‘My dear.’ Valeran said as the girl approached, ‘Would you be so kind as to bring a small gin for myself and a, erm…’ he looked at Daisy.
‘A flagon of Vandesh’s Old Scrotum.’ She said.
‘Dear lord.’ Valeran muttered. He thought the descriptive names of these ales really quite unnecessary. ‘And that for my companion please.’
The wench smiled at Daisy, then turned and left.
‘So, the adventure, the Quest. How does it work exactly? I believe there is some kind of board.’ Valeran said, trying his best not to appear oblivious to this world despite it being entirely obvious.
‘Yes. There’s a large board outside the town hall. Adventurers come into town, give the carpenter a few coppers, and he chisels out your details onto a plaque. What you do, your experience,
that kind of thing. Anyone preparing a group, usually they will have funds to cover the expenses required for travelling into the mountains, will then select likely boards and collect them up. They bring them here and there’s another board at the side of the bar. That’s the Party Board. The organiser places his, or her
own board and a table number.’ Daisy pointed to a little brass docket screwed into the top of the table, with the number 42 on it.
‘See there?’
‘Yes.’ Valeran said. ‘I thought that was so they knew which table to bring sandwiches to.’
‘No. They have numbered wooden spoons in a little jar for that. The would-be adventurers will come to the table and the party will be formed. Except for your lot of course.’
‘Except for my lot?’ He had done it again. More repeating. Valeran frowned.
‘No party can enter the mountains, let alone a Gate, without a healer.’ Daisy said, clearly enjoying Valeran’s lack of knowledge. ‘Clerics are in high demand, Shamans, even witches can find a place, although they are usually a last resort. People prefer actual magical healing to traditional remedies. So, healing types can pretty much pick their group. They will sit around being courted by various interests, all trying to persuade the healer to sign up with them.
‘I see.’ Valeran was warming to this.
Clearly these people appreciated a person of medical skill and who had the ear of the right Gods. ‘That sounds perfectly fine.’
‘Well, there is the other aspect of it all of course.’ Daisy said, and Valeran caught the mental glint of a sword with two edges.
‘And that is?’
‘Everybody knows that the first class of adventurer to target in any given conflict situation is the healer. You are basically a shining beacon of opportunity for any spell, arrow, sword or set of razor-sharp teeth. You have a great big sign above your head with an arrow pointing down, most likely lit with glorious holy light, and it says, Kill This Guy First.’
‘Oh dear.’ Valeran said.
Zapping Rats Part 1
‘Roight. This is it sur. I’ll be heading off now.’ *wink*
The villager’s name, Corbett had discovered, was Philbus Wazzel, and he had instantly regretted asking as he was then subjected to a full run down of the man’s family history, complete with its dark times when various members of the Wazzel clan had branched off into non-pig related occupations. His eldest daughter was named Wizzel.
‘Wizzel Wazzel.’ Corbett had thought. ‘That’s basically child abuse.’
‘Right.’ Corbett said. Glad to be climbing down from the cart. For the whole journey the breeze had been with them, ensuring that the impressive odour from the pigs, grunting and squeaking in the back had never left his nostrils. He was sure his clothes must now be imbued with their fragrance.
‘Oi would be careful here sur.’ Philbus said, ‘Been a lot o’ trouble here of late. Not many people doin so well with their Questin.’
‘Really?’ Corbett said.
‘Oh aye sur.’ Philbus replied, while Corbett braced himself for some pig-trade related example. But none came.
‘Do you know if there’s a Wizards Guild here?’ He asked.
‘Ooh. Not sure on that sur. *wink* There’s a Merchant’s Guild, oi gets moi tradin pass from there every harvest time. Course, with the price o’ pigs up and down as it is. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth the silver piece it costs me. Getting to be a pig is barely worth the journey these days. If you ask me it’s all a fault o those bastards down at…’
Wizzel’s voice faded as Corbett hurried away. He had turned and left at ‘Ohh. Not sure…’ and had no intention of stopping until he was a good distance from the pig farmer and his inventory.
