From one of my previous story hours-
Then…
“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Guess I'll go and eat worms,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms.
Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.”
Newt stops short, a shadowy lump lurches into his vision, whatever it is its big, and has One-Two-Three legs, and One-Two-Three arms.
Newt’s out of there.
And in less than ten seconds back at the ladder, a couple of seconds later, back on the surface.
“There’s something down there, something…”
“Something what?” Jim asks, Anya snakes her arm round the Gnome’s shoulders.
“Something big.”
Anya crouches, so she’s at eye level with Newt.
“What was it doing Newt? What did you see?”
“It was… singing.”
“Singing?” Anya looks up at Cas, confused.
“Singing about worms.” Newt finishes and has a little cry.
The creature is later revealed to be Scat, the Otyugh- who befriends the PCs, and he wants to be a Bard, or as he puts it-
“Jerm.” Scat croons.
“What Scat?”
“Jerm, can I be Bad?”
The Ranger looks confused. “Bad?”
“Yes. Bad.”
He looks more confused. “Bad?”
“Yeeeees. Bad.”
“Bad?” Jim enquires.
Anya’s had enough.
“Scat what do you mean by Bad? We don’t understand.”
“Bad- like singy of songy’s.”
Jim looks, more confused- his usual self, there one and the same.
“Singy of songy’s?” Jim repeats.
“You mean a Bard?” Anya asks.
“Yeth. Yeth. Bad.”
“I suppose.” Jim shrugs.
“Is dat it- am I Bad now?” Scat wonders.
“You need to learn some songs, sorry songy’s, I guess, then you’re Bard, sorry a Bard, sorry a Bad… Bad, whatever.” Jim moves out of the chamber, the others follow after.
“Then I Bad?” Scat calls after him.
“Yep. Why not.” Jim calls back.
Scat even has a song-
“Jewm?” Scat whines a little.
“Yes Scat.”
“I’ve fort of a songy- can I singy it fur yew?”
“’Kay.” Jim nods.
Nothing happens for a while.
“Scat, are you going to singy for us?” Jim asks.
“Yes. Onlee I onlee got tha korus. It not goody. Not Bad enuff.”
“No matter, let’s hear it.” Jim encourages.
Nothing happens for a while longer.
“Scat. The song?”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“There’s no need…”
“It’s quite… loud.”
“That’s ok, we’re making a fair amount of noise as it is, whatever’s the other side has heard us already.” Jim shrugs.
“Oh. Ok. Jewm?”
“Yes Scat.” Jim straightens, stops work to stare at the Otyugh.
“It’s a bitty fast.”
Jim nods, “let’s hear it then.”
“’Kay.”
Nothing happens for a second, well except that Scat takes in huge lungfuls of air, like he’s filling up, and sure enough he seems to be getting bigger, inflating.
“Scat?” Jim worries.
“S’okay.” Scat quickly squeaks, trying not to let the air out.
Then, “S’reddy.” The Otyugh squeaks again, Jim nods, the other members of the Gang stop what they are doing, aware they are about to witness some sort of momentous occasion, fingers crossed- here’s hoping Scat doesn’t explode, he’s looking particularly taut.
Fart-FART-FART-Trump-Parp-FART.
The noise builds, and gets faster, and there is a tune in there, although it’s very deep, rumbling drums accompanied by a whole orchestra of throbbing, throbbing sounds.
It gets faster still, and louder.
Scat is able to keep up the noise, some sort of circular breathing method, it quickly becomes a wall of sound which echoes off the passage walls, small piles of loose debris topple, the sonic vibrations cause cascades of dirt to spill from the ceiling.
“I thought you were going to sin…” Jim starts.
“Cum krawlin fasta
obey yure Masta
yure lyfe berns fasta
obey yure Masta
MASTA.”
A farting drum roll and parp solo rocks the chamber.
“I…” Jim starts.
”Masta of Poppets I'm pullin yure stings
twistin yure mynd an smushin yure dreeems
Bungee buy me, yew carnt seek a ding
Jus kall me naym, `cos isle hare yew scram
MASTA
MASTA
Jus kall me naym, `cos isle hare yew scram
MASTA
MASTA.”
The last ‘MASTA’, brings a lump of stone crashing down from the ceiling, it lands six inches to the side of Jim, who doesn’t move a muscle, it would have crushed him.
Silence.
Apart from the hiss as showers of dirt shower down, cover the shocked statues of the Goodman Gang.
“Jerm?” Scat asks.
“Very…” Jim starts.
“VERY…” Cas adds.
“Good.” Jim finishes.
“Or rather, Bad.” Anya corrects.
“What’s it called?” Bec asks.
The others turn to stare at the Barbarian, he’s grinning, his hairs gone all lank, he’s sweating profusely; he also looks a little googly-eyed.
“It’s called ‘Masta of Poppets.’, did you like it?” Scat replies, and smiles back, hopeful.
“Yeah- it was…” Bec goes on a long mental journey in search of the right word, spots the huge stone on the ground, “Rocking.” Ah, that’s it.
“What’s a Poppet?” Newt enquires.
“Yew ar my luvvely.” Scat snakes a friendly tentacle around the Gnome and gives him a squeeze, Newt doesn’t look so sure.
So, Otyugh, they're Bad.
Taken from the Goodman Gang story hour found here-
http://www.enworld.org/forum/story-hour/201802-goodman-gang-mysterious-tower.html
Then…
“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Guess I'll go and eat worms,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms.
Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm.”
Newt stops short, a shadowy lump lurches into his vision, whatever it is its big, and has One-Two-Three legs, and One-Two-Three arms.
Newt’s out of there.
And in less than ten seconds back at the ladder, a couple of seconds later, back on the surface.
“There’s something down there, something…”
“Something what?” Jim asks, Anya snakes her arm round the Gnome’s shoulders.
“Something big.”
Anya crouches, so she’s at eye level with Newt.
“What was it doing Newt? What did you see?”
“It was… singing.”
“Singing?” Anya looks up at Cas, confused.
“Singing about worms.” Newt finishes and has a little cry.
The creature is later revealed to be Scat, the Otyugh- who befriends the PCs, and he wants to be a Bard, or as he puts it-
“Jerm.” Scat croons.
“What Scat?”
“Jerm, can I be Bad?”
The Ranger looks confused. “Bad?”
“Yes. Bad.”
He looks more confused. “Bad?”
“Yeeeees. Bad.”
“Bad?” Jim enquires.
Anya’s had enough.
“Scat what do you mean by Bad? We don’t understand.”
“Bad- like singy of songy’s.”
Jim looks, more confused- his usual self, there one and the same.
“Singy of songy’s?” Jim repeats.
“You mean a Bard?” Anya asks.
“Yeth. Yeth. Bad.”
“I suppose.” Jim shrugs.
“Is dat it- am I Bad now?” Scat wonders.
“You need to learn some songs, sorry songy’s, I guess, then you’re Bard, sorry a Bard, sorry a Bad… Bad, whatever.” Jim moves out of the chamber, the others follow after.
“Then I Bad?” Scat calls after him.
“Yep. Why not.” Jim calls back.
Scat even has a song-
“Jewm?” Scat whines a little.
“Yes Scat.”
“I’ve fort of a songy- can I singy it fur yew?”
“’Kay.” Jim nods.
Nothing happens for a while.
“Scat, are you going to singy for us?” Jim asks.
“Yes. Onlee I onlee got tha korus. It not goody. Not Bad enuff.”
“No matter, let’s hear it.” Jim encourages.
Nothing happens for a while longer.
“Scat. The song?”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“There’s no need…”
“It’s quite… loud.”
“That’s ok, we’re making a fair amount of noise as it is, whatever’s the other side has heard us already.” Jim shrugs.
“Oh. Ok. Jewm?”
“Yes Scat.” Jim straightens, stops work to stare at the Otyugh.
“It’s a bitty fast.”
Jim nods, “let’s hear it then.”
“’Kay.”
Nothing happens for a second, well except that Scat takes in huge lungfuls of air, like he’s filling up, and sure enough he seems to be getting bigger, inflating.
“Scat?” Jim worries.
“S’okay.” Scat quickly squeaks, trying not to let the air out.
Then, “S’reddy.” The Otyugh squeaks again, Jim nods, the other members of the Gang stop what they are doing, aware they are about to witness some sort of momentous occasion, fingers crossed- here’s hoping Scat doesn’t explode, he’s looking particularly taut.
Fart-FART-FART-Trump-Parp-FART.
The noise builds, and gets faster, and there is a tune in there, although it’s very deep, rumbling drums accompanied by a whole orchestra of throbbing, throbbing sounds.
It gets faster still, and louder.
Scat is able to keep up the noise, some sort of circular breathing method, it quickly becomes a wall of sound which echoes off the passage walls, small piles of loose debris topple, the sonic vibrations cause cascades of dirt to spill from the ceiling.
“I thought you were going to sin…” Jim starts.
“Cum krawlin fasta
obey yure Masta
yure lyfe berns fasta
obey yure Masta
MASTA.”
A farting drum roll and parp solo rocks the chamber.
“I…” Jim starts.
”Masta of Poppets I'm pullin yure stings
twistin yure mynd an smushin yure dreeems
Bungee buy me, yew carnt seek a ding
Jus kall me naym, `cos isle hare yew scram
MASTA
MASTA
Jus kall me naym, `cos isle hare yew scram
MASTA
MASTA.”
The last ‘MASTA’, brings a lump of stone crashing down from the ceiling, it lands six inches to the side of Jim, who doesn’t move a muscle, it would have crushed him.
Silence.
Apart from the hiss as showers of dirt shower down, cover the shocked statues of the Goodman Gang.
“Jerm?” Scat asks.
“Very…” Jim starts.
“VERY…” Cas adds.
“Good.” Jim finishes.
“Or rather, Bad.” Anya corrects.
“What’s it called?” Bec asks.
The others turn to stare at the Barbarian, he’s grinning, his hairs gone all lank, he’s sweating profusely; he also looks a little googly-eyed.
“It’s called ‘Masta of Poppets.’, did you like it?” Scat replies, and smiles back, hopeful.
“Yeah- it was…” Bec goes on a long mental journey in search of the right word, spots the huge stone on the ground, “Rocking.” Ah, that’s it.
“What’s a Poppet?” Newt enquires.
“Yew ar my luvvely.” Scat snakes a friendly tentacle around the Gnome and gives him a squeeze, Newt doesn’t look so sure.
So, Otyugh, they're Bad.
Taken from the Goodman Gang story hour found here-
http://www.enworld.org/forum/story-hour/201802-goodman-gang-mysterious-tower.html
