It had been one of those days where every minute had been taken up with something, the sort of day where the till actually had a queue and it seemed there was a never-ending stream of people pulling up into the car park with boot-loads of things to donate. Some people had more than a boot load, one guy turned up in a transit van full of boxes and bags.
"House clearance," he said.
Amanda gave him a cheerful smile and tried not to sigh in dismay at the rapidly growing stack of boxes inside the charity shop. If the area manager was to come down, he would not be happy. It didn't look professional, having the place cluttered up with donations like that. But today there were only two of them in the building. One volunteer had rung in sick and the other was away on holiday. So Danny was on the till and she was doing everything else. She grabbed the nearest box and walked through to the back of the shop where the sorting took place. As she passed the till Danny smiled apologetically. It wasn't his fault, even if he wasn't serving customers, he was in his late sixties and quite frail. He shouldn't be lifting boxes anyway.
She's been working in the charity shop for three years now. It had started as something to occupy her time once the children went to school. She supposed she could have looked for paid work, but James had been funny about that. She had no experience or qualifications, could only have gotten low skilled and low paid work. James had argued that it was demeaning. They had no need of a second wage in the house, she had no need to work at all. He said it looked bad if she was working at something so low-brow. Charity work didn't count as low-brow, apparently.
James had a lot of funny ideas. When they had first met, he was a newly qualified solicitor and she was on work experience. They had kept their relationship secret for months, she had thought her father would be angry at her dating a man ten years her senior. She was right. When the cat was finally let out of the bag, her father went ballistic and demanded she stop seeing him. She hadn't. Instead she'd married him.
Over the years, the relationship between Amanda and her father declined. By the time her mother died, she and her father were barely speaking. Her father called James "that snobby bastard", and James refered to her father as "that old goat". Caught between the two of them, Amanda chose James, she'd never got on particularly well with her father, he was ex military and spent most of her childhood abroad, she figured it was too late now to make up for all those lost years, all that time gone.
Once she'd brought all the boxes in, she opened the first one and began to sort through its contents. Books mainly. Almost exclusively history tomes and historic thrillers. She had no idea people still read them. Three of the boxes contained nothing but books. Another couple of boxes held housewares. Nothing fancy, it seemed who-ever had died, had been a very plain living man. And it must be a man, because all the clothes in the black bags were men’s. The older looking clothes bigger sizes than the new.
The last of the bags held a surprise. She opened it expecting more men’s clothes but instead pulled out a wedding dress. It was old, the lace yellowing a little. Something about the dress seemed familar. She put it on a hanger, hung up on the back of the sorting room door and stared at it. She felt she’d seen it before.
Just a couple more boxes to look through. Trinkets and ornaments in these. She lifted out a wooden carving, an elephant with its trunk held high. A memory came to her. Of when she was small, crouching by the old fireplace and playing with an elephant like this. Her father had a whole menagerie of wooden creatures on the mantelpiece. He'd caught her once, elephant in one hand and giraffe in the other, playing in the still warm ashes. He'd tanned her hide for that little game.
She put the elephant to one side and reached into the box. There was a giraffe. A rhino. An elegant heron. All of these she remembered so well. She looked up at the wedding dress. Her mother's.
Then she put her hands over her face and began to cry.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Friday, 10 January 2014
The Book
You picked the book up because it looked interesting. Not the book itself, it was rather a plain thing, just a plain green book. You assumed it was old and you assumed it had once been covered with a dust-jacket. You were right on one count but wrong on the other. It never had a dust-jacket.
So it wasn't the cover that made it interesting. Was it the title? Or lack of one rather. There had been a title there at one point, but the lettering had all been rubbed off, just a few imprints of lines and curves remaining. Not enough to truly decipher.
No, it wasn't the book itself, but where you found it. If it had been on a shelf somewhere, in a neglected section of the library, or a seldom dusted shelf in a pub alcove, you wouldn't have looked twice; such books blend into the background, become scenery. And if it had been in a box of secondhand books at a car boot sale, you again wouldn't have looked at it twice, your attention diverted by flashy covers of newer books.
But no, this book was in none of those places. This book had been on the roof of your car.
You can't remember where you had been, and that's not even important now. You do remember stopping a few feet away, your car keys in your hand, and just staring. Such an odd thing to find. You remember how the olive green of the book stood out, clashed against the cherry red of the car. You remember thinking of apples and strawberries, of some bad pun about leaves.
You picked it up and glanced down the street. There was no-one about. It could not have fallen there, it must have been carefully placed, and you can think of no good reason why.
Eventually you stopped wondering why, and simply flipped the book open. Perhaps you were looking for a name on the inside. This book belongs to ... whoever. Perhaps you were curious to see how bad a book has to be before a person loses enough interest in it and abandons it mid-journey. It probably occured to you that maybe one person had dropped it and another presumed it was yours and placed it on the roof. None of that matters now.
The book's pages were yellowed and faded. For the first time you realised your initial estimate of 'old' was being kind. The book was ancient. And not even in English. It looked like Latin, but you weren't sure. Then you began to wonder if such a book may be worth something.
