A New Story!!!
Here's another episode in the continuing adventures of James, Korag, and friends! Tell me your thoughts.
It was the middle of a merry evening at the Prancing Petey. Korag and Nat, Ann and Robyn and Travgar the dwarf had just returned from adventures far and abroad, and were taking their ease at the board.
A serving-girl thumped two mugs down on the table. Korag eagerly took his in hand, then glanced across at Travgar. The dwarf had a gigantic flagon almost half as tall as he was, and he was guzzling it as if he’d just come from a hard desert march. When he thumped it down again and wiped his lips, Korag caught the sharp scent of whiskey.
“What the plague are you doing?” snarled Korag, in genuine awe.
“Oh, just having a wee sip,” said the dwarf, grinning. “We’re not moving on ‘till late tomorrow, so I figured I’d have a flagon or three.”
“Of whiskey!?”
“Yes. When I was a lad it only took one to knock me over; but my capacity has grown, I’m afraid. Drinking is expensive these days.”
Nat leaned forward with interest. “You should challenge him to a drinking contest,” he said to Korag.
“An orc challenging a dwarf to a game of drink?” scoffed Robyn. “That might just be amusing enough to encourage.”
Korag hesitated. “Well…it might not be such a good idea tonight. I’ve been thinking lately that I ought to start drinking less.”
His companions stared at him in shock. Nat leaped onto the table and drew a dagger from his sleeve.
“He’s an imposter!” yelled the Halfling. “Kill him before he kills us all!”
Travgar gave Nat a dismissive wave. “Listen to you, always talking about killing this and that. I for one approve of Korag being more careful of his intake. It sounds very sensible.”
Korag stood up with a jerk; his chair fell clattering on the floor. His fists clenched, and his eyes smoldered with a deep, burning flame. All sound died in the tavern as all eyes in the room turned to the companions’ table.
“Uh oh,” said Nat.
“What?” said Ann.
“Travgar called Korag ‘sensible.’ This is going to be bad.”
Korag slammed his fist down on the table so hard that it shook. “I, Korag son of Brusz, challenge you to a Game of Drink!”
Wild cheering instantly broke out all around the room, and all the patrons gathered close as the serving-girl brought the first two jugs of whiskey and the contest began.
Nat looked on for a while: both contestants were going strong, Korag with focused intensity, Travgar with detached amusement. But soon his attention began to drift. Many of the other patrons also seemed to be moving back to their own tables or wandering about the room aimlessly. Nat caught the eye of the innkeeper, Ruth of Edigor, a short brown-haired human woman. She came over to him and smiled down.
“Is there anything you need, Nat?” she asked.
Before Nat could answer, Ann sitting across from him chimed in: “How about a dance?”
“I’ll go hunt up our fiddlers,” Ruth said as she walked off. Soon two Halflings appeared from the kitchen with fiddles in hand, sat on stools upon the small dais at one end of the common room, and began tuning. Several of the tavern-patrons began enthusiastically clearing a wide space on the floor and pairing up with dancing partners. Ann stood up and looked down at Nat.
“What?” he said.
“Well?” she replied. “You do know how to dance, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I d-.”
“Then come on,” she said, and yanked him bodily off his stool.
Korag tossed back the last of his third jug of whiskey; then he sat staring at the table for a moment, blinking, his hands spread out on the worn wood as if to steady himself. Across the table, Travgar and Robyn watched him, wondering if he was about to pass out and yield the contest. But then Korag opened his gaping mouth and belched, and an overpowering fume of whiskey rolled over them, making Robyn’s eyes water. Korag banged on the table. “More drink!” he roared, as the serving-girl hurried over with two more jugs.
The fiddlers broke into a quick dancing-tune, and the couples on the floor began to caper around each other. Nat was tripping over his own feet.
“Hmm,” said Ann close to his ear, “seems you might need a lesson or two after all.”
“Shush woman!” growled Nat. “You’re the one what dragged me out here; I’ll have none of your complaining if I’m a bit off my step after such an aggravation.”
“Well, if you want to go sit down again, I can always find another partner.”
“I’ll show you another partner,” Nat said, and suddenly lifted her off the floor, her skirt billowing out as they twirled around each other.
Korag had begun laughing uncontrollably, though Robyn was completely mystified as to what the jest had been. Travgar was grinning, though he seemed none the worse for six good-sized jugs of Halfling whiskey; Robyn imagined he was sensing an imminent triumph. To her amazement and mild annoyance, the serving girl seemed to have joined the table as well, and was laughing right along with Korag. Her cheeks were rosy beneath the blonde curls on her shoulders; Robyn was sure the girl had been taking a sip from every jug she’d brought out. Maybe that was the only reason Korag was still conscious.
