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[Shein] The Adventures of Shein McGee, Halfling Sausage Deliveryboy
- Thread starter Krug
- Start date
Krug
Newshound
[after a long wait.. part 4!]
Shein thought to himself. How did a hobbit lassie end up as the owner of this… roughhouse joint? Beside him, an orc garbed in a spiky suit of chain mail spit into his glass of ale, stirred the mixture with his cracked fingernail and proceeded to gulp it down.
“I’ve come with your… you sausage,” said Shein, reaching into his basket and plucking out a Knockwurst. The hobbit woman stared at him.
“It’s f-fresh!” continued Shein, pointing the sausage at her.
The whole bar proceeded to guffaw. Only the orcs, who would not know innuendo if it banged them on the head with an anvil, wondered what the laughing was about.
“W-What?” asked Shein.
The halfling lass slapped her head. “Tsk. Young hobbit. You have much to learn in terms of decorum. Pass me what we’ve ordered and sit down. Barvus, get him a pint and I’ll give him a receipt.”
“Yer got any bangers for me, halfie?” shouted a grey-bearded dwarf at the bar, his battlebow propped up on his chair.
Shein, red-faced, reached into his basket and extracted the dozen sausages he had been asked to deliver, shoving them on the bartop where Barvus, who eyed the others at the bar, plucked them away swiftly. He then shoved Shein a pint in an unclean, grimy mug.
Shein lifted the pint. It would be the first drop he had in a long time. He drunk it down greedily. Foam dripped down the sides of his mouth onto the floor. The dwarf and Barvus exchanged glances, realized what they were doing and turned away.
“Don’t drown yarself, halfie,” said the Dwarf, who gave Shein a hard slap on the back.
Shein didn’t care. He just continued to quaff down the beer. The brew reminded him of his days back at the Shire, where he had no worries and the best of times was spent with his mates downing mead after the Harvest Festival. Every drop and every swallow offered brief recompense from the current state of affairs – dead broke; forced into slavery in an unfeeling city; a long way from home, hot baths, cider snaps and warm bread and hedgehog footcombs.
“Yer not a bad drinker, halfie,” said the Dwarf. “I be Hargusha Boltshova, of the Iron Mountains.”
Dwarves. They took the name of their craft or their weapons. Family mattered, but spiky pointy things that tore holes into their enemies mattered much more.
“I be Shein… Shein McGee!” The halfling replied, trying to hold his voice steady. It was rare to find someone in the city who would exchange names with him. Most people called him twerp or runt, usually adding the prefix ‘Get-out-of-my-way!’
“And a long way from home, I warrant. Just like me,” said the dwarf, smiling. “Barvus, another mead for my friend here! Give him some Old Grap’s Rock Ale!”
There was gasps from the others at the bar. Above Shein, a creature that resembled a yellowish bat-winged lizard swooped down and landed on Shein’s shoulder. “Rock Ale uh? He won’t last half a puddle of that! Nyet!”
Shein shivered slightly but tried not to show any fear. The talons of the creature bit into his flesh. “W..W..”
“Never seen a fortune drake before have yee?” said the creature.
“Get out of the way Ogmar,” said Hargusha, “and let the halfling show us if he can drink.. like a dwarf.”
Hargusha shoved the mug of Rock Ale to Shein’s face. The froth seemed to bubble up incessantly as if the liquid within was boiling.
Shein took the mug in his hands. The sides felt like deep cold stone. He hoisted the mug up and threw back his head, pouring the liquid down his throat. Hargusha gasped.
The alcohol tasted like bland pieces of shale. It was truly drink only a dwarf would care for. Half the mug was empty when the alcohol hit Shein’s brain like a block of stone. He put the mug down. There was more than half left. The room was beginning to spin around him.
“Pace yourself laddie! I’ve seen Ogres drink less!” said the dwarf. Ogmar stared at the halfling rather concernedly. It did not want Shein to pass out before having the chance to read his fortune.