You made a few phonecalls, perhaps called into a couple of bookshops. Your enquiries were vague, because greed had gotten to you a little bit and you were then almost convinced it was worth money, perhaps a lot of money.
And then you had the idea to use google translate and see what it was all about.
You decided not to start at the beginning, but chose a block of text under a badly drawn illustration . It took you half an hour to type the paragraphs into the tiny text box, checking the spelling of the unfamilar words every minute or so. You wanted to get a decent chunk of it in there, enough to get a proper grasp of what it was. As you typed, you tried to read it aloud, slowly and probably with terrible pronunciation.
Then you clicked 'translate' and waited. You didn't have to wait very long. Google could not translate it.
Some people would have given up at that point, but you didn't. You took to reading large portions of the book to yourself. It became almost a form of poetry, perhaps you found the nonsense words soothing, a mantra to clear your mind. Maybe your initial curiousity had bloomed into a raging thirst to know, to comprehend.
You began to dream of the book. Especially the large, intricately drawn first letters of each chapter.
You found yourself doodling the lettering.
And then finally you found an answer. You had no idea what the main text read, but those lovely little illustrated capitals spelt out a message.
It said if you kept the book, you would die. Unless you gave it to someone else, and they read it.
You tried to sell the book on ebay, but took it down after thinking that selling was not giving. You walked into a charity shop with the express intention of donating it, but you knew that the book would go unchosen, upstaged by the flashy new books already on the shelf.
You got the feeling time was running out.
You considered leaving it on the roof of someone else's car, but it was such a gamble. They may just throw it away. They may flick through it and see it was not in English and give up. If you just had to give it away, that would be easy, no, the hard part was getting the person to read it.
Then you thought about the young woman in the bookshop, the one who'd laughingly told you, as she looked up from a book almost as old, that she never gave up on a book, that she had a special interest in the arcane. And you were tempted to give it to her. So ridiculously tempted.
But you decided you couldn't do that.
And so now you sit, like you have so many nights lately, with the book in your hands, reciting the words, waiting for death. You're almost certain it's coming soon. You've stopped going out, stopped getting dressed. In the last week you've barely eaten.
And as you read the book for perhaps the final time, you run your fingers down the spine and your wasted fingers spell out the title. You think it may have been called 'Self Fulfilling Prophecy'.
So it wasn't the cover that made it interesting. Was it the title? Or lack of one rather. There had been a title there at one point, but the lettering had all been rubbed off, just a few imprints of lines and curves remaining. Not enough to truly decipher.
No, it wasn't the book itself, but where you found it. If it had been on a shelf somewhere, in a neglected section of the library, or a seldom dusted shelf in a pub alcove, you wouldn't have looked twice; such books blend into the background, become scenery. And if it had been in a box of secondhand books at a car boot sale, you again wouldn't have looked at it twice, your attention diverted by flashy covers of newer books.
But no, this book was in none of those places. This book had been on the roof of your car.
You can't remember where you had been, and that's not even important now. You do remember stopping a few feet away, your car keys in your hand, and just staring. Such an odd thing to find. You remember how the olive green of the book stood out, clashed against the cherry red of the car. You remember thinking of apples and strawberries, of some bad pun about leaves.
You picked it up and glanced down the street. There was no-one about. It could not have fallen there, it must have been carefully placed, and you can think of no good reason why.
Eventually you stopped wondering why, and simply flipped the book open. Perhaps you were looking for a name on the inside. This book belongs to ... whoever. Perhaps you were curious to see how bad a book has to be before a person loses enough interest in it and abandons it mid-journey. It probably occured to you that maybe one person had dropped it and another presumed it was yours and placed it on the roof. None of that matters now.
The book's pages were yellowed and faded. For the first time you realised your initial estimate of 'old' was being kind. The book was ancient. And not even in English. It looked like Latin, but you weren't sure. Then you began to wonder if such a book may be worth something.
You made a few phonecalls, perhaps called into a couple of bookshops. Your enquiries were vague, because greed had gotten to you a little bit and you were then almost convinced it was worth money, perhaps a lot of money.
And then you had the idea to use google translate and see what it was all about.
You decided not to start at the beginning, but chose a block of text under a badly drawn illustration . It took you half an hour to type the paragraphs into the tiny text box, checking the spelling of the unfamilar words every minute or so. You wanted to get a decent chunk of it in there, enough to get a proper grasp of what it was. As you typed, you tried to read it aloud, slowly and probably with terrible pronunciation.
Then you clicked 'translate' and waited. You didn't have to wait very long. Google could not translate it.
Some people would have given up at that point, but you didn't. You took to reading large portions of the book to yourself. It became almost a form of poetry, perhaps you found the nonsense words soothing, a mantra to clear your mind. Maybe your initial curiousity had bloomed into a raging thirst to know, to comprehend.
You began to dream of the book. Especially the large, intricately drawn first letters of each chapter.
You found yourself doodling the lettering.
And then finally you found an answer. You had no idea what the main text read, but those lovely little illustrated capitals spelt out a message.
