dreadnought
First Post
Setting: The City of Greyhawk. An extremely seedy inn in the wrong part of town with a sunken ground-floor tavern room and a cathouse upstairs. Smells of stale beer, tobacco smoke and much, much worse.
Dramatis personae:
The Viscount Viggo Viperpiper the Fifth, Venerable Vicar of Vecna: A neutral evil gnomish priest/bard of the arch-lich Vecna. Like to create nasty limericks about his companions and sing of horrors of one-eyed, one-handed Vecna. Enjoys playing with rats and walks through the sewers.
Bartholomew: A sneaky, underhanded rogue of a landlord, bent on giving his customers a good time -- at a price. As neutral evil owner of the rats' nest he calls an inn, and a provider of "services" he is well-connected with the less-respected segments of the city.
Snarl Tosspot: Psychotic, chaotic evil halfling murderer. A pint-sized terror with a ravening thirst for blood, widely considered responsible for a series of brutal serial murders in his home county. Doesn't play well with others. Well, maybe with bits of them.
The Tale:
EVIL IS AS EVIL DOES
As Bartholomew spat up on and polished his tankards behind the bar one morning, he was surprised to look up and find Snyvel the Sneaky -- knower of "friends" and broker of "services", one of the city's underworld "facilitators" sitting at a table -- pointedly ordering "lunch" from Claire, the serving wench. It had been many a year since anyone cared to eat "lunch" at The Blind Badger -- most of Bart's business was conducted after sundown and almost none of it involved eating.
Something was definitely up. A man with connections among the dark powers of the burg was a potential source of both trouble and income -- two things dear to Bartholomew's heart.
Indeed, the slithery Snyvel had a proposition. It turned out that a certain Golzath "the Golden Boy," a vain and fair-haired strong-arm mercenary,
had scheduled a meeting with a contact that very evening in Bart's establishment. Snyvel's associates were willing to pay well for the identity of Golden Boy's contact -- even better for the live specimen.
"My colleagues -- if I had such colleagues -- would wish to remain anonymous, of course," Snyvel whined.
"If I could find someone to do such a job -- if there was such a job -- they'd theoretically have to be well paid," said Bart.
"Well, if such a thing were to happen, I'm sure you could dispense 30 pieces of pure platinum, eh?" Snyvel said with a wink, "in equal shares, ha ha."
"Hmm, theoretically, of course."
And so a bargain was struck.
"Now, this here fellow, he might have, well, certain helpers, one could say, who might not be ...oh, how should I put it...not quite alive? Yes, you see, we are not concerned about this individual, no not at all. What happens to him is of no particular concern to us. But the friend who will meet him here, now that there is some interest in."
"Aye," squinted Bart, "I think I would have just the men for the job. If there was such a job."
First, Bart would need a point man, a strong-arm. Now, there just happened to be a rather nasty little piece of work who ran odd jobs for the inn by the name of Snarl Tosspot sleeping off a rather prodigious drunk on a low bench in the main room. Possibly the meanest halfling in the realm, Tosspot was, well, a murdering psychotic maniac. How he had not been caught, lynched, drawn and quartered and buried really, really deep was mystery to Bart.
Of course, the wrong thing to do to a serial killer sleeping off a bad drunk is to shake him awake, as Bart was to discover.
"Yer head ain't gonna be connected to yer neck much longer if ya don't buzz off," the halfling growled through his teeth, which were sparklingly white and all filed to a nice, sharp point. The ugly-looking hand axe pressed to Bart's throat reinforced the notion.
"Now, now, er, well, that wouldn't do," said Bart, slowly backing away. "Besides, if I was dead, how would you collect to money I was about to pay you for a job?"
"Loot?" said Snarl, sitting up with a new sparkle in his dead, black eyes. As much as a halfing could appear fearsome, Snarl Tosspot did. Long, stringy black hair plaited with the skulls of dead birds hung about his battered swarthy face, which sat between bushy black mutton-chop whiskers. A small, compact ball of muscle and sinew, Snarl's body was laced with black tattoos where the hairy skin showed through armor.
