How to Be an Adventurer- World of Gimmok

by Damien Hanson

  And so he did.

  ***

  A low voice sounded over the room, as a lute began to play. The room hushed, straining to hear.

  “So I put my travelers on. *strum of the lute* They were light but so weary. *notes of more complexity* Still poppa told me to be gone. *strum of the lute* And the life was so dreary. *notes of more complexity flowing into and with the chorus* EXIT LIFE! (the voice boomed) NOW THE JOURNEY BEGINS! EXIT LIFE! NOW IS THE TIME TO BE FREE. EXIT LIFE! TIME TO LIVE ONCE AGAIN! EXIT ALL YOU KNOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW (he elongated)!

  “I wanna be a bard man! *lute chords in quick succession* I want to write ballads! *lute chords in quick succession* I wanna be a bard maaaaan! *lute chords in quick succession* I wanna write ballads!”

  Then the bard stopped, and the whole room was silent. His voice felt rough, and it had cracked here and there, plus dipped a note lower in a couple of places.

  The hells and beyond, I think I might have a bit of a cold.

  Still, it was pretty good, he thought. Time to make an introduction.

  “Hello, Weeping Willow!” he boomed, immediately shaking his head at his foolish mistake.

  “Boo!” yelled an old woman who he thought shouldn’t have been there.

  “Ya don’t even know the name of the place, Mister Bard Man? Why in the heck is we listenin’ to ya?”

  Some drunks took it up.

  “Ya. Go sum wer ya now!”

  “Play’s someting good, wouldint ya now?!”

  “I just like booing people I don’t know!”

  Carric blanched.

  “Hey, everyone, look, I’m just here to make music. If this isn’t your style, just give me a chance. Hear me out. I know plenty of tunes. What are you all in the mood for tonight?”

  “Dwarf stuff!”

  “Gorblin Havdash!”

  “Ai! Dwarven Rock Musk!”

  “A seasonal ballad of Sylvan make!”

  “Just fart sumtin out, ya scag!”

  “It’s a venturer bar, innit? Yon better play some bluddy venturer music, aven’t ya?!”

  Carric strummed. “Alright, the last one. Bloody adventurer music it is.”

  The whole crowd fell silent, eagerly awaiting the ballad of some strange beast and its slayers.

  ***

  Yenrab was feeling uneasy. That first song sounded horrible. It didn’t really sound like Carric. Something was wrong. And, more than that, something was stirring. He could feel it. The people weren’t happy.

  Carric fix that voice or get off the stage. Great Bear, we need to call this in, but I don’t know how!

  The gamers next to him still went on with their fun, but not with near as much joviality. The elven adventurers he had spied had put away their scrolls and looked uneasy as well. And, of course, Cheating Dumbface mit Losermouth was looking angry, as were his friends.

  The half-orc barbarian thought about loosing his battle axe, but decided against it.

  Carric will get it. This has gotta happen. Lightning can’t strike the same place twice. He paused at that thought. Unless there is some sort of mage. Or wand. Or sword. Or bad weather. Gods, let this be okay.

  ***

  “Karma. Karma. Karma. Karma. Karma. Kameleon. It shifts and fades. It shifts and fay-aa-ades. Fighting it ain’t easy if you don’t have magic blades. Have magic blades. Have magic blay-aa-des. Adventurers are great and awesome. Townspeople, well they’re awful. Adventurers . . .”

  What in the forty blazes of King Nemed’s pit? Bern thought as he locked eyes with his target. There was a ripe purse, unprotected by the very expensive and sophisticated traps of the most wealthy, but still wealthy enough to be gotten and shared. Carric was not doing things right at all. And he sounded sick.

  Godsblastitall, maybe the bad song will give me cover.

  The man judged his distance and the attention of the fellows about him. They were getting upset, but they were also well focused on the man on stage.

  Alright. Easy in and easy out, then we’ve all got cash to do something a bit more worthy. That damned Yenrab. He’s brave but, man, he jinked it all up. We’ve gotta get it back.

  He still felt a bit conflicted. What he really wanted to target was the richest in the room. From the looks of things, the man he was going to steal from wasn’t so wealthy. But his purse was, and it wasn’t so well trapped, and he had a right to wrong. He’d deal with the moral questions later.

