Meet the Teams

The A-Team

Crispin marched from the command tent the next morning, his meeting with the general and his advisor had gone swimmingly. In just twenty minutes they had hashed out their plan, mapped their route, and constructed a viable timetable for their success. Better yet, he had the best of the best to work with on this endeavor. He knew all of them, by reputation if nothing else, and he had to admit that he was excited to be leading this team. To be sure, if they failed it would likely spell the end for humans, elves, dwarves, and any other race aligned with the forces of light. No, he thought, that was the worst-case scenario.

The most likely outcome would be the complete impoverishment and enslavement of those races for a few hundred years, followed by their extinction. It would probably take a while for that last part to happen, as the races of light would most likely be bred out of existence. Crispin considered that and felt they everyone would be better off if they all died at the beginning. If their failure came to look like a possibility Crispin promised himself that he would do everything to ensure genocide happened. It was in everyone’s interest.

Ha! And it all rested on his broad and powerful shoulders!! He could just see himself dunking the maledictum under the waters of the pool of shadows, followed by him drawing his sword, and shoving it right up Malus's arse. This would lead to him being named emperor of the incalculably numerous kingdoms, and he would go down in history as the shining knight of the greatest story that would ever be told. A warrior, clad in polished silver armor, reflecting even the most feeble light into heroic rays of the sun that feed crops, drove away the night, and blinded all enemies who dared to approach him. He would glow like a god.

The man marched with precision and grace. Every step measured and paced to his heartbeat; a tiny piece of perfection on display for all of the men under his command to aspire to achieve. He made his way to the center of the camp where his new squad waited. As he approached the lesser soldiers all stepped aside, in the same way that a piece of wheat is moved by a strong wind. Finally, he saw his horse, Hyperion, a great white stallion that stood eighteen hands high. His color as pure as an angel’s wing, and his bearing was as straight as the southern star. The equine was dressed in blue battle armor and a red caparison. The horse saw him coming and pawed the ground with its right hoof; Crispin smiled, even his horse was excited to begin their journey.

The Z Team

Corporal Brambly Pipes tripped on his cloak and fell to one knee as he entered the command post. He had a nervous aura about him, to a point where he seemed to constantly shake on an atomic level. One just looked at him and knew he was shaking, but at the same time, he would be stock still. His mouth's nervous tick had an anxious twitch all its own. His nerves, exaggerated by the embarrassment of falling in front of the sergeant, decided to wake up and cause him to actually begin shivering.

Pipe's helmet, just a size too large for him, fled from his head as if his hair were on fire as he stood up. Brambly tried to catch it as it flew from his skull, but his hand-eye coordination was worse than his foot-eye coordination, and he had just tripped entering the tent after all. As a lad, his father would play throw with him. He'd throw a ball to Brambly, and Brambly did everything in his power to not be where the ball was. Later, his father would actually throw the balls at him. When that had failed, he’d thrown Brambly at the balls. That had worked far better than either of them had expected.

Oh, Brambly actually tried to catch the ball every single time, but his hands, feet, arms, and legs never seemed to go in the same direction at the same time. He moved like a spider on rollerskates. Conversely, the ball absolutely refused to go wherever he aimed it when he attempted to send it back to his father’s hand. If he threw at his dad, then he promptly beaned his mother's head. Which led to her doing a lot of indoor gardening. He once killed a goat when he was trying to the side of the barn with a practice stone. Thus, the game of throw was invented, in which Brambly and his father would go out into a field far from any other objects, animals, or people and throw balls at and away from one another for hours at a stretch. Brambly often wondered why his father threw knives and shuriken, but appreciated the bonding time with his father.

His helmet came to land at the feet of his sergeant, a man with the patience of a loving mother whose child has called her named five hundred times in the last minute after letting the cat out and set the bed on fire. He was very understanding. Brambly’s commanding officer leaned over and picked the helmet up off the ground, and waved it in from of Brambly's face. "Does this belong to you, boyo?"

Brambly gulped and nodded.

His sergeant snarled, "Are you taking a bath?"