"I like loot. It's the gettin', not the havin' tho, as they say," he growled with a toothy grin. "What's the deal?"
Bart explained, both pleased and discomfited by the bloodlust and greed that played across Tosspot's features.
"What ya mean Golden Boy's helpers is dead? Then they ain't much trouble is they?" Snarl snarled.
"No, they're dead but still walking, you know?"
"What, they ain't dead?"
"Well, yes, they're dead. But not really REALLY dead," sighed Bart.
"I don't get it," said Snarl. "If they's dead but not dead then they ain't dead."
"Look, they just need to be chopped up alright? That's all you need to know."
"Well, why didn't ya say so? Chop chop, let's get at it," enthused the twisted halfling with glee.
Bart would also need someone for this job with the power to move unnoticed and to provide a little necromantic oomph. Which was where his tenant, the Viscount Viggo Viperpiper the Fifth, Venerable Vicar of Vecna might come in rather handy . . .
Viperpiper happened at that point to be in his room, having a rather pleasant conversation with the corpse of a flayed but semi-animated half-dead rat. The sallow gnome was just poking out its eye with a long hatpin when a knock came on the door.
"We are not in the mood to be disturbed," piped the Viscount. "We are lecturing our subjects on the composition of the Sacred Limerick."
"I have an interesting proposition, your lordship," came Bart's muffled voice. "There's a substantial piece of coin involved. You participation would be greatly welcomed, your highness."
"Well, I am quite busy," shouted Viperpiper. "Is it gold you are describing, this coinage?"
"Get off yer ass now or lose out, yer friggin' lordship," Snarl added loudly.
"It's platinum, excellency," Bart said as quietly as possible. "Just a few hours of your assistance would be greatly appreciated."
"Well, that odious half-pint notwithstanding, I believe any contributions to Lord Vecna's coffers would be worth the toil. I shall attend you presently," said Viperpiper, impaling the rat with his hatpin.
"
in' great, the Princess is comin' out to play," Snarl yelled.
"That is to say, we'd welcome your company, Viscount, Bart offered diplomatically.
The three retired to Bart's office to discuss a plan of action, which soon disintegrated into nothing more than an exchange of insults between the gnomish cleric-bard and the halfling maniac.
" I shall compose a searing ode about you if you are not carefull with that mouth," Viperpiper said haughtily.
"Oh, dearie dearie me," answered Snarl, with a crude curtsey. "The Duchess is angry! Oh, lordy, lordy don't let it say nasty things about me!" he said, cowering in poorly feigned terror.
"You were warned!" Viperpiper shot back. "I shall let you have it."
The gnome cleared his throat majestically:
"There once was a halfling bouncer
So small he was barely an ouncer
He fell for a wench
Climbed up on a bench
But still was too short to pounce her."
Bart howled with laughter, until tears ran down his face (not necessarily a smart thing to do, laughing at a mad killer). But in this case, to no ill effect.
"I don't get it," said Snarl with a perplexed frown.
(To be continued...)
Part II
Later that evening, the Blind Badger began to fill up with the usuals: Strange weed-smoking elves, caustic-tongued dwarves and generally drunken louts of all descriptions. Bart took his place behind the bar where he could keep an eye on the comings and going in the darkened joint and a hand on the club he kept tucked away.
Snarl Tosspot and Viggo Viperpiper mingled inconspicuously with the, er, guests. Amazingly enough, they both actually managed to be inconspicuous. The Blind Badger being the most likely spot in all Greyhawk that could be accomplished.
Several hours passed, with no sign of “Golden Boy” Golzath. Bart was just getting comfortably bored, when the rumblings of a fight began between two patrons.
“I shaid nobody talksh t’me that way,” slurred one rowdy punk.
“I shaysh what I friggin’ wantsh,” answered the other.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” And so on.
“Could be a bit of a dust up, boss,” growled Merc, Bart’s loyal bartender and bouncer. Ya want I should deal wit’ it?”
“Aye, go ahead,” Bart said. “But take the club.”
Merc strod purposefully toward the fracs, which had really gotten out of hand, but in that slow-motion, drunky kind of action.
“’Ere you half-wits!” shouted Merc. “Enough o’ thate!”
“Bugger off!” came the witty rejoinder. Merc swung his club – and hit nothing but air. Unfortunately, the punk had a dagger drawn, which he buried in Merc’s midsection. Merc let out a startled “oomph” and fell to the floor as patrons edged away.
Bart was already over the bar, sap in hand. His first swipe missed the kinfe-wielding thug – luckily the drunk was no duelist and he too missed. Bart’s next shot caught him square and the punk hit the floor hard.
“Hey!” slurred the other. “That wash my friend! You kilt my friend you bashtart!”
Bart rolled his eyes.
“I say,” interjected Viperpiper. “There’s no need for this rowdyness.” A cool, dispassionate look came over his face. “If you will be courteous, I believe we can offer you some alcohol – free of charge!”
“Really?” The punk’s face lit up.
“Certainly. Come this way, to the bar and I shall fetch you some lovely elven wine.”
“Yeah, OK. Wine. Yeah.” The goon stumbled up to the bar.
Viperpiper disappeared behind the bar (being of gnomish stature). “Just one moment…” The sound of grunting and a rustling that sounded vaguely like a fly being unbuttoned came from under the bar, followed by the tinkling splash of a glass being filled.
“There you are,” said Viperpiper, surreptitiously waving a few hand gestures over the amber liquid. “One glass of elvish wine.”
“Shay, thas preddy good,” said the mope, wiping his lips. “Got a real kick to it.”
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Finally, just as everyone was getting fed up with waiting, a tall, handsome man in armour strode through the door. Long blonde locks falling about his face, he simply glowed in the radiance of the fire.
“I say, I say,” he said. “Barkeep, I’ll need a table.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Stay tuned for our next exciting episode, in which Bart says: “What’s that whacking noise coming from the kitchen?”
Dramatis personae:
The Viscount Viggo Viperpiper the Fifth, Venerable Vicar of Vecna: A neutral evil gnomish priest/bard of the arch-lich Vecna. Like to create nasty limericks about his companions and sing of horrors of one-eyed, one-handed Vecna. Enjoys playing with rats and walks through the sewers.
Bartholomew: A sneaky, underhanded rogue of a landlord, bent on giving his customers a good time -- at a price. As neutral evil owner of the rats' nest he calls an inn, and a provider of "services" he is well-connected with the less-respected segments of the city.
Snarl Tosspot: Psychotic, chaotic evil halfling murderer. A pint-sized terror with a ravening thirst for blood, widely considered responsible for a series of brutal serial murders in his home county. Doesn't play well with others. Well, maybe with bits of them.
The Tale:
EVIL IS AS EVIL DOES
As Bartholomew spat up on and polished his tankards behind the bar one morning, he was surprised to look up and find Snyvel the Sneaky -- knower of "friends" and broker of "services", one of the city's underworld "facilitators" sitting at a table -- pointedly ordering "lunch" from Claire, the serving wench. It had been many a year since anyone cared to eat "lunch" at The Blind Badger -- most of Bart's business was conducted after sundown and almost none of it involved eating.
Something was definitely up. A man with connections among the dark powers of the burg was a potential source of both trouble and income -- two things dear to Bartholomew's heart.
Indeed, the slithery Snyvel had a proposition. It turned out that a certain Golzath "the Golden Boy," a vain and fair-haired strong-arm mercenary,
had scheduled a meeting with a contact that very evening in Bart's establishment. Snyvel's associates were willing to pay well for the identity of Golden Boy's contact -- even better for the live specimen.
"My colleagues -- if I had such colleagues -- would wish to remain anonymous, of course," Snyvel whined.