It said if you kept the book, you would die. Unless you gave it to someone else, and they read it.
You tried to sell the book on ebay, but took it down after thinking that selling was not giving. You walked into a charity shop with the express intention of donating it, but you knew that the book would go unchosen, upstaged by the flashy new books already on the shelf.
You got the feeling time was running out.
You considered leaving it on the roof of someone else's car, but it was such a gamble. They may just throw it away. They may flick through it and see it was not in English and give up. If you just had to give it away, that would be easy, no, the hard part was getting the person to read it.
Then you thought about the young woman in the bookshop, the one who'd laughingly told you, as she looked up from a book almost as old, that she never gave up on a book, that she had a special interest in the arcane. And you were tempted to give it to her. So ridiculously tempted.
But you decided you couldn't do that.
And so now you sit, like you have so many nights lately, with the book in your hands, reciting the words, waiting for death. You're almost certain it's coming soon. You've stopped going out, stopped getting dressed. In the last week you've barely eaten.
And as you read the book for perhaps the final time, you run your fingers down the spine and your wasted fingers spell out the title. You think it may have been called 'Self Fulfilling Prophecy'.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Birthday Wishes
Be careful what you wish for. It’s one of those phrases that people like to say to you when they’ve asked you what you desire and you’ve made the stupid mistake of telling them. They also usually add “it won’t come true now you’ve said it.”
This was a conversation I had many times. At each birthday I would pull my hair away from my face and blow out the candles. The year I had a caterpillar cake and four candles, I wished for a puppy. That one didn’t come true. The year I had ten pink candles on a ghastly princess cake, I wished for a pony. That one didn’t come true either.
There was neither candles nor cake for my eleventh birthday. Just a fiver in a card that read ‘love Dad xx’. My birthday cards perched alongside those that read ‘condolences’ and ‘in deepest sympathy’. That was the first year I wished for something impossible. I wished for my mother back.
Over the years this was the theme for my birthday wishes. I mean it changed, sometimes I added ‘I wish no-one had to die’, or the morbid ‘may I die before my children, but not before I’m old’. Sometimes I threw in ‘and peace on earth’. And then there was that year when I was seventeen and hated the world. My wish that year wasn’t for peace on earth or immortality, but a desire for everything to end, a raging apocalypse to mirror my own emotions. But aside from that year...
I never spoke these wishes aloud. So they had a shot at coming true.
And they did.
The world is calmer now. There’s no war anymore. Not after that last one. It lasted a couple of years but we won eventually. There’s no fighting, neighbour rarely raises a hand against neighbour. We spend our days peacefully roaming the earth; my children and my parents beside me. They will never die, they are already dead.
Be careful what you wish for.
This was a conversation I had many times. At each birthday I would pull my hair away from my face and blow out the candles. The year I had a caterpillar cake and four candles, I wished for a puppy. That one didn’t come true. The year I had ten pink candles on a ghastly princess cake, I wished for a pony. That one didn’t come true either.
There was neither candles nor cake for my eleventh birthday. Just a fiver in a card that read ‘love Dad xx’. My birthday cards perched alongside those that read ‘condolences’ and ‘in deepest sympathy’. That was the first year I wished for something impossible. I wished for my mother back.
Over the years this was the theme for my birthday wishes. I mean it changed, sometimes I added ‘I wish no-one had to die’, or the morbid ‘may I die before my children, but not before I’m old’. Sometimes I threw in ‘and peace on earth’. And then there was that year when I was seventeen and hated the world. My wish that year wasn’t for peace on earth or immortality, but a desire for everything to end, a raging apocalypse to mirror my own emotions. But aside from that year...
I never spoke these wishes aloud. So they had a shot at coming true.
And they did.
The world is calmer now. There’s no war anymore. Not after that last one. It lasted a couple of years but we won eventually. There’s no fighting, neighbour rarely raises a hand against neighbour. We spend our days peacefully roaming the earth; my children and my parents beside me. They will never die, they are already dead.
Be careful what you wish for.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
New year, new posts
I am surprised I can actually still get into this blog. Poor neglected thing it is. I slid off the radar last year but this year I promise to do better. No serials, but I've promised my dad I will do #FridayFlash, so at least one post a week. Maybe I'll even get back into 750 words...
Friday, 15 February 2013
The Quest 5
LEVEL 1: First encounter
The problem with sewers, Garrial thought, was that they all looked the same. He knew that outsiders tended to think the same went for woodland. He begged to differ. To the untrained eye a tree may just be a tree but to him each was as individual as people in a crowd. Even if the trees were all the same species, he could tell each one apart. Trees had character. Bricks did not have character. Each brick looked the same, uniformly dull. Each passageway they travelled looked the same, also uniformly dull.
"Mi'lady, are you entirely positive we are going the right way?"
Merryn snorted. A quite unladylike sound. "You cannot get lost in a sewer."