Then suddenly the game came to an end: Korag leaned far back in his chair, roaring with laughter, and then just kept going. His legs kicked the table and sent it flying - Robyn and Travgar sprang aside as glass shattered and drink stained the floor. Korag hit the floorboards on his back, and in the next instant he looked as if he’d been sleeping peacefully for hours. He even began snoring just as the serving-girl knelt down beside him and clumsily began trying to revive him.
“Well,” said Travgar, “I hope he remembers this the next time we go drinking together.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Robyn, “but I’ll be sure to tell him the whole story at a time when it’s most inconvenient for him.”
Travgar grinned. “Well, if I’m going to be of any use tomorrow, I have to go start sleeping all this whiskey off. See you in the morning.” The dwarf made for the stairs up to the guest-rooms on the inn’s second story.
Out on the dance floor, the music had changed from an exuberant country dance to a slow, snuggle-your-sweetheart number. Nat and Ann were dancing close, her head against his chest.
“You know,” said Nat, “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for not killing me when you had the chance.”
Ann giggled. “What a goofy thing to say. If anything I should be asking your forgiveness for trying to kill you in the first place.”
“That might be nice.”
Ann laughed. “Sure, as long as we forget that you tried to kill me first. But never mind; I can think of much more interesting things we could be doing together than arguing about who tried to kill whom.”
“Like what?”
Ann raised an eyebrow. “I’m tired of dancing. Talking, too. Come on,” she said, and pulled him toward the stairs.
“But where are we going?” Nat yelped, as they passed into the guest apartments.
Several minutes later, puffing and sweating, Robyn helped the serving-girl drag a semi-conscious Korag up the stairs and into an empty bedroom. Then without a word, the serving-girl stepped unsteadily into the room, closed the door, and locked it, leaving Robyn alone in the corridor outside.
Robyn just shook her head. “What in the Outer Void goes on in some women’s heads, I’ll never understand.”
***
Nat awoke to birds singing in the trees outside his window. It was late morning and the sun was shining in, falling on the bed where he lay beside Ann, her head on the pillow, her face peaceful beneath tousled black hair. Nat shook his head and smiled. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek; she mumbled something and rolled away from him, drawing the blankets closer.
Nat got carefully out of bed and began rummaging through his clothes where they lay piled on the floor. His hand closed around something hard. Suddenly he was tense as a coiled spring. He looked down at his hand: he was holding the black-bladed dagger with the skull pommel, the one he had taken from the ancient Dwarven city. His hand gripped it so hard that his knuckles were a bloodless white.
*What the hell is going on?* he thought to himself, eyes wide, sweat popping out on his forehead.
*I am Mordincaradon,* said another thought that seemed to flow up his arm from the dagger itself and into his reeling mind. *I thirst.*
Nat moved with the speed of a striking adder. He whirled around to face the bed, leaped forward, and plunged the dagger down toward Ann’s sleeping form.
And stopped, trembling. Ann slept on, oblivious. Nat’s breath came in gasps; his hand holding the dagger shook as with a palsy. The blade hovered, quivering, just above Ann’s neck.
*Take the life!* said the dagger in his mind. *The life is the power. Life is nothing but untapped power.*
*I don’t want that kind of power!* thought Nat. He summoned all his will, and with an effort that made him cry out in pain, he hurled the black blade out through the open window. Then he collapsed on the bed, shaking, gasping, and sweating.
Roused by his movement, Ann turned to him and opened her eyes, smiling at first, then frowning with concern.
“What’s wrong, love?” she asked, putting her hand on his trembling shoulder. He looked at her, and his breathing began to slow, his muscles relaxing.
“I just had the worst nightmare of my life,” he said. “But it’s over now; it’s over.”
***
Mordincaradon lay in the sun on the western side of the Prancing Petey Inn, its blade gleaming darkly against the gravel by the side of the street.
Gawin Thorsen, a young farmer from a nearby homestead, was walking to market, carrying a bundle of wool on his back. His eye caught the black sheen of the dagger’s blade as it lay by the roadside, and he stooped down to pick it up.
“Huh,” he said. “Maybe I can get a decent price for this at market.” He tucked the dagger through his belt and continued on his way.
***
Diana the serving-girl sighed and stretched as she woke, smiling at the sun filtering through the window and the birds chirping outside. She turned to her lover lying next to her to kiss him good-morning.
And shrieked in sudden terror: beside her in the bed was the tusked face of an Orc! She leaped away, drawing the blanket off with her and holding it close as she slammed through the door and fled the room as fast as her still questionable equilibrium could carry her.
Korag opened his eyes to see the blanket-swathed serving-girl scampering off down the hall, weeping quietly. He squinted; his head was pounding.
“If I had a copper for every time that happened,” he growled to himself, “I’d be living in a golden castle by now.”
