Tusit yawned as he scanned through yet another book. He’d finished the stuff he was looking for and had begun to read just for the entertainment value -- after all, it isn’t every day one has free reign on a duke’s library. His current tome was about mythology and the visions of various gods. . . rather fascinating, actually, and a good story, though admittedly he half-skimmed most of it. That is, until one section caught his eye.
. . . gods transforming others, like I did to Orlog. . . . .
“Hello!” He blinked in surprise.
Good. I’ve got your attention now.
Tusit turned the book over, looked for intertwined gold and silver serpents. There were none -- only the title The Gods and Their Visions in large gilt print on the leather cover. He opened the book again, went back over the text. . . but until that point it read perfectly normal.
Don’t worry. I mean you no harm.
Tusit glanced to the top of the next page.
You might as well go back.
Tusit went back to where he’d left off and started reading slowly.
Thank you.
“I’m talking to a book,” he murmured in disbelief as he read the “I’ve got your attention now” line a few times, then went on.
There is a task I need you to perform. There is a curse upon your friend Orlog, who is currently transformed. It would now serve my purpose for him to no longer be such.
“My purpose being whose purpose?” Tusit wondered. He went back to the chapter heading to find out with whom he conversed. The chapter described how Zeus turned a nymph turned to a willow when Apollo chased her, and Narcissus, who changed to a flower. It was not confined to the actions of a specific god. Tusit continued from where he’d left off.
Indeed it would also serve your purpose. . . or at least, the purpose of your kind.
“Who’s ‘me’? Who are you?” he asked aloud as he read.
In this matter it would be best to consult those of my priests who could then reveal more of my needs to you. I will require a forfeit of some sort of him. I advise you to wake the members of your party, as well as him, and proceed to my nearest temple.
At the very end of the page flared Hades’ signature.
Tusit put a bookmark in to keep his place. “I think I’ve been up just a bit too long!” He tucked the book with his other stuff, then went up to his guard and nudged him.
No response.
The gnome went back to the table and wrote a note: Dear guard, you seemed so comfortable, I hated to wake you. You can find me back in my quarters. I do not envy you the headache you will have when the captain finds you fallen asleep, but in the meantime, sleep well and dream of large women. With loving regards, Tusitin-sahlumcylunz.”
He paused to reread it, but the words had changed.
I advise you to go to my temple immediately. Do not worry. The guards will not awaken, nor will anyone in the castle bother you. Hades.
Tusit opened the book, removed the bookmark, inserted the sheet, and closed the book. He didn’t bother hiding it as he trotted past the guard and to Mica’s room. The guard next to her door lay on the ground, not snoring. Tusit checked his pulse -- nonexistent. Without even bothering to knock he threw the door open. Mica let out a surprised scream as she fumbled around in bed with her covers, trying to disentangle herself.
“Are you up?” Tusit queried.
“No!”
“May I come in without bodily harm?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you naked?”
“No! I’m fine!” Mica shouted, rustling around.
The gnome sidled in a little timidly, remembering Mica was probably miffed at him but not remembering why. “Um. . . . you’ve had a bit more experience at this god thing than I have. Well, um. . . has Athena ever. . . written you a note?”
Mica considered. “No. She appears once in a while in person, but she never writes me notes. Why? Is she writing you notes? Oh! Are you blessed? You must come with me! We must go to the temple!”
Tusit, meanwhile, attempted to override her babbling. “Not Athena. Not Athena. NOT ATHENA, DEAR!” He opened the book by way of explanation. “Hades.”
Mica looked genuinely impressed. “Ooooo! Who did you piss off? What have you been doing?!”
“Nothing! He just says we have a task. . . I don’t know. . . . ”
“Can I read the note?”
Tusit offered it up.
You must take Orlog to the temple and more will be explained there. Hades.
“That’s not what it said when I brought it in here!” Tusit insisted, reading it as she did.
The priestess couldn’t help a little skepticism. Especially since the note was in Tusit’s handwriting. “Dear, I think you should go to bed.”
Tusit took the page away, flashed her the book instead. “The book was changed as well; this is not in my handwriting!”
He doesn’t need to go to bed.
Mica backed up a little. “Okay.” She started collecting her stuff. “You wake half, I’ll go wake half.”
“I’ll go get the kita.”
“Shall we pack everything or should we just travel light? What is that guard doing outside my door?”
Tusit blanched. “That’s. . . . why I was a bit rude about my entrance. He has no pulse.”
“Ah. Piss.” She looked down the hallway and saw several others in like condition. “We’ll take all of our stuff.”
“Yes. All the stuff.” He scuttled off to his room, gathered up his things and anything else that looked like it might be useful.
Meanwhile, Mica knocked on Bob’s door, then stuck her head in. “Get your stuff ready -- I guess we’re leaving now.”
“Why?” asked Bob blearily.
“Well, we’ve had some message from the gods -”
“Okay! Close enough for me!” Bob assented, quite awake now.
Tusit didn’t even bother knocking on the kita’s door; he just opened it and went in. He shook the bedpost.
The last thing any kita expects when it’s the middle of the night and she’s peacefully sleeping is for the bed to start shaking. Well, it was the last thing Thistlepouch expected, anyhow, especially seeing as how she was asleep and therefore wasn’t expecting much of anything. But even half asleep she knew that such motion was not normal for a bed with one sleeping occupant. She groggily half-crawled to a sitting position and blinked herself awake. A gnome stood next to her bed.
