Bring out the MoHPs

Thanks for reading! This blog shouldn't be taken too seriously. I don't always put a lot of thought into the entries; they are merely a way for me to: (a) test out a few jokes (b) work on dialogue, and scene (c) build up the world of Korin, where my fantasy stories take place and (d) appear busy while I eat lunch, so I can avoid human interaction. Feel free to let me leave a comment or critique. 

That said, here's where we are:
Reunited with their companion, Broo Fang Tane, the freelance historian Esmiralda and Seymuhr, the odd brawler known as Skullsquasher, resume their journey to the palace in Veral Ski, where they would report to Queen Phedora on the death o their companion, Merrick, a leader in the mysterious Ministry of Human Preservation....

A tavern. I hesitated, unsure if I should risk the knock or the trip inside. Taverns presented a habitual problem for Broo Fang Tane. The man was on a journey to find peace, but there were still many, many steps ahead of him. 

He sensed my concern. "It will be...well," he said. 

"Well? When was the last time you were in a tavern and it went 'well.' Not since I've known you."

"There is always a...first...time," he said, and pushed through the door.

"Spoken like a true optimist," I muttered and followed him.

The room inside had already gone silent. All eyes were on Tane as he moved across the floor, heading toward an empty table near the far corner. He kept his head down. 

"We're not looking for any trouble," I said. There weren't too many people in the tavern, which I counted as a good thing. I glanced around, still wondering why we had been shown to this place, rather than the audience with the queen I had been expecting. There was nothing regal--or even much that was clean--about it. 

"What are you looking for, then?" A woman behind the counter called it out. She was short, thin, with gray hair pulled into a single tail that hung over her left ear. She wore a stained, vaguely colored shirt over patched stockings. 

"Uhhh..." I was not sure how to answer. 'The queen' seemed like a ridiculous thing to say. Clearly, for some reason, we had been misdirected. I did not think it sensible to brandish the symbol for the Ministry of Human Preservation, either. If there was some code word to utter, I did not know it. 

"How fresh is your spider?" Seymuhr asked, shouldering me aside.

"The spider is always fresh," she answered with, I thought, a touch of pride. 

"Good! Hurry it up, then. A man could starve waiting for a good bowl of spiderfat soup." 

The woman lingered, gazing pointedly at Tane. "Not a word out of you. I know your type and we've got more pressing things on our minds than, than..."her voice rose and she continued in a mocking tone: 'good tidings'."

Tane nodded, a glum gesture, tucked his hands into his sleeves and sat on the bench with his back facing the room. Seymuhr followed him. 

"Worry not," I told her. "We are just here for some food, apparently." Some of the other patrons returned their attention to their bowls, but a few others looked our way, whispered amongst themselves, and snickered. I motioned for Seymurh to lean in. "I don't think I thought this through."

He shrugged. "Perhaps not. But I like this place."

"I think we should leave. This can't be where we're supposed to meet the queen."

"Oooooh, meeting up with the queen, are ya?" The tavern wench said, much too loudly, as she plopped down three bowls of grayish liquid in front of us. "Well, why didn't ye say so? I'll just go and fetch her majesty right away!" She leaned in, cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered in a tone that was half conspiratorial, half understanding. "She's just finishing up some dishes."

"Queen?" I announced with a nervous chuckle. "Why would you say that? Meet the queen. Us? Why would three humble travelers expect to meet with the queen? Why...why we wouldn't presume to speak to so much as a land baron...What I said was 'I hope the meat is clean'."

She blanched at this and the room went deadly silent. "Well now. I serve the finest spider flanks this side of the wall, missie, and I'll cut anyone who says otherwise. Now I can fetch the queen, like I said, but if you're going to go around insulting my food, then we are going to have a quarrel."

I held up my hands. "I meant no disrespect to you or this, um, fine place, madam, I just..."

"So now you call me a madam? Is that it? I defend my business and you suggest I peddle in flesh?" Her voice was rising and more of her customers were looking at us. Some shifted in their seats, as if they were ready to leap at us. 

"No. No. Of course not. Not that there's anything wrong with that, if you do..."

She suddenly lifted her head and cackled, then walked away.

"Pay her no mind," a man had appeared behind me. "She doesn't own the place. Nor does she work here. She just wandered in one day, said her name was Jasper and she had spent most of her life as a goat."

"Explains the laugh," Seymuhr said. 

"But nothing else," I added. "What are you talking about? A goat? She does not work here? Where did she get those bowls of soup?"

"I don't know," the man answered. He was tall, with a belly that hung over his belt and black hair that resembled an overturned plate of noodles. "A better question, for you, at least--and I would think carefully before I answered it--is this: What have you done with my brother? Where is Merrick?"

Through the gate

Thanks for reading! 
This blog shouldn't be taken to seriously. I don't always put a lot of thought into the entries; they are merely a way for me to: (a) test out a few jokes (b) work on dialogue, and scene (c) build up the world of Korin, where my fantasy stories take place and (d) appear busy while I eat lunch, so I can avoid human interaction. Feel free to let me leave a comment or critique. 