The Exciting Prelude, Plus A Link To The Previous Story
It was the middle of a merry evening at the Prancing Petey. Korag and Nat, Ann and Robyn and Travgar the dwarf had just returned from adventures far and abroad, and were taking their ease at the board.
A serving-girl thumped two mugs down on the table. Korag eagerly took his in hand, then glanced across at Travgar. The dwarf had a gigantic flagon almost half as tall as he was, and he was guzzling it as if he’d just come from a hard desert march. When he thumped it down again and wiped his lips, Korag caught the sharp scent of whiskey.
“What the plague are you doing?” snarled Korag, in genuine awe.
“Oh, just having a wee sip,” said the dwarf, grinning. “We’re not moving on ‘till late tomorrow, so I figured I’d have a flagon or three.”
“Of whiskey!?”
“Yes. When I was a lad it only took one to knock me over; but my capacity has grown, I’m afraid. Drinking is expensive these days.”
Nat leaned forward with interest. “You should challenge him to a drinking contest,” he said to Korag.
“An orc challenging a dwarf to a game of drink?” scoffed Robyn. “That might just be amusing enough to encourage.”
Korag hesitated. “Well…it might not be such a good idea tonight. I’ve been thinking lately that I ought to start drinking less.”
His companions stared at him in shock. Nat leaped onto the table and drew a dagger from his sleeve.
“He’s an imposter!” yelled the Halfling. “Kill him before he kills us all!”
Travgar gave Nat a dismissive wave. “Listen to you, always talking about killing this and that. I for one approve of Korag being more careful of his intake. It sounds very sensible.”
Korag stood up with a jerk; his chair fell clattering on the floor. His fists clenched, and his eyes smoldered with a deep, burning flame. All sound died in the tavern as all eyes in the room turned to the companions’ table.
“Uh oh,” said Nat.
“What?” said Ann.
“Travgar called Korag ‘sensible.’ This is going to be bad.”
Korag slammed his fist down on the table so hard that it shook. “I, Korag son of Brusz, challenge you to a Game of Drink!”
Wild cheering instantly broke out all around the room, and all the patrons gathered close as the serving-girl brought the first two jugs of whiskey and the contest began.
Nat looked on for a while: both contestants were going strong, Korag with focused intensity, Travgar with detached amusement. But soon his attention began to drift. Many of the other patrons also seemed to be moving back to their own tables or wandering about the room aimlessly. Nat caught the eye of the innkeeper, Ruth of Edigor, a short brown-haired human woman. She came over to him and smiled down.
“Is there anything you need, Nat?” she asked.
Before Nat could answer, Ann sitting across from him chimed in: “How about a dance?”
“I’ll go hunt up our fiddlers,” Ruth said as she walked off. Soon two Halflings appeared from the kitchen with fiddles in hand, sat on stools upon the small dais at one end of the common room, and began tuning. Several of the tavern-patrons began enthusiastically clearing a wide space on the floor and pairing up with dancing partners. Ann stood up and looked down at Nat.
“What?” he said.
“Well?” she replied. “You do know how to dance, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I d-.”
“Then come on,” she said, and yanked him bodily off his stool.
Korag tossed back the last of his third jug of whiskey; then he sat staring at the table for a moment, blinking, his hands spread out on the worn wood as if to steady himself. Across the table, Travgar and Robyn watched him, wondering if he was about to pass out and yield the contest. But then Korag opened his gaping mouth and belched, and an overpowering fume of whiskey rolled over them, making Robyn’s eyes water. Korag banged on the table. “More drink!” he roared, as the serving-girl hurried over with two more jugs.
The fiddlers broke into a quick dancing-tune, and the couples on the floor began to caper around each other. Nat was tripping over his own feet.
“Hmm,” said Ann close to his ear, “seems you might need a lesson or two after all.”
“Shush woman!” growled Nat. “You’re the one what dragged me out here; I’ll have none of your complaining if I’m a bit off my step after such an aggravation.”
“Well, if you want to go sit down again, I can always find another partner.”
“I’ll show you another partner,” Nat said, and suddenly lifted her off the floor, her skirt billowing out as they twirled around each other.
Korag had begun laughing uncontrollably, though Robyn was completely mystified as to what the jest had been. Travgar was grinning, though he seemed none the worse for six good-sized jugs of Halfling whiskey; Robyn imagined he was sensing an imminent triumph. To her amazement and mild annoyance, the serving girl seemed to have joined the table as well, and was laughing right along with Korag. Her cheeks were rosy beneath the blonde curls on her shoulders; Robyn was sure the girl had been taking a sip from every jug she’d brought out. Maybe that was the only reason Korag was still conscious.