“Forgive me, Thistlepouch,” said the gnome -- Tusit, she thought she remembered his name was -- as he grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah!” she replied with fuzzy brightness. It seemed like the appropriate answer at the time. . .
Tusit explained slowly, as if to a small child or an idiot, “The gods want us to leave. Everybody has no pulse.”
Thistlepouch took a moment to consider. It didn’t make much sense. Even for Tusit. “Are you sure I’m awake?”
“I’m positive. Get your stuff together. We’re leaving.”
This, at least, she could understand. Thistlepouch quick strapped on her pouches, grabbed her staff, and followed her friend to Orlog’s room. Well, to the outside, anyhow.
Mica peeked cautiously in. “What do you think he did?” she asked, hushed.
Thistlepouch, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, peeked too. It looked like. . . . Orlog.
Tusit peered hesitantly around the door. “I don’t know. Um. . . Orlog? I. . . don’t suppose you happen to know Hades?”
“Cerebus?” It was hard to tell if his idiocy was sleep-induced or natural.
“Well, yes, Cerebus’s master,” Tusit explained.
“Cerebus master?”
“Yes. Hades mentioned you prominently in a communiqué.”
Thistlepouch was about to ask what that was, but Mica cut in, tired of the gnome’s song-and-dance routine. “Get your stuff; we’re leaving.”
Thistlepouch looked around down the hallway to make sure no one took especial notice. All the guards were slumped over and didn’t appear interested. “Isn’t it bad to fall asleep on the job?”
Tusit waffled, “I don’t think they’re sleeping, dear.”
“Oh.” She backed up a couple steps into Tusit.
“Yeah.” He turned hopefully to Mica. “I don’t suppose Athena has anything to say about this?”
Mica shrugged. “Um. . . haven’t heard anything.”
“Kay. Got any talking books?”
Mica shook her head. “No, mostly the books are addressed to you, but she hasn’t said we shouldn’t go to the temple, so I guess it’s all right. . . . as far as I know she’s okay with Hades.” Mica explained as they made a beeline for the gates. They passed a couple slumped guards on their way through the raised portcullis and open gates. Mica turned to Orlog.
“You sure you don’t know Hades? You haven’t done anything to him?”
Hades? Thistlepouch did a quick scan of her memory banks. Wasn’t he the god of the underworld? Well, that would certainly explain the guards. Sort of. None of this made sense. Thistlepouch suspected that this really was a dream despite what Tusit said.
“Worship Cerebus!” insisted the half-orc.
“Okay. Yeah.” Mica couldn’t think of a good response as they headed into the city on a direct route to the temple district. She was relieved to see some motion out in the streets -- it must have been a
localized death.
Thistlepouch followed a bit dazedly. She supposed the others knew where they were going, and anyway she really had rather not hang around anywhere there was a localized death.
“Me like Cerebus. You worship Cerebus?”
Mica was pretty sure they’d gone over this already. “No, I worship Athena. The one that pocketed your puppy.”
Orlog might’ve had a response, but he forgot it as soon as they spotted Hades’ temple.
Thistlepouch for one didn’t see the attraction. Oh, sure, it had the dark, menacing thing down pat: it was a massive, monolithic, foreboding thing of black marble with big flames all over the place -- pretty much what one would expect of the temple of the God of the Underworld. The kita couldn’t help but think, though, that a little more color might not be amiss.
Orlog did not share her opinion; he was busy groveling to a ferocious-looking statue of a three-headed dog at the gate. “Cerebus. . . . must pet Cerebus. . . . . ”
Thistlepouch’s respect for him lowered another notch. She leaned on her staff and half-drowsed. It was one thing to be awakened in the middle of the night for an adventure. . . . and quite another to have your bed start shaking and then have someone drag you from your nice warm covers and haul you to a big, boring temple to watch a half-orc drool at a statue. And she still wasn’t sure she wasn’t dreaming.
A dark, cowled figure sat at the gates. Mica pushed the gnome forward. Tusit shot her a mildly dirty look before advancing on the figure. “Sir?” He peeked under cowl to see a young man’s face, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, eyes closed. Surely Hades wouldn’t leave one of his own without a pulse. . . ? Though, maybe that was a requirement. Tusit nudged his foot.
The priest mumbled.
Tusit nudged harder.
The priest squeaked, jerking awake. Then, recovering himself, he cleared his throat and continued in his best spooky voice, “Who goes at the temple of Hades?”
“Um. . . your. . . um. . . well. . . um. . . ” Tusit stuttered, then, at a loss, held out the book.
The priest looked at it blankly. “What does this mean?”
“He can’t read,” Mica told Tusit, then turned to the priest. “We need to talk to your superior.”
“Hades sent us,” Tusit added helpfully, wearing a grin.
That took the priest aback. “Um. . . just one moment while I. . . uh. . . just. . . ah. . . one. . . ” Unceremoniously, he left.
Meanwhile, Orlog tried to scale the statue of Cerebus.
Tusit hopped on one foot, then the other, nervous. “I don’t like this.”
“You’re the one that got the message!” Mica pointed out.
“What’s going on?” Bob cut in. “There’s all these dead people, and you said to follow you.”
Mica pointed to Tusit. “He’s the one who did it!”