Brambly began to shake slightly, for him it was a minor tremor that only registered a 2.0 on the Brambly Scale. His voice quavered, "N-n-no sir!" he managed to squeak.

Sergeant Ulvin Yurk slammed the helmet back onto Brambly's head, "Then why was it off your head, boy?" He grabbed Brambly by the shoulders and stood him up before he could make more of a mess of himself. The sergeant was not without pity. "Follow me," he ordered and marched out of the command tent, "And try," he added snidely, "not to fall on your arse as you go," berating Brambly because he needed it a guiding hand, Brambly was sure, not because there was a bit of an asshole in his soul.

The pair walked for about five minutes, with Brambly stepping into no less than eight mud puddles, and doing a slippery I'm about to slip in the mud and fall on my face but not if I wave my arms about like I'm trying to fly dance no less than twice. Sergeant Yurk ignored him. He had ignored him for fifteen years, and today he was finally going to be free of the little bastard. He wasn't let in on the details, but he could smell a suicidal sacrificial squad being formed when he saw it. He imagined that the general had finally had enough embarrassment from his son and decided to at least let him die a hero. Maybe hero was too strong a word, most likely it was to just let him die.

Sacrificial squads were always memorialized. Were it not for the brave sacrifice of these men and women the true heroes of this battle would have had to fight even harder, and maybe even been hurt in the process of defeating our honorable enemies in our hour of need, their memorials would always read that way. They would then list the names of everyone who died for the greater good. Brambly Pipes name would be added to such a roll if things went the way Yurk expected.

They'd erect a stone with all the dead zounderkite's names on it, commemorate the battle, and everyone else would get to live happily ever after. He could just envision a pylon with Brambly's name on it now. As he thought about it a smile snuck its way onto his otherwise normally stoic face.

Brambly tried to keep up as best he could, but the sergeant's pace was of a malign nature, in that it seemed determined to always speed up just as he was about to be a pace behind. By the time they had arrived at their destination Brambly was out of breath and several feet back from Yurk.

Irritated, Yurk didn't even turn around. He somehow knew that Brambly was struggling to keep up, "Move yer arse, boyo. We don't gots time to dawdle. We, as in the Army of the great and powerful country of Attackia, have decided to give you," he choked slightly, "a promotion to the rank of corporal, and have you lead a crack squad of our," he paused, "Er, ah . . . finest warriors available."

With that, he spun around to face Brambly. "As of this moment you are hereby promoted to the rank of corporal. Congratulations, Corporal Pipes."

Corporal Brambly Pipes

Brambly stood, dazed at the news. After fifteen years of dedicated service, he had finally earned the rank of corporal. His destiny was finally beginning to unfold. All his patience was paying off. He knew going into the military was not going to be easy or rewarding, but in his family being a military man was a tradition. He was only following in his father's footsteps. In fact, he could recall the words his father had said when Brambly had informed him that he was joining the army. He had looked him directly in the eye and said, "If you are going to join my army, then I insist that you change your last name."

That's just how the general was. Clearly, he didn't want Brambly to receive any kind of preferential treatment. He respected his son enough that he wanted him to make a name for himself, and not be beholden to the family name. He would just rise or fall entirely on his own. So, he had respectively adopted his mother's maiden name. To this day, however, he could not for the life of him understand why she had demanded that he use a different name as well. At a loss for what his surname should be, he thought, and thought, and thought, but the only thing he could come up with was Pipes. And that was only because the recruiter who was inducting him was smoking two pipes at once.

"Was yer name, boy?" the recruiter asked through clenched teeth. Dumbstruck, all Brambly could do was sputter, "Pipes, sir. Brambly Pipes!" He yelled that second part because he knew folks in the military liked to get and give their information via yelling.

For example, if an archer was firing at your squad from an unseen vantage point it was usual for the commanding officer to yell, "Where the hell are those arrows coming from?" Invariably, someone in his squad would yell back, "We don't have a bloody clue!" This would generally be followed by someone screaming, "Argh!" Yes, the military liked to yell.