That said, here's where we are:
Reunited with their companion, Broo Fang Tane, the freelance historian Esmiralda and Seymuhr, the odd brawler known as Skullsquasher, resume their journey to the palace in Veral Ski, where they would report to Queen Phedora on the death o their companion, Merrick, a leader in the mysterious Ministry of Human Preservation....

The bauble worked, although it took some convincing to get Seymuhr and Broo Fang Tane to come with me. Seymuhr earned the most suspicious looks from the guards at the Noble Gate. They walked around him, slowly, sizing him up and down as if he were a cow they wished to purchase for meat or milk. Both guards were taller than Seymuhr--as was I and, in fact, most adults--but the well-used maces hanging from his hips drew a few questions. In the end, they tied them in place with some stout twine.

Tane, the poor man, was the subject of open scorn and a stern warning. "If you speak one word of cheer, I'll make mittens out of your tongue," the taller of the two guards snarled at him.

"I only have...one," the monk replied. "My...tongue woul...d not make a com...plete pair."

"That's the spirit," the guard answered. 

"Maybe a pirate could use a tongue-mitten," Seymuhr suggested. "Most of them only have one hand, anyway."

"Perhaps," the glum monk agreed.

We fell in step behind two more guards, who had answered a summoning bell as soon as I displayed the symbol of the Ministry of Human Preservation. I was left to wonder about the power of it; even I, a freelance historian well-versed in the ways of Korin and many of its cultures, was not familiar with the secretive group, yet the mere showing of it at the gate was enough to gain us passage. Was it only known to a select few who manned this post? Was it widely acknowledged in Veral Ski? Or had the queen been expecting to hear from Merrick who, until recently, had been an agent of the MOHP?

There was also this puzzle, which I had just entered my mind. Queen Phedora was, technically, my employer. It was her charge to preserve the history of the land that created the mission of the falcuhns to begin with. Falcuhns were people, gifted with observational skills and who could read and write, who were tasked with going out into the world of Korin and documenting what they saw. Why had Phedora not discussed this MOHP with me? Did she not think I was worthy?

I would find out soon. The Shieldsmen took an abrupt turn ahead of us, guiding us off of the main street that led to the primary castle gate. We found ourselves in shadow, following a tight alleyway between two buildings, past piles of stinking garbage. They stopped in front of a door set back into the wall so far that it might not have attracted notice had we not been guided to it.

"What is this? Aren't we to be guided to the queen?"

He gave a stiff nod, then backed down the alley way. 

I looked back to the door. I could hear, barely, the sounds of muted music from the other side, and conversation. I was about to raise my hand to knock on the door when I realized what it was.

"Bones of Barnok," I said, glancing down at Broo Fang Tane, who in no way mixed well with others. "It's a tavern."

Up the hill

Reunited with their companion, Broo Fang Tane, the freelance historian Esmiralda and Seymuhr, the odd brawler known as Skullsquasher, resume their journey to the palace in Veral Ski, where they would report to Queen Phedora on the death o their companion, Merrick, a leader in the mysterious Ministry of Human Preservation....

We left the bodies in the street. Behind us, the swaying tavern patrons who had witnessed the brief scuffle began to wager on which one would rise first: the girl who had stubbed her toe and tumbled on the hard cobbled streets of Veral Ski, or the man who had confronted Seymuhr over his reaction. Had I any spare coin, I would have placed it on the girl. She was at least trying to collect herself. Seymuhr's assailant lay still.

"I hardly think that was necessary."

Seymuhr shrugged. His voice was raspy but he didn't sound concerned. "He made the challenge. I accepted. Perhaps he'll think twice before he threatens someone smaller than him again."

"If he can still think," I murmured.

"I, for one, hope he can...change," Broo Fang Tane put in. "I have...hopes...that I will someday be a...ble to walk in...to a tavern or down the...street without maiming someone."

"I share that hope," I replied. Broo Fang Tane had a gift for attracting violence. It could have been his cheerful expression, slight frame, monk's robes or his happy demeanor--or a combination of all those things. Rarely in my life had I seen anyone who sparked mischief in other people or attracted such a level of brazen assholery. "Now would be a good time to keep a tight reign on your temper. We are entering a portion of the city where we can't just leave bodies in the streets and mass slaughter is, in general, frowned upon."

"It is always a good....time," said the crestfallen monk. "I only...wish it were that...easy."

"You're easy!" Seymuhr laughed. Tane gave him a quizzical look and I told him I would explain Seymuhr's latest idiocy. 

The structures indeed showed a little more care than those in the center of the city. They stood straighter, taller and were separated by alleyways that were even occasionally clean. IN many cases, sturdy-looking men lounged about their entrances, keeping an eye on the foot traffic in the street as well as eyeing potential customers up and down. This close to the Noble Gate, merchants were just as concerned about maintaining an environment that would appeal to their more skittish clients as they were anything else. Hiring older Shieldsmen to maintain peace and intimidate the occasional ne'er do well who climbed this far into Veral Ski was a common practice.

We drew more than a few glances. Seymuhr, short but powerful and armed with his two maces, caused the men to touch their own blades as we walked by. Broo Fang Tane, the poor man, was the recipient of a few hurled insults. I adjusted my own posture, striding purposefully forward, head held high, but was ignored.

"Just ignore them," I murmured. "They'll do no harm if we keep moving and act like we belong here."

