The party drank it in and was more than a little entertained by it all.
The Chivalrous Chicken was not your normal tavern in terms of gaudiness, but it held to some pretty standard guidelines. There was a raised porch at its front that the party took a few steps up to walk upon, which was a bit fancy. But the porch splayed out from a rather normal double-doored entrance. And if you ignored the color, sparkles, and shine, it looked just like any other long-ended drinking establishment.
As the party passed over the porch to the double-doored front entrance, a young man with golden hair, well-kempt and coiffed, studied them with interest. Bern studied him back through the corner of his ever-suspicious eyes. Friend or foe? Either way, no purses were going to be attempted on the porch despite the oblivious drunkenness of the rest of the feasters.
Entering into the main establishment, the party was quite happy to see that the inside was just as well designed as it was out. The place sparkled and glowed and showcased more benches coupled with rectangular planked tables, camouflaged by years of spilled grease and beer. A stage dominated the corner, its last act a grubby human passed out on a stool in the corner. An angry, bearded, and very obese gnome was haranguing him to get up and finish the night.
The tavern was well lit, its walls festooned with well-known paintings and portraits of legendary folk heroes being characterized by their poultry counterparts. The party’s eyes couldn’t help but fall on one of the paintings in particular. . . . Chicken Yenrab looked especially delicious, turkey-like in its size, as it stabbed its wings into a headless wolf carcass and pulled out the child and grandmother from within. Underneath the portrait a sign read: “Try the Yenrab Special. A fifteen-pound bird stuffed into a wolf and cooked slowly over the course of a full-day’s light. 15 gp.”
“Gods, Yenrab, you’re expensive!” Carric proclaimed with a grin on his face.
“And a giant chicken in wolves’ clothing?” snickered Bern.
“I . . . uh . . . I really don’t know what I think about this place anymore. Ya know, I half want to eat that and half want to contact a lawyer.” Yenrab was smiling as well, but he did seem a little embarrassed.
“Guys,” Tracy said, looking around. “I am going to the bar, and I’m gonna talk to the bartender. If we’re going to multitask here, it is time for you, Carric, to take the stage. And, Bern, maybe you should go tend to the one percent?”
Yenrab was immediately suspicious. “What’s that mean?”
“For gods sakes, Yenrab; I’m just gonna go hobnob a little.” Bern looked as innocent as a hooded and cloaked man wearing dark-leather armor with matching gloves and bracelets could.
Tracy winked.
“Tracy, why are you winking?”
“You know he’s going to pickpocket us some coins, don’t you, Yenrab?”
“No, no, no, no, no. Ya know, you guys are a lot of trouble and . . .”
Yenrab had turned to where Bern Sandros should have been, but the rogue had already well disappeared into the crowd.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Gods no. Destiny! The gods! The book! Aaagh! Fine. Alright, I’ll be at the door. This is for the good of the world, overall, I guess, since we’re heroes and all that. But gods and the Bear, you guys are stupid.” Yenrab sighed and moved to take a protective and watchful stance over the establishment.
***
Bern was on the defensive this time. Well, really on the offensive since he was the one transgressing. But a defensive offensive, if that makes sense. What he needed, really, was just a group of overly unaware, overly one percent people to just, you know, get over that way just a tiny bit. There was no way he was going to slide outside and hit up that crowd—at first glance they had seemed like the prime target. But, really, who in the seven hells was the well-groomed man, and why the heck had he seemed both sober and observant? What was he up to? Was he sent for them?
Alright. Professional, the rogue thought to himself. I’ve already shook Yenrab, that gods-grown noble behemoth. That’s one victory for the night. Let’s keep this roll going!
That last tavern in Gennopolis had taken away his fun. And that damned tome had just added extra obstacles. This wasn’t at all how life was supposed to be. Now it was a bit like hanging out with a paladin for the night. Those holy warriors always had a way of ruining everything with their strict adherence to the rules and their version of a better world. It was like having an overgrown Boy Scout watch over the group.
