mercury
Fledgling Freddie
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- Jun 27, 2004
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The Adventures of Hazzarrd and McMurk
*Note : any resemblance to characters in-game, living, dead or merely between worlds is entirely intentional, and should be taken as such.
Chapter the First
In which our scene is set.
In which our scene is set.
There are two inns or taverns between Jordheim and the Audliten-Vindsaule turnpike. Rumour has it that there had once been a third, known as the Absent Healer, but this had had the habit of disappearing so often, that after the last time no-one would believe that it had ever existed, and so it remains forever lost. Sometimes in the deep of a dark winter’s night travellers in the region have reported hearing a faint plaintive voice carried on the wind – “I’m not afk, I’m not, I’m not…” it seems to say.
The other two are situated at precisely the half-way stage : The Cross Eyed Tosser on the North side of the road, with The Clueless Jerk opposite. As they are run by twin landlords Sam and Jack Apple, it is hardly a matter of surprise that there is little to choose between them. Their signboards are different, of course. The Cross- Eyed Tosser shows a wild-haired peasant with a pronounced squint trying to quaff a flagon of ale, but instead throwing it over his left shoulder. The Clueless Jerk has a gangling teenage archer standing in front of a large straw target, with a turkey off to one side. An arrow through its throat has pinned the unfortunate bird firmly to a backboard. The watching crowd is depicted in a state of high merriment. This is reputedly based on an actual historical incident. The more observant amongst travellers notice that the signs are rather higher than is necessary. Although you couldn’t wish for a more amiable pair than Sam and Jack, even their patience was stretched on those occasions when the Saturday night revellers from the Jordheim guilds would insist on taking the signs down and swapping them round. Simple solution – put them out of their reach, which really wasn’t that much of a problem, as most of them were Kobolds from The Claw’s Compass.
McMurk, Norseman, lately of the Guild of Skalds, and now disgraced (how was he to know she was the Master’s niece?), crossed the yard of the Clueless Jerk, visited the latrine, and before entering the inn itself, scraped some of the filth from the soles of his Arcanium Smudged Soots. His mother had always insisted on the niceties of life. No dung on her rushes! Pushing open the door he entered the woodsmoke-filled room. Tobacco had not yet filtered through from the degenerates of Albion, and the coal-mines had been worked out and become Abandoned years ago. The wind was in the wrong direction as usual, blowing down the stone chimney and filling the room with an atmosphere at once both fragrant and irritating.
Even ex-Guild members still commanded a degree of respect, being well trained in those arts of offence rather more effective and painful than swearing in public, and though few took any notice of him, the one in his chosen seat by the window quickly moved away muttering – but only to himself. From here McMurk could, without being obvious about it, observe any comings and goings through the grimy glass, made considerably less so by the morning’s rain. Precipitation in the form of cold water, half- or fully frozen was a more-or-less perpetual feature of the Midgardian meteorological scene, but it could have been worse - he had heard stories that in Hibernia the rain never stopped. Business had been slow recently, but he had a good Skald instinct that today they would get the mark they so desperately needed. Men, even highwaymen, cannot live life by bread alone, but it sure went a long way towards making it comfortable. At least one wasn’t a Half-Orc, notorious for eating anything that had once moved (and might still be doing so) including the wife’s mother and any other handy relative that was not paying due attention to important survival techniques.
Not long afterwards a figure, short, but nevertheless imposing for a Kobold, in the robes of a runemaster also slipped inside. He had once been a pillar of the casting community, but owing to an unfortunate mix-up with a water purification scheme, when cholera had turned out to be resistant to a particular spell that had always worked before when he’d had a couple of drinks, he had been given a holiday without pay. Long, they’d specified, permanent they’d implied.
“Well, at least I relieved Mularn of an overpopulation problem,” he’d been heard to observe.
Because customers would insist on edging away from him, he quickly found a seat near the middle of the room, next to a snoring dwarf in blue-grey armour. His once magnificent beard lay in a pool of spilled applejack, and he had clearly seen better days.
“No good for our purposes,” thought Hazzarrd and signalled so to McMurk with a surreptitious movement of his hand. “We’ll have to wait and see if the breeze blows in something with more to offer than this cursed smoke.”
Chapter the Second
In which our Warrior hero makes an appearance.
Turgi was in a foul mood. His wife knew very well how he hated any reference to his height, being a Kobold and all. So he had squirmed inside when she had called him “ My little warrior” as he left for work that morning. In which our Warrior hero makes an appearance.
“These inter-racial partnerships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” he thought sourly. “Even with the best of intentions, Trolls can be so insensitive at times.”
Bad enough he had to pretend to be the Warrior he desperately wanted to be. Bad enough he had to keep up the pretence by riding this smelly old cart instead of taking a public horse – something he knew a Warrior would never do. The peasant carrying him for a few coppers assured him (if with a wide grin) that his cart had never been used for carrying manure – as if his meagre plot could support a whole fleet of carts set aside for particular purposes. Anyway, he would be getting down well before reaching his stake-out for today, the Clueless Jerk Inn. Well he knew the origin of the story on that sign-board. Well he knew how he curled up inside in embarrassment every time he remembered it. He’d only been a boy ferkrisesake. A mere stripling, egged on by his cronies to bite off more than he could chew. Nonetheless, the shoot-master had pocketed the entry fee willingly enough. His first arrow had taken the bird straight through the neck, killing it outright. The eventual winner, a lady of the world known to all and sundry as Spredleggs Vav, had been quite decent about it.
“Look, lad,” she’d said laying a hand on his thin shoulder in what he’d thought had been an over-familiar manner. “It’s not as though it was a Chimera. That was a good shot. Pity you were supposed to aim for the bulls-eye on the target next to the prize.” She had barely been able to suppress a smirk.
