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From the Port Royale Tribune: Wolfman in Buckshire?
Posted: 05 Dec 2005 03:32 PM |
The man in the glowing, tattered robes walks into the four winds inn and sits down at a barstool, forsaking conversation, forsaking a table, and forsaking his rations. He grimaces as he drinks the ale, but drinks nonetheless. The gnomish bartender walks up and pats the man on the shoulder, but the man shrugs him away and takes another drink. He takes out a book and begins to write in it, but after the third glass of ale he puts the book away and begins talking to the bartender in a whisper.
This reporter from the Port Royale tribune just happened to be right there, and on my word to Theus, what follows is the full and honest truth of what I heard.
The man's words come out slightly slurred, and it is clear that he intends to drink himself into a stupor this evening.
"I've seen a lot since returning from Ka'azim, and a lot of what I've seen has involved death, so I don't know why this bothers me so. A lot of others who saw him did nothing," the man says, almost pleading with his bartender to see him as the hero of this sordid tale.
The bartender simply nods.
"He just stumbled into Buckshire, making sick and moaning. He was white as a sheet and sweating. I've read of the Pox that levelled Aristi, you know. It's not as though I have powerful friends who can revive me...it's not as though I have powerful friends..." he trails off.
Uwe hands another customer an ale, and returns his attention to the robed man.
"So what did I do? I backed away, as did my compatriot, I might add, and the man stumbled into the wilderness, alone and without aid. I did not feel that we did right, but I also value my life. What would you have done?" he asks urgently.
The bartender shrugs and gives the customer an inaudible reply.
"I felt guilty about not helping, but my spells were exhausted, I was encumbered with hard-fought supplies, and I had no animal companions to bring into the fray. It's not like I have a sign posted saying 'helpless cases apply here'," he continued.
"I went about my chores and tried to put these events out of my mind when a dog came running by me growling and snarling. I thought this might be the mutt those barbarians are looking for, so I took some meat from my pack and gave it to the dog. The dog ate the meat, calmed down, and then..."
The storyteller coughs at this point, a hack that causes the bartender to stand a few steps back. He asks for another ale, which the bartender quickly pours, and then returns to his story.
"...the dog transformed into the man from earlier! One minute I had a large dog standing in front of me, and the next minute it was the dying man, wearing only the skin he was born in. He ran from me again, but guilt got the better of me this time and I followed him. In between him sicking up, he asked for clothes. I got some crisp new cotton vestments from the Trading Post, and they were soiled beyond recognition in minutes. He was convulsing with pain and asked me to take him to the town outskirts to die. I offered to take him to the Seven Sisters and he just said no, no, no - that he wanted to go to the wilderness to die with dignity. I helped him get to the outskirts of Buckshire and he did just what he promised, although, racked with pain and losing control of bodily function like that, it is hard to call it dying with dignity."
The storyteller looks pained. He takes a long pause, opening then closing his mouth numerous times. I think that the story is over, but then the movement of his mouth finally matches up to the sounds coming out.
"I buried him!" The storyteller yells. "Dug a deep hole and rolled him in! Put a marker on top! He was dead!" he nearly sobs. "He was dead."
The gnome nods, looking relieved that the tale is at an end. It isn't.
Quietly, the storyteller, his tattered robes now wet with spilled ale, whispers "the next day, the grave was empty, as though something had dug up the grave and removed the body. It looked as though an animal had furiously dug the body out, but I know these parts and the only carnivores that frequent them are cougars."
The gnomish bartender shrugs and looks quizzically at the storyteller.
"Cougars don't eat carrion", the now drunken man states flatly.
For the first time the bartender says something audible. "What're ye suggestin'?" he asks, but the storyteller can't respond, as his head lies against the counter and he snores softly. He has had his fill of the drink.
Robber Barron
aka Lucius Edmonds |
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