But, now, this time is Bern time.
Bern Sandros looked wistfully at the rich patrons who just simply wouldn’t move where he needed them to and sighed. Then he scanned his surroundings.
Man, do those rich guys need a good robbing. Alright, maybe next time. Now, who should I Bern and how? And why isn’t that gods-cursed bard up there at the stage failing yet? Not that he’s a bad guy, but I need him up there distracting them with his tunes!
***
Meanwhile, Carric was busy arguing with the tavern owner, a brewmeister and a disciple of Dionysus.
“What do you mean I can’t go up on stage? Your performer might as well be dead for all of the actual tunes he is giving your crowd,” the normally placid bard grumped to the small man before him.
“Well,” the irritated brewmeister returned. “The darn fool is paid up for the day, and I just don’t have it in my budget.”
Carric thought a bit. The forest gnomes were often quite flighty and well-given to Sylvan tendencies. The city gnomes, though, they were no nonsense, money-hoarding scoundrels. And the tinker gnomes were so obsessed with gadgets over magic that they never even really thought out the consequences. They just made and applied, with no testing in between. It was gnomish nature to take things to extremes . . . so he’d have to do the same.
Carric Smith sank to a knee, leveling his gaze with the bearded man before him. Smoothing his face of all irritation, he gave improvised on the fly.
“Performance is a business, brewmeister. Do you think we’d simply send in some lout who drinks hard and falls quickly?” The bard’s eyes took on a surprised sheen as if he were offended that one could think such a thought. “We are professionals, and we take this very seriously. I was sent here to relieve his post. I mean, as a businessman, don’t you take these things just as seriously?”
The gnome looked him over with suspicion, his eye lightening just a little after lingering upon Carric Smith’s lute and mouth harp.
“Indeed, I do. But,” the gnome responded with a pause, “I’ve never met a human who does the same.”
Carric looked at him with a firm and serious face. “I’m a half-elf. We get rejected a lot, so we take these things the same.”
“But the performer was human?” The gnome scrunched up his brow as he talked. He looked quite out of his element.
“You only thought he was.” Carric stalled, his mind racing about furiously, looking for a way through this. “He was a quad-elf. Yeah. Not very common and, as you can see, very, very easy to get drunk. So, really, it would have been a very unprofessional and singular operation that would have sent such a poor lout alone to run through a full night of drink and party. I am the relief.”
“Hmm?” the gnome seemed confused and yet almost relieved. “I am interested, but really, I am also very unfamiliar with this part of the contract? It’s never happened before.”
“Oh, yeah!” Carric said, his mind chugging along like a Tinker steam engine, all smoke, steam, screams, and explosions as he went along. “It’s a new thing. That man was just the, uh, the opening act. It is a new concept. Like, he was sent here to open the show and loosen people up and get them excited. But me, really, I am the guy who is supposed to be up there making waves now. You pay me, and I give a part of that to, uh, the opener.”
“Are you sure?” The gnomish brewmeister sounded much less skeptical, and even a slight bit hopeful.
He desperately wants this to be true! Carric realized, his confidence ratcheting up as he continued.
“
That does sound clever,” the gnome continued, “but shouldn’t you have told me about this beforehand?”
Carric nodded.
“We sent a missive. I’m sure of it. Perhaps, it was intercepted by, uh, goblins?”
“Curses. Yeah. It could have been,” the tavern-keeper said with a relieved grin.
And sold! Carric exclaimed internally, a bit of nervous giddy energy rising within him.
“There’s certainly been a bit of activity among the barbarian tribes in the area.”
The brewmeister’s eyes lit to the massive half-orc barbarian standing by the door and surveying the crowd intensively with a nervous grin on his face.
“Not that there is anything wrong with barbarians if they are the right sort,” he stated in a loud and nervous voice as his face reddened with a mixture of fear and embarrassment.