“Yes, let’s play a game so the alcohol,” said the drake. The creature fell back on revered and traditional methods of fortune-telling. “Pick a card, any card!” Ogmar said, as it eagerly held up a bunch of cards that mystically appeared in it's hands to Shein’s face.
Shein thought to himself. How did a hobbit lassie end up as the owner of this… roughhouse joint? Beside him, an orc garbed in a spiky suit of chain mail spit into his glass of ale, stirred the mixture with his cracked fingernail and proceeded to gulp it down.
“I’ve come with your… you sausage,” said Shein, reaching into his basket and plucking out a Knockwurst. The hobbit woman stared at him.
“It’s f-fresh!” continued Shein, pointing the sausage at her.
The whole bar proceeded to guffaw. Only the orcs, who would not know innuendo if it banged them on the head with an anvil, wondered what the laughing was about.
“W-What?” asked Shein.
The halfling lass slapped her head. “Tsk. Young hobbit. You have much to learn in terms of decorum. Pass me what we’ve ordered and sit down. Barvus, get him a pint and I’ll give him a receipt.”
“Yer got any bangers for me, halfie?” shouted a grey-bearded dwarf at the bar, his battlebow propped up on his chair.
Shein, red-faced, reached into his basket and extracted the dozen sausages he had been asked to deliver, shoving them on the bartop where Barvus, who eyed the others at the bar, plucked them away swiftly. He then shoved Shein a pint in an unclean, grimy mug.
Shein lifted the pint. It would be the first drop he had in a long time. He drunk it down greedily. Foam dripped down the sides of his mouth onto the floor. The dwarf and Barvus exchanged glances, realized what they were doing and turned away.
“Don’t drown yarself, halfie,” said the Dwarf, who gave Shein a hard slap on the back.
Shein didn’t care. He just continued to quaff down the beer. The brew reminded him of his days back at the Shire, where he had no worries and the best of times was spent with his mates downing mead after the Harvest Festival. Every drop and every swallow offered brief recompense from the current state of affairs – dead broke; forced into slavery in an unfeeling city; a long way from home, hot baths, cider snaps and warm bread and hedgehog footcombs.
“Yer not a bad drinker, halfie,” said the Dwarf. “I be Hargusha Boltshova, of the Iron Mountains.”
Dwarves. They took the name of their craft or their weapons. Family mattered, but spiky pointy things that tore holes into their enemies mattered much more.
“I be Shein… Shein McGee!” The halfling replied, trying to hold his voice steady. It was rare to find someone in the city who would exchange names with him. Most people called him twerp or runt, usually adding the prefix ‘Get-out-of-my-way!’
“And a long way from home, I warrant. Just like me,” said the dwarf, smiling. “Barvus, another mead for my friend here! Give him some Old Grap’s Rock Ale!”
There was gasps from the others at the bar. Above Shein, a creature that resembled a yellowish bat-winged lizard swooped down and landed on Shein’s shoulder. “Rock Ale uh? He won’t last half a puddle of that! Nyet!”
Shein shivered slightly but tried not to show any fear. The talons of the creature bit into his flesh. “W..W..”
“Never seen a fortune drake before have yee?” said the creature.
“Get out of the way Ogmar,” said Hargusha, “and let the halfling show us if he can drink.. like a dwarf.”
Hargusha shoved the mug of Rock Ale to Shein’s face. The froth seemed to bubble up incessantly as if the liquid within was boiling.
Shein took the mug in his hands. The sides felt like deep cold stone. He hoisted the mug up and threw back his head, pouring the liquid down his throat. Hargusha gasped.
The alcohol tasted like bland pieces of shale. It was truly drink only a dwarf would care for. Half the mug was empty when the alcohol hit Shein’s brain like a block of stone. He put the mug down. There was more than half left. The room was beginning to spin around him.
“Pace yourself laddie! I’ve seen Ogres drink less!” said the dwarf. Ogmar stared at the halfling rather concernedly. It did not want Shein to pass out before having the chance to read his fortune.
“Yes, let’s play a game so the alcohol,” said the drake. The creature fell back on revered and traditional methods of fortune-telling. “Pick a card, any card!” Ogmar said, as it eagerly held up a bunch of cards that mystically appeared in it's hands to Shein’s face.
