================================ Saving the World Again You get paid 2 cents a word for this. Chapter 3: Tragical, Comical, Historical, Pastoral By The Black Snotling. ================================ "And just what, dear heart, did you have in mind in terms of provisions?" Julian asked. After the destruction of their home and castle, the couple were left rather short on world-saving material. They had their horses, with appropriate tack and harness; Arica's spellbook, a pair of swords for Justin, and a pair of musty bedrolls. "It would seem to me," Arica reasoned aloud, "that as due-paying, charter members of this so-called Heroes Guild, we should be entitled to a certain stipend for trips of this nature." "Unless, as we guessed, the whole thing is there to keep us happily occupied and content." Arica looked at her husband. "If they want to keep me happily occupied, they had damn well better give us the things we need." ====== Damane let go of the wind with a nonchalant movement of his fingers. Some enemies, at last, he thought. And because I am a sane and rational would-be tyrant and overlord, I will start thwarting them right away. He clapped his hands together, and made a twisting motion with his hands. As always, at these moments, he had a flash of The Dream... but he reluctantly pushed it aside, concentrating on the skein of force in his hands. Casting out, with his mind and power, he called to his old friend and favourite servant... ====== The pair were waiting in the foyer of the Heroes' Guild headquarters, and as one is wont to do in foyers, they talked to pass the time. "Isn't it odd," Arica said, "How there is this whole room built with the sole purpose of walking through?" "Tyler's death got to you, didn't it," her husband replied. The foyer was lavishly decorated with a red plush carpet. The helms of mighty warriors adorned the hall, framed by replicas of their weapons of power. Tapestries of half-naked men with iron in their sinews wrestling with nameless horrors hung next to lavish portraits of wise mages and sages. Pride of place was given to a plaster copy of the Raagstone. "I mean, think how much effort has gone into building this one room and decorating it. At the most, people will only spend five minutes of their lives here. Why not just a couple of couches and some old newspapers?" "That outburst wasn't like you," Julian continued. "You're normally the most restrained and respectful of women towards priests..." The Raagstone, or so legend had it, was the physical and metaphysical rock on which the world of Caera was built. Each of the small ruling families of the kingdoms on the planet's surface- Soros' included- claimed to have been descended from those who touched the stone when the cosmos was new. Those who beheld it- and were found worthy- were granted ultimate power for five minutes. Then again, there were at last count around four hundred similar artifacts listed in the popular grimoire, "Thee Relics ov Thee Ancients," now in its' fiftieth printing, with "Ann Additionalle 20+ Artyfects." "Wouldn't it be strange," Arica continued, "if there was this whole house built of nothing but foyers?" Julian took her face in his hands. "Arica, oh jewel of my horizon, I love you with all my heart, but so help me if you don't answer my question I will scream like a schoolgirl and won't stop until you tell me." There was a pause while Arica considered staying silent to see if he would carry out his threat, and then she hugged him. "I'm sorry... it's just... all throughout our quest, I thought that we were doing what we were doing because we chose too. Because we were dynamic, thinking beings with free will... all those pompous asses telling me that, no, we were wrong all along, that we were merely puppets in some cosmic shadow play..." An astute observer might have seen the semiprecious stones set into the copy Raagstone glinting. And a faint rustle in the air, as if a whisper from far off. That is, if the astute observer wasn't looking at the entrance of Blake. "Master Kestrel. Mistress Llewellyn. A pleasure to meet you again." Arica scowled. "That is "lord" and "lady" respectively, Master Blake. You should know that by now." "I also know that you two are no longer the proprietors of a standing keep, one that was given to you- in trust, might I add- by the King, as a gift, a token of his appreciation. I believe the titles are bound to the keep in some fashion, which escapes my ready recollection at this moment..." "If you know this," Julian said, "then you would also know that we have taken on ourselves to save the world. Again." "Indeed," Blake said. "And just when, might I ask, did you intend to inform the Guild about this... outing?" "GODDAMNIT!" Arica yelled. "I have had enough of this stupid, pointless bureaucracy! And the asinine babblings of addle-brained, impotent, badly-dressed garden gnomes!" She wheeled around and stalked towards Blake. "If it wasn't for us, Brandomere would have flayed you alive and used your skin to blow his snotty little nose. And now, when we propose to save your miserable, pen-pushing, dirty little