  Plus he was near the bar, and that offered him some good cover with the clutter of stools and the mass of drunks clamoring for a refill.

  Bern inched forward, inconspicuous and ready.

  ***

  “Did you just try to take my purse?”

  The call was clarion, crisp, and clear. One could have signaled armies with its tremendous capacity. Carric stopped, a shocked look upon his face, and the unhappy crowd turned.

  Oh, gods, Yenrab thought, sighing loudly in frustration. The gamers broke and ran.

  “Nah, bra, pal, sorry, mate. I was looking for my own. Damn, this place is crowded.”

  Yenrab watched as the man snarled, sized the rogue up from top to bottom, and then left.

  Guys, we gotta get out of here, he thought as he tried to catch their various eyes with his own. He flirted with the idea of wading into the crowd and grabbing each of them. But it would draw too much attention, he decided. It would make things too hot too quickly. Hopefully, they too, lost in the middle of this mess, could see how things were beginning to change.

  But there was Carric, warming up his lute, thrumming his mouth harp, and running through various vocal exercises, preparing to start yet another godsawful song. He was acting too clueless. To the other side, there lurked Bern, again, stretching fingers and making himself ready for another run. He was being too confident. And Tracy, well, Tracy seemed to be alright. There was a goatee now, and boobs, but Tracy was actually the most normal one in the party right now, just talking with some guy while teetering slowly back and forth as if he or she were about to pass out.

  I’ll have to praise him or her later. Gods, is that person confusing.

  Shaking his head, he stood more upright and vigilant, just knowing that this was going to end in a tremendous mess.

  From onstage Carric made a whoop to get their attention and then yelled out, “Alright, my friends, I am back with a vengeance. Let’s get this party started! Woot woot!”

  ***

  The bard wasn’t drunk, but he was trying too hard. And he knew it. Still, this day couldn’t end like this. Too much had happened.

  “Come on, guys, let’s get this party started. Let’s light it up. Put your hands up and, well, act like you are raising the roof off. We need to have some fun,” he croaked, his voice thickening and getting worse.

  The crowd was not happy.

  “Get lit? Is that an insult?”

  “Don’t raise my roof, you ingrates!” yelled the old woman.

  “Who is this far-flung foreigner using strange words, and why is he giving us commands?” yelled a fat, balding man with glasses. His green-dyed sweater had a golden G on its front.

  Carric felt flustered.

  Well, the show must go on, they always said.

  He saw Yenrab wave his arms near the door. Carric waved back before launching into a tune.

  “Baby, I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep . . .”

  “I bet you have, jerk. Get off the stage!”

  From the back, came another cry.

  “He did it again. That dick tried to take my purse!”

  Pewter mugs clanged dully to the floor. Blades, and the occasional metal pipe, were unsheathed, and figures bellowed. Yenrab was one of them.

  “Alright, guys. Time to go!”

  Chapter 21: Rock Bottom

  The massive half-orc smashed his way through the crowd, shoving people this way and that. He could see that, at the stage, the bard was already in flight towards his bullish figure, dodging thrown mugs and even a dagger. He threw his head back an
d forth, searching for Bern with a vigilant and dangerous glare. He couldn’t see him, but he expected the rogue had found his way to the shadows and slipped out the tavern doors already.

  Alright. He’s on his own. Tracy then. Where in the heavenly hunting grounds is Tracy?

  The half-orc threw his gaze left and lighted upon the half-elf Freemeetian. Tracy sat at the bar, unperturbed, drinking through the chaos. His friend stayed near. They appeared to be continuing their conversation.

  Well then, Yenrab thought, deleting the man from his battle plan.

  Someone threw a hammer at the running bard, which he skillfully, and dexterously, dodged.

  “You throw like an ogre in need of glasses. And, hey, the rest of you? Music is an art, not some hill-goblin ritual. I bet you idiots like to roll rocks around and call it music! In my day, music was real. Well, you want some real music, so I’ll give it to you. Thunderwave!” the bard screamed angrily, throwing magic out about him.