“Ask him.” Tusit pointed to Orlog, passing the florin.
Bob accepted this easily enough and sauntered up to Orlog. “What’s this Hades thing?”
“Give Cerebus hug!” Orlog replied enthusiastically, attempting to do just that.
Before Bob could try a different tactic, the side gate that the young cowled person had disappeared through opened, and two figures came out, one of whom had the voice of the cowled person who ran away. They talked in hushed tone.
A deep voice roused Thistlepouch from half-sonambulance. Once her eyes decided to find out what the voice looked like, she discovered that it looked like a tall priest cowled in black.
“You said that Hades sent you?”
“He’s your god, not mine,” Tusit said, opening the note, “but when you get an invitation like this. . . well. . . . ”
The priest finished reading the note and passed clean out, making an ungraceful faceplant. Tusit pulled back the cowl and fanned the back of the head priest’s neck.
This was far too much for the kita’s curiosity -- now that it had woken up. “Can I read it?” she requested.
“Um. . . . sure,” the gnome replied a bit hesitantly, handing over the note.
You must allow Orlog to enter in. He and I have business.
The kita read over the note a couple times, haltingly, then turned to her friend. “Tusit, do your books usually talk to you?”
“Um. . . no.” He took it back.
The nap hadn’t helped -- things still didn’t make sense. She leaned up against a wall and tried again.
“What exactly did it say?” Bob asked.
“It’s talking to Tusit,” Mica explained, then turned back to the high priest. “Hello. . . hello, are you awake yet?”
The high priest groaned his way to consciousness. “Oh, god you're here. . . Did that say what I thought it said?”
“I don't know,” Tusit replied. “Everyone seems to read something a bit different into it. . . which shouldn’t surprise me, considering the source.”
The high priest levered himself up. “May I read it again?”
“Are you sure you want to?” Tusit asked dubiously as he helped the man into the seat on which the boy had been sleeping. He held up the book, which the high priest read.
It took the man a bit to compose himself, but he finally managed to say, faintly, “Please, enter.”
“What's it say to you?” Bob asked.
“Please, enter,” the high priest repeated. “I shall lead you.”
Thistlepouch hadn’t even gotten a good two winks in when somebody tugged on her sleeve -- they were all going inside now. She wished people would just stay put.
Tusit called over to their wayward party member, “Orlog, Orlog, follow the nice man in the robe.”
“But Cerebus!”
“Cerebus will be here when we get back. Cerebus is inside, also,” the gnome explained patiently.
“In Cerebus? Ooohhhhh!”
The High Priest, seeing that this could take a while, cut in. “Orlog, you have business inside.” With that he turned and started walking inside. Tusit made sure Orlog went next, far in front of him; the boar followed Orlog.
The priest led them into a large open room that looked like rough-hewn stone but was actually an artistic facsimile. He continued through a main gallery with alcoves off to the side and torches burning on pillars, then ascended set of steps with a billowy curtain at the top. He took hold of one part of the curtain, lifted it, and ushered the others inside.
“Cerebus in there?”
“I don't know, ask the nice man,” Tusit responded, a touch irritably.
“Just pass through,” directed the priest. “There's more there than you wish to know.”
Finally! Something interesting! Thistlepouch dashed inside ahead of the half orc, who promptly let out a horrified scream.
“What in the name of the gods am I?!?!” cried the half-orc.
Thistlepouch thought it was an odd question, but decided to answer it anyhow. “Well, you keep calling yourself Orlog, and you worship Cerebus. . . .”
The boar fainted.
“Orlog?” Thistlepouch tried tentatively, patting the most accessible portion of him -- luckily, his leg. “Are you okay?”
Mica’s voice called from the other side of the curtain, “Thistlepouch? Helloooo?”
“Yeah?” she called back.
Mica poked her head in.
“What do I look like?!” demanded the half-orc.
“Well, you're big and you're wearing a loincloth. . . ” the kita offered helpfully.
Mica’s eyes rounded with wonder. “He's speaking! Tusit, you've got to get in here. . . . .”
Tusit reluctantly did so, reached into his pouch, grabbed a mirror shard, handed it gingerly over. “Um. . . here?”
“No no no, tell me what I look like.”
Thistlepouch frowned. “Well, you look like you've always looked. You look like Orlog.”
“Who’s Orlog?!”
The kita sighed. Really, this was so silly. . . . “Well, Orlog is a big, kinda smelly half-orc who wears a loincloth. Well, most of the time,” she amended.
“I'm a half-orc? What’s that?” He pointed to the unconscious pig.
“That's your boar,” Thistlepouch explained.
“Um, how is he speaking?” Tusit asked no one in particular.
Thistlepouch let out an aggrieved sigh. “Well, through his mouth, obviously. . . . ”
“I'm not a half-orc,” stated the half-orc. “You must be mistaken.”
Mica spoke slowly. “Well, since we've known you you've been a half-orc. . . ”
Tusit handed him the mirror again; he took it. The half-orc sat suddenly; the kita scrambled to get out of the way before she got squashed. The half-orc hit himself with his club. It hurt.
Tusit finally got around to looking at his surroundings: more rough-hewn walls all around, with a translucent, slightly glossy curtain behind and in front, and a statue of Hades with an empty throne next to him.
“Where are we?” asked the half-orc.
