It was easy enough to pick out the braugs’ leader. He was the largest of the bunch and double-fisted a couple of huge tankards of ale. The frothy, golden liquid sloshed all over a huge, black, gangly beard hanging from a head that was a scar-flecked cueball.
He looked… familiar.
Kurt? No. That’s not possible. Is it?
The screen that popped up in response was much smaller than before, only large enough to fit one word that reeked of derision.
Nope.
It then highlighted the giant of a man just as it had Rarmir the Tavern Owner…
NAME: Curr
OCCUPATION: Sellsword
RACE: Braug (male)
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Melee Weapon Combat bonus with all 2-Handed weapons, Tarton’s Rage, Hardened Skin
WEAPONS: Steel Dual-Edged Battle Axe
Braug is a race?
Of course it is, you racist.
The big man scowled as I neared. Sensing his hostility, I decided to go for the friendly approach, especially since my head still throbbed, and the last thing I needed was another beating.
“Hi.”
The braug—Curr, if the screen could be believed—gawked, appraising me up and down.
“What in Tarton’s Tusks are you?”
Tarton was the name of an ancient—
Not now! I thought as authoritatively as I could manage. Thankfully, it worked, and the screen disappeared. Now I could take in the whole of the colossus with clear vision.
“Can you speak?” Curr asked.
“Uh… hi, I’m Danny.”
“You are Daniil? The bard?” The braug slammed his tankard down on the table, spilling a fair bit of its contents in the process. He belched and I could taste it on the air in front of me.
I fought back the sensation to gag when he leaned forward.
“Before you speak,” he growled, “I would like you to know that I am tired, hungry, and thirsty. So, if you have business with me, then spit it out or I might run you through for mild amusement.”
I glanced at the massive two-handed battle axe leaning against his table and almost rolled my eyes.
Tell me you’ve got a small dick without telling me you’ve got a small dick.
He doesn’t have a small dick.
“Uh, Rarmir said I might provide some entertainment for you.” Then I quickly added, “I sing,” so no one got the wrong idea.
Curr belched again. His eyes continued to rove over me, obviously sizing me up.
“You dance too?” one of the braugs shouted.
I ignored him.
“That lute of yours any good?” Curr asked, flicking my instrument. The strings rang out discordantly.
I held it up in front of me. “Sure is.”
I hope…
Curr turned to his other party members. “Listen up, you worthless scum. This boy here is going to sing for us.”
Boy? Geez, dude. I’m in my late 20s.
Braugs can live for upwards of three hundred years. You are, to him, in fact, a child.
Three hundred years‽
Either way, I wasn’t some stupid kid. Just wasn’t a good idea to argue with people who looked like they’d killed five people before my alarm went off. And since this big beast of a man reminded me a bit of Biker Kurt, playing nice seemed my smartest option.
I unconsciously raised my palm to the spot on my face where there should have been a dent the size of Kurt’s fist.
Roars of laughter broke out along with a few taunts. Just like being back at the Heart-Shaped Box.
Not quite. The braugs will kill you if you don’t entertain them.
Yeah, I kinda got that impression. Thanks for stating the obvious.
I returned my attention to the lead braug. “Allow me to entertain you and your brave war party, sir.”
“Curr,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You mispronounced my name. It is Curr, not ‘Sir’. Hard ‘C’ sound. Do not botch it again.”
This had to be a bad dream. Dreams did have a tendency to mirror real life, to echo reality in a way that stirred up joys and terrors. That had to be what this was. Someone dragged my drunken, injured ass back home to my bed. Or left me curled up on the floor of the bar, more likely.
I exhaled and tried to smile. “Of course, Curr.”
Curr nodded. “All right, bard. You sing and amuse us.”
I glanced at the table of food and my stomach growled, despite how gross it looked. Damn, I was seriously hungry for some reason. Did getting walloped in the face make you famished?
Before I could give it any more thought, the screen flashed again.
OBJECTIVE COMPLETED:
You have been hired by the braug leader, Curr.
REWARD:
Speechcraft!
You have gained +1 in Speechcraft. You silver-tongued devil, you.
Your Speechcraft is now 9.
I’d rather have food. You can’t eat ‘Speechcraft,’ last I checked.
NEW OBJECTIVE:
Successfully entertain braugs.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
REWARD:
Coin… orrrrr foooooooooooooood.
Wiseass.
