There it stood… The entrance to the dungeon of legend… Tomb of Elder Horror! Its massive gate stood as a portal to myth and terror, opening inwards to insurmountable odds. Before it, stood the fabled band of heroes, who promised to surmount any odds; the Forlorn Five. To access a list of alternative workshopped names, refer to Appendix XII, Entry 423, Subsection G of Record Codex 5874-A7, concerning the pre-existing conditions prior to the Accord of the Fifth Dynasty. As documented and preserved in the Grand Archives of the Chronicon Cabal, Annum 6712.
One of them that stood out to me was The Four and A Half, but I understand why it was scrapped.
While the travel montage leading up to the dungeon has been lost in transport, I can relay to you how pleasant their journey was. Just a quaint, domestic little country-side stroll! The Forlorn Five walked through gleaming fields of golden crops and stopped to enjoy sweet apples from the branches of a tiny tree. At dusk they sat down around a warm campfire and shared stories of heroic friendships and great overcoming of great struggles. A soft, melodic backtrack of acoustic lute accompanied their mead-sharing evenings. Jolly good fun on a jolly good trip alongside new friends! The Master of Campaigns should think of starting a travel agency, if you ask me.
As they neared their mission zone, however, they were increasingly enveloped in a creepingly sombre atmosphere. The malady that was beneath the ground, the corrupting aura of the Tomb of Elder Horror (which was introduced in chapter 2, remember?) must have had soured the spirits of the good folk living obliviously above the storied dread. The faces of honest, common folk carried the shadows of an unspoken pain, while their eyes reflected contempt. As the Forlorn Five journeyed through farmhouses in disrepair, one middle aged farmer even called them ‘loiterers’. Such agrarian audacity!
For good or ill, their excursion through pastoral terrain (which would cover a number of hexes entirely dependent on your choice of map scale) came to a halt as the Forlorn Five reached the tall, ivied gate of ancient, cracked stone. The twinstone duolith of two massive slabs of carved rock towered before them, clear as day, surrounded by bright open fields and orchards. Huh. One would expect a sort of… uh… grimdark ambience surrounding the… massive, deadly dungeon pivotal to the story… but uh… I guess… I don’t know… the Tomb of Elder Horror doesn’t particularly care about its presentation. That’s fine. We can also enjoy this fresh… yes—fresh outlook on high-fantasy. Fantastic!
Let’s carry on…
A visible problem emerged for our daring adventurers when they stood against the gate leading to the Tomb of Elder Horror (which was definitely introduced in chapter 2), for close to half an hour. Apparently, no one knew how to get in. No one wanted to be the first to admit that, naturally, so they all looked and stood like they were striking a stoic, theatrical pose, waiting for someone to address their predicament.
Fortunately for us, before this story ended with a bunch of morons staring at a door, that someone would be Zez.
“Um,” said Zez, before all faces turned sharply to him. “Uh… Hello!” he continued, with folkloric charm. The faces of his comrades-in-arms gazed at him, betraying a muted blend of high-brow derisiveness and genuine expectation of relief. Let’s hear what this whimsical dolt has to say, they all thought. Vessa in particular was quite prone to looking down on him (not just literally but also figuratively, in case it wasn’t clear) while Mr. Tall possessed a softer admiration for this anachronistic wonder. In any case, Zez kept on talking.
“Maybe we could try to enter the dungeon.”
A shadow of stillness passed across the adventurers’ faces.
“If you ask me,” Zez continued, “I would say there is good value in dungeons. I’ve dungeoneered my fair share back in the day and I can tell you that you can’t spend a single dull moment in them! No, sir! They’re filled to the brim with wonder and excitement in every nook and cranny. I’m not even talking particularly about all the knick-knacks and pests and snares… just that the amount of lore and anecdotes and wisdom one might uncover under layers and layers of rock and stone… is amazing! Even the atmosphere, while it isn’t too accommodating for an old man with asthma, is so alluring. Everything there puts you in this heightened sense of awareness where you feel so deeply that you are embarked on this grand quest of knowledge and discovery. Makes it so much easier to focus! Whenever I’m in a dungeon library, I imagine I’m researching some deep layered secret that will help me save the world! I mean… normal, day-to-day work is so tiring and slogging when compared to the mood of studying in a dungeon! Anyways, I—”
“Are you going to shut up?” asked Vessa. She didn’t look too vexed, and her voice actually carried a tone of playfulness.