“A temple of Hades, because -”
He cut Mica off. “Wait wait wait, temple of Hades? How did I get here?”
“Well, you walked.” Thistlepouch decided she was the only one capable of reaching these conclusions, simple as they were.
“Who are you?”
The kita was pretty sure they’d already been introduced, but she figured it polite to respond. “My name’s Thistlepouch Doorringer, what's yours?”
“I'm not sure. It's nice to meet you.”
The kita considered. “Well, Imnotsure is kind of an odd name, but I suppose it might be regional. . . .”
“Just for the heck of it, what is the last thing you do remember?” Tusit asked.
The half-orc considered. “Um. . . standing in front of the gates to Tartarus. . . ”
Thistlepouch piped up. “What did they look like?”
“Who are all of you?”
“Well, since this is incredibly odd. . . good day, they call me Tusit. Short for 'Tusitin-sahlumcylunz ', short for something I won't go into now.”
“Thank you,” the half-orc said, confused enough without adding gnomish names to the mix.
Tusit continued, “This is Mica, Thistlepouch, Bob, and this. . . er. . . was your pig.”
The half-orc turned to the statue. “What in Tartarus have you done to me?”
extracted revenge for your hubris.
Tusit, sure the kita didn’t have enough sense to stay out of it, grabbed her braid and backed up.
Thistlepouch followed by default, not paying attention to who had a hold of her. A talking statue of Hades, she decided, was definitely worth being dragged out of bed for. “Your gods talk to you too?!” she exclaimed.
The half-orc turned to Bob, who was busy trying to look invisible, and held out his club. “Take this.”
Bob took it gingerly.
The half-orc turned back to the statue. “Where is my cousin?”
he too needed punishment. this seemed more fitting.
“You turned him into a pig!!!” He glared. “Why did you bring this back to my memory?”
there are those flaunting my power more than you did. I need you to help with this. if you wish. you owe a forfeit unto me.
“What is this forfeit?”
this is for you to decide. a god cannot decide for a mortal -- this must be a choice made of free will. you must offer. what will you trade for your life and your cousin's?
“How long to I have to decide?”
as long as you are within the confines of my alcove.
“What will you give?”
your form back, as well as your cousin's.
The half-orc looked down contemplatively and made a startling discovery. “Why am I in my underwear?!”
“Well, it's more than you usually wear, actually. . . . ” Mica said.
that is a decision you made while you were otherwise. . . occupied.
The half-orc turned to the group. “You seem to know me.”
“We thought we did,” Tusit half-agreed from behind the kita. So he was the one who’d grabbed her braid! Somehow, she wasn’t entirely surprised.
“Can you give me the short version of how long you've known me and everything we've done?”
“Um. . . ” Tusit considered, decided to pass it off. “Kita, you tell him.”
“Oh no,” Bob groaned.
Thistlepouch beamed, ignoring Bob, delighted to be called upon to use her bardic skills. “Well, we came into port about two days ago, I think , and then you said we should worship Cerebus and we didn't want to so you grabbed me up by my braid and -”
“I worship Cerebus?” To the statue, “You made me worship your dog?!”
“Hey! I'm trying to tell my story here!” Thistlepouch cried out, indignant. Whatever he thought he was, his manners were certainly half-orcish.
“We found you roughly trying to convert people on the docks,” Tusit explained. “We've been doing our best to. . . well. . . help you along. . . ”
The half-orc looked at his holy symbol: a stylized three-headed dog.
minor things may be changed. . . . when you entered my realm, you entered my power.
“Give me my memories back.”
very well
The pig let forth a low, pitiful cry. The half-orc looked at him with pity. “Ooohhh. . . sorry. . . .”
it only seemed fair. . . I returned yours. . . .
“The boar was my cousin,” the half-orc said, by way of explanation.
“Really?” Thistlepouch puzzled, frowning. “You don’t look much alike.” She changed her mind. This was too weird. It had to be a dream.
The half-orc resumed conversation with the statue. “If I do something to help you, you must give me my form back, first.”
yes, I shall give you your form back while you aid me.
“And after?”
that depends upon the service. do you offer me whatever service I need?
“As long as it does not involve injuring more dwarfs or joining the likes of orcs.”
granted.
The statue reached down to the half-orc; Tusit tumbled back through the curtains at the statue’s motion. Thistlepouch yelped in pain as he pulled her hair and tumbled back after him. Hades grabbed the top of the half-orc’s head with the heel of his hand against his forehead, and the half-orc gritted his teeth against the pain of his bones and muscles shifting and rearranging. By the time Thistlepouch managed to extract herself from Tusit and the curtain and wriggle around to get a better view, a dwarf stood where the half-orc had been. He had a mop of redish brown hair extending to the middle of his back; his beard of equal color fell in a braid to his belt and was neatly tucked in. Nondescript clothing in different shades of brown covered his four-foot stature. He had the huskier look of his kind, probably due to long hours spent in the halls of a blacksmith. His dark brown eyes glimmered with suppressed wrath. Another dwarf lay moaning on the ground where the boar had been, dressed similar but a little shorter, and with matted and dirty red hair and beard.
Hades removed his hand.
Thistlepouch had the sneaking suspicion she’d missed something big. Again.
“What about my son?” asked the half-orc-turned-dwarf.
I am sorry, but no one who has been within my realm may return. I cannot surrender him.