I stepped back and away from Curr. The tavern had a simple wooden stage adjacent to the fireplace, which I believe might’ve been called a hearth in these oldy times. There were no lights. No fog machines. And as I gave the room one last once-over, I decided there was definitely no Trish. I strode over, and after one very small step, mounted the platform that passed for a stage. If Curr stood, I was pretty sure I would still be shorter than him by a full head.
So close to the fire, the air felt hot and humid. Doubly so with all these hairy monsters exhaling their booze-laden breath into the already noxious tavern air. They were also either wholly blitzed out of their skulls or partially unconscious.
I took a quick gander at my lute. Maybe they’d be too drunk to care about what I sang. A spasm gripped my gut. What in the world was I going to sing? I couldn’t very well trot out my sterling interpretation of “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind, could I? They’d cut me to pieces and probably eat me for dinner.
I placed my hand on the fretboard. One thing was immediately clear: this wasn’t a guitar. The shape was all wrong and there were a lot more strings. I swore. I might have been damn good with a six-string, but with this? I wasn’t even sure what to do.
Would you like to access your Catalog of Songs?
Wow, your timing is impeccable. That’s a thing? You could have let me know earlier.
Well, would you?
Of course!
Four song titles I didn’t recognize appeared before my eyes. None of them were by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, that was for sure. How was I supposed to sing any if I didn’t know the words?
Curr abruptly cleared his throat, and I snapped back to the moment. Panicking, I picked one at random.
That one. “Stones, Bones, and Crones.”
Call me crazy, but rhymes really get me. As soon as I thought it, a warm sensation flooded my body like I’d just taken a shot of good whiskey.
I mindlessly started plucking the strings and the words and melody to a raunchy tune about a virgin dwarf who suddenly found himself in a pickle involving a pair of old succubi came streaming out of my mouth. I had no idea who’d written the song, or how I’d known how it was sung, but I had to give them credit for the lyrics.
What’s more, I was seriously surprised by how good I sounded. Don’t misunderstand, I wasn’t good. But at least the chords sounded like chords.
The last note rang out. I took a breath, feeling pretty damned stoked about the performance. I’d also never known so many things could rhyme with rock.
Unfortunately, the crowd of braugs didn’t share my sentiment.
“What in Tarton’s Tusks is a succubi?” one of them in the back called out.
“Uh…” I paused. Good question.
OBJECTIVE FAILED.
Would you like to try again?
I frowned. Clearly my skills were above the cultural education of this particular group. Then I saw Curr waving me over and I felt another gut spasm. I stepped down from the stage, my knees wobbling.
“Yes, sir?” I said.
Curr growled. “Are you braindead? I told you it is pronounced with a hard C.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Listen. You are far from good. You have a bland voice.”
“Bland! We used to tour with—”
He belched. A whiff of it shut me right up.
“And your playing is marginal at best,” he continued.
Marginal. That’s a pretty big word for a—
He belched again.
“My fellows here are getting restless…”
I gestured toward his crew. “Some of them are actually asleep.”
Curr nodded. “And trust me, that is not a good thing for you.”
He leaned closer, and I wrinkled my nose. The guy stank like he hadn’t washed his undercarriage for at least a month.
“Now, you are going to play a wedding tune for Fargus and Vulna over there. They were just betrothed after we slaughtered a group of trolls.”
“They got engaged after killing trolls?” I asked.
Wait, there are trolls here?
And not the internet kind!
Curr stared at me blankly. “Can you think of a better time for prenuptials than covered in the entrails of those foul creatures?”
I could think of at least five thousand better times but instead, I said, “Uh, not really.”
“Right. So, you get up there and dedicate your next song to them. And make it good or else things are liable to get… broken.”
“Broken?” I gulped.
Curr nodded once, then pointed back to the platform.
I returned to my singing spot, grateful to finally inhale through my nose without wanting to retch from Curr’s stench.
The screen appeared once I was in place, repeating its last message.
OBJECTIVE FAILED.
Would you like to try again?
Duh, obviously. What’s the other choice? Death?
This time, the screen remained conspicuously quiet.
Unsure what else to do, I turned to look at the… uh, happy couple. Though he was seated, Fargus looked like he stood at least seven feet tall and nearly half that wide. Where his eyebrows should have been was a long scar. He was also missing an ear—which might’ve been good for me.
And Vulna… I shuddered. She too had scars that scored her face, as if some wicked claw had raked its way down her cheek. Huge jowls hung below her jawline, and her hands, which now gripped both a tankard of ale and a leg of some kind of barely cooked meat, looked as though they could easily handle the massive broadsword slung over the chair behind her.
No wonder the braugs drank so much. They had to pass out just to be able to stand the sights and smells of one another.