life again, when all we want to do is gut you like the pig you are, you throw more of your miserable little rules at us!" "Fish," Blake interjected. "One guts fish. Pigs are slaughtered. Much like those who are found guilty of treason, might I add." ===== Elsewhere, in the city of Plot... "So, ve pot is up to ten Gold now, ja?" "Right. And it's your throw." "Okay. So. I vill now throw ze knife, bounce it off ov the rafters, off ov ze vindow, off ov ze keg of Winkel's Auld Stout-" "Make it the brandy, if you're good enough." "Very vell. Off ov ze brandy, over ze merchant's shoulder, a triple-flip over ze chandelererer, and into ze bar girl's ponytail. Nothing but braid." Hans von Gotrek, barbarian hero, rescuer of vestal virgins (willing or not) and looter of temples for hire, made his shot. ====== It wasn't the veritable mountain of release forms that bothered Julian. It wasn't the way they had had to map and plan their itinerary beforehand. It wasn't the fact that they hadn't been able to get a hold of the Burleigh and Stronginthearm crossbow he'd wanted. No. What really, really pissed Julian Kestrel off about the whole affair was having Blake along as the guild observer. "So," the aforementioned scribe said, "our first stop is the independent city-state of Plot?" "Yes," Julian said. Arica refused to address more than two words to Blake at one time, and neither of them were civil. "There are a couple of our old friends there. Hans von Gotrek and Darrow." "I don't recall you having a party when first we met." "We sent them home," Julian said. "It was our fight. We didn't want to endanger their lives." "And not," Arica muttered, "because of some dumb legend at all." Blake pondered this. "This Darrow..." he said, "Does he not have a last name?" "He doesn't like it," Julian said. "It's best not to ask." ====== Rothschild, son of Roth, son of Ro, latest in a long line of would-be earth shamans, loved to play in the woods. He loved the birds. He loved the foxes, the badgers, the three-spronged moss-slimes. The million little creatures, each noble in the way they went about their existence, bothering no-one. The near-imperceptible breathing of the trees. The song of the wild. "Let's play, Kerr," he would say to his childhood friend. "Let's play King of the Woods." "I don't want to," Kerr would usually say. "You always end up winning." "There can be only one winner, Kerr," Rothschild Damane would say. "And that winner is the world. You should know that by now." There were two great blows to the young Damane's heart, in those days. The first came when he learned that his family would have to move away from his beloved forests. Progress, the clerk had said. The way of the future. The kingdom of Soros needed the space for it's lumber industry, to drag it kicking and screaming into the Modern Age. The second came when he saw what poachers did to the bits of the three-spronged moss-slimes they didn't need any more. Rothschild Damane used to be the latest in a long line of earth shamans. Now he is something else. ====== "Hans," Darrow said, sitting on the dirty streets of Plot, "I am never speaking to you again. Never, ever, ever. Apart from this sentence- which I am uttering under great reluctance, and even then only to inform you of my intention never to speak to you again- you will never hear another word from my mouth that is intended for your sole enlightenment, or concourse, if you will. I hereby sever any and all conversational contact and bonds of friendship we once had. So there. Booger-head." The pair sat in silence. "Darrow?" The slight dark-haired alchemist didn't say a word. "Vhat does 'concourse' mean?" More silence. "I mean, it is all vell and goot saying vhat you vill no longer have 'concourse' vith me if I do not know vhat 'concourse' is. Vhat if, unknowningly, I vas to have this 'concourse' vith you and not know it, and ve whole scenario could have been avoided if only you had told me?" "Nope, not going to do it," Darrow muttered to himself. "You're trying to trick my in to talking to you, and this time, I mean it. No how, no sir. No more talking from me." More time passed. "Look, if only ve bastards hadn't weighted ve knife down-" "You killed ten people! In a single throw! There are highly trained assassins who haven't killed that many people in their entire careers! I can't believe you sometimes!" "Vey vere bar patrons!" Hans stood up to his impressive 7 feet, decided he didn't really want to stand up quite so quickly, and sat back down. "Vey knew de risks vhen vey took de job!" Darrow sighed. All Hans needed to do know was start singing "Oh, Tanenbaum, I Lost You to Hildegard," and the night would be complete. ====== Some bright spark- possibly the same bright spark responsible for the Guild of Heroes that our particular heroes find so bothersome- had noticed that there were a large amount of cloaked, mysterious figures that were prone to skulking, usually with intent to scheme. The hypothetical entrepreneur in question had also noticed that there was a certain gap in the market for shops catering to these people's needs. When one