“Yeah,” the bard agreed, maintaining his professional demeanor. “Look. We sent you a missive, perhaps even two? I don’t recall because I have people who do that for me.”
The brewmeister frowned a bit whilst looking at the travel-stained finery upon Carric’s shoulders, and then he gave a meaningful glance and a raised eyebrow.
“Just give me the stage. You’ll hear pretty quickly as to whether I’m telling the truth or not. I’m going to rock you so hard!”
He frowned again. “Rock? Do you play dwarvish tunes? The only guy I ever heard of who could play dwarvish rock and still make a name for himself outside of that was Jerold Frey, and he is more legend than real, I do believe.”
“Jerold Frey?! No, no one could ever be as great as that. It’s just something we say in Bard College. Some professional jargon to let you know that I know what to do,” he informed him, his eyes now glued to the stage. “Just let it be. I’m trained and, outside of here, quite well-known. Just let me on.”
“Alright. Veniducci. Hegha, manua, hebetty,” the gnome swore to himself as he dragged the practically comatose former performer off stage and allowed the bard to go on. “Go on, kid. Rock us so hard.”
Carric Smith practically leaped onto the stage. Looking around, he could see curious eyes light upon him. The bard could feel their interest, and it spurred him on.
Gods alive, this is living! Look at them all. They are absolutely starved for good tunes. This is going to be great!
The patrons had all turned to the man with his lute and his harmonica, their faces rapt with want. They were ready, and they impatiently awaited to be entertained. The loud and raucous atmosphere lessened to a genial murmur, interspersed with surprised murmurs and whispers as the crowd waited ecstatically to hear this foreign minstrel play his strange tunes. The brewmeister bowed and grinned at his audience, leaving them with the impression that he had found them new diversions. Nothing was too great for his valued customers, he implied, unlike at those other competing places.
Strumming the lute a bit and testing the tune of his harmonica, Carric Smith got himself into a rhythm.
“I shall throw you then debone you
I won’t go away
Skin falls from you then flames burn you
And you can’t react”
Carric finished the stanza in shock and fear, unable to stop. The words were from his mouth, but they were not his own. He didn’t know what was going on.
I warned you, little halfie. Now you will be punished.
There was something in his mind. Something horribly intelligent, malevolent, and cruel.
Gharag!
***
Meanwhile, Bern was on the prowl. Looking this way and that, he dipped under a bench in one smooth motion. A twist of his wrist sliced the straps off a purse, and he stuffed it under his leather armor with no one the wiser.
Room for three more, he noted to himself. In the distance, the bard continued to play some song he’d never heard before. It sounded pretty eccentric and hardcore. He liked it. But something felt a little off. Bern looked at his hands, and then his feet. He was not sure what it was yet, but he knew it was something big. Something metaphysical.
“In our games you will never amount
To more than the flesh
I suck from your being”
Something is really wrong, his mind warned him. The music was killer, to be honest, but Carric wouldn’t know awesome music like this if it bit him on his bottom.
Carric is in trouble! he realized, putting two and two together and looking up in alarm.
***
The crowd watched in stunned silence, entirely immobile except for Tracy, who was throwing his head about and swinging his arms around violently, in the thrall of some Freemeetian mosh.
“Take your stinking boat and point it home
You’ve still got time
Raise your weakling voice, and cry for help
Or else you’ll die!”
Carric tried, even as he sang the tune. He tried to cry out for help.
Not yet, tasty fleshling. I’ll give you a chance, but not yet.
His eyes searched the crowd. He saw Tracy freaking out near the stage.
What have you done to my friend? the bard demanded.
Him? I don’t know what is happening there. That’s not me. I swear it. Fricking Freemeetians.
The bard agreed, and then felt dirty for agreeing with such a horrifically powerful representation of evil.
I’m gonna need to bathe for days if I get out of here.
Hey! yelled the god or demon in his mind.
The bard began to blink as fast as he could, hoping that it would signal to someone that he needed their help, any help, all of the help, right now.
