk. Found laughing and weeping on the floor of many a public house, he had 'oft ended up in gutter or ditch with rodent and grog-induced hobos for companion. His great physical prowess saw him through and though much stock were lost and handsome face was sallow and gaunt, he had journeyed his way South to where, by chance, they would unite.
The Gray Mouser, though more nimble and cunning, had not gone without misfortune. In his delerious state he had fallen fall of sea dogs and his slight body was found strewn on the rough ground of some dark alley in a distant land. He had been found by a gracious lady, who had ordered her manservant to take pity on the wretched creature and had been brought back to her townhouse. Here he had lain for days in a feverish state, slipping in and out of consicousness, mumbling about a lost friend and a deal that had gone bad. But the memory eluded him and later he could recall nothing. The lady, whose name was, Gwendalien, nursed him day and night. She would sit by his bed and arrange his downy pillows so as to cradle his weak and thin neck. Though, slight of figure, she was quite taken by his features, and having little do do with her time since her aging husband (for she was considerably younger) had passed on. Fine soups and broths were brought to the bedside of the Mouser and the frequent visits by the family doctor arroused suspision from the surly residents and poor folk who dwelt on the street outside.
Weeks passed and the Mousers health returned. And as his health improved, as did the devotion of the lady Gwendalen for her patient. Conversely, as the Mousers condition improved, so did his awareness, and indeed fear, of her ladyships admiration for him. Yes, at first, he admitted, he was flattered and superemely grateful for such a beauty to aid his rescue and bring him back to health. And yet, as the thought as his pampered imprisonment became more apparant, thus too grew his desire to escape and flee to the open road. So, as it was, one early morning he crept out of his downy bed and sneaked away out of the kitchen door, though the garden and along the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the townhouse. At full strength and in fine garb (that she has graciously bestowed, ready to display him to the noble folk of the town upon his announcement), he strode with fine steps to a neighbouring sea port. Here he conducted himself in a little light burglary and thus, with adequate funds, secured himself a place on a vessel back to the city of Lankhmar.
So one fateful night as a storm raged outside, The Mouser sat nursing a mug of ale and a pipe in some dark corner of the Wistful Goat tavern when the old oak door should be flung open and in its entrance stood the mighty figure of a lost warrior, Wart.
Meron watched in silent fastination as his old friend, bowed head and bedraggled hair, stooped and slowed stepped forward into the bar. He stumbled and grabbed randomly for a support before regaining his balance. He swayed, adjusting his eyes to the bar, although shrouded in low light, brighter tham the terrible night outside. Meron, gripped and poised ready to aid his friend, yet something held him back. A desire to view his comrade in this lowly state. He flung himself at the bar, rousing the dimmed interest of fellow lost souls inhabiting the dark space. The landlord stepped forward to greet his customer.
"Everything all right with you?", he asked.
"Give me....something strong." came the slow reply from under a soggy fringe of brown scruff.
"This should help you." said the landlord as he poured a small glass of golden liquid. "It will put a fire in your belly."
Clumsy fingers found the glass and in a shot it was raised, discharged and slammed back down in one well-practiced movement.
Wart swung away from the bar. He bleary eyes finding focus in the gloom. Meron started in his seat, half raised, as Wart stared at something that seemed familar. He stood frozen, through pain and drunkedness trying to comprehend, trying to remember.
"You."
"I've found you." He fell forward, his huge feet slipping back under him on the stone floor. His great chin crashed against the stone, and his massive figure collapsed in a heap at the bar.
Meron leapt up, agile and quick. In a flash he was at his friend's side. "Yes, my friend. You have found me. And I you."
"Help this man up," he cried to the folk seated around. "He needs sustinece and a bed. You can provide that?" he galnced up at the landlord. "Of course."
They dragged him up and through the door leading to the kitchens. "He can rest there until he's able to climb the stairs."
"I've not seen him for a long time," Meron offered the Landlord, in a rare display of converse.
"He looks like he's had a hard time of it."
"He has. He doesn't travel well alone."
The next few days saw Wart come back to health. Like the lady Gwendalen, Meron did a fine job of taking the greatest care of his friend. When he came to, Wart smiled and said he was glad he had found his comrade. His spirit return like an opening flower and soon he was a changed man. They stayed at the Slaughtered Goat for a four full days as Wart regained his strength. They sat in the garden, lunching on the finest food Wart had enjoyed in years. the ale went down with great vigour and a booming laugh was to be heard beyond the tavern garden walls.
"What did happen back there?", poised Wart one day when all else had been mulled.
"We were betrayed. Poisoned and betrayed, I am sure." ventured Meron.
"It was so long ago, it all seems so vague to me now. I really can't remember no matter how hard I try."
"We should go back."
Meron studied the face of his compatriot. Many had the years been when these two were but young sprigs eager for adventure. How time had wearied them both. Surely they should feel grateful they were alive and their ..... intact.
"How should we do that? And for what? We are lucky to be alive and to be reunited. Should we not rest on that and be thankful?"
"You would allow your senses to be dimmed and your fate sealed? What became of the man I knew? The cutpurse? The thief?"
"That was a different time. A different life."
"It is the same time and the same life."
"How long have we wandered aimless and alone. To be united. You would risk it all again, for something that you cannot even recollect? Is that all together wise?"
"Since when did you know me to be wise?"
"That much is true, great fighter. That much is true."
"And you...do you not desire to seek the truth? To know the events that led to our despair?"
"I can let it pass, my friend. I have found peace now."
"You have found no peace. Only the peace you impose upon yourself through denial."
"What do I deny? We played and lost, but how many times have we played and won, to others misfortune, I hasten to add."
"So it be true that you stand defeated. To accept defeat as your loss and your load. Strange...I never thought I would hear those words from you."
"Well, times have changed."
"Nothing has changed. Only your opinion. Your acceptance of your fate."
"And what fate is that, may I ask?"
"That you have lost."
Meron sat back and studied the face of Wart. How was it possible that this dim witted beef cake had gotten the better of him. Only days ago, he had lain at his feet, pitiful and weak. Now the tables had turned and he was the weaker party.
Standing up suddenly, Meron pushed the table away, confused and distraught. Checkmate he thought. He must rise to the challenge. He had been presented with the task at hand and he could not refuse it's embrace."You bastard." he professed and left his comrade at arms. He stomped moodily back into the public house, mounted the stairs and stood in his tiny white-washed room, gazing out of the deep set window at Wart who sat at the wooden bench quaffing his dark ale. "Curse you." he said aloud, then slumped onto his bed, peace once again denied him.
