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Journal of the Coward/Chicken Feed Hero/Badger Advocate
Posted: 06 Jun 2005 05:50 PM |
Most of the time, he was not a very serious man. There was little in the world that he considered sacred. After all, he had seen his world die twice in the span of minutes – what could he possibly hold in such reverence now? What was really left to hold on to? His humor, his utter unwillingness to take anything that seriously, was his armor against the outside world, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was protecting anymore.
Which was why the incident with the badgers was so strange and quite unlike him.
It was, he thought laughing to himself, funny just to think about – the great badger incident. There were rumors swirling all around Vives of battles and deaths and auctions, and here he was, retrieving chicken feed and berating someone about badgers. Such are the stuff legends are made of, he thought to himself, laughing.
And another voice from deep inside him, quite surprisingly, reminded him of something someone had told him earlier….the epic journey begins with just a few small steps…
He straightened momentarily at that…and wiped it quickly from his mind. Where did that come from?
Things seemed to be turning around every so slightly once had arrived in Midor. Port Royale and the surrounding area had offered him tantalizing opportunities, but he had little to show for it. He had enjoyed meeting the man called Cain – the two were quite similar in some ways, and he had revealed more of himself in those few hours than to any other person in quite some time – but their encounter had been cut short. He had spent fruitless hours searching for the mayor of Buckshire, finally deciding that the dang town didn’t actually have such a person and everyone was hallucinating.
And with that, he had decided to try something new and see the city that everyone seemed to have such a strong opinion about: Midor.
And things had gone well, although he actually hadn’t set foot in Midor yet. He had quickly met an interesting group of travelers on the plains….the crazy Melissa and her companion….oh, what his name? His mind trying to recall the quiet man who had given him both a sense of confidence and danger….and Brother Pounst, an affable man whom Garron had liked immediately.
It was Pounst who had come up with the name “The Fellowship of the Feed” after he had told them, somewhat bashfully, about his search for the chicken feed. They had all laughed at that. That they hadn’t laughed at him – at least, not openly to his face – had relieved him, and he was surprised they had all wanted to join him on his epic quest….
At some point, after the chicken feed had been returned with much rejoicing and song, he had met Anna Marie. He had been immediately fixated, and, of course, it had helped that she had enjoyed the give and take as well.
Looking back, he had not the faintest idea why he had flirted, especially considering what had taken place with Laurana – burn her! – just a few months ago….He really ought to detest all women, yet looking at Anna Marie…well, he had immediately forgotten all those thoughts…There hadn’t been anything overtly flirtatious – if you ignore the “let-me-help-bandage-your leg” incident, he thought with a smile – he had just genuinely enjoyed her company.
Which was why, he presumed, he had mostly ignored what Melissa had been saying and doing. He had turned off her constant ramblings after a few minutes – that she was able to function so well in the world despite her obvious delusions and mania was surprising.
But her comments had turned darker and darker. And when he mentioned that he had seen some badgers scurrying around a farmhouse, he didn’t fully understand that she meant what she said about ending their evil in the world.
Even when she had conjured up her shadow to feast on the badgers, he had done nothing. Perhaps he had been mesmerized by the being that had suddenly appeared. More likely, he had been transfixed on Anna Marie.
You stupid idiot, he thought to himself, to get sucked in so easily.
But before he knew it, the badgers were dead and their souls, or whatever badgers had, had been sucked out of them by the shadow-thing.
It had taken him a few minutes to comprehend what had happened. While he had some outdoors skills, he did not consider himself a ranger or guardian of the wildness or Mother Nature or whatever...But something inside of him stirred and raged and finally got through to his head and his heart – what had happened was wrong!
He still didn’t know why it had taken him so long to realize it, or why it had been the slaughter of four badgers – badgers, of all things! – to make his stand, but he finally did.
He had called her on it, although he was careful not to try to provoke her too much…the shadow-thing had worried him greatly. And of course, just as he had expected, she used her crazy ramblings to basically ignore his arguments. But he had stood his ground, unexpectedly, and she had finally left. He had even warned her – him! Garron the Hero – that he would act much more decisively if he ever saw her engaged in similar activities. That she and her shadow fiend could slice him up quite quickly hadn’t even occurred to him.