He would also need somewhere to stay. If there was no Guild here he would be unable to get a discount on a bed for the night and he didn’t fancy a night in a barn or some other such rat’s rest. It had taken most of the day to get to the town and so his options for acquiring somewhere were becoming thin.
His first port of call had to be the town hall to see what the competition was like. He had embarked on a Quest a few times once before, and it always ended badly, but he had determined this was because the rest of the party were always absolute morons.
He had to make sure that not only did his board present his excellent qualities but that it also didn’t attract fuckwits. The problem was that as he was down to his last few coppers so he would need to find a group quickly, and that might mean being less selective than he would like to be. It was busy in the town. There were adventurers milling around on every street, mingling with the locals, trying to hustle, or obtain some task for a few coins. It was depressing. The only ones who didn’t have to worry about running out of money were Clerics, and Shamans and Witches. So long as women had babies, and men put their privy-parts wherever they felt like it, and kids dared each other to jump from high places, they would have work. He could do amazing things. But not here. Not on this fragile world. It was extremely irritating.
The Quest Board was easy to find. It was placed prominently in front of a large building, with architecture that announced that it was in some way official, and a few people were examining the dozens of rectangular boards that hung from thin, but sturdy chains. Many had little dabs of colour in the corner to denote at a glance what they did. Rogues were black, that was a given. Those who fell into the wizardly bracket used red. Corbett thought there were far too many of these on the board. Green denoted Rangers. There were white dabs here and there and these were the healers. Unlike the grey of the warriors and fighters, who clearly used the same colour, those were all over the place, the white dabs were very few. Some with white dabs
had a number quoted on them. This was what you had to pay just to talk to them about forming a group.
‘Bloody arrogant pricks.’ Corbett thought and he flicked a fingernail against one of them. It made a clack sound and he snatched his hand back, and then took a furtive look around. There were very stiff penalties for interfering with the Quest Board.
‘Way too many damn magic users looking for work.’
Corbett pursed his lips with frustration. Unless he was picked up soon he would almost certainly run out of coins. Gods forbid he should be reduced to acting as pest control in some cellar.
‘Zapping rats.’ He muttered. ‘Fuck me.’
Compelled by this thought of professional ignominy Corbett strode towards the Tavern.
While there were bars all across the town, and plenty of homes and hovels who would take care of the alcoholic and sheltering needs, draining every last coin from your purse, there was only one Tavern. This was where those with a little more than just a few coppers to their name would bed down and it was here that the healers would sit, waiting to be approached by some hopeful leader type, clutching the boards of those he had already persuaded to Quest with him or her.
He had once been that person, the leader, having convinced four others to join him in a journey into the mountains, each lured by the promise of great wealth. He had returned as the only survivor. The only way it could have gone more badly was if someone else had returned as the only survivor.
He quickly pushed thoughts of that dreadful time away. Pushing bad thoughts deeper into his unconscious mind was getting more and more difficult. Like pressing the trash down into a bin so you didn’t have to empty it. Corbett knew that soon there would be a threat of severe spillage. There were already enough memories to keep at bay and he didn’t think he could handle many more. He certainly didn’t want to lead the group. Screw that. Let some twat of a Ranger or Fighter do it. They were brave resourceful types. And Rangers were great cooks too.
Except, if you wanted meat, then they made you kill it yourself. Because they were arses like that.
Fighters made good leaders because they didn’t take any shit, but they also tended to push you about. They didn’t hold with anything so tawdry as democracy and generally used violence as their first means of communication. Warriors were of a similar disposition but lacked even the most limited diplomatic skill. If whatever the problem was couldn’t beaten into a pulp with a weapon they generally just went home.
‘So ideally I’m looking for some Ranger type, perhaps a woodsman who has left his homestead to seek his fortune. Failing that, a fighter who is entertaining thoughts of self-improvement. Then I’ll needed a Rogue, although they are usually joined at the hip to some brute anyway, and then a healer of course. A Cleric or Shaman would be best. Witches are too flighty.’