Emperor Valerian
First Post
Now I'm going to want to play halflings... great story!
Krug
Newshound
Finally the next part:
---
Shein looked the back of the cards doubtfully. He plucked one from the middle and turned it over. It showed a worker toiling amongst a field underneath a multicoloured sun.
“Oooh… nice choice,” said Ogmar, as it flicked it’s tail. It’s eyes opened wide, eager in anticipation. “Now another!” The drake continued to shove the cards in Shein’s face eagerly with it’s long, sinewy fingers.
Hargusha tapped his foot impatiently, scowling. His fingers cradled his Battlebow, the weapon was armed and ready, with a bolt about the length of Shein’s arm. Above him, bubbles popped above as the Gnome Bubblemancer tussled with another Gnomish mage – a Smokemancer. The Gnomes were practitioners of magicks that humans and elves found trivial and frivolous, but they didn’t care what others thought. It was more important to preserve magic in whatever form… even if it was just to form odd-shaped bubble animals.
“Don’t take all day now!” Ogmar pushed the cards closer to Shein, it’s tongue darting out, catching a large plump fly that flew by and pulling it back to it’s mouth.
Shein reached forward, watching Ogmar’s eyes as his hands hovered above the cards. He pinched another card at the left edge and pulled it out. He turned it over. The illustration showed a hanged man. Shein placed it on the table next to the worker card. Ogmar looked slightly dumbfounded.
“Now… the last!” said Ogmar.
“Are yer sure you’d want him to continue? It doesn’t look too good so far!” said the dwarf. Barvus, who had been dispensing more ale, glanced at the cards. “Blardee drake,” said the Orc. “Can’t you spend ya 1,000 years before ascendin’ doing something else?”
“Only 978 years to go. Besides, this hobbit’s fortune is.. rather interesting!” said Ogmar.
“It looks like he’s going to work until he dies to me,” said the dwarf, quaffing down a pint.
“Quiet! You are merely a warrior whose brain obviously has been jarred into too many battles while I am the dragon-to-be who sees all the strands of fate that intertwine each and every one of us,” snapped Ogmar back.
“But you can’t even predict the skull dice!” replied the dwarf.
“Dice do not have strands of fate! Only creatures with.. free will! Now will you pick your card? Your destiny is waiting!” said Ogmar.
Shein grasped one card right in the middle and pulled it out swiftly.
“NO! NOT THAT ONE!” shouted Ogmar.
Shein put it down. It showed a rather grimy picture of Death holding a large scythe and sword, with a wheelbarrow in front of him that held a large number of dismembered body parts.
Ogmar swiftly folded the cards he still held in his hand back and scrutinized at the three cards Shein had picked. Shein gulped. Surely this was not a good sign.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the Dwarf. “More than haff of them pick the Death card anyway. So his fortune reads he’s going work until he gets hanged and then he dies, I presume. Makes sense.”
“Silence! Do not disturb the fortune teller,” said Ogmar. It eyed the cards carefully, rubbing the obviously overused death card with it’s left claw. It’s eyes were glazed. Shein was uncomfortable. The patrons of the bar went on their business as usual. He clutched at his basket.
“Shein… I have to ask you this. Do you want your life to toil as a delivery boy for the next twenty years, forever wishing after your life in the Shire, before you die by being run over by a turnip wagon?”
“DONNA BREATHE ON DA CARDS! DONNA BREATHE!” shouted the Orc, suddenly aware of what the Drake was about to do. But Orcish reactions tend to be as usual, late.
Ogmar opened it’s mouth wide and breathed over the cards and sparkles of light descended over the cards. Meanwhile, odd things appeared to be happening to items in the line of the breath. Mugs overturned, wine churned and turned bad, mead exploded revealing bees that fluttered by. Shein looked at the cards again. It looked the same, but now Death was towing his wagon in the other direction.
