How to Be an Adventurer- World of Gimmok

by Damien Hanson

  Carric scowled a bit, feeling quite bad about this flippancy towards death.

  “Don’t you think we should honor the dead better?!”

  Bern kind of frowned, silent for a moment, and then responded, “Don’t worry. The people are good. They’ll make sure Jenn Eric’s body will get back to his family.”

  The sensitive Carric replied, “You are probably right.”

  Meanwhile Yenrab, the natural philosopher, had become lost in thought about Jenn Eric: Jenn Eric had never really been a real part of the party. He never really clicked in that short time he was with them. Indeed, Jenn Eric Enpeasea just felt like, kinda, a generic character. Mayhaps, a non-player character, since there surely were no gods putting their games upon his shoulders. What a horrible notion. What would it be like to be a generic NPC with no unique voice or personality of your own?

  He wished he had an answer, but he didn’t. Nor was he able to find one in the time it took them to reach their destination.

  They arrived at Hub Inn. That beautiful and antiquated design, that once they regarded as just a bit higher than humdrum, now shone with glory. Food, a washboard, a room, and a bed—the very concepts of these things streamed out of it and over the adventurers in a joyful miasma.

  “Dibs on the bathtub!” cried out Yenrab, his butt itching with unwashed dung from the episode with the berries.

  A loud and collective groan flew from everyone else’s lips.

  “What, it isn’t like you can’t all use it after I’m done, ya know. Jeez Louise. Who wants second?”

  “Not it!”

  “Not it!”

  “Not it!”

  A collective race to avoid Yenrab’s remains followed.

  Tracy looked confused as he stood, alone out of the group, with his hand raised.

  “What? Yenrab leaves a nice and earthy smell in the tub when he’s finished. It reminds me of home, in the Freemeet.”

  “Those weirdo Freemeetians,” Wex shook his head, laughing.

  ***

  The party collected itself and then moved forward, into the inn, in a solemn fashion. Wex held Tim’s shiny belt buckle in hand, ready to present it, and his story, at a moment’s notice.

  The interior was deserted at this time. Those people who had stayed the night had yet to rise if they had no business on the day. And if they did have business they had already supped and left, perhaps sneaking a sip of alcohol with their morning bread, or even as their morning bread, as is the want of some in these troubled times. The air held still and dusty, and light cast into it at strange angles and in wide arcs.

  Old Pete Burgh stood behind the bar, noting well both their entrance and their subsequent demeanor. He bowed his head, tears dripping down slowly and sternly, with no sobs or sounds, as they splattered tiny rivers over the well-wiped wood in front of him.

  Wex looked with hesitation at the others.

  “He already knows,” Carric said softly. “Give him the buckle and tell him what happened.”

  Wex nodded and then removed his mask. His green eyes and tan face were incredibly solemn as he took on his task as speaker for the dead. He placed the buckle on the bar, reconsidered, and held it out to Pete, patiently awaiting his notice.

  The man looked up with bloodshot eyes, clearly in a lot of pain. He grabbed the buckle, still so very shiny even after its theft by the hag and its travails through the darkness of the lighthouse, and stared at it. Then he drew it to his chest.

  “Mr. Pete Burgh, I was there the night your son was taken and killed. I and another, Jenn Eric Enpeasea, attempted to stop it, but we were ourselves captured by an infernal hag. Your son was seeing a woman, and they had apparently decided to meet up out by the old lighthouse. He died fighting for the woman he loved, even if he wasn’t dead yet when those two were carried off. He was a warrior, your son, and the gods will honor him as such. Upon the word of Mask, I declare it,” Wex said with as much emotion as he could muster. And then he bowed.

  “Thank you, yes, thank you. He was a good boy, that one.”

  Pete wiped his face and bent down underneath the bar, bringing up a purse heavy with coins.

  “A deal is a deal. Dead or alive. You take this money. And, if it isn’t too much to ask, you go kill all those things that off and killed my son.”

  The party all looked at each other, and then back at Pete.

  “Already done, good sir,” Yenrab boomed. “It almost killed us all, but ya know, I’d do it again and again if the gods kept giving me a chance to change my mind.”

  “As would I,” proclaimed Svein, his voice loud and proud. “The undead are a menace to all good folk.”

  “Thank you, all of you, for your deeds. I offer you stay in my inn until such a time in which you are recovered.”

  “Thank you and our condolences, Mr. Burgh. We will only stay as long as we need to be ready to leave off. I, and I am sure all of us, wish you the best possible future.”

