Baldur's Gate Fanfic thread
deltago
Member Posts: 7,811
The Baldur's Gate triology has some of the most fascinating characters. Even the most minor character such as the Bhaalspawn chinchilla to the thief Mook on the docks just scream to have more backstory written about them.
And here's the challenge for all those inspiring bards. Choose one of these characters and write a short story either about their times prior to or after meeting Character Name in the game.
Not that great of a scribe? Just recommend one of your favourite NPCs in the game and give a challenge to write an amazing story about that character.
Happy writing!
And here's the challenge for all those inspiring bards. Choose one of these characters and write a short story either about their times prior to or after meeting Character Name in the game.
Not that great of a scribe? Just recommend one of your favourite NPCs in the game and give a challenge to write an amazing story about that character.
Happy writing!
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Cooking with Trolls
They stopped a short ways into the dungeon and he could hear his captures conversing with another of their ilk. They were laughing and being jolly as the family stood there terrified.
A pudgy finger prodded the boy in the shoulder and a voice followed, “Give this one to the troll. The rest can be brought to the chieftain below.”
A pair of hands grasped onto the boy’s shoulders and ripped him away from his mother’s grasp. She screamed his name and began to sob as he began to be led away in the opposite direction of the rest of his family.
He was being pushed down a hallway. The smell of melted fat began wafting through the air as he began to get close to his destination. It was also getting warmer and the corridor he was in felt less damp. It was actually a bit comforting and no longer felt like a dungeon.
That is until, the hobgoblin that was leading him ripped off his blindfold. He was now standing in front of a large wooden door. He could hear the clanking of metal coming from the other side. The hobgoblin opened the door and the heat and the stench emitting from the room overwhelmed the boy. He began to faint, but before he did, the hobgoblin pushed him inside and threw three large sacs in after him.
“Here’s the chief’s dinner!” the hobgoblin snorted as he closed and locked the door behind the boy. The boy started to come to his senses as he slowly reopened his eyes to the light of oven’s hearth. He slowly picked himself up off the ground and began to look around.
A stack of pans and pots rested beside the open hearth oven and large grill. Off to the side of the wall were large sacs of molding vegetables and fruit. Maggots crawled over and into the sacs as flies buzzed excitedly above the rotting flesh. The sight made the boy’s stomach turn and he quickly looked away behind him.
There he saw a large but crudely constructed table made out of greying wood with matching stools, six in total circling it. Behind the table in the corner, stacks of broken chairs rested almost uneasily. The slightest touch seemed like it would send them tumbling.
Along the far wall was another door, much like the one the boy was pushed through. Knowing the hobgoblins were on the other side of the door he just came through, he quickly got to his feet and headed to the door.
“Don’t go in there,” a voice from behind him said. “That’s only for garbage.”
The boy spun and looked up. Towering above him was a slender green creature with lanky arms and legs. Its knees were slightly bent as to not hit its head upon the ceiling. It’s black beady eyes stared back down past a large crooked nose. Snot seemed to slowly drip from it’s nostril in a thick ooze down to its wide mouth which seemed to be smiling and showing off yellow and brown sharp teeth.
The creature reached out his hand to the boy, its long slender fingers were more talons with it’s sharp pointed ends.
“You’re not garbage are you?” the creature asked.
“No-o,” the boy replied terrified.
“And what are you?” the creature asked again. “Food?”
“No-o,” the boy echoed his first response. “I’m a gnome.”
The creature tilted its head to the side and then bent down towards the boy and gave him a sniff.
“Are you sure?” the creature asked again. “I have never heard of gnomes before and you smell like food.”
“I am sure,” the boy said. “You must be smelling the turnips on me.”
The creature stood straight up, or as straight as it could with the low ceiling and crossed its arms.
“Turnips?”
“Uh, yes sir,” the boy not knowing what to call the creature towering above him, he went with pleasantries as it seemed to be slightly intelligent, enough at least to communicate. “My family and I are vegetable peddlers.
“Those sacs over there,” he points to the three sacs that the hobgoblin through in with him, “contain our harvest. We were on our way to Trademeet to sell them in the market before being brought here.”
The creature walked over to the brown sacs and opened one of them up. Inside was a large quantity of purple roots and other vegetables and herbs.
“This fly food!” the creature said. “We set this out and flies come. Flies a tasty snack for spiders, which are a tasty snack for trolls like me!”
“You’re a troll?” the boy asked and the creature nodded its head up and down.
The gnome heard horror story of trolls. A form of giant kin that were ruthless and savage, that stole children off in the night for misbehaving during dinner time. The trolls in the story were mostly antisocial, not communicating with other races, let alone cooking for them.
“And you never had turnip stew?” the gnome asked. The troll shook his head from side to side as he removed one of the roots from the sac sniffing at it.
“It doesn’t smell like food,” the troll said.
“Well that’s because it hasn’t been cooked yet,” the boy replied. “I can teach you my Uncle Cajum’s secret recipe if you want. We have all the ingredients here.”
The troll tilted its head to the side and gave the gnome a skeptical look. “Ok, you teach me how to make turnip stew.”
The boy walked over to the grill and hearth, and started to search through the pots and pans for one large enough for the stew.
“Bring the sacs over here, Mr. Troll,” he said.
“You can call me Cook,” the troll said. “And I will call you Food.”
“I preferred you didn’t,” the boy said. “As I am not food.”
The troll brought the sacs over and placed them by the hearth. The gnome selected a large pot and looked inside. It was black and dirty. Bits of old meat were still charred and stuck to the side but it was the cleanest one there was so it had to do.
“So first we need to fill this with water,” the boy said. The troll gave him a strange look.
“Water?” it asked. “Not horse urine?”
“Yuck!” the boy exclaimed. “Why no, why suggest such an awful thing?”
“For flavour,” replied the troll.
“No, no,” the boy said shaking his head. “The turnips themselves give it enough flavour, along with the other herbs and spices we are going to add in.”
The boy looked around for a source of water and saw a barrel next to the rotting fruit. We walked over to it, swatting a few flies in the process, and dipped the pot into it then brought it over and placed it upon the grill.
“While the water starts to boil, we need to peel the turnips,” he said. “Do you have a knife?”
The troll shook his head up and down and reached up under the siding of the hearth and retrieved a small dagger which he handed to the gnome.
“Careful,” the creature said. “It’s real sharp.”
The boy smiled and took the knife from the troll and began to carefully remove the skin of a a turnip.
“You need to remove the outer layer of the root,” he said. “And we need about four or five of them to make a full serving of stew. Do you have another knife so you can help me peel?”
The troll shook his head again and the boy smiled. He held the only weapon in the room he figured and he felt the magical energy emitting from the dagger. It was blessed, and he was blessed by holding it.
“No,” the troll replied using his words. “But I could just use my hands.”
The troll grabbed one of the turnips from the bag and began using his razor like claws to remove the skin from it. The gnome saw how easily the flesh of the hard root came off for the troll that he no longer felt blessed holding the dagger. In fact, he knew attempting to fight his way out of the room wouldn’t be the wisest, or liveliest decision.
“You are a natural at that,” the gnome said as he finished peeling his turnip and placed it into the pot. “When all the skin is gone, put it in the pot with mine then peel another.”
The troll nodded once again and gave the boy a grin as he placed the turnip in the pot and took two others from the sac and handed one to the boy.
“For a troll, you are very intelligent,” the gnome said to the creature as he began peeling his second turnip.
“My mother tried hard to give me good learning,” the troll said. “She sent me to live with these hobgoblins here. They smart. Trained me how to cook real good.”
The gnome placed his second turnip into the pot and the troll quickly followed.
“Now what?” the troll asked sniffing at the pot.
“We let it boil a bit, to soften the roots up,” the gnome replied. “Then we add some onion and rosemary and a dash of salt and pepper and mash it all together while adding cream until it becomes smooth.”
The boy stopped for a minute and thought.
“Oh, I don’t think we have any cream.”
The troll frowned. “What’s cream?”
“Cream,” the boy echoed. “Cow’s milk, or some other animal. It is thicker than water and makes the broth less runny.”
The troll thought a minute, then smiled. He headed towards the door the boy was thrown through and rapped his hand on the door. A hobgoblin opened the door with a click.
“Wha?” the hobgoblin said through the crack. “Dinner ready for chief?”
“No,” the troll replied. “Try new recipe. Need Sludge Grog.”
“For wha?” the hobgoblin asked surprised.
