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Glen
Never trust a dwarf?
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“NO. FOR THE LOVE O' UHER! DON’T!”
There never was such a cry of despair, in all recorded history...
“DON’T DO IT!”
...of all the Realms; in this world, or any other.
“AARGGH!”
The blister on his big toe, was the size of his thumb that time he’d closed a heavy door on it, in order to leg it fast -loot in hand. It stood grotesquely swollen and full of pus, darn thing all but exploding, when Marcus touched it with his dagger.
Making a mess that reeked to high heavens.
And hurt alike getting kicked on the front teeth.
Repeatedly.
“GOD DARN IT!” Glen cursed, amidst squealing loud as he could, his exclamations of pure –as much as exaggerated- agony reverberating over the distant tree line and tried once more to take his foot away from the ex-legionnaire’s murderous calloused hands, but failed.
“Keep still, milord,” Marcus insisted, a clench in his jaw the only sign of effort on his part, his huge arms unflinching and not giving him an inch to get away. “We must empty it fully and then burn the excess away.”
Glen shut his mouth and gawked him horrified.
“Burn the whole toe?”
“Tie it up, is the better option,” Fikumin intervened. “I have a salve.”
Glen, shocked grin on his sweaty face, pointed at the dwarf desperately. A man grasping at a wayward board, before going under.
“He has a salve!”
Marcus sighed, a little disappointed. His shoulders shagged.
“Ah, well… we burn ‘em things away in the Legion,” He gripped. “Worked pretty darn well.”
Good grief.
Glen stared him intensely, emphasizing every word.
“Let go. Of the foot.”
Marcus returned the stare stubbornly for a while, but then he reluctantly let his foot drop and got up. He paused for a brief moment, a look of disgust on his rugged face and then shaking his head, turned heel and walked away.
Stiles managed to hold it in until the hale soldier was far enough away from their campfire and then burst out laughing so hard he slipped from a rock he’d used as a seat and fell flat on his arse, still chuckling like he was crazy.
“Best shit I’ve seen in me life,” The former pirate announced self-consciously to justify his outburst, when he got wind no one else had joined in. Glen being the most incensed of them all.
“Right,” Norec said, long beard dancing underneath his mouth, in an attempt to change the subject. “The lesson here is, Lord Reeves; always give yer feet the time to adjust before a stroll—”
“We’ve been walkin’ for two fuckin’ days! Twas no stroll!” Glen blasted him outraged, which cracked up Stiles again. The young thief had folded his leg to look at the damage done to it from up close, in the meantime.
There is so much blood… and yellow nasty stuff?
“The gist of me words was, it takes time, milord,” The dwarf insisted, unwilling to let go. “Surely the distance from Altarin wasn’t that much different.”
Glen had enough of this nonsense.
“I had a bloody horse!”
Poor, sweet Val. Left behind, leaving me walking alike a beggar.
The injustice of it all monumental in his mind.
His missing coins being the worst, in a long litany of bad things and what was slowly eating him up the most, from the inside.
Surely Jinx won’t spend it all, he mused pensively, in a futile attempt to find some solace. She’s such a small girl, barely eats a thing!
Stiles, when he questioned him about it though, had been adamant.
Coin’s gone, milord, Glen’s man-servant had declared, whatever the fuck that meant, a sad look on his face and his conviction absolute. Ye ain’t seein’ it again.
Fikumin interrupted his gloomy thoughts, the look on Glen’s face reflecting his inner fury. He’d a suspicious looking leather pouch on his stubby hands, the outside of it oily and smelling funny.
“What!” He snapped at him.
“It might sting a bit,” One of the two dwarfs of their small group explained, all serious.
It turned out, the small bastard with the enormous head, could lie with a straight fuckin’ face, like the best of the whole lot.
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His bandaged foot wouldn’t fit the corpse’s boot. His boot. Glen had earned the right on them pretty conclusively in his mind. He’d assumed a ton of responsibilities in the trade, taking on the dead man’s mess and doing the best he possibly could, under the circumstances.