“Congratulations lad, I just changed yer fortune,” said the drake proudly. “Before that it said you were being chased by undying beings eager for your innards and you would be dead tonight while doing deliveries, but now…”
“It says that while you’re doing deliveries for at least the next three years, the undying beings won’t kill you tonight. Injure you significantly perhaps, but they will not kill you,” said Ogmar, smiling proudly.
The strands of fate hung all over the great weaver’s hut. As history became the past, The fates looked over the handiwork, and it was unravelling. Nevermind that the strands went all over the place, resembling the random wanderings of several dozen very prolific and drunk spiders.
“Dammit. It be that damned Fortune Drake instead!”
“Whose strand was it this time?”
“Some halfling.”
“Those we churn out by the thousands? Those little folk with the boring lives? Though we do try to add some individual flair like some huge pie or getting their foot run over by a wagon…”
“So what do we do about ‘tiz?”
“Pah.. let’s look at the thread and what we have lying around.”
The third Fate picked up the now loose strands that lay dejected on the floor.
“Very well then, if it’s a whole different knitting for this one, so it shall be!”
The fate took up an assortment of threads from the floor and started to knit them together rapidly, her hands moving in a blur. Before you could say Tuscany Ninny, she was done.
“There,” she said, holding up a chaotically woven strand to her fellow Fates. “Oh what a life you shall have now, halfling.”
“I like the episode with the exploding cabbages,” said the Second.
“And the runaway rabid Giant turtle is a classic,” piped in the Third.
“Yes… this halfling will definitely be having plenty of FUN!” cackled the First, placing the strand next to the thousands of others that were being woven. The multicoloured strand stood out like a very sore thumb amongst the bland, brown strands that sat in the box.
“A pity we couldna stitch the strands of Dragons… or we’d teach that Fortune Drake a lesson about making us redo our work! But he should be mighty pleased with what we’ve done!” said the Second, before they turned back to their usual work.
“Undying beings? Why would undying beings be chasing a hobbit deliveryboy?” said the dwarf.
The doors burst open, and Shein looked the the two Dead’Uns standing in the doorway.
They didn’t just look hungry now. They looked hungry AND vengeful. The one Shein had fought turned to meet his eye, and a glimmer of recognition went through it’s half-rotted body. It was clambering over to the bar, arm outstretched, nails eager.
Shein jumped over the counter and grabbed a pitcher. He hurled it at the Dead’Un, smacking it on the head. The other patrons were rising from their seats. Some cowered behind tables, a merchant attempted to jump through the window but found that it didn’t open and ended up sprawled on the floor, and others just pretended to be dead (or were already drunk when the undead creature came in). A half-drunk dwarf did pick up it’s axe and hauled itself towards the Dead’Un, swinging his weapon. “Leave this bar NOW!” he shouted.
The Dead’Un dodged the oncoming blow, grabbed the dwarf and hurled him against the wall. Shein gasped. Ogmar flew up, disappearing into the ceiling.
“Kiljor! Where are you?? Ogmar! Aren’t you supposed to help me?” Shein shouted.
There was a pause before Shein heard the drake shout back. “I will! When I figured out how!”
Shein dodged the Dead’Un’s claw, and rolled back. He only had his basket for protection. He drew his dagger out.
The Dead’Un leapt in the air. Shein saw it coming. “OGMAR! What have you done?”
Raising his blade, the blade struck it right in the skull, sliding through the forehead. The creature stood up and looked confused as the dagger was jerked out of Shein’s grasp.
Shein then rolled himself away. The Dead’Un appeared to be making a decision if it was actually, finally dead, decided it was and collapsed to the floor.
“How do I know it’s for real this time?” squealed the halfling.
The other Dead’Un was approaching, striding across the room. It’s claws dripped shiny drops of fresh blood, and the creature’s maw opened revealing rows of shiny, needle-like teeth.
Shein backed away. “Ogmar! Help me!”
“I’m here!” The drake screeched, diving with as much speed as it could muster. It carried a vial of liquid in it’s claws and as it approached the Dead’Un, let go. The jug smashed against the creature’s mouths, spewing pottery and drink all over. Shein used his arms as a shield as the shards flew on him.
