Uncivil Villains

“Please. Please don’t call me that.”

Cringing but still pleading, the gusset soaked lookout tries to shield his face whilst simultaneously covering his shamefully sopping crotch.

The four thugs surrounding him, all laugh raucously.

“What? ‘Pants-Wetter-Tattle-Tale’?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“yeah, that’s what you is, isn’t you?”

“You’re a stinky little pisser and you ratted us out to that armoured tosser, didn’t you?”

The smaller man, in the centre of the quartet of Thieves guild enforcers, gulps and begs.

“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to blend in and be inconspicuous, like what I was told to, but there was a Dwarf who noticed me somehow.”

One of the larger thugs shrugs.

“So what? You didn’t have to admit nothing.”

The quailing lookout grabs a handful of the big thugs tunic.

“It wasn’t him that made me squeal; it was the armoured Knight.”

Brushing off the clinging hands, the enforcer scowls.

“A Knight? A Knight?! If you ain’t learned to lie to a poncey nobleman, who can you be trusted to lie to?”

The young, panicking gang member, snatches at the bigger man’s grey tunic again.

“You don’t understand! He weren’t like no normal Knight what I’d ever seen before. His armour was dark and creepy but his eyes! His eyes were black as pitch! It was like he was Death himself and he was gonna rob me of my soul!”

The leader of the thugs shoves the slender lookout to the ground, where the others proceed to kick and stamp on him until he finally stops moving or moaning.

Walking away, the last thug mutters.

“Pants-Wetter-Tattle-Tale… That sorta sounds like one of those funny, long Gnomish names, don’t it?”

His three goon friends all turn and snigger at the slightly racist observation, despite their ex-lookout’s blood and brains still staining their boots.

The Illiterati

Assif recently (kindly) flattered my ongoing attempts at serialising our shared adventure but it made me consider some of the flaws (beyond my dyslexic spelling) in my writing style.

The weekly Orange inn posts are my way of maintaining momentum in the month(s) between sessions and to act as a recap/reminder of sorts, but they do more than that. They enable me to insert information that I’ve flubbed in-game.

As the DM, it’s my responsibility to describe the environment, opposition and situations that you, the players, find yourselves in. I’m not the most comfortable communicator and Scott noticed (and found funny) something I do in the pattern of my speech.

I can’t seem to help myself from doubling down in the way I write and speak. I like using alliteration, rhyme and the ‘rule of three’, but my most obvious (dodgy) trait is my need to repeat the thought, despite effectively, often creating double or even triple negatives. 

‘No, I didn’t do nothing!’.

In Lord Urdurel’s speech, I used the phrase; ‘Endeavour to try’. I ‘tried to try’. I understood that it was a redundancy but I just liked the ‘shape’ of the sentence.

The past description that made Scott chortle was when I was trying to describe the block of floating ground beneath Dulcetta’s magical spinning tower.

‘It’s like an upside down, inverted pyramid.’

Most recently, when writing about Fortu’s slaughter of the spy assassin in the tavern, I desperately wanted to write 

‘Bisected into two separate pieces.’

It’s a weird literary tic that I can’t seem to shake. It’s probably connected to my need to use emojis to repeat the thought of the preceding sentence. If I write ‘That’s hilarious’, I’ll almost certainly follow it up with a ‘laughing face’ emoticon.

Dragon Fang

Despite his advanced years and only having one working eye, Lord Urdurel notices Fortu glancing at the blue hilted, cold-iron Longsword sitting flat in the, perfectly carved out recess in the centre of the square tabletop. A table, small enough, to enable Lord Urdurel to reach its grip from any side. 

“Yes, the table acts as an oversized scabbard of sorts, I’m too old to lug a weapon around anymore. Do you like the sword nesting within it? ‘Dragon Fang’ I call it; I just recently had it commissioned  and although not a match for the one you now possess, it’s still a powerful blade and there’s a rich kind of poetry attached to it.”

Leaning in, Rifkin moves to stroke the shimmering blade, but then draws his slender, mandolin playing fingers away before reaching it.

“I felt sparks!”

The old man laughs, revealing a greying, but surprisingly still full set of teeth.

“About a year ago, I was informed that some of the great and terrible dragon; Theranthor’s teeth had been recovered by a group of adventurers. They’d apparently stolen them from the Orcish; Broken Lancer’s tribe, after her massive skull had been destroyed. I managed to purchase several of them and had them forged into this enchanted, cold-iron sword. I found it ironic that my last days, might be spent standing against my second wife’s true Master and I wanted to wield a weapon crafted from the last creature to defeat him.”

The Demi-Elven Bard’s semi-almond-shaped eyes widen.

“That truly would be poetic justice, but surely, a man of your advanced years, doesn’t expect to actually join the fray?!”

With some effort, Lord Urdurel pulls himself up and out of his heavy, throne-like chair.

“I’m nearly a hundred years old. I sleep more than wake and my memory is starting to fade but I’ll be damned if I send another soldier to his death without standing, and risking my all, beside them.”