That night, a slight sliver of pride had actually welled up inside him. Despite hours of dwelling on the subject, he still had no idea why that incident, of all things, had awoken something inside of him…Perhaps it was already dead and buried, but it gave him a sort of warm feeling to know he could feel and act that way again. He hoped he was not becoming soft…
First, a chicken feed hero…then a badger defender…he laughed out loud…Was there nothing that could stand against him?
Now if he could only meet Anna Marie again…. |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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Re: Journal of the Coward/Chicken Feed Hero/Badger Advocate
Posted: 06 Jun 2005 06:19 PM |
A figure moves silently through the shadows towards the journal, furtively signs his name, and retreats quickly back to his campsite.
The signature reads:
Garron Thrinault
((ooc: forgot to sign my post the first time)) |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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Misadventure in a Tree
Posted: 11 Jun 2005 05:09 PM |
One step up….two steps back….
That certainly seemed to be the way things were going...things, the world – life – they always caught up with you, and they always seemed to pay him back in full, and then some.
He had to laugh – and quite bitterly at that – at how he thought things might be turning around. Really, Garron, he thought to himself – berating himself, truth be told – standing up for some badgers and all of a sudden you’re…..you’re….what? Happy? Filled with a sense of purpose? Ready to take on the world?
It was nearly comical how quickly he had slipped – fallen, really – back into the routine. The only difference this time was the ale, the prodigious amount of ale he taken…and wine..and spirits…and that crazy stuff that the old man have given him…what was it? He could not remember….and whatever else he could get his hands on.
For two months, his spirits had ebbed quite low, but he had somehow managed to avoid the stuff. Yet all it had taken was a quick little interlude – a brief respite from the melancholy – and he had thought he was cured. Could tackle anything…but the spirits had caught up with his spirits – he laughed at that – and soon he was spirited off to a world of drink, memories…and of course, Laurana…always, Laurana….
It was a good thing he was not an angry drunk, or he would have been dead long ago. He was usually a silly drunk, and often a depressed and miserable drunk. He had been very deperssed one night when he had run into Gorbag again, the half-orc who seemed to have a penchant for showing up just when Garron was at this weakest.
Truth be told, they made surprisingly good companions – Gorbag’s tough and raw personality breaking through the moodiness that sometimes enveloped him….and he was often able to smooth over Gorbag’s rougher edges when they were talking with….well….just about anybody.
And so just as he was crying and whimpering – there was really no other way to describe it, whimpering! – Gorbag had appeared. And he did what most close half-orc companions would do – had teased and insulted Garron mercilessly about Laurana. So much so that Garron came close to going after his companion…had he been able to get off the floor. It had all the makings of a long and gloriously forgettable night.
That’s when the lady had appeared….he could not remember her name, only that she was beautiful, a trait that seemed to be quite common in ladies in Vives. The other problem, as was so typical he seemed to be finding about Vives’ women, was that she was quite vain…or at least that’s how he remembered her. And he had mumbled that to himself while he was trying to pull Gorbag off of the lady – apparently a half-orc’s way of flirting is to mug someone.
But he must have been drunker than he thought, or at least louder than he thought, because she had heard him….And had taken some offense to the comment.
Some offense?....thought Garron….some offense?...she had cast some spell to capture in some sort of prison, and then conjured up some mystic creature to threaten them in case he and Gorbag turned hostile. It was, he thought, quite an unnatural reaction. He wondered what she might have done had he lifted a finger towards her. But what can one do when one is captured by a large hand magically appearing from the ground?
But neither the spell or the creature or her general reaction had really upset him. What had set him off was the fact that she thought he was some sort of lout who needed some lessons in how to treat women. And to that end, she had quested both of them to rescue a forest woman (druid? dryad? who knew?) who had been captured by some mad wizard in a forest.
To learn some manners? To learn how to treat women? If there was anything he knew – if there was anything he thought he knew – it was how to treat women. How dare she? She knew nothing of him, and he had been trying to help her! It made no sense…women, burn them all!
Nevertheless, there was no turning back, and the mysterious lady was stubborn, to say the least. Fortunately, a side effect of the questing spell had completely eliminated any effects of the alcohol. On the other hand, they now had precious little time to rescue the women before their strength dropped and they would be unable to move…apparently forever. So necessity beat out principle and they went on the quest.
Looking back, while he and Gorbag had been frantic to rescue the woman in time, the quest had really been quite grand. The damsel in distress had been located in the magically carved interior of a tree – quite breathtaking to behold. The corrupting forces of the mad wizard were vanquished, and in time, so had the mage. The woman was freed, and the mysterious lady had appeared and actually rewarded them (which Garron, holding true to principle, had not accepted – a minor victory he supposed). They went to leave the tree stronghold.