And that was how he had become Private Pipes. And a private he had remained for fifteen years, until this very day. At first, no one had known his connection to the general, but as time wore on it seemed like more people had ascertained the knowledge of who he was. He had heard a lot of people talking just within earshot a few times, saying things like, "He must be related to somebody high up in the food chain" or "Pipes? He hasta be a prince, dozen he? Otherwise, the army would never...Oh, hello, Brambly." It had to be his militaristic bearing. They could just see the greatness hidden within.

As for his lack of promotion? He'd never doubted that his father had made it hard for him to move up, not wanting to be accused of nepotism; which was odd because the general had made his second cousin a Colonel. Poor bastard, Brambly had thought at the time, he must have really needed a hand. As it stood, Brambly liked being the low man on the post. It kept him close to the action and around quality fellows of high moral fiber. Salt of the earth people, or people who salted the earth. He could never keep it straight.

As he was thinking that a soldier, PFC Gaylord Trimble, stopped in the middle of the roadway and took a piss. "Mornin' Sergeant Yurk. Pipes." He nodded at them. Yurk ignored him, but Brambly nodded back. Good man, that Trimble.

Yurk said, "As of this moment you have been given command of a crack squad of our finest. You and your people have the task of doing something no one else can do. You," he drove a finger into Brambly's steel breastplate, "are going stop that bastard, Malus."

Suddenly, Brambly's stomach dropped. It ricocheted off his shoes and promptly bounced into his throat. It struck so hard that several of his teeth became loose. In one moment all the atoms in his body stopped shaking, which caused Brambly to spasm and jerk uncontrollably. Yurk clearly thought he might have been hit by lightning because he looked to the sky and started praying, but Brambly hadn't heard any thunder that he could blame his actions on.. Then, Brambly farted, and Yurk made a face that said he thought, There it is.

Trimble looked over at Brambly as he was shaking himself off, "Golldumit man, haven't cha got no manners?" He tucked himself away. Shook off his hand, and after some consideration wiped it on his pants, saluted the sergeant, and walked away.

Brambly caught hold of himself. "Sorry, sir." he murmured. He then tried to stand as straight as he could and looked the sergeant in the eye, "Sir, I'm s-s-sorry. Did you say I-aye-aye was going to f-f-fight Malus? The Malus? Not his dog or his babysitter? Malus, the most malign monstrous entity that the world has ever seen?"

Yurk shook his head. "No, corporal. I never said that you were going to fight him."

Brambly exhaled a long sigh of relief, "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you had said . . ."

Yurk's piggy face grunted and he interrupted, "I said you, and your team was gonna go ta to stop him." He placed a massive hand on Brambly's shoulder, stepped behind him, and shoved him forward. "Meet your squad, boyo."

Brambly moved forward without thought. It was easy to do because he was no longer in his body. Oh no. His spirit had decided that it had better places to be and that it wouldn't be missed for the time being. It was currently seven feet over his body floating most contentedly without a care in the world. It had no intention of going back. In fact, it was looking at a pamphlet for extradimensional spirit resort options and was presently deciding its next point of destination when it tripped over its foot and plummeted right back into Brambly’s spiritually hollow body. His body barely noticed his spirit’s return, seeing as to how thin it actually was (his spirit, not his body, although his body could barely be distinguished from a bean pole). A good strong fart had more substance than Brambly’s spirit.

He was jarred back into awareness when Sergeant Yurk began to introduce him to his team. Thus, he pointed to a huge hulking barbarian that stood at least six and a half feet tall. His arms were so big and round that if you folded Brambly in half and stuck him to the barbarian's shoulders he would look like a toothpick compared to them. He wore a simple red cloth shirt, leather breeches, and knee-high leather boots. A normal-sized battle-ax dangled from each hip, their blades chipped and nicked but still deadly looking. It was the massive one that was strapped to his back that really caught Brambly’s attention.