Garrial rather thought you could and suspected they already had. He'd spotted the same dead rat three times. Or at least, three times he'd spotted what looked to be the same dead rat. He vowed to mark it next time he had to step over it. It wasn't that he wished to point out Merryn's failure to navigate but he couldn't deny, the satisfaction of doing so would be sweet. A few minutes later he spotted the rat and saw his chance. It took only a minute to drop his blade down and sever the rat's tail.
They took a left, then another left.
Then Merryn stopped.
"What is it?" Ulric whispered.
"Shh, listen."
They listened. The sewer was not exactly silent. Between the burbling of the odious sewer sludge running past their feet, the squeaking of hidden rats, the flapping of (probably very lost) bats and the sound of three people trying very hard to breathe quietly, Garrial thought he could actually hear something. It grew louder, until he was definitely sure. Footsteps. Small light footsteps, like a child.
The kobold came around the corner, small sword in one hand and a small green bottle in the other. It pulled up short as it reached them, glared at them with furious but slightly glazed eyes. His gaze flicked from axe to bow to mage staff.
Then it uttered something that rhymed with "luck", turned tail and fled.
Garrial didn't even blink. The arrow had left his bow in a matter of seconds. The Kobold splatted on the stone floor, his sword clattering from his hand.
"Good shot," Merryn said. "Are you okay? Do you want a little sit down now?"
The kobold clambered to it's feet, chittering angrily.
Garrial shot it again. The kobold slumped to the floor. It twitched.
"It's not dead," Ulric said. "Shoot it again."
Garrial plucked another arrow from the quiver. Then he slid it back inside and took his dagger instead, one of his least favourite jobs was cleaning arrows. A fresh arrow was a beautiful thing to behold, all sleek and smooth. A used arrow was usually smeared with gore, gloopy around the edges. But they made your quiver stink if they were not cleaned properly, so the dagger it was.
He crept up on the kobold, it was rapidly regaining consciousness, thrashing around and squeaking. He wasn't sure if he should jab it in the heart or go for the head. The head would be surer, especially if he could spear the eye, but up close and personal to death he found himself shying away from it.
"Oh just get on with it," Merryn called. "Would you like me to do it instead?"
Garrial didn't. He would never hear the end of it if Merryn had to dispatch the damned thing. He steeled himself and jabbed the kobold in its chest. It let out a small sigh and relaxed. Garrial withdrew his dagger, wiped it on the kobold's shirt, and then stuck it back into its scabbard.
He turned to his friends. "It's dead," he said.
It wasn't. Garrial barely noticed the stealthy pawlike hand creeping around his ankle. Although he certainly felt it when the kobold yanked his foot and turfed him to the floor. Shoddy armour notwithstanding, it hurt. Garrial blinked back tears as stars swept across his vision. The kobold flipped over, lunged at his throat, it's teeth just inches away from Garrial's face.
Garrial scrabbled for his dagger. It caught on the scabbard. The kobold snapped its jaws closed, the teeth grazing the tip of Garrial's nose, the creature's fingers grasping for Garrial's eyes. It was strong, far stronger than the elf had expected. And it was a wick ball of fury, all claws and teeth. Garrial felt its teeth sink into the soft flesh of his cheek.
He tried to punch it, and the thing bit harder. Garrial couldn't help it. He shrieked. The kobold opened its jaws and reached in for another bite.
Then blood poured over Garrial's face, filling his vision, spurting down into his mouth. For a few long moments garrial thought his own blood was washing his face. Then his vision cleared and he saw Merryn above him, her axe blade still dripping. She held a hand out to him.
The kobold rolled to the floor, its head neatly cleaved in two. For the second time in as many days, the elf had to find a corner and discreetly empty his stomach.
"Thought you needed a little bit of help," Merryn grinned.
Garrial could only nod weakly.
They set off again, leaving the kobold growing cold in its own blood. Moments later they passed the dead rat. Yet again. Hoping to save some face Garrial glanced down at its tail, almost gleeful at being able to point out Merryn's failure. Except its tail was unbroken.
The thing about rats, Garrial thought, was that they all looked the same. Uniformly small, filthy smug little bastards. Much like dwarves in fact.
The problem with sewers, Garrial thought, was that they all looked the same. He knew that outsiders tended to think the same went for woodland. He begged to differ. To the untrained eye a tree may just be a tree but to him each was as individual as people in a crowd. Even if the trees were all the same species, he could tell each one apart. Trees had character. Bricks did not have character. Each brick looked the same, uniformly dull. Each passageway they travelled looked the same, also uniformly dull.
"Mi'lady, are you entirely positive we are going the right way?"
Merryn snorted. A quite unladylike sound. "You cannot get lost in a sewer."
Garrial rather thought you could and suspected they already had. He'd spotted the same dead rat three times. Or at least, three times he'd spotted what looked to be the same dead rat. He vowed to mark it next time he had to step over it. It wasn't that he wished to point out Merryn's failure to navigate but he couldn't deny, the satisfaction of doing so would be sweet. A few minutes later he spotted the rat and saw his chance. It took only a minute to drop his blade down and sever the rat's tail.
They took a left, then another left.
Then Merryn stopped.
"What is it?" Ulric whispered.