“Give me the power to slay those who slayed my son.”
for how long do you wish the power?
“Until the leader of the raiders is dead.”
granted, with a price, which shall be extracted upon the death.
The dwarf’s forehead glowed; he swallowed a cry that threatened to burst from him at the burning sensation that seared his brow. He looked in the mirror to see Hades’ symbol branded there.
Tusit, now free of the curtain, sidled up to him and asked in a hushed voice, “Um, not to be nosy, but what did you do to piss him off?”
“Will that be all?” the first dwarf asked of Hades.
believe me, you have promised enough. your task is simple. you shall find those who are detaining those who would be going to my realm and kill them, also releasing those who should rightfully be mine.
“So who are these people?”
foolish people. studiers of dark magicks.
“Necromancers!” cried the kita gleefully. She’d never met one of those before....
The dwarf who was laying where the pig had been moaned as he sat up. “Oh, I just had the worst flaming. . . . son of a bacchae!!!”
“That’s not quite right,” Thistlepouch mused aloud. “I think it was more of a son of a pig -”
The second dwarf winced. “Sow, really.”
The kita’s eyes went wide with sudden comprehension. “Oh. Um. Eew.”
Tusit went over to offer some pain-numbing herbs.
“Ale,” the dwarf said shortly.
“Hold on a sec!” Thistlepouch called, riffling through her pouches.
Tusit helped him to his feet. “We have rooms at the inn. . . they have ale there.”
Thistlepouch found a little jar of something and handed it to the dwarf, who chugged it in one gulp and began to splutter. It was only then that she remembered where she’d last seen it. . . at the dressmaker’s store. It had probably been dye. “Oops.”
“Last question,” the first dwarf said to the statue. “Where's the first one?”
barnicus.
“Figures,” Thistlepouch said with an ironic half-grin.
The first dwarf looked down at his holy symbol to find it replaced by Hades’. “I want my symbol back. I have yours on my forehead -- I want mine on my chest.”
oh, he will answer your prayers, but for things that follow my command, you would better off asking for my aid. if you wish a symbol of his, I would advise you to find one. I have no power to change things to his form.
The dwarf turned and walked away without another word, his cousin stumbling after, shaking his head in shock. The others followed close behind.
“So, what do we call you now?” asked Mica.
“Oh, I'm Forge,” said the first dwarf. “This is Darwin.”
“Hi,” Darwin said. “Need ale. Lots. . . and lots. . . of ale.”
Tusit, out of curiosity, flipped open the book -- it continued on discussing normal transformation stuff, but the note still had Hades' message in Tusit's hand.
Soon they reached an inn near the docks: The Buxom Wench. What the name lacked in creativity it made up in accuracy. A large number of buxom wenches either served ale or sat on laps. . . sometimes both.
Mica averted her eyes. “This is embarrassing, you know?”
“Well, would you rather be a bit embarrassed or found by the guardsmen?” asked Tusit.
“Gee, how many other taverns are in this town?” Mica shot back sarcastically.
“None that give us a closer means of escape to our boat,” the gnome pointed out.
Mica gave up. “I'm gonna go check on the boat. Bye, guys.”
Tusit meanwhile escorted Forge and Darwin to the bar and slapped down two guilders, requesting of the barkeep, “Would you get these two gentlemen drunk -”
“Very drunk,” Darwin added.
“Let's talk while I drink,” Forge offered.
* * *
Mica reached the boat in little time to find Grog asleep on one end, the girl sitting rigidly on the other.
“Howya doin'?” Mica asked, shaking his shoulder.
“Okee.”
“You get friendly?”
“No.”
“Well, nice try anyway.”
“She thought I did.”
“Oh. Don't worry. I’m sure she won't hold it against you for long.”
“Hope not.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, lots of interesting things have happened. Orlog turned into Forge.”
Grog contemplated. It was completely beyond his grasp. “Um. . . . ”
“He's different now. You'll have to meet him again.”
“No Orlog?” the warrior tried.
“No Orlog,” Mica agreed.
“Oh.” He still didn’t quite get it.
“Yeah, I know, but there's a new guy, now. Two new guys.”
That, he understood. “Who else?”
“Darwin. He used to be the pig.”
Another brick wall. “Oh. Kee.”
“New people. Dwarves.”
“Dwarves?”
“Yeah. Short people.”
“Like. . . Thistlepouch?”
“More like Tusit.”
“Tusit. Kee. No Orlog?”
“No. No Orlog. But maybe you'll like the new guys. They like to drink. Hey, I’d better get back to them -- you want anything?”
“Beer.”
“Okay. I’ll send you some beer. Be nice to the girl. Well, don't let her hit you too much. Tell her you'll throw her in the water if she does.”
“That's what she thought I was gonna do the first time.”
“Well this time do it if she hits you again.”
“She's got a knife.”
“Well, she won't hurt you anymore. Don't worry.” She gave Grog a comforting pat on the shoulder and headed back to the Buxom Wench. Tusit and the dwarves (well, Forge, anyhow) were still talking.
“So I didn't have any scrolls on me at all, that you remember?” Forge asked.
“No, all you had was your club and your pig.” Tusit winced. “Sorry, Darwin. . . . I am so sorry. . . . ”
Darwin grabbed Tusit’s mug and drained it. “Make the next one a double.”