“I’ll make a nice roast of it for the week-end. We can easy get another one for Thanksgiving. Anyway, saves us having to feed the bugger till then.”
Needless to say, he did not receive an invitation to Sunday lunch. The laughter and jeers of the crowd still woke him up at night in a cold sweat.
“Tur-key, Tur-key,” the chant echoed through his worst nightmares. Well, the name had stuck as these things do, until only himself and his parents remembered his real name. Oh, he’d tried different spellings, but it was always the same. Turkey it had been, turkey it was and turkey it always would be. Bah!
Leaving the farmer with a grunted word he crossed the inn-yard with what he imagined was a Warrior’s stride. He knew Warriors did not walk and talk – they strode and bellowed, both somewhat difficult for a kobold to perform convincingly. He had managed the arrogance and high-handed manner they affected much better though. It really had to work this time. After the farce in Ashen Isles, he had to regain his reputation. He had spent an age choosing his outfit. Armour serviceable, but not flashy – it was not as though he was actually going to need it for protection. Anyway, it looked the part, and a couple of the pieces even matched. Though dented here and there, not every rust-spot had eaten all the way through the steel. His weapons had needed careful thought. Eventually he settled for a second-hand Cyclopean Cloud Chaser as his main, which was not unusual for a hammer-using Warrior. His secondary was not a common choice though. He chose it because it matched his main perfectly and the Arcanium Stratus would have been his pride and joy, had it been genuine. The cloak was easier and he selected a Feathered-Wrap (synthetic – he wasn’t made of plats) dyed deep crimson, one of the more expensive ordinary dyes. His wife had felt the expense of a Unique was not justified. “Crimson looks just as good as Plum,” she’d rumbled, “And at half the cost.” He was almost sure she had her thoughts more on new stone cladding to match the house than on his appearance. The granite-look was ‘in’ this season and her current sandstone ensemble was more than a little out of date. More bloody expense.
Then there was the Shield.
“Ah, the Shield. A touch of genius that was,” he thought smugly.
Getting a similar response on entry from the assorted peasantry as the other two, he soon found an empty seat, caught the pot-boy’s eye and ordered a half-mug of cider. Glancing round he was not encouraged by what the smoke allowed him to see. This was in direct contrast to the state of mind of McMurk, apparently gazing moodily into his ale, or Hazzarrd, unconcernedly finishing off a large plate of steak and kidney pie. Their hand-signals, could they have been seen and interpreted by outsiders might have aroused considerable interest. The upshot was that they both left, sufficiently far apart that few would have thought them together, and met a mile or so down the road where a patch of ancient forest came close to the track that passed for a road.
“Did you see that cloak,” McMurk was almost drooling. “And the Shield. A plat to a copper it’s a Sentient Tower.”
“Aye, I did that,” replied his companion. Cemion, their grasping, penny-pinching old fence in Kopparens Markenard would be well-pleased. All they had to do now was wait and relieve their mark of his property.
Chapter the Third
In which our three characters eventually meet and part.
“Ah, sod this for a game of candles,” thought Turgi. “There’s nothing doing here. I’m off to check the Turnpike.” But he was damned if he was going to walk the rest of the way. He paid the stable-master the five silver and hired a public mount and tack. He had heard that in distant realms you could buy personal horses, but such new-fangled ideas had not yet reached Midgard. In which our three characters eventually meet and part.
Not being in too much of a hurry he allowed his horse to amble along at a gentle pace. As he rounded a bend and spotted the robed figure in the middle of the road he resigned himself to the inevitable. There was nowhere he could turn off or gallop away. Had he tried, he was convinced that Astral Staff of Swarms presently nestling comfortably in the crook of the runemaster’s left arm would have been put to effective, if painful, use. And that mean-looking Skald skulking by the trees and moving up to join his partner would not have been idle either.
“Hold hard, young fellow. We’d like a word. Kindly step down from your horse.” Not having much choice, Turgi obeyed.
“Now lay your weapons on the ground, carefully. This staff is fully loaded and very effective at a distance. We don’t want any accidental throwing, now do we?” He knew better than to come anywhere near a melee fighter.
“Now the cloak. Fold it neatly please. Creases reduce its value.”
“And now your Sentient Tower Shield.”
“Oh, this?” replied Turgi, unstrapping his crowning touch. “Sorry, it’s not. It’s a Griffin’s Impervious Pelt. Small shield, but looks like a Large.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffed the Skald. “What’s a Warrior doing with a Small shield?”
“Warrior? But I’m not. I’m a Seer. And you will have noticed that for the past few seconds you have been paralysed. It’s an old spell learned off your friend Gjalpinulva. You can’t break it. We know you two alone are responsible for driving Dragons almost to extinction so we thought this spell was kind of appropriate. Up there in their mountain wilderness they’re not doing anyone any harm. The Department don’t like you or what you do.”
“Department. What Department?” croaked Hazzarrd.
“Oh, didn’t I say? Shrouded Isles, Jordheim and Koboldundercity Joint Constabulary."
“Sijok JC,” groaned the pair in unison.
“You’ve heard of us? Good. Been away for a while, but back now in force to save Midgard from the likes of you. Now don’t try to struggle, or the paralysis may spread to your vocal chords and even your respiratory muscles. And don’t panic. When I get back to the office I’ll send someone to cancel the spell and take you into custody. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, that’s if they’ll come out here tonight.”
With that, Turgi, feeling well satisfied with his day’s work, picked up his kit, mounted, and wheeled his horse in the direction of The Clueless Jerk, Jordheim, home, and, of course, his wife.
Fine
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