A few long and lazy days later, the pair set of on their long journey back to Yarden. They carried light provisions, as towns, hamlets and villages were not infrequent on their way North. And so, their long walk began, through country lanes and cross stoney bridges, fresh clear water laughing over the stones in the stream below. Over hill and meadow and through light woodland and dale. The two spent their time relating the events since their separation; of Wart's desperate and lonely struggle when strength and will had all but left him. Meron's easier, but strange ride to another land and back again. They spoke of previous adventures and their long history together. Many a night was spent in some cozy public house and they quite forgot their aging years as they laughed and drank with carefree abandon. Indeed, they made a habit of sampling every ale they could find through the regions of Ashayan.
Slowly the landscape shifted from temperate woodland to the high plains to the North on which, lay Yarden. Here the going became laboured and the settlements few and far between. The main passage to Yarden from the Southern parts lay two hundreds leagues to the East. For obscure reasons best left unknown, Meron argued that they avoid the main road and instead traveled across the high plains. Any word of their imminent return would go unnoticed. They planned to enter the city during the dead of night via the sewer from which they had departed the towering citadel.
And so it was, that on a moonless night, no shadows cast, the closest friends silently slipped into the dark waters outside of the exit grate of the city's sewer system. Garments securely stored in goats hide. The great stone wall streaching away up to the black heavens.
"I've got it." whispered Meron, slimy hand grasping wraught iron. "It's here somewhere.". A dull clank beneath the murky waters sounded the release of an ancient mechanism, installed by Thieves Guild centuries before.
"Our way is clear, my friend." Wart pushed the huge grate as it shuudered inward. Momentum carried to open and the two slipped noiselessly through. Wart swam through the thick sewerageinto the pitch dark as Meron carefully replaced the grate into its lock. The stench was overpowering and never before had Wart wished more greatly for a humble peg to shut tight is hairy nostrils. His rough hand sraped against stone, he grasped at it and wordlessly felt his way along the arching perimeter of the channel. His great feet hit steps and he found balance. The slowly made his way up three great steps and out of the diseased bath. He sat and rested in the inky blackness as he listened to the tiny sounds of Meron edging towards him. As the sounds drew nearer, a familiar voice whispered, "Hot baths and soft hands you shall enjoy."
Wart, exhausted and not amused, hung his weary head and allowed himself to sleep. Alas, Meron stirred him back to life. "Come, we must reach the surface and the Pickled Pheasant as soon as we are able."
In a huge, luxurient bedchamber, strewn with rare Eastern tapestries and exotic odours that escaped fine and intricate burners, lay the great slumbering body of a warlord. Lord Rupert's head rested on the breast of a young servant girl. Globules of saliva ran from his oriface onto her slight stomach and dripped down to finest bedlinen. His mound of dark brown, greasey mane fell away onto cotton pillow and the silken gown that adorned his grotesqueness spayed out across generous cot. A twiching eye-socket indictated great battles fought in faeryland and of an honour never held. The seduction of a fine goddess and the slaying of a fire dragon. An eratic limb jerked out at an unseen foe, striking the head of the crushed girl figure. She fell from under a mountain of rocks to a spiraling vortex of stars and moons, far beyond the reached of the imagination of a waif, more used to the collection of chicken eggs and cows a-milking than lecherous orcs and sex-crazed goblins.
"Who goes there?" barked an irrated squawk, from behind the tiny, sunken portal.
"It is I, Meron of the Toothless Hag". Long silence followed.
"Meron of the Grateful Dead"
"Meron of the Stinging Blade"
"Meron of..."
"SHHH!!!...I understand your name is Meron. From whence you came, I care not. Allow me to recall."
Presently, the hidden door opened, allowing candle light to spill onto the cobbled street outside.
"I really can't remember who you are, but you had better come in." A dwarf figure offered. "Come on. Before someone sees." Wart followed his friend through oak-wood egress, stooping as he went.
The three figures stood together in a stone lined, square-shaped room. Lit with candles and a dying fire in the hearth.
"What wretched foulness is this?" A screwed up withered face glared up at the humble Wart, for he was ashamed of his woe. "Meron, you say. Still, I have no memory of this name." the dwarf uttered, turning to the slighter more elevated than himself figure of the thief. "No, you face is unfamiliar too. I have never seen you before."
"This is true, my friend, though we are in association."
"How is that so?"
"I am an ally of Hogarth the XXX. We served together against the city watch and the Circle of XXX"
"Horgarth is my master. But I have never heard him speak of one named Meron."
"He would not. It is secret."
"All is secret in our domain. Such is our nature. What can you tell me of Horgarth, so that I might allow you a glimmer of acknowledgment."
"Horgarth was former guard to the Sorceror Belign. "pon Belign's death, he sank below the city's watchful eye to form the Society of the Rat. After much feuding with the Circle of Orafice, a daring plot was hatched to take down the leader, Gonsword. It is here where I was recruited to join his task, some three years previous to this night."
"You know much. But what of his body. What can you tell me of his face?"
"Horgaarth carries a scar under his fringe. He says it was from a game of chance and a victory disputed with the Thieves Guild"
"Very well. Most likely, you know Hogaarth. Will will not press you more. And who his your fumbling giant companion?"
"This is Wart of the Salt Plateau. He is my ally and trusted friend."
"He is strong, though a wretch in this witching hour."
"He is a true warrior, though his thoughts are simple, but fair. You need not fear him, lest you oppose him."
"Then, he is welcome. Come, great oaf and strip those rags from your hide."
"Make sure you scrub behind you ears, giant." rasped the dwarf glasping soap into the warriors rough hand.
"Why does he jest me so?" Wart put to Meron whilst washing in the tubs.
"He is Dwarfish, and can speak no other tongue. He means no harm, and actually I think he rather likes you."
"He is strange to me." mused the great Wart to no one in particular. "I care not.", as soapy hand massaged brutish ear.
At the eleventh hour on the following morn, Wart carefully decended the narrow, wooden stairs that lay rear of the Plucked Pheasant and entered the work kitchen. Meron sat at oak table, smoking pipe and legs splayed infront of the grand oven.
"My friend, you have risen."
Wart stepped forward and took a chair.
"You are hungry, of course." Meron pushed a palate of bread, fruit, biscuits and cheese before him. "I will make you a cup of the finest coffee civilisation has to offer."
"Thank you" Wart said softly.
He plucked a purple grape from generous a bunch.
