On the east coast of West Isle, there lies a tavern on the peasant’s road. The sign out front reads The Deep Forest Inn. The inside reeks of ale and poor kept company. The walls are water stained and the floor no more than mud and dirt. A rickety stairway leads to a second floor, where the more ‘luxurious’ rooms lie. A fat innkeeper, with only one eye and no eyepatch, serves drinks out of moldy wooden mugs.
In contrast to her surroundings, a beautiful one-armed elf sits upon a stage. Her hair is jet black and her skin a milky alabaster. Her rose silk dress drapes over her body, like smooth cream, outlining every curve of her soft, elegant body. In place of her right arm, she wears a magical wooden one. It plays her golden lyre as well as any real hand could.
She sings a sad song in a language known to few. Those that do, hear the story of lost sailors and loved ones left behind. It is a song best not heard on the West Isle, though she sings it all the same. She strums mournfully at her strings, capturing both the mood of the tale and her audience. Even those who do not speak her tongue can feel the weight of her melody.
A black-feathered birdmann stands beside her, his back against the wall. His arms folded, he rests his left hand on the hilt of his rapier. Dressed in studded leathers, he appears more than ready for a fight. He watches the crowd menacingly, keeping the common folk from approaching the elf. The tables, few that there are, are stocked with a variety of customers, from shit covered peasants to cut-throat mercenaries and at one table sits a large grey half-giant, clothed in half-plate mail. He drinks alongside a half-elf priest. From the glowing lantern held at the priest side, it is evident he worships the nameless Father of All. A new god to the world and one, whose followers are divided into thirteen powers. A group has formed around the half-giant, as he tells a story of his good deeds.
“Right, so there I was, diggin’ graves, like I do, and I see these mates botherin’ Holly, you know, uh butcher’s kid. Now, these mates don’t look that friendly. So I grab me a gravestone, bout the size of that man’s head,” says the half-giant, pointing at one of the men across the table from him, “And, I walk on over there, all friendly like, and I says to Holly, ‘Mornin Ma’am,’ as I do. Now, uh one of the mates, he got him back to me. He tells me to fuck off, or he’ll cut off me cock. While I didn’t like that, so I bonk him in the back of the head with me shovel. Not a hard bonk, just enough to make me point. Now, he got mad and turned around. He said somethin’, uh don’t remember what, but the second he saw me, he weren’t talkin’ no more.”
The crowd starts to chuckle as the half-giant continues, “Yeah, so he goes and pulls his knife. Now, I didn’t like that either. So I take me gravestone and smack him in the head. And he just falls right on over. Pisses himself too, I think. Well his mates, they don’t take kindly to that. Now, they’re pullin’ their knives and their axes. So the one with the axes comes at me first, and I poke him with me shovel. Now, it goes in pretty deep, and uh he falls over too. Makes uh wheezy sound as he goes down. The other one gets a wee scared and drops his knife. He starts askin’ all forgivin’ like that I don’t kill him. Well, I look down at these two mates, and uh they ain’t look so good.”
“Lucky for them, Vincent here,” the half-giant says patting the half-elf on the shoulder, “was walkin’ on by. He healed them up real good. And he asks me, ‘are you Gravestone by chance?’ Well, I ain’t surprised he’d heard of old Gravestone and all me good deeds. So I say, ‘that’s what they call me.’ Now it turns out; this priest is taken a holy pilgrimage. And I’m thinkin’ that’s a big word, pilgrimage. I tell ya what it means. Is a fancy word for quest, that it is. So he tells me he’s lookin’ for a hero and he thinks I might be that hero. Well, I says to him, “I be honored you think me a hero, but I just dig the graves. But he goes on insistin’ I’m the hero he’s looking for.”
“You are a hero, Gravestone,” one of the man yells. Much of the crowd nods in agreement. Another goes on to say,“that’s right, if the world were filled with people like you, we’d not need the word hero, be too commonplace.”
“Yeah, that’s what the villager said too,” the half-giant says, now quieter and more reserved “they gave me this armor and a shield and a hammer. Said I should go be a true hero, like in the stories. I miss them though, the village. They were good to Old Gravestone.”
