The Quest 1

Something new, a bit like The Figgis Chronicles for fans of that, but based quite a lot on various RPG hack and slash games I have slaughtered my way though...

Dad, this is for you...

LEVEL 1 : THE TAVERN

The adventure started, as all adventures seemed to, in a small tavern by the name of The Rabid Goblin.  This tavern, like so many others, was a small place tucked away up a backstreet. Empty save for the obligatory shady guy in the corner selling swords and potions, a drunken man mumbling to himself in the corner and, as ever, a busty half-elven blonde standing behind the bar, breasts spilling over her inadequate bodice and curly hair cascading all over her fair shoulders.

The three of them were enjoying a drink. Not particularly looking for a quest, but then again, nobody ever looked for them. Any quest worth having, was one that was thrust upon you, any adventurer worth his battle-scars knew that. Except none of the three actually had any battle-scars, it had only been a few weeks since they had graduated from the local Adventurers Academy.  All of them had graduated, none of them with honours. In fact, Ulric had barely scraped through and rumour was he'd done it by sampling the potions hidden behind the old wizard's desk.

The only potion Ulric was drinking at that moment was a heady brew called Bongwater Stout. It was completely opague, had no head to speak of, and tasted suspiciously of barrel-wash, but it was cheap and they barely had a gold coin between them.  He studied his flagon and took another tentative sip. It really was an acquired taste.  Beside him stood Garrial, who seemed to have forgotten his drink existed and was staring quite openly at the bar-wench's cleavage.  Probably wise, Ulric had seen Garrial drunk and there was no argument, he was one elf who simply could not hold his beer.  A source of endless amusement for Ulric and Merryn.

Merryn drained the last of her beer and slammed the flagon down on the bar, startling Garrial. The elf blushed and picked up his ale, regarding it with the same sort of studious look he'd given the wench's breasts. Merryn grinned.

"Another three ales," she said, and slipped the last of their money across the bar.

"Allow me," said a voice from behind them.

They turned. None of them were surprised to see a fellow there holding out a small bag of coins.

"And to what do we owe the pleasure?" Merryn demanded.

Ulric sighed. He knew exactly how this was going to pan out. The man was obviously looking for adventurers, he had that look about him. That smug, florid look of a man who pays others to do his dirty work. And he had the look of elf about him, not actually elven, but someone who spent a lot of time with them. Ulric could always tell, it was something in the way they dressed, in the way their shoes were a little bit pointy and their hair a little too long. He surmised this was the bar-wench's father. He was right.

"My name is Harnod Rabin, and I am the owner of this fine establishment."

Well fine was stretching it a bit far, Ulric thought, but the man was entitled to his opinion.

"I believe you are in the business of adventuring?"

It wasn't much of a business so far, Ulric had to admit that despite them renting the cheapest two rooms at the local inn (over the stables in fact, so it stank of horse manure and it's only saving grace was that the innkeeper  allowed them to forgo payment if they mucked out the horses below. Ulric hated horses, but he reckoned he would hate sleeping in the alley behind the inn more. The alley also stank of horse-shit, so it wouldn't be much better.)

"We are," Merryn said, "and three finer adventurers you will not find in this fair town."

True enough, Ulric thought, their alumi already flown and out earning gold.

"I have a quest for you," Harnod said, "it's not a fancy quest, but I believe it will get you started."

Ulric made a small wager with himself.  He knew what it was going to be,  given the sort of tavern they were in, and  the look upon the man's face...

"My cellar appears to have a little vermin problem."

...and the slight odour of rat-shit.

"Rats, you say," Merryn's eyebrows disappeared into her curly brush of rusty hair. "And you want us to clear out your cellar?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Hundred each," Harnod said.

"Five hundred, " Merryn answered.

"Hundred and twenty each. Final offer."

"Four-fifty and we get to keep whatever we find," Merryn countered.

"Four hundred," Harnod held out his hand, "and yes, any spoils you may find."

Merryn seemed to consider this, stroking the downy beard on her chin. "And free ale when we return," she said, and held out her hand.

Ulric sighed. If there was one thing he hated more than horses, it was rats.