The Dead’Un appeared unfazed by the drake’s ploy. It continued to trod towards Shein. Shein held up his knife. The creature swiped at his hands and the weapon went flying across the room. “Ogmar, help!”
“I DID!” The drake protested. Suddenly, a look of shock overcame the Dead’Un, as if it had forgotten to purchase an important grocery for his necromancer master and was all out of coin. The creature gripped it’s throat and flayed it’s arms wildly. Shein stepped just out of reach of those sharp nails. He noted the arcane script that ran all across the creature’s body.
It sagged forward, collapsing on the floor, right in front of Shein. The halfling let out a sigh of relief and quickly moved away.
“Ogmar… what did you do to it?” Shein said to the drake, which sat himself above the trophy of a great stag.
“I let it have some dwarven Nol-brew. Lethal stuff. See the tag here; ‘makes you dead drunk’. I guess there was truth in that statement!” replied the Fortune drake, eager to show it’s cleverness.
Shein did not want to think about how he had been saved by a tiny piece of ad copy. He picked up his dagger. An orc had clambered over and with great force, separated the Dead’Un’s head from it’s body. “There be nice reward for da heads of dis things,” it said.
“But… but I was the one who defeated them!” protested Shein.
“You? The puny halfling? Hah!” shouted the Orc. “Well I have the heads and you don’t, and do you wanna speak to my axe about it?”
Ogmar flew and rested on Shein’s shoulders. It whispered to it. “I trust you wouldn’t. Conversations with weapons tend not to last very long. By the way, you have enough earswax for a trio of candles.”
Shein shrugged. He took his basket. The other patrons of the bar were gradually emerging, and the gnomes were already beginning their magicks. Soon things had gone back to the way they were before, and patrons just stepped over or on the bodies of the Dead’Uns as if they were pillows strewn on the floor. Kiljor was gone too.
Shein sighed. “I thought I would be a hero,” he said.
“You will one day,” remarked Ogmar, “just not yet. By the way, could you pay for that pitcher of Nol-brew?”
--
1) I guess he didn't.
2) Nah just writing this for fun...
---
Shein looked the back of the cards doubtfully. He plucked one from the middle and turned it over. It showed a worker toiling amongst a field underneath a multicoloured sun.
“Oooh… nice choice,” said Ogmar, as it flicked it’s tail. It’s eyes opened wide, eager in anticipation. “Now another!” The drake continued to shove the cards in Shein’s face eagerly with it’s long, sinewy fingers.
Hargusha tapped his foot impatiently, scowling. His fingers cradled his Battlebow, the weapon was armed and ready, with a bolt about the length of Shein’s arm. Above him, bubbles popped above as the Gnome Bubblemancer tussled with another Gnomish mage – a Smokemancer. The Gnomes were practitioners of magicks that humans and elves found trivial and frivolous, but they didn’t care what others thought. It was more important to preserve magic in whatever form… even if it was just to form odd-shaped bubble animals.
“Don’t take all day now!” Ogmar pushed the cards closer to Shein, it’s tongue darting out, catching a large plump fly that flew by and pulling it back to it’s mouth.
Shein reached forward, watching Ogmar’s eyes as his hands hovered above the cards. He pinched another card at the left edge and pulled it out. He turned it over. The illustration showed a hanged man. Shein placed it on the table next to the worker card. Ogmar looked slightly dumbfounded.
“Now… the last!” said Ogmar.
“Are yer sure you’d want him to continue? It doesn’t look too good so far!” said the dwarf. Barvus, who had been dispensing more ale, glanced at the cards. “Blardee drake,” said the Orc. “Can’t you spend ya 1,000 years before ascendin’ doing something else?”
“Only 978 years to go. Besides, this hobbit’s fortune is.. rather interesting!” said Ogmar.
“It looks like he’s going to work until he dies to me,” said the dwarf, quaffing down a pint.
“Quiet! You are merely a warrior whose brain obviously has been jarred into too many battles while I am the dragon-to-be who sees all the strands of fate that intertwine each and every one of us,” snapped Ogmar back.