It looked like it had once belonged to a giant, one that had been afflicted with Acromegaly. It was clear that no normal man could have even considered strapping it to his back, let alone wielding it at some point, but on the brutish barbarian, it looked like it was where it belonged. The wild man’s red hair and beard were both long and matted. Brambly paused as he noticed a set of pointy ears peaking up through the long strands. "This," Yurk stated," Is Mistah Rogahs. He is, believe it or not, an elvish prince. Although, If I am correct, he has rejected his elven heritage and has opted to join with the people of Scutland."

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Brambly looked at him. "You’re an elf? An elf who lives among the dwarves?"

The barbarian loomed forward. He couldn't help it. He loomed wherever he went. "Tha’s right," he squeaked in a high pitched but deep scuttish accent, "Them buggers only wanted to go traipsing around the forest, looking at flowers, and trees an' such. They have no love for drink, nor gold; they frown upon wimminizen, an they hold all life to be sacred." He flexed his muscles, “Tha’s a load’a rubbish. Not all life is sacred. Do you swat a mosquito when it bites you, or do’ya crush the lil bastard until e’s a pulped up ball’a mash, toss ‘em in yer mouth and swaller it?”

Brambly hemmed and hawed before finally saying, “I, uh, swat it?”

A huge grin erupted beneath Rogah’s nose, displaying a missing front tooth, “You do all that an ya swaats it! Good man. I’mmer gonner like you. Meself? I believe that the best things in life are to splatter your enemy's entrails all over the ground, see a beer set before you, and hear a good wimmen moaning beneath you. I loves gold, killin', and the ladies in wotever order they comes in. Taint picky."

Brambly’s eyes fell to the two weapons dangling from his belt and then the one strapped across his back. “Do you really need three axes?”

The uncivilized elf roared with laughter. “Oho! I sees yer point, lad. A man only has two hands, wuzzy need a third blade fer?” He held up the ax on his right, “I call this here weapon, Knock.” Then he hefted the one on the left in a similar fashion. “I also call this one here, Knock.” He twirled them faster than Brambly’s eyes could follow until the axes emitted a low hum. “W-what do you call the big one?”

The elf tilted his leonine head towards the handle that rose over his shoulders, “That’n there is named Whoozdare, but I only uses it on special occasions.”

Brambly gulped reflexively, “Erm, exactly when would that be?” He shivered involuntarily just looking at the huge shaft that he would not be able to completely grip if he held the same spot with both hands.

“When they ask fer it, of course, laddie!” He vomited a boisterous ut squeaky bellow that echoed into the distance scaring birds, bears, and any monsters that had wandered close enough to hear him. The gigantic elf balled up his fist and placed them onto his hips; arms akimbo as he laughed. The corporal swore he smelled mead, wine, brandy, beer and lady parts when the barbaric elf let loose a belch of titanic proportions. Yurk has wisely moved away as their conversation had started, and so had missed the rain of saliva that followed the burp.

Ears ringing, Brambly wiped the moisture that had suddenly condensed, yes, that was what he was telling himself happened, from the atmosphere straight onto his face. He gave a half-hearted salute to the hulking warrior, but Rogahs was already lost in thought. He was picking his nose and scratching his bottom simultaneously. Brambly turned to Yurk and gave him a, please, for the love of the gods, help me, look.

Yurk, stoic and completely unfazed turned him to face the next person in line, "This, is the great and knowledgeable wizard, Enaht Nosnhoj." At these words, an orc that was wearing a white toque looked up over the book he was reading. Brambly squinted at the spine of the novel and thought he could make out the words Necronomicon ex Mortsomethingerother. The book was bound in a not-so-leathery skin, and the front looked like it had been shaped to look like a screaming face. His stomach sufficiently churned he opted to ask about something a little less intimidating. "Are you a chef?" he asked as his eyes were drawn to the mage’s headwear.

The orc made an annoyed face, which was easy because orcs, on the whole, were perpetually annoyed; and looked up from his book again, "No," he said flatly and went back to reading.

"Then why are you wearing a chef hat?" Brambly asked.

The orc sighed. "I am not," stated the wizard. This time he did not look up. Brambly did notice that when the orc did speak that he did not have tusks protruding from his lower jaw. That struck him as odd, as all orcs had tusks, but he managed to stay on task and kept the conversation in the general direction he hoped it would head.

