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The Kandron Affair - Part the Eighth.


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#1 Guest_TheBeastlordJohnny_*

Posted 20 September 2003 - 12:11 PM

Hullo everyone!

The next bit… The latter part of this is based on my experience of a certain French roadside eatery on the route somewhere just a shade south of Lyons…

Chapter 8 – Dwarf Bread Has Nothing On This!

The Shaengarne River wound its way down towards the sea, and the conveniently placed path with ran alongside it provided us with a convenient way to negotiate the valley. Credit was given to whichever god created this particular bit of Faerun, even if aesthetically it still resembled a building site.

And, as ever, trudging our way along was myself and my four compatriots, and we were all bored out of our skulls. There is only so much mental stimulation one can gain from wandering along the snow-encrusted banks of a frozen river, and even Darik was soon affected by this.

“How aboyt,” asked Talyn, breaking us out of our half-slept trudge, “we all have a sing song to keep our spirits up?”

I could not think of anything I’d have less rather done. Apart from work on an Umber Hulk ranch during mating season. That was a contender at least.

“What sort of a sing song?” asked Shayla. “A nice one?”

“I know!” yelled out Darik. “When men grow old and their nuts grow cold and the tip of their tool turns blue / When the hole in the middle refuses to piddle – “

“I’d say he was fecked, wouldn’t you?” I finished for him. “Honestly, Darik, you think that’s a filthy filk? In the Underdark, we sing songs about things so utterly rude and sickening it would make your beard curl. Have you ever heard, erm, Lolth Knows How The Money Rolls In?”

Darik shook his head in exasperation. “Of course! I mean, have you heard, Icewind Nell?”

I smiled knowingly. “What about,” I began. “The Ball At Nrawimm’uir? That’s the one that goes – “

“Weally!” piped up Oberron. “How immowal! Lewd lywics have no place in a civilised pawty!”

“Oberron,” Shayla chided him. “Since when was this party ever civilised?”

Oberron bit his lip, evidently taking no notice of “one descended fwom such unwighteous hewitage” as he had previously put it. And thus we carried on, until such a time as we came to a fork in the path which led into a heavily wooded area. Having briefly solicited the views of the party members (“Right, no argument, we’re going down this fork here,”) we all trundled into the wooded foothills of the Spine of the World.

And met an all too familiar face.

“You think you got me, dark elf!”

Torak, the Trash Talking Chieftain. Groans of annoyance were heard left right and centre.

“Now, Broken Tusk Clan, we have them surrounded! Attack!” he yelled at us. He thought himself tough, yet we found it amusing when he spirited away into the undergrowth. A razor smile playing at my lips, I called after him, “Torak.”

“What is it, drow scum?” he growled at me, strutting back in what he thought was a menacing manner, and shoving his face into mine.

“How about,” I began, extracting my shiny new weapons and giving them a few swishes through the air, “Well, Torak, you think you’re tough, don’t you?” I muttered, with an air of almost casual boredom. Torak swallowed this completely.

“Of course!” he said. “No orc become chieftain of Broken Tusk Clan unless he best fighter! To be chief, Torak did in Blog, who did in Machek, who did in Alrak…”

“Yes, quite,” I continued thus. “Torak, you are a limp excuse for an orcish chieftain. I challenge you to a duel!” I spat at him, made as if to slap him with a glove, and felt more than a little stupid when I noticed I was wearing none.

The noise of cogs grinding was quite audible as he pondered this deal. “Fine, dark elf,” he growled. “You be stupid to challenge Mighty Torak!”

“Yeah!” one of the shamen piped up. “He be nothing but a mincing rock-hugger!”

“Yah!” whined another orc. “Torak! Torak!”

And soon the entire squadron took up the chant, while the remainder of my party stood out of the way.

Torak was certainly a seasoned warrior, I am prepared to give him that much credit, and he was surprisingly quick for an orc. His axe came slashing down towards my head within seconds, yet my decades of training and practice at this sort of this paid off, for he struck only empty air as I sliced at his wrist. Quickly pulling his arm back, my weapon slid away, and, noticing an aperture, I stabbed at his gut, forcing him to hop backwards.

Then he came charging in again, aiming for another skull busting attack; however, with crossed weapons the lower point on his axe blade hooked behind them, and so I attempted to pull the axe out of his grip, yet only succeeded in dragging him closer to me. Attempting a rather unorthodox move, I kicked out with both feet, planting them squarely in his gut and sending him sprawling backwards, yet somehow my feet were brought back in just before I would otherwise have landed unceremoniously on my posterior – which in this case would have been very painful for my encounter with the poison ivy still had not worn off completely.

Torak clambered to his feet, saying, “You’ll get yours yet, dark elf!”

I kept still, crouched, waiting for his next move…

Which came just as surely as I’d expected, and he charged towards me, aiming to jump at the end and grind me into the pack ice. As expected also, this little ploy of his backfired, as upon entering my range, I took the hilt of my sword and drove it into his groin. His screams of rage soon turned into a very high pitched scream of intense discomfort.

This was followed by a similar sharp blow to his skull, sending him out cold. Sensing victory, I stepped forward to deliver the deathblow –

“Take THAT, weasel-tupper!”

Talyn.

He has noticed a certain orc at the rear of the Broken Tusk Clan who was attempting to fire an arrow into my throat as I was about to murder their chieftain, and as such it had to be prevented. Of course, this meant war, and so the Broken Tusk Clan piled onto us once again.

“Awaity’feck’ya’bam, arsefeatures!”

An orc which was closing fast went down with an arrow in its throat.

“Arroight, ya wee badger!

A shaman bought it this time. Quivering with the anticipation of smearing yet more orcs with my shiny new weapons, I strode towards them, proclaiming, “Depart before the coming of the drow, or prepare for – “

Darik chose this moment to interrupt, and with a comment that is really quite unrepeatable, yet suffice it to say that it destroyed the gravitas of the situation. Indeed, it distracted Shayla from the casting of a “Melf’s Acid Arrow” spell that she summoned a luminous-green lump on the end of her fingers, which she instinctively scraped on Darik’s beard, which in turn, after this incident, had never been cleaner. Unabated, however, I continued to steadfastly slash through the horde of them, Oberron smote left right and centre, and it was Talyn who finished off the last of them as he tried to flee, calling after this unfortunate, “Go feck a tree, ferretface!”

Our old friend Torak chose this moment to come to.

“So!” he said almost instantly. “You think you’ve got the better of the Mighty Torak! You wrong, dark elf!” At this point, something about my manic rictus grin scared him, and he started to back off, the fear in his eyes increasing as he forced a brave tone of voice. “I’ll get you, and your little dog too!” he said, and at the end of this statement he had broken into a full blown run.

“OI!” yelled Darik after him.


At the end of this little path was a secluded hut, showing a light in the window as the hour grew progressively later. Nailed above the door was a wooden plank on which was painted the words, “Chez Springsong”, and outside was a lump of slate leaning against the wall, which proclaimed that for just six gold pieces per head, one could get a five-course meal down one’s throat. And given that anything was better than the blandness of Adventuring Rations™ (which, incidentally, consisted of a slab of reformed proteins and vegetable matter, and was sold in one flavour, known only as Original, to which one added one’s own flavourings), it seemed like a bright idea to dine at this fine establishment.

The door swung open, and the proprietor stuck his head round the door.

“Ahh, erm, I think a table for five, if you will,” I told him.

“Ah! Do come in, there’s your table,” he said, bundling us all over to a largish yet rather unstable one in the corner. “Dereth Springsong’s the name. So, you’re up for the five-course spectacular?” he asked us.

“No than – “ began Oberron.

“Ah! You want the six courses! Of course! I should have known! Okay… fair enough.”

Talyn’s face went thunderous. “One badgerfeckin’ moment, weaselfeatures! Wha – “

“Don’t worry. All will become apparent soon!” sing-songed our delightfully irritating Maitre d’.

Well, at least it was better than Adventuring Rations™. Especially as I’d run out of my favourite flavour additive, “F150d Caramel.” Soon, a gleaming silver tureen with a lid on it was carried over to the centre of our table. Our collective mouths watering with anticipation, the delightfully irritating Maitre d’ removed the lid with a flourish, revealing some delicious-looking potato soup.

Darik was first to serve himself, and he began to savour the pottage with aplomb and enthusiasm. Taking the dish off him, I attempted to ladle some into a bowl… and hit a bit of a snag.

The delicious-looking potato soup had the consistency of molten wax. Indeed, it had almost entirely congealed into a jelly-like mass, and this, combined with the sight of Darik “eating” said culinary delight caused Shayla to have to exit rather sharpish. Après avoir dégueulé, as they might have said in certain areas of Faerun, our demonically-descended companion rejoined the table as our plates were removed.


A few minutes later, in came the second course, which one could describe as the entrée.

Following Dereth’s lead, we all shut our eyes in order to pray to whatever god we felt like. Hail Lolth full of grace, GET ME OUT THIS FECKING PLACE! was a pretty accurate summary of my prayers.

“For what we are about to receive,” began Dereth, “we give thanks, O Silvanus, and are truly grateful.”

“Begin and never cease!” he sing-songed as we opened our eyes to reveal the sort of course which nobody, nowhere, should have to suffer.

An entire plateload of radishes.

I hate radishes.

They taste like cave moss seasoned with vinegar. At this point I began to long for the clammy soup.


The third course was soon to approach, after we had hidden, magically vanished, or fobbed off on Oberron our radishes, looked edible at least. Steak. Cooked to a deliciously enticing medium rare level. Garnished with locally produced vegetables (Talyn studiously avoided these, suspecting them of being Stealth Radishes in disguise.)

Seizing our cutlery with aplomb, we got stuck in, satisfied that we would get at least some nutritional value from this dive. The meat was delightfully juicy, so much so that one could hear it squelching between one’s teeth – just how it should be.

“Kandron?” asked Shayla, while I was halfway through munching one lump of charred animal flesh. “Are you sure this is cooked through sufficiently?”

Her words hit me with panic, and I extracted the lump I was chewing on, and as I did so, a dribble of blood ran off it and dripped onto the plate.

Simultaneously, three other lumps of bloody flesh slopped onto their respective owners’ plates. Oberron went white as a sheet, Darik sat about looking pleased with himself, and Talyn went over his meat checking it for a pulse.


“Bloody radishes!” swore Darik as we left somewhat early, not daring to brave the horrors of the dessert course or the cheese board. “What did you do with yours, eh, Kandron?”

“Mine?” I asked. “I gave mine to Oberron. Heh.”

“And wightly so!” piped up our erstwhile paladine compatriot. “One should always be gwateful fow that which one weceives!”

“No, but, in all honesty, that was an awful place!” said Shayla. “I mean, how long had he kept that soup around for? Ten years?” She doubled over as hunger pains hit her.

“Ahh, awaity’feck’ya’bam,” swore Talyn. “I mean, what in the name of the holy harlot was their definition of medium rare? Fer fecksakes, they’d just wiped the cow’s arse and pulled its horns oyt!”

“Yes…” I mused to myself. “Hmm, you know that irritating Torak?”

“What about that evil-doing scoundwel?” Oberron asked. “Shall I smite him?”

“No,” I thought out loud. “I’ve a better plan. Shayla, come with me,” I said with a salacious wink. “I’ve an assignment which requires your special skills…”


“Yes, Kandron, it’s very impressive, but does it work?”

“Of course! You don’t think my equipment is lacking, do you, Shayla?”

“Oh, of course not… but it still looks like a turnip!”

Shocked gasp.

“Argh, just get them out and let’s get it on.”

A pause.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, Kandron… Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, what if Oberron were to find out?”

“Let him exhort and grumble! He need never know… I won’t tell him!”

“Are you sure you won’t tell him?”

“Of course…”

Another pause, interspersed by agitated movement, shuffling of parts, etc.

“Stick it in! Ahh!”

Another pause, containing all manner of strange movement and noises. Then silence.

“You regret nothing?”

“Of course… It can be our secret, heheheheheheheh…”

“Indeed, my dear Shayla… I never knew bomb making could be so much fun!”


“You again, dark elf!” Torak said, battered and bruised and bloodied as I approached him and some of his goons a few minutes downriver. “You won’t survive Broken Tusk Clan this time! ATTACK!”

And the remnants of the Broken Tusk Clan came charging at me in an unruly heap, and instinctively I picked up a very fast retreat past the site of Shayla and myself’s little affair, shouting into the bushes, “Okay, Shayla, do the honours!”

Shayla, from a safe distance, conjured a jet of flames which ignited a scrap of rope poking out our little makeshift contraption, allowing it to burn down just as Torak and the Broken Tusk Clan thundered past the device. There was an almighty explosion within the barrel, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere, and instinctively I dropped to the floor. Torak and his goons were not so quick, however, Torak himself being speared in the side by a splinter of wood. Yet what was most satisfying was the explosive’s deadly payload – as the barrel split, a storm of stale radishes came scything through the air, point first, impaling several of the orcish warriors to deadly effect, and causing the others to flee.

And to this day, Shayla still has a special place in my heart for being utterly radishing.


That’s all folks! Coming next – Torak’s Last Stand… make of that what you will.

#2 Guest_argan_*

Posted 29 September 2003 - 08:27 PM

Hahaha, awesome chapter! Please keep em coming! :P

#3 Guest_TheBeastlordJohnny_*

Posted 30 September 2003 - 11:53 AM

Thanks Argan.

Hmmm... Just a random query though - What do people prefer in TKA? The humour side? The more serious side? What?

#4 Guest_argan_*

Posted 30 September 2003 - 09:58 PM

I love the mix of it...complement eachother excellent :mrgreen:




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