“New recipe,” the troll replied. “Have some?”
The hobgoblin reached into his vest and took out a flask and handed it to the troll then closed the door and locked it. The gnome realized if he was going to escape this place, he’d have to find away to break the lock and get by the one guard on the door, or he’ll have to try the “garbage door.”
The troll turned and headed back to the hearth, triumphant in his find of a liquid thicker than water. He handed the vial to the boy who asked what it was.
“Sludge Grog,” the troll replied. “Hobgoblin recipe. I donno what’s in it.”
The boy uncorked the flask and a strong pungent vapour rose from it. The boy turned away from the awful smell and groaned.
“Hobgoblins drink this?” he asked and the troll just nodded.
The boy looked back into the container and noticed that the sludge inside was thicker than cream he and his family usually used for making the stew.
“Well it may have to do,” the boy said. “If we’re cooking for hobgoblins, they might like the taste better than cream anyway. Do you have something to mash the ingredients together?”
The troll thought on this for a minute, then nodded. It went over to the broken chairs in the corner and grabbed a broken leg and came back to the waiting gnome.
“I guess that will do,” the boy replied. “While I, pour this stuff into the pot, I need you to smush the turnips with that stick.”
The troll nodded and smiled. The boy began to pour the vile liquid over the turnips while the troll began smashing the roots haphazardly. He was pulverizing them quickly with his over powering strength that the gnome had to pause in mid pour to calm the troll’s actions before turnip bits splattered all over the place.
“That good,” the boy said. “Now just stir the mixture. Go around the edge of the pot slowly. I am going to pour a bit more in.”
The troll did as he asked and the orange paste quickly turned into a brown sludge. The gnome stopped pouring and said, “it’s almost done. Just needs to cook a bit more.”
The troll sniffed at the concoction on the grill. “Doesn’t smell like food,” it said.
“Well taste it,” the boy replied.
The troll dipped one of his long fingers into paste and brought it up to its mouth. Its tongue slithered past it sharp teeth and licked the finger clean of the turnip stew.
“Bayuck!” the troll said. “I think it is missing something. It tastes off. Is there no meat that goes in this thing?”
“Well my Uncle Cajum is a vegetarian,” the boy said. “He doesn’t eat or cook meat. He usually serves this with bread.”
“He no eat meat?” the troll asked. “He must be crazy!”
The boy chuckled. “He is a bit crazy, yes.”
“Chief needs meat,” the troll said looking into the pot. “This ok, nice sauce but not enough for him. What do you taste like? You food.”
The boy took a step back. “I don’t know what I taste like. Probably not good at all, Cook.”
“You not know what you taste like?” the troll asked. “I knows what I taste like, sausage. Here.”
The troll took the knife and sliced off two of its fingers. He squinted to the pain, but quickly picked the two digits up and placed them on the grill.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked stunned.
“Cooking fingers,” the creature replied. “No worries, they will grow back, see.”
The troll held his now mangled hand out to the gnome. The stumps where the fingers once were, were slowly pulsing with green slime. Little by little the fingers were regenerating.
“Need to cook them fast though,” the troll said. “If you leave them, fingers may turn into other trolls. I not ready to be a daddy.”
The troll pressed the fingers down up on the grill and they began to sizzle and pop loudly. He scraped them off heated surface and dipped them into the turnip stew and passed one to the gnome.
“Here, try,” the troll said.
“I’d rather not,” the boy said and took a step back.
“I tried your food,” the troll said. “Now you try mine.”
The troll glared at the boy. It was serious and the gnome didn’t want to anger the creature further. He took one of the severed fingers and bit down quickly on it. It’s juices exploded in its mouth. The sludge covering it had a strong alcoholic bite but not enough to cover up the putrid slime that was once the troll’s finger. He also tasted a hint of turnip. He began to gag and spat the thing out of his mouth.
“Blah,” he said. “I’m sorry, I can’t stomach that. It must be an acquired taste.”
The troll smiled.
“That’s ok,” it said. “You probably taste better. Let’s see.”
With unmatched agility, the troll grabbed onto the gnome’s arm by the wrist and pulled him towards the grill. The boy shouted out in shock, but it soon turned to pain, as the troll twisted the gnome’s hand, breaking the bones and tendons in his wrist. The creature then dug his nails into his flesh and ripped his hand off of his arm. Blood began to spurt onto the grill and troll as the boy passed out from the pain.
He felt the coldness of the floor first, then the warmth against his face. The boy was lying on the ground facing the hearth. The troll was humming and preparing something at the grill. His arm was numb and light. He opened his eyes and looked down upon the stump where his hand use to be. The flesh from the wound was burnt. The troll cauterized the wound to prevent the boy from dying.
The boy slowly stirred and the troll noticed.
“Oh you wake now,” the troll said. “Just in time. I finish.”
The troll smiled and triumphantly showed the boy his charred hand resting in a bowl of what was a lame excuse of turnip stew.
“Now we see how food taste,” the troll said. It reached into the bowl and ripped off one of the fingers from the hand and dipped it into the sludge. It brought it up to its mouth and casually threw in between its teeth and began to chew. The troll rolled his eyes and smiled.
“Food!” he exclaimed. “You taste yummy! We should cook the rest of you right now!”
The boy was frightened. If he was going to escape, he had to do it now. He began to quickly crawl along the floor and under the large table.
“Hey, where you going?” the troll asked.
“I don’t want to be cooked!” the boy screamed and headed to the door in the back.
“No!” the troll said, watching the boy’s movement. “Do not go in there!”
The troll grabbed the knife and quickly strode over to where the boy was heading. With one swing of his arm, the troll smashed the table just as the gnome scurried out from under it. Slinters of wood flew up in the air as the boy reached the door and swung it wide open. He quickly went in and shut the door behind him.
The boy sighed and turned, stepping in deep puddles as he moved further into the room. He began looking for an escape, but froze as his eyes gazed upon a bloated creature, it’s body mostly a gaping mouth with fanged teeth dripping with saliva. The creature was massive in size as it stood on three thick legs and waved around three tentacles excitedly as it sensed the gnome’s presence. It let out a roar, then brought one its tentacles down, swiping close to the boy.
The gnome panicked and began back tracking towards the door. A green arm wrapped itself around the boy’s waste and picked him off the ground. The troll followed him into the room. The gnome saw the troll holding the dagger and pointing it towards the creature.
“He no garbage,” the troll said. “He food. Not for you.”
The beast let out another roar but stepped back away from the dagger the troll was holding as the troll brought the boy back into the kitchen.
The boy was relieved, but it was short lived. The troll put the boy down on his feet. All the gnome could do was tremble as the troll placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders looking him straight in the eyes.
“Why you go in there? You not garbage.”
The troll moved his hands to the boy’s head and neck and twisted.
“You food,” it said one last time as the gnome went limp. “And I’m Cook.”
The Shadows of the Slums (part 1)
This one is turning out longer than I thought, so here is part 1The morning light began to creep onto the cobbled streets when his mother returned to their dirty apartment which overlooked the Copper Cornet in the slum district of the great Amnish city Athkatla. The boy was awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, watching the moisture drip through and stain and rot away at their abode.
“What are you still doing home, Brus?” his mother asked him as she kicked off her uncomfortable shoes and straightened out her once beautiful silk dress. There was a couple of new tears in the fabric from the last time she stumbled home. Her night was profitable the boy could tell. He could smell it on her. The liquor and the sweat. She threw her bag down upon the ground near the door and staggered into the room.
The boy sat up and looked at his mother. “Waiting for you,” he said.
“Well don’t,” his mother replied. “One day I may not come home and then what?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders as his mother swatted him out of the bed and laid down.
“You need to live for yourself,” the mother said. “And the best way to do that is to listen to your elders and take advantage of what they give you.”
Her eyes were heavy and starting to close. She reached her hand out to her child and pointed a finger at it. “You can be somebody, just don’t let anyone hold you down. That includes your mother.”
She rolled over and the boy took a step back away from her. “Now get going, Uncle Gaylen is waiting.”
The boy crept towards the door and watched his mother drift into sleep. She wasn’t moving. He slipped his hands into the bag she tossed upon the floor and removed the pouch of coins carefully from it so it wouldn’t rattle. He opened it up, and removed a few silver pieces and placed them back inside her bag and took the rest with him as he left his home.
