by Fletch
Dilberries! Running ever-after, to nowhere.
Once we left the keep, this bit of a Cove with guard-hair ramps up to us to tell us we’d ne’er met, he was Finch and he’d run us a faevor. We set to never meet again perhaps at the tavern up the walk aways.
As we were on toward our claim, we come across a slewed Elf-man, and run down the ogre what slewed him. Only, we think it slewed him. He mayent not. And the elf-man may have been cunning shaver anyhow.
Ech, no matter. When he was strained out, his Trug upped out of the hillside with a baar and we set upon them a’ well.
I learnd an Ogrish word from King Dumbarton: Hahrreg! means “Alice!” I wit the baar was Alice, which is sweet for a baar. I’d best go with Fellclaw or Cleavertooth, meself.
Twas the longest looting o’er an ogret pair ever, as every trace bit and bob was squeeled o’er whilst I alone was driven to the bags of the shiny stuff and looting the den. What care I for ipsy bedding, when there’s bags of coin? That there was meat and ale and a fulle sleep of comfort. Mayhap a mayden? And they toss o’er a baar coller. Oye.
Rather than marking and continuing up our claim, they all decided we bolt back to the keep. Again. To heal a meatshield whot would just throw theyself into the thick next anyhow.
And Lo! At the gate, it is bolted, for Eve is nigh. There is not a stick of fuel, and a dark forest alone to scavenge for twig. Myself and Rue and Liam trackt firewood in the dark, whilst the rest lollygag at the gate with the loot and food.
I’ll have ye now, of the three, twas Rue that bumbled in the bush playing snipe and got caught with arrow, by a shuffler bowman whot had offered hospitality to myself and Liam, and was caught off awkward at the sound.
We followed the cull to a halfling camp with fire and tent, where we payt good coin for bare broth and turnip. Course faire as compared to the sausage and tack the others were to had, aye. And ale, having been parched for all the scavenging for wood and aught.
The whole twas a burned wreck, and the bully of the den shared a tale of heart-rending, of the keep-folk burning a simpleman’s inn, placing him in such dire living.
Mayhaps the ale (as ma mum spake often Drink flies up fast for tall, comely men), but when offered a game of Hide the Turnip to help the inn, I passed gold gladly.
Aye, she was a faire-roe ewe, half-sized, with starlight hair and the devil in her eye. There was gold in that lair, and I looted her thorough, taking my prize and leaving her delirious and sated as I stumbled to the fire to slake my thirst and view the dawn arizing.
O my key is bright, not rusty,
It is so oft applied
To lockes that are not dusty,
Of maydens that are lusty,
And not full fillde with pride. Ha-Ha!
Upon the morn, we Men of Adventure bid away back to the cart, the town, and mayhap a Decent meal, when we wit of a tagalong. That eve, Rue had paid for a half-price slamkin Hoor, who he may impressed with such Pity, for she unto him is now devoted. Oye.
And he does now claim that she is his ‘trothed. And she as to not a Hoor, but a torch bearer? Did he crawl to the wrong tent?
Double-oye.
Some culls just cannot hold to their ale.