"I thought you did belong here," Seymuhr said. "Visiting the queen was your idea, was it not?"

"It was. Truth be told, I am not sure she will receive us, or how she will bear the sad news that we must convey." I paused, for we were nearing the next gate, and tried to straighten my garments and control my hair. I reached for Merrick's bauble and was comforted to find it, tucked away in the place I had hidden it to protect it from pickpockets.

"And how do you ex...pect...to gain au....di...ence with the queen?" Tane wanted to know.

"I'm working on it," I answered. We stepped forward into the shadow of the Noble Gate.

Better luck next time

Reunited with their companion, Broo Fang Tane, the freelance historian Esmiralda and Seymuhr, the odd brawler known as Skullsquasher, resume their journey to the palace in Veral Ski, where they would report to Queen Phedora on the death o their companion, Merrick, a leader in the mysterious Ministry of Human Preservation....

Outside, the smell of the market lingered in the air and the muted sounds of merchants drifted up the winding roadway. The street in front of me was more silent, with travelers of all types moving up and down the street, shouldering burdens or pretending to look around so that they could catch their breath after climbing the steep grade. Every now and then a child would run by, leaning down the hill and trying to keep his or her balance as they raced down the slope, giggling. One, a girl with a blond pony tail, lost control of her momentum and squealed as her feet tangled and she flipped into the air to land jarringly on the cobbled roadway. She tumbled a short distance and lay, groaning.

"Better luck next time!" Someone called from the shade of an awning, and a few other witnesses chuckled at the girl's misfortune.

Seymuhr was one of those. He stood outside a tavern on the other side of the thoroughfare and wiped the ale he had just spit from his mouth as he barked out a laugh. He pointed and then slapped the man next to him on the back, accidentally knocking him to the ground, as well.

I hissed as I crossed to him. "What's the matter with you?"

He looked confused and glanced over his body. "Nothing," he replied, his voice grating like two broken plates. "Why do you ask?"

I pointed to where the girl still lay moaning. She was trying to push herself up onto her knees without much success. She shook her head, wiped her lip and then pressed her forehead against the stone again. "You find someone else's misfortunes funny?"

He shrugged. "When they look like that, I do." He took another sip of his ale. Meanwhile, the man he had slapped was standing again and looking very displeased.

"You better watch yourself, friend," he growled. He stood a head taller than Seymuhr, as many people did.

"Hold this," Seymuhr said, thrusting his mug toward me. I tried  not to let me excitement show. This was just the opportunity I was looking for. I fumbled for the flask I had recently purchased and turned away, mumbling to him to not do anything that would get us into any trouble.

"No trouble at all," he said.

The other man smiled. "Should I get you something to stand on?" He cracked his fists as he taunted Seymuhr, then lashed out with his right hand. It landed solidly on the side of Semuhr's head, but he barely moved. Instead he buried his left fist into the taller man's abdomen and then knocked him still with a single crashing blow from his right. He snatched his mug from me and took a great gulp.

I managed to hide the flask again, but just barely.

Seymuhr grained the glass, then looked into it and smacked his lips together. "Tastes a little funny," he mused.

I put an innocent expression on my face and blinked rapidly. "Is that so? It smelled fine. Come, let us leave this place while there are only two bodies in the street."

I led the way with Seymuhr behind me. Tane, with a bemused look on his face, followed.

The road to the palace

Reunited with their companion, Broo Fang Tane, the freelance historian Esmiralda and Seymuhr, the odd brawler known as Skullsquasher, resume their journey to the palace in Veral Ski, where they would report to Queen Phedora on the death o their companion, Merrick, a leader in the mysterious Ministry of Human Preservation....

The castle glittered above the lower city like snow on a sun-blasted mountain peak. A main road led up to the huge white gates, but it took a circular route, winding around the hill that held the city like a lazy snake. Lined with shops and taverns, the Market Way offered almost anything a visitor could want. Before long my head was ringing from the sound of pounding blacksmith hammers and merchants calling out the quality of their wares and so jostled by the crowd that I was tempted to poke Broo Fang Tane in hopes of sparking another of his murderous rampages to scatter folks. It was unseasonable warm and my throat burned.

"So this queen, what's she like?" Seymuhr wanted to know.

"She's a woman, of course, very shrewd and not always tolerant of a good jest," I answered. I paused, removed my hat and rubbed my forearm across my damp forehead. "You had better be on your best behavior--if you are allowed into her presence."

"What makes you think I won't be?"

"The last fortnight," I snapped. "All the time I have spent with you."

In fact, that brought up another potential problem. Seymuhr was not one to mask his scents--in fact, he rather gloried in them. I was not sure if he could control the vile smells that constantly leaked from one orifice or another and any attempts to answer that question were only met with laughter. That would not do. I looked around and saw a potential answer in an alchemist shop a little further up the Market Way and near a bend in the street. I pointed to a shady alcove near a tavern, dropped a couple coins in Tane's hand and asked for them to wait for me there.

It was a little cooler inside the shop and I paused inside the door to inhale the aromas I found there: Lilac and cinnamon were the strongest, but I detected hints of vanilla, lavender and mint, as well. It was dimly lit. The walls were covered with shelves that contained various powders of different colors, along with candles of all shapes, thickness and tone. Somewhere, a cat yowled.