  ***

  The world can be such a dark place at times. And, at others, such a light one. Sometimes, in the midst of great grief from one, others are feeling a bit of joy. They juxtaposition themselves into this cloud of guilt. Sometimes, an innkeeper has just lost his son and is incredibly sad, yet the adventurers, who found out the fact, have just gone from broke to, well, having a bit of money, and are quite happy. Sometimes the same adventurers almost died to do this and are happier still to have survived. It makes it hard to write about because some feel that the adventurers should be more attentive and fuller of grief over the death of Pete Burgh’s son. But, life, it doesn’t work that way. Shedding tears over such a stranger is, itself, strange in context. We do not cry for the death, we cry for the loss of future companionship and new, wonderful, experiences. Where is the loss in knowing the death of someone that would not be there for future endeavors?

  So, really, it should be no surprise that the adventurers did their best to respect Burgh’s grief but also, simultaneously, were quite exuberant overall.

  “Oh, man. We did it! Five hundred gold coins!” Tracy said with enthusiasm. “That’s, like, a ton less than Yenrab lost us at the fight, but still, five hundred gold coins!”

  Yenrab looked a bit sour. “When did you become the enthusiastic type?!” he inquired.

  “Since we got 500 gold coins!”

  The rest of the crew laughed.

  “Alright, listen, we have gotten a good payment from the man. But let’s be clear. We need to move on out as soon as we can. Our very existence now is tied to the death of this man’s son, and that is something I do not want to revisit upon the man again and again, ya know? We clean up and move out. We need to find somewhere to be, and quickly, before snowfall,” Yenrab chided.

  Carric put up a finger, to signal wait and silence. Bern approved with a nod as he realized the bard was using thieves’ cant. Carric gave him a middle finger, thinking back to the rudimentary lessons he had had in this very thing. You don’t get all of the credit, man.

  Bern laughed and flashed one of his own. Wex laughed as well, while the others looked bewildered.

  “One of what?” Svein asked with naiveté, mistaking the raised finger for a count.

  “One of us!” Wex exclaimed with warmth, slapping Carric on the back.

  Carric’s face polymorphed into a multitude of things before settling on shocked happiness.

  Bern and Wex read his face well, being quite experienced in the task. They flashed a series of movements at him, for only him to know.

  You think being a thief is something we aspired to? Life has its breaks, man. We’ve got your back.

  Or, as Carric understood it, You think thief is good. Life has man break back.

  Carric nodded his head vigorously with a thumbs-up.

  Great. I’m friends with psychos. Well, at least I have a crowd.

  “Alright, guys, listen. I have an idea,” Tracy said and then paused.

  And paused and paused.

  “Gods, man, spill with it!” Sv
ein said, a bit maddened by it.

  “And now, finally, you understand, Svein. Pauses are horrible, aren’t they?” Tracy lectured.

  Svein reddened a bit with embarrassment and anger.

  “Okay. Well, with that taken care of, let me tell you how things should go. Every time I go to the bar and try to meet some nice person, you all try to play music and rob people. I have a plan. Now that we have money, let’s go to the bar and not do that,” Tracy said with a serious face.

  “Wait, you mean, what, just get out of here and go have fun?” Bern asked, with an amazed face.

  Yenrab seized on the moment.

  “Heck, yeah. Enjoy yourselves. Have some fun. Stay away from the illegal stuff. Assuming Tamara has cleared it all up for us, I’d guess that we will be welcome to it.”

  “Sounds boring,” said Wex, yawning.

  “Don’t worry, Wex; I know how to party!” Bern exclaimed.

  “Heck yeah, nothing illegal! Yenrab, we’re all onboard,” Carric stated enthusiastically.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Pauses, Svein. What in the heck did your parents teach you about manners?” Tracy said in a huff.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Shush, Svein, you are wrecking everyone’s good time. Just say yes, and let us figure it out for you from there.”

  “N—”

  “—ot gonna say no to a tremendous party. Alright, guys, Svein’s in too. Let’s do it,” Tracy interrupted.

  Yenrab looked suspiciously at the lot but was also quite a bit humored by Tracy’s constant shutdown of Svein.

  “Yeah. I think this will work. Let’s regroup here and wait for night. And then, alright team, let’s activate!”

  ***

  When groups get together, they sometimes come up with amazing ideas. What happens if I pound this stone into a big flat circle? I bet it’ll roll farther than your rock, Murg.