"If I could find someone to do such a job -- if there was such a job -- they'd theoretically have to be well paid," said Bart.
"Well, if such a thing were to happen, I'm sure you could dispense 30 pieces of pure platinum, eh?" Snyvel said with a wink, "in equal shares, ha ha."
"Hmm, theoretically, of course."
And so a bargain was struck.
"Now, this here fellow, he might have, well, certain helpers, one could say, who might not be ...oh, how should I put it...not quite alive? Yes, you see, we are not concerned about this individual, no not at all. What happens to him is of no particular concern to us. But the friend who will meet him here, now that there is some interest in."
"Aye," squinted Bart, "I think I would have just the men for the job. If there was such a job."
First, Bart would need a point man, a strong-arm. Now, there just happened to be a rather nasty little piece of work who ran odd jobs for the inn by the name of Snarl Tosspot sleeping off a rather prodigious drunk on a low bench in the main room. Possibly the meanest halfling in the realm, Tosspot was, well, a murdering psychotic maniac. How he had not been caught, lynched, drawn and quartered and buried really, really deep was mystery to Bart.
Of course, the wrong thing to do to a serial killer sleeping off a bad drunk is to shake him awake, as Bart was to discover.
"Yer head ain't gonna be connected to yer neck much longer if ya don't buzz off," the halfling growled through his teeth, which were sparklingly white and all filed to a nice, sharp point. The ugly-looking hand axe pressed to Bart's throat reinforced the notion.
"Now, now, er, well, that wouldn't do," said Bart, slowly backing away. "Besides, if I was dead, how would you collect to money I was about to pay you for a job?"
"Loot?" said Snarl, sitting up with a new sparkle in his dead, black eyes. As much as a halfing could appear fearsome, Snarl Tosspot did. Long, stringy black hair plaited with the skulls of dead birds hung about his battered swarthy face, which sat between bushy black mutton-chop whiskers. A small, compact ball of muscle and sinew, Snarl's body was laced with black tattoos where the hairy skin showed through armor.
"I like loot. It's the gettin', not the havin' tho, as they say," he growled with a toothy grin. "What's the deal?"
Bart explained, both pleased and discomfited by the bloodlust and greed that played across Tosspot's features.
"What ya mean Golden Boy's helpers is dead? Then they ain't much trouble is they?" Snarl snarled.
"No, they're dead but still walking, you know?"
"What, they ain't dead?"
"Well, yes, they're dead. But not really REALLY dead," sighed Bart.
"I don't get it," said Snarl. "If they's dead but not dead then they ain't dead."
"Look, they just need to be chopped up alright? That's all you need to know."
"Well, why didn't ya say so? Chop chop, let's get at it," enthused the twisted halfling with glee.
Bart would also need someone for this job with the power to move unnoticed and to provide a little necromantic oomph. Which was where his tenant, the Viscount Viggo Viperpiper the Fifth, Venerable Vicar of Vecna might come in rather handy . . .
Viperpiper happened at that point to be in his room, having a rather pleasant conversation with the corpse of a flayed but semi-animated half-dead rat. The sallow gnome was just poking out its eye with a long hatpin when a knock came on the door.
"We are not in the mood to be disturbed," piped the Viscount. "We are lecturing our subjects on the composition of the Sacred Limerick."
"I have an interesting proposition, your lordship," came Bart's muffled voice. "There's a substantial piece of coin involved. You participation would be greatly welcomed, your highness."
"Well, I am quite busy," shouted Viperpiper. "Is it gold you are describing, this coinage?"
"Get off yer ass now or lose out, yer friggin' lordship," Snarl added loudly.
"It's platinum, excellency," Bart said as quietly as possible. "Just a few hours of your assistance would be greatly appreciated."
"Well, that odious half-pint notwithstanding, I believe any contributions to Lord Vecna's coffers would be worth the toil. I shall attend you presently," said Viperpiper, impaling the rat with his hatpin.