"Shh, listen."
They listened. The sewer was not exactly silent. Between the burbling of the odious sewer sludge running past their feet, the squeaking of hidden rats, the flapping of (probably very lost) bats and the sound of three people trying very hard to breathe quietly, Garrial thought he could actually hear something. It grew louder, until he was definitely sure. Footsteps. Small light footsteps, like a child.
The kobold came around the corner, small sword in one hand and a small green bottle in the other. It pulled up short as it reached them, glared at them with furious but slightly glazed eyes. His gaze flicked from axe to bow to mage staff.
Then it uttered something that rhymed with "luck", turned tail and fled.
Garrial didn't even blink. The arrow had left his bow in a matter of seconds. The Kobold splatted on the stone floor, his sword clattering from his hand.
"Good shot," Merryn said. "Are you okay? Do you want a little sit down now?"
The kobold clambered to it's feet, chittering angrily.
Garrial shot it again. The kobold slumped to the floor. It twitched.
"It's not dead," Ulric said. "Shoot it again."
Garrial plucked another arrow from the quiver. Then he slid it back inside and took his dagger instead, one of his least favourite jobs was cleaning arrows. A fresh arrow was a beautiful thing to behold, all sleek and smooth. A used arrow was usually smeared with gore, gloopy around the edges. But they made your quiver stink if they were not cleaned properly, so the dagger it was.
He crept up on the kobold, it was rapidly regaining consciousness, thrashing around and squeaking. He wasn't sure if he should jab it in the heart or go for the head. The head would be surer, especially if he could spear the eye, but up close and personal to death he found himself shying away from it.
"Oh just get on with it," Merryn called. "Would you like me to do it instead?"
Garrial didn't. He would never hear the end of it if Merryn had to dispatch the damned thing. He steeled himself and jabbed the kobold in its chest. It let out a small sigh and relaxed. Garrial withdrew his dagger, wiped it on the kobold's shirt, and then stuck it back into its scabbard.
He turned to his friends. "It's dead," he said.
It wasn't. Garrial barely noticed the stealthy pawlike hand creeping around his ankle. Although he certainly felt it when the kobold yanked his foot and turfed him to the floor. Shoddy armour notwithstanding, it hurt. Garrial blinked back tears as stars swept across his vision. The kobold flipped over, lunged at his throat, it's teeth just inches away from Garrial's face.
Garrial scrabbled for his dagger. It caught on the scabbard. The kobold snapped its jaws closed, the teeth grazing the tip of Garrial's nose, the creature's fingers grasping for Garrial's eyes. It was strong, far stronger than the elf had expected. And it was a wick ball of fury, all claws and teeth. Garrial felt its teeth sink into the soft flesh of his cheek.
He tried to punch it, and the thing bit harder. Garrial couldn't help it. He shrieked. The kobold opened its jaws and reached in for another bite.
Then blood poured over Garrial's face, filling his vision, spurting down into his mouth. For a few long moments garrial thought his own blood was washing his face. Then his vision cleared and he saw Merryn above him, her axe blade still dripping. She held a hand out to him.
The kobold rolled to the floor, its head neatly cleaved in two. For the second time in as many days, the elf had to find a corner and discreetly empty his stomach.
"Thought you needed a little bit of help," Merryn grinned.
Garrial could only nod weakly.
They set off again, leaving the kobold growing cold in its own blood. Moments later they passed the dead rat. Yet again. Hoping to save some face Garrial glanced down at its tail, almost gleeful at being able to point out Merryn's failure. Except its tail was unbroken.
The thing about rats, Garrial thought, was that they all looked the same. Uniformly small, filthy smug little bastards. Much like dwarves in fact.
Thursday, 7 February 2013
The quest 4
LEVEL 1: INTO THE SEWERS
The next morning, the three of them gathered at The Rabid Goblin for a last minute equipment check and a final draught of beer before they set off on their very first quest. Merryn had spent much of the previous evening arguing with Harnod about her list of expenses. It seemed reasonable to her that Harnod should provide them with the means to stock up on Health and Mana potions, not to mention extra arrows and if possible, a map. Harnod had blanched a little at her requests but had acceded eventually, allowing them to open an account with the merchant who was sitting, yet again, at the corner table.
After Merryn had finished arguing with Harnod, the merchant had also tried his hand at bargaining with her. Like Harnod, he found her to be the driver of a very hard bargain. Ulric could well understand why dwarves had a reputation for being miserly, this was also why Merryn was usually in charge of the finances. That and she wouldn't let anyone else touch it. The merchant had offered them potions at 10 gold coins apiece, Merryn walked back to her friends with a dozen varied potions, a large quiver of arrows, a ring of good fortune and a discount of thirty per cent.
With all their provisions stashed safely away, the map studied and Garrial's shoes finally clean, they decided they were as ready as they would ever be and they should make a start. Garrial claimed a good luck kiss from the barwench Ellysia and they descended into the cellar.