The door was locked.
They had had the key just a few minutes ago. Garron was sure Gorbag had stored it away. Now it was gone. The forest woman had left. The mysterious lady had left. The wizard was dead. His forces were gone.
And they couldn’t leave the tree.
One step up...two steps back...
In other circumstances, he would have found it very funny. The great heroes stuck in a friggin’ tree! But he wasn’t in the mood, and given that he had several draughts of ale still with him, he let the drinking guide the way. And thought of Laurana…and listened to Gorbag complain and whine…and wondered what the hell he was doing in Vives…
Garron Thrinault |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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A response to the ramblings of an idiot
Posted: 16 Jun 2005 10:16 AM |
"Borbag" the former junior executive accountant and now professional “Barbarian” (as a means to get in touch with his half-orc heritage i.e., unresolved personal identity issues…Dad was a half-orc Barbarian, Granddad was a half-orc Barbarian and Great Granddad was an Orc Barbarian Chieftain, but mum wanted her only son Borbag to study in university and pick a respectable profession and all that…*sigh*...but I digress), finally makes public his annoyance and displeasure over his companion’s endless babbling;
“Garron you idiot, please do try to at least get my name right when you retell these tales. The name is BORBAG! I remind you friend to remember what is good in life: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women! All else is trivial to say the least.”
Borbag pats his foolish friend on the back and confesses; “Truth be told Garron, Laurana is a pig and I’ve had a go with her on more than one occasion. I regret doing so, not so much for pity on your account, but the dishonor that being with one such as she has brought to my fathers. Now do forget this wench and head out and kill something! RAAAAH! I can barely contain my Barbarian rage!”
Borbag The Barbarian
RAAAH! Sometimes my juices start to flow and I feel like a barbarian in dinosaur hell. |
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Re: A response to the ramblings of an idiot
Posted: 20 Jun 2005 12:02 AM |
*letter to Gorbag*
My dearest Forbag:
I am sorry you are deeply distressed about my use of your name. Given that in the past, I have called you Borbag, Gorbag and most recently Forbag, without any comment, forgive me if I simply assumed that one, or all three of those, is your name. You respond admirably to all three, much like a puppy dog, and I have to compliment you on your flexibility. It must take considerable intelligence to be able to differentiate all three -- you have my utmost respect in this matter.
Regarding your comments regarding about my former beloved, Laurana. I know that in some strange half-orc way, you believe that these insults are meant to snap ne out of my melancholy and move foward, for which I thank you profusely. Your psychological insights (which must be common to all half-orcs, no doubt, and I am in awe of them) are outstanding indeed, and it is undoubtedly my own failure to not be moved by them.
How you can continue to put up with my ramblings while you move blindly about, generally smashing things and ignoring people, is a testament to your stamina and infinite wisdom, and simply underscores my continued personal failings.
I cannot thank you enough.
Your eternal friend and companion,
Garron Thrinault |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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A Night of Revelry, A Moment of Clarity
Posted: 20 Jun 2005 12:07 AM |
If you don’t know where you’re going, any path will take you there....
It was a statement that his father and grandfather had drilled into him when he was young, a life lesson to be avoided. Yet, like so many other things they had tried to steer him away from, the saying had now become a part of his life – his way of life.
Most of the paths led to the same place – days of feigned happiness, nights of drinking, and countless bouts (most of them losing ones) with the memories, the shame and the guilt. He wasn’t even sure if it was the emotions that tore at him so much anymore, or just the constant extremes – the constant back and forth of feelings – that seemed to be taking away his last shreds of….health? sanity? his soul? He wasn’t sure anymore.
So it was especially odd one morning when he woke up and felt…just fine.
Tired, to be sure, for the previous day had been long, entertaining and quite illuminating. But for once – for the first time in many weeks – he felt calm…remarkably calm. And his thoughts came to him clearly. No words from his father or grandfather ringing in his ears, no memories flooding his consciousness….just calmness and clarity.
Not that the day before had started with any indication of what might it bring. It had, in fact, started predictably enough, with the bottle…several bottles actually. And as typical, he had wandered into Port Royale, the regular merchants now accustomed to seeing him in various states of drunkenness and intoxication.