"Ah! Always a favourite, you and the grape.", spied Meron. "The blue cheese is magnificent, and reeking a divine ponginess, that would rival even you."
Wart fingered a biscuit away from the pack and broke off a tiny piece of bluish churn.
Hastily devoured, more biscuits were separated and consumed. The wedge collapsed and lay ruined. Moistened digits mopped out crumbly particles of grouyere. A thick sliver of wheatbread was snatched and layers of cherry tomatoes and cheddar constructed to form a sandwich. A mug of coffee feverishly downed and refilled by his delighted spectator.
"Eat, fair Wart, eat! Eat as ne're before. Long have you journeyed through dust and dirt and shit to get to this here table."
Wart allowed a gaffwer to escape a corner of his gob. Tears welled in his blue, blue eyes as he relished the tastes of slendour.
"Wine!" he spat, bits of food, exploding into the room.
"Of course! Here it is!" A smallish hand hastily glasped pewter jug and goblet, splashing the deep, red liquid with carefree abandon. He thrust it before his comrade.
"Ah!" Huge paws glasped the vessel and let out a tight choking sound as a rich mixture of delicacies were washed about his trap before decending into grand stomach.
This procedure was repeated for the succeeding forty minutes of the clock hand.
Finally, he had had his fill. A lazy backhand wiped the crumbs away as his eyes settled finally on the shape of Meron.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome."
"Pipe."
"Here."
The music of crackling fire and deep sucking of air climaxed the feast as the Wart sat, satisfied and content.
"We are to hatch a plot." ventured the Meron slyly. "We must discover our past and execute our future, old Wart."
"Yes."
"We must press ear to the ground and listen to the whispers of the citadel."
"Indeed."
"We must use your cunning and wit to obtain secret information."
"Of course."
"You must venture into the darkest corners of the dankest taverns to extract such council."
"This be true."
"You must make haste. For time is of the essence."
"Be it so."
"You must go now, brave warrior."
No reply.
"You must go now, great one."
Silence.
"Now."
"Now?"
"Now, my friend. Now."
"Why now?"
"Because the story must be told. The truth must be sought and vengeance extracted from those who wronged us."
"Do you not agree," press Meron further.
"Yes."
"Then make haste. You must pay visit to the Whistling Warlock tavern in the xxx district, and have speaks with Urthor. I will accompany you at safe distance."
"Why will you accompany me at safe distance?"
"Because I may be recognized and it is safe if I am at safe distance."
"I see."
"Urthor is a guard at the house of the warlord Rupert. It is he who saw to our demise."
"How do you know of this? Why do I not know of this?"
"Because I had dealings with the Warlord of a dark nature."
"What dark nature?"
"It were regarding the supply of arms to a caravan of desert-dwelling folk some moons ago."
"What is this regard?"
"They never received the arms, though monies were exchanged."
"Then they were cheated, they were angry."
"Yes. They were angry. They are still angry. They are angry with me."
"Why you? You are my great and trusted friend."
"I was the instrument who carries out the exchange."
"You cheated the desert folk?"
"Nay. I was but an instrument. I had no knowledge of the sour intentions of Lord Rupert. I was tricked."
"You were tricked?"
"Yes."
"So were are the arms?"
"There were no arms. Or, at least, I never saw them.
"You never saw them?" Wart leaned forward with growing interest.
"No. I was duped."
"Yes, you were, if you never saw the arms you were supposed to deliver. Did you not check?"
"Of course, I checked."
"But you did not see."
"No. I did not see."
"Then you did not check." a trace of a smile broke on Wart's face. "You were duped. Meron the greatest thief in Yarden was duped. Duped! Duped by a stinking warlord! Ha!"
"Yes, yes...it is true I was duped. But what is important is that we must seek revenge."
"...for being duped?"
"Yes."
"Because you were duped."
"That's right."
"And you want me to seek this revenge?"
"I want you to...help."
"Help?"
"Yes"
"Help seek revenge?"
"Yes."
"Because you were duped?"
"That's right."
"You want me to help you seek revenge because you were duped?"
"That's it."
"Why did you not say before?"
"Before what?"
"Before now?"
"Before now when?"
"When we were at the tavern. When we met."
"Because you needed to rest."
"I needed to rest?"
"Yes. You were in no state to hear of our plan."
"Our plan? Surely this is your plan?"
"Yes, but you were involved."
"I was?. How?"
"You were duped" Meron implied.
"I was duped? I thought you were duped."
"I was. But so were you."
"By whom was I duped?"
"By me?"
"What?" Wart pulled his pipe from his mouth which he had been steadily sucking throughout their exchange. "I was duped by you? When and how?"
"You were my scape goat."
"Scape goat? What do you mean?"
"I told Lord Rupert you had the money."
"Money? What money?"
"The money for the arms. From the desert folk."
"I had the money? I had no money."
"I know. But Lord Rupert didn't know that."
"He does now."
"You used me as a scape goat?"
"Yes."
"As a scape goat?"
"Yes." Meron confirmed. "I'm sorry."
Wart glared at Meron through wispy smoke.
"I had no choice. They would have me slain."
"They would have you slain? And what of me? They would have let me live? Is that you're reckoning?"
"You are alive, are you not?"
"That is beside the point." my deceitful friend. "By rights, I should be dead, and you along with me."
"Which is why we must carry out our revenge."
And so, it came to pass, that on the following eventide, the warrior Wart proceeded to the xxx district by way of foot and ventured into the Weary Warlock tavern. As, he tugged at the heavy latch of the iron studded hardwood door, he glanced discreetly around him in hope to spy anyone who may be tracing him. He stepped inside down to a sunken tile floor. The bar was ready crowded and the air thick with smoke and rowdy banter. The tight packed space heaved as human, dwarf, dark elf and other lesser race bumped and jostled with brimming tankards of ale. Raucious laughter and noisy hubbub drew great comparason to the street outside. Wart, a huge man, inched person by person to the bar.
"Your?" a sturdy barkeep barked.
"Ox's Ale."
Drawn and poured and set down before him.
"Two copper."
"Thank you." but he was already gone to the next thirsty barbarian.
Wart took a generous swig, scanning the scene as he did so. Who was Urther? And where would he be?
"I've not spied you here before." came a voice to his right. A lean figure standing arched against timber column, smoking pipe with a smart tipped hat.
"No. First time."
"And what bring you to this particular locale?" hissed the wily figure.
"Employment. I seek employment."
"Well, if mercenary is your trade, then I suspect you have found the right establishment."
"Do you have any suggestions? Is there anyone I should speak to?"
"Well...." the stranger teased, "That would not be for me to say, would it. Though, you could start over there." A boney finger rose up and pointed behind Wart's massive left shoulder. Wart turned to looked intently to the rear of the ale house. Beyond the heavy fume away from the intense repartee of the immediate area, he spied a band of soldiers locked together, separate from the main throng.
"Thank you" spoke Wart sincerely.
"The pleasure was very much all mine." piped the trickster, "Should you require further services, I am easy to find."
Wart bowed his head, turning into the crowd to slip away from the sly one. "A fag." he thought to himself, "An uphill gardener."
"you couldn't hit a giant if it poked you on the chin." laughed Bryan at his fellow soldier. Syd slammed down his jar and spat at the trooper.
"Don't you start on me. Or I'll shove my hand up your arse and pull out your spine."
"You won't touch my arse, you chutney ferret! Hey boys, Syd wants to touch my arse!"
A roar came up from the menfolk that stood about, pissed and stupid.
"You can touch my arse, Sydney! For a shilling."
"Fuck off!" Sydney bellowed. "You're all a bunch of worthless bastards. I'm going home."
Shreiks of laughter went up from the guardmen and someone gave Syd a heavy slap of the back.
"Go home, Fool."
"Go back to your mother!"
Syd fought his anger and pushed his way passed this comrades. "Let me out!"
Wart stood a while away until the unfortunate Syd had gone.
"Uh-oh! 'ere's another one!" one sparky soldier bawled. "What's your problem."
"I have no problem." said Wart calmly. " I only seek employment. For whom do you soldier?"
"For whom do you soldier!" mimicked the youth turning to his comrades, smiling gleefully.
Wart caught him around the throat with massive fingers.
Daggers and knives were drawn and pointed as wart held the hapless victim.
"Drop him!" threatened one of the company.
Wart released the individual and he collapsed on the tilestone floor.
"Watch it, Ape!" a burly man stepped forward, razor sharp blade held steady under Wart's grimace.
"I seek employment." Wart reiterated, steelballing the man.
"None required from you." he sneered. "Now move away."
The giant barbarian stood firm.
"Away, I said!" The blade touched flesh and pressed against hardened skin.
Nothing.
"Do it!" someone yelled.
"Wait!" heads turned to one individual seated at a table. "Who are you, stranger?"
"My name is xxx. And I seek employement."
"We know that.", "Why here? Why us?"
"Someone told me if could find it here."
The leader glanced down shaking his head and matted hair. "You won't find employement here, stanger. Not like that."
Wart stepped forward forcing the upheld knife away.
"Then what must I do?", light spilling on his huge face.
The captain stood up to meet the newcomer. "Well, you must pass the test." he stated.
"What test?"
A pewter flagon struck the back of Wart's head. It was so light Wart barely felt it, but his hungry hand found the arm that did it and wrenched it away, cracking as it went. Another with a dagger came forward in a stabbing motion. Wart's free fist connected with the assailants face, shattering nose and bursting lip. He felt the prick of a point through his leather armour and turned to strike the foe. He pulled him up by the hair and flung him forward on the table laden with drinks.
"Hold it!" Intervened the leader. "We don't want to kill him!"
From across the bar came the keeper and a crowd of help.
"What's the trouble here?" he pushed forward.
"No trouble, Aran. Sorry for the disturbance" the captain stepped to meet him and padded him on the shoulder.
"Just a little recruiting, you understand."
"I allow you to drink 'ere, and that's it. ake your dirty business outside, if that's what you want."
"Okay, okay. There is no trouble. Look! We've found a new recruit." he said, waving a hand at Wart who had frozen upon the arrival of the landlord. Wart smiled sweetly. "That was easy" he thought to himself.
"Horgaarth?" Trevan, for that was the captain's name, quibbed at Wart's enquiry. "No. There's no Horgaarth here. We work for the nobleman Peters, merchant trader of the city North."
"I was told to speak to Horgaarth."
"No. Horgaarth is head guardman to Lord Rupert the Bear-Killer." He's up at the Blackfriar Estate. If you want to work for him, then you'll need to speak to him, not me."
"Where might I find him, then?" Wart pressed cautiously.
"He usually drinks at the Strangled Ferret on Sorrow Street, I believe. He doesn't come here often at all."
Wart silently cursed his accomplice Meron.
"I can take you to him, if you like. But why do you want to work for him. He's a bastard if ever there was one."
"I hear he pays the best, and I have debts that I must owe."
"Between these walls, I tell you...", he motioned Wart to draw near.
"Yes..."
"Lord Rupert is a treacherous maggot. The say he murdered his own brother."
"Really?"
"Yes, and he stole his beloved wife, the lady Marian."
"
toward the stone ledge that abutted the channel,
A dull and distant sun rose over bleak horizon, grey-red and orange. The air was parched and chill. The land ravaged by the ceaseless winds from the Great Northern Plateau. 'pon this sparse and bitter plain, two figures struggle against biting gale, hunched together, obscure. In such moment, if one were to view this from the first, thoust would feel sorry for lonely a-pair as each effortful step brought them fractionly closer to their destiny, to their fate.
"Who art thou? From whence did thou cometh? Et whither art thou goeth?" A skeletal hand waved 'cross all-seeing sphere of crystal.
Onward, lowly figures struggle against savage elements of the High Plains of Algernone. It were as if the very Gods set a deadly trial game for misdemeanors past. And yet, also lay there divine sympathy. Thy very Earth itself knew of the goodly deeds that lay latent in these spawn. For whatever dark devices they had carried in previous incantation, it were always directed at those that were of true scum, ignorant oaf or cruel warlocks. Yes, they were never of evil stuff, yet it can be said they gained some pleasure from their ill-gotten path. And though it forever meant that their lives would be ones of dire hardship, excruciating pain and lonely despair, through each other the brave ones would find the joy that only friendship can bring.
But let us not lament over such noble heroes, for they would not approve.
Strongly they press forward toward that great and ancient city. A city full of fat life and hollow death, of insurmountable riches and bottomless poverty, of love-induced happiness and drunken sorrow. Of fair maidens trapped high in lonely towers and power-crazed lords who dined greedily on the misfortune of others. Of rat kings and deep, dark sewers that myriaded a vast network of passages and tunnels beneath the city of which few local residents were even aware.
It had been a long time since the adventurers had set foot in this grand metropolis. Longer than either dared or even cared to remember. The time of their leaving, or the events that surrounded it, neither could quite locate. It was a memory slightly out of reach, hidden by a dull ache which implied it had not been a happy departure. They were not even sure they had left at the same time. In fact, of this, they were fairly certain. It felt of betrayal and treason, perhaps even between each other, though neither could recollect or confirm. And yet, something untoward had happened. The great warrior Wart, had been ungraciously dumped 'oft the city wall and crawled, slimed-covered out of the endless sewage waters that abutted the Western flank of the city of Yarden. Meron, at a different place and point in time had crept away in the dead of night through a sewer vent on the Eastern abutment. Why this had occurred none could remember or be bothered to recall. Such was the stinking fragment that remained in their thick, tiny skulls.
Wart had crawled up onto the plains and taken humble shelter in the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Alone, with only scraggy goats for company, he had writhed upon belly, weak and feeble, on the earth in search of weevil and grub for bodily sustenance.
Meron, on the alter hand, had boarded an outgoing junk-vessel and took refuge in the stinking, leaky hold where he had lain for several grueling nautical days in feverish sweat, drifting in and out of past and future plains. He had finally sneaked out of his cache and onto the mainland after he had heard the squawking of gulls and felt the bump of embarkment. Where he were, he knew not.
Many moons passed until finally they were united. In some dark tavern on the edge of Dingley Woods in the far South.
Wart, forever alone and lonely, had wandered aimlessly through the land. Sleeping in barns or outhouses, he had stolen mangey carrots and radish vegetables from decrepit farms and walled gardens from one village or town after another. Some megre employment, it is said, had come his way, but it was always poorly paid and demeaning to his stature. He had abandoned hope and became a reckless drunk. Found laughing and weeping on the floor of many a public house, he had 'oft ended up in gutter or ditch with rodent and grog-induced hobos for companion. His great physical prowess saw him through and though much stock were lost and handsome face was sallow and gaunt, he had journeyed his way South to where, by chance, they would unite.
The Gray Mouser, though more nimble and cunning, had not gone without misfortune. In his delerious state he had fallen fall of sea dogs and his slight body was found strewn on the rough ground of some dark alley in a distant land. He had been found by a gracious lady, who had ordered her manservant to take pity on the wretched creature and had been brought back to her townhouse. Here he had lain for days in a feverish state, slipping in and out of consicousness, mumbling about a lost friend and a deal that had gone bad. But the memory eluded him and later he could recall nothing. The lady, whose name was, Gwendalien, nursed him day and night. She would sit by his bed and arrange his downy pillows so as to cradle his weak and thin neck. Though, slight of figure, she was quite taken by his features, and having little do do with her time since her aging husband (for she was considerably younger) had passed on. Fine soups and broths were brought to the bedside of the Mouser and the frequent visits by the family doctor arroused suspision from the surly residents and poor folk who dwelt on the street outside.
Weeks passed and the Mousers health returned. And as his health improved, as did the devotion of the lady Gwendalen for her patient. Conversely, as the Mousers condition improved, so did his awareness, and indeed fear, of her ladyships admiration for him. Yes, at first, he admitted, he was flattered and superemely grateful for such a beauty to aid his rescue and bring him back to health. And yet, as the thought as his pampered imprisonment became more apparant, thus too grew his desire to escape and flee to the open road. So, as it was, one early morning he crept out of his downy bed and sneaked away out of the kitchen door, though the garden and along the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the townhouse. At full strength and in fine garb (that she has graciously bestowed, ready to display him to the noble folk of the town upon his announcement), he strode with fine steps to a neighbouring sea port. Here he conducted himself in a little light burglary and thus, with adequate funds, secured himself a place on a vessel back to the city of Lankhmar.
So one fateful night as a storm raged outside, The Mouser sat nursing a mug of ale and a pipe in some dark corner of the Wistful Goat tavern when the old oak door should be flung open and in its entrance stood the mighty figure of a lost warrior, Wart.
Meron watched in silent fastination as his old friend, bowed head and bedraggled hair, stooped and slowed stepped forward into the bar. He stumbled and grabbed randomly for a support before regaining his balance. He swayed, adjusting his eyes to the bar, although shrouded in low light, brighter tham the terrible night outside. Meron, gripped and poised ready to aid his friend, yet something held him back. A desire to view his comrade in this lowly state. He flung himself at the bar, rousing the dimmed interest of fellow lost souls inhabiting the dark space. The landlord stepped forward to greet his customer.
"Everything all right with you?", he asked.
"Give me....something strong." came the slow reply from under a soggy fringe of brown scruff.
"This should help you." said the landlord as he poured a small glass of golden liquid. "It will put a fire in your belly."
Clumsy fingers found the glass and in a shot it was raised, discharged and slammed back down in one well-practiced movement.
Wart swung away from the bar. He bleary eyes finding focus in the gloom. Meron started in his seat, half raised, as Wart stared at something that seemed familar. He stood frozen, through pain and drunkedness trying to comprehend, trying to remember.
"You."
"I've found you." He fell forward, his huge feet slipping back under him on the stone floor. His great chin crashed against the stone, and his massive figure collapsed in a heap at the bar.
Meron leapt up, agile and quick. In a flash he was at his friend's side. "Yes, my friend. You have found me. And I you."
"Help this man up," he cried to the folk seated around. "He needs sustinece and a bed. You can provide that?" he galnced up at the landlord. "Of course."
They dragged him up and through the door leading to the kitchens. "He can rest there until he's able to climb the stairs."
"I've not seen him for a long time," Meron offered the Landlord, in a rare display of converse.
"He looks like he's had a hard time of it."
"He has. He doesn't travel well alone."
The next few days saw Wart come back to health. Like the lady Gwendalen, Meron did a fine job of taking the greatest care of his friend. When he came to, Wart smiled and said he was glad he had found his comrade. His spirit return like an opening flower and soon he was a changed man. They stayed at the Slaughtered Goat for a four full days as Wart regained his strength. They sat in the garden, lunching on the finest food Wart had enjoyed in years. the ale went down with great vigour and a booming laugh was to be heard beyond the tavern garden walls.
"What did happen back there?", poised Wart one day when all else had been mulled.
"We were betrayed. Poisoned and betrayed, I am sure." ventured Meron.
"It was so long ago, it all seems so vague to me now. I really can't remember no matter how hard I try."
"We should go back."
Meron studied the face of his compatriot. Many had the years been when these two were but young sprigs eager for adventure. How time had wearied them both. Surely they should feel grateful they were alive and their ..... intact.
"How should we do that? And for what? We are lucky to be alive and to be reunited. Should we not rest on that and be thankful?"
"You would allow your senses to be dimmed and your fate sealed? What became of the man I knew? The cutpurse? The thief?"
"That was a different time. A different life."
"It is the same time and the same life."
"How long have we wandered aimless and alone. To be united. You would risk it all again, for something that you cannot even recollect? Is that all together wise?"
"Since when did you know me to be wise?"
"That much is true, great fighter. That much is true."
"And you...do you not desire to seek the truth? To know the events that led to our despair?"
"I can let it pass, my friend. I have found peace now."
"You have found no peace. Only the peace you impose upon yourself through denial."
"What do I deny? We played and lost, but how many times have we played and won, to others misfortune, I hasten to add."
"So it be true that you stand defeated. To accept defeat as your loss and your load. Strange...I never thought I would hear those words from you."
"Well, times have changed."
"Nothing has changed. Only your opinion. Your acceptance of your fate."
"And what fate is that, may I ask?"
"That you have lost."
Meron sat back and studied the face of Wart. How was it possible that this dim witted beef cake had gotten the better of him. Only days ago, he had lain at his feet, pitiful and weak. Now the tables had turned and he was the weaker party.
Standing up suddenly, Meron pushed the table away, confused and distraught. Checkmate he thought. He must rise to the challenge. He had been presented with the task at hand and he could not refuse it's embrace."You bastard." he professed and left his comrade at arms. He stomped moodily back into the public house, mounted the stairs and stood in his tiny white-washed room, gazing out of the deep set window at Wart who sat at the wooden bench quaffing his dark ale. "Curse you." he said aloud, then slumped onto his bed, peace once again denied him.
A few long and lazy days later, the pair set of on their long journey back to Yarden. They carried light provisions, as towns, hamlets and villages were not infrequent on their way North. And so, their long walk began, through country lanes and cross stoney bridges, fresh clear water laughing over the stones in the stream below. Over hill and meadow and through light woodland and dale. The two spent their time relating the events since their separation; of Wart's desperate and lonely struggle when strength and will had all but left him. Meron's easier, but strange ride to another land and back again. They spoke of previous adventures and their long history together. Many a night was spent in some cozy public house and they quite forgot their aging years as they laughed and drank with carefree abandon. Indeed, they made a habit of sampling every ale they could find through the regions of Ashayan.
Slowly the landscape shifted from temperate woodland to the high plains to the North on which, lay Yarden. Here the going became laboured and the settlements few and far between. The main passage to Yarden from the Southern parts lay two hundreds leagues to the East. For obscure reasons best left unknown, Meron argued that they avoid the main road and instead traveled across the high plains. Any word of their imminent return would go unnoticed. They planned to enter the city during the dead of night via the sewer from which they had departed the towering citadel.
And so it was, that on a moonless night, no shadows cast, the closest friends silently slipped into the dark waters outside of the exit grate of the city's sewer system. Garments securely stored in goats hide. The great stone wall streaching away up to the black heavens.
"I've got it." whispered Meron, slimy hand grasping wraught iron. "It's here somewhere.". A dull clank beneath the murky waters sounded the release of an ancient mechanism, installed by Thieves Guild centuries before.
"Our way is clear, my friend." Wart pushed the huge grate as it shuudered inward. Momentum carried to open and the two slipped noiselessly through. Wart swam through the thick sewerageinto the pitch dark as Meron carefully replaced the grate into its lock. The stench was overpowering and never before had Wart wished more greatly for a humble peg to shut tight is hairy nostrils. His rough hand sraped against stone, he grasped at it and wordlessly felt his way along the arching perimeter of the channel. His great feet hit steps and he found balance. The slowly made his way up three great steps and out of the diseased bath. He sat and rested in the inky blackness as he listened to the tiny sounds of Meron edging towards him. As the sounds drew nearer, a familiar voice whispered, "Hot baths and soft hands you shall enjoy."
Wart, exhausted and not amused, hung his weary head and allowed himself to sleep. Alas, Meron stirred him back to life. "Come, we must reach the surface and the Pickled Pheasant as soon as we are able."
In a huge, luxurient bedchamber, strewn with rare Eastern tapestries and exotic odours that escaped fine and intricate burners, lay the great slumbering body of a warlord. Lord Rupert's head rested on the breast of a young servant girl. Globules of saliva ran from his oriface onto her slight stomach and dripped down to finest bedlinen. His mound of dark brown, greasey mane fell away onto cotton pillow and the silken gown that adorned his grotesqueness spayed out across generous cot. A twiching eye-socket indictated great battles fought in faeryland and of an honour never held. The seduction of a fine goddess and the slaying of a fire dragon. An eratic limb jerked out at an unseen foe, striking the head of the crushed girl figure. She fell from under a mountain of rocks to a spiraling vortex of stars and moons, far beyond the reached of the imagination of a waif, more used to the collection of chicken eggs and cows a-milking than lecherous orcs and sex-crazed goblins.
"Who goes there?" barked an irrated squawk, from behind the tiny, sunken portal.
"It is I, Meron of the Toothless Hag". Long silence followed.
"Meron of the Grateful Dead"
"Meron of the Stinging Blade"
"Meron of..."
"SHHH!!!...I understand your name is Meron. From whence you came, I care not. Allow me to recall."
Presently, the hidden door opened, allowing candle light to spill onto the cobbled street outside.
"I really can't remember who you are, but you had better come in." A dwarf figure offered. "Come on. Before someone sees." Wart followed his friend through oak-wood egress, stooping as he went.
The three figures stood together in a stone lined, square-shaped room. Lit with candles and a dying fire in the hearth.
"What wretched foulness is this?" A screwed up withered face glared up at the humble Wart, for he was ashamed of his woe. "Meron, you say. Still, I have no memory of this name." the dwarf uttered, turning to the slighter more elevated than himself figure of the thief. "No, you face is unfamiliar too. I have never seen you before."
"This is true, my friend, though we are in association."
"How is that so?"
"I am an ally of Hogarth the XXX. We served together against the city watch and the Circle of XXX"
"Horgarth is my master. But I have never heard him speak of one named Meron."
"He would not. It is secret."
"All is secret in our domain. Such is our nature. What can you tell me of Horgarth, so that I might allow you a glimmer of acknowledgment."