At some point in the intervening hours, someone had come down to the cellar and removed all the rat corpses. Aside from a few splashes of blood and the faint but lingering scent of Garrial's shame, the cellar was clean. Ulric touched the key which now hung from a fine silver chain around his neck. He was nervous, but exhilarated. Finally, all the years of training and theory, finally his career was starting. He unlocked the fake door at the end of the cellar and they stepped into the first chamber of the sewers. The heavy door slid closed behind them.
The room beyond the cellar was pitch black. Ulric stood for a moment in the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust, but knew it was hopeless, there was no light source at all. "Did anyone bring a torch?"
Merryn snorted. "Of course we did, what sort of idiot goes into the sewers without some sort of light?"
"Well, light it then," Ulric urged, he was getting rather nervous, who knew what was lurking in the dark? There could be two dozen orcs in there and he wouldn't know.
"Garrial's got it," Merryn said.
"I fear I have not," Garrial's voice came from behind him. "I was not given any torch."
"I gave it to you!"
"I believe you are mistaken."
"At the table, before you started eating the face off that elven wench,"
"I was not given anything, if you left them on the table, it may have been advisable for you to alert me to that fact."
"So go back up for the damn things," Merryn demanded. "Never mind, I'll go up, make sure we actually get them. Um... where's the door?"
"Behind you," Ulric said.
"I can't see it."
There was a shuffling, a low-voiced bout of profanities and then a slightly longer and louder torrent of dwarven obscenities. And then Ulric remembered he was a sorcerer. He flicked his middle finger against his thumb and invoked the Endless Flame spell. At last, they could actually see.
They were standing in a small chamber, probably ten by ten strides. A large rusted gate hung askew on the far wall, and several crates were piled up against the wall on their left. There was nothing waiting to attack them.
"I'll warn you now," Ulric said, "I can't keep this flame going and cast other invocations."
Merryn, having located the door, stomped off back through it. Ulric heard her swearing die away as she presumably went back up for the torches.
They waited for Merryn to return, Ulric with his hand held aloft, the six inch flame flickering gently, Garrial leaning against the nearest wall. Merryn seemed to be taking ages.
"This gentlemen's club," Garrial asked, "you do not think it actually exists?"
Ulric shrugged. "I don't know, some lads in the year above us at the academy reckoned they'd been, but then again, one of them used to tell everyone that he'd single-handedly killed three balrogs and a beholder when i know for a fact it was one balrog that was already half dead, and a tiny beholder the size of his fist." Ulric would not have been at all surprised to find out this club was nothing more than a low class brothel. Though an underground brothel was new to him. Maybe it was run by goblins. He shuddered.
"If we rescue her mother, do you think I could ask for the hand of Ellysia?" Garrial asked.
Ulric laughed, "what happened to the last one? The barbarian girl you were seeing?"
Garrial sighed, "alas, I found her to be somewhat... demanding."
"What he means is," Merryn said, finally rejoining them, "he couldn't keep up with her sexual appetites."
Garrial blushed. "I would like to marry an elven girl, they are so much more gentle, more refined."
"See?" Merryn nudged the elf, "he couldn't satisfy her. Now, are we getting started?"
The three of them stepped through the rusty gate.
"Left or right?" Ulric asked.
"Left," Merryn announced as Garrial said to go right.
Ulric sighed and opened the map. It was going to be a long quest.
The next morning, the three of them gathered at The Rabid Goblin for a last minute equipment check and a final draught of beer before they set off on their very first quest. Merryn had spent much of the previous evening arguing with Harnod about her list of expenses. It seemed reasonable to her that Harnod should provide them with the means to stock up on Health and Mana potions, not to mention extra arrows and if possible, a map. Harnod had blanched a little at her requests but had acceded eventually, allowing them to open an account with the merchant who was sitting, yet again, at the corner table.
After Merryn had finished arguing with Harnod, the merchant had also tried his hand at bargaining with her. Like Harnod, he found her to be the driver of a very hard bargain. Ulric could well understand why dwarves had a reputation for being miserly, this was also why Merryn was usually in charge of the finances. That and she wouldn't let anyone else touch it. The merchant had offered them potions at 10 gold coins apiece, Merryn walked back to her friends with a dozen varied potions, a large quiver of arrows, a ring of good fortune and a discount of thirty per cent.
With all their provisions stashed safely away, the map studied and Garrial's shoes finally clean, they decided they were as ready as they would ever be and they should make a start. Garrial claimed a good luck kiss from the barwench Ellysia and they descended into the cellar.
At some point in the intervening hours, someone had come down to the cellar and removed all the rat corpses. Aside from a few splashes of blood and the faint but lingering scent of Garrial's shame, the cellar was clean. Ulric touched the key which now hung from a fine silver chain around his neck. He was nervous, but exhilarated. Finally, all the years of training and theory, finally his career was starting. He unlocked the fake door at the end of the cellar and they stepped into the first chamber of the sewers. The heavy door slid closed behind them.
The room beyond the cellar was pitch black. Ulric stood for a moment in the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust, but knew it was hopeless, there was no light source at all. "Did anyone bring a torch?"