Paying dearly, in coin and blood. A shit ton of coins and… well, almost all his blood for the horrid affair. He wanted to help his friends and he had to give them up as well, which on top of everything else stung a whole lot, since Glen hadn’t many friends to begin with.
Being without a family all his life, his friends were family to him.
No distinction.
Glen sighed still staring at his dirty boot, his legs too tired to change position, or try again. The fire had turned to embers, the dark sky clear over their heads and the wind whistling through the distant trees heading straight for the mountain slopes in front of them.
The night was chilly, but here in the shallow between the rock walls, it was bearable under a woolen blanket. Assuming you had one near. Which he didn’t. Ah, well…at least we have fire and protection. Stiles, who had taken the first watch of the evening snorted loud, apparently being on a second look, fast asleep.
For fuck’s sake.
“Let him rest,” Fikumin said sitting next to him in front of the fire. “How’s the toe?”
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“Still sore.”
“Ye should’ve let me burn it away,” Marcus retorted, sitting on the other side, a cup of ale in hand. “Rid yerself of the trouble.”
“You know people can’t walk well, if they're missin’ a toe, right?” Glen countered.
“Horses can plenty well.”
“Not on two feet!” Marcus grimaced, not seeing the difference. Glen rolled his eyes in despair and turned to Fikumin. “Is no one sleeping?”
“Norec is. He’s next,” The dwarf replied. Norec loud snoring coming from the back, a testament to that.
“I don’t trust him,” Marcus explained, pointing at their also sleeping guard. “Look at him. The man’s a skunk.”
Right.
“So… you told me back in Brightos, we have to clear out some bandits?” Glen asked Fikumin, the small-bodied creature’s mouth lost amidst all that facial hair and that gargantuan nose of his.
Luthos help the poor shod! Glen shuddered at the ugliness of it. Perhaps his head is so big to counterbalance the whole structure and keep it upright. A measure to avoid stooping forward all the time under the weight.
“Cofols,” The dwarf said, scowling at Glen’s shameless scrutiny. “And other races mixed in, even an Aken.”
“Another one?” Marcus probed worried and Glen twisted his head back and forth intrigued.
“Not necessarily,” Came Fikumin’s reply.
“What does that mean?” Marcus retorted, twice as worried.
“Grogoceq might reappear,” The dwarf droned.
Glen puffed his cheeks out, ballooning them away and turned his face into that of a frog’s, unable to figure out what they were talking about.
“We cut his head off, crashed it wit a warhammer!” Marcus tried again, counting with his fingers the actions taken to avoid it.
What?
“Bones were missing,” Fikumin insisted.
Bones?
“There were no bones left,” Marcus countered. “Kill the mage, end the magic.”
Wait, wait… wait.
“If a bone is missing, a Bonemancer can make a body of it. Use it as his own,” Fikumin elucidated making the matter even weirder.
The fuck?
“Grogoceq was present Fikumin!” Marcus grunted unhappy. "Killed him meself!"
Glen puffed out hard, flapping his lips and raised a hand to intervene. You’d assume, as he was between them, he’d succeed to ask for clarification, but the young thief was summarily ignored by both of them.
“Own the bone, and the flesh will turn unto what you wish,” Fikumin insisted, apparently the expert on the matter. “A construct has no will of its own.”
“There’s no such magic, dwarf!”
“Yet you’ve seen it, wit your very eyes!”
“HEY!” Glen exploded cutting their quarreling. Stiles flinched across from them waking up, drool on the side of his mouth.
“Is my shift over?” The drowsy man asked, looking about him surprised.
“Yeah,” Marcus lampooned with a scowl. “Ye can go right back to sleep now.”
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Glen sighed deeply, the misery oozing out the pores of his skin in waves.
“What is an Aken, Fikumin?” The dwarf opened his mouth to answer, but he stopped him raising his index finger high, mimicking Dante, then added another finger to the total and continued. “Why are we on the hunt for a Bonemancer?”
“Can I answer?”
“Sure. Two fingers. Two queries,” Glen said nonchalantly. Adding with a knowing stare. "Equal number of answers."