"Look, I don't want to argue, but you are wearing a toque. That is what chefs wear. That,” he spat in frustration, “Is a chef’s hat!" His voice quavered and fluctuated as he made his point and his face quivered in frustration.

Enaht sighed, flipped a page, and said, "I am a wizard, and therefore by definition, any hat that I wear is a wizard's hat." The green-skinned humanoid squinted his eyes and stared into the corporal’s own orbs. Brambly nodded somewhat taken aback.

"Er, well yes; I suppose I'll give you that one, but aren't you also an Orc?" The book rose higher to cover the rest of Enaht's face. He was clearly ignoring Brambly. The newly minted corporal was used to that, however, and took no umbrage from the reaction.

"Yes, he is an orc." Yurk stated, "However, he is not affiliated in any way with the enemy horde that we are currently facing. Per his dossier, Enaht shows signs of higher intelligence than any member in his clan when he was just one year. He could read and write before he was two, and had learned about the arcane arts at the age of three. By the time he was four, he had to flee for his life from his tribe, who viewed him as an aberration that needed to be sacrificed. He made his way to the Wizard's Council, proved himself to be a capable magician to them, and by the time he had turned thirteen he had designed the spell known as the Negasonic teenage warhead fireball."

Brambly looked at the orc. "What is a negasonic whatever fireball?"

Enahts closed his book, sat it on his lap, and slid his glasses to the tip of his nose. "I created the Negasonic Teenaged Warhead Fireball spell. I do believe,” he said in exasperation, “That it is all very clearly delineated in the name; Negasonic because it is silent. I despise noise. It distracts me from my studies. It interrupts my reading; something, much like this conversation, that I fervently detest. I deemed to call the next portion Warhead because it was made to cover a massive area and destroy everything within its rather voluminous and expansive radius, and finally, Fireball because it-was-a-fireball spell." He spoke the last part as if he were explaining it to a child. “Technically. I dare say that it far exceeds a standard fireball’s heat and destructive capabilities by a power of twenty.”

Brambly nodded as if he knew what any of that meant and then asked, "What's the Teenaged part for then?"

The orc's gruff voice came out in an exasperated tone, "Well, I was a teenager when I made it. Wasn't I?" Brambly smiled, that made sense to him. It was so good to understand at least a little bit of the conversation.

"So, Master Enaht, what is your specialty? Fire magic? Battle spells?" Brambly hoped that the mage might be a brilliant battle wizard that would mow down their enemies before he ever had to look them in the yellows of their bloodshot eyes.

The orc shook his head. "I am a theoretical wizard, not an applied wizard. I don't cast spells. I research them and design them. The only spell I have ever cast was the one that I was required to in order to gain admittance to the Wizard's Council. From then till now I have done naught but read ancient texts and devise new more powerful spells or simple spells that will improve everyone's lives in some way."

Brambly sputtered for words, "Y-y-you mean that you don't cast spells?"

The orc nodded, "Precisely. As I said, I am a theoretical wizard. Not applied."

"Then what good are you going to be to us out in the field?"

"That would be the responsibility of the field commander to determine."

"I'm the field commander!" Brambly sputtered.

'There you go, then." He reopened his book and began reading again as if the matter, and not the book, was closed. This time, the book, Brambly noted was different. It was smaller, had a black cover with the words Grand Grimoire etched into its front. Enaht made no motion to acknowledge that anything had changed.

The sergeant nudged Bambly’s side with an elbow, “That’n aint never made a spell another wizard could cast.”

“W-w-what,” Brambly asked turning to Enaht, “Is it true that none of the spells you have designed have worked?”

The orc huffed, “My spells all work. It is just that the so-called superior wizards of my order don’t have the talent or the mana required to cast them.” The orc sniffled, “I cannot help that they do not understand the intricacies of real magic. Nor can I be held responsible for the fact that they have not been able to level their spellcasting abilities for them to unlock enough mana to cast my spells.” Making it clear that he was done with his end of the conversation his book slid back before his face seemingly of its own volition.