Without thinking, I took a deep breath—instantly regretting it—and muttered, “Here goes nothing.” Then I spoke up. “This next tune is dedicated to Fargus and Vulna, who are celebrating a very happy day.”
The entire room came alive with hoots and howls. Tankards crashed into the tabletops and boots pounded the floor. Ale spattered onto gnarled wooden planks, yet nobody gave a damn.
Uh-oh.
My half-asleep crowd was now completely awake and alert, and all staring right at me.
You don’t happen to have one about weddings or troll-killing or… anything remotely helpful?
The screen flashed.
No.
I stared down at my lute, sliding my fingers along the neck. How hard could it be to string a few lines together and play a simple melody?
It looks like you’re about to improvise.
Would you like me to initiate suicide now?
Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. I can do this.
Good luck.
I took another long inhale and started to strum as best I could, then raised my voice to cover the dissonant sound.
> “There once was a fighter named Fargus,
>
> As mighty as any has dared
>
> He trod where the shadows loomed longest
>
> And killed when others were scared…”
The screen flashed.
You almost rhymed.
You have gained +1 in Singing.
Your Singing is now 14.
A round of cheers rang out.
See? In. The. Zone.
If only Trish were around to hear it.
The braugs listened intently now, so I took another breath and continued.
> “But alas, mighty Fargus was single,
>
> For never throughout the whole land,
>
> Could he find someone with which to mingle,
>
> With whom he could walk hand-in-hand…”
Now the cheers turned to playful mockery aimed at poor, lonely Fargus. For a moment, I thought the big man might’ve taken offense, but instead, a tear broke free from his eye as he downed his tankard and slammed it back on the table.
“’Tis true! There weren’t none who could be my equal. None! And aye, I was lonely as shite, ye scurrilous dogs!”
The room erupted in laughter. I chuckled nervously with them as I strummed and prepared for the next verse. Then they all turned back toward the stage.
> “Then one fine day, mighty Fargus,
>
> Gazed upon a true… beauty.”
I swallowed. The words in my head were becoming muddled, fear of screwing up flooding through it. Somehow, my playing became even worse but kept on.
> “With hair like gold and lips like sugar?”
The words were coming out like questions now.
> “Fargus knew he’d at last found his… booty.”
A few guffaws broke out at this, but the rest of the crowd started murmuring among themselves. Vulna frowned in my direction. I probably should’ve ended the song there, but stupid me, I kept going.
> “‘I am Fargus,’ said the strong mighty braug
>
> ‘I kill and pillage with ease.
>
> I promise to love and to cherish you.
>
> And never give you a disease.’”
Crap. Where did that come from? I glanced out at the crowd. Fargus stared down at his crotch with a quizzical expression on his gnarled face.
No turning back now.
> “‘The woman before you needs no man,
>
> Here stands the one they call Vulna,
>
> I swing swords and axes with glee.
>
> Last night I ripped out a man’s…
Oh. My. God. What in the world rhymed with Vulna?
> “‘… ulna!’”
Muttering broke out all over the room.
“What in Tarton’s name is an ulna?” someone roared from the audience. “Is that like a cock?”
I stopped playing and hurriedly pointed to my arm. “It’s a bone, actually. Right here.”
More murmurs. My skin crawled. I should’ve said vulva. But men don’t have them. And you can’t pull them out, can you?
I, uh. Don’t think they liked it.
Gee, thanks!
I panicked worse than ever. Sweat poured down my back, pooling in my underwear. It was then that I realized I wasn’t wearing underwear.
Vulna looked none too pleased with the song. Fargus was still peering at his crotch and talking to it, apparently.
“Should’a been a cock,” someone else said. “That would’a been a much better thing to rip off.”
Someone else laughed at that.
My throat felt dry. “No, it couldn’t have been that. It doesn’t rhyme, you see—”
Stop talking.
Curr eyed me, then got to his feet a bit unsteadily. He held up one hand to quiet the room, walked over, and wrapped one of his beefy paws around my shoulders. I was right. He still towered over me. Small victory in the light of certain death.
“I think I speak for everyone when I say… Tarton’s Tusks, that was terrible!”
His arm tightened around me, and I wanted nothing more than to be very far away from this tavern, dream or not.
“Since our bard friend here has introduced us all to the word ‘ulna,’” Curr said, “I think it only appropriate that we see how easily one rips out. And possibly some other bones of his as well.”
“Now, hang on a sec…” I complained.
With perfect timing, the screen added:
OBJECTIVE FAILED.
Would you like to try again?