Forge turned to the barkeep. “Are there any dwarven women around?”
The barkeep considered. “No, none dwarven.”
“Don’t care. Just legs. Female legs.” Darwin took another swig. “Without a snout.”
The barkeep hesitated. “Ah. . . . we don't often get calls for your kind. Let me see what I can do. How much are you willing to pay?”
Tusit raised an eyebrow, looked pointedly at the coins he’d handed over.
“Just asking!” the barkeep said defensively, spreading his hands. “I’ll see what Ann has available.” He poked his head back behind the tavern, tapped the cook on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, sent him off, and went back to tending bar.
Thistlepouch, meanwhile, had been sampling the barkeep’s wares. Ale, ale, typical. Another mug looked a little too full and she thought she ought to take a sip before the owner spilled it on himself -- hey, that one was pretty good! It surprised her that someone hadn’t downed it yet, but there was no accounting. . . . she decided she’d better finish it before a fly dropped in it or something; it would be a shame to spoil that lovely. . . . woah. The room spun a little. She meandered back to her friends at the bar. She heard Tusit speaking to the barkeep:
“How long?” asked a rough voice.
“A night.” Tusit again.
“Well. . . very well. One room.”
Thistlepouch arrived just as Tusit took off to the stairs, a large key under one arm and Forge hanging on the other. She looked to see where he was going and the room caught up to her. She sat down abruptly.
Bob leaned over and extended a hand. “Come on, let's go to bed.”
She peered up at him fuzzily. “You're not really my type,” she said in all earnestness.
Bob let out an aggrieved sigh. “Let me help you. You’re drunk.”
Thistlepouch wasn’t sure she trusted that line either. “I’m quite comfortable on the floor, thanks.”
Bob shrugged and headed upstairs, passing Tusit coming down.
Thistlepouch entertained herself by shaking her head and watching all the people spin ‘round.
“Would it be possible to get a very early wake up call?” asked the gnome of the barkeep.
“A what?”
Tusit sighed. Really. Barbaric. “Would it be possible for someone to pound on the door before the sun comes up?”
The barkeep shrugged. Odd, but the coin was good, so what the hades. “Sure.”
“Thank you.” He spotted Mica. “We've got a room. I just came back down to gather the kita.” He watched as a woman came up to the other side of Darwin and blew in his ear. “Hello, I think we've found a friend!”
“What have you been doing while I’ve been gone?” Mica accused.
Thistlepouch looked up guiltily, three excuses on the tip of her tongue. She was quite thankful to see that Mica’s attention was on the gnome.
Tusit gave Mica a mischievous smile. “Matchmaking.”
Mica dropped her head into her hands. “You're really disgusting.”
A buxom wench next to Darwin grinned seductively. “I've always liked them short. Come along, little friend.” Darwin turned, reached to the one on the left, to the right, found the one in the middle and got a hold. The harlot led him off.
Tusit tried to lift Thistlepouch and just about ruptured something.
The kita looked at him in fuzzy bemusement. “What are you doing?”
Mica bit back a grin. “He's trying to sweep you off your feet.”
Thistlepouch cocked her head to one side. “That's awfully sweet, but I think I can make it up the stairs on my own.” Which she did manage, though leaning heavily on her staff. Once upstairs, she found the nearest available spot on what passed for a bed and hoisted herself up onto it.
She didn’t remember much after that.
* * *
Morning -- and an enthusiastic pounding on the door -- came far too early.
Thistlepouch kept her eyes firmly closed and refused to acknowledge reality.
The pounding continued.
“Thank you!” Mica called blearily, just to make it stop. She rolled over and opened her eyes. “Oh, god, there's a dwarf in my face.”
Forge belched.
Mica was glad there weren’t any lit candles nearby.
Tusit staggered up and half-tumbled down the stairs. Darwin sat at the bar again. The gnome went to the kitchen, found the cook, and handed over a couple coins. “Could I get something to-”
Before he could finish, the cook threw some meat and bread on the table.
Tusit took it without thanks and brought it upstairs. “We might as well start the trip right,” he said to his bleary companions.
“Could we stop and get some weapons? And clothes?” requested Forge.
Tusit handed over two florins. “I hope this covers it; it's about all we can spare right now. I’m off to the boier/fletcher's.”
“May I accompany you?”
“Wanna go shopping?” Mica invited, turning to the kita.
“Sure!” Thistlepouch grinned. She felt much perkier after the food, and being able to run a brush through her hair didn’t hurt, either.
“Can I borrow that?” asked Mica.
“Sure!”
“Thanks.” It was silver -- probably from the duke’s. “Nice brush.”
“Yeah, I couldn't believe the duke didn’t mark it! He must not have liked it very much.”
“That's right!” Mica agreed solemnly. “It's a good thing that it's in good hands.”
“Yup. I’m taking care of it. I’ll give it back to him as soon as I see him”
Forge tapped Darwin. “Do you want to go choose your axe?”
“Juswannaaxe,” was Darwin’s sodden reply before his head hit the bar.
“Hey Darwin,” Forge tried.
“Huh!”
“Why don't you go down to the boat? There's more there, and it's free.”
“Boat?”
“Yes,” Forge said. “We're going on a boat ride.”
Tusit went behind the bar, grabbed the first liquor barrel he saw, and slapped it in front of Darwin. “Bring this with you; go to the boat.”