Yurk waited a moment to make certain that they were done, "This is PFC Flower Gluten." Brambly looked around but saw no one. His head jerked from side to side, and he even looked over his shoulder. Finally, Yurk grabbed the back of his head and forcibly angled Brambly’s face downward. He saw a woman who stood about four feet tall, she had a pretty face, but her head was slightly larger than it should have been. Her eyes were a luminescent gold that practically glowed in the sunlight. They sparkled with the moisture-like water that hailed from the purest mountain stream. Her hair was a verdant shade of green and was long like prairie grass. It framed her face like angelic wings. And when she spoke her voice was like that of a three-toothed drunken sailor who had been born in the bowels of Pares, the city of light in the heart of the elven country of Franzia. "Allo, Corporal. Eet eez a pleazure to meet you."

The corporal bowed and mumbled, "It is my pleasure I'm sure." He gulped as he looked at her extended hand; a hand that she very clearly expected him to take and place his lips upon in the formal manner of greeting in Pares. Embarrassed, he gently took her fingers and gave them a nice shake. He noted that she was wearing green robes that complimented her golden eyes. She looked up into Brambly’s face seemingly struck utter awe at his appearance.

Yurk paid them no mind, "Gluten here is a dwarf as you can see. I only say this because you seemed confounded that Rogahs was an elf, and Enaht was an orc. To be fair, you should know. . ."

Flower interrupted him, "Zat I am a druid, a child of the forest. I can call upon zee plants, fungi, and zee beasts of zee forest. I must admit zat I 'ave turrible claustrophobia, and do not do well in tight spaces." She raised an eyebrow appraisingly, "Zat ees unless I 'ave someone special to share zee tight space with. Why I myself 'ave a tight space that I would like to share with you sometime." Brambly almost choked at that but played it off as if he had swallowed his tongue. He actually had, but he’d done it hundreds of times and had learned how to fix the situation on his before he suffocated. His gambit didn’t seem to work very well with her as she winked seductively at him. That was when the actual meaning of her double-entendre became clear.

"You're a claustrophobic dwarf?" Out of everything she had just told him that was the only part that he’d understood. He was never really good with magic, but he knew a wizard’s hat when he saw one. He chose to completely ignore the innuendo she’d just tossed to him like a fuse-lit hand grenade.

She gave a curt nod, "Oui. I am afraid zat as a child I would cry incessantly unless I was taken from the Undercity and placed beneath the open sky. It got so bad zat my parents 'ad to build a small cabin in zee nearby woods for me to stay in or I would fly into a panic after being left below ground for too long. I was raised in zee loving embrace of mother nature and came to love wide open spaces and zee big blue sky. Needless to say, as soon as I came of age my parents left me to my beloved forest and returned underground. Sadly, I 'ave not seen them since."

Brambly looked at her, and then asked, "Say, I thought lady dwarves all had beards. Do you shave yours?"

Her eyes filled with water, "I am most ashamed, mon ami, but aside from the hair, on zee top of my head, I was born completely bald, and nary 'as another follicle sprouted anywhere on my body ever since." She gave him a hungry look, "I am completely bald," she said with a whisper, “Everywhere else.” She licked her lip in a sultry motion and let one of her eyes deliver him a similar message via a slow wink. Brambly couldn’t help but think that she would be perfect to send nonverbal messages when they were surrounded by enemies. She could lick her lips and wink at their opponents while he slipped away.

As Brambly choked as inconspicuously as he could in reaction to her statement Yurk spun him around to face another person. This new fellow was dressed in a sleeveless tunic, he had a large hoop earring stuck through his nose in the manner that a bull would wear one if they were going out on a fancy date, and the sides of his head were shaved with his remaining hair all standing straight as if it were at attention. The base of his hair was a bright canary yellow, whereas the top of the hair was a blood-red tone, giving the top of his head the appearance of being on fire.

Brambly swore that he saw a wisp of smoke rising from the tips of his hair. His erstwhile tunic was festered with brooches that looked like skulls as well as the occasional lute and sitar. A lute was strapped over his back, and he wore black leather pants that were held up by a chain belt. His boots were knee-high, and the toes were covered in steel casings. He had on several rings on his left hand, one of which bore a demonic face, and another that bore the symbol for chaos. His right arm carried a leather brace that ran from his elbow to his wrist. It, too, was festooned with skulls and skeletal metal bones. His eye had deep dark circles under them, making him look not so much as being hollow-faced and angry all at once, but more as if he hadn’t slept in several days.

"This is," Yurk began, "ahhhhh, um, this is... is," he leafed through his dossier scanning for any information as to who this fellow was. Unable to find any clue to the man's identity he finally looked at him and shouted, "Dammit man, just who the hell are you?"

The spike-haired man flinched slightly, "I'm Def. DefLemmy."

"Why," sputtered Yurk, "are you here?"

The man shrugged. "Dunno," he said sleepily, "Iwokeduprightovertherewhenanother fellawuzdraggingthislothere. Hetoldmetostandup, shutup, andwaitforthesergeanttogethere."

"Why are you here," Yurk asked as irritation swept across his face like a broom caught in a tornado.

"Ijustoldyou," said Def Lemmy. His mumbled words rolling around Brambly’s ears like marbles in a tornado.

Yurk shook his head, "No. I mean why are you in this camp. What are you doing here?" Brambly stared in stark amazement. He had not a clue that the funny-looking fellow was saying, but Yurk had no trouble following him at all.

Def rubbed his chin, and cocked on eye upward, "Well, Iwashereentertainingthetroops lastnight. Iplaythelute. I'm a bard." He said that last sentence punctuating each word as if the sergeant should have been impressed. The word bard did indeed strike a chord with the officer. His eyes widened and he looked at the clipboard in his hand.

"Where the hell is Loocinda Belch, the bard from Amityvelle that was supposed to be going on this mission?" Yurk's face was steadily growing redder and redder, all the while his hair was becoming inversely whiter and whiter.

"Loo Cinder?” Lemmy asked in earnest, “Ain’tshetheonethatgotmarriedtothatbigfellerfromBraggertvillelastnight? Idoesbelievethatshe andheleftfortheirhoneymoon." Now he scratched his chin eyes widening in remembreance, "Yeah, tha'sright. I’splayingthey’sreception. Buggerall, too,” he said in exasperation as he realized that he’d been stiffed for playing his gig. “Theyskippedwiffoutpayingme nuffinfermetroubles."

Yurk's red face had transitioned right to yellow, having skipped the orange phase altogether. "Right," he said. "Lucky you are then that you are here this morning. Your very presence in camp means that you are hereby conscripted into this here man's army. Congratulations, Private Lemmy. You have just volunteered for a very delicate mission. Meet your commanding officer, Corporal Pipes." He waved a hand at Brambly.

"You can call me Bram," Brambly said with a wide smile.

"Def, if'nyouplease. ThosomefolksdoescallmeLemmytoo." In spite of all the metal on his head, and the odd hairstyle Brambly felt the man was quite affable. He had no idea of what the man was saying, but he seemed awfully nice. He needed some serious affability after spending quality time with Yurk. For that matter, Nosnhoj and Rogahs both seemed to have affability issues as well. Regardless of just how nice the man was Brambly was going to need a translator if he was going to work with him.

"Stow the pleasantries, ladies," Yurk interjected. "You lot are to proceed to the eastern forest,” He made a grand gesture in pointing in the direction that they were to go, “Your guide, a mister Larch will find you and get you on your way. Now, you stop over at the quartermaster before you leave and he will provide supplies and horses for your journey.” Then the sergeant turned away without so much as a salute and returned to the camp’s hub.

“What a nice man,” Brambly said as the Sergeant walked away. “He has such faith in us. I know he left abruptly so we didn’t see him cry as we went off on our dangerous mission.”

“Excuseme, butI’mjustabard, Idon’tknowniuthinboutfightinandwarsandstuff.” Deflemmy rambled.

“Me either,” Brambly said with a shrug. “Guess this is a learn along the way kind of thing.”