Krug
Newshound
Shein McGee had always wanted to be a hero. After all, he had left the Shire of Hobin for the City (before he learnt that there were many other cities besides the City), despite the protests of his family who had wanted him to take over the bakery business. In the City, he had expected to learn swordcraft, bowcraft, stealthiness, and all those other things that heroes learnt that would lead them to do great deeds, such as saving damsels in distress , slaying dragons and thwarting the plans of ancient evils.
Soon I will learn to be a hero. Wear armour, wield a sword, drink with kings, have my exploits sung by minstrels to little hobbits as they have their second tea…
But for now, Shein McGee made his way through the dark, dingy alleys of the City with a basket in hand, looking for the Boar’s Head Tavern.
“It has to be here SOMEWHERE,” said Shein to himself. And three more deliveries to be made!
Shein looked at the basket he was carrying and at his worn, moth-eaten cloak that his mother had sewn for him. Had it been such a long time ago? The Shire so distant as he sat at the back of the yearly harvest wagon with Uncle Tim as he came to sell his multiple-spout teapots, along with the other hobbit crafts?
A beggar didn’t even acknowledge him as he passed by. Even they knew he didn’t have enough alms for the cracked cup. This particular one had a chipped sword next to him that had seen better days.
“Excu..cuse me… I’m looking for the Boar’s Head,” said Shein to the beggar.
“What fer??” the beggar demanded, as if he had better things to do other than lie down on the street and obstruct traffic.
“I have a delivery to make,” replied Shein defensively. “I… I have a job you know! Unlike.. you!”
“Are ye making a comment about me ya… boy?” asked the beggar threateningly. His breath stank heavily of alcohol, like an empty barrel of beer, and his teeth resembled a broken fence.
Shein shivered slightly. “No… I am not. I’m just asking for directions.” His hands went to his dagger, Nail.
“Well… I smell…” the beggar sniffed the air. “Sausage. That be sausage you’re carrying? Well half a sausage and I’ll tell you the directions.”
“No! Harestur would not be happy. I have only enough sausages to make deliveries for today. Exactly!”
“Uh… Harestur the Gnome uh? Well at least he moved on to better things after his sauerkraut delivery business closed down. I couldna imagine why… Ye shouldna work for him boyo! He be stingy as temple mice!”
“I know… this is only temporary. Until I get enough to get on my feet,” said Shein, wondering why he was taking career advice from a person who looked like he had a job about five summers ago.
“Come on… just a lick?” continued the beggar.
“No! That’d be even worse! Harestur’s sausages are the best in The City and they WILL not be tainted with the saliva of such as you!” said Shein, indignant. He was becoming braver, realizing the old beggar was not much of a threat, even with that sword of his.
“Pah.. suit yourself,” said the beggar, as he waved his cup at other passerbys. Shein sighed and continued to look. The tavern owners didn’t like it if their deliveries were late, and he had already spent too much time looking for The Boar.
A wagon wheeled by, it’s wheels bouncing along the cobblestones and dislodging some pebbles that pounced at Shein. A pair of nightwatchmen passed by, dressed in leather armor and with fine swords strapped at their sides. Shein felt a pang of jealousy. They should not have a height limit for enlistment, thought the hobbit. ‘Tis most unfair. We hobbits can defend and fight as well as any others! And keep our equipment clean too!
“Excuse me!” Shein shouted to them. “Fine watchmen, could you… show me the way to the Boar’s Head?”
The watchmen turned to him. One was a thin, moustached fellow, probably quite young. The other was bulkier and more muscular, but had a blank look on his face.
Probably never even seen a battle before, thought Shein. He was proud of the fact he had helped the caravan fight off a bunch of goblins, and Needle, his dagger, had even drawn goblin blood, even though it was just a tiny scar before his Uncle’s bow had put an arrow right through the goblin’s neck a moment after.
“It’s the next right, and then left, walk twenty paces, and then straight down first lane on your left,” replied the moustached fellow, contemptuously, as if he could not be bothered with the small man’s question.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said Shein.