“What boat?”
“Bob, would you show him to the boat?” said Mica.
“Sure,” Bob agreed.
“Thank you,” Forge said. “We will be there shortly.”
Darwin stood up, cuddling the barrel, and staggered out the door and to the boat, Bob going along with.
“Lo. . .” Grog greeted them when they got there.
The girl ignored them.
Bob went to ready the oars. “Let's get ready to go so that as soon as they come back, we-”
Darwin belched.
“Bob?” Grog asked.
“Yeah?”
“Who's drunk guy?”
“He was the boar.”
Grog thought about this. “Kee.”
“You didn't do anything with the pig did you?”
“No,” Grog replied indignantly.
“Just curious. Just curious.” Bob backed off a little, defensive.
“Was nice pig.”
“Well I knew you knew the pig; that's why I asked.”
“Okee. I go prepare oars.” Grog went about making the ship ready to sail. Darwin sat, drinking. Melissanna tried to find a new spot to sit as far away from Darwin, Bob, and Grog as she could get. She seriously considered climbing the mast.
* * *
Tusit entered the boier/fletcher’s shop with Forge just behind him and gazed at the wares displayed in the front part of the shop. Tusit spotted the merchant and asked if he had any caltrips. The response was considerably less than friendly.
“Cal-what? No! Of course not! Who would ask for such a thing? No honest merchant would carry that!”
“Well I’ve been chased recently and I didn’t like the experience,” Tusit explained. “We’re leaving town; you needn’t worry about the repercussions.”
“Don’t know why you were chased, but chasing is only generally done by the guards, so I don’t know what you were up to. However, I do know that there’s no need for you to be looking for it here. Good day.”
“No, it wasn’t like that.” Tusit slapped a florin on the counter.
The merchant looked at him sideways. “I don’t know if there’s any need for me to take your ill-gotten gains.”
Tusit slapped down another. “I can assure you, good sir, it was not the guards; they were brigands.”
With his nose in the air, the merchant knocked the florins off the table and stormed into the back room. “Sir, I cannot be bought.”
Forge called after him, “Sir, I need a short bow, and some arrows. With a quiver.”
The merchant grabbed a short bow, 20 arrows, and a quiver, and dropped them down. “That’s eight florins.”
Forge considered. It was high, but not that high; bad quality stuff had been known to go for about four florins. He grabbed Hades’ medallion. “What’s this worth?” He tried to set it down, but it refused to be set. “Damnation!”
“Interesting!” Tusit grabbed the necklace and tried to pull it off Forge’s hand, but it was firmly stuck. “I do believe you’re attached!”
The merchant left in disgust.
Forge, seeing his opportunity, grabbed the bow and arrows and left with Tusit quickly, both of them making good time back to the boat. Forge held his medallion down with his club-turned-quarterstaff while Tusit attempted to cut the chain. And failed.
“Um, Grog, can I borrow your sword?” Tusit called.
“Okay.” Grog pulled it out with a ringing shink! “Need cut?”
“We’re trying to cut this without damaging him or the boat,” Tusit explained.
Grog considered. “Oh, that tougher.”
“So be gentle,” Tusit admonished.
“Okee.”
Forge’s eyes went a little wide with panic. “No, no that’s quite all right!”
* * *
Mica and Thistlepouch found the nearest functional clothing establishment, which turned out to be at the docks. Not surprisingly, the outfits were designed with the sailor in mind -- lots of canvas.
“See if you can find anything you wanna buy, okay?” Mica suggested to her smaller friend, infering from Thistlepouch’s posession of the brush that there was no one to help accessorize quite like a kita.
“Okay!” she agreed brightly, and while Mica haggled with the tailor Thistlepouch went off to explore.
Mica walked up to the tailor. “Excuse me?”
The sandy-haired tailor looked up, his manner brisk but pleasant. “Yeah? Whaddya need?”
“I need two sets of male clothing for dwarves. Boots too.”
“Don’t have anything for dwarves.”
Mica thought a moment. “How bout, can we cut off a pair of pants?”
“Sure, this look like they’d fit?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, how long do you think their legs are?”
“Well, they’re about a foot taller than she is” pointing to the kita.
“Bout there you think?”
Mica nodded, and with two swift chips a pair of dwarven pants were born. “Long arms on a dwarf or short?”
“Medium.”
“Kay.”
And swiftly two chops and a shirt was added -- then he used the measurements to lop off the necessary lengths for another outfit. .
“You have any footwear?” Mica asked. “Dwarves have sort of wideish feet.”
“Hmm. . . .” The tailor grabbed a couple pairs of boots. “Which looks best?”
Mica pointed to the ones on the left. “Those. Two pairs.”
“Kay. Got it.” And two pairs of boots were added to the pile.
“Cloaks?”
The tailor nodded, added them as well. “Two florin for the lot -- it’s not the best work I’ve ever done. . .”
“It’ll work. Thanks. Thistlepouch, you ready?”
The kita turned, quite relieved, from her explorations. A tailor’s shop on the docks wasn’t an interesting place after all. Everything looked the same and was made out of the same stuff. Canvas, canvas, canvas. Not even any interesting colors. She was dangerously near the brink of boredom. “Yup!” she replied sunnily and trotted outside after the human.
“You find anything?” Mica asked.
Tusit looked through her pouches and found -- to her great surprise -- thimbles, a couple wrap scarves, and a couple pairs of mittens besides the treasures she’d noticed earlier. “Must’ve fallen into my pouches -- I’ll give them back next time we’re there.”
By that time, they were near enough the boat that Forge caught sight of them. He hailed Mica.
“Do you think Athena could do anything about this? It’s stuck.”
“Well, obviously Hades wants you to have it. It’s kind of like that,” Mica pointed to the mark on his forehead.
Forge brushed off the gesture impatiently. “I don’t mind that, but I want to wear my own symbol. Could you ask your goddess if she could -”
“Well, here, try this.” She put it back around his neck; the medallion detached from his hand and the chain affixed to the back of his neck.
Well, it was better, anyway. “Now that we’re about to set off,” said Forge, “could we talk about the possibilities once we get to Barnicus?”
“Oh. Right.” Tusit turned to Mica. “Mica, we’ve had a request from our guest here for some assistance, though I’m not sure what that would entail.”
“You know as much as I do,” Forge shrugged.
“No, actually, I was busy falling through a curtain,” Tusit reminded them.
“Hades wants me to find. . . necromancers. And kill them,” Forge illuminated.
“Oh, really?” Tusit’s interest was piqued.
“Shouldn’t we finish what we’re trying to first?” Mica reminded.
“Oh, of course. I already told him that our first order of business would be to drop off the girl.”
“Thank gods!” came the relieved exclamation from where the girl had sequestered herself.
“No problem, dear, we love you too,” Tusit returned with false sweetness.
“Well, sure, why not,” said Mica
“Unless we’ve got somewhere to go after we deliver our parcel,” Tusit added.
Mica thought. “Well, you know, we might. . . I dunno. . . . I thought about heading off to some other port. . . I mean, I don’t suppose necromancers worship Athena.”
Tusit didn’t take long to think on that one. “No, I can almost guarantee not. Though I could very comfortably put a couple of them out of their misery. Or ours.”
“Well, as long as I can carry on Athena’s service.”
“I wonder what Athena would think about extinguishing necromancers?” Tusit made the pondering suggestion.
“I feel that she wouldn’t mind,” Mica replied with a slight grin. “I don’t know how she feels about Hades.”
“I couldn’t give a griffin’s piss about Hades,” declared Forge.
Tusit turned to Forge. “Do you know any place I could get some caltrips in Barnicus?”
“I think Darwin could forge some.” To Darwin. “Do you think you could help Tusit with his problem?”
Darwin groggily half-focused on them. “I dunno. Whathsha’s his problem?”
“He needs something forged.”
“Sure, I guess. Whatheflame’s he want?”
Tusit made a quick explanation.
“I dunno. Isposse. . . . ” He belched. “Ifihad a forge, I couldprobly make a couple in a day. Howmanydoyawant?”
Tusit considered. “About twenty.”
“Ah. . . . Figure about seven weeks. . . I mean. . . A week. . . Or so. . . Of course, I’d have to find a way to do it so no one’d know I’s makin’ em.”
“Why’s that?” the gnome asked innocently.
“Well blast, the only people who use caltrips are thieves!”
“Really?” Tusit looked shocked.
“Course! Who else would use em?”
“Someone being chased,” he replied.
“Thieves!” concluded Darwin.
Tusit shrugged. He supposed it didn’t really matter what Darwin thought, as long as he got his caltrips.
“Do you have any clothing?” Forge asked.
Mica handed it over wordlessly, and Forge trundled off to the far side of the boat and started to change. Thistlepouch chuckled at the look on the girl’s face -- major denial. She’d lost the half-orc, which was good, but she’d gained a drunken dwarf and another one who was changing in front of her. Thistlepouch shook her head and started looping some rope.
Forge rinsed off his loincloth a little. . . . and sent up a howl at what he found.
“Gods-tainted cursed flaming orcs and their vile ways!!!!! Burn you, Hades!!!!”
That sounded interesting. Thistlepouch looked up to see Forge howling to the skies.
Tusit went to his side, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, have some dwarf spirits. . . come along. . . ”
Forge did not want to be calm. “Damnation!!!”
“Are you all right?” asked Tusit, deciding maybe this was important. “Are you missing anything?”
Forge regained himself. With effort. “Remember those scrolls I was asking you about? I found them.”
Tusit winced. “Ooh. I’m afraid to ask where. . . . ”
“I was using them. . . as my loincloth. . . . those were my spells!!”
“Eeewww! Time to get some new spells,” Tusit declared.
Thistlepouch collapsed in a fit of helpless giggles which she tried desperately to muffle.
“Do they still work?” asked Mica helpfully.
“Can you read them? I can’t comprehend them the way they are, and I used the last one I had memorized on that stupid chase through the gods-be-farted warehouse breaking down doors and hurting my shoulder! Damnation! Loincloth! Shag!”
“You made your club glow?” Thistlepouch asked, amazed and disappointed. “And I missed it?” It figured. Whenever anything interesting glowed or blew up, she would have to be somewhere else. And she was still sore about missing the lightning bolt that splattered Keystake.
And so they rowed out of the harbor to the accompaniment of Forge’s dwarven cursing and Darwin all the while moaning, “I can’t believe I shagged a pig. . . .”
***
Disclaimer: Darwin's libido was harmed during the creation of this chapter.