  A crash sounded as the powerful acoustic waves picked up and shoved the mob away from him. They blasted into the barbarian as well.

  Yenrab grimaced but stood his ground.

  “Ya know, you could warn a guy,” he yelled over the din, as he grabbed up the bard and threw him up onto his shoulders. Then he barreled out the entrance.

  ***

  Tracy lay sprawled upon the floor. About hir ran the contents of hir drink, exploring the nooks and crannies. Ze didn’t feel too well, hir stool cracking and breaking under the magical assault of the bard.

  Hir friend lay nearby.

  “Man, are you okay?” ze asked, slowly getting up off of the floor. Others were in the process of doing the same.

  The man groaned.

  “Alright, well, I guess that is a yes. Listen. I need to go now. But, hey, it was nice talking with you.”

  “Nuhg,” the man responded, clearly upset at having to part company with the fantastic Freemeetian.

  “Yeah, so, uh, thanks for the drinks and all that,” Tracy said as ze tottered to the door. “I’ll see you later, maybe.”

  “Yearp.”

  Humans were so strange sometimes.

  ***

  Tracy walked out to a worried party. Yenrab swung out a meaty arm, grabbing him up like a roll of fine carpet.

  “I’ve gotcha, buddy.”

  “You are a gotcha-buddy,” the half-elf muttered, drunk. “I was having fun, and you all gotcha-buddied everything.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Carric. “I usually play much better than that. I haven’t felt that awkward since I tried to say hello to Helon one day in Bard College.”

  Visions of the girl danced through his head. Her massive biceps, buck-toothed smile, and four o’clock shadow had made her much sought after in his land of ogres and hairy humans. Well, that and the fact that she had pigtails.

  “I had it. I did it all right!” exclaimed Bern as they all moved off at a hurried place.

  “This isn’t my first tussle. That place was a trap! Most everyone was warded, and the ones that wasn’t was wrapped and talked for!” he continued, his anger at himself pushing old dialects to the forefront of his speech.

  “Ya know, Carric, it’s alright. This and also that Bard College thingy. The world is a school, and it goes on forever until you die. Just, well, deal with it,” Yenrab stated, perspiring heavily as they ran.

  Tracy followed the point with a loud belch, “Freemeetian School was great. We didn’t even have to go when we didn’t want to.”

  “Wait, did you say Freemeetian School?” asked Bern. “Mate, I didn’t know the Freemies had school. I thought you kind of just did your own thing out there, right?”

  “I guess? It is a very different place. Good and bad. Up and down. But, really, no. We do our own thing, but we also learn to do the right thing. Well, we are taught to determine the right thing and then do that. Off and on. When we decide to show. I guess what we mostly learn is that the right thing is very important.” The drunk sorcerer looked at Bern with glazed eyes. “The right thing is actually very important, Bern,” he almost verbatim repeated, forgetting he had already made this point.

  Bern just blinked at Tracy, not sure what to say, so Tracy opened hir mouth and threw up on the ground.

  “Hey!” a surprised Yenrab bellowed, absolutely unprepared for it.

  “A half-elf’s gotta do what a half-elf has gotta do.” Tracy giggled.

  The others just looked at each other.

  Tracy belched again and then continued to speak.

  “Well, Freemie parents teach their children to listen to themselves. People tell us we are weird and bad. Bah. People don’t mean squat unless they are family. Or friends. We say we are free to be you and me. The way we’re supposed to be. If you want to put flowers in your hair, put flowers in your hair, who cares? I just got to be me.”

  “Sounds dumb,” Bern said. “Ya don’t need a school to do what you want. All you need is a blade, skill, and courage.”

  “You all don’t get it. Being you is brave. That’s what they teach you”—Tracy hiccupped—“in Freedom School. Be brave and be you.”

  “Yeah?” asked Yenrab, thinking hard about the control Tribe Atsittab had thrust into the lives of himself and his fellow tribespeople.

  “Yeah. You just be you, and people just let it be. Unless it hurts other people. That’s a no-no.”

  The half-elf was slowly passing out.

  “Oh, and don’t tell the police about your parents’ garden . . .” Tracy finished before falling into slumber.