It was as thoughts of his options gathered in his mind that Corbett noticed the enormous, near naked man apparently milking an equally huge Steppe-beast.
‘That’s not something you see every day.’ He said, bemused.
Noticing the horse tethered next to the man and leaning against the hitching post a two headed axe easily as tall as himself, he took a few careful steps forward. He could hear the big man humming to himself and he recognised the tune. It was the chorus from an old Steppe-lands ballad.
Corbett made a few subtle hand gestures. Actively using magic, unless it was something very, very tiny and not at all aggressive was absolutely against his oath, but magic used in passive defence was perfectly alright.
‘Good evening there.’ Corbett said in his most inoffensive and friendly tone. ‘That’s the Ballad of Dodan’s Big Dog isn’t it?’
The big man halted his pumping of the Steppe-beast’s udders. And slowly turned. To Corbett’s surprise the warrior wore a huge smile.
‘Ya! Ze Big Dog is very jumpy and happy, but zen dies and Dodan is very sad.’ The smile left the warriors face, like the moon disappearing behind a cloud, but then suddenly returned.
‘But zen Dodan is very happy because zeh Big Dog’s vife has ze puppies!’
The big man slapped at his knee. ‘You know zeh words eh? Ve sing together!’
‘Oh well, I… er.’ Corbett stuttered, he hadn’t expected his polite greeting to have instantly become an invitation to a duet.
‘Ya. You look like smart old guy. Ve sing.’
Old? I’m forty-three.’ Corbett said. ‘I’m not old.’
‘Andreton is my name. I start vis the first line zen you join in zeh next. Zen ve sing others together.’
Corbett felt overwhelmed by the sheer joy and optimism of the warrior, and the fact that as he grinned the man’s muscles twitched and bunched up in a manner that was both impressive and at the same time terrifying.
Corbett thought quickly. ‘I say, is your animal alright?’ He pointed towards the Steppe-beast.
‘Vas?’ Andreton turned. ‘Francis?’
Francis mooed.
‘I think perhaps she isn’t finished with her milking.’ Corbett said.
He had no idea if this was the case. The nearest he had been to a cow previously was eating a steak.
The warrior moved back to his giant hairy cow. ‘Ah, I’m so sorry Francis.’ He dropped back down onto the ridiculously small stool, which Corbett hadn’t noticed at first, and began to pump at its udders once more. He turned his head to the side to address Corbett. ‘Andreton is very sorry small, old man, but he must finish emptying Francis before zing zong.’
Corbett decided not to have issue with the description and to instead leave this warrior to his task. They were usually pretty thick, this one was all kinds of odd, but at least he didn’t appear to have a Rogue around. Still, it was a shame, the bloke was massive.
‘No problem at all… Andreton, I’d best be on my way anyhoo…’
Corbett took a few cautious steps backwards and then hurried away. He wasn’t so desperate as to consider hitching up with a mentally ill giant just yet.
He maintained his quick steps to get through the town quickly and with less chance of interruption. He needed to focus on his task. He needed a bed and he needed food. Preferably food first.
‘YAWWWWWWWN!’ The terrific drawing of non-existent air sounded in his mind.
‘Oh shit.’ Corbett thought. ‘One of them is up.’
‘Hey Corbett, whatchya doin?’ The voice in his head said. It was mild and not unpleasant, like golden treacle trickling onto a sponge cake. It oozed around his ears.
‘I’m busy.’ Corbett said. Not concerned that he was talking to himself.
‘Hmm. This place looks familiar.’
‘Everywhere looks like everywhere else Carl.’
‘Perhaps that’s true, but…’ Corbett could sense the little demon examining his surroundings. ‘No Corbs. I think this is somewhere we both know well.’
Corbett felt a slight pop at the back of his skull. This was other. Now they were both awake.
‘Ohh! We’re in a new place!’ Kezra said, her excitement transmitting itself as a shiver through Corbett’s spine. He would need to get these two transmuted as soon as was humanly, or inhumanly possible.