“But you can’t even predict the skull dice!” replied the dwarf.
“Dice do not have strands of fate! Only creatures with.. free will! Now will you pick your card? Your destiny is waiting!” said Ogmar.
Shein grasped one card right in the middle and pulled it out swiftly.
“NO! NOT THAT ONE!” shouted Ogmar.
Shein put it down. It showed a rather grimy picture of Death holding a large scythe and sword, with a wheelbarrow in front of him that held a large number of dismembered body parts.
Ogmar swiftly folded the cards he still held in his hand back and scrutinized at the three cards Shein had picked. Shein gulped. Surely this was not a good sign.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the Dwarf. “More than haff of them pick the Death card anyway. So his fortune reads he’s going work until he gets hanged and then he dies, I presume. Makes sense.”
“Silence! Do not disturb the fortune teller,” said Ogmar. It eyed the cards carefully, rubbing the obviously overused death card with it’s left claw. It’s eyes were glazed. Shein was uncomfortable. The patrons of the bar went on their business as usual. He clutched at his basket.
“Shein… I have to ask you this. Do you want your life to toil as a delivery boy for the next twenty years, forever wishing after your life in the Shire, before you die by being run over by a turnip wagon?”
“DONNA BREATHE ON DA CARDS! DONNA BREATHE!” shouted the Orc, suddenly aware of what the Drake was about to do. But Orcish reactions tend to be as usual, late.
Ogmar opened it’s mouth wide and breathed over the cards and sparkles of light descended over the cards. Meanwhile, odd things appeared to be happening to items in the line of the breath. Mugs overturned, wine churned and turned bad, mead exploded revealing bees that fluttered by. Shein looked at the cards again. It looked the same, but now Death was towing his wagon in the other direction.
“Congratulations lad, I just changed yer fortune,” said the drake proudly. “Before that it said you were being chased by undying beings eager for your innards and you would be dead tonight while doing deliveries, but now…”
“It says that while you’re doing deliveries for at least the next three years, the undying beings won’t kill you tonight. Injure you significantly perhaps, but they will not kill you,” said Ogmar, smiling proudly.
The strands of fate hung all over the great weaver’s hut. As history became the past, The fates looked over the handiwork, and it was unravelling. Nevermind that the strands went all over the place, resembling the random wanderings of several dozen very prolific and drunk spiders.
“Dammit. It be that damned Fortune Drake instead!”
“Whose strand was it this time?”
“Some halfling.”
“Those we churn out by the thousands? Those little folk with the boring lives? Though we do try to add some individual flair like some huge pie or getting their foot run over by a wagon…”
“So what do we do about ‘tiz?”
“Pah.. let’s look at the thread and what we have lying around.”
The third Fate picked up the now loose strands that lay dejected on the floor.
“Very well then, if it’s a whole different knitting for this one, so it shall be!”
The fate took up an assortment of threads from the floor and started to knit them together rapidly, her hands moving in a blur. Before you could say Tuscany Ninny, she was done.
“There,” she said, holding up a chaotically woven strand to her fellow Fates. “Oh what a life you shall have now, halfling.”
“I like the episode with the exploding cabbages,” said the Second.
“And the runaway rabid Giant turtle is a classic,” piped in the Third.
“Yes… this halfling will definitely be having plenty of FUN!” cackled the First, placing the strand next to the thousands of others that were being woven. The multicoloured strand stood out like a very sore thumb amongst the bland, brown strands that sat in the box.
“A pity we couldna stitch the strands of Dragons… or we’d teach that Fortune Drake a lesson about making us redo our work! But he should be mighty pleased with what we’ve done!” said the Second, before they turned back to their usual work.
“Undying beings? Why would undying beings be chasing a hobbit deliveryboy?” said the dwarf.
The doors burst open, and Shein looked the the two Dead’Uns standing in the doorway.
They didn’t just look hungry now. They looked hungry AND vengeful. The one Shein had fought turned to meet his eye, and a glimmer of recognition went through it’s half-rotted body. It was clambering over to the bar, arm outstretched, nails eager.
