Razzles, Hob and Fürgůïn quickly became friends, enjoying the delights of the city's juicy molenut parlours and strolling together in the lush meadows beyond the walls. As time went by Fürgůïn began looking for the best way to introduce Razzles to his precious pages and the ventures that they conjured up before him. Yet, it seems first that another was destined to share their path. It all began on what Razzles would later dramatically call "the day of the lost eye". Two burly urgh-banes were lazing in the lush fields of Tullgotha boisterously eating, drinking, discussing future exploits and generally not paying much attention to what was going on around them. One appeared to be poking about in a purse, checking what loose coins remained, the other was disappointedly upending an impressive boarsface flagon.* Both let out a roar of amusement as they simultaneously let their empty objects of investigation fall to the grass.
*A boarsface is not to be mistaken for a hogshead which is more a reference to capacity than design and although a good urgh-bane is capable of downing a butt in a sitting, he would not generally have more than a kilderkin about his person, rarely a hogshead. No, this was a flagon made from a hog’s head in similar fashion to a pig’s bladder wine skin, holding a mere fourth of a firkin.
On a normal day Razzles would carefully have avoided these urgh-banes, but he had strayed across this pair whilst experiencing an involuntary build-up of frolicsomeness. The compulsion to cavort was something that all male knohms periodically suffered and at its lunar peak such amassing of pent-up friskiness positively demanded some sort of outlet. Today these giants were too much for Razzles to simply pass by, the absurd drive to sneak up and perpetrate some sort of knohmish rascality overwhelmed all common sense. Hopefully these lackadaisical urgh-banes wouldn't mind; everybody knew that knohms were just like that.
By way of a plan Razzles had instructed Hob to keep watch and to whistle secret bird signals to warn the creeping knohm should his targets notice him. However, Razzles’ plan was a flawed plan, no bird in good health ever made noises like the peculiarly strangled tones emitted by Hob. The situation wasn't improved when Razzles’ hat-bell muffler came off. One of the muscular urgh-banes spotted the knohm's red hat approaching through the grass and clambered to his feet. Now in full view, his bell-tipped hat and turquoise tunic in stark contrast to the fresh greenery, Razzles panicked and began dithering about in a bizarre figure of eight. He hadn't fully appreciated just how big urgh-banes were close up.*
*Urgh-banes were huge in comparison to most inhabitants of Tullgotha, but in comparison to a knohm they were veritable towering behemoths of almost unimaginable brawn. Their size and strength made urgh-banes aptly suited to a range of specialised roles both within and on the outskirts of general society. The common urgh-bane often tended to brawl and terrorise; the more genteel among them preferred using their talents in more creative ways - not least of all - to excel upon the field of sportsmanship.
"What's up Grimm?" called the black-clad urgh-bane still lounging in the grass.
"It appears that we have a knohm with a gambolling problem," the one named Grimm replied.
The flustered Razzles attempted to recover from disaster with a rather impressive display of running away, but it was not to be. Grimmbros had deftly thrown a passing grovelhoglet* at Razzles, catching the rapidly retreating knohm on the back of the head, spinning him round, dislodging his artificial eye and setting the bell on his hat jangling like a biscuit tin full of brass grasshoppers.
* Grovelhogs are curious beasts: strangely feline, porcine, armadillo-like creatures. Genetically closer to boars than cats, they are more like an armadillo than either except for the tusks and retractable whiskers. They are oft underestimated creatures due to their stumpy legs and the overhang of their armour-plate. Nevertheless with whiskers fully deployed and voracious appetite one underestimates a mature grovelhog at one's own peril.
Observing his projectile meet its mark, Grimmbros Darktale Woeweaver punched the air, concluding that justice had been served. He strode back mumbling to Ignatious, “What is it with those nefarious knohms, nibblins and nnn…?” His inability to come up with a suitable n-word for renlings frustrated him, however, he continued, “Their ridiculous shenanigans get right up my nasal passages! Howbeit, come, my good fellow! I still have with me one last bottle of fruity-drink; a sweet ‘Loopi-koo-wacka!’ port**.”
*Loopi-koo-wacka! the deep purple-brown drink favoured by urgh-banes is often simply known as ‘fruity swine-port’. It is made with limax-berries which, when fermented, give off a rather bacon-like odour. Yet rightly processed they can make a fruity, sweet, but very strong, port-like substance. This is not good for the teeth,** yet it sells rather well. # see end note 2
**Not good for the teeth in that abusers of the beverage tend to kick them out given half a chance.
Grimmbros thoughtfully inspected his prized bottle as he settled back into the grass, stretching out his feet and relaxing again.
“A fine port indeed,” he said with approval. “What say you my friend, about partaking of a hog’s noggin of said fine beverage?” The pair of urgh-banes returned to their indolent carousing, not expecting ever to encounter the knohm or his companions again. The pesky things came and went like wasps; everyone knew that knohms were just like that.
It took a day or two before Razzles gathered the courage to go back to look for his lost eye. The rabid twitch of repressed zest had gradually descended into a jittery shiver before subsiding sufficiently to allow a cautious return. Razzles, Hob and Fürgůïn trailed about the fields around the city until Hob eventually spotted a shiny object in the grass. It was coated with a suspicious mildew and had a bug stuck to it, but it was nonetheless Razzles' artificial right eye, the orange-yellow ball that belonged in the empty cup-like goggle still strapped to the knohm’s forehead.