The men nod and everyone falls silent. The elf’s song again takes them. Missing, if ever there were a single word to capture West Isle, that would be the one. The mood brakes when the occupants hear a sound in the distance. The playing of bagpipes grows louder and louder until a dwarf burst into the hall. Dressed in a gold and green great kilt, with a matching bagpipe strapped to his side, the dwarf struts past the tables. He wears steel plated gloves with four blades at the knuckles, which resemble bear claws. A mule, carrying a large pack of food and supplies on its back, follows him from behind. The dwarf’s cheeks are rosy, his emerald eyes are sparkling, his ears are surprisingly elven in point, and his light brown beard is spiced with glittering gold leaf. He looks around the mournful room and bellows joyfully, “Be merry, be glad, no sorrowful faces, not when Bojack, The Emerald Champion arrives.”
Eyes wide in astonishment, there can be no doubt this dwarf is, in fact, the famed gladiator, Bojack, the Emerald Champion. He plucks five gold coins from his purse and tosses them to the innkeeper, “Drinks for the room, me dear fellow, and a stall for me mule, and a bed for me ass.”
The room seems to ignite with merriment. The innkeeper pours drink after drink as the denizens partake in the dwarf’s generosity. Bojack leaps onto one of the tables, stomping his foot as he again plays his bagpipes. Seeing her crowd lost, the elf stops strumming her lyre. Not upset in the least, she claps along to the dwarf’s beat, a gentle smile on her face. The birdmann beside her gives the dwarf a disgusted scowl. While the dwarf plays, one of the men yells out, “What brings ya here, champion?”
“Yeah, did the West Isle curse snatch ya off your ass,” Another asks. Bojack laughs, “Not at all me chaps, I come on holiday, and I look to fight some giants. They say the strongest of which live atop the Grand Tree, and I intend to see the truth of it.”
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“Here to fight giants, aye” a man yells, who then points over to Gravestone, “you should have a go at old Gravestone, there! He’s a half-giant, you now.”
“Yes, Yes, fight me dwarf, haha, fight me” Gravestone laughs, grabbing his hammer and shield. The dwarf strokes his beard and looks the boy over. He then jumps from the table, “Well, if you insist.”
The innkeeper takes bets as men pull the tables out to the side. They create a large opening to pass as an arena. Bojack doffs his bagpipes, leaving it with his mule. He enters the arena, where Gravestone awaits. Gravestone nods to Brother Vincent, who seems quite overwhelmed at the escalation of the night. He says to the dwarf, “that there’s a priest. He’s got healing miracles.”
“So, no need to hold back, aye?”
“That’s right, no need,” says Gravestone, charging the dwarf. He swings his warhammer at Bojack’s head, but the dwarf blocks it with his left arm. The blow leaves not even a bruise. Surprise stricken, Gravestone mutter, “what, how?”
“How you ask,” repeats Bojack, a horrid bloodlust in his burning green eyes. His muscles harden as veins pulsate throughout his body. His skin turns red, and he roars, “Because I am Bojack, The Emerald Champion. My skin is as tough as leather, my muscles as strong as a bear’s and my bone as hard as iron.”
Gravestone bearly gets his shield up in time to block Bojack’s fist. The wood splinters as the blades of his glove pierce the shield. Like a bear, he pulls his claws out of the shield, tearing out chips of wood along with. Before Bojack strikes again, Gravestone brings down his hammer. It clubs the dwarf right on his bald head. The hammer leaves little more than a scratch. A trickle of blood falls down the dwarf’s face.
Gravestone hides behind his shield once more as the dwarf unleashes a flurry of blows. Bojack punches the shield time after time, chipping it away little by little. He roars, “that shield won’t protect you forever.”
On the dwarf’s fourth punch, Gravestone sees an opening. He takes it and again catches the dwarf across the head. It cuts deeper than the last, but only bearly. Again Gravestone retreats behind his shield. It endures four more punches, and there it is again: the same opening.
Gravestone swing for a third time. It lands as hard as the last, just above the dwarf’s brow. Blood seeps over his left eye, but the dwarf doesn’t seem to care. A fiendish grin passes over his face as Gravestone feels it; a sharp pain bursts through the right side of his abdomen.