"Horgarth was former guard to the Sorceror Belign. "pon Belign's death, he sank below the city's watchful eye to form the Society of the Rat. After much feuding with the Circle of Orafice, a daring plot was hatched to take down the leader, Gonsword. It is here where I was recruited to join his task, some three years previous to this night."
"You know much. But what of his body. What can you tell me of his face?"
"Horgaarth carries a scar under his fringe. He says it was from a game of chance and a victory disputed with the Thieves Guild"
"Very well. Most likely, you know Hogaarth. Will will not press you more. And who his your fumbling giant companion?"
"This is Wart of the Salt Plateau. He is my ally and trusted friend."
"He is strong, though a wretch in this witching hour."
"He is a true warrior, though his thoughts are simple, but fair. You need not fear him, lest you oppose him."
"Then, he is welcome. Come, great oaf and strip those rags from your hide."
"Make sure you scrub behind you ears, giant." rasped the dwarf glasping soap into the warriors rough hand.
"Why does he jest me so?" Wart put to Meron whilst washing in the tubs.
"He is Dwarfish, and can speak no other tongue. He means no harm, and actually I think he rather likes you."
"He is strange to me." mused the great Wart to no one in particular. "I care not.", as soapy hand massaged brutish ear.
At the eleventh hour on the following morn, Wart carefully decended the narrow, wooden stairs that lay rear of the Plucked Pheasant and entered the work kitchen. Meron sat at oak table, smoking pipe and legs splayed infront of the grand oven.
"My friend, you have risen."
Wart stepped forward and took a chair.
"You are hungry, of course." Meron pushed a palate of bread, fruit, biscuits and cheese before him. "I will make you a cup of the finest coffee civilisation has to offer."
"Thank you" Wart said softly.
He plucked a purple grape from generous a bunch.
"Ah! Always a favourite, you and the grape.", spied Meron. "The blue cheese is magnificent, and reeking a divine ponginess, that would rival even you."
Wart fingered a biscuit away from the pack and broke off a tiny piece of bluish churn.
Hastily devoured, more biscuits were separated and consumed. The wedge collapsed and lay ruined. Moistened digits mopped out crumbly particles of grouyere. A thick sliver of wheatbread was snatched and layers of cherry tomatoes and cheddar constructed to form a sandwich. A mug of coffee feverishly downed and refilled by his delighted spectator.
"Eat, fair Wart, eat! Eat as ne're before. Long have you journeyed through dust and dirt and shit to get to this here table."
Wart allowed a gaffwer to escape a corner of his gob. Tears welled in his blue, blue eyes as he relished the tastes of slendour.
"Wine!" he spat, bits of food, exploding into the room.
"Of course! Here it is!" A smallish hand hastily glasped pewter jug and goblet, splashing the deep, red liquid with carefree abandon. He thrust it before his comrade.
"Ah!" Huge paws glasped the vessel and let out a tight choking sound as a rich mixture of delicacies were washed about his trap before decending into grand stomach.
This procedure was repeated for the succeeding forty minutes of the clock hand.
Finally, he had had his fill. A lazy backhand wiped the crumbs away as his eyes settled finally on the shape of Meron.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome."
"Pipe."
"Here."
The music of crackling fire and deep sucking of air climaxed the feast as the Wart sat, satisfied and content.
"We are to hatch a plot." ventured the Meron slyly. "We must discover our past and execute our future, old Wart."
"Yes."
"We must press ear to the ground and listen to the whispers of the citadel."
"Indeed."
"We must use your cunning and wit to obtain secret information."
"Of course."
"You must venture into the darkest corners of the dankest taverns to extract such council."
"This be true."
"You must make haste. For time is of the essence."
"Be it so."
"You must go now, brave warrior."
No reply.
"You must go now, great one."
Silence.
"Now."
"Now?"
"Now, my friend. Now."
"Why now?"
"Because the story must be told. The truth must be sought and vengeance extracted from those who wronged us."
"Do you not agree," press Meron further.
"Yes."
"Then make haste. You must pay visit to the Whistling Warlock tavern in the xxx district, and have speaks with Urthor. I will accompany you at safe distance."
"Why will you accompany me at safe distance?"
"Because I may be recognized and it is safe if I am at safe distance."
"I see."
"Urthor is a guard at the house of the warlord Rupert. It is he who saw to our demise."
"How do you know of this? Why do I not know of this?"
"Because I had dealings with the Warlord of a dark nature."
"What dark nature?"
"It were regarding the supply of arms to a caravan of desert-dwelling folk some moons ago."
"What is this regard?"
"They never received the arms, though monies were exchanged."
"Then they were cheated, they were angry."
"Yes. They were angry. They are still angry. They are angry with me."
"Why you? You are my great and trusted friend."
"I was the instrument who carries out the exchange."
"You cheated the desert folk?"
"Nay. I was but an instrument. I had no knowledge of the sour intentions of Lord Rupert. I was tricked."
"You were tricked?"
"Yes."
"So were are the arms?"
"There were no arms. Or, at least, I never saw them.
"You never saw them?" Wart leaned forward with growing interest.
"No. I was duped."
"Yes, you were, if you never saw the arms you were supposed to deliver. Did you not check?"
"Of course, I checked."
"But you did not see."
"No. I did not see."
"Then you did not check." a trace of a smile broke on Wart's face. "You were duped. Meron the greatest thief in Yarden was duped. Duped! Duped by a stinking warlord! Ha!"
"Yes, yes...it is true I was duped. But what is important is that we must seek revenge."
"...for being duped?"
"Yes."
"Because you were duped."
"That's right."
"And you want me to seek this revenge?"
"I want you to...help."
"Help?"
"Yes"
"Help seek revenge?"
"Yes."
"Because you were duped?"
"That's right."
"You want me to help you seek revenge because you were duped?"
"That's it."
"Why did you not say before?"
"Before what?"
"Before now?"
"Before now when?"
"When we were at the tavern. When we met."
"Because you needed to rest."
"I needed to rest?"
"Yes. You were in no state to hear of our plan."
"Our plan? Surely this is your plan?"
"Yes, but you were involved."
"I was?. How?"
"You were duped" Meron implied.
"I was duped? I thought you were duped."
"I was. But so were you."
"By whom was I duped?"
"By me?"
"What?" Wart pulled his pipe from his mouth which he had been steadily sucking throughout their exchange. "I was duped by you? When and how?"
"You were my scape goat."
"Scape goat? What do you mean?"
"I told Lord Rupert you had the money."
"Money? What money?"
"The money for the arms. From the desert folk."
"I had the money? I had no money."