He had been buying more bottles when he had run into them….a group of adventurers new to the Port Royale area. He struggled to remember their names: Jaleos, the elvish archer who took flirting to new levels; Xephyrr, the most outgoing monk he had ever met; and Sondra, a quiet but determined woman who he sensed was far more than meets the eye. Had he gotten their names right? He couldn’t remember, but he had liked them all immediately.
They had looked to him for advice about the city – a position he was not always comfortable with. It was easy for him to assume a position of leadership when it was just him and Borbag – the half-orc simply didn’t have the skills to be a leader, nor did he seem to have any interest. It wasn’t that Borbag was stupid, Garron reminded himself, although he did do stupid things, to be sure…he just didn’t have much interesting in leading.
But it was quite different for three unknown individuals to ask of him the same, and he had felt the burden almost immediately….or had that been the wine? he smiled to himself. Not that anything exciting had happened. In fact, quite the opposite, just a jaunt to find a bow.
How much pressure could you possibly have felt, he berated himself, although far more gently than he usually did. Still, he did not like feeling he might be responsible for others…after all, he was barely responsible for himself. What right did he have to lead others, even if nothing had happened?
Which wasn’t entirely correct, he reminded himself. Something had happened….well, actually, more appropriately, someone had happened…and that someone was, of course, Anna Marie.
He had been completely surprised to see her, and completely happy. He had later realized that his fear of leading had been immediately been swept away on her arrival…in fact, pretty much anything and everything he had been feeling had been swept away upon seeing her. dang that woman, he said with a smile….and briefly, a flash of Laurana leapt unbidden into his mind…his smile disappeared immediately, but for once, he did not wallow. He let the memory wash over him, and it was suddenly gone. Now this was strange, Garron thought…more clarity
In the end – and Garron wasn’t sure how – it had somehow worked that everyone else had left and he and Anna Marie were hired by Cain – him again! He always seemed to have a knack for popping up unexpectedly – to retrieve some ore from a cave near Midor. Frankly, Cain could probably have hired them to lead an assault on the Nine Hells – Garron didn’t think he would have minded so long as Anna Marie had been with him. And the fact that the pay had been far more than anything he could have ever imagined in his still relatively young life – that had been the kicker.
He had failed, as typical, to distinguish himself in combat with the bandits – there were always bandits, weren’t there? – in the cave. And Cain had neglected to mention – or perhaps hadn’t known, to be fair – that these bandits happened to be werewolves. Garron had thought it would be easy when the first one fell to his bow shot. But the other two kept coming, and just when he thought they were dead, they became wolves.
They were overmatched, and at some point, he had panicked and run. Had run right past Anna Marie, who unlike him, had kept her head and managed to kill one. It was only pure luck that the Midor army camped near the cave had seen the wolf and killed it as Garron tried to avoid the final killing blow. He hadn’t planned it – hadn’t thought about anything except survival – but somehow had managed to survive.
If Anna Marie noticed, or cared, or thought the lesser of him for it, she didn’t say anything (the gods bless her!). And in the end, he had done his fair share, for while she watched, commented and laughed, it had been he who spent hours chipping away at the ore to get the pieces they needed. He had to admit later that it had been pretty humorous, and he had learned yet another critical life lesson: Mining was not his future.
When the job was over and they had been paid by Cain (and Garron had nearly killed himself with his own sword in a confusing mix-up with Cain…another less than heroic piece of work), he was surprised to find that Anna Marie had not necessarily wanted the night to end. Of course, it went without saying that he felt that way, but he had been unsure about her. But he was delighted that that she enjoyed his company, and given that they had, from his perspective, more money than anyone would ever need, the night was shaping up to be a memorable one.
And it had been. They had gone to a tavern in Midor…what the name was, he could scarcely remember, and they had enjoyed a fantastic time getting positively sauced together. It was the first time in forever that he had actually enjoyed drinking – hadn’t been drinking just to drink, or to remember, to wipe away memories, but simply to enjoy another’s company. They had talked about many things – everything – although he remembered far too little of it. It was probably not in any healer’s handbook – to cure the drunkard by having him drink – but he felt so much more….stable…..after that night than he had in many a fortnight.
Near the end, when they were both using chairs and each other to stop themselves from falling down, he had suggested getting rooms at the inn. He thought she had misconstrued the comment, but he had meant nothing by it – simply that they were in no condition to go anywhere that night. And that was the surprising thing – despite his feelings for her, he had truly meant nothing by it.