Leading with his right, Bojack catches the half-giant in the side with a left hook. His fist bends in the breastplate, and the claws of his glove pierce the half-giant’s flesh. As Bojack pulls back his arm, Gravestone catches the dwarf’s right jab with his shield.
Impatiently, Gravestone attacks the dwarf, before his right fist even leaves the shield. With more force than ever and warrior’s cry, the half-giant brings his hammer down on the man half his hight. It crashes into Bojack skull harder than ever before, but just bearly. The same left hook digs right back into Gravestone side. He feels as his ribs bend and break under the pressure of the small man’s fist. Again he catches the right jab with his shield, but Bojack doesn’t seem to mind.
“Damn you,” roars Gravestone, finding his second wind. He swings at the dwarf, who blocks the hammer with is arms. Bringing his warhammer back overhead, the half-giant cries, “This ends now!”
He swings down with all his weight as if aiming for the floor beneath Bojack. The dwarf pulls away. The hammer flies past him. The half-giant now at eye level and completely open, Bojack switches his lead and brings a fight-ending right uppercut onto Gravestone’s chin. The blades of his gloves carve into the hyoid bone, are pulled out the face, splitting the jaw in five. Blood gushes from the half-giant’s mutilated face as he collapses onto the floor. The dirt turns crimson around his face. Cut and bruised, Bojack says, “Twas a good fight, but ya rely too much on shield and armor.”
The priest races to his fallen comrade's side. His glowing lantern in hand, he prays, “Oh, Father of All, I pray to thee bless me with thy holy light. Grant me the power to heal these man.”
The crowd watches in awe as divine light pours over the half-giant and Bojack. Gravestone’s jaw and ribs reforms, their wounds close, even the cuts and bruises on Bojack’s head vanish leaving the dwarf feeling good as new. Gravestone sits up in the mud. He spits and breaks out in laughter. Bojack extends his hand out to Gravestone, who says,“ twas an honor to face the great emerald champion, that it was.”
He helps the half-giant to his feet. The crowd cheering, the two fling their hands in the air. Though the fight lasted less than a minute, the brutality of it has the occupants in an uproar. As he spins around waving to the crowd, Bojack catches the gaze of two lushes fey women. The smaller of the two is a faun, with short curled horns and legs of a goat. Her frame is slender and her hair a light chestnut. She is cuddled by the other, a satyr. She has the long black haired tail of a horse and a matching mane, which runs down her back. Her horse-like ears are a soft grey. The two are wrapped in little more than bits of cloth; the satyr’s lusty breasts are practically bursting out at the seems. Whore, Bojack assumes, for they stand next to the entrance of a private room. The dwarf smiles. His cheeks grow red when the ladies smile back.
His attention shifts when he notices the blanket on the bed behind them shuffle around. Even more surprised grows the dwarf when the blanket leaps from the straw bed and onto the floor. So mesmerized is he, Bojack doesn’t realize he’s stopped waving. His hands have fallen to his sides, and his head’s gone lopsided. Soon more, including the whores, turn to see what has the dwarf so puzzled. Among the ones, who look, must be the innkeeper. For when the blanket rushes out the room, he yells, “Thief!”
The innkeeper jumps over the counter, club in hand. He chases down the blanket snatcher. As he does, the black feathered birdmann draws his rapier. He races toward the innkeeper. The elf follows swiftly behind. The innkeeper reaches for the blanket first. He grabs it, pulls back, and reveals a small girl not three feet tall. She has curly red hair, a bulbous round nose, freckled cheeks, and long pointed ears, which stretch out like those of a hare. She wears a dark green tunic with a long sleeved black shirt underneath, and a pair of black breeches. The girl fights for the blanket, she yells, “let ‘em go! There my memories, let ‘em go!”
“You think you can go stealing from me, do ya, thief,” yells the innkeeper, in return. He swings his club overhead, “I’ll teach ya to steal from me, ya little bitch.”
“Enough,” roars a commanding gritty voice from up above. The room goes dark as every candle is snuffed out. Even the fireplace goes cold in an instance. Only the priest’s lantern remains lit. Silently the crowd looks up. At the edge of the second-floor hallway, Two glowing yellow eyes beam down through the darkness.