A bad day..


Fledgling Freddie
Dec 25, 2003
Deepfat wasn't in a good mood. It had been a bad day in the Church of Albion training hall. The novices had seemed incaple not only of listening to his patient advice but also of learning any skill with the training staves he had long since mastered the use of. All they wanted to do was ask questions of his adventures and ask if Trolls were really as big and ugly as everyone said and other such trivial enquiries. His patience and sacrifice to reach 50 seasons seemed in vain in these if young scamps wouldn't buckle down and learn.

As far as he could recall he went directly to tavern after finishing his duties. He must have been there he assumed (he certainly felt more than a little unsteady on his feet) for a few hours. The more he thought about it the more the evening seemed to fit together piece by piece. With a shudder he recalled dragging a barrel of ale from Camelot to Castle Sauvage. He dimly remembered trying to convince poor Master Visur that of course he can port the cask of ale to lands of Midgard along with him - see it even has a medalion he'd carefully placed on top of the barrel. Master Visur had laughed indulgently and wished him luck in the fronteirs and the cast magics to teleport himself to Midgard. Deepfat had scarcely enough time to fill both his tankards he habitually carried before finding himself in the cold lands of Midgard.

So now Deepfat looked about him seeing the barren land of Midgard. A cold wind seemed blow straight through him chilling him to the bone. He stood with a tankard in each hand wondering how he could carry both and his staff. After a couple of minutes of debate a simple solution occured to him and he drained one of the two tankards and discarded it in favour of his staff. The feel and familiarity of his weapon reminded him what he was doing here and how much he needed a release from the onerous training duties of the day. He cast his spells of strengthening and bolstering on himself - a task he could do no matter what he'd been drinking. Years of training and discipline had drummed the words so hard into his mind no amout of alcohol or Hibernian brain altering magic could erase their memory from his mind.

Deepfat asked for the Lords blessing that night and stepped purposefully (if a little drunkenly) from the safety of the Albion enclave into freezing night of Midgard - the Land of he foes...

More to follow :)

Users who are viewing this thread

Top Bottom