Seeing as I’ve come back to our charming little adventure after spending a good twenty minutes of well-deserved narrator-time, we have no reason not to continue on this grand epic following the events recounted in chapter 3… Which was supposed to be the third and final instalment in the introductory trilogy of Zez By Misadventure, before we launched our series proper! Oh, well… No plan survives contact with adventurers, as we’ve seen.
Our heroes (which I’m somewhat too exhausted to keep coming up with fresh, vivid adjectives to describe) have successfully boxed themselves in. It’s all diatonic! As our fluting friend would say. If you’re wondering what he’s up to right now, he and Helnen have resolved to bury the hatchet for now and help their comrades in padding the run-time.
Helnen, being of sound body and mind, has so far left behind her procrastinating tendencies and is happy pulling her proverbial weight in the hammering and nailing activities. It seems that while the inevitable truth of eventual death is presented not so abstractly and is instead made visible to the naked eye as a pressing matter, our lethargic leper can in fact, do things on time. Perhaps all she lacked was true motivation, after all. See? We’re learning about the characters as we go along. They are layered. Like real people. Yes.
When the last nail was struck into the boards of the Forlorn Five’s metaphorical anti-coffin (was that too clever?), they were presented with another thematically consistent problem that would challenge their practical-thinking skills and engage the reader by prompting them to ask questions like; “How in the world will they solve this?” Followed by a genuine exclamation of; “I want to read more!”
Easy.
Now, before we are served another plate of word salad (which are perfectly healthy vocabularic meals when consumed in moderation! We can’t always be eating word protein, can we now?), let us continue on with the action. Excitement!
There it stood, amongst all the entrances shut off by wooden boards (which happened to be lying around rather conveniently), a single, iron door. Evidently, it was a door opening outside (where sounds of chittering crows could still be heard at a distance), as its keys were hanging on its face. Helnen, being the clever gal she is, moved towards it at first sight. Picking up the keychain, she began fiddling around with the individual keys, trying her lazy best to figure out which one fit. Vessa, noticing her companion’s resourceful thinking, hurried to her side. “I got it,” said Helnen, as she stuck the key into the lock. Turning it a few times, she tried opening the door and when it didn’t, both her and Vessa sighed in relief.
In a hushed voice, Helnen addressed Vessa; “I think it’s locked.”
An astute observation.
“Good,” Vessa hushed back.
“Still,” whispered Helnen, “I think we should check it from the outside.”
“Why are we whispering?”
“Shush,” Helnen shushed, a finger on her lips.
“Alright, alright…” Vessa looked around as a symbolic gesture of vigilance. “You stay here,” she said, quietly. “I’ll try it from the other side.”
Nodding in agreement, Helnen turned the key once more and slowly opened the iron door. Vessa, taking a deep breath, stepped forth. Then, signalling to Helnen with a nod, she stood there as Helnen closed the door once more. She locked the door. Vessa tried opening it from the outside. A few attempts were made, each one more struggled than the last.
“I’d say it’s good,” said the muffled voice from behind the iron door.
“Good,” Helnen muttered to herself.
“You can let me in now!” muffled the voice behind.
“Whew. That was easy.”
Oh… you… mother—
“Helnen?” asked the muffled voice. “Helnen!” The echo of the shout banged on the door with metallic resonance. Soon, loud pleas gave way to violent pounding and banging with desperate attempts to crack the solid metal open. This must have attracted the werecrows holding vigil, who with their adequate sense of smell, located the one outside the make-shift sanctuary. Their ensemble of coos paused for a few seconds, before erupting into an orchestra of violent caws. They were coming.
“Helnen!” cried the anxious voice. “Helnen! Open this door! I swear I will cut you up to so many pieces that the mortician will have to solve a jig-saw puzzle just to bury you! Open this fucking door right now! Helnen!”
Helnen, being devil’s good little girl, simply turned a deaf ear and around, gazing at her party members astonished by her brutal display, and smiled.
Wow.
At the foreground of desperate cries, curses and commands, which soon devolved into heart-wrenching sobbing and incoherent mutterings, Helnen and the remaining Forlorn Five members were engaged in a discussion.
The wide-eyed, dumbfounded gaze of Mr. Tall was broken up when he pried his lips to speak in stunned surprise. “What the fuck did you just do?”
Helnen, playing up her care-free demeanour, shrugged and grinned wider. “I simply got rid of another mouth to feed.” Pointing at the deceased member’s supplies (which were laid against the wall as they were too cumbersome to be carried around all the time. Wink, wink.), she announced, “Our chances of survival have just increased from one in four to five.”
“Okay,” begun Mr. Tall, doing his best to regain his composure, “First of all, you can’t do math. Second of all, what the fuck?”
A cry of emerging religious devotion was heard from outside. The crows crept closer and closer, each one hungrier than the last.
Helnen shrugged even deeper. “Like I said… I—”
“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” hissed Flinar. “Did you think we’d let you off after that?”
“Well, I kinda did, actually…”
“No,” growled the rogue draped in black. “You have just killed our leader. She was our only chance of survival.” Apparently, for the edgy and egoistic Flinar, praise to others could still be given as part of a post-mortem eulogy.
“That, she did!” joined Mr. Tall. “Didn’t she? And as an effort to fill the power vacuum, my vote goes to Flinar. And as it’s only my vote that counts in this situation, my first request as a constituent is killing this murdering—”
“Nuh-uh!” retorted Helnen. “Let’s ask Zez what he thinks.”
Mr. Tall, turning to Flinar in exasperation said, “Do it, cat, before I shoot this bitch myself!”
“What about Zez?” repeated Helnen in frustration.
“There’s no democracy anymore,” was Flinar’s dark, brooding commentary.
The ambient sound of werecrow excitement suddenly surrounded them now. It was loud, chaotic and gut-wrenching. Muffled feminine cries of intense agony filled the room they were in. Our heroes, realising the gravitas of the situation, were instantly overtaken with grief. Dropping their gazes ever so slightly and taking longer, deeper breaths, they lamented the loss of a leader. Except… of course, Helnen. That would be a frightening mood-swing! Bordering on a fantasy understanding of borderline personality disorder, in fact.
No, she didn’t lament anything at all. At least she was consistent in her monstrous nature. Who certainly did, however, was our poet of misfortune, Mr. Tall. Staring like a sorrowful statue, he breathily regretted their loss. “She’s gone.”
“I’M NOT FUCKING GONE! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” echoed the voice without.
“There’s nothing we can do for her now,” consoled the grieving Flinar, who had found just the right moment to get all worked up about and brood and mop.
“THERE IS SOMETHING YOU CAN DO AND THAT IS OPENING THE FUCKING DOOR!”
“She’s gone,” Mr. Tall repeated, more accepting this time.
“OH, MY FUCKING—YOU PEOPLE ARE SO—ARGH!”
“I would like to get to truly know her one last time,” pondered the romantic prince. “Alas… Hey, what’s Zez doing?” Mr. Tall asked cheerfully.
It is now revealed that while all this drama and visceral exploration into the humanoid condition was taking place, our little bag of grub-holding was busy finding an alternative way out of this mess. He had noticed, through his years and years of refined knowledge concerning masonry, that the floor of this room was no floor at all, but a ceiling to untold adventure below. Yes! Our tiny ordinary fiend has discovered that at the centre of the room, was movable blocks! That could be lifted to reveal a secret passage! How quaint!
“Help me lift these!” called our Zez.
Our brave heroes of the Forlorn Four hurried to his side, crouching down and lifting with their backs (remember this to not injure yourselves. Stay safe down there!). An uplifting showcase of team-effort and where it can get you! It was also a good thing that our eager beavers did not forget to bring copious amounts of elbow-grease!
With all that said, it might have proved a tad easier if they had with them… I don’t know… a six-foot tall, athletic, muscular woman. Well…
With block after block lifted and removed to the side, a narrow wooden staircase that was in suspiciously good shape (not even any wood-boring bugs within) appeared below them. Choosing their marching order accordant to their abilities and potentially useful skills, our merry band elected to descend the staircase, away from the claustrophobic atmosphere and the sorry sounds of a woman being beaked to pieces.
And scene! That was a good solid two pages of roller-coastered emotions! Now, let’s see what awaits us further as we are guided by the metaphorical camera fixed on the backs of our adventurers.
As we descend to the base of the staircase, we are met with: a hallway. From the outside, appears to be within an ordinary house. Huh. A great house, true. Four-hundred-and-eighty-tree rooms, each with its own marble wash basin and douche (bidet, as it’s known). Wait—really? Who wrote these? What?
But inside, and the positions are reversed. A humanoid failing, some say a curse. But a curse that Lord Frauncis Dashweld knew and used well.
Wait, what’s… Who—
Downstairs, inside, and a revelation. It’s a discotheque! No, no err… there are paintings, real… and look here! A rare Third Dynasty masterpiece. And if we can scrape a little of it off, beneath we can find hidden a First Dynasty underpiece.
Uhm… I apologise. I don’t exactly know what’s going on right now. Bear with me.
Made entirely of tiny pieces of eggshell, this lurid work has caused controversy in the world of embroidery and anthropolodgeky… No, I’ll say it again: Anthro…polo…logy. Erm, quite possibly make an anthropol… No, I mean an apolodge… for… It has enthralled distinguished scholars, and in layman’s language is blinking well baffling. But to be more obtusely: buggered if I know. Yes, buggered if I know.
And that’s all we’ve gleaned so far from experts in First Dynasty painting, Reissuance greengrocers and recently reanimated members of the public.
Buggered if I know.
Well—that was, I mean… I guess a—a reference to something? Or, uh… an… homage? I don’t… don’t really know why it was here and not under a pile of discarded notes and scribbled jokes or… wow. Someone really put it in there, did they? In my… high-fantasy story about people getting killed by monsters and hidden villains and… Huh… Well, I guess that’s what we’re doing now. Cool, uh… On—onward! Hooray!
As our befuddled heroes-errant advanced through this antiquated anachronism of an abode, rich and pleasant odours filled their noses. Their ears were also not left unconsidered, as a faint hornpipe melody was heard ever so slightly from afar. Cautiously shifting their eyes around, they absorbed the classical and cosy colour-palette consisting of dark, bright reds, beige, brown and muted dark green. Delectably furnished and symmetrically built, between these walls (wall-papered with distinct, rich golden embellishments and texture) could be viewed an underappreciated understanding of feng-shui. Suffices to say, our questing sods were overtaken by a deep sense of what-the-fuck? I don’t need to remind my dear reader, of course, that they had just travelled through a maze of monsters and maladies, finding themselves, suddenly and without warning, in a location of profound unconformity. For us, this presents an intriguing prospect with yearning to find out what the story has planned. For our characters, who in large parts did not know they were part of any story, they were simply dumb-struck. Appalled. Awe-stricken. Aghast.
This place, this great house, had certainly no business and no right being here. That can, as we imagine, have quite an effect on depersonalising an individual not previously afflicted with any mental health issues or spells of spatial-disruption. So, everyone but Zez was confused.
As they walked down the corridor of bizarre mundanity, our heroes, who had not heard any footsteps approaching behind, were suddenly greeted by an atypically familiar tone of voice. “Welcome, dear guests,” addressed the middle-aged voice of a warm, well-spoken man.
Turning sharply around, they were met with the sight of a well (but not too well) dressed man in clean, formal clothes. On his elevated right arm was hanging a white towel, while his raised hand carried a silver plate. On it, stood four silver chalices filled with dark red wine (as everyone but the vertically challenged Zez managed to see.)
“Would you care for a refreshment?” asked the vintage voice.
“Don’t drink that,” warned Zez.
His three companions bent their necks downwards to look at him.
“I would not drink that,” repeated Zez, appearing quite happy with himself.
Mr. Tall, with restrained candour, posited a question. “Do you really think that’s the first of our problems?”
Flinar, turning to the obscure butler-figure, declared solemnly: “We don’t accept drinks from strangers.”
For all his faults, he was certainly one responsible carouser.
“Oh, of course,” said the butler apologetically. “That being the case, we might elect to further acquaint ourselves. I am called Jeeves. Might I be privileged in learning your names?”
“No,” Zez said bluntly.
While Flinar and Helnen carried a look of approval, Mr. Tall seemed rather enthusiastic about satisfying the manservant’s request. “Oh,” he said as if an unwitting breach of common etiquette had taken place. “I would certainly wish to relinquish any unfamiliarity between us. I myself am called by many names, though my given name happens to be Jeffrey Tall. However, you might have heard of me through monikers such as The Devil’s Wind or the rather more controversial, Butcher of Bluefallon. While I can assure you no precise butchery ever took place on my account, I can certainly attest to—”
“Ignore my friend,” intervened Helnen. “We don’t feel comfortable giving our names.”
“And of course,” Mr. Tall continued. "That would be Helnen, my arch-nemesis by circumstance and a skilled warlock by trade. This pointy-eared gentleman is—”
The words of our musical lout were cut short when a sharp blade was quickly nestled under his chin. “Any more words and they’ll be your last,” informed Flinar.
“Please,” said Jeeves. “No violence in the grounds.” His formal-casual demeanour was here carried as well. “There is no need to offend my master. I am sure my lord would delight in your company and would prefer your throats un-slit during lunch. Now, if you wish to follow me to his personal retreat, we can—”
“What master do you serve?” asked Flinar with microscopic anger without removing his blade.
“Maybe our good friend Jeeves would tell you if you just asked nicely,” offered the beleaguered Mr. Tall.
Nodding in agreement, Jeeves said, “The words of my good Mr. Tall holds true, though I am certain my lord would desire to make your acquaintance personally, I can liaison his introduction if that would satisfy your current curiosity.”
“Speak,” demanded Flinar, his face next to Mr. Tall’s gaze silently telling him to ‘just be patient’.
Recoiling from this repeated attack of indecorum, Jeeves pried his calm lips and spoke: “My master is called Lord Frauncis Dashweld. He is the nobleman in charge of this estate and lands beyond it. He has instructed me to receive any guests and refer them to appear before him. Now, if you have no further inquiries—”
“How did you know we were coming?” assailed Flinar.
Sighing irately, the good butler Jeeves spoke once more: “I did not know you were coming. Not until the moment you descended down the staircase… to enter… my lord’s… manor.”
“How many fire exits are in here?” asked Helnen, adding her own inquiry on top of the pile.
“People,” Zez addressed the party, not allowing a moment’s respite for Jeeves to answer and ask questions. “We’re not supposed to be talking with him. Let’s just climb back up and try somewhere else. No good will come of any of this, believe me. I have…”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“And you, my fellow,” Jeeves responded to Zez’s growing anxiety. “What would be your name?”
“No, no, no!” Zez retorted. “You’re not gathering a single piece of information from me to advance your disguised death-trap manor efforts to contain us in any inter or extra-planar conundrum. I simply will not go along with your game of feigned etiquette!”
Mr. Tall, placing a gentle hand on Flinar’s blade-wielding wrist, appealed to his comrade. “Flinar, let’s hear what he has to say.”
Flinar, turning his piercing gaze slowly to Mr. Tall’s timorous eyes, asked; “Who, the butler?”
“No—Lord Dashweld, you fucking moron!” answered the hurryingly hushed voice of Mr. Tall.
Flinar, once more rotating his neck with a pseudo-suspenseful menacing attitude, faced the butler and said: “Fine. Take us to your master.”
“Who died and made you leader?” asked Helnen.
“People!” Zez pleaded once more. “Come to your senses! We aren’t meant to be here and neither this manor or this butler or any Lord Dashweld! Let’s just leave!”
And so, without further ado, or listening to any more of Zez’s foreboding advice, our heroes of chaotic disharmony trailed the gentleman’s gentleman through scores of halls and corridors riddled with an assorted array of plausible yet whimsical curiosities of our high-fantasy great house. Among them were:
The Chair of Temporary Enlightenment. This stately armchair reportedly grants anyone who sits on it, brief but life-changing insights—only for them to promptly forget everything upon standing. There is a faint smell of sandalwood and a note that reads, “Please only use in emergencies.”
Portrait of a Sheep in Military Uniform, oil on canvas, circa. 639 4D. This grand portrait of a sheep in full Neo-Reissuance regalia is hung with reverence, its wool finely painted down to each curl. Supposedly, the sheep is a legendary figure in the household’s conventional appreciation of military prowess, a “defender of Dashweld values.”
The Hourglass of Existentialism. This intricate, gilded hourglass tells no time; rather, each grain of sand contains a question, like “What if you are the only one alive?” or “How can you truly be sure of your individual experiences?” Guests report either profound enlightenment or nausea after gazing at this ostentatiously pretentious piece of installation.
The Insomniac’s Candle. A half-melted candle rumoured to have kept its previous owner awake for three weeks straight with inspirational quotes and abstract poetry whispered from the flame. Accompanying note: “DO NOT LIGHT UNLESS YOU DESPERATELY NEED MOTIVATION TO WORK ON YOUR SELF-REFLECTIVE NOVELLA PROJECT”
The Collection of Anti-Statues. A series of bronze sculptures of everything that wasn’t supposed to be a statue. This courageous work includes the statue of a thrown tomato, an invisible couple arguing and a seemingly un-sculpted lump of marble titled “The Time Traveller’s Misjudgement.”
Cerberus’s Cones of Shame. A trio of giant, battle-worn dog collars attached to their respective, extravagantly oversized cones. Its plaque insists they were once worn by the genuine Cerberus to curb a biting problem. The three-headed hellhound is said to have retired to a ranch after reported attempts have failed to contain his appetite for bite-sized children.
The Mirror of Truth. This towering mirror depicts the viewer not as she would want to view herself but reveals the uncomfortable truth that she does not or cannot confess to herself. Helnen in particular gazed long and hard at this mirror before reading its corresponding plaque and dismissing its magical effect as nothing more than blatant intrusiveness.
She, while coursing through this collection of curious artworks was nibbling on a banana, which, when finished, could not be found a suitable spot in which to be disposed of, was quietly pasted on an empty section of wall.
