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?"

A line in the stand

Esmiralda and her companions, the Optimist Monk Broo Fang Tane and the odd, loutish warrior Seymurh, have paused to rest in a tavern outside of Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in all of Korin. Here they wash the blood, gore and dirt of their recent adventure from their bodies but Mira finds the memory of their lost comrade Merrick is as restless as the living dead that claimed his life. In a dream, he hints at a new quest that Esimralda must undertake...


The street was already teeming with unwashed peasantry making their way to the stout gates of the great city. I fell in line behind a lean, crooked man dressed in rags who carried a bundle of pelts over his right shoulder and tried not to look at the vacant eye sockets of the hapless creatures. Seymuhr stood beside me, picking at his teeth. Carriages rolled by, unhindered at the gate, while we stood and slowly shuffled toward Veral Ski's impregnable walls.

"You could hide a small army in those carriages and deliver them to the queen's privy," I grumbled, impatient. "Yet we must wait, the insignificant masses, to be poked and prodded for the amusement of these so-called guards."

"I could stop one of those coaches," Seymuhr said. He wore one of his maces on each hip and he fingered one of them.

"You'd only cause a scene," I told him. "I'm merely voicing my displeasure."

"That's how they rule over you," he said. "They expect the complaints, but not the action. As long as these 'insignificant masses' you refer only voice their complaints to each other they are content to do as they please."

"Oh ho! Look at you! When did you become a social critic, so knowledgeable with the workings of the upper class?" I lowered my voice. "Let's just wait. We are nearly there."

"You pick up things when you travel," he said. "That, and things are the same everywhere. they always have been."

I had to nod. "True. These are trying times. Is this wisdom imparted to you from your parents?"

"I never knew them." He responded.

"Oh." I fell silent. I remembered, then, something that Merrick had told me shortly after I fell into his troupe: that Seymuhr claimed to have been abandoned by a river and raised by fish. Surely, that was impossible, a farce he told to deflect from his true heritage. Wasn't it? I studied him again from the corner of my eye: he was shorter than I--and I was not a tall woman--but broad and thick with muscle. I knew him to be fearsomely strong and ferocious in battle. He fought with a mace in each hand, not with any apparent skill, but with a strength and energy that battered and maimed any opponent we had come across. He was bald and loutish, with a thick nose and low eyebrows, but a sometimes disarming smile. "Well, it is true, nonetheless."

We moved forward, slowly, as the sun climbed into the sky. Soon the shadow of the Great Gate overtook us and we stood ready to enter the city.