Unless of course it’s the middle finger. Then it’s not.
Haha.
“The Aken live on the Plague Isles,” Fikumin started after a roll of his eyes, which earned another glare from Glen. “The Zilan and the Folk used to live there in the ancient times. Then the Aken arrived from another Realm according to the stories. Another continent.”
“There’s no such thing, friend,” Glen noted, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Beyond the Haze Sea there is. If ye travel straight southwest between the Plague Isles and the Blasted Lands of Wetull you’ll find it within a year. It’s called Mistland. The Old Realms are many, Glen.”
Glen blinked. Gave a side glance to a frowning Marcus and then grinned wide, after he passed his tongue over his front teeth.
This story was preposterous.
Everyone knew there was only two continents in the Realm.
Some islands here and there, Jinx came to mind again, but that was it.
“He came from there?”
“Aye. The Khanate has dealings with them. They trade with the Aken for years now. The Aken of the Plague Isles that is.”
“Do they have ships then?” Glen probed, smug grin still on his face.
“They didn’t have a fleet, when the Empire was around. They never left their places, as far as I know, up until now,” Fikumin replied. “While their religion has spread somewhat, no one wants them around, or on their ships. Of course all this, is what I was told decades ago, as a youngling.”
“So if no ships are coming. Did he swim then?”
Give the man a medal, that’s some record for sure!
“It’s not funny, milord.”
“Yet, I’m laughing.”
He grinned some more for emphasis.
“We did fight the darn thing,” Marcus commented, sounding troubled.
“And killed it, from what I hear.”
“Aye, we did.”
“So… what are we talking about? What this have to do wit Ostruki and his quest?”
Fikumin stood up and smacked his lips.
“If the Aken came to Eplas, then this isn’t a local bandit problem. We solved it already, if it was,” The dwarf said, his tone solemn. “Nor it’s a dwarf only problem though. They came here to hunt, emboldened by the turmoil that’s spreading.”
So yer lied about it, Glen scowled at the untrustworthy creature, but chose to ask him the more important question instead.
“Hunt what?”
“Young bones. Enslave souls still malleable to turn into their likeness,” Fikumin paused his face darkening. “Ye need a baby to make an image of yerself, mold the flesh… there was a youngling missing. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. This is evil of old, milord. Personified.”
Luthos fermented balls, rot in a jar.
Glen wet his lips and changed position nervously.
“What are ye saying, Fikumin?”
The dwarf pushed his chest out and stood tall… of sorts.
“I’m an adventurer,” Fikumin Flintfoot declared proudly, voice enthused with righteous indignation. “Yer a Lord, soon to be a Knight of the Realm. This is our calling, Glen. One we cannot deny.”
Glen gulped down, his throat hoarse, as if he’d swallowed a bucket full of gravel.
Dodge.
“Surely, we need to warn people!” He croaked, the whole affair sounding insanely dangerous. “Like way more people.”
A couple of thousand at least, just to be sure.
Hells an army, sounds even better!
“We need to find out what they want and a way to stop them first.”
“Over that mountain,” Glen pointed with his head, the whole idea absurd.
“I don’t know, it might take us a good while.”
The latter sounding like he was talking about twenty years.
At the bare minimum.
“How fuckin’ big is Eplas?” Glen probed and Fikumin shrugged his shoulders. “Too big, I reckon. And there’s a war going on, if ye noticed. Can we at least bring Dante and Jinx here?”
Emerson would’ve been right perfect for this job too.
“We need to send a bird to Altarin for that. Brightos has none. Assuming back to Altarin is where they went,” Fikumin paused here and shared a stare with Marcus, before adding. “Or if they are still alive.”
That last part didn’t sit well at all with Glen, no wonder everyone says ye can never trust a dwarf; or was it a Gish? Who the fuck cares? All of 'em short limb people are sneaky as all hells! So he answered appropriately to this big-headed, boulder-nosed and lying piece of shit of a creature.
Stopping at each word for extra emphasis.
“Suck. A Big. Bag. Of dicks.”
Yeah.
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