  What happens if I put this metal over fire? Holy crap, it becomes water. Quick, give it to Murg; he’ll drink anything.

  It is sad that Murg died, but look how the metal water changed shape in his mouth! What happens if we make shapes in rock and drop metal water into it?

  And, thus, civilizations progress.

  In our group’s case, the idea was a bit more complex. Though unspoken. What happens if we go back to the place where we created a bunch of problems?

  Well, Svein whines and yells a lot, but we aren’t there yet.

  Svein, seriously, just shut up, it is going to be fine. Tamara said she was going to take care of all of this.

  Svein, honestly, I’m starting to get sick of your crap. Go home, Svein. Yes, you’re still in the group but, really, try to feel the mood a bit better next time Svein. No, don’t cry. Agh. Fine, Svein. Come along, but for gods’ sakes, stop with this “they are going to kill us” nonsense.

  And, thus, groups progress.

  Chapter 39: The Yenrab Special

  The Chivalrous Chicken was well full of locals when they got there. A diverse table of humans, dwarves, and gnomes were playing cards, with a surprisingly large heap of coins in the poker pot, which attracted a lot of attention from people there. Still, you could see plenty of tables around the periphery of the main room with various sentients gorging on all sorts of foods, including dire wolf burgers served on halfling-baked rolls with a dark-green pickle on the side, the Yenrab Special with chicken spilling delicious aromas and juices into the air and onto the tables over top of its wolfish host, and of course potato stew with a fresh side salad for the vegetarians and those adventurers who could lose a few pounds so that they could fit into those tight dungeon caverns.

  Tracy noticed a table of passed-out halflings with three unfinished bottles of elderberry wine and thought he had seen that somewhere before. Yenrab’s eyes went straight to the special, which he, a bit angrily and defeatedly, decided he needed to order. And Carric, of course, eyed the stage. No one was there. Bern, at first, scanned the scene and looked for the wealthiest, flashiest guests there just as a matter of habit. Not this time. I’d be a fool to try to run this bar right now. Especially with all of the coin in our pockets. No, tonight, I have fun. His eyes quested and found a young and attractive woman at a poker game surrounded by a number of gents paying her compliments and jousting verbally for her favor. Game on.

  A number of eyes turned to the party when they entered but then turned back to their companions. Svein retreated back a bit, ready for a mob, but Wex bowed, and the people began to clap and cheer.

  “The heroes of Rising Action! They cleared the lighthouse!”

  A drunken table in the back started chanting.

  “Yenrab! Yenrab! Yenrab!”

  Bern, Carric, Tracy, and Svein all looked at each other with a bit of dismay mixed with hilarity. Of course, it was gonna be Yenrab. Somehow, it always was. And why not? Such an amiable fellow and a sign of changed relations with the humanoids. Yenrab’s exploits, true and not, were increasingly bringing orcs and half-orcs into the fold of the all-accepting Freeholder’s Republic. It was the freedom of all races, after all, that had started their war of independence from the Nemedian empire in the first place.

  “I guess Tamara did her job of soothing any bad feelings people had against us,” said a somewhat serious, but assured, Svein.

  “That and Yenrab’s reputation,” said Bern with a smile. “I guess the stories of the troll haven’t made it here yet.”

  Some rather good-looking women passed by them. Tracy’s eyes followed.

  “No time to talk; I see some people who don’t know that they need me in their lives. I’m heading to the bar, gents. See you later.”

  Some bestial noises followed his departure.

  “I’m starved!” said Yenrab a little too loud, scratching his behind, and making his way to a dwarvish waitress to make his order.

  “Get some food, man,” Bern advised and then pointed to the poker game.

  “I’ve got my own something to do, mates. Have fun!”

  Wex followed him. One could well imagine that the roguish cleric was grinning ear to ear beneath that mask.

  Even Svein settled his nerves. The man looked about at everything, and then headed over to where Yenrab was sitting, a tremendous dish already steaming in front of him.

  “How’s the food?”

  “You know, I don’t taste all that bad. And, after they took one good look at me, it was free! For the price, I don’t think I’ve had better.”

  Svein laughed merrily.

  “My good half-orc, I am glad to hear that.”

  Looking around he could see Bern and Wex playing cards and laughing. At the bar, Tracy was talking with everyone and dazzling them all with a variety of harmless, but quite beautiful, cantrips, and Carric was heading to the stage.

  “Waitress,” Svein called out over the din, smiling and content. “I’ll have what he is having. