Allow me to recount recent events, but excuse any falsities herein. Fire spirit or something similar must’ve kicked me in the head and jarred my memories loose. Hey, I’m only human. “I’m only human.” is a joking phrase we Eladrin say. The joke is that we are not human.
We woke up hung over after an evening of celebrating our hasty waste-laying of the local tavern and its cowardly barkeep. Our breaths still stinking of booze, we begrudgingly rose and acclimated to consciousness, while Welltick— quick to his feet— paced back and forth, eager to begin another day of destruction.
We made our way out to the streets around 11 o’clock and were received with great fanfare from the local laypeople. They cheered and cheered, as idiots will do.
For some reason we made our way over to the Mallard Inn, and once we entered, we were inside the place. Old man bumbling about in there. Sharp as a bull’s bloated testicles. We asked him for information and he pointed us in the direction of a Kathrid Smithee. As a reward for his cooperation, Fox tossed a coin on the ground. “Pick it up, old man!” yelled Fox. The old man’s eyes seemed to go grey. He withdrew and apologized while we all had a good laugh. Welltick, seemingly having had enough, stepped toward the old man and offered his hand, and when the old man extended his own, Welltick slapped it. “You’re an old coward!”
We left him be, but I hope he lives long enough that we might one day return and scare him some more. Perhaps enough to make him publicly soil himself, though the thrill of all thrills would be to scare the man to his very death. Perhaps in front of his family, if he even has one. All I know is— the old fool had joined the likes of The Red-Caped Faggot on the list of people I want to see suffer and rot. Soon enough, Istus willing. A feast for worms, the both of them.
We continued our journey along to some other place. And there we found Kathrid Smithee. She’s one of Naxgarth’s people— ‘those people’— and they seemed to hit it off, I suspect because they look almost identical. We told her of the coward at the Mallard Inn and I offered her a gold piece to stop by there sometime and kick him in the stomach. She happily obliged, and in doing so gained my eternal trust.
At that very moment, Welltick, serving as Naxgarth’s wingman, offered him some sage advice. “Show her your hammer, bro.”
And show her, he did.
To say that Kathrid Smithee was impressed by Nax’s mighty tool is a grave understatement. She looked wide-eyed and ready to physically receive the weapon in her gummy undermouth (her vagina). We collectively talked up Naxgarth— at times even stretching the truth— for the sake of allowing him to impress the foul little beauty. Perhaps, Istus willing, Nax will one day fill her with his seeds. I can see her now, bursting at every seam.
As there were other pressing matters at hand, the moist Kathrid collected herself and told us of Nazin Redthorn of the Iron Circle, holed up in the keep at Harken. Recommended we pay Darg Bremoth a visit at the Village Green first, though. So, fine.
En route to the Village Green, Naxgarth and Welltick discussed something they called ‘electrolytes’.
Arriving at the Village Green, we ran into our old pal Jim Stockwell, who sold us some berry bags. I growled at the man as I was bored, and he directed us to textiles, where Darg had allegedly been singing our praises.
Ronald’s been tagging along this whole time, by the way. He is a silent guardian, so he rarely does much worth mentioning when we are not in the throes of battle. It is worth noting, though, that as we spoke with Darg, Ronald balanced a ‘beach ball’ on his nose, the clever beast. Ha ha!
On Darg’s instructions, we made our way to the stables to rendezvous with a scout. His name is Garold, with a G, but he took great offense to our calling him by that name (Garold) so we declared his new name to be Pussyface, as his face resembled a gummy undermouth.
The pussyfaced Pussyface explained that a caravan of the Iron Circle would be passing the Standing Stones monument thing in about one hour, so there was little time to spare.
“FOUR HORSES!” boomed Nax. “AND SOMETHING FOR THE BEAR!”
We crowded by the Standing Stones and waited for the caravan to approach. As they appeared over the horizon, I stumbled out into the road and, in a brilliant tactical display, distracted them with my theatrical abilities. Such was the plan, anyway. It was somewhat ‘half-baked’. I told the men I was beat up by scoundrels and that I was loyal to the Iron Circle. This would have been the ideal moment for my team to level a surprise attack, but nothing of the sort happened. What I did then, is attempted to cartwheel away. Some unsturdy footing resulted in me falling to my knees, though, and I slowly rolled through the grass while the Iron Circle looked on with confusion.
This confusion was more than enough of a distraction to provide Naxgarth the perfect opportunity to pounce. The battle began as quickly as it ended, and I’m left with only a collage of sights and sounds, muddled by the torrent of virulent rage and bloodletting. The details that I remember:
• Nax startles a horse, causing it to rear on its hind legs long enough for Fox to shoot the beast in its belly. Ran away!
• Welltick deploys his magic type stuff at the cart, knocking the driver clear off
• Some asshole shoots an arrow at Ronald. “Boooooooooo.” says Naxgarth
• Welltick deploys critical blow after critical blow. THUNDERCLAP AFTER THUNDERCLAP. WE ARE ALL OF US AWESTRUCK.
• “You’re pretty strong. I like that in a man.”
• Fiery tendril cocks…
Cowards vanquished, we searched their belongings and uncovered a lockbox. In it, a robe of scintillation. It goes to Welltick, as it is a logical addition to his growing ensemble. We also found a note that read:
I’ll be waiting.
PS: I am gay.”
We placed the bodies of the slain men on the caravan and set it on fire. We watched them burn as Welltick donned his robe and spun for us. Oh, how he sparkled.
Istus, there is more to tell.
Two hours back to Albridge, okay. Switching to present tense now. Darg’s happy to see us, and why wouldn’t he be. We’re doing everything for him, after all. I’m getting tired of Darg. Over beef steaks, Darg praises our work, and tells us it will send a bold message to the Iron Circle, but that if we want to see their demise, we’ll have to recruit the Wood Singers.
“FUCK IT. LET’S GO.” says everyone. And we leave without even bothering to finish the meal.
Walking through Harken at night, we find ourselves in the presence of Iron Circle scouts, scouring the town for us. We flee to a nearby cabin only to find that we’ve stumbled upon a drake, some brigunds, and what can only be described as a ‘SCARY WOMAN’.
Welltick confidently lets out a ghost call. It does little but blows our cover. We enter battle, and everything is basically fucked from the get-go.
The details of this battle are even more inconsequential. All you need to know is that everybody got real bloodied up. It wasn’t great. “Hurricane Norman” is a phrase that sticks out in my mind, relating to this battle, but I couldn’t tell you why. I’m only human, ha ha!
Luckily, Welltick brought us all back from the brink of death by delivering yet another set of critical hits to our foes. Bloodied but victorious, we inspect the corpses and find a note from Nazin Redthorn. A description of our very crew. A bounty on our heads.
These are tomorrow’s worries, though. We take shelter in the farmhouse for the night and settle in to sleep through the night. Things are pretty grim at the moment, but I take a moment to think of the old man at the Inn, and how he is probably sleeping alone right now, full of regret, longing for love and acceptance that will never come. Someday I will end his miserable life with a blade. For now, it is but a dream to dream. Glory be to Istus.