When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw a short man with long white hair hanging down to his neck. The top of hi skull was blank and shiny. He was dressed impeccably, in matching trousers and tunic and his head was tilted back so he looked down his crooked nose at me

"Good day," I said to him. "I need some help."

"This I can see," he said, his voice stiff.

"No, no no," I shook my hands. "It's not a cosmetic thing. It has nothing to do with appearance. It's more of a..." Here, I leaned in and lowered my voice to a whisper. "More of a scent thing. An aroma. Aromas. Constant, constant aromas."

He leaned back and the stiffness in his voice became apparent in his expression. He looked at me the same way I thought he would look at a person eating a live kitten.

I sighed and tried to subtly sniff at my shoulder. I had bathed recently, and didn't think I offered any kind of offense. "Again, no." Now my voice was a bit clipped. "It's not for me."

"Of course not," the merchant tried to recover, but still wore the expression of someone who had eaten a sour olive. "Who is it for, then?"

Hmm. I thought back through the past fortnight, mildly astonished that was all the time that had passed. What to call Seymuhr? He had essentially abducted me from a tavern and my life had been in constant danger since then. I had very little coin to show for it. Although he at times could be amusing, I found him infuriating--and smelly--more often than not.

"It's for a...well, let's just said it's for a friend."

"Of course. A friend." He sounded skeptical and I felt color rise to my cheeks. He scanned the shelves, but his lip curled in mild disgust when he asked: "What kind of smells? That is, where do they come from?"

"Everywhere," I admitted. "And any time." I glanced around to see if there was anyone else in the shop. My own reactions irritated me. Why would I feel embarrassed? I had nothing to be ashamed of.

"And the content?"

"The content??!"

"What does it--I apologize--you, that is, what does your friend smell like?"

I considered this for a few moments. "If I were to try to duplicate it, I would have to bludgeon a skunk to death with a clove of spoiled garlic."

"I have just the thing. Do you prefer potion, or powder?"

"It's. Not. For. Me."

"Of course. You said that. What would your, er, friend rather have?"

"I'd rather he didn't know, truth be told."

"I see." He considered for a moment. "I suggest the liquid, then. Put a drop into your drink or soup when the aroma is noticeable--"

"Again, good sir. It's not for--"

"Not for you," he nodded. "Right. I forgot. As I was saying. A single drop should do it, although I cannot attest to how long it will last. It depends on you--that is to say, your friend."

I took the flask from him and held it up. The milky substance inside was still swirling. "I think I'll need a bigger bottle," I murmured. Coin exchanged hands and I tucked the flask into my shirt.

"...you're in the middle of the ride..."

In the Great city of Veral Ski, Esmiralda and Seymuhr are looking for their companion, Broo Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk with a short temper and a talent for violence. After a brief violent encounter, they move deeper into the city...

We found Broo Fang Tane sitting cross-legged under tree on the outskirts of the market square. He had a pile of small, black nuts balanced on one knee and a half-eaten apple in the opposite hand. He took a bit from the apple and then popped a few nuts into his mouth to chew them simultaneously. He looked up at us and beamed.

"By Azzalia's Grace, I'm glad we found you in time," I said.

"Why? Did you want...some?" He held out the apple and pointed to the nuts.

"No. No thank you. I just meant we found you before you got into any trouble."

Tane gave me a quizzical look, and Seymuhr leaned in. "Before you got angry and killed a dozen or so people," he said. "Crowded city and all, one wrong move or wayward sneeze and Azrok alone knows what you would do."

"I don't under...stand," Tane said, but his face grew a little more grave.

I told him about our morning and the encounter with the crazed man Seymuhr knocked down. He pressed his lips together and rested his back against the small tree. Around us, the crowd swirled and the breeze brought us the smell of exotic spices, fresh flowers and human waste.

"I...see," Tane said in his typical lilting tone when I had finished. "And you....thought...that was me?"

I shifted my weight uncomfortably and looked to Seymuhr for help explaining it. His blank but cheerful expression told me he'd rather watch me fumble through the conversation. In fact he leaned back slightly, arms crossed, and wiggled his eyebrows.

"It wasn't my first thought," I lied. "And I was only concerned about your well-being," I lied again. "I meant no offense, only concern. I know you are not yet, er, at the end of your peace journey."

Tane was silent a long time. "No. I am not," he said at last, rising smoothly to his feet. The remaining nuts fell off his knee. He handed the apple, which still had some meat on it, to a passing child. The child took it, frowned, then threw it back at him, leaving a glistening spot on his cheek. Seymuhr laughed and slapped his thigh. "There are many ob...stacle...s."

I tried to change the subject. I kicked the apple out of site with the side of my foot and clapped Tane on his back. "Not to worry, my friend. There are obstacles on any journey. Don't fret too much; you're just in the middle of the ride, is all."

He gave me a brief, tight-lipped smile and nodded. "My journey is not yet...ended." He took a breath and I could see him shrug off the gloom that had just eclipsed his thoughts. "Nor has...yours. Was find...ing me your only er...rand to...day?"

"It was the first, but not the most pressing," I said and looked toward the heart of the city where the palace rose above the grimy streets. "I still seek an audience with the queen."