needs a great, hooded cloak at short notice, at any time of the day or night, no questions asked, one should go to SinBasInc. SinBasInc- industry slang for "Sinister Bastards Incorporated"- had shops in most major cities. These shops carried a stylish line in scheming stranger apparel- from the traditional shapeless grey robe, to the jet-black upmarket plotter's gear, and encompassing a range of trench-coats, cloaks, doublets, and hose along the way. As a sideline, these stores also stocked accessories- beer-proof map cases, licenses to sit in dark corners in the most disreputable taverns, and for some reason, berets. There was also a back room where plotters could meet with other plotters, should one be desperate and all the dark corners in town were taken. A young man, whom we shall call Kerr- for Kerr is this man's true name- was seated in one of these cubicles. Soon he would speak to a gang of ruffians. This gang of ruffians- it was hoped- would in short order ambush Arica and Julian and either kill them, or more probably, drive them out of town. Kerr, being a sane and rational pawn of darkness, was hoping for the first but counting on the second. He planned to continue this string of character assassinations on Arica and Julian during their whole journey, stopping them every step of the way. It remains to be seen, at this point in the narrative, if he is successful. ====== Arica pulled her horse to a stop in the town square of Plot. She looked around. Plot is a relatively affluent city run by merchant bankers, for merchant bankers, but finding itself having to cater to the baser classes in order to have a readily exploitable work force. Because of this, it has a very vibrant and thriving inner city where one can do all the things one would want to do in the areas regarded as slums by those with money, and miles and miles of bloody suburbs. An obscure law passes many moons ago decreed that any house built in Plot would have a white picket fence, a substantial garden, and if at all possible, topiary. The merchants put so much money into their houses that such things as civic works and beautification only happened by happy accident- or whenever someone's second cousin's brother's son could benefit by taking the contract. This approach lead to some rather odd and tasteless things. The sculpture of Gilgamesh's Hand holding a scale model of Troy's Used Camel Emporium, for example, and the series of avant garde water troughs. Avant garde, used in this sense, means 'tartan,' 'pastel,' and 'unbelievably tasteless.' It is on the outcroppings of one of these horse troughs that Julian and Arica happened upon a rather depressed Darrow and a hung over Felix. "I told Blake to get us a pair of rooms..." Julian said. "Good Lord," he continued, seeing Hans "Dare I ask just where you got that constable's helmet?" "I think-" "Oh, he thinks," Darrow interjected. "Take notes. This is a serious novelty." "Shut up, you puss-ridden putresenenence on ze face ov de vorld. I vas about to say, I think dat dat vould not be a goot idea." "Hans," Arica said, "you haven't changed." She swung off the horse. "Give me a hug, you two lugs." Darrow slumps out of the water trough, extending his arms, before stopping. "Hang on," he said. "I know this one. We're not going to do it." "Vhat?" Hans said, "It's Arica. Ve vaced untold dangers and deadly perils at her and Julian's side. Vhy can't ve giff her a friendly hug?" "This is the bit," Darrow said, stepping back, "Where Julian pipes up and says 'Hey, guys, last summer was pretty cool, huh? We should do that trip again!' and then we say, 'Shit, dude! You're so totally right! Let's go off and get ourselves damn near killed again!' Well I've got news, hero boy. And girl. I'm not stupid. I'm not expendable. And I'm not going." "When did you get so cynical, Dar?" Julian said, off of his high horse now. "As I recall, you were one of the more eager of us to go kill Brandomere." "Vell," Hans said, "I kind of talked him into it." "That," Darrow said, "and the fact that my alchemy course has a metric bucket load of material fees." "You were a mage, of sorts," Arica said, "at least last time we talked..." "The eldritch depths of reality didn't really agree with me," Darrow smiled, with the air of someone launching into a well rehearsed speech. "So I'm a man of science now. If I cast another spell in my life it'll be one spell to many." "You haffent been a full-time alchemist for very long, Dar," Hans piped in. "And you spend most ov that time drinking wiff me." "I'm a student! It's expected!" "So what you're saying is that you're not going to help us prevent the total and utter annihilation of the world," Julian said, firmly. "We've done our bit, friend." Darrow walked towards Julian and put his hand on his shoulder. "People like us... we have our moment. Our one driving quest. And that's it. Unless you're some kind of congenital adrenaline machine like Mr. Pectorals over there. Don't worry about this total oblivion thing. Someone, somewhere, is on the case." Julian sighed. "We're it. The kid who was supposed to be on the case- as you put it- is dead. So it's us versus destiny." "And you know I'm not on speaking terms with destiny." Julian looked at Arica as she said that. "I'm sorry. But I'm staying." "Hit the dirt," Arica replied, pulling Julian down with her. It's a rather odd reply for a rather odd situation. It only seems odd because the same supposedly alert observer has not seen the half dozen armed thugs pointing high-powered enchanted crossbows at the gathered group. With a fierce Barbarian war cry, Hans launched himself at the attackers, the gaudy water trough in both hands. He threw it ahead of himself- catching one in the head- before punching a second in the belly. "I can't take you two anywhere," Julian muttered, drawing a sword. It has been a while since his last real fight- Mewly not withstanding- and he's wondering if he's still in shape... One thug fired his crossbow at Julian, missing. Julian sprinted forward and cold-cocked him with the pommel before slashing at the villain's guts. His old instincts kick in, and he's kneeing the man in the face while seeking his next target. He shouldn't have worried. Arica, on the other hand, was worried about the oncoming city watch. Even a city as decadent as Plot maintained a police force, even if their chief concern was being a pawn in the hands of the wealthy. "This is Detective-sergeant Nwert Holmes! Lay down your arms and you won't be hurt!" "Arica!" Arica turned to see Blake holding three white horses. "We must run! We haven't yet established your presence, and if the Guild finds out-" Arica has time to wonder about Blake's sudden change of character, before mounting her own horse and trotting over to pick up her husband. Darrow finished prying Hans off the gnawed and bloody corpse of another thug. "Hans! It's the cops! We'd better run!" And so our heroes fled like common thieves. ====== "That was very improbable." Arica agreed with Julian, silently. It was too much to expect six men just waiting around to attack them. They seemed too well armed- even in an affluent town like Plot- to be simple thieves. The forest, she decided, was not conducive to rational thought. The sudden cries, the noises of the animals... she found them unsettling. Made her think wild things. "But who would do such a thing?" Darrow asked. "The great mage that you spoke of a while back? Would he expend the effort on such a crappy ambush?" "Ja," Hans agreed. "If you are goink to get some lackeys to kick your enemies ass, you should get some good lackeys for your expended magical efforts. It iz simple logic." The others stared at him. "Oh, I'm sorry. 'I like swords.'" They returned to their conversation. Blake, Arica noticed, was rather silent. The others were too excited to notice, but... She slugged Blake in the face, and he burst into flames. Blake's scream of pain echoed through the forest. He fell off his horse and into the undergrowth- strangely, his horse and the fallen leaves were untouched. He continued to scream, the scream of a man betrayed by his childhood friend... Darrow pulled a vial out of a pocket and threw it at Blake. It burst, some glass cutting into his skin. Where the resulting gas touched, the flames vanished. Blake was left a desiccated, withered husk. "Magic-B-Gone," Darrow said. "Handy little stuff. But what the hell was that for?" "He set us up," Arica said, "I'm sure of it." "Hush," Hans said, "He's trying to say something." The quartet looked at the dying Kerr Blake. "He's mad... quite mad, you know. Even... even then... stop! The flame...!" And he died. Just like that. ====== Author's Notes: Hans is every character Robert E. Howard ever wrote. Darrow is a dual-classed Mage/Alcehmist, say 5/2. This means that he has a fair amount of magic power at his disposal, but he won't use it unless under extreme pressure. He's also a pretentious fuck. He spends five minutes every morning thinking of witty one-liners to say to folks. He always checks to make sure that his cloak hangs the right way on the road. You know. I also apologise for a hefty amount of 'MY mighty characters will take center stage!' I tried to throw in a bit of Damane stuff, some heavy-handed Foreshadowing. As you do. Anyway... I bring RESOURCES! Fear my benevolence! ADVENTURERS: The comic for the console gamer in *you!* http://www.fuzzyfur.net/DSOS/adv/index.shtml The List of Gamer Slang: Should you happen to be considering mocking pen-and-paper RPGs. http://www.gamerjargon.com/ A List of Console RPG Clichés: You can count them on the fingers of a *lot* of hands. http://guardian.simplenet.com/text/rpg.html You know, if I had my way, the next couple of chapters would be like that Baron Munchausen movie, where the good Baron tries to hustle up his posse of badasses only to find half of them retired. Not as in 'well if you fetch Item X then we'll join you' retired. As in leading fulfilling lives as a baker, or a miner, or a pointy-eared florist. It'd be fun! No, really! Your next course of Orc meat will be prepared and served by W4, aka Iron Chef Greyhawk. His time starts now. ----- The Black Snotling. Christchurch, New Zealand May 9, 11, and 31. June 1.