Here, for your perusal, is the next instalment of The Kandron Affair. Hope you like it...
Sex/Nudity – Several References and Innuendo
Strong Language – Quite a Fair Whack
Graphic Violence – Once, Bloody
Overall Rating – 12A/borderline 15
Chapter 2 - Sunny Targos
The Salty Dog was a backwater pub whose clientele seemed to consist entirely of a lumpy barbarian and a batch of individuals who one could only assume were Iron Collar mercenaries. Upon entry, heads turned towards the five of us - the heads of the Iron Collar mercenary band.
"Well, lookee here," said one of them.
"Yes..." said another. "Looks like... more mercenaries."
"Hey," growled a third. "If you are mercenaries, just stay out our way, okay? There's only room for one party in Targos, an' that party's the Iron Collar band."
"Actually," I said. "I've got something to discuss with you."
"Ooohhhh!" said the first. "Discuss? Ooooh! How wholesome! I'll tell you what we can discuss! Let's discuss if it's true that drow bleed green!" and with that, he drew a sword. I replied in kind and glared at him.
"Heh heh heh... That reminds me!" said the second one. "Whassa definition of a drow sports centre?"
"Errr... I dunno. What is the definition of a drow sports centre?" said the third.
Almost wetting himself with laughter, the second one replied, "A giant spider tied to a stick! Ahh hahahahahahahaha!"
The other three proceeded to ceremonially cackle. Darik glared at them. Talyn giggled slightly, Shayla blushed, and Oberron sweated.
"Right!" I said in curt, clipped tones. "Am I to believe that you there - yes you, the one who wanted to see if drow bleed green - are angling for a fight?"
"Fight?!" they all said in unison. "YES PLEASE!"
I gave them a patent 1,000-yard glare. They backed off a bit.
"Errr..." slurred the second, the drink evidently giving him a very ill-advised aggressive streak, "Is it true that you shove the back legs of the giant spiders into yer fancy-pants knee-length Drow boots so they don't run away?"
The other two had a wholesome giggle at this, further amplified by Oberron starting to go even redder.
"No," I replied. "I mean, if we did that, how could we kiss them?”
“CONFESSION!” they all yelled. “Let’s face it, coalboy… you’re obviously an arachnid arser!” said the first one.
“I prefer to think of him as an eight-leg lecher!” said the second one.
“But he still wears fancy-pants knee-length Drow boots!” slurred the third, gesturing in the sort of manner that only drunks and thespians can.
“And I happen to like my fancy-pants knee-length Drow boots. You might be interested to know, by the way, that they've got adamantite toe-caps in, for extra groin-kicking efficiency." I told him. This was completely true. But... all things considered, I had a soft spot for knee-length Drow boots. For a start, they were extremely comfortable and perfectly fitted - as all adventurers know, if your feet are fecked, then the rest of you is fecked as well.
"Aye!" said Talyn. "And just you watch it, weasel-face! If you say that you can detect whenever elves have been in a forest ‘cos the bears all have pointy ears, I’ll have ta feckin’ whack ye inter touch!"
"OOoooohhhh!" said the first one. "Weasel-face! An even more effeminate surface elf!" With this he made a teapot gesture. "Ooohhh, Eladamri, you're so... manly..."
"Eladamri? Manly? Feck that ferra game o' soldiers!" replied Talyn. "He's got a beer gut on him and he looks like the offspring of a panther and a moose. Only a cowshite eedjit like my brother Hyart would think that."
"Really?" slurred the second. And putting on a camp voice, he continued, "Oh, yes, give it to me hard up the b - ARRGHHH!!!!"
"Kickshaw! What's the matter!?" replied one of the others.
"I - don't - know - Blanchard!" replied Kickshaw. And with that he passed out in a heap. It was only then that I saw Darik leering out from behind him with the handle of his axe firmly entrenched where axe handles should not be firmly entrenched. I always knew that sort of thing was right up Darik’s alley anyhow.
"Bloody hell!" remarked the third one. "Isn't that illegal in 24 different baronies? Right lads, AT 'EM!"