The city slums were always a curious sight at this time of hour. The petty thieves, thugs and prostitutes began retreating as the shadows in which they operate slowly fade and in their place, beggars, urchins and the working class took their place. It was only at this time when he’d see them all mingle together. He’d watch brute’s who would rob a rich couple in an alley give coin to a beggar or a thief exchange a couple of pilfered coins for a lowly merchant farmer’s loaf of bread.
Only the urchin’s like himself remained invisible among the morning streets. He thought how easy it would be to pinch a pouch or two on his way to Gaylen’s but thought better of it. Most of these people were protected. They paid a small fee to Gaylen and other thieves to prevent them from being robbed and if their money or goods went missing, the guild would hunt down the culprits and make an example of them.
Brus viewed the protection as a type of robbery anyway. The guards, if they were not a corrupted bunched should provide all the protection that these merchants needed. But he also doesn’t know of a guard that could catch him or another urchin in a chase through the streets. Gaylen had told him, he would understand when he was older why it was best to leave certain merchants alone. As impoverished as the slums were, it would be worse if no merchants operated in its vicinity.
He waded through the morning crowds past the gnome mansion to the pawn shop that his Uncle Gaylen operated. Well his uncle didn’t run the shop, just operated out of it, and Gaylen wasn’t really his uncle, just a man that helped Brus and his mother; as long as they paid.
Brus pushed the door open. The room was empty saved for a few antique cabinets that lined the back wall. A slender man was pushing a broom along the floor, sweeping away at dirt that wasn’t there. Without looking up, the man uttered two words: “you’re late.”
“Mom was late coming home,” the boy said removing the pouch he stole earlier and tossing it to the man.
“Coo, seems she had a successful night,” the man said weighing the pouch in his hand as he caught it. “I’ll add it t’yer tallies then eh.”
The boy nodded as the man went over to one of the antique tables and removed a spindle of parchment. He dumped the coins on the table and quickly counted the sum and jotted it down onto the parchment with a quill pen.
“A few more nights like that and she should be even,” the man said. He turned his attention to the boy who was still just standing by the door. He took another piece of parchment from the drawer and walked over to the boy.
“Now, I need ye to take this to the compound in the temple district,” he said. “Just hand it off to one of the guards and wait for a written reply. Written reply, do not let’m say anythin’ to you.”
The boy nodded and took the piece of paper.
“I need a hastily reply though, so don’t let them mull on it,” the man continued and the boy just nodded again. “That business in the promenade is ‘bout to go down and we can ill afford to tarry. Now off with ye.”
Brus nodded once again and ran out the door, through the slums, the parchment tucked into his shirt as so no one could see it. But it wasn’t like he was going to be accosted in this area, he was invisible in the crowds and no one would pay him mind until he crossed past the Bridge District. After the bridge, his pauper clothes would have him sticking out in the crowds. Guards and nobles a like would be leery of his presence and they’d clutch their coin purses tight as he passed.
Begging wasn’t allowed in the Temple or Government districts of the city. Brus realized there was already enough begging going on in both places from the church and nobles with causes that there wasn’t enough room for the paupers. Doesn’t mean some do not try. Worse case scenario is they get locked up for a couple of nights in the jail where they are fed and have a shelter over their head. The food is usually stale bread, but sometimes that is more than what they had to eat in a ten day.
Brus reached the archway of the temple district in good time. Now was the hard part, slipping through the area without being accosted by guards convinced he is stealing. He knows he can not be searched as the note contains business practises that are illegal within the city, albeit written in code. But it just takes one guard to get suspicious enough to confiscate it and he’d have to return to Gaylen empty handed, which would be worse than getting caught in the first place.
The district was built on stilts over a part of the river that ran through the city. The waters were calm in the area except for around the temple of Talos. There the waters bubbled and rose in chaotic waves and crashed into the temple’s walls with force enough to make them crumble if the Storm Lord didn’t protect its structure.
There were three narrow pathways that led into the area. The first two were archways that led under the bridge district from the west and north. The northern passage was usually well guarded by sentries as it led to the Government District and the noble houses. The western arch was usually unguarded as it leads to the slums and bridge district where commoners resided. Less to steal, less to protect, yet, today a lone sentry stood guard at the gate as if he knew Brus was coming through.
Brus considered using the third entrance into the district, the one that leads to shadow thief area, the docks. Gaylen’s area however, was the slums and he and his people were only allowed to operate in that area. If Brus was caught by a shadow thief in the docks district with a note from Gaylen, he might be in even worse trouble than if a guard caught him. And even if he did make it through the docks unmolested, he would have to pass by the Radiant Heart the stronghold for knight’s and paladins in the city who would he is desolate state and attempt to “rescue” him from his predicament and make him a squire which was equivalent of being a slave for a noble warrior for the next ten years.
The gate he was at now was it safest bet to get into the city, but the one guard posted at the archway was a problem. Brus thought the safest course would be to walk through the gates and if he was stopped to just bluff the guard saying he needed to speak to a priest of Lothander for guidance regarding his mother and her drinking.
Be began to walk towards the gate, still thinking about his mother and how much he’d have to explain to the guard about her regarding her ailment before the sentry would let him past to the temple of the Morning Lord. Since there was only one guard, he wouldn’t really escort him to the temple as it would leave his post unmanned. It was a good plan, Brus thought, half expecting the guard to grab him at any minute.
He looked up and realized he already passed through the archway and past the guard. He smiled, thanked Tymora and walked towards the large compound beside The Morning Lord’s temple. The building itself was as non discrete as a building it size could be. The windows were tinted black to make viewing from the outside difficult and there were no markings or signs along the front to explain what resided inside the structure. The most unique thing about it, was its vibrant blue, shingled roof which glistened like the water upon the building was standing. Brus thought that even the gods looking from above wouldn’t be able to see the building from the water. The building was hidden in plain sight.
He got to the front door of the building and knocked on its large wooden door. He heard it echo through out the building as if the place was deserted. He waited a few minutes, patiently waiting by the door until it opened a small crack by itself. Brus slipped in and closed the door behind him.
“What brings you here child? Are you lost?” a soft female voice said, from where, Brus didn’t know. The place was empty, at least the foyer was. Twin marble staircases were at the far end of the room leading to the upper floors and there were doors, all closed aligning both side of the walls. The place was cold and too quiet for Brus’ liking.
“No ma’am, my uncle sent me,” Brus said. “We reside in the slums.”
That was all the information that he needed to say about Gaylen. The voice would understand who he was talking about if they were the one that he needed to give the message to. Any other information might prove fatal to his uncle if this person was actually part of the guard.
“And what does your uncle want?” the voice asked.
“I donno,” Brus replied. “He gave this letter to me and asked for a written response right away.”
Metallic footsteps began to echo from the staircases as a man dressed in splint mail and wearing a helm that covered his face approached the door in a brisk pace. Brus removed the letter from his jacket and held it out to the man who was upon him quickly. The armoured figure turned and headed back to the staircase, and stood by its base, opened the letter and held it towards the staircase so an unseen person could read it.
“You’d think he would need more instead of relying on you all the time,” the voice said.
“Pardon ma’am?”
“Nothing child, do not worry about my rambling,” the voice replied. “Your uncle is in luck however, I know of a buyer, but he is the one that needs to make the sale.”
Brus didn’t understand, so he just stood quietly by the door.
“Give me a minute to write a proper response,” the female voice said again. “Are you hungry child? Would you like something while you wait?”
Brus was starving, but he knew better than to accept anything from others in whom he didn’t want to pay back. Gaylen would probably give him some coppers for bread when he returns with a reply which would be safer than taking on debt. He just shook his head and remained by the door.
“Suit yourself,” the voice said, its voice trailing as if it was ascending the stairs.
A few minutes past by until the same armoured figure, who hadn’t moved from his spot, begins moving forward towards the boy again. He reaches behind his back and retrieves a letter sealed with the mark of Lothander in wax and hands it to the boy.
Brus looks at the sealed note and pockets it in his jacket, nods and walks out the door and heads to the gate he entered the district. He was moving more carefree than when he entered the area attempting to get back to Gaylen as soon as possible with this response. As he walked through the gate leading back to the Bridge District the guard grabbed his shoulder and pushed him against the stone wall of the archway.
“Ye little sneak, what did you steal?!” the guard shouted at him.
“Nothin’ sir,” Brus replied attempting to free himself from the man’s grip. “I swear.”
“Yer kind only come here for one reason,” the guard said. “And I don’t want no noble crying to me later about a lost purse, so whatever you stole give it here.”
“I stole nothing sir,” Brus sobbed. “I came to see a priest for my mother.”
“Is that so?” the guard said skeptically.
He began to search the boy, patting down his pockets looking for any loose coins or jewelry that the boy might have swiped. It is one of the reasons why urchins like himself rarely carry coin. Even if it is a couple of coppers, if a guard finds it on them they’ll take them away claiming they were stolen. The guard reached into Brus’ breast pocket and pulled out the note. Brus’ eyes lit up in fear as the guard took a step back from the boy.
“What’s this?” the guard asked.
“A note for my mother,” Brus replied.
“And who gave it to you?”
“A Morning Lord Priest sir,” Brus bluffed.
The guard looked at the seal and smiled.
“Is that so?” he asked again and Brus’ eyes began to shift. “What does it say?”
“I donno sir,” Brus replied. “I don’t read.”
“But your mother does?”
Brus nodded and watched the guard rip open the seal of the envelope and opened it up to read.
“Should I read it to you?” the guard asked.
“I’m not suppose to know what it says.”
The guard smirked and began reading it anyway.
“May the Morning Light find you in good health,” the guard began. “Concerning the children in your care, the clergy of Lothander will be able to help aid you in showing them the light and have assigned a tutor by the name of Claire to assist with their education and growth. We will send her to your residence to meet the children later today. Donations for this service will be welcome. Yours truly LMD.”
The guard smiled and handed back the note to Brus. “Looks like you are going to be able to read soon enough. Off with you and stay out of trouble.”
“Yes sir,” Brus grabbed the note and placed it back in his pocket and ran towards the bridge district.
Brus was glad that the lady at the compound was able to quickly write out the message in code. Brus didn’t have the slightest idea of what it meant, although he did know that he wasn’t getting any tutor from Lothander. He already knew plenty of skills to get him by in life and reading holy scriptures was never going to be one of them.
He did however need to think of a reason why the seal of letter was broken. The truth might not be good enough as Gaylen never wanted his messengers stopped by the city guard, let alone searched and certainly not have his correspondences read by them. Maybe if he could remove the wax seal and pretend that it was never sealed, but that may make him more suspect of what’s written inside and of Brus himself.
There was no way around it Brus thought. He would have to tell Gaylen the truth and hope him being able to bluff the guard would suffice.
He got back to the apartment and slid the door open a crack. Gaylen was there talking to another urchin, and stuffing his pockets with small tightly packed pieces of parchment. Brus had seen those packets before in his mother’s bag. They were stuffed with a black powder that people smoked. Illegal in the city so it wasn’t surprising that Gaylen was supplying it.
“Now off with you,” Gaylen said to the other boy. “Right to Lethinen at the Copper Cornet. Don’t stop for anyone else. Not even your mother.”
“Me mother’s dead sir,” the other boy replied.
“Then definitely do not stop for her and keep running,” Gaylen said smiling. “Wouldn’t want that after ye.”
“Yes sir,” the boy slumped a bit and pushed past Brus who was still waiting by the door. Gaylen’s eyes followed the boy and smiled when he saw Brus standing there.
“Coo! Yer back are ye?” Gaylen asked excitedly. “What ye got for me?”
Brus stepped forward and removed the letter from his jacket and handed it to his mentor. Gaylen looked at it and saw the seal was broken and frowned.
“Ye read it?” he asked disappointedly.
“No, a guard did,” Brus replied. “He nabbed me while I was leaving the temple district. Had no trouble gettin’ in though.”
Gaylen nodded. “Well ye learnt yer lesson. Guards will attempt to catch you after the fact ye robbed someone. Tis easier to slip in than to slip out.”
“Yes sir,” Brus replied.
“But he read the letter?” Gaylen asked surprised.
“Yes sir, out loud too,” Brus said revealing the fact he already knew what the note said.
Gaylen looked at the seal and frowned. “Thee guard have no respect for religious correspondents. I’ll see to it that a priest has word to his superiors about reading private letters from the church, I’ll you that much.
“Now lets see,” he said while reading the note. He let out a “hmm”as he got through the letter.
“Today?” Gaylen questioned to himself. “They found a buyer already? Such short notice.”
Brus remained quiet knowing not to ask questions to answers he shouldn’t know.
“I guess I have another task for ye boy,” Gaylen said. “Even though I don’t want to involve ye, but ye do have to make up for the fact of getting caught, and you already know what the note says, no need involving another.”
Brus nodded and waited for his instruction.
“Ye need to bring this Claire, when she shows up, to the Capt’n. You know who I am talking about?”
Brus nodded. The large shipped that was built into a residence here in the slums district. The place stood out amongst the shambling apartments and hovels others lived in within the area. Brus had always wondered how a ship of that size found its way so far from the docks in the first place. All he knows is that the building been there for years and the owner of it was called “The Captain.”
“Wait outside the building, as well. The Capt’n will bring her in to discuss a transaction that ye need no part in. Understand?”
Brus nodded again.
“I donno when this Claire is gonna show up, so stay close,” Gaylen continued. “Ye eaten?”
Brus shook his head no.
“What are they thinking at thee compound?” Gaylen asked. “Common courtesy would have been to feed the messenger, especially an urchin one. Here.”
Gaylen flipped the boy a silver coin which Brus caught easily.
“Ye did good, even though ye got caught,” Gaylen said. “Go get food from one of thee stalls, but stay close by I may beckon you soon to meet this Claire lass.”
“There’s no need to wander at all,” A sultry voice said behind Brus. The boy turned and saw a young well dressed woman who looked to be in her mid twenties walk into the store. Her straight brown hair reflected the sunlight giving it a beautiful clean shimmer. Her make up was done plainly, but beautifully and she wore an elegant gold chain around her neck.
“Coo, ye must be Claire then?” Gaylen asked excitedly.
The woman smiled while eyeing up Brus who remained motionless by the door.
“I am,” she said. “Is this one of them? He is very scrawny.”
“No, the lad there is my nephew,” Gaylen said. “He’s going to take you to where the merchandise is being kept, not far from here, I promise.”
The lady smiled. “Very well then, Brus is it? Lead on, I haven’t got all day.”
Brus nodded and held the door open for Claire as the pair entered onto the now bustling busy street.
“This way,” Brus said. “And stay close, it ain’t safe.”
“Oh that’s charming,” Claire replied. “You are here to protect me?”
Brus began walking down the street.
“No,” Brus said. “But you are wearing more wealth than what a person here sees in a lifetime, and you look an easy mark. People know me, and Gaylen, and won’t touch you as long as they know you’re with me.”
“I am far from easy boy,” Claire responded. “Now where is this other place?”
“See the ship?” Brus pointed. “There, and you are an easy mark.”
Brus pulled a pouch from his pocket and tossed it up in air. Claire’s mouth went agape as she reached to her belt and noticed hers was gone.
“Give it back you little shit!” she demanded.
“I will,” Brus replied. “But I think it is safer if I hold onto, don’t you think?”
The lady sneered as Brus looked straight ahead smiling. Showing up nobles always entertained him. They were ignorant and naïve of how to survive properly in the streets. Brus might have just kept the purse for himself had she not been to see Gaylen. It was heavy, and he felt gems instead of coins within. It could have fed him and his mother for months.
The duo reached the ship and began ascending the stairs that led to the entrance where a lone guard stood outside. He watched the two approach and sneered.
“This a buyer?” the guard said to Brus whom he recognized as one of Gaylen’s.
“Aye,” the boy replied.
“Well get inside, both of you before you attract more attention,” the guard said.
“Gaylen told me to wait outside,” Brus said.
“And I am tellin’ ya to get in,” the guard snapped back. “Wait by the door if you want, but you ain’t hanging out here.”
The guard opened the door and Brus let Claire enter the building first and he quickly followed. The door closed behind them and he heard the workings of a mechanical lock sealing it in place. A plump gnome wearing green robes smiled and greeted them as they entered.
“Welcome welcome,” the gnome said. “I am guessing you have the required notary on your person?”
“I do,” Claire replied removing an envelope from her blouse pocket and handed it to the gnome who quickly looked it over.
“Hmm, hmm, yes, excellent,” the gnome muttered. “Just follow me, I believe I do have what you need.”
“The pouch boy,” Claire said glaring at Brus. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it over to her.
“This way milady,” the gnome said and led Claire down a dark corridor while Brus waited by the door for their return.