Before her stunning commentary upon the essence and validity of post-dynastic art sparks yet another inter-generational polemic (which, might I remind you, had prior resulted in the death of around fifty thousand combatants, hundred-and-seventy-thousand civilians displaced, the dissolution of the once great Messianic-Embryo Coalition, the breaching of the non-aggression pact between the Have-Some’s and Want-More’s factions, the breaking of one art-work and the vandalising of another), we should continue on with this pastiche which is fast getting out of hand.
And—uh… look! Zez is making a joke… or something! Do—do—do something, Zez! You’re like… the title character!
Oh, Zez isn’t too happy with our current predicament, it seems. Though I cannot prove it, I sort of feel as if his dismissive indifference of my fourth-wall breaking narrative voice, sounds a bit like our charming coverboy has just told me to ‘Piss of,’ basically.
How very quaint.
Anyways, before I find myself breaking down in underappreciated narrator tears, let’s fucking continue.
The aforementioned private retreat of our enigmatic nobleman, Lord Frauncis Dashweld (which definitely carries no intended likeness to any other character, real or fictional, believe me), was a colossal chamber. A tremendous exhibit of decorous grandeur. A vivacious vestibule introducing the visitant towards a microcosm of man’s highest values, candidly inviting the viewer to view the world through the lens of unadulterated magnanimity, as their eyes shifted from taxidermized monster to polished suit-of-armour to tapestries overflowing with rich depictions of noble warfare and divine adoration. As one commandeers their suspended cynicism towards genteel aspirations and allows their rancour a moment’s rest, instead inviting their eyes to relish in this assemblage of high-born appraisement of the universe, one would undeniably find oneself in a sublime state of “Wow! That’s… a lot!”
And that’s exactly what our dungeon-delving, mountain-climbing, desert-crossing, secret-societal pack of adventurers who had seen and done it all, thought, in that very moment, in that exact spot. “Wow! That’s… a lot!”
If my descriptive language concerning our Lord Frauncis Dashweld’s playroom was simply too rich and too majestic for your tastes, allow me to apologise as I also relay to you the fact of my own helplessness regarding the matter. I was simply handed a brief order of how I should narrate this passage. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Hey! Isn’t that limiting to your creative freedom?’ Yes, well, when you go into the lion’s den, you better be ready to show some reverence.
The lion in question, being our Lord Frauncis Dashweld (who, remember, shares no likeness to any individual, real or fictional), was awaiting the fast-approaching visitors to be admitted to his presence. This feline of fiery fervour was himself a complicated figure. Having been born as the only son of Lord Frauncis Dashweld and his second wife Demeter, who also had a daughter named Inanna, he was educated in the revered Elon College for Second-Rate High-Born Supporting-Characters. Upon the death of his father of the same name in 282 5D, Lord Dashweld, who was only fifteen, inherited his homonymous father’s estates and the Baronetcy of Dashweld (which is also of the same name) of East Caerwyn. Lord Dashweld spent his youth and early adulthood abroad, gaining a reputation for notoriety while travelling around Solterra. He impersonated Shaumzatvar XII of the Chronicon Cabal while in Glacovia and attempted to seduce Her Imperial Highness Yevgeniya Vladimirovna Pskovskaia-Zhelestovskaya-Kovalycheva-Potemkinov-Dragunovskaya of the House of Vyshnyvolotchnozavodsk, Protector of the Southern Steppe, Keeper of the Sacred Antlers of Yaroslav, and Heiress to the Iron Fortress of Kryztislavsk. Wow, that was a mouthful!
Dashweld was later expelled from the Chronical States (due to his attempted seduction, in case my loyal reader succumbed to memory loss while reading that name and corresponding titles).
If you allow me to generously skip ahead a bit while I’m narrating this biographical handout, I can exposit a bit to you about Lord Dashweld’s politics and the source of his great wealth.
But...! Seeing as we’re already pressed for runtime (I know, I know) we should perhaps smash cut to a future scene where something worth our while can happen. Oh, believe me, I hear your bemoaned cries of ‘But I simply must learn more of this eccentric figure of roguish rakery!’, or your intense desire to ‘wag a finger of shame upon this lurid deviate of unconscionable debauchery!’ Oh, yes… I do share your late-age maternal instincts to scold this good-for-naught misdemeanant, as you append a monologue detailing your scorn for violence and profanity prevalent in our media today and how it shows disregard for your wizened hag sensibilities. Now that I think about it, I should perhaps, in fact, do give into the geriatric demands of a certain sub-section of my reader base, by expositing further upon our detestable Lord Frauncis Dashweld’s antics, lest I lose the readers who decided instead to read an Austenary tale of romantic anti-heroism, or simply watch the reruns of their favourite show exploring themes of heartbreak caused by vulgar, seductive men with a hidden darkness inside.