Five on three... the odds were heavily in our favour. Kickshaw was too incapacitated to provide any form of resistance, and thanks to a swift Sleep spell from Shayla, the other one was immobilised. That left me taking on Blanchard Pike. He was as strong as an ox (and twice as ugly), but he was so unutterably drunk that I was able to score innumerable hits on him with a minimum of effort, although he did manage to score a hefty blow to my ribs, which was thankfully cushioned by my armour; however, it left me bruised there for days afterward. My shortsword sliced him neatly in the femoral artery, leaving one of his legs useless as blood squirted from it.
“NOBODY!” I yelled, slashing at him as he writhed around trying to evade my fury. “TRIES!” – stab – “TO!” – slice – “MAKE!” – hack – “BAD PUNS!” – chop – “ABOUT!” – jab – “FECKING SPIDERS!” And with this I scored one on him clean through the throat, spraying blood everywhere.
"Oh well," I thought. "Best finish the job."
I then approached the magically slept other person and calculated where best to strike... deciding on the chink in his armour under his arm... through which I stabbed, and then approached the unfortunate Kickshaw, who was finally coming round. But before he could fully regain consciousness, Oberron had stepped into the breach and grabbed me by the upper arms. Turning me to face him, spitting with fury, he ranted all of his righteous fury at me.
"A dishonouwable twick!" Oberron lectured me. "No twue wawwior ever delights in causing such sadistic wounds to their opponents, and certainly no twue wawwior twies to stwike a man when he’s down!"
Such upstanding wisdom from the Gweat Voice Of Wighteousness himself. After all, if you strike a man when he’s up he might just try and get you back for it. Better safe than sorry.
“He wasn’t down!” grunted Darik. “Just… incapacitated, hur hur hur…”
"Did I ever say I was a true warrior?" I spat back at him. He was a head taller than me, and much heavier, but I think he knew that, deep down, I could take him. "No. And unless you shut up and sit down, Oberron J. Buchanana, then I will cause such sadistic wounds to you, only this time I'll use both thumbs!" My fury was such that it cowed him, possibly ruining a brand new loincloth of his in the process. Some resolute and upstanding holy warrior he was.
I wrestled free of his grasp as the third one began to stir. As he did so, Darik split him in two – using the correct end of his axe this time for a change.
"Do we have any more... unruly individuals?" I shouted across the bar.
Sudden total silence.
“Okay then,” I strode up to the bar. “That’ll be four Cormyrian brandies and an orange juice, please.”
“Orange juice? Whatever sort of weasel-fecker drinks orange juice?” asked Talyn in disbelief. “Unless it’s my brother Hyart. Daft sod that one was.”
All eyes swivelled to Oberron. His eyes swivelled to me. “That’d be me, of course.” I said.
“WHAT?!” shouted the rest of the party in utter surprise.
“Oh, I’ve been teetotal for years. Slows the reactions, it does.”
The drinks arrived and we took them to a table near the back where the Iron Collar people were living it up. Flies had begun to congregate round their bodies already, causing a serious stench – almost as bad as old Matron Kolumbiya of House Ey’Llindor was purported to be until her untimely demise. Well, it was a very timely demise for us, her enemies, and a pity it hadn’t have been a few years sooner.
At this point the greasy barbarian type approached me. He was wearing a fur cape, fur trousers, and not much else, and was built like a brick shithouse.
“Greetings,” he spoke, in a sort of slowish voice that smacks of those who are not entirely fluent in common. “Would you like some braehg?” he went on.
“Some what?” I asked him
“Braehg!” he went on. “A man’s drink! ‘Twill put hairs on your chest and fire in your loins!”
“Sorry, that’s the last thing I want. Chest hair would not only make me look like I was attacked by a snowdrift, it would also get caught in my chainmail and be very painful putting it on or off. And fire in my loins? Unless you have a fetish for third-degree burns, I think not.”
Darik gave off another dirty laugh. “Well, I suppose there wouldn’t be much to burn, hur hur hur – OWW!” This last bit was because I rammed my elbow into his ribs upon hearing this comment.
“That was unnecessawy woughness!” exclaimed Oberron. Not that we took any notice of him.
Unabashed, the greasy barbarian shoved a flask of something into my hand. It looked like tea, but with red stuff floating in it… I showed it to the rest of the team. Shayla went a distinctly odd shade of green.
“Drink!” he ordered.