Run Away, Turn Away, Run Away!

 

Fights, Murder, Action!

After our first entirely (despite David) combat free, role-play-talky-talky session, you all (especially Assif) probably need to bash in some heads and loot their bodies. I can promise you nothing but let’s just see what happens next.

Reunited with the Triplets soldiers; Locke, Chape and Ringo, your ex-wagoneer; Cookie and a contingent of Lord Urdurel’s city guards wave you off on your fresh horses, saddlebags fully stocked with food, water and supplies. 

Now in the pay of Lord Urdurel, you’re heading out of capital city; Cottis through the neighbouring Kingdom of Agentia to present yourself to King Lucius (ex-brother-in-law to Lord Urdurel and twin brother to the late; Lady Dulcetta) in their capital city; Cheval and then onwards to the Gnome realm of Fustilarian to present Lord Urdurel’s sincere apology, promise of full financial restitution and plea to King Trololo Strongarm for his help.

April options

Saturday the 11th

Sunday the 12th

Saturday the 18th

Sunday the 19th

Saturday the 25th

Sunday the 26th

I currently don’t have any weekend plans that far in advance in April, beyond the first one, so it’s up to you jet-setters to decide if we get to play next month or not.

Edit: Thanks for the rapid response boys. Two days remained on the option list but, for some reason, I prefer Sundays. See you all (online) on Sunday the 26th at 9am!

No Halfling Measures

Riding in the back of Cookie’s wagon, Rifkin watches Liga Bur trailing far behind, atop his, now disturbingly, huger and slobbier hound; Mir Hindur. Although he’s tried repeatedly over the last few months, the Halfling has always resisted Rifkin’s attempts at closeness. They are friends, but friends from time spent together, rather than the type that shares intimate details of each-other’s lives.

Pulling his precious mandolin into place, Rifkin absent-mindedly strums a few cords as he considers what he really knows about his cauliflower-eared travelling companion…

Liga Bur; a Halfling raised by Orcs, forged strong but without any knowledge of his true ancestry or culture.

After a quarter of a century living in the ‘Broken lands’ with the Orcish Darkstar tribe, he found himself driven from his adoptive family and into the Human lands and then, the overrun Halfling strip.

When Liga Bur encountered a band of travelling Halfling acrobats at the Scarborough fair half a year ago, did he seek to find out more?

When (a very pretty) one of those wandering tumblers secretly passed him a note to meet up with him in private, did he agree?

When, months later on their return, it became apparent that Scarborough was previously a Halfling settlement called Scarp Burrow, did he dig deeper?

When exposed, just a day ago, to the Halfling quarter (sixteenth) in the large Human town of Thornflek, did he introduce himself to the Halfling leadership or book himself a room in the Halfling run inn?

And finally, when he just encountered Marvin, the angry Halfling bandit, potentially old enough to have been his Father, did he try to gather any information from him before he was shish-kabobbed by Fortu?

Considering the mystery of his history, the answers are a surprising ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’ and ‘no’!

Could it be that Liga Bur’s brutal upbringing has made him a race denier? Is it possible that, after spending his entire life being beaten and judged by Orc standards, the battle-scarred Halfling is afraid? Afraid to admit to himself even, that he is a Halfling after all?!

Rifkin’s delicate digits stop playing before he registers it.

Is Liga Bur’s rejection of his race any different from his own? True, his Quarter-Elf Father was murdered by his Mother’s inbred relatives and she, in turn, drank herself to an early death, but…

Considering the difference in lifespans, his Half-Elven Grandmother could possibly be still alive and his fully Elven Great-Grandmother would certainly still be, yet he’s done nothing to find them.

If he really thinks that Liga Bur should be interested in his own past and true heritage, surely he should be too? Perhaps he’s avoided those travelling, full-blooded Elves in the last town because he was afraid they’d pity him for his diluted blood, or worse?

Perhaps Liga Bur also fears being judged by his Halfling kin as lesser because of his harsh, uncultured Orcish upbringing?

An Eye for a Lie

Twenty mounted soldiers surround the hidden shack, waiting for Lord Urdurel and Captain Aglet to come back out with their prisoner. It’s taken them over a month to track her down to this forest hideaway, but finally the elusive ‘Queen’ Hetzabah has been cornered.

The soldiers smile grimly to each-other. Her assassins have been killed or driven off and she’s finally trapped and defenceless. A single woman alone against two fully armoured and vengeful knights.

A few minutes pass before the wooden door is wrenched open from the inside and Lord Urdurel staggers out, clutching his, now empty, left eye socket, blood gushing through the gaps between his gauntletted fingers!

Two of the soldiers quickly dismount to aid their liege, as Captain Aglet also lurches out of the shack, face ashen..

“She wasn’t as she appeared! She deceived us all!! She’s a monster; a demon from the deepest pits of Hell!!!”

The Sergeant of the group, drops from his saddle, rushes to the open door, long-sword raised and peers in.

“She’s gone! Where did she go? How in the nine hells could she have escaped us?!”