As we’ve seen, even sweet old women aren’t safe from the satirical menace that is Zez By Misadventure… and its snide narrator. Shame!
And here it is, without further abasement, a total summary of Lord Frauncis Dashweld’s misdemeanours:
Founding of the Brimstone Club, who in the late-2nd century 5D, was rumoured to be an exclusive and scandalous society who reportedly engaged in libertine behaviour, discussing controversial topics and blasphemous rituals.
Ritualistic meetings, with the members of the Brimstone Club meeting at Men-e-men Abbey, where they partook in extravagant parties, often involving heavy drinking, indulgent feasts, and sexual promiscuity.
Satirical disguise, as Lord Dashweld often hosted meetings where members wore disguises, including women’s clothing (gasp!) and costumes of various characters, reflecting the club’s mockery of societal norms and moral values.
Mockery of religion, as the Brimstone Club was known for its irreverent approach to religion, with members reportedly mocking Chronicon rituals and practices. This included the creation of a “necromantic” deity for their meetings.
Political connections, as Lord Dashweld served as a Member of The Ellipse Table and held various political positions, including Knight-Chancellor and Exchequer. His political manoeuvrings were often overshadowed by his scandalous lifestyle.
Extravagant lifestyle, as Lord Dashweld was known for his lavish spending and opulent lifestyle, often reflected in his grand estates (such as the one we are in right now) and parties that featured sumptuous banquets and entertainment.
Relationship with the arts, with Lord Dashweld’s patronage of the arts being notable, he was involved in the promotion of various artistic endeavours, albeit often tinged with the debauchery characteristic of his social circle.
And that’s the entirety of his character as it is relevant to your condemnation of him. Are you satisfied?
Now (finally), we, along with our heroes, can appear before this characterful contradiction of a lord.
At the foreground, it was our good butler Jeeves leading the way for our merry men and woman (who was eyeing any potential emergency exits during the way). Flinar, possessing keen roguish senses, was busy eye-fucking each priceless artifact and trying to catch with his demi-elf eyes something that would fit in his pocket. Mr. Tall, enthralled, was composing yet another piece of music that might fit this tastelessly extravagant atmosphere should the good lord wish to hear him play. And Zez... Well, he was being useless as ever! And quiet! What’s that, the looming presence of a dangerously out-of-bounds ruler of this nigh-metaphysical estate got your tongue?
But enough about our main cast of characters and their respective perspectives. When Jeeves came to an abrupt halt before a double door (that seemed underhandedly calculated to catch the guests out of guard), he announced that his master was inside, adding a simple suggestion:
“I would advise that my dear guests keep their hands away from any weapons or temporarily suspend their memory of chants and magic words. My Lord Dashweld does not enjoy being forced to crush the heads of his visitors.”
Ominous.
With that said, Jeeves pulled on a purple cord dangling from the ceiling by the side of the door. Suddenly, sounds of breathless moaning and yelps of “Faster!” and “Deeper!” filled the hallway, issuing from the brass bell at the end of the cord. Jeeves, with professional haste, began at once to speedily rewind the purple cord. While he was busy fiddling with the apparatus, a male voice called, with laboured breath, to the butler. “Who’s—What’s going on?”
“No matter, Master Horace,” consoled Jeeves. “It was simply a mix-up! I am rewinding your cord as we speak!” The butler then turned to the visitors, and with a shaking of his head conveying the shit-happens nature of the moment, said; “Wrong cord.”
Well, at least he realised that before it was too late. We wouldn’t want to take part in anyone else’s dungeon-delving, would we?
Having relieved Master Horace of any further embarrassment, and having pulled the crimson cord, the loyal servant Jeeves, who for all his years of servitude could still confuse crucial pieces of information, was received by Lord Frauncis Dashweld’s booming voice.
“Yes, Jeeves?”
The good master’s tone carried the regalia and refinement of a lifetime accumulation of vanity and pride. His speech was soft, melodic and flowed with breezy vainglory.
Conversely, the voice of his loyal servant was rather more direct and pronounced, and it spoke thusly: “Your guests have arrived as you had ordered, my lord.”
“Excellent, Jeeves,” answered Lord Dashweld. “Show them in.”
A throbbing flash of polychromatic magical light sparked behind the richly textured double door, as heavy mechanical sounds issued from it. Our visitors, with growing anticipation, stood by as the mechanism of spatial-reorientation was employed to access our good lord’s lounge.
As the magical world-building flavour completed its task, the sounds and colours came to a halt. Jeeves, with practiced motion, nudged the heavy wooden door, opening it forward to reveal the afore-described colossal chamber, and Lord Frauncish Dashweld himself.