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“Look - I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” he whooped, doing a jerky little dance around the eye which lay glistening in the sunshine. As Hob and Fürgůïn looked on, Razzles deftly slotted the mucid orb into his monogoggle and carefully adjusted the green and yellow supplementary lenses arrayed above it. He then blinked with satisfaction and made a show of peering nobly skyward through the eye, even though everyone knew that he couldn’t actually see anything through it, before finally glancing nervously about in case the urgh-banes were still in the vicinity.
In fact they were. Until today, many of these strapping, heavy-set creatures had roamed Tullgotha in droves, having come for the great Chicken-Scratch match.* Today, though, had seen the vast majority leave the city. Most vacated following the heavy weekend of celebrating their boys' victory and headed home or started the journey south for the up-coming UnKnown World Chicken-Scratching Championship. Indeed, Grimmbros and his trainer Ignatious also had plans to be making their way, but were happy to bask a few more days in the glory of recent victory, sign a few more autographs, pose for a few more pictures, discuss the approaching World Championships, eat a few more free meals and generally bask in the glory of winning the Tullgotha City-Championship before making their way.
*Chicken-Scratching is a simple game. Played by a group of ‘scratchers’ as a team or as individuals, on a square, or round field. A suitable object referred to as ‘the ball’ is thrown into the field and players attempt to score points by removing the ‘ball’ from the playing. # see end note 3
However, by the tiime Razzles was reunited with his fine eye of excellence, Grimmbros and Ignatious were nowhere to be seen. Fürgůïn sat down in the long grass and watched as Razzles fiddled with the lenses of his goggle frame. Hob peered into the coloured swirls of the eye to see if he could see his own reflection.
“Can you see anything out of that thing?” Hob asked as the knohm angled a little green supplementary lens a bit higher over his ‘eye’.
“I can see enough to poke you in your eye you pogonophobic midget,” Razzles replied defensively, still feeling self-conscious after his recent embarrassment with the all-too-well-aimed grovelhoglet.
“It’s gone to your head!” Hob observed with an unwise choice of words.
“My shoe’ll go to your head in a minute! Let me concentrate, it needs setting right.”
“Those urgh-banes will be back by the time you get that thing working,” Fürgůïn pointed out. “I don’t think we want a repeat of what happened last time do we?”
Actually Ignatious had gone into the city to negotiate a deal with a representative of the Torturers' Emporium. Grimmbros left him to it, remaining in the fields outside the wall, he was not really interested in all the promotional aspects of the business. Ignatious Urlurcher on the other hand was renowned as a trainer-manager skilled at cutting lucrative deals for sporting urgh-banes. Grimmbros too though was an urgh-bane of renown, he was in fact, an urgh-bane celebrity. He was the reigning Tullgotha Chicken-Scratching* Champion, and a very popular champion he was too.
*The etymology of the name has its fables, the best known being that early players literally used a small fowl as the ‘ball’; the winner would be awarded the bird to eat or to wear as a hat at the end of each round. # see end note 4
Early on, the urgh-bane Grimmbros had lived a simple life, kicking animals round the streets with other youths. Just a normal young urgh-bane, proud to have ‘proved his age’ at his ‘Chakarava’ (a term which can be roughly translated from native Urgh-banian as: ‘That which nobody knows, that which nobody has seen or will see, that cannot be known by any who are not - Chakarava”).*
**Outside of urgh-bane society 'the term chakarava' is not well understood. Many know it only as part of an urgh-bane chant, or war-cry, uttered with the pulling of faces and much odd posturing: 'chakarava - hoo hoo wakka wakka' being the first line. The famous renling philosopher Alexånðërb The Great Beetle-Whisperer claimed that even Urgh-banes don’t know what it means. However, those that are ‘Chakarava’ say that these are just the idle speculations of those who are themselves not 'Chakarava'.
Grimmbros had been burned by the blazing fire of excitement that was ‘Chicken-Scratching’ in his teens, a fire that just would not die down. Chicken-Scratching was by far the most important and popular of all sports in the UnKnown world. It had a long and colourful history; it was not only a multi-race pastime, but a huge multi-faceted business that covered the map. Each town and village had its victor, each city had its champion; each country its hero; and once every three years, the fans of all races of all lands would unite in the spectacle that was the ‘Super-Scratch’ to crown the UnKnown World Champion of Chicken-Scratching.
Eventually Grimmbros had achieved great success within the sport, bringing him a substantial income and a tremendous change in life-style. He enjoyed the finest hand-stitched tweed and hessian suits, ochre-yellow, with a striking orange, hand-rolled twill thread stitched into a check pattern. To top it off he had taken to wearing a black-cherry coloured beret. His larder was now one of quality foods from polished tables and culinarily eloquent purveyors' counters; fine beverages out of delicate cups and fluted goblets, fit indeed for a sport icon’s parched throat. He was invited to soiree with members of a social circle previously unknown, having a tremendous effect on his education and elocution. Yet, despite the erudition and the adulation, deep inside the urgh-bane known as Grimmbros Darktale Woeweaver often yearned for simpler times.
Sadly, beyond the sporting arena, urgh-banes still met with a mixed reception in society, such fearful giants not usually being welcomed by the smaller races among whom anything bigger than a well-fed sheep tended to be viewed with a degree of suspicion and menace. Grimmbros desired to dispel the negative stereotyping of the common field-urgh-bane, demonstrating that not all are the brutes their names, often indelicately, imply; he indulged in generous urghbanitarian acts, to convince the less bigist members of Tullgothan society that the application of brute force was not their only strength. Ignatious, on the other hand, revelled in all that was urgh-banian, with all of its negative misrepresentations.