I headed that way.

Sticks and cobblestones

In the Great city of Veral Ski, Esmiralda and Seymuhr are looking for their companion, Broo Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk with a short temper and a talent for violence. They hear a shout of rage and a yelp of pain and assume they're on the right path...

"Come on!" I hurried in that direction, heart pumping in my chest. This was not some rural backwater or small village--this was Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in Korin, complete with its own Shield Corps and a jail. We had to stop Broo Fang Tane before too many people were killed or our visit would be an extended one in a damp hell forever removed from the sun.

I shuffled through the mass of fleeing people as quickly as I could as the sounds of the fight grew louder. Already someone was moaning in agony. I also heard sobs, gasps, and frantic shouts. I pushed through a final line and turned a corner and took in the chaos.

 Two men were still, laying at odd angles in a pool of spreading blood. Nearby, another held a left arm that sagged from his shoulder in his right hand; his eyes were squeezed tight and tears leaked down his cheeks. Two others circled a tall, lithe figure who pivoted to keep them both within his line of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was not Broo Fang Tane.

He had a mop of red hair and a beard stuck out like a fan, making his head looked like a plate that framed a brown face with blue eyes and a wide mouth. Blood capped his skinned knuckles. His chest heaved from exertion or rage. He was not wounded. His two opponents wore the uniform of The Shield, basic black trousers and shirts covered with stiff plates of leather. They held two short, thick staves in their hands, but both also had short swords on their belts.

One of the Shieldsmen darted in and lashed out with this weapons and the man didn't even try to evade him. He just pivoted so that his broad back absorbed the blow and then whirled and somehow locked the man's head in the crook of his elbow. He kicked out at the other uniformed man and jerked his captor backward. I heard a loud snap and some of the assembled crowd gasped as the limp man fell to the cobbled street. The remaining guard was shaking off the effects of the kick, but the red-headed killer had time to pick up the fallen Shieldsman's weapons. He twirled one in his left hand and struck the guard's forearm, bringing a yowl of pain as the short staff dropped from a suddenly nerve-less hand. A final chopping blow felled him.

"Someone should stop him," a nearby voice mumbled.

"What was his crime?" I asked the woman, who was bent with age, but whose eyes were clear and defiant.

"He just killed three people. Maybe four," she snapped. "Is that not enough, woman?"

I jerked back, startled by the venom in her response. "I only wondered if he started the fight and if it was worth the outcome."

"Oh. I don't know. I think he took an apple that didn't belong to him."

"Rules are rules and laws are laws," a fat, dirty man put in.

"I think that might be a bit excessive," I suggested, then turned to look for Seymuhr. "You see? We must find Tane before...."

But Seymuhr was not behind me. I heard the crowd gasped and cringed, knowing what I would see: Seymuhr, walking calmly toward the bearded man. He loosened one of his maces from his belt, but carried it upside-down, with his hand near the metal head.

The bearded man laughed, rolled his shoulders and then tilted his head from side to side before settling into a battle crouch. Even with his legs bent, swaying on the balls of his feet, he was taller than Seymuhr, whose diminutive stature caused many to underestimate him. But Seymuhr was solid and heavy with muscle, possessing a strength beyond any man I had ever seen.

The bearded man lunged at him, meaning to slam a short staff into either side of his head. Seymuhr moved faster than I thought he could, ducking under the two blows and closing the short remaining distance between him and the bearded man with a half leap, and buried the handle of his mace into the taller man's groin. The fight went out of his eyes immediately, but Seymuhr flattened him with a crashing blow from his left fist that nearly spun the man's head around. His face hit the street and he moved no more.

Seymuhr tucked the mace back into his belt, dusted his hands off and walked back toward me.

"What?" He asked, probably in response to my slack-jawed gaze.

"I..." The crowd was beginning to disperse, leaving the bodies where they had fallen. A young woman helped the wounded Shieldsman to his feet. The pair staggered off toward the center of town, she trying to support his weight while he cried out in pain. She looked over her shoulder at Seymuhr, but said nothing. A nervous puppy cautiously approached the scene and started lapping up some of the blood. "Nothing I guess. I thought that man looked dangerous."

"He probably was," Seymuhr said. "For most."

"We should continue," I said. "There's no need to be here when the rest of the Shield shows up." I paused, certain I had seen a familiar face at the edge of the crowd but the person turned away and there were too many people in the square for me to be certain. We headed toward the market, but I couldn't help but look over my shoulder, feeling a vague sense of unease

Stuck in the middle

In the Great city of Veral Ski, Esmiralda and Seymuhr are looking for their companion, Broo Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk with a short temper and a talent for violence.

"We haven't seen any broken bodies yet. I suppose that's a good sign."

Seymuhr scowled, jostled by yet another body. "That depends on your point of view," he said. "There are far too many people in the world anyway. I can't even fart without sickening a crowd."

"Yes. Well, you could say that no matter how many people were near us." Although, in truth, the city smelled bad enough without his assistance. This close to the market the smells of exotic cuisine helped alleviate the stench of people and waste, but I already longed for the fresh scents of rain-washed trees.

Seymuhr grunted. "Let me guess. You are already missing the forest, the plains--some meandering creek filled with smooth stones and happy trout?"