Brus looked around. Large wooden shelves lined the entrance way holding knotted ropes and large chains with metallic cuffs on the end. Boxes of tattered clothes and old rations were left open tempting to be stolen from. At the end of the shelves however, he heard the slightest whimper. A young girl was crying.
He walked down through the darkness of the high shelves to the far wall which was covered by a molding brown curtain. The crying was coming from the other side, so he peeled it back and looked behind it.
There, a young girl about his age was sitting in a corner of a cast iron cage. She was curled up into a ball, he knees and long blond hair obscuring her face and her once beautiful white dress was torn and stained.
Other kids were in the cage with her, but they all sat quiet and wore urchin clothing. Dirt and grime stained both their faces and knees and they seemed contempt with their fate. The girl crying however was different. She was out of place.
“Hey,” Brus said through the bars. “You ok?”
The girl continued to sob ignoring his presence. She probably didn’t even know he was there, or talking to her. He was use to that.
“Hey, girl?” he said slightly louder and she looked up and back over to who was addressing him. Her eyes were a bright blue, but now bloodshot and filled with tears. Her cheeks were flushed and she slightly trembled when she saw him. She put her head down and continued to sob.
The cage began to rattle as the gnome arrived at the other side to show Claire the merchandise. The door swung open and Brus let the cloth drop to hide him from being seen. He could still hear the girl sobbing and Claire walking into the cell, her heels clicking the stone with every step she took.
“six in total,” the gnome said.
“But only two girls?” Claire replied. “I really have no use for boys, well maybe one if we get a client that swings that way, but it is rare.”
“Uh, no, three girls,” the gnome said. “The third is in the corner there, a bit shy.”
Brus heard Claire’s walk slowly to the corner of the cage where the girl sat crying. He saw her shadow hover over the girl and bend down, raising her head gently in her hand.
“Oh she is a pretty one,” Claire said. “Where did you find this one.”
Her shadow showed her raising back on her feet and turning towards the gnome and walking back towards the other children.
“That one was found on the side of the road up north not too long ago,” the gnome explained. “Was part of a caravan, hid in a clothing chest while her family was murdered. Traders found her and brought her here.
“Better life than food for some beast. She should consider herself lucky,” the gnome finished.
“I will take the entire lot off your hands, but the boys I want at a lower rate and if we do business in the future none at all. No real use for them in a brothel,” Claire said.
“Understandable, and we can accommodate that request,” the gnome replied. “They will be ready for pick-up after dusk tonight if you like. Payment can be arranged then.”
“Excellent,” Claire said. “We will finalize this transaction tonight.”
Brus heard the cage lock being locked and the gnome and Claire heading back towards the entrance where he was suppose to be waiting. The girl on the other side was still sobbing but his hide would be on the line if he wasn’t by the door so he scurried away from the cage through the shelves and back to the door where he plopped himself down on the floor sitting with his back against the wall.
The pair re-emerged from around the corner and Brus looked up at them and waited for them to get closer before getting back to his feet.
“You can tell your uncle that the deal will be finalized tonight,” the gnome said to him as they got closer. “Payment will follow in the morn.”
Brus nodded at the instructions and dusted off his pants from sitting on the floor. The gnome came over and knocked on the door in a quick rhythmic fashion and the guard on the other side opened it up. Sunlight poured into the building as the gnome gently pushed both Brus and Claire onto the steps.
“Till tonight milady,” he said and closed the door behind them.
“I can see you out of the slums if you like,” Brus said to Claire.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “Run home, I’ve no need for you any longer.”
And with a second thought, she clutched her coin purse which was reattached to her belt and didn’t let it go until she finished ascending the stairs and got away from the busy market street.
*cough* Brus=bhaalspawn? *cough,cough*
The Shadows of the Slums (part 2)
So BG2:EE spoilers aheadHe opened the door to the apartment where Gaylen was waiting.
“A gnome said it will be finalized tonight,” Brus said to the man, struggling with the word finalized. “And payment will come in the morn.”
“Excellent,” Gaylen cooed. “That is all Brus, run home.”
Brus stood by the door wondering if he should say more. Gaylen looked over at him and gave him a puzzled look.
“Ye went in, didn’t ya?” his uncle said and the boy just nodded. “I told ye not too.”
“I know sir,” Brus replied. “They wouldn’t let me.”
Gaylen huffed. “There are a lot of things that goes on in this city that you do not need to be aware of boy. That is one of them. You have nothing to fear as long as you and yer mom keep doing what they are told.”
“I know sir,” Brus echoed. “But there was this girl, she wasn’t an urchin, she looked noble.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Gaylen said. “And if she was… WAS a noble, she is better off a slave where she will be fed then having to fend for herself on the street. A girl like that wouldn’t last a week on The Bridge.”
With those words, Brus knew Gaylen knew more who was actually in the warehouse. He knew who this girl was, and why she was there.
“Now don’t worry about it,” his uncle finished. “Run home.”
Brus left his uncle’s apartment, but instead of returning home, he headed back to the ship turned warehouse and waited outside, pondering about this girl with the blond hair and torn white dress. She deserved better, he thought, but didn’t know why she did. How was she different? Was it the tears?
For the first time in his life, he thought Gaylen was wrong. This girl needed a chance. She wasn’t meant to be caged, she must have a family, and a home and a warm bed. The others, he knew would just be more rabble on the street to compete with, but her, she could have a life.
He thought of something completely stupid. He knew it was stupid but he was going to do it anyway. He was going to help her escape.
He waited there till the sun fell and peddlers closed their trinket and produce shops. Shadows began creeping across the streets of the slums and with them, thugs looking for their grog and working girls looking for their first coin began filling the darkness. Brus, invisible to them all waited.
A cart being drawn by a single ox, slowly crept its way up the street with a woman on horseback following behind. The door to the slaver’s compound opened up, and the children, with their hands tied, walked single file down the steps being led by the gnome. The parked itself in front, and its driver waited for the cargo to be loaded in the back. They were all quiet, and contempt with their fate, but the one girl, in the torn white dress, sobbing as quietly as she could.
Claire got off the horse’s back and approached the gnome, as the children filed themselves into the cart and sat on the rough wood. While Claire and the gnome concluded their business, and the driver preoccupied with his own mind, Brus leapt onto the cart beside the girl and placed his head down and pretended that his hands were tied.
He attempted to get the girl in the torn white dress’s attention but she didn’t notice him. If he reached out to her now, it might startle her ending his ruse and stupid act in one shocked scream. He had to wait till they were moving.
He watched as Claire handed the gnome a pouch, who in return, bowed his head and motioned her back to her horse. Brus put his head further down, hoping not to be seen or recognized as the two walked by.
“A pleasure ma’am,” the gnome said as she got on her horse.
She gave the small man a smirk and trotted her horse ahead of the cart. The gnome turned, clutching the small bag in his hand and hurried himself up the stairs back into the large ship. The cart started to slowly pull forward. This was Brus’ chance.
He reached out to the girl, who became startled as he attempted to undo the ropes binding her hands. He brought one finger up to his lips to motion her to be quiet and the girl nodded obediently. Brus got her restraints off her wrists and she rubbed her wrists to free her from the pain they caused.
The cart was moving fast now. Brus glanced around to figure out what he was going to do. Jumping off now wouldn’t be wise. The cart turned a corner and jolted its occupants around. Brus had to think of a way to slow the cart down or cause a big enough distraction to get away. He choose the latter.
He began untying the other kids hands which caused them to get a little excited.
“Get ready to run,” he said to them all and they all nodded in reply.
Brus moved to the front of the cart and grabbed the driver’s shoulder’s pulling him back. The driver, shocked by the contact, pulled the ox’s reins bringing the cart to a stop.
“Run!” One of the kids shouted, and they all took off in different directions.
The driver, realizing his folly, attempted to grab Brus from behind, but the kid squirmed his way free from the awkward grasp. He got to the back of the cart where the girl in the torn dress was still sitting in shock, and grabbed her hand and pulled her off the cart.
Claire turned her horse around no longer hearing its creaking wheels behind her to see what the hold up was. All the kids were running in different directions and the driver was attempting to capture them. He had already grabbed one boy and chasing down a second.
Claire muttered a curse under her breath and scanned the scene. She saw Brus pulling the girl down an ally by the hand and knew who caused the commotion. She let out a little smirk and made her horse gallop after the two kids.
Brus turned around to see that he was being followed by Claire and muttered a curse of his own.
