“What do you mean we’ve no more massage oil?” I cried, thumping my fist on the breakfast table. “The orgy is tonight!”
“I’m sorry Sire,” said Sir Sleeves, his head hung low in shame. “The chef thought it was cooking oil. It’s all been used up.”
I blinked at this, my eyes swivelling slowly to the fork of roast chicken halfway to my mouth. Then I gave a shrug and ate it: plenty of it would have gotten into my body either way, I supposed.
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Well, I said the next time I wrote it would be post-holiday, but whatever. I’m not going to Athens until March, which is ages away, and I want to write something.
Alright!
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The morning after our starlit exchange, Glob was back to normal, gruff and crude. But I saw something else in her now, behind the muck and the pong and all the eye rolling. There was something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Or perhaps it was always there, and I simply hadn’t looked long enough. Don’t get me wrong, she still spat and belched and smelled like the inside of a horse, but after that night, she always looked a little different in a way I could never quite explain to anybody else.
The rest of the ride home was largely uneventful, save for a broken spur on the cabbage, a distressing shortage of cheddar, a run-in with the roving sentient hailstorm known as ‘Khrark’ that absolutely clobbered us and gave everyone two black eyes, as well as a brief but intense skirmish with the notorious outlaw Thunderlung and her marauding band of electric skeletons. Overall though, it was smooth sailing, as far as the Great Valley Road is concerned.
Continue readingNot written in ages but also can’t be bothered to rehash several quite major changes and would prefer to move onto smaller yet more interesting things so here we go, a quick update / recap / whatever:
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I spent the rest of the afternoon in a fog of grief-induced mania, periodically attempting to leap out of the moving cabbage in a bid to abandon society and ‘live with the animals’. I don’t remember saying this, but Selladore assures me I was gibbering for hours about my longing to integrate myself with the wolves that roam the forests of the Valley Road. In the end my companions grew weary of my escape attempts and strapped me to the roof of the carriage. I don’t know why they had to shackle me spread eagled across the rounded top of the cabbage instead of just tying me to the seat inside, but whatever.
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I awoke to yowling sunbeams and an absolute shag of a headache the next morning. I’d taken myself away for an early night after the brawl, but my companions had remained downstairs for some hours after, and as I lay awake on my straw mattress, held back from slumber by the lurching beat of heart, I listened to the laughter and songs and vague crashing sounds that drifted up from downstairs.
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The next few days were a drunken blur. I vaguely recall being abducted by a gang of squat-legged woodland orcs and roasted on a spit for a while, and I obviously escaped with my life intact and my skin unroasted but I’ve no idea how. It seems I was also hexed by a warlock at some point, because although I have no memory of meeting and/or being cursed by such a character, for a whole 24 hours I couldn’t speak. Instead, every time I opened my mouth there came a series of shrieks like the bewildered mooing of a cow.
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Observe your narrator now, his heart freshly pulped, his ego pureed, as he sits alone in a tavern off the Great Valley Road, bedraggled and hammered. I had left infernal Bloodroot on a stolen horse and begun the journey home to my kingdom. Not that there seemed much point in being a king anymore. All I wanted to do was lie in the gutter and shout insults at the moon.
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The climb damn near finished me off. I could think of not one solitary reason why anybody would need a tower so big. At the top of the blasted ever-stairs there was a small landing with a heavy door, with a sign on it that read: Vena’s Room. Go away.
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The trio of plumed soldiers had blossomed without warning into a regiment of plumed cavalry. Two dozen gleaming horsemen now blocked our path into the palace; two dozen lances aimed squarely at our noses.
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