“Oh,” Zez recoiled. “Well, I wasn’t planning to… but if—"
“We need a way inside,” confessed Flinar, the brooding, slim figure of sullen focus.
“That, we do, my raven,” underpinned Mr. Tall. Throughout their trip, he had taken to assigning names of birds to each of his travel buddies. These were received with varying degrees of appreciation. Flinar certainly did not deny him a piercing side-eye every time the make-shift poet addressed him.
“If anyone doesn’t have any ideas, I’ll just might have to crush this gate,” said Vessa, knowing full well she couldn’t.
“I might help you with that,” said Helnen, knowing full well she could.
“Ah… the rush of violence already taking its hold in our hearts…” pondered Mr. Tall. “How revealing of one’s true nature.”
Vessa, nodding at Helnen, signalling her to do something magic and loud, stood firmly still.
Helnen, shutting her eyes, began to whisper a melodic chant. Even from afar, her focus could be felt.
That was when Zez abruptly broke it. “I have an idea!”
A tad annoyed, Helnen opened her eyes and turned her head sideways and downwards. Vessa stared at the little man with expectation.
Zez, being our master arcanist, shuffled in front of the door, raising his little arms and staring intently. He pried his lips, pouring forward ancient words of magical incantation. He was… he was casting a spell! This wizard of reported brilliance, possessing decades of practice and knowledge, this apparent behemoth of mystical merit, was, before you and me and all the world, was casting a spell for the first time since his arrival! This… oh, my heart is racing! What is he capable of? What can he do? So much unseen power! He chants now as we speak! His words are nearing their end! The effects of such power, such…
Nothing happened.
Zez fell into silence, dropping his voice, which was soon followed by his arms. He kept staring, emptily… As empty and silent as the moment he set cheeks on the throne of St. Dulcer.
Nothing happened.
Huh.
From what I could tell at that moment, Zez was in a similar, if not exceedingly more alarming, state of surprise as I. This wizard of enormous—What? I mean… Why? He is a mage and the bloody title character! How—Why?
Argh. I am so disappointed.
If you can give me a moment to wallow in this crushingly anti-climactic disappointment, I can continue narrating our story. If you still even care… What a waste!
A BRIEF MESSAGE FROM THIS CHAPTER’S SPONSOR
Narrator: Have you ever had to get something out of a bag? You, yes you, you resourceful dungeoneer, you! Don’t tell me you haven’t found yourself rummaging through all sorts of bits and pieces trying to lockpick a single door!
Tall (enthusiastic): Or climbing down a chasm!
Vessa (strained): All the while holding back a whole extended family of goblins?
Narrator: Well, worry not! Introducing: The Dungeoneers Kit!
[GASP]
Narrator: This state of the art dungeoneering technology is the one-stop-shop for all your spelunking needs! And it doesn’t get in the way of your adventuring!
Helnen: Ooh la la!
Narrator: The extensive list of items included within are: A crowbar! A hammer! Ten Pitons! Ten Torches! A Tinderbox! Ten Days of Rations! A Waterskin! And finally, no less than 50 feet of hempen rope!
Tall (relieved): That’ll come in handy!
Flinar (broody): Don’t forget to hold on tight.
Narrator: This lifesaver of an investment weighs only sixty pounds and is ergonomically designed for all shapes and sizes! If you’re a humanoid, we have you covered!
Vessa (happy): I could almost forget it was on my back!
Helnen (joyous): I did forget it was on my back!