“Falling forever, eyes stripped and crushed
Then I smash your back
I tear out your guts then I torch you
Then I scorch you all black
You haven’t suffered enough
Destiny must be thrown out
It’s time that you dump that book”
“What in the seven hells is this nonsense?” a burly man screamed, his pint hoisted into the air like a poignard thrust forward in victory.
“Bout time summin spoke up, yeah? Trash is what it is,” quavered an older woman’s voice in complaint.
“I like it,” said the burly man’s companion, a thin and wiry man with a snobbish goatee plastered onto his slightly gaunt face.
“Shut up,” the burly man commanded while elbowing his companion hard.
In the corner, the brewmeister grimaced and slowly shook his head in surprised consternation.
***
Hahaha! chortled Gharag, or his avatar or demon, within Carric Smith’s mind. This is so much fun.
Flames of pain flicked and flickered through his head.
You and your friends will leave this place. You will dump the book in the Great Sea. And you will go back to your regular lives. Times are changing and my power is growing again. I will not see anything done by some paltry playing pieces of my foes to prevent that.
***
Yenrab’s mind was racing. This isn’t right. None of this is right. None of this has been right. What is going on up there?! The barbarian looked around, catching sight of Bern. The man looked shaken, but also determined, as he tried to use this distraction to grab up some more coins. Tracy had been jamming out, and now he was on the floor doing some sort of spinning thing. The barbarian growled, and everyone around him fell over in retreat.
“Take your stinking boat and point it home
You’ve still got time
Raise your weakling voice, and cry for help
Or else you’ll die!”
The crowd was abuzz in anger.
“What’s this, a joke?” someone bellowed. Murmurs of assent followed. Carric faltered, suddenly in control of himself.
Remember my warning, halfie, the dark god commanded as he flitted away into the nether.
A tankard struck the bard in the face, staggering him. A clublike giant chicken leg numbed his hand. Carric couldn’t help but admire the precision and str
ength behind the throw, even as he screamed out in pain.
“Help!” He coughed, his body still off-balance from its recent possession. He tried again. “Help!!!!!”
The patrons booed and hissed, with even more of them grabbing and throwing things. The drunken men and women of The Chivalrous Chicken advanced towards the stage in murderous fury. From beyond them, Yenrab’s voice called out.
“Carric to me! Tracy to me! Bern, wherever the heck you went off to, come to me!”
Bern cursed his luck and swung out from the corner he had crouched in, right into the hairy chest of what could only be a half-ogre, that ill-tempered progeny of the barrel-bellied beast men of the hills and the most desperate of sentient kind. The purse he had pilfered flew out from its keeping place within his leather chest piece.
“Thief! It’s a gods-cursed thief!” the monstrous fellow bellowed, ogrish canines bared and spittle flecking onto his face.
Yenrab growled and swore in the distance.
Great Bear, not now. Not here. We serve you, and we accept your quest. Help us, for we have faltered.
Then Yenrab the half-human reared up to his full height and roared. Those nearest to him screamed and backed off as he charged. He blasted through this knot and that, shoving people left and right as he tried to pull his friends out.
Meanwhile, Tracy got up off of the floor and casually sauntered to the door, with no opposition to his passing.
Carric, shaken but not out, looked about at the advancing mob and yelled one word before blowing into his harmonica.
“Thunderwave!”
All audio briefly fled the room as the magical music of the bard’s harmonica drew in all of the air and atmosphere and then blasted it back out in a concrete and thunderous slap of angry energy. The brewmeister slapped the back of his head against a wall and slumped. Carric took no pause—he sprinted as fast as he could, well determined to get to and through the tavern door.
In the corner, Yenrab, who had kept his feet against the awesome power of the blast, picked the thief Bern from out of a mess of fallen revelers. He shook his head sternly at the rogue, who had the common sense to look ashamed.
How to Be an Adventurer- World of Gimmok Page 20