“Halflings… like rats they are,” whispered the younger guard to the other as the duo walked off, but Shein’s sharp ears picked that up. He wanted to turn back in protest but stopped himself. Keep a lid on that temper, young Shein, he told himself. Deliveryboy.. not hero! Deliveryboy.. not hero! But one day… I’ll show them!
Shein followed their directions, and seemed to be getting deeper into the heart of the Hive, the overgrown ghetto of the city where the scum of the town lived… including him. Though his part was generally less scummier.
Lost, Shein took a right turn, and found himself in yet another dingy alley. “Walk twenty paces? But was it twenty man-sized paces? Or was it twenty hobbit-sized paces? I mean our foot stride is much shorter…” thought Shein.
He continued to go forward. He was wishing for the comfort of home now. A drizzle started to come down on the streets and upon him, and the sounds of windows closing filled the air.
You must always protect the sausage! He could hear Harestur’s voice in his head. He shielded the basket under his cloak. The sky was now dark and cloudy, obscuring every one of the Land’s five moons, and the cloak provided much less protection. The smell of camphor pierced the air; burnt to keep the spirits out of homes. On a night like these, who could blame the ignorant inhabitants of the Hive for their superstition?
Shein turned as instructed and found himself in a dark alley. There were no lights in it. He took a step in. He heard a growl coming from further down. Surely a tavern wouldna be in this… alley? He thought, but took a few more steps forward. The rain was drumming a tattoo in his head, like the irritating beat the goblin deliveryboys loved to do when the Hobs wanted to sleep.
Just as the thought of turning back came to him, thunder flashed across the sky, illuminating the street in front of him. Two robed figures stood over a slumped figure, and before the lightning disappeared, Shein discerned their steel nails and the bloody, fanged mouths. Shein knew them from the tales the Goblins told around the warmstones that these were the Dead’uns, who didn’t know how to stay dead. Shein had always thought the Gobs had told those tales to put the fear of the city into the Hobs and thus make them run home to their Shire. The Dead’uns he had seen looked hungry, as he heard them being to approach him, and Shein doubted that they were keen on sausages…
Soon I will learn to be a hero. Wear armour, wield a sword, drink with kings, have my exploits sung by minstrels to little hobbits as they have their second tea…
But for now, Shein McGee made his way through the dark, dingy alleys of the City with a basket in hand, looking for the Boar’s Head Tavern.
“It has to be here SOMEWHERE,” said Shein to himself. And three more deliveries to be made!
Shein looked at the basket he was carrying and at his worn, moth-eaten cloak that his mother had sewn for him. Had it been such a long time ago? The Shire so distant as he sat at the back of the yearly harvest wagon with Uncle Tim as he came to sell his multiple-spout teapots, along with the other hobbit crafts?
A beggar didn’t even acknowledge him as he passed by. Even they knew he didn’t have enough alms for the cracked cup. This particular one had a chipped sword next to him that had seen better days.
“Excu..cuse me… I’m looking for the Boar’s Head,” said Shein to the beggar.
“What fer??” the beggar demanded, as if he had better things to do other than lie down on the street and obstruct traffic.
“I have a delivery to make,” replied Shein defensively. “I… I have a job you know! Unlike.. you!”
“Are ye making a comment about me ya… boy?” asked the beggar threateningly. His breath stank heavily of alcohol, like an empty barrel of beer, and his teeth resembled a broken fence.
Shein shivered slightly. “No… I am not. I’m just asking for directions.” His hands went to his dagger, Nail.
“Well… I smell…” the beggar sniffed the air. “Sausage. That be sausage you’re carrying? Well half a sausage and I’ll tell you the directions.”
“No! Harestur would not be happy. I have only enough sausages to make deliveries for today. Exactly!”
“Uh… Harestur the Gnome uh? Well at least he moved on to better things after his sauerkraut delivery business closed down. I couldna imagine why… Ye shouldna work for him boyo! He be stingy as temple mice!”