[LAUGHTER]
Narrator: Available on all general stores and starter towns for only twelve gold pieces. Money back guarantee!
All together: Let’s keep crawling!
Narrator: That’s the spirit! The Dungeoneers Kit! We make your todays worthy of a tomorrow!
Boring Man: Please remember that the contents and material of The Dungeoneers Kit is highly flammable and should be kept safe in a dry place away from open flame.
Pardon me. Even narrators have to eat.
On with our story, then! Our brave Forlorn Five navigate farther and deeper onward into the heart of darkness, having vanquished the great foe that was the dungeon’s gate (no thanks to one useless piece of Zez, of course). Excitement and danger await ahead! All ye who have entered here, abandon all hope! Heh.
Presently, however, there was a rather more pressing matter than the promise of upcoming danger. More than one, in fact. Chief among them being the essential lack of fresh air, followed closely by lingering malodours and dust. As if that wasn’t enough, the Forlorn Five found that they couldn’t even light a torch! The space was simply too cramped and unventilated to allow them the reassuring presence of a flaming fucking torch! What are we—What’re we even doing here anymore? How am I supposed to narrate characters who have to walk through pitch-black darkness without being able to see? Alright, fine, our good chap Flinar can see a little bit in the dark, but what about the frontline fighter Vessa? How is she going to swing a fu—bloody sword if she can’t bloody see? I hate this so much!
Oh… Helnen just casted a light spell! That… that solves it all! Well, I mean, it’s not as bright as torchlight… but still! Heck, maybe they’ll adapt to the environment even better! They won’t get torch-blinded! They can accustom their eyes to slightly more dim light and can see farther while also not revealing their location too suddenly! This is… this is brilliant, Helnen! Good on you, gal! Good on you! You have earned your mug of ale!
Ahem. I did say I would stand back and leave the stage for our heroes, hadn’t I?
As Vessa and Helnen spearheaded through the cavernous halls of ancient stone, with Mr. Tall in close tow cradling his flute, and our choleric crook Flinar trailing with light steps from afar, and Zez mostly just… strolling along, the Forlorn Five was ready to face the horror, coughing the way through.
Minutes poured into hours as they walked and walked and… walked without seeing a single noteworthy thing. Evidently, this was not a dungeon designed with crawler satisfaction in mind. It was a long, arduous, dragging road towards anything worthwhile. As they hurried deeper and deeper through the bowels of the earth, in this devilish craft of a maze, they passed shopfronts and residential areas and post offices and council buildings… the day-to-day accommodations of dungeon residents. Even so, they could hear no sound or catch any sight of them. Only the clicking of bugs and scurrying of rats was perceived. What had happened to all these subterranean denizens? What had ended them? Could it end our heroes too?
These questions were mostly pondered by Mr. Tall and Zez. In hushed voices that regularly rose to dangerous heights (which preceded the impatient hushing of Vessa), these two fellows discussed possible causes of their untimely (if that word is even applicable in an aeons-old dungeon) demise, sketching pictures of horrifying and at the same time amusing potentials. It seems at least one of us is enjoying Zez’s company. Well…
Whilst they were wondering upon the evacuation of the dungeon (which was not due to any catastrophic reason as they theorised but was simply caused by the ceaselessly increasing housing prices) the heroes of impatient anticipation were suddenly faced with the first sign of danger! Just about time… our story was almost devolving into this weird recounting of inconsequential interactions and musings. We’re doing high-fantasy, people! Come to your senses!
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Right, think quick, now! Rushing towards our adventurers from twelve o’clock are six—no, seven werecrows! Armed with serrated knives carrying murderous tetanus, these hunched, hooded figures are deranged creatures who were once men but are now cursed with a branch of lycanthropy that drives them to inhuman acts such as: gathering in group circles where they croak loudly about Zez-knows-what and gather small shiny things impulsively! These children of the night will use their beaks, if all their treacherous tricks fail, to crack open your skull like a walnut. They might even defecate on you while you are not looking and will certainly tell on you, if you harm them, to hundreds of other werecrows so they know your location and to avoid you. Crafty creatures, compassionless cannibals, cheating crows… let’s see them in action!