“This way,” he said to the girl holding her hand tight as they turned into a smaller alley in which the horse would not be able to fit down. The girl turned with him, barely being able to keep the pace that he was setting. She was tiring, and they needed to find a place to hide.
Claire dismounted her horse and slowly walked down the alley.
“Return my merchandise kid, and we’ll forget this ever happened,” she shouted.
Brus knew better. He was in too deep. She just had to go back to Gaylen and this would be over with him tied in the back of the cart with her, or killed tossed in an alley or sewer to be fed to the carrion crawlers.
He took the girl down another alley as Claire picked up her pace behind them, drawing a short sword from her belt. She was following cautiously, not wanting to under estimate her prey.
The alley broke into a large concrete clearing, a well used roadway during the day, but pitch black and uninviting at night. On the other side of the clearing was Athkatla’s famed Graveyard District. The old tomes were haunted and spirits who refused to rest lingered between the graves on the plotted land.
Brus gripped the girl’s hand a bit tighter and the two of them ran across the street through the large gates that separate the graveyard from the rest of the city. Claire turned the corner and saw them dashing across the street. She began to sprint after them in pursuit.
It was colder in the Graveyard District than the alley’s as the two scrambled over tombstones and stairs, looking for a suitable place to hide. They found a small unlocked tomb near the gate and scurried inside.
Brus brought his finger up to his lips again, to attempt to hush the girl’s heavy breathing. He didn’t know if they were alone in small confined area or if there was a ghoul or worse lurking around. She nodded as they ducked behind a large wooden chest.
Claire entered the tomb shortly after. Her sword was drawn and she was walking cautiously through the doors.
“Where are you brats?” she said into the darkness. “I saw you come in here.”
Brus grimaced. He knew they were trapped in here. He closed his eyes and prayed to Tymora for some lucky break to get him out of this situation. Claire started moving towards the chest, Tymora wasn’t answering him. He balled his hands into a fist and was ready to fight his way out.
“Where are you boy,” she said again. “Come here so I can slit your throat!”
She took another step.
“You shouldn’t be in… Dragomir’s Tomb,” she said trailing off at the end. She stopped walking and lowered her sword.
“Dragomir’s Tomb,” she echoed and more monochromic pitch. “Yes, I must… Dragonmir.”
She turned and walked out of the tomb. Brus let out a sigh, confused but relieved at what he just witnessed. The two children waited a couple of minutes and slowly crept out of the tomb and into the darkness. Claire was gone, wandering down the street back to the slums.
“I think we are safe,” Brus said. “Where’s your parents?”
The girl lowered her head. She didn’t have to say anything for him to know that they were dead.
“You can’t come with me, they’ll catch you again,” he said. “Do you have any family?”
“An uncle,” she whispered. “In Beregost.”
Brus didn’t know where that was. All he knew it wasn’t anywhere in the city for it is all he knew.
“I have nothing to give you to help, can you make there by yourself?”
“I think, you’ve given me enough,” she said. “I can try. Thank you.”
Brus smiled. “It’s best you stay away from the slums. I suggest the city gates, maybe a merchant will pity you and give you a free ride or something.”
“Ya, maybe,” the girl replied.
“They are that way,” he said pointing. “I need to get home, back to my mom and Gaylen before they get wind of what I did. Can you make it to the gates alone?”
“Ya,” she said again.
“OK,” he said. “Good luck.”
He turned and dashed down the alley, leaving her standing in the street, still in her torn white dress and back to the slums. The sun was beginning to rise and the shift of people on the street was already starting to happen. He wondered if he was really out that late, and if his mother was already home waiting for him this time.
He got back up to his apartment and swung the door open expecting to see his mother passed out on the bed. Instead, Gaylen was sitting on the bed, legs crossed and staring intently at door. Brus was shocked.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Gaylen said to him.
“Where’s my mom?” Brus replied.
“She’s not coming home,” the older man replied. “Someone has to pay for what you stole.”
Brus glanced his eyes down. He wondered how Gaylen knew what he was doing tonight, but he also wasn’t surprised that he knew. It was the stupid risk he took.
“Thankfully we got all dem back,” his uncle continued. “Including that pretty blonde that you left on the street.”
Brus’ eyes went wide. He left her there to be caught as soon as he left. It was stupid.
“The thing is, the buyer don’t want them no more, and want to know what happened to that Claire girl,” Gaylen continued. “So we lost the deal and are stuck with the merchandise at the worst time.
“I hear the capt’n is just gonna make them all troll food. Starting with that blonde pretty lass you were fond of.”
Brus put his head down further. He wasn’t really fond of the girl, he just didn’t want to see her suffer. His actions probably made her life worse now however. His as well.
“You boy, belong to me now,” Gaylen said. “I ain’t payin’ you, feedin’ you, or putting up with these antics. You do somethin’ I don’t like, I’ll cut a piece off your mom and feed it to the dogs.”
Brus looked straight at his uncle, attempting to call his bluff.
“What are you lookin’ at boy? You don’t believe me?” the uncle said then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and tossed it to the lad. Brus unwrapped it revealing a finger.
“Go ahead and eat it dog,” Gaylen said as Brus saw what it was. Brus wasn’t scared of it, nor of Gaylen despite his tactics, he was just angry. He dropped the finger to the ground.
“Now I want ye outside my door this morning,” Gaylen said. “I am gonna have visitors, respectful folk unlike yourself. I want you to escort them out of the district after I am finished talking to them. Ye understand?”
Brus nodded.
“Coo! Make sure ya do, we don’t want them messin’ with the resale of the merchandise,” Gaylen said. “There maybe hope for ye yet eh?”
Gaylen got off the bed and walked by Brus and out the door closing it behind him. Brus walked over to the bed, exhausted, and collapsed.
His mind raced back to the morning and his mother’s advice: The best way to do that is to listen to your elders and take advantage of what they give you. Tomorrow he thought, he’ll do just that.
Most of my time has been consumed by Twine and an interactive story I think people will enjoy more but it is a cery slow process as I go through the trials and errors of attempting to make something epic.
Tat & Tot’s Tantalizing Travels to Thay. Told by Tarrick “Tootin’” Jansen (part 1)
A forum inspired story. Likenesses used with permission.Now, before I begin, I see that look on your face and I know you are going to ask sooner or later about my little moniker of a nickname. Yes, a lot of my friends and family call me Tootin’ but that has nothing to do with any bowel or uncontrollable flatulence problems. So you can take that thought that has crept into your head and place it to the side as my nickname was given to me for my ability to play the flute.
Every family gathering, I was the one Jansen who supplied the music for the others to dance to, that many of the youngsters in the clan would always ask, “when are you going to start tootin Tarrick?” See, many of the younger ones have a hard time pronouncing F sounds. They lack the front tooth strength to bite their lip so it comes out as “too” sound instead. So when ever they asked, an older Jansen would usually reply with “Well he ain’t tootin’ yet!”
It got to the point that whenever I went to these family functions, I’d start playing the flute before I entered whichever establishment we were gathering. This usually brought cheers from the younger ones of “He’s Tootin! He’s Tootin!” and it stuck after a while.
But you are not here to hear about my exploits, oh no, that would be in bad manners for me to ramble on about myself. See we Jansens are a humble bunch. We don’t like telling stories of our own exploits. No one likes an arrogant boaster. Even telling stories about the family closest to you, such as a parent or a child or sibling could be in bad form. We tend to steer clear of being too boastful about them as well, however, we do have pride in our family name and love to share the exploits of our other relatives like uncles, aunts, grandparents and even great, great, great grandchildren if you are Anduin Jansen, the conjurer who became a lich so he would have the time to conjure and train to their maximum potential, all one hundred and fifty official conjuring creatures for the Ol’ Kaymond League. He is very passionate and competitive when it comes to his conjuring skills, although he did have an mid-undeath crisis and began wrapping himself in old dry bandages and asking to be called a mummy, fearing he made the wrong choice.
But you are not here to hear about him either, I digress. I apologize for that. It is the Jansen curse to get side tracked when attempting to tell one story and end up telling another. Uncle Wacky says that curse originated from the very first Jansen, Jansen Jansen, who always gave one word responses whenever someone asked him a question. And yes, I know I am digressing again but let me finish. Apparently, Jansen Jansen gave one too many one word responses to a warlock in need and his family line was cursed in the process. I can see where the warlock came from though. When you ask “Do you know where the closest temple is?” when you are bleeding profusely, you don’t want to start playing twenty questions. But I doubt that ever happened. He is crazy you know, not the warlock, although cursing some random gnome may constitute as a mental illness, who knows, but no, Wacky is crazy. Why he’s called that.