“I know… this is only temporary. Until I get enough to get on my feet,” said Shein, wondering why he was taking career advice from a person who looked like he had a job about five summers ago.
“Come on… just a lick?” continued the beggar.
“No! That’d be even worse! Harestur’s sausages are the best in The City and they WILL not be tainted with the saliva of such as you!” said Shein, indignant. He was becoming braver, realizing the old beggar was not much of a threat, even with that sword of his.
“Pah.. suit yourself,” said the beggar, as he waved his cup at other passerbys. Shein sighed and continued to look. The tavern owners didn’t like it if their deliveries were late, and he had already spent too much time looking for The Boar.
A wagon wheeled by, it’s wheels bouncing along the cobblestones and dislodging some pebbles that pounced at Shein. A pair of nightwatchmen passed by, dressed in leather armor and with fine swords strapped at their sides. Shein felt a pang of jealousy. They should not have a height limit for enlistment, thought the hobbit. ‘Tis most unfair. We hobbits can defend and fight as well as any others! And keep our equipment clean too!
“Excuse me!” Shein shouted to them. “Fine watchmen, could you… show me the way to the Boar’s Head?”
The watchmen turned to him. One was a thin, moustached fellow, probably quite young. The other was bulkier and more muscular, but had a blank look on his face.
Probably never even seen a battle before, thought Shein. He was proud of the fact he had helped the caravan fight off a bunch of goblins, and Needle, his dagger, had even drawn goblin blood, even though it was just a tiny scar before his Uncle’s bow had put an arrow right through the goblin’s neck a moment after.
“It’s the next right, and then left, walk twenty paces, and then straight down first lane on your left,” replied the moustached fellow, contemptuously, as if he could not be bothered with the small man’s question.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said Shein.
“Halflings… like rats they are,” whispered the younger guard to the other as the duo walked off, but Shein’s sharp ears picked that up. He wanted to turn back in protest but stopped himself. Keep a lid on that temper, young Shein, he told himself. Deliveryboy.. not hero! Deliveryboy.. not hero! But one day… I’ll show them!
Shein followed their directions, and seemed to be getting deeper into the heart of the Hive, the overgrown ghetto of the city where the scum of the town lived… including him. Though his part was generally less scummier.
Lost, Shein took a right turn, and found himself in yet another dingy alley. “Walk twenty paces? But was it twenty man-sized paces? Or was it twenty hobbit-sized paces? I mean our foot stride is much shorter…” thought Shein.
He continued to go forward. He was wishing for the comfort of home now. A drizzle started to come down on the streets and upon him, and the sounds of windows closing filled the air.
You must always protect the sausage! He could hear Harestur’s voice in his head. He shielded the basket under his cloak. The sky was now dark and cloudy, obscuring every one of the Land’s five moons, and the cloak provided much less protection. The smell of camphor pierced the air; burnt to keep the spirits out of homes. On a night like these, who could blame the ignorant inhabitants of the Hive for their superstition?
Shein turned as instructed and found himself in a dark alley. There were no lights in it. He took a step in. He heard a growl coming from further down. Surely a tavern wouldna be in this… alley? He thought, but took a few more steps forward. The rain was drumming a tattoo in his head, like the irritating beat the goblin deliveryboys loved to do when the Hobs wanted to sleep.
Just as the thought of turning back came to him, thunder flashed across the sky, illuminating the street in front of him. Two robed figures stood over a slumped figure, and before the lightning disappeared, Shein discerned their steel nails and the bloody, fanged mouths. Shein knew them from the tales the Goblins told around the warmstones that these were the Dead’uns, who didn’t know how to stay dead. Shein had always thought the Gobs had told those tales to put the fear of the city into the Hobs and thus make them run home to their Shire. The Dead’uns he had seen looked hungry, as he heard them being to approach him, and Shein doubted that they were keen on sausages…