"
in' great, the Princess is comin' out to play," Snarl yelled. "That is to say, we'd welcome your company, Viscount, Bart offered diplomatically.
The three retired to Bart's office to discuss a plan of action, which soon disintegrated into nothing more than an exchange of insults between the gnomish cleric-bard and the halfling maniac.
" I shall compose a searing ode about you if you are not carefull with that mouth," Viperpiper said haughtily.
"Oh, dearie dearie me," answered Snarl, with a crude curtsey. "The Duchess is angry! Oh, lordy, lordy don't let it say nasty things about me!" he said, cowering in poorly feigned terror.
"You were warned!" Viperpiper shot back. "I shall let you have it."
The gnome cleared his throat majestically:
"There once was a halfling bouncer
So small he was barely an ouncer
He fell for a wench
Climbed up on a bench
But still was too short to pounce her."
Bart howled with laughter, until tears ran down his face (not necessarily a smart thing to do, laughing at a mad killer). But in this case, to no ill effect.
"I don't get it," said Snarl with a perplexed frown.
(To be continued...)
Part II
Later that evening, the Blind Badger began to fill up with the usuals: Strange weed-smoking elves, caustic-tongued dwarves and generally drunken louts of all descriptions. Bart took his place behind the bar where he could keep an eye on the comings and going in the darkened joint and a hand on the club he kept tucked away.
Snarl Tosspot and Viggo Viperpiper mingled inconspicuously with the, er, guests. Amazingly enough, they both actually managed to be inconspicuous. The Blind Badger being the most likely spot in all Greyhawk that could be accomplished.
Several hours passed, with no sign of “Golden Boy” Golzath. Bart was just getting comfortably bored, when the rumblings of a fight began between two patrons.
“I shaid nobody talksh t’me that way,” slurred one rowdy punk.
“I shaysh what I friggin’ wantsh,” answered the other.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” And so on.
“Could be a bit of a dust up, boss,” growled Merc, Bart’s loyal bartender and bouncer. Ya want I should deal wit’ it?”
“Aye, go ahead,” Bart said. “But take the club.”
Merc strod purposefully toward the fracs, which had really gotten out of hand, but in that slow-motion, drunky kind of action.
“’Ere you half-wits!” shouted Merc. “Enough o’ that
e!”“Bugger off!” came the witty rejoinder. Merc swung his club – and hit nothing but air. Unfortunately, the punk had a dagger drawn, which he buried in Merc’s midsection. Merc let out a startled “oomph” and fell to the floor as patrons edged away.
Bart was already over the bar, sap in hand. His first swipe missed the kinfe-wielding thug – luckily the drunk was no duelist and he too missed. Bart’s next shot caught him square and the punk hit the floor hard.
“Hey!” slurred the other. “That wash my friend! You kilt my friend you bashtart!”
Bart rolled his eyes.
“I say,” interjected Viperpiper. “There’s no need for this rowdyness.” A cool, dispassionate look came over his face. “If you will be courteous, I believe we can offer you some alcohol – free of charge!”
“Really?” The punk’s face lit up.
“Certainly. Come this way, to the bar and I shall fetch you some lovely elven wine.”
“Yeah, OK. Wine. Yeah.” The goon stumbled up to the bar.
Viperpiper disappeared behind the bar (being of gnomish stature). “Just one moment…” The sound of grunting and a rustling that sounded vaguely like a fly being unbuttoned came from under the bar, followed by the tinkling splash of a glass being filled.
“There you are,” said Viperpiper, surreptitiously waving a few hand gestures over the amber liquid. “One glass of elvish wine.”
“Shay, thas preddy good,” said the mope, wiping his lips. “Got a real kick to it.”
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Finally, just as everyone was getting fed up with waiting, a tall, handsome man in armour strode through the door. Long blonde locks falling about his face, he simply glowed in the radiance of the fire.
“I say, I say,” he said. “Barkeep, I’ll need a table.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Stay tuned for our next exciting episode, in which Bart says: “What’s that whacking noise coming from the kitchen?”