  “Well, mates, that was enlightening. Now, what in the deep reaches are we going to do?” Bern asked, scanning about as they fled.

  Yenrab stopped. He looked at Bern closely, and then wrapped an arm around him. The man was tense for a second, but then he succumbed.

  “Man, don’t worry. We are a tribe now. When you’ve got friends like all of us, there is always a way forward.”

  His other hand traced some figures through the air, and he smiled.

  “Usually, at any rate.”

  ***

  The party found shelter in a very old and quite vacant building, its outside brick and stained with fire. The interior was completely empty, its wooden works most probably consumed by flame.

  Yenrab placed the sorcerer on the ground, letting the wo-man sleep. And then he looked at his tribe. They didn’t look well.

  Carric was quiet, looking more at the ground than anything else. And Bern kept looking at his fingers and sighing. The whole thing was a mess.

  “Guys, we’re broke,” Yenrab started. Both of their faces turned up to him. And there was something in them. Hope, perhaps?

  “But we’ve got a lot of stuff, and that isn’t nothing. We can lose some of this gear, ya know. We can go somewhere warm, with a bed, and we can find a new way forward.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Carric said in a bitter, husky voice.

  “I’ve lived my whole life for this. Suffered for it as well. That stage”—the minstrel coughed a bit, his eyes tearing in pain—“that stage was supposed to be my calling. And I messed it all up.”

  Yenrab didn’t know what to say.

  “Mate, you didn’t do anything wrong. Let it go. You’re just sick. It isn’t like anyone does their first time well anyways,” Bern noted.

  “I’m a veteran at the purse game, and I just flubbed it like it was my first time,” he added, again slipping a bit into his old dialect.

  “I think, maybe, the gods have put us onto a different path,” the half-orc considered out loud. “Maybe we aren’t supposed to be cheating at fights and slumming in bars. Carric Smith, your magical music is always tremendous in a fight, and, Bern Sandros, your dual blades and your bow are amazing. Maybe we are supposed to be adventurers. And heroes.”

  The taste of Mountain Dew, so green and fresh, assured him. The Gamer approved.

  “Bah,” the assassin said, though he sounded a little hopeful. “What kind of life is that
?”

  “What’s the book say?” the bard asked.

  Yenrab dropped his massive pack upon the ground and rummaged through its contents.

  From its depths emerged the tome. Its title, How to be an Adventurer, flashed once despite the gloom they found themselves in.

  “Well, I’d say that is a sign!” exclaimed Carric, eager for good news.

  The barbarian nodded and opened it up, scanning its contents. In it was a new section. Short Stories. Rolling through, he got to the chapter and found one readable section.

  “Well, guys, what do ya know? There is something here.”

  “Read it, why don’t you?” Bern belted out, a bit off and in a bad mood.

  The Tale of Tornen. In the Year of the Spait, an era from a culture in the times after the Outsider, well before modern recognition, there came the fighter, Kerlon, and his blades. The half-ogre was fierce, magical, and a being of many properties. But he was also poor. Always so poor. For he disavowed wealth and relied on the kindness of those he adventured for and protected.

  When the rising blaze of the Flame Lords consumed his village, and his people, he was left with nothing but sorrow and disgust, for he had failed to do the job he had so often done, and his wards were now corpses.

  He went to the next town over, ready to end his life but wishing to first absolve himself at the temple of Karlos, whose blessing he had so often invoked, and found the place closed for the night. So he went to the local inn, which demanded coin, which he did not have. And so the hero unloaded his pack and made recompense in the ways of barter.

  The next morning, when he awoke, he realized something vital. He had failed, his friends had died, but he was still needed in this world. He rose up invigorated, for the Flame Lords were surely marching this way, and the community needed a hero. Even if it were one as flawed as himself.

  There was a long pause.

  “And then what,” Carric asked, spellbound.

  Yenrab shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t say. But it sure does seem to be worse straits than we are in.”

  “Yeah, bro,” Bern spoke up. “I don’t know about all of that hero business, but adventuring made us a lot of money. Let’s just barter up, like you were talking about before, and do that again. We can buy back whatever we need after our next dungeon crawl. It isn’t like it was all that hard when you think about it.”