Merryn snorted. "Of course we did, what sort of idiot goes into the sewers without some sort of light?"
"Well, light it then," Ulric urged, he was getting rather nervous, who knew what was lurking in the dark? There could be two dozen orcs in there and he wouldn't know.
"Garrial's got it," Merryn said.
"I fear I have not," Garrial's voice came from behind him. "I was not given any torch."
"I gave it to you!"
"I believe you are mistaken."
"At the table, before you started eating the face off that elven wench,"
"I was not given anything, if you left them on the table, it may have been advisable for you to alert me to that fact."
"So go back up for the damn things," Merryn demanded. "Never mind, I'll go up, make sure we actually get them. Um... where's the door?"
"Behind you," Ulric said.
"I can't see it."
There was a shuffling, a low-voiced bout of profanities and then a slightly longer and louder torrent of dwarven obscenities. And then Ulric remembered he was a sorcerer. He flicked his middle finger against his thumb and invoked the Endless Flame spell. At last, they could actually see.
They were standing in a small chamber, probably ten by ten strides. A large rusted gate hung askew on the far wall, and several crates were piled up against the wall on their left. There was nothing waiting to attack them.
"I'll warn you now," Ulric said, "I can't keep this flame going and cast other invocations."
Merryn, having located the door, stomped off back through it. Ulric heard her swearing die away as she presumably went back up for the torches.
They waited for Merryn to return, Ulric with his hand held aloft, the six inch flame flickering gently, Garrial leaning against the nearest wall. Merryn seemed to be taking ages.
"This gentlemen's club," Garrial asked, "you do not think it actually exists?"
Ulric shrugged. "I don't know, some lads in the year above us at the academy reckoned they'd been, but then again, one of them used to tell everyone that he'd single-handedly killed three balrogs and a beholder when i know for a fact it was one balrog that was already half dead, and a tiny beholder the size of his fist." Ulric would not have been at all surprised to find out this club was nothing more than a low class brothel. Though an underground brothel was new to him. Maybe it was run by goblins. He shuddered.
"If we rescue her mother, do you think I could ask for the hand of Ellysia?" Garrial asked.
Ulric laughed, "what happened to the last one? The barbarian girl you were seeing?"
Garrial sighed, "alas, I found her to be somewhat... demanding."
"What he means is," Merryn said, finally rejoining them, "he couldn't keep up with her sexual appetites."
Garrial blushed. "I would like to marry an elven girl, they are so much more gentle, more refined."
"See?" Merryn nudged the elf, "he couldn't satisfy her. Now, are we getting started?"
The three of them stepped through the rusty gate.
"Left or right?" Ulric asked.
"Left," Merryn announced as Garrial said to go right.
Ulric sighed and opened the map. It was going to be a long quest.
Tuesday, 5 February 2013
The Quest 3
LEVEL 1 : HARNOD'S QUEST
The three of them staggered back upstairs into the tavern. The took up their previous seats at the bar, all now a little worse for wear. Merryn and Ulric both had splashes of blood on their clothes, Garrial's attire was clean, but neither of his friends wanted to sit too close to him, he still carried the shameful odour of vomit.
Harnod stepped forward and placed the small bag of coins on the bar. "Your reward."
Merryn's hand snatched the coin purse from the bar, it clinked, she couldn't wait to count it.
"That's for the three of us," Ulric reminded her.
"I'm making sure it's all there," she replied, but in truth she just wanted to feel it. The gold was cool against her palms, but soon warmed. She could smell it, a sort of warm yellowy scent, the sweetest perfume she knew. There was some silver in the bag too, the scent of that was cooler, more metallic.
"It's all there," Harnod bristled, then sniffed. "So you didn't have a problem with the rats then?"
"We even killed their king," Garrial said.
"Queen," Merryn corrected him. Stupid Elves, could they not tell a male rat from a female one? "If that had been a king, his balls would have been bigger than yours," she informed him, and then added, cackling "in fact, she probably did have bigger balls than you."
Ulric grinned. "I don't think our friend likes the sight of blood."
Merryn clapped Garrial on the back. "This is why he's an archer, so he can kill from a safe distance, isn't it Gar?" An evil glint sparkled in her eye as she added, "or is it "Garrughaghugh?"
"I am the finest archer in my village," Garrial sniffed, "I could take down a soaring eagle before you even see it."
"But you fail at basic rat biology and your stomach turns inside out the moment you have to do any actual fighting?" Merryn raised an eyebrow, "are you sure you're cut out for this? At least now I know why you're a vegetarian."
Ulric sighed. He turned to Harnod. "There's a door at the far end of the cellar, where does it lead?"
"To the sewers, were you thinking of going exploring in there?" Harnod smiled. "I have the key, I would be glad to give it to you..."
"Is there gold under there?" Merryn asked.
"In the sewers? I believe there is a few hidden caches of treasure, it was well used by several thieves guilds at one point. Of course, there is no thieves guild any more, the militia have seen to that." Harnod paused, "and of course, legend has it that the Hellishly Fine Ladies Club is also down there."
At this point the lovely barwench gasped.