"I didn't say...."

"Yet just yesterday you complained of a bed of rocks, dirt that caked your squeezlies and your hair and your toes and your..."

"My what? 'Squeezlies?'"

He nodded and looked up at me, holding his hands to his chest and flexing them. "You know what I'm talking about. Would you prefer I call them..."

"I would prefer that you did not mention them at all," I snapped. "Or look at them or even think about them." I pulled up my shirt and turned from his gaze. I could still hear his coarse chuckle, though, and felt my face redden because of it.

"My point, is that you are rarely happy with where you are, only where you were or where you are going. I don't think I've seen you smile more than twice since you joined up with us."

"Oh. Joined up, is that how you look at it? You threw me over your shoulder and carried me off into the night like a string of pelts and thrust me into battle with giants, long-vanquished pirates, horrid walking corpses, fed me spiders--how could I resist?"

"You could have left."

"You could have left me! Where you found me!"

"Broke, lonely and unhappy," he nodded. "I could have. But look at you now?"

"I am still poor and unhappy."

"But you have me," he said with a lopsided grin that I suppose he thought was charming. "And Broo Fang Tane. And a purpose and a story to tell!"

"You're not exactly helping your argument," I mumbled. I had to admit, though, there were some comforts to his companionship. A woman on her own in Korin was usually thought of as an easy mark and, although I prided myself on my ability to take care of myself, having a man thick with muscle and an unpredictable nature at one's side was enough to deter some of the more casual ne'er do wells that, no doubt, cast their appraising glances on me as we walked through the streets.

"Would another battle poem help?"

"Certainly not!"

He snorted. "The sooner you realize it, the better off you'll be."

"Accept what? Your poetic talent? I'll need a lot more convincing."

"No. We're never where we were and we'll never be where we're going. We're all just stuck in the middle and need to make the best of it. It's the same for all of us."

I was about to retort, but snapped my mouth shut. Then, from further down the street where the buildings on either side opened up to a large, open square, I heard a familiar battle yowl and saw several people turn and run. Then came a screech of pain. It sounded like we had found Tane, at last, and we were just moments too late.

In the city

In the Great city of Veral Ski, Esmiralda and Seymuhr are looking for their companion, Broo Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk with a short temper and a talent for violence.


Those who have never been to one of Korin's large cities probably envision it as a grand place, filled with wondrous sights, gleaming with gold and riches. Before my modest childhood in the woods of Maltiboor, before the raiders came and killed my mother and father and drove me into a life of travel, I had always thought they were places of pomp and pageantry, where the hardships of scraping a life from the land were far away, where magic was possible and peace and safety chased away every shadow.

Now, I just noticed the smell. The stench of unwashed bodies was nearly a physical thing that we had to walk through. I couldn't tell if this crowd was particularly ripe or if it was just one really smelly bastard ruining it for the rest of us and, by Keska's Curls, I didn't want to find out. I merely pulled my shirt up over my nose, ducked my head and weaved my way through the throng, hoping Seymuhr was following.

The crowd was pressed together near the gate but as we worked our way further from it the number of people gradually decreased as groups went off in different directions, headed to the market, a tavern, a shop or on some other errand. I poked my nose out and let out a breath.

We were on a straight, stone thoroughfare crowded on either side with buildings of various sizes. Pennants hung from some of the upper windows: the bright blue that Queen Pheadra favored serving as a backdrop to either a merchant's symbol or the falling star of the queen's standard, itself. Women, their bosoms hanging out of their loose shirts, leaned out some windows, calling down to any man who looked prosperous enough to enjoy their company.

The company was plentiful, there were people of all ages, races and sizes moving to and fro, some concentrating on their tasks, others sauntering about, gaping openly and a few hurrying as if on some important errand. One man, with a gleaming bald spot and a ring of hair that hung down to his cheeks, blew a kiss up at a red-headed wench and, craning his head to see her response, stubbed his toe on the uneven roadway and started to hop, holding his foot and cursing loudly.

"Better luck next time!" A pointing man shouted and laughed.*

He half turned to confront the man, still hopping on one leg. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He could formulate no witty response, though, and so endured the laughter of the crowd and his would-be lover above.

A small group had gathered outside a tavern, too, with a sign above its entrance that merely read 'Randy's' in the common tongue. Two large men, chests heaving, swayed on unsteady legs near the door. Both men had bleeding knuckles and ruined faces. One of them, a brown-haired man wearing nothing more than a pair of short breeches, blew a ragged breath out of his shattered lips and sprayed the other with droplets of pink spittle. He took a great lungful of air, raised his fist and slammed it into the other man's chin. More blood flew and the crowd shouted and gasped. The man's eyes glazed over and he slowly toppled backward as his knees gave way.

"I won," the first man, clearly exhausted, could not summon more energy than that. He looked around through eyes nearly swollen shut. "Did you see, lads? Victory is mine! The soup was good. Lads?"

I shook my head. In many places, disagreements were settled with fists, no matter how trivial the matter was. Someone would voice one opinion or defend an argument, and another would support the opposing side. When the disagreements became heated (or sometimes even before then) they would take turns punching each other in the face until only one, the victor, stood. I never understood the practice, for it led to mass delusions. For example, the sky above the Cliffs of Azrok were as blue as any other, but the people there are convinced they are green, merely because the 'green' champion hit harder and struck first. It was idiocy.

