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Murder Melee in the Meadow Early in this game, as witticisms were exchanged and batted about, one of the Ealdormereans (I forget who) referred to me privately as the "Black-Ops Bard." This moniker tickled me greatly, as it conjured up some really silly mental images. Picture this: something like a cross between Merlin, and a Navy S.E.A.L. Black-on-black plaid. That was the genesis of the Ninja Celt. I knew what I had to do. Quick as I could, I laid ahold of a great quantity of cheap, lightweight black fabric, and whipped up a makeshift Ninja costume, which would be Celt-i-fied by a plaid and some loud Bronze Age Irish jewelry. I looked at the finished product, and thought hard. "OK. Plans for Murder Melee: show up, skulk around a' la Snidely Whiplash...pop out from behind trees, scare people...sounds good. But something's missing. This whole thing needs a 'hook.'" Then my gaze fell upon the SCADS of black scrap material, left over from my costume. And the Celt got an idea. 
An AWWWwwwwful idea. The Celt got a wonderful, AWFUL idea. Revved up the sewing machine again. In addition to the Ninja outfit, I banged off about ten little black pouches. With my computer graphics program I also generated some business cards with a wee note on them. Then I was ready. Before departing, I made a point of "leaking" the Ninja Celt idea to Arnora. She chortled, and happily banged off another "Newsflash One: Radio Update" to set up the spurious schtick beforehand. Stepped on site at Melee late in the afternoon, set up, pitched my tent. Sunny day, jovial mood. Even the Troll had been smiling brightly. No one appeared to suspect a thing. Then I changed into the Ninja garb, and prepared for the Sacking of Ealdormere. As I mock-stalked from my tent down the road, an unnamed gentle spotted me, and shrieked with horror. "STOP THAT WOMAN!" she shrilled, grinning broadly. "SHE'S AFTER THE KING!" (It was good to know people had been following the posts on the kingdom e-list that faithfully. This boded well.) I froze in my tracks, cat-like, and cast a conspicuous guilty glance this way and that. Then I tiptoed silently up towards my accuser and handed her a wee black bag, cinched tight shut. Wordlessly, wide-eyed, she accepted it. I did reverence (again, silently. I'd decided from the beginning this persona would never speak out loud. My voice would have been a dead giveaway.) Then I wwwwHHHISHed my cloak and disappeared into the trees. Once safely under cover, I cocked my ear, and waited five beats. I grinned when I heard the scream, and rushed on to find the next victim. You see, in each pouch was a little handful of miniature chocolates. With a card that bore the well-known device of the [Mongol household which shall remain nameless] , and read: “Yes, that’s right. You’ve been sacked. Courtesy of the Dreaded Society of Ninja Celts.” It was in the upper eighties. Managed to sack half a score of people, before the heat of the day made further frolicking impossible. A voice inside said, "[unpronounceable Irish name], you have two choices: a.) Change your outfit. b.) Die of heat-stroke. You have thirty seconds. Here is some music while you wait...." (Strains of "Love is Blue" followed. Brutal. I caved in quickly.) By that point it was time for court anyway. Shucked the Ninja garb---it had been all of half an hour, but the cloth was already wringing damp with sweat---and changed into my pretties. Showed up nonchalantly at court, and completely failed to catch His Maj's attention. (I probably looked too respectable for him to recognize me.) But I did finally get to meet Arnora and Valizan in person. The trip was worthwhile for that alone. Made some real and lasting friends in Ealdormere. As the sun descended it was time for another costume change: this time, my Middle-Eastern garb. Unfortunately, after a long night, and a long trip, I really underestimated how exhausted I was. It was 6pm or so when I put on my dancing skirt. In the process of cinching my jingly belt, I apparently passed out. When I woke up it was past midnight. "#$%!!!!" I exclaimed. "Unacceptable! BAD Bard! Must find party! Must find party NOW!" Luckily for me, Round 1 of the party shift had just staggered off to bed, but----thank the Daghda!---Round 2 was about to begin. An acquaintance showed up who was able to guide me through the woods, to His Majesty's ger. Well, two steps into the ger and I performed yet another Stupid Bard Trick. (I wish I could say it was the last.) Accidentally sat on some pleasant young Rozakii who was napping in the shadows. He took it well. Very cute fellow, in a rather clean-cut cherubic way. Roak was lighting the lanterns, and berated me Royally that I'd shown up too late to see him dance. But I had brought reparation, in the form of my traveling sample kit (I brew, incidentally. And Customs had very graciously allowed me to take ALL my wares across the border.) He never mentioned the Ninja thingy. He apparently hadn't witnessed it. I was a little stung, but that was OK; it had mainly been for the amusement of his subjects, and they'd thought it was an absolute piss-riot. Then, every single Ealdormerean who was still awake began drifting through the doorway of His Maj's ger. Broke out The Kit, and proceeded to merrily get them all ferschnickered on mead and cordial. Valizan didn't bring any Ealdormerean Tea---man, that's an evil brain-cell-killing brew if there ever was one---but Halfdan and his kegs showed up, so between one thing and another, high quality hooch began to flow in plenty. Within short order, I was half-a-dozen sheets to the wind myself. (I was still furious about falling asleep, and needed to cram in some extra-intense partying. Methinks I tried too hard, too fast.) Sad to say, I remember very little of the rest of Murder Melee. I do recall the party moved out to the firepit at one point. Someone asked me to fulfill my bardic duties, and perform a song....but I was so goddamn plowed I forgot the words halfway through. And from Roak's account, I even began to launch into repeat renditions of songs I'd just done five seconds prior. (For the record, friends, this NEVER happens to me!) The next morning, I woke up staring at the ceiling of a strange cabin. I was tucked into a crude wooden bunk-bed. An arm lay across me. It wasn't my arm. Slowly I looked down and around. Hum. Still fully clothed---no immediate need to panic. My gaze rolled cautiously to the left, as my bunkmate began to stir. It was the nice cherubic Rozakii fellow, whom I'd sat upon earlier. Later on, Roak would explain, two rather shady-looking fellows were horning in on me, and I was too far "gone" to know what was happening, or I'd have scathingly told them off. He decided that for my safety and comfort, it was time that I was put to bed. "Where are you camped?" His Maj had asked patiently. "In....in a tent," I'd apparently stuttered. "WHERE?" I tried to relay that I didn't know the people or groups camped on either side of me; that I could probably FIND my tent, but buggered if I could DESCRIBE how to get to that spot, where "Nameless Household #1" lay on one side, and "Whoinnell Are YOU?" camped on the other. But sad to say, communication skills were deteriorating pretty fast at that point. Finally, in the name of efficiency, the king snapped his fingers at his house-brother Ronin (Yes, I did eventually find out the nice cherubic guy's name.) "Adam," Roak ordered, "take care of her." Obediently, Ronin did. Waking up next to a stranger seemed to be a fitting little coda for this escapade. I gathered my wits (managed to find most of them. I think one or two are still lying among the Canadian evergreens somewhere) and prepared for the journey home. The forecast called for lots of strong black coffee, double quick and keep-it-coming. Fortunately, this WAS Ontario---home of Tim Horton's. There's one of them about every 50 feet. I think I stopped at every one. "How," I wondered, flooring the pedal to meet the rental deadline for the car, sipping bad-ass black Mojo all the way home, "HOW am I possibly going to top this? What's in store for Phase III?" |