Garrial, who had been resting with his head on the bar top suddenly sat bolt upright. "The Hellishly Fine Ladies Club? What's that?"
"It's an exclusive gentlemen's club," Ulric told him, "definitely illegal and probably mythical."
"It's not mythical," the barwench said, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Harnod threw her a pointed look. He turned to the adventurers, a smile painted on his face.
"Several years ago, I lost my wife. Rumours have it that she was taken down into the sewers and she now resides with other ladies in that club."
"And you never went after her?" Merryn asked.
Harnod shook his head, his expression was the perfect mask of regret and sorrow. "I am not an adventurous man, I had a young daughter; Ellysia here, and my business. If I had perished down there, what would have become of her?"
"We shall find your wife!" Garrial cried, "the key!"
Merryn prodded him none too gently in the ribs. "Is this what you are asking us? To go through the door, find where the ladies are being held captive, and bring your wife back home?"
Harnod inclined his head, the barest of replies.
"How much?"
"I could not possibly put a price on my sweet love's head," Harnod pleaded. "I beg of you, let us not bring financial bargaining into this."
"A grand apiece," Merryn suggested. "Plus expenses."
Harnod swallowed, "that much?"
"Surely no price is too high to get your sweet love back?" Merryn asked gently, she got the feeling she had asked for too little. A feeling compounded when he agreed without haggling. Never mind, they had yet to agree on expenses, and Merryn had quite a list.
The three of them staggered back upstairs into the tavern. The took up their previous seats at the bar, all now a little worse for wear. Merryn and Ulric both had splashes of blood on their clothes, Garrial's attire was clean, but neither of his friends wanted to sit too close to him, he still carried the shameful odour of vomit.
Harnod stepped forward and placed the small bag of coins on the bar. "Your reward."
Merryn's hand snatched the coin purse from the bar, it clinked, she couldn't wait to count it.
"That's for the three of us," Ulric reminded her.
"I'm making sure it's all there," she replied, but in truth she just wanted to feel it. The gold was cool against her palms, but soon warmed. She could smell it, a sort of warm yellowy scent, the sweetest perfume she knew. There was some silver in the bag too, the scent of that was cooler, more metallic.
"It's all there," Harnod bristled, then sniffed. "So you didn't have a problem with the rats then?"
"We even killed their king," Garrial said.
"Queen," Merryn corrected him. Stupid Elves, could they not tell a male rat from a female one? "If that had been a king, his balls would have been bigger than yours," she informed him, and then added, cackling "in fact, she probably did have bigger balls than you."
Ulric grinned. "I don't think our friend likes the sight of blood."
Merryn clapped Garrial on the back. "This is why he's an archer, so he can kill from a safe distance, isn't it Gar?" An evil glint sparkled in her eye as she added, "or is it "Garrughaghugh?"
"I am the finest archer in my village," Garrial sniffed, "I could take down a soaring eagle before you even see it."
"But you fail at basic rat biology and your stomach turns inside out the moment you have to do any actual fighting?" Merryn raised an eyebrow, "are you sure you're cut out for this? At least now I know why you're a vegetarian."
Ulric sighed. He turned to Harnod. "There's a door at the far end of the cellar, where does it lead?"
"To the sewers, were you thinking of going exploring in there?" Harnod smiled. "I have the key, I would be glad to give it to you..."
"Is there gold under there?" Merryn asked.
"In the sewers? I believe there is a few hidden caches of treasure, it was well used by several thieves guilds at one point. Of course, there is no thieves guild any more, the militia have seen to that." Harnod paused, "and of course, legend has it that the Hellishly Fine Ladies Club is also down there."
At this point the lovely barwench gasped.
Garrial, who had been resting with his head on the bar top suddenly sat bolt upright. "The Hellishly Fine Ladies Club? What's that?"
"It's an exclusive gentlemen's club," Ulric told him, "definitely illegal and probably mythical."
"It's not mythical," the barwench said, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Harnod threw her a pointed look. He turned to the adventurers, a smile painted on his face.
"Several years ago, I lost my wife. Rumours have it that she was taken down into the sewers and she now resides with other ladies in that club."
"And you never went after her?" Merryn asked.
Harnod shook his head, his expression was the perfect mask of regret and sorrow. "I am not an adventurous man, I had a young daughter; Ellysia here, and my business. If I had perished down there, what would have become of her?"
"We shall find your wife!" Garrial cried, "the key!"
Merryn prodded him none too gently in the ribs. "Is this what you are asking us? To go through the door, find where the ladies are being held captive, and bring your wife back home?"
Harnod inclined his head, the barest of replies.
"How much?"
"I could not possibly put a price on my sweet love's head," Harnod pleaded. "I beg of you, let us not bring financial bargaining into this."
"A grand apiece," Merryn suggested. "Plus expenses."
Harnod swallowed, "that much?"
"Surely no price is too high to get your sweet love back?" Merryn asked gently, she got the feeling she had asked for too little. A feeling compounded when he agreed without haggling. Never mind, they had yet to agree on expenses, and Merryn had quite a list.
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