"Let's eat here," Seymuhr said, chuckling. "I heard the soup was good."

"That's not funny," I snapped. "We've just watched someone beaten to the ground over the quality of a meal! We'll never become a truly civilized society if we can't learn to disagree without knocking the life fluid out of each other."

"Yes we will," he said.

"No, I can't see it. We..."

"Yes. We. Will," he lowered his voice and took on a menacing tone. His hands were curling into a fists.

"Perhaps you're right," I glanced about nervously.

He laughed and was suddenly cheerful once more. "See? We just did it."

You just proved my point, I didn't say. People would never win an argument as long as the powerful had fists. "Yes, yes. You're quite wise. Come along. We should find our friend before he gets into any trouble--and you know how likely that is."

"No. I don't," his voice took on the same menacing tone.

I walked into the crowd, in search of Broo Fang Tane.


*A phrase of Frizzian origin. The streets in the city of Frizza were so unevenly cobbled that it was virtually impossible to walk among them unscathed. Even a moderate gait required complete concentration. Those unfamiliar with the city--or even locals who weren't concentrating on the road in front of them--were likely to bust a toe or twist an ankle. Frizzians, seeing this happen, often poked fun at the stumbling tourists by calling out: 'Better luck next time' or 'Keep practicing.'

On the job training

Seymuhr and Mira are about to enter the gates of Veral Ski in search of their companion, Broo Fang Tang, and to meet with the queen.


"What is your business here?" The guard loomed over both of us, snarling under a mustache that drooped nearly to his collar. His right hand tapped the hilt of his lendyll, a sort of short sword favored for close work.

"A friend of ours passed way earlier this morning," I said, instinctively gathering my shirt close up over my breasts. The guard's gaze lingered there and a tongue probed his cracked lips. "We seek him. After that we have business in the market."

"A fffffriend?" He sounded surprised. "At the m-m-m-market? What type of f-f-f-f-friend is so important that you waste my time this morning?"

I didn't know how to respond. "He's a cheerful chap, about so tall," I said, with a hand held level just above the top of my own head. "Dressed in robes..."

"Your f-f-f-friend sounds like a m-m-m-m-monK." He finished the word so savagely there was mist in the air.

"He is." Semuhr put in. He gathered himself up and stood between us. He was short than I, but tocky and fearsomely strong. "What business is that of yours? He means no harm to anyone."

"Usually," I felt compelled to add.

"Aye, usually."

"What business? What BUSiness? It is all my business," he called over our heads, spraying spittle. "Why..."

"That's enough, Art," the guard's companion put in. He placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him a few steps to the side. "Sorry about that," he said to us. "Today is his first day questioning the petitioners. I thought I'd give him a few moments to show his style."

"It needs some work," I said.

"T'appears so! We did see your companion earlier. Not many of those types will show their faces around here. I mean, I realize they're trying to do good and spread a little happiness, but you know, in times like these..."

I nodded. "Good cheer is a gift usually received with a closed fist, not an open hand. Hence our concern."

"You're in luck, then, if you're going to the market anyway. I believe that's where he was headed. Turn east after the fat whore dressed in blue and you'll come across it soon enough."

"Thank you for your kindness," I said with a bow, and good luck training your apprentice."

"Oh, he's a good lad, apart from the shouting and spittle and all; he'll come around." He glanced at Seymuhr, then back at me. "There are bath houses down that way, too. Strong soaps and thick brushes. You might want to steer your companion that way."

I gave him a tight-lipped smile and another quick bow. "I have hopes."

We ducked under the gate and headed toward the center of town. Art, looking downcast, ushered us on with a half-hearted wave.

A dangerous jest

Esmiralda and her companions, the Optimist Monk Broo Fang Tane and the odd, loutish warrior Seymurh, have traveled to Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in all of Korin, to report to Queen Pheadora on the death of their companion, Merrick, who held a prominent position within the queen's Ministry of Human Preservation.  Tane has already entered the city, having left on his own before the sun rose. Mira and Seymuhr are at the gate, when someone calls out an apparent insult....

"What did you say?" Seymuhr asked again.

The crowd had gone silent. Some fidgeted, while others pulled in closer to get a better look at the fight they surely expected to happen. Times were difficult throughout Korin and anyone who went looking for trouble usually found it in relatively short order. I glanced from Seymuhr, whose admittedly short but thoroughly stocky and muscular frame spoke to his fighting prowess, to the hapless serf who had called out the insult. He was thinner, much thinner, and taller, and dressed in patched clothing. One of Seymuhr's maces would shatter his frame. The next blow would turn it into pulpy mist.

"I meant no harm, my lord," he stammered. "I only responded in the Otlyndian way. I thought you might appreciate the jest."

"Ah." I understood then, and hurried to place myself between Seymuhr and the poor man. Otlyndians were, compared to most human denizens of Korin, small of stature. I had heard of a recent trend that was rippling through their society. "That explains it. You see, Seymuhr, the current Otlyndian fashion is to take part of someone's speech and hurl it back at them as a sort of good-natured insult. I think it originated in their children but adults have adopted it because it's easier than thinking on their own."