Amidst intruding faint smells of sulphur and old leather, within a room that was (conspicuously) furnished with crooked, cluttered internal design, planted cordially upon a central divan, was the immersing presence of a hellaciously imposing figure of a great and elegantly dressed lion.
And when I say, ‘lion’, I don’t mean that, not anymore, in a metaphorical sense. This… man… was actually, clearly, without question, a lion. He had literal paws… and a mane… and a great big nose you would expect and prefer to see behind glass or in a nature documentary and certainly not thirty feet ahead of you, unsupervised and ready to mingle. He was… a lion.
Our visitors, however briefly stunned by the reveal, elected to just go along with it at this point. As one does when faced with a devilishly well-dressed lion, they simply accepted the situation and hoped that they themselves were not involuntary constituents of an imminent lunch.
Entering into the room, even without any verbal incentive, our heroes-of-increasingly-finding-themselves-in-offbeat-situations, approached the bi-pedal feline ready to receive them. All the while, Lord Dashweld, the very emblem of aristocratic grandeur anthropomorphised, merely observed their approach with a faintly amused flick of his tail, as though unfazed by the prospect of an unseasoned entrée. Our visitors, wishing perhaps to instead devise a contingency for their escape should things go any further south, found that they could not pry their eyes or thoughts away from this… thing. An unspoken spell seemed to hold them fast, as though the flick of that tail or the curve of his whiskers held an arcane allure they could not, for all their desire to flee, resist. They dared not even glance at one another, as though to break eye contact would somehow shatter the fragile accord they held with this carnivorous lord. The lord in question, maintained to observe their steady approach, a single, well-polished claw extending like a gentleman’s glove, as if to signal that, for now, they were welcome guests—and not hors d’ouvres. That’s fancy for appetizer.
Jeeves, trailing with well-placed steps from behind, announced the entrance of visitors with formal dignity. “I present to appear before my lord; Flinar the demi-elf, Helnen of reported warlockry, Mr. Jeffrey Tall of musical proficiency, and another guest which I haven’t had the pleasure of learning the name of.”
“No matter, my good man Jeeves,” offered Lord Dashweld. “One possesses ample time to acquaint oneself with these… distinguished guests.”
Jeeves, seemingly immersed by his master’s domineering posture, spoke once more with added reverence. “From what I have gathered thus far, they appear to be adventurers, my lord.”
“Ah…” mused Lord Dashweld. “Adventuring… what a life of profound autonomy and liberty one could lead. A steward only to your own desires and pleasures. An introductory display into life’s moments worth living, as one could say… But where are my manners! I duly apologise to you, my dearest of guests. Would you care to seat yourselves as I instruct my good man Jeeves to procure for us a variety of beverages to your liking. I must cordially suggest my dear guests try the green tea. It has been provided to our household as a gift by elven emissaries hailing from distant forestlands. I have been told they produce it by harvesting dryad tears and add a shade of milk from free-roaming bearowls.”
The visitors, finally able to detach themselves from the absorbing presence of Lord Dahsweld and his pristinely polished pleasantries, glanced at one another. Not one among them knew how to commence with this seemingly innocuous cat-and-mouse game of eloquent, elevated etiquette. For all their experienced expertise and the quick-thinking skills that had saved their skins so many times throughout their career, our heroic adventurers found themselves utterly confused in this enchanting, expertly-crafted maze of common courtesy and decorum. Lord Dashweld’s lofty demeanour and decorated approach towards what could be a simple correspondence, was metaphorically fucking them in the arse. Cordially, buggering them senseless. Yes.
One sense that was left un-buggered, however, belonged to Zez, our shrewd, tight-arsed novelty. He, being a well-travelled and well-informed denizen of the universe, knew, proficiently, just the right angle to approach this towering bizarrity. He who, with a simple clearing of his throat, addressed Lord Dashweld in a tone of voice that was somewhat in line with his generic attitude, but developed slightly into a rather more civilised, courteous conduct, spoke.
“My lord,” Zez began, before all faces snapped down to face him. Between the three companions, silent looks of ‘please stop talking’ could be inferred. Zez, being the brazen, cheeky, impudent numbskull that he was, did not satisfy their non-verbal request. He continued thusly: “I am deeply afraid that we must gently decline your ever so generous invitation. Again, I am deeply, regretfully afraid that we were just on our way to leave. We had only but wished to personally make your acquaintance as we were on our way, and genially desire to relieve you of our burden, leaving my lord alone with his thoughts which he could spend on visitors more deserving of his time and attention.”