Shein jumped over the counter and grabbed a pitcher. He hurled it at the Dead’Un, smacking it on the head. The other patrons were rising from their seats. Some cowered behind tables, a merchant attempted to jump through the window but found that it didn’t open and ended up sprawled on the floor, and others just pretended to be dead (or were already drunk when the undead creature came in). A half-drunk dwarf did pick up it’s axe and hauled itself towards the Dead’Un, swinging his weapon. “Leave this bar NOW!” he shouted.
The Dead’Un dodged the oncoming blow, grabbed the dwarf and hurled him against the wall. Shein gasped. Ogmar flew up, disappearing into the ceiling.
“Kiljor! Where are you?? Ogmar! Aren’t you supposed to help me?” Shein shouted.
There was a pause before Shein heard the drake shout back. “I will! When I figured out how!”
Shein dodged the Dead’Un’s claw, and rolled back. He only had his basket for protection. He drew his dagger out.
The Dead’Un leapt in the air. Shein saw it coming. “OGMAR! What have you done?”
Raising his blade, the blade struck it right in the skull, sliding through the forehead. The creature stood up and looked confused as the dagger was jerked out of Shein’s grasp.
Shein then rolled himself away. The Dead’Un appeared to be making a decision if it was actually, finally dead, decided it was and collapsed to the floor.
“How do I know it’s for real this time?” squealed the halfling.
The other Dead’Un was approaching, striding across the room. It’s claws dripped shiny drops of fresh blood, and the creature’s maw opened revealing rows of shiny, needle-like teeth.
Shein backed away. “Ogmar! Help me!”
“I’m here!” The drake screeched, diving with as much speed as it could muster. It carried a vial of liquid in it’s claws and as it approached the Dead’Un, let go. The jug smashed against the creature’s mouths, spewing pottery and drink all over. Shein used his arms as a shield as the shards flew on him.
The Dead’Un appeared unfazed by the drake’s ploy. It continued to trod towards Shein. Shein held up his knife. The creature swiped at his hands and the weapon went flying across the room. “Ogmar, help!”
“I DID!” The drake protested. Suddenly, a look of shock overcame the Dead’Un, as if it had forgotten to purchase an important grocery for his necromancer master and was all out of coin. The creature gripped it’s throat and flayed it’s arms wildly. Shein stepped just out of reach of those sharp nails. He noted the arcane script that ran all across the creature’s body.
It sagged forward, collapsing on the floor, right in front of Shein. The halfling let out a sigh of relief and quickly moved away.
“Ogmar… what did you do to it?” Shein said to the drake, which sat himself above the trophy of a great stag.
“I let it have some dwarven Nol-brew. Lethal stuff. See the tag here; ‘makes you dead drunk’. I guess there was truth in that statement!” replied the Fortune drake, eager to show it’s cleverness.
Shein did not want to think about how he had been saved by a tiny piece of ad copy. He picked up his dagger. An orc had clambered over and with great force, separated the Dead’Un’s head from it’s body. “There be nice reward for da heads of dis things,” it said.
“But… but I was the one who defeated them!” protested Shein.
“You? The puny halfling? Hah!” shouted the Orc. “Well I have the heads and you don’t, and do you wanna speak to my axe about it?”
Ogmar flew and rested on Shein’s shoulders. It whispered to it. “I trust you wouldn’t. Conversations with weapons tend not to last very long. By the way, you have enough earswax for a trio of candles.”
Shein shrugged. He took his basket. The other patrons of the bar were gradually emerging, and the gnomes were already beginning their magicks. Soon things had gone back to the way they were before, and patrons just stepped over or on the bodies of the Dead’Uns as if they were pillows strewn on the floor. Kiljor was gone too.
Shein sighed. “I thought I would be a hero,” he said.
“You will one day,” remarked Ogmar, “just not yet. By the way, could you pay for that pitcher of Nol-brew?”
--
1) I guess he didn't.
2) Nah just writing this for fun...