But I digress, I digress. You are here to know about the youngest of our brood to start an exciting life. You are here to hear the story of Tat, and her younger brother Tot – the twins. Tat being two minutes and twenty-three seconds older than Tot. His mother always said, “that boy is never on time, he was even late for his birth!” And its true. The boy is always two minutes and a half late for everything. It seems to be impossible for him to show up on time. He tries, but something always holds him back. Everyone has gotten use it however, so we don’t mind. His sister though, the exact opposite – very uncanny, her timing. She always where she needs to be at exactly the right time. Remarkable for someone of her age.
But what Tot lacks in tardiness, he sure makes up with politeness. He is always minding his manners and never disrespectful to his elders. Holding doors open and what not. It’s why some said he was late at his birth. He held the door open for his sister to go first into the world. Not really an image I want in my mind, but there it is in yours now. Sorry about that.
You rarely here a peep out of him as well, unless if he is asking if anyone wants the last turnip cookie before snatching it from the plate when anyone but his sister doesn’t object. See Tat is the exact opposite in that regard. As well mannered as the boy is, she’s stubborn and loudly demanding. She needs to get her way, needs to be right in every argument and must always get the last turnip cookie unless you want everyone in the room to turn a bright vibrant blue, or worse. See, some of us Jansens are gifted, and some say cursed, but I doubt a warlock had anything to do with this curse, with wild magic. And in Tat, it runs abundant, and uncontrollably when she is mad and throwing a tantrum, and she throws those every time she doesn’t get the last cookie.
So we tend to keep one hidden until the rest of the batch is gone so it doesn’t end up raining cows or some other horrible messy situation. Works most of the time, unless one of the dogs sniff it out, then we’re in trouble. One time, a mangy mongrel got at the hidden cookie and Tat being Tat started throwing one of her patented stomping tantrums only to stop when everyone in the room disappeared. She had thought she transported them all to one of the layers of the abyss all over a single turnip cookie, which if baked by Great Aunty Tubby Jensen is worth it, let me tell you, but this particular batch wasn’t, so poor Tat was completely distraught and began to cry.
That’s when a quick witted Jansen realized what had actually happened, for he too was sitting in the room and watched everyone else disappear. Jans, the quick witted one, not the more popular turnip peddler Jan, some people get those two confused, began casting an Invisibility Purge spell as soon as he heard the faint sobs of Tat. But his spell failed, and actually teleported everyone in the room to different parts of the house, still invisible! It turned into an impromptu game of hide and go seek. Poor Scratchy ended up being the last one found as the spell transported him onto the roof!
Scratchy ended up locking himself in the basement from then on in, being afraid of heights and falling and all. Tot, being the fine gnomish gentleman that he was growing up to be would always be there to help unlock the door with some picks whenever the family wanted to speak to him, or give him food, or give him a bath as locking yourself in a turnip root cellar allows the body to take on a musky smell that can waft through ceilings and floors.
He had a natural talent for it, Tot that is with opening locks, not Scratchy and smelling musky, but come to think of it, Scratchy did have a natural talent for that. The family really should enter him into one of those fancy odour competitions that I hear are all the rage in Daggerdale. I think he’d give those Wereskunks who usually dominate the competition a run for their money. But that’s a thought I should keep to the side as it is the bona fide Jansen locksmith you came to hear about.
And that locksmith being, good ol’ Tot. Well, I guess he isn’t old, so do you say good new Tot? Doesn’t quite fit either. Just good Tot? Well I am stumped on what to call a good young lad such as Tot. I guess good young lad Tot, the bona fide Jansen locksmith works. Ya, I will stick with that.
So if a family member ever locked themselves out, or lost a key to an armoire or chest, they’d run and get good young lad Tot, the bona fide Jansen locksmith to help them out. He would jimmy the door open with a few twists of the wrists and then hold the door open for the person, no questions asked, no payment required. Just don’t expect him to be there on time if you are in a rush to get back inside. The boy is always two and half minutes late remember, so don’t be baking a soufflé or attempting to conjure a pit fiend and get yourself locked out and hoping to get back in time before disaster strikes.
And as disastrous it was for the twins to start adventuring, they got there, by Tot being two and half minutes late, and Tat by throwing a tantrum. Nothing no one wouldn’t expect from those two, but the outcome, just thinking about it makes my nose whiskers itch.
It all started with new rules regarding the Ol’ Kaymond League being issued and Anduin Jansen, the lich who wanted to be known as a mummy, complaining rather loudly that the league added one hundred and one more summoning creatures to their official list. He was nearly finished training all the first one hundred and fifty of them when they dropped the new creatures onto the list. “One undeath life isn’t enough for these fools,” he’d bemoan as he shuffled up and down the hallway. “I may have to inherit an apprentice to keep up with the Thayians.”
Now, he mumbled these lines a lot over the last century, but never quite acted upon them and most knew to ignore the undead gnome’s ramblings, or they may get more than an earful of advice and complaints after training these creatures for a few centuries. Anduin Jansen wasn’t immune to the warlock’s curse of going off tangent in stories either. He could literally talk to you to death, and has on a few occasions, having the unwilling listener trapped listening to the proper care of conjured ferrets or other strange creatures and as a result having the listener starve to death in the process.
Well Tat, not being a bright one, overheard her great, great, great grandfather, or is it granduncle, I may have to check the family tree to actually see how these two are related. I apologize, I actually should’ve checked it before telling this story. It is always wise to get one’s facts straight, to keep the story honest and believable. Who knows if you are going to be doing research on this later on and realize that in fact, Anduin was actually Tat and Tot’s great, great, great, great granduncle and not their great, great, great grandfather. It may bring disbelief to the rest of the story! I apologize for that, but lets just say he is her great, great, great granduncle, and if I am wrong, don’t hold it too much against me, as I may not have it correct here.
So Tat overheard her great, great, great granduncle, and not being the brightest Jansen, blurted to him “I’ll be your apprentice!”
Well this stopped the old gnome in his tracks as he slowly turned to figure out who was speaking to him and when he saw it the tantrum throwing Tat, he frowned, maybe, he was covered in bandages after all, but shook his head and said, “no girl, you’re not powerful or old enough to control these creatures. It takes years of study to even be able to conjure your first creature. I remember my first creature it was a fire breathing quasit that my uncle Oak Jansen allowed me to choose between three different creatures…”
Tat was trapped and denied a dream of hers of becoming a conjuring master in the Ol’ Kaymond league. Well it was a dream that had just manifested through an old lich’s ramblings but a dream none the less. One shouldn’t question the age of dreams you see, because that is how regrets are born. Tat wasn’t about to question this one, and she was willing to listen to the old lich for as long as she could to gain as much knowledge as possible.
Thankfully, Tot walked by two and half minutes later and saw his sister’s predicament with the talkative lich. He went up to his great, great, great granduncle and apologized for interrupting his lecture but their mother was looking for Tat and him. He grabbed his sister by the arm and yanked her away before either the lich or his sister could protest.
Now if Tot was there two and half minutes earlier, he might have prevented Tat’s dream of becoming a conjuring master from manifesting. Alas, the boy was late, and that dream was now stuck in the young girl’s stubborn head, and she shared it with her brother.
“Are you daft?” he asked, as he thought it wasn’t the brightest idea his sister ever came up with. Her best idea, in his opinion was using the roof of the family home as a toboggan hill in the winter. The thrill of sliding down the icy shingles before plunging three stories to a waiting snow bank was an exciting past time for the youngsters. I just wouldn’t try it myself, ever. Knowing my weight, I’d probably plunge through the roof instead of the snow below.
But his sister thought otherwise. She was determined. She was stubborn, and it wasn’t like she wanted to train all two hundred and fifty-one of these creatures. Maybe just two or three to start and see where that took her. That was the excuse that Anduin gave those many centuries ago though, and look where his dream and passion took him. Not that there is anything wrong with becoming a lich, or a lich who thinks he should have became a mummy instead. Just don’t let any cleric’s of Lathander over hear me say that. It’s not the creature that is evil, but the intentions.
And both Anduin’s and now Tat’s intentions of becoming a conjuring master are harmless. Well to them, the creatures I am told are pitted against each other in battle and they fight to the death. But if it is for entertainment purposes, I really don’t see the harm. Gives my fluting a break at some of the gatherings, which I am thankful for. I can’t play that thing for ever you know.