For he had learned several things about himself that day. First, he was no closer to knowing what he was doing, or what he was supposed to do with his life, than he had been the day before. But he had narrowed it down. It was clearly not money, which surprised him somewhat. The funds that Cain had give him could buy many things, but even now, stone cold sober, he had no idea what to do with it…New armor? Better weapons? Trinkets? Clothes? None of it intrigued whatsoever. He had not expected that, but somehow it made him feel better, as if a higher purpose might someday call him.
Second, and this really surprised him, he wasn’t interested in casual flings with the opposite sex. Despite the gaping, bleeding holes that Laurana had torn in his heart with her revelations, he knew a series of casual relationships wasn’t the answer (although being next to Anna Marie had made him think twice several times…) He still needed time to heal, to be sure, but when the time came, he knew he would take the chance again, throw himself open to someone and hope for the best. In the meantime, if he had the chance to spend more time with Anna Marie, so much the better, although he knew the temptation would be strong, and his strength, he knew, was not his strong suit.
He wasn’t sure whether his discoveries made him strong or weak, whether it was simply his nature or some evolving change within him. But they had made him, for the moment, at peace. And that was a welcome change.
He still didn’t know where he was going, but he had a feeling that new paths might just be revealed soon… |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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The Return of the Coward
Posted: 05 Aug 2005 02:58 PM |
He would never really know how he had ended up at the Seven Sisters…
The last thing he could vaguely remember was being at the….the Bird Tavern on the Midor waterfront…was that it? He thought so, but wasn’t entirely sure. He wasn’t really sure of much anymore.
It had started out as another night of serious revelry, but something else had happened…had made the whole evening more ..what? More intense, more depressing?
Had it been his father? Laurana? The full moon? Something else? As usual, more questions than answers….
What he did know, or at least what the sisters had told him, is that they had found him in the woods near their building, curled up in a small clearing, barely alive. There were empty bottles scattered around him, lying between several pools of vomit and other bodily fluids. It looked like he had been living (dying more like it, he thought) in the wilderness for several days, subsisting only on whatever drink he had managed to take (bought legitimately, he hoped) with him.
They had taken him in, put him in bed, tried to soothe him as best they could and, finally, prayed. There was, he had been told later, very little else they could have done for him. It was out of their hands.
Three days later, he had finally awoken. Immediately, he wished he had died.
The pain was agony. They would not let him drink, and would only give him so much food and water as to ease his system. He was not prone to violent outbursts, so he did not yell or threaten or try to escape the bonds they had placed. He had just lay there, lost in his thoughts and pain.
Nearly a week went by like that until he finally went well enough to stand and the Sisters would allow him to do so. The essences they could give him now that his body was strong enough to take them were helping immensely. Nevertheless, he immediately gagged the very moment he got his entire body vertical, and had fainted right away back into bed.
That had cinched it…another week in bed. But at least at that point he was able to read, something he realized he had not done in a long time. Surprisingly, it brought back fond memories of reading in his father’s house or being tutored by his grandfather. He had actually smiled at the recollections and resolved to find as many volumes as he could. He went through them voraciously, so much so that the Sisters had actually run out of things to read (although truth be told, there weren’t many…the Sisters weren’t sages after all).
He had begun moving around after two week and found himself spending plenty of time in the spectacular garden at the back of the compound. He had befriended Ellea….well, perhaps befriended wasn’t the right word, as the girl barely said a word. But she was always in the garden, and they had sat together many times, just staring into the distance and enjoying the silence and solitude of the garden. He felt at peace there, though he knew the moment he left, his battles would begin again.
He often wondered how he had managed to get from Midor to Port Royale in his state. Had he actually been able to walk to the docks and take a ship? Had he walked? Had someone helped him? But more importantly, he thought, did his experience mean anything? What sort of sign were the gods sending him that a drunken man might somehow travel from Midor to Port Royale and not remember anything? Why were they letting him recover? Was this really another chance?
Too many questions. Far too many questions.
He knew just two things for sure. One, he was grateful. Two, he still wasn’t sure he could make it.
He ended up spending nearly six weeks at the Sisters. By the time he left, he felt physically well, although the Sisters warned him his body would probably never be the same. But there was no pain, for now at least. Not physically anyway…
He wandered down the hill, back into Port Royale, hoping for another sign. He was not sure he could wait much longer... |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
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