"It sounds like a dangerous habit," Seymuhr growled. He still had his right hand on the mace that hung from that hip. Evidently he didn't think he'd need the other.

"You're a dangerous habit!" the serf replied, although with less confidence than before.

I pointed to the man with both hands, hoping to prove my point. Seymuhr paused for a moment, then a smile grew slowly. He nodded. The people nearby who had been anxious chuckled nervously. Others voiced their dismay.

Just then I sense another presence. The shadow of a tall man fell over the small gathering and I looked to see one of the guardsmen, arms crossed and scowling. "What is the matter here?" He growled.

"You're the matter here!" Seymuhr responded, his normally gravely voice bright and cheerful. He slapped his thigh and turned back to the serf. "You know, that has its merits."

"You have your merits!" Was the response. Both men laughed. Seymuhr clapped him on the back and he fell, face first, into the dirt. He was clearly winded.

"Seymuhr," I whispered, "You might want to tone your good humor down a bit. You'll kill someone!"

"Is this....man...assaulting you?" The guard asked the flattened serf, investing the word 'man' with contempt.

"No," came the winded reply. He pushed himself to his knees and I helped him to his feet. He gave Seymuhr a wary look and rubbed his shoulder, which looked out of place. "We were sharing pleasantries."

"Well see to it that you do it on your feet," he snapped. He jabbed the poor fellow with a finger and then looked surprised when he didn't fall down again. It was his turn to give Seymuhr and appraising glance, from worn boots to bald head and back down again. "And you! Move along," he added, after a pause.

He stalked back to the shadow of the gate, which was now just a few feet away. I made sure the serf was not injured, then turned back to Seymuhr, whose brow was furrowed as he watch the guardsman.

"Are you mad? Veral Ski may be one of the more enlightened cities in Korin, and therefore tolerant of diverse people and viewpoints, but don't think that you can insult a member of the city guard without consequences!"

Seymuhr sniffed and cracked his neck, dismissing the notion of consequences altogether.

I snorted. "Well, at least wait until we're in the city before you start a fight. Or until I'm in the city, leastways. You might be content to spend your day brawling and shattering skulls, but I have important business here--and I'd rather go about it without being covered in someone else's innards."

We took another step forward. It was our turn.

 

Trouble at the gate

Esmiralda and her companions, the Optimist Monk Broo Fang Tane and the odd, loutish warrior Seymurh, have traveled to Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in all of Korin, to report to Queen Pheadora on the death of their companion, Merrick, who held a prominent position within the queen's Ministry of Human Preservation.  Tane has already entered the city, having left on his own before the sun rose. Mira and Seymuhr are at the gate.

The line at the gate stretched behind us as the sun climbed into the sky. I looked ahead and leaned out of place, scratching my head at the delay. To our left, carriage after carriage rolled by and passed under the thick stone entryway with barely a pause. Only those that showed some of the wear any recent disrepair were halted--and those only briefly. Still, we lingered with the rest of the pedestrian petitioners.

Ahead of us, two guards meticulously prodded a stooped old man carrying nothing but a crooked stick. They stood back, conversing with each other with one of them, a short plump man whose hair gleamed with some type of oil, rubbing a sparse beard between his fingers. He held out a hand then, apparently asking for some form of payment.

"Beware the petty in puny positions of perceived power," I muttered.

"It's not right," the man with the skins over his shoulder called back. I didn't think I had spoken loud enough for him to overheard. "We're waiting hear all mornin' and have to bend and scrape our knees. But them..." He gestured as yet another carriage sailed by.

I grunted. I was in no mood to carry on a conversation. I was starting to wonder if I should have just used my Traveling Stone to carry us directly into the city. Surely any perils such a display of the arts would encourage would be secondary to this confounding waiting.

"I know what we can do to occupy ourselves," Seymuhr said.

"Do tell." I watched as the old man pleaded his case and, eventually pulled a dull penny from a dirty pocket and shuffled on. If the guards were going to make everyone pay, we might have an issue. I had precious few coins left and I was unwilling to part with any of them.

"I've a few new poems to try out," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh. Great."

The line thickened near us as the other petitioners sensed the possibility of entertainment. I felt sorry for them. I had heard Seymuhr's battle poems before, of course, and found them somewhat lacking in emotional tone--although they tended to be very descriptive.

He cleared his throat, motioning for the crowd to come closer.

"Slimy mountain cave
crammed with shuffling undead things
just hit them again."

One or two listeners nodded appreciatively, although the confused look on their faces told me that they weren't quite sure what to make of Seymuhr's words. I just pressed my lips together, fingers entwined in front of my belly, and tapped my thumbs against each other.

"Maces swinging wild,
Mighty blows turn my foes to
pools of human goop."

"Ooooh, ahhh," I heard someone say. "I understood that one, so I did." There were nods of agreement.

"You're a pool of human goop!" Another yelled.

I froze. The small crowd went silent. Seymuhr, who had been about to bellow forth another verse, paused and looked at the man, who had been chuckling and poking another bystander in the ribs with his elbow in an attempt to get him to laugh along.

Seymuhr rubbed his palm over his bald head and dropped his voice to a low, menacing snarl.

"What did you say?"