Now look at me, talking about myself again, how did I get to that disrespectful topic? It matters not. What matters is Tat’s dream. She reassured her brother that she only wanted to train one creature to start, and that their great, great, great granduncle said she could choose one of three he held at his crypt.
Anduin, might have said this in his two and half minutes of ramblings, but I doubt it as the girl just hears what she wants to hear. Her brother, being the honest sort and never realizes others maybe being dishonest to him, took her at her word on this topic.
“Ya,” Tat exclaimed as her brother bought into the story. “He said for us both to come to his place at sunset and he’ll let us both choose one from his collection.”
Tot had no interest of training these creatures and his sister knew that. This was just her way of being able to take two of them for herself without Tot getting suspicious of her plan.
“Meet me at his front gate at two minutes before sunset,” she demanded from her brother and skipped away to plan that evening’s activities.
Having nothing really better to do that evening, Tot showed up at sunset at the crypt and looked around. His sister wasn’t anywhere to be seen, which was peculiar because he was always the one that was late. He wondered if something happened to his sister and if he should head back home before is great, great, great granduncle found him and talked to him to death.
But just as that thought was crossing his mind, his sister began strolling up to through a side street.
“You’re late,” Tot whispered in a triumph tone as he wasn’t the last to arrive for once.
“Am not, you are,” his sister replied in a more confident tone. “I told you to be here two minutes before sundown. I never said when I was going to show up.”
Tot just shrugged at the comment. He knew arguing with his sister was both pointless and dangerous due to her wild surges of magic.
“So, where’s the old man?” Tot asked.
“Inside I wager, he gave me a key.”
Tat began patting down her pockets looking for this mysterious key that her undead relative might have given her, but Tot saw the ruse. He was a clever fellow. He just rolled his eyes, removed his picks and went ahead with unlocking the door for her.
“I must have left it at home,” Tat said, still playing along with the forgotten key story. “He is probably inside wondering why we are late, good thing I have you to blame for that.”
The lock unclicked and Tot swung the door open into this musty, damp room that would put Uncle Scratchy’s cellar to shame. Tot bellowed out a “hello” but Tat was quick to hush him.
“Don’t do that!” she whispered. “Lets just go look for him.”
The two crept down a dark hallway that had books scattered along the floor. Each step they took creaked the old wooden floor which made their creeping less efficient than it usually is. If the lich turned mummy didn’t hear Tot’s bellow, he would have heard the two walking down the hall to his study. However, Anduin is hard of hearing, having the bandages wrapped tightly around his ears. One usually needs to talk louder towards him, if you even get a word in when he is talking to you. Impossible sometimes.
The two reached his study without being harassed and Tat tried the door.
“Locked!” she said. “I wonder why he didn’t greet us. Do you think something happened to him?”
She began to put on as fake panic towards her undead great, great, great granduncle which was slightly more believable than her forgetting the key. Slightly more, as in a fire elemental is slightly warmer than a bon fire. Neither would keep you cool in the Abyss, much like neither display was convincing Tot the two of them should be here.
“What if he’s injured, inside. He’s too young to die!” she said flailing her arms. Tot did believe this for a moment. Not that he was too young to die, although who is he to judge when someone is considered too young to die, but it was curious to him that the lich hadn’t come to see what all the racket was about. Tot got to work on the lock, just in case his great, great, great granduncle was locked inside and injured. It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek to make sure he wasn’t.
“Oh hurry,” his sister said, still feigning concern for her undead relative. The lock gave a quick click and Tot slowly swung the door open.
“It’s dark,” he said. See gnomes have the ability to see in the dark, but they can’t see colour, only shapes and tones of grey, and there was a lot of shapes and tones that were confusing his dulled senses as he peered into the room. For one, there was something that resembled a body slumped on a chair, but he couldn’t tell if it was the lich or not. There was also a creature, small one, no bigger than a house cat, well not Dwarma Jansen’s house cat, named Feisty which was quite large. That cat stood about 2 feet and weighted close to two hundred pounds. The youngens would attempt to ride the thing, but being a cat, it would just curl up and sleep like most cats tend to do when they are not horking up hairballs onto fine elven rugs, which this cat did nearly daily. It wasn’t for waste though because Dwarma would take the chunks of digested hair and mould them into statues of famous people which she would then sell in the Promenade for coin. I hear Elminister himself bought the one that looked like him, with the removable pointy hat.
Anyway, the animal wasn’t as big as Dwarma’s cat Feisty, just a bit smaller than your typical normal ordinary house cat, but Tot couldn’t make out what it was either.
“Here,” his sister said and removed a polished stone that was the size of her first from one of her pockets. She said a few words and the stone began to glow a bright white, lighting up the hallway. She rolled it into the room where it illuminated everything Tot was trying to make out.
Now, I have never been in Anduin’s study before but what I am told, and what the twins walked into can be considered creepy and dreary. The walls are covered in shelves from ceiling to floor containing tomes and scrolls, disorganized and covered with dust and cob webs with the occasional jar of pickled turnips and cauliflower, the lich’s favourite snack, or skeletal remains of strange animals broke up the mismatched literature.
A finely carved Armoire made from obsidian is locked and kept against the wall with a worn out bearskin rug under it. The fur of the rug is matted and balding and should have been replaced a century ago, but the tree-hugging druid Wilson Jansen forbid Anduin from hunting another one, as killing a creature just for home décor was against Wilson’s philosophy. The lich was furious when he was forbidden from updating his study, that he almost killed Wilson outright, but other members of the family got in between the two relatives and cooler heads prevailed, however, I don’t think anyone has seen Wilson since that occurrence. The lich might have got his revenge in another way, who knows, but I am digressing again.
There is also a chestnut wood chest with bronze hinges that the lich kept unlocked by the base of a simple wooden desk with burnt out candles and scraps of paper littering the top of it. The papers are said to just be maps of the surrounding area and simple drawings of pyramids, as the lich was attempting to create a new abode more suited to his changing lifestyle.
Behind the desk, a caged ferret, what Tot thought looked like a cat in the dark, hopped excitedly for the first light it must have seen in weeks, if not months. It had plenty of food and water in the cage however, and it squeaked, I think ferrets squeak, well it made a noise, lets just say that, towards the intruders.
In the chair, which was in the corner, slumped a life sized doll of a human, with a couple of daggers sticking into its stomach through Thayian robes. The eyes of the dummy were crossed and its mouth agape with pickled cauliflower stuck inside. It was an odd sight, but being Jansens, the twins had seen worse.
“He’s not here,” Tot said after looking around the room. “Let’s go.”
“No, not yet,” Tat said mischievously. “I still want a summoning creature. There must be an orb around here somewhere.”
Tot crossed his arms. “If you want a creature, just take the ferret and let’s get out of here,” he replied.
“But I don’t want a ferret!” Tat pouted. “They stink, and are not as cool as a fire breathing quasit, or a ridable giraffe.”
“I donno,” Tot said, lowering himself down to look the ferret in the eyes. “He seems pretty cool to me.”
Tat let out a long sigh. “I am not taking the stupid ferret,” she said back and opened up the chest. “Maybe there’s an orb in here.”
“You shouldn’t be going through uncle’s stuff, it’s dangerous, he’s a lich,” Tot said while playing with the ferret through it’s cage door.
“He’s harmless,” Tat replied but stopped digging through the chest just in case and closed it. He probably keeps them in the Armoire. “Unlock it for me.”
“No,” Tot replied. He had enough of his sister’s bossiness. He knew it was a ruse from the beginning and robbing from a lich, even a lich that was your relative, wasn’t the brightest idea. He really didn’t want any more to do with it.
Tat on the other hand, doesn’t like hearing no as an answer. She needs to get her way. She began turning a bright red and crossed her arms tight against her chest.
“NOW!” she shouted at her brother, and did her patented foot stomp tantrum.
And that was it; the tantrum that started their adventuring careers.
All the doors in the room became unlocked and swung wide open. The ferret, seeing his escape, jumped towards Tot, knocking him off balance and into his sister. The three of them tumbled towards the Armoire which was wide open and emitting a bright blue glow. It was a portal to a far off place, and the three of them tumbled into it, the doors closing as they did.
They rolled out into another study, far away from the shores of the Sword Coast. Where, well it’s in the title of the story, but what they did there, and how they got back, I’ll save that for another time.
For now, it’ turnip stew time, you’re happy to join me over a bowl.