"I know. But Lord Rupert didn't know that."
"He does now."
"You used me as a scape goat?"
"Yes."
"As a scape goat?"
"Yes." Meron confirmed. "I'm sorry."
Wart glared at Meron through wispy smoke.
"I had no choice. They would have me slain."
"They would have you slain? And what of me? They would have let me live? Is that you're reckoning?"
"You are alive, are you not?"
"That is beside the point." my deceitful friend. "By rights, I should be dead, and you along with me."
"Which is why we must carry out our revenge."
And so, it came to pass, that on the following eventide, the warrior Wart proceeded to the xxx district by way of foot and ventured into the Weary Warlock tavern. As, he tugged at the heavy latch of the iron studded hardwood door, he glanced discreetly around him in hope to spy anyone who may be tracing him. He stepped inside down to a sunken tile floor. The bar was ready crowded and the air thick with smoke and rowdy banter. The tight packed space heaved as human, dwarf, dark elf and other lesser race bumped and jostled with brimming tankards of ale. Raucious laughter and noisy hubbub drew great comparason to the street outside. Wart, a huge man, inched person by person to the bar.
"Your?" a sturdy barkeep barked.
"Ox's Ale."
Drawn and poured and set down before him.
"Two copper."
"Thank you." but he was already gone to the next thirsty barbarian.
Wart took a generous swig, scanning the scene as he did so. Who was Urther? And where would he be?
"I've not spied you here before." came a voice to his right. A lean figure standing arched against timber column, smoking pipe with a smart tipped hat.
"No. First time."
"And what bring you to this particular locale?" hissed the wily figure.
"Employment. I seek employment."
"Well, if mercenary is your trade, then I suspect you have found the right establishment."
"Do you have any suggestions? Is there anyone I should speak to?"
"Well...." the stranger teased, "That would not be for me to say, would it. Though, you could start over there." A boney finger rose up and pointed behind Wart's massive left shoulder. Wart turned to looked intently to the rear of the ale house. Beyond the heavy fume away from the intense repartee of the immediate area, he spied a band of soldiers locked together, separate from the main throng.
"Thank you" spoke Wart sincerely.
"The pleasure was very much all mine." piped the trickster, "Should you require further services, I am easy to find."
Wart bowed his head, turning into the crowd to slip away from the sly one. "A fag." he thought to himself, "An uphill gardener."
"you couldn't hit a giant if it poked you on the chin." laughed Bryan at his fellow soldier. Syd slammed down his jar and spat at the trooper.
"Don't you start on me. Or I'll shove my hand up your arse and pull out your spine."
"You won't touch my arse, you chutney ferret! Hey boys, Syd wants to touch my arse!"
A roar came up from the menfolk that stood about, pissed and stupid.
"You can touch my arse, Sydney! For a shilling."
"Fuck off!" Sydney bellowed. "You're all a bunch of worthless bastards. I'm going home."
Shreiks of laughter went up from the guardmen and someone gave Syd a heavy slap of the back.
"Go home, Fool."
"Go back to your mother!"
Syd fought his anger and pushed his way passed this comrades. "Let me out!"
Wart stood a while away until the unfortunate Syd had gone.
"Uh-oh! 'ere's another one!" one sparky soldier bawled. "What's your problem."
"I have no problem." said Wart calmly. " I only seek employment. For whom do you soldier?"
"For whom do you soldier!" mimicked the youth turning to his comrades, smiling gleefully.
Wart caught him around the throat with massive fingers.
Daggers and knives were drawn and pointed as wart held the hapless victim.
"Drop him!" threatened one of the company.
Wart released the individual and he collapsed on the tilestone floor.
"Watch it, Ape!" a burly man stepped forward, razor sharp blade held steady under Wart's grimace.
"I seek employment." Wart reiterated, steelballing the man.
"None required from you." he sneered. "Now move away."
The giant barbarian stood firm.
"Away, I said!" The blade touched flesh and pressed against hardened skin.
Nothing.
"Do it!" someone yelled.
"Wait!" heads turned to one individual seated at a table. "Who are you, stranger?"
"My name is xxx. And I seek employement."
"We know that.", "Why here? Why us?"
"Someone told me if could find it here."
The leader glanced down shaking his head and matted hair. "You won't find employement here, stanger. Not like that."
Wart stepped forward forcing the upheld knife away.
"Then what must I do?", light spilling on his huge face.
The captain stood up to meet the newcomer. "Well, you must pass the test." he stated.
"What test?"
A pewter flagon struck the back of Wart's head. It was so light Wart barely felt it, but his hungry hand found the arm that did it and wrenched it away, cracking as it went. Another with a dagger came forward in a stabbing motion. Wart's free fist connected with the assailants face, shattering nose and bursting lip. He felt the prick of a point through his leather armour and turned to strike the foe. He pulled him up by the hair and flung him forward on the table laden with drinks.
"Hold it!" Intervened the leader. "We don't want to kill him!"
From across the bar came the keeper and a crowd of help.
"What's the trouble here?" he pushed forward.
"No trouble, Aran. Sorry for the disturbance" the captain stepped to meet him and padded him on the shoulder.
"Just a little recruiting, you understand."
"I allow you to drink 'ere, and that's it. ake your dirty business outside, if that's what you want."
"Okay, okay. There is no trouble. Look! We've found a new recruit." he said, waving a hand at Wart who had frozen upon the arrival of the landlord. Wart smiled sweetly. "That was easy" he thought to himself.
"Horgaarth?" Trevan, for that was the captain's name, quibbed at Wart's enquiry. "No. There's no Horgaarth here. We work for the nobleman Peters, merchant trader of the city North."
"I was told to speak to Horgaarth."
"No. Horgaarth is head guardman to Lord Rupert the Bear-Killer." He's up at the Blackfriar Estate. If you want to work for him, then you'll need to speak to him, not me."
"Where might I find him, then?" Wart pressed cautiously.
"He usually drinks at the Strangled Ferret on Sorrow Street, I believe. He doesn't come here often at all."
Wart silently cursed his accomplice Meron.
"I can take you to him, if you like. But why do you want to work for him. He's a bastard if ever there was one."
"I hear he pays the best, and I have debts that I must owe."
"Between these walls, I tell you...", he motioned Wart to draw near.
"Yes..."
"Lord Rupert is a treacherous maggot. The say he murdered his own brother."
"Really?"
"Yes, and he stole his beloved wife, the lady Marian."
"
toward the stone ledge that abutted the channel,
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