Before the trio of spectators could decide whether or not our good man Zez was handling the situation appropriately, Lord Dashweld riposted with courteous poise. Stressing his vowels ever so slightly deeper, our good host spoke: “I must strenuously object to your petition! I simply cannot and will not allow you to leave before you relish me with vivid accounts of your many exploits. Do you know how long I have lingered in this realm of complete boredom? A passage of long years had commenced absent of any intrigue or excitement, where I could meet and listen to the stories of excursionists ferrying their picturesque accounts of insufficiently traversed terrains filled with untold wonders, let alone embarking on such an escapade myself! I am, excuse my coarse language please, rotting here without any stimuli. No, you cannot leave! Not before I hear your tales. And forgive me my good man, but I haven’t even learned your name!”
Zez, without needing a moment’s pause to collect his thoughts, commenced within the duel of amenities. “Ah,” he said with cunningly well-placed gratitude, “my lord offends me with his misplaced emphasis upon my deeply humble person. I cannot stress this truth enough to my lord, that I myself am simply a humble traveller, a vessel of infinite modesty and esoteric unimportance. My lord simply has no incentive to ponder any further upon any relevance of mine, and neither of my companions, who themselves are bumbling fools! I simply travel alongside them to guard against any potential perils of the road, as my lord would know without any uncertainty, are riddled with vagabonds and bandits and beasts. I am not even mentioning the ubiquitous presence of peasants and serfs! They can a rob a man blind with their produces of poultry and grain! I have no doubt they would strip me of my last penny before I could even utter the words ‘please’ or ‘thank you!”
Our patient Lord Dashweld, ostensibly endeared to our madcap jester of well-arranged-exaggerations, visibly increased the velocity of his tail-flicking, while smiling gently under his quivering whiskers. “Very well,” he said with a shade of wryness. “I shall arrive to the point with frank deference to my guest’s whimsical eccentricity. Listen closely, my friends, as I disclose to you the nature of the interest I have taken up on you.”
Our heroes of fuck-it-let’s-just-see-where-this-all-leads, listened closely.
Lord Dashweld sighed with feline fatigue, inadvertently emphasising the dire weight of his upcoming exposition, and perhaps with the effect of his long years bearing the burden.
No, wait, I can describe this scene even more pretentiously.
Lord Dashweld sighed with a palpable feline fatigue, each breath bearing the ponderous weight of his years—a burden that only his majestic, leonine form could so gracefully carry, as though every sigh were an echo of ancient wisdom and weariness. One might even say the revelation stirring within him had been languishing in his thoughts for centuries, awaiting this very moment to emerge like some ancient, dust-covered artifact, long lost in the vault of his mind...
Ah, yes. That’s better!
“I will now speak openly upon a matter, which my dear guests are very well aware of; my curse.”
The dear guests, who were certainly not aware of any curse, listened on.
“Well, to be rather more truthfully; the curse…”
O…kay?
“The curse of Lord Frauncis Dashweld.”
Ah! That explains it! Far better than anything I could think of! Cut to the chase you fu—
“Allow me a moment’s trepidation as I speak further upon the matter. For, you see, the contents of my revelation are of the utmost discomfort to my noble person. I request that you remain patient.”
Sure, mate! We got all day, don’t we? We’re your humble subjects awaiting with outstretched hand the crumbs of your plot related exposition before we thank you with teary eyed gratitude. Fuckhead.
Well, seeing as I don’t possess any direct effect on the story or the characters (as I’m but a lowly servant neck-bound to the chains of the characters’ wishes); let’s allow our Lord Frauncis Dashweld the moment’s trepidation as his noble self requests. Meanwhile, watch this goofy gnome do a backflip balanced on top of a laughably tall and slim troll!
“Wheee!”
Ah, Horpos… One of high-fantasy storytelling’s tiny pleasures! Why don’t I ever get to narrate a story only about your mischief?
Anyhow, before I decide to leave this delusionally grandiose plotline to instead embark on a much more irreverent adventure, let’s hear the words of our (hopefully ready to exposit) Lord Dashweld.
“Though my guests have been well acquainted with his lordship, I have to regretfully inform them that I, myself, am not Lord Frauncis Dashweld.”
Well—that does it! Argh! WHY DID I JUST FUCKING SPEND FIVE FUCKING THOUSAND FUCKING WORDS NARRATING ABOUT THE FUCKING LORD FUCKING FUCKWELD IF YOU’RE NOT EVEN HIM! YOU PIECE OF—
Oh my—I just spent two days—TWO FUCKING DAYS OF MY NARRATING LIFE coming up with rich and vivid descriptions of every single fucking piece of fucking thing about him! I started narrating from his early fucking life!... And all for—what? So this piece of shit jackal food could just lounge around and fucking pretend he’s a gentleman of highborn class and… fucking hell!
Oh!