‘It’s the Town.’ Carl said. ‘Nob head thought I wouldn’t recognise it as soon as I saw it.’
Corbett sighed, but said nothing. It wasn’t worth the effort. Better to let them just chat or argue or banter amongst themselves while he got on with his mission.
‘We’ve not been here for AGES!’ Kezra squealed.
‘Don’t get all squidgy over it Kez. If we’re here it’s because sparky is broke again. Or lost. Probably both’
‘I LOVE THE TOWN!’’ Kezra squealed.
Everything was exciting to Kezra. Fun sometimes. It drove Corbett to distraction. Meanwhile Carl, or Cluricaun, his demon title, made sly, cynical observations pointedly designed to wind him up.
‘Bloody Demons.’ Corbett thought, in a specially reinforced area of his mind locked away from prying supernatural ears by a Sorcerers enchantment.
He had picked Carl up during his first Quest. The little demon had been sucked into a vortex, created when he had ripped time and space apart to rain molten rocks down upon the head of a vile creature known as a Bulette. The thing had been enormous. The final encounter in a cavern system protecting a sea of gold and silver. It had been a desperate action to call down the rocks, basically super-heating the roof of the cavern and then exploding it. At the time, given that the party was basically losing the fight, it had seemed like a really good idea.
Except what he hadn’t taken into consideration was that the super-heated rocks also heated the air around them, and the gases given off by the Bulette. The thing had roared with pain as the rocks ran as lava across its hardened shell and the warrior, the Ranger and the Rogue had unleashed all of their remaining strength through sword and dagger into the breaches in its carapace. And it had died. And they had cheered. And then it had exploded.
Not just it.
Everything.
The thing, as its ancient, massive body shut down, released all of the gases built up inside its vast bowels. Corbett’s molten rocks and superheated air ignited the death-fart and it exploded with a fury that, had he not been standing in its zone of destruction, would have had him crying with joy at its splendour. Fortunately, the Cleric had cast a very strong Shield of Protection upon him before the fight had begun. It was a powerful reactive spell which lay dormant until triggered by a sudden shock, or assault upon hi
m. Sometimes this went off
accidentally as Corbett was prone to being surprised. In this instance it served its purpose, albeit in a somewhat limited fashion. It was supposed to protect the party, but as they were all up close and personal with the creature, even the Ranger had dropped his bow and leapt into the fight with his fancy magical blade, the bubble of protection didn’t encompass them and they disintegrated in a flash of white-hot fire.
The Cleric, also equipped with a protective spell of his own, turned and glared at Corbett.
‘You fucking imbecile!’ He shouted as the fiery air dissipated, leaving only patches of the solid floor merrily burning.
‘What?’ Corbett said, holding his hands out to display his own incredulity at what had just happened.
‘What!’ The Cleric shouted, striding towards him, his protective aura still shimmering around his impressive robes. ‘Not only did you boil the fucking air we were breathing, melt the rocks above our heads, and then bring them crashing down, you did it in a gas-filled chamber!’
‘How was I supposed to know it would blow up?’ Corbett protested.
‘It’s your fucking job to know what’s going to blow up. Not to just blow stuff up!’
Corbett could tell that the Cleric wasn’t happy. Perhaps more than that, and Clerics didn’t just make things better. They could use the God given energy they begged from the deities they flattered for other purposes. He took a discreet step backwards.
‘Look, we were losing, you couldn’t keep up your defensive shield on the Warrior, that was perfectly obvious and…’
‘HOW DARE YOU!’ The Cleric bawled. He was angry before, now the man was incandescent with rage.
‘Bloody hell these people really are sensitive to criticism.’ Corbett thought. And then a voice spoke directly to him, bypassing his ears and instead addressing his brain directly.
‘He’s going to smite you. Look at his fingers. They’re twitching. He’s apologising in advance to the God who donated the energy for using it to turn your skeleton to jelly.’
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