Then suddenly the game came to an end: Korag leaned far back in his chair, roaring with laughter, and then just kept going. His legs kicked the table and sent it flying - Robyn and Travgar sprang aside as glass shattered and drink stained the floor. Korag hit the floorboards on his back, and in the next instant he looked as if he’d been sleeping peacefully for hours. He even began snoring just as the serving-girl knelt down beside him and clumsily began trying to revive him.
“Well,” said Travgar, “I hope he remembers this the next time we go drinking together.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Robyn, “but I’ll be sure to tell him the whole story at a time when it’s most inconvenient for him.”
Travgar grinned. “Well, if I’m going to be of any use tomorrow, I have to go start sleeping all this whiskey off. See you in the morning.” The dwarf made for the stairs up to the guest-rooms on the inn’s second story.
Out on the dance floor, the music had changed from an exuberant country dance to a slow, snuggle-your-sweetheart number. Nat and Ann were dancing close, her head against his chest.
“You know,” said Nat, “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for not killing me when you had the chance.”
Ann giggled. “What a goofy thing to say. If anything I should be asking your forgiveness for trying to kill you in the first place.”
“That might be nice.”
Ann laughed. “Sure, as long as we forget that you tried to kill me first. But never mind; I can think of much more interesting things we could be doing together than arguing about who tried to kill whom.”
“Like what?”
Ann raised an eyebrow. “I’m tired of dancing. Talking, too. Come on,” she said, and pulled him toward the stairs.
“But where are we going?” Nat yelped, as they passed into the guest apartments.
Several minutes later, puffing and sweating, Robyn helped the serving-girl drag a semi-conscious Korag up the stairs and into an empty bedroom. Then without a word, the serving-girl stepped unsteadily into the room, closed the door, and locked it, leaving Robyn alone in the corridor outside.
Robyn just shook her head. “What in the Outer Void goes on in some women’s heads, I’ll never understand.”
***
Nat awoke to birds singing in the trees outside his window. It was late morning and the sun was shining in, falling on the bed where he lay beside Ann, her head on the pillow, her face peaceful beneath tousled black hair. Nat shook his head and smiled. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek; she mumbled something and rolled away from him, drawing the blankets closer.
Nat got carefully out of bed and began rummaging through his clothes where they lay piled on the floor. His hand closed around something hard. Suddenly he was tense as a coiled spring. He looked down at his hand: he was holding the black-bladed dagger with the skull pommel, the one he had taken from the ancient Dwarven city. His hand gripped it so hard that his knuckles were a bloodless white.
*What the hell is going on?* he thought to himself, eyes wide, sweat popping out on his forehead.
*I am Mordincaradon,* said another thought that seemed to flow up his arm from the dagger itself and into his reeling mind. *I thirst.*
Nat moved with the speed of a striking adder. He whirled around to face the bed, leaped forward, and plunged the dagger down toward Ann’s sleeping form.
And stopped, trembling. Ann slept on, oblivious. Nat’s breath came in gasps; his hand holding the dagger shook as with a palsy. The blade hovered, quivering, just above Ann’s neck.
*Take the life!* said the dagger in his mind. *The life is the power. Life is nothing but untapped power.*
*I don’t want that kind of power!* thought Nat. He summoned all his will, and with an effort that made him cry out in pain, he hurled the black blade out through the open window. Then he collapsed on the bed, shaking, gasping, and sweating.
Roused by his movement, Ann turned to him and opened her eyes, smiling at first, then frowning with concern.
“What’s wrong, love?” she asked, putting her hand on his trembling shoulder. He looked at her, and his breathing began to slow, his muscles relaxing.
“I just had the worst nightmare of my life,” he said. “But it’s over now; it’s over.”
***
Mordincaradon lay in the sun on the western side of the Prancing Petey Inn, its blade gleaming darkly against the gravel by the side of the street.
Gawin Thorsen, a young farmer from a nearby homestead, was walking to market, carrying a bundle of wool on his back. His eye caught the black sheen of the dagger’s blade as it lay by the roadside, and he stooped down to pick it up.
“Huh,” he said. “Maybe I can get a decent price for this at market.” He tucked the dagger through his belt and continued on his way.
***
Diana the serving-girl sighed and stretched as she woke, smiling at the sun filtering through the window and the birds chirping outside. She turned to her lover lying next to her to kiss him good-morning.
And shrieked in sudden terror: beside her in the bed was the tusked face of an Orc! She leaped away, drawing the blanket off with her and holding it close as she slammed through the door and fled the room as fast as her still questionable equilibrium could carry her.
Korag opened his eyes to see the blanket-swathed serving-girl scampering off down the hall, weeping quietly. He squinted; his head was pounding.
“If I had a copper for every time that happened,” he growled to himself, “I’d be living in a golden castle by now.”
The Exciting Prelude, Plus A Link To The Previous Story