I obliged. It tasted like licking the inside of a mossy cave with algae rammed up your nostrils – which, incidentally, I have experience of, as it was my Matron Mother’s favourite punishment, cleaning her cellars while handcuffed. Unable to help myself, I spat it out in a spray of puce.
“Kandron!” yelped Shayla. “Look what you did to my nice clean robes!” she went on, demonstrating to everyone else a splash of… stuff… on the front. Darik leant in closer to have a better look, and was rewarded with a slap and a comment of, “What’s the matter, never seen them before?”
The barbarian took his flask away, a stern look on his face. “Evidently you are rejecting the braehg. You are thus not worthy.” And with that he left.
“HEY!” I called after him. “What about that silver wolf pendant you’ve got there?”
He returned. “To get that, you must drink braehg and keep up with me.”
My stomach shrank until it was about the size of a walnut.
“That stuff? Even though it tastes awful?”
“YES.” Confirmed the greasy barbarian.
I pondered this for a minute. “Okay.” I said. Big mistake. VERY big mistake indeed.
He went first, downing an entire flask, and giving an appreciative burp at the end, and handed me one, and folded his arms, a smug expression on his face to witness my downfall…
I downed the entire flask in one, opening out my throat and just tipping it down as if a fountain so as not to taste it.
“Very good…” he admired. “You do realise that there’s bull’s blood in that, don’t you?”
“Oh, that doesn’t bother me.” I casually averred. “In the Underdark, we had a drink named Orbb’st Ssinjin… it consisted of a number of cobwebs, mashed into a paste, a tiny amount of Underdark grape juice, and a shot of… a proprietary ingredient.” Shayla went pale at the thought of this, and the barbarian gave us each another flask.
Several more flasks of braehg were downed, and it transpired that both of us were pretty close to rejecting the lakes of it we’d tipped. Then, all of a sudden, just as he was about to drink his seventh – feeling fine, he fell to the ground with an almighty crash. I stood up – well, tried to – and almost immediately followed. Then I noticed a few remnants of a spell tingling at the tips of Shayla’s fingers.
“Thththt…tha’s no’ fair!” I told her.
“Well come on,” she said. “You were never going to beat him like that. He’s a master at it.”
“Oh well, I’m no’ compalannnnin,” I said, and grabbed his wolf pendant.
A quick nap later, we reported this to Lord Ulbrec (cutting out a few minor details, of course, such as the fact that we started it, and about my braehg-drinking exploits, and that very nice looking wolf pendant I’d nicked), and it was almost nightfall, and we were tired. So, having located the only inn in town, we signed in and paid up our fee for the night.
"HOW much did you say?" I spat at the proprietor.
"Forty gold pieces a head, sir." he replied. "I know it's a bit much, but business has been slow, what with the goblins and the ghost in the attic..."
"Ghost in the attic?" said Darik.
"Yes, my good dwarf. Some woman, she's been wailing after someone for ages now. Of course, nobody's that keen to stay up there now. So, as you can see..."
"Hmm..." I thought out loud. "Maybe if we were to take care of this ghost... would you let us in free?"
Oberron was thunderous at this. "Kandwon, that is just the sort of dishonouwable twick I would expect of a dwow like yourself. We will pay our way and we will sort out this pwoblem for fwee!"
"Awaity' feck ya bam," swore Talyn. "Whassa pointa doing sumthin' fer nuttin' when you could get the price of a few drinks as well?"
“And anyhow,” continued Shayla. “We’re skint.”
"Maybe even some company also, hur hur..." grunted the ever-witty Darik.
"Maybe when you others decide to get your minds out the gutter and think of higher things. I stand among the wighteous, and I will not be compwomised by such as you!" Oberron again.
"Well..." said the innkeeper. "It seems fair to me. Sleep tonight for free, but tomorrow I want this ghost problem sorted."
"One word, good siw..." Oberron gestured toward the innkeeper. "Getting a pwomise kept out of these scoundwels is like getting blood out a stone! Twust them not!”
“Oberron,” I said. “Don’t go behind my back again. If you do, I’ll have Darik go behind your back!”
Darik said nothing, but grinned like a maniac and fingered his axe handle as Oberron gulped audibly.
There you are then. Coming next chapter: A trip to the mortuary, some gratuitous spelunking, and more!