Alright! Two have hurried towards Vessa now, attempting to flank! Our maiden-at-arms, sword and shield in hand is swinging in an attempt to protect her area. Ooh! While the leftmost werecrow was distracted by Helnen’s casting, its head was lobbed off by the edged steel! A bright blue ray of ambiguous magical energy has just shot off from our quick-thinking warlock! Look at their black feathers catch fantasy flame! They’re croaking in so much pain! And their yelps of agony are supressed by the frantic fluting of Mr. Tall. Adding to this, Flinar has just joined the fray, dealing death (which doesn’t bother us because they’re faceless monsters) to his left and right! Oh, the chaos! Oh, the excitement! Vessa has resolved to simply rush through the murder of werecrows, whittling them down to the size of a mere chatting! Helnen, showcasing exceptional decisiveness, has chosen to cast a spell to deal stomach-churning necrotic affliction upon these birdmen! See them run with their tails between their vestigial wings! Oh, the carnage! Oh!
At last, only a single passerine terror remains. Cornered, cut-off from any help, this grotesque profanity to nature has nowhere to run but the arms of death ever-cleansing. Watch him grovel against the wall and beg for his life. Listen to his mimicked pleas of “Please!” and “I don’t want to die!” Look at how this corvid imitates the sounds of his fallen humanoid victims! Disgusting exhibit of therianthropic aberration! Look, he still tries, with cries of “I have a family! Please… Spare me!”, he persists to make a mockery of innocent, noble folk.
“I beg you! I beg you, please!”
End him, Vessa.
“No! No! NO! NO! I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT! I CAN’T DIE! NOT LIKE THIS! PLEASE!”
No mercy for monsters.
“I… I PROMISE… I’LL DO ANYTHING!”
Vessa, what are you waiting for, end him now…
“HERE! TAKE A LOOK AT MY KIDS! THEY’RE ONLY SEVEN AND FOUR!”
Sickening.
Wait… Did he just—No! This werecrow just put a claw in his cloak and… picked the pictures of his actual children from his pocket. Actual, little crows. With tiny beaks and feathers and… they look so innocent. Oh boy! They weren’t… they weren’t mindless monsters that we could just cut through without a second thought and feel good about ourselves after the fact. This… this kind of sullies the mood a little bit… Not a family friendly atmosphere at all. This was more of a… disgusting atrocity that we have just witnessed. Oh, dear… This job is relentless.
Well, I would very much like to cut ahead to another moment where the adventurers can simply be seen adventuring and questing and doing all sorts of heroic things, but as I cannot leave my friends of the Forlorn Five alone with this moral quandary, I must do the responsible, adult thing and sit through this scene where a father of two children is about to be murdered. Huh.
“Cease his senseless appeals, Vessa” said Mr. Tall with a pretentiously morose attitude. “End his suffering. Give him mercy. You know it is right.”
“Pipe down, choir boy,” was Vessa’s riposte. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Me?” asked Mr. Tall. “I must needs capture this moment of conflicting heroism. I should see the life slide away from this creature’s eyes as I watch yours fill with self-hatred. This instance of life being vanquished at the hands of a creature of delicacy such as yourself must be recorded by an unparticipating observant. Hence, commence with your killing, my osprey.”
“Can you stop with bird references please?” asked Helnen. “I’m feeling sick.”
“As you wish, my red panda.”
“Shut up, you two!” snapped Vessa, busy rummaging through her pack. “I’m looking for my spare dagger. Can’t risk damaging my sword on an execution. Where is it? Argh!”
Should’ve gotten herself The Dungeoneers Kit! Is that too much? Oh…
“Looking for this?” asked the unseen Flinar, a second before something flew sharply and went through the werecrow’s eye. A plain hilt wrapped in leather cords was sticking out from the corvid’s pierced skull.
“You nicked my dagger?” Vessa sounded annoyed.
“You dropped it,” growled Flinar deeply, dismally.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t drop daggers, sorry.”
Helnen and Mr. Tall gawked at the murdered father, unable to say a word, while Vessa and Flinar’s snappy interaction devolved into a hushed argument, where they consistently interrupted and talked over each other, lost their train of thought mid-sentence, slurred, stuttered and stammered in a burst of naturalistic dialogue that I am too lazy to write down. Just imagine that it felt like an authentic married couple’s day-to-day bona fide interaction.
Meanwhile (a word I should probably learn to use more), our sawed-off conjurer of jack-shit (I mean Zez, in case my increasingly vivid characterisation of our favourite miserly leprechaun makes it too hard to follow), noticed something. Yes. This white-skinned goblin of profound inefficacy, this didgeridoo of no sound, this null-edged blade, this door wedge of a sliding door; our Zez has noticed something. Good on you, Zez! Here, have an effect on the story. Any effect! Take your time! We have all day. No rush!
Afar, from the very soul of the shadow of gloom, an immense cacophony of grating coos, caws, rattles and clicks, reached the ears of our down-to-earth voodoo. What variety of sound he could distinguish amongst these avian expressions, our half-pint scholar determined that no less than two hundred werecrows were gathered beyond the darkness. From the increasing volume of sound, it could be accurately assessed that they were fast heading the Forlorn Five’s direction.
Two hundred werecrows! That’s fifteen times thirteen! A murder of thirteen crows is supposed to bring dire misfortune! Now imagine fourteen more of that!
Zez too, spent a few moments of trepidation calculating the severity of their situation. Then he turned around to the bickering adventurers, and said, quite unceremoniously; “Run.”
That’s it. No, “Uhm… guys,” or “I think you might want to take a look at this.” Not even a simple, “We got company!” He bluntly said, “Run.”
And, boy, did they run.
With Vessa in her clanking armour guarding the rear, Helnen casting a few spell-traps, Flinar dropping caltrops and Zez sprinting as best he could, it was Mr. Tall who took the lead, his hysteric escape for dear life accompanied by a frenetic phrasing of high-octane bebop lines. After few minutes of intense galloping, our dungeon runners were gained on by the wily crows, in an intense chase sequence with a cinematic pulse provided by Mr. Tall’s looney tunes.
The werecrows’ beaks passed through into Helnen’s magical light! Sticking forward their disgusting faces they hacked and slashed with monstrous intent. One curved blade caught Vessa in her unarmoured calf. Ouch! Holding in a cry, our iron-lady swerved to swing in a wide arc, reeling the villains back. Following a momentary lapse in courage, the swarm of abominations regained their initiative and pounced upon the warrior rushing away. Cutting through their bones and miscreated flesh, Vessa resolved to carry on and catch up with her panicked crew. Ahead, at the end of the narrow corridor, was seen a damaged wooden door half open. That was it! That could be their narrow escape!
The fluting flounderer was the first to reach the door, smashing through it while shouting “Allegro! Allegro!” The door swung open and hit Zez on its way back! The two-legged doodad was unwittingly caught by the hurrying Helnen, as she pushed him and the door through. Flinar sliding in with dexterous grit, it was only the steel-clad machine of death that was left outside. Holding at bay the horde of horrors with her shield and poking sword, she fought on! Her party, mesmerised, watched on! While Helnen made ample use of her depleting magical energy to harass and distract the werecrows, Mr. Tall had paused in doubt. How best could he represent the change in pace? Would a double tempo work better here?
“Pipe harder, you warbler!” demanded Vessa under strained breath.
Mr. Tall, with his eyes bursting out of their sockets, expanded the entirety of his lung capacity fluting without breath. Our cat of creamy complexion conducted the chaotic cacophony of combat! Alliteration will not save the day, but it certainly makes it all the more bearable! His bloody-eyed staccato soon rose to a crescendo as Vessa, aided by the ranged attacks of Flinar and Helnen, managed to put her feet through the door and shut it firmly against the werecrow gang.
After more than a few desperate attacks of pounding, clawing and pecking against the door, the werecrows finally went quiet. Helnen waved her hands and practiced phrases around to cast a lock spell on the door, which could only be opened by either a highly powerful counterspell or by saying the password: ‘Strawberry.’ That word was the first thing that came to Helnen’s mind. Such laziness can sometimes work in our favour when faced with circumstances of momentary decision-making, as it is seen.
Relieved (which isn’t a word by itself that captures the astronomical levels of serotonin exuded by our heroes who just narrowly escaped a harrowing certainty of brutal, torturous death), the Forlorn Five took a long breather. Throughout the day-to-day dullness of life, these were among the few moments where one could display a unique and invaluable awareness of life. For these few seconds of sensory elevation, they could certainly, consummately appreciate the fact that they were alive. What an amazing thing that was! They could live on to fight—no fuck that! They could just simply enjoy another meal of meat and mead and watch the sunrise and listen to the flowers and smell the birds—oh what an overjoyed experience being alive was!
This sentiment was shared perfectly by all but one of our heroes of the Forlorn Five. Flinar, being himself a demi-elf, did not taste the joy of a startling reminder that he was alive… at least, not to the extent of his human cousins. Demi-elves, being the crossbred products of human and elf coupling, were genetically highly predisposed to infertility. The sterile mongrel Flinar, knowing full well (inwardly and outwardly) that he was incapable of continuing his genetic lineage, was unable to care all that much about staying alive. It simply did not bring him the same joy shared by all humans, who were evolutionarily designed to avoid death at all costs, so they could produce tinier copies of their own selves. Where a human would experience intense adrenaline and an overflowing desire to procreate following instances of deadly run-ins, a demi-elf would only realise that he or she had to contend with another few decades of fruitless existence. That might, upon consideration, also serve as a reason for Flinar’s utter recklessness and proclivity towards throwing himself in life or death situations. His fight-or-flight response did not function as it was originally intended.
As an aside, I also want to comment on the fact that while widespread cultural narratives might impel demi-elves towards an appreciation of the value and a desire towards creating families, their introduction into the reality of their own incapability towards such a prospect not only relieves them of any consequential aspiration towards staying alive, it also often causes a great depression followed by the ruthless devaluation of their self-worth. What an offspring to be born as!
Before we feel any more pity towards this murderer of arbitrary pragmatism, let’s take a look at what our other, non-moping heroes are doing.
While the conveniently placed wooden door and Helnen’s intangible locksmithing kept the flock of afflicted grotesqueries away from the flesh of our sordid paragons of arse-kicking, they soon found that the narrative flow of their quest did not allow for stagnant pacing. Looking around, our band of diverse, synonymous adjectives, observed that the room they were in was riddled with holes and dents, potentially allowing our werecrow assailants to pour through and peck them bloody should they find a way around.
“Oi,” Vessa addressed the party. “We should start barricading. On the double.”
“Calm down, cat!” answered Mr. Tall nervously, between bursts of hyper-ventilation. “We can… we can move on after we catch our breath. There—there’s no need for boxing... boxing ourselves in. Don’t you worry my—my osprey… We have no cause to—to worry. It’s all diatonic!”
“Did you not hear me?” snapped Vessa. “We need to secure this area before any more hostiles reach our posit—”
“The minstrel speaks true,” drawled Flinar. “We have no choice but to keep moving.”
Vessa, unhappy about this interruption, turned sharply to the half-bred fey. “Are you fu—did you not just see me getting piled on by these bloody critters? And for fuck’s sake drop that fucking deep voice that you do. It doesn’t make you ‘darker’ or ‘cooler’ or whatever teenage girl fantasy vibe you’re going for! You’re not seventeen and you haven’t been seventeen for a while! It just makes you sound so pretentious and edgy, it’s…” she imitated throwing up.
Before Flinar’s piercing gaze was followed by another emotionally detached remark, our good Mr. Tall intervened to hopefully lighten the mood. “Vessa… my Vessa,” he mused breathily. “I can see you are flustered… Perhaps it might be better for us if we recuperate somewhere quiet.”
“Oh, shut the fu—”
Ah… adventurers on their first quest together. What an opportunity for inter-character friction and brute chaos! This should serve as a reminder to my observant reader, that if you happen to embark on a life-threatening expedition through dungeons chockfull of horror and death, you should do so with members you are well-acquainted with.
Seeing as I couldn’t keep myself from joining in the party’s shameless volleys of interrupting our responsible adult, Vessa, I leave the stage—
“It was him,” interrupted Helnen.
It’s not so fun when it’s done to the narrator now… is it? Anyways, as Helnen blurted out a vague accusation, all the faces, including the one belonging to our close-quartered Zez, sharply turned to our lazy mischief, the warlock of professional slacking.
“What?” asked Vessa.
“He must be talking about Flinar,” suggested Mr. Tall.
“No!” yelled Helnen “I’m talking about you, you pompous prick!”
“Me?” asked the offended Mr. Tall. “What did I do?”
Helnen opened her mouth to let out a sequence of stammering while the rest of the party awaited an explanation. “He—you… You brought them here!”
“Brought what?” Mr. Tall interrupted impatiently.
“The fucking… I don’t know, the crowmen!” (Helnen was thinking ‘werecrow’ here, but her laziness was adequately displayed in her labelling attempts.)
“How the… why would I do that?”
“What’re you talking about, Helnen?” questioned Vessa.
Helnen, appearing frustrated, waved her hand in Mr. Tall’s general direction. “Look at him!” she said as if pointing out a blatant truth. “He is a creepy old man with a weird beard and all he does is blow into a tube while we’re here fighting for our fucking lives! And—I mean… think about it, we don’t even know who he really is! For all we know he could be the pied piper summoning birdfolk to kill us!”
“I don’t even know who you are!” responded Mr. Tall in increasing anxiety. “Forget about who you really are, I don’t even know who you’re supposed to be! Are you the healer, the damage dealer, the stealth—And I’m not fucking old! I’m fucking thirty seven!”
“Ew!” exclaimed Vessa. “Ew! Ew! What’re you doing out here adventuring with barely pubescent teens while you should be doing your taxes and reading the economics section of a newspaper or whatever the fuck you old people do? Look at Zez, he is just a child!”
“HE HAS A FUCKING BEARD!”
“He might have adolescent beard-development syndrome!”
“YOU JUST MADE THAT THE FUCK UP!”
While our two traitorous contestants of Who Gets to Annoy Everyone Else So They Can Be Killed First, were engaged in a battle of dim-wits, the action-woman Vessa promptly recruited Zez and the reluctant Flinar to aid in her barricading efforts. Atop a backdrop of loud declarations such as “MY BEARD IS NOT WEIRD!” or accusations like “You were the first to run!” (which, might I add, was followed with a response of “I WAS RUNNING FOR MY FUCKING LIFE!”), the trio consisting of everyone that still had any bloody common sense spent close to fifteen minutes securing their position.
For now, let’s leave our uneasy hotch-potch of incongruous personages with their efforts to not fucking die. That will be it for today, for I have had it to here (imagine I’m gesturing at somewhere high above my head) with these impatient, petulant, quarrelsome clowns who were supposed to be grandiose heroes battling for a high cause. Whew. I mean, what a ride, right? I’m… I’m not even sure how to continue narrating these people. There could at least be like a comic-relief character or someone to rerail the plot along but as it seems… this is the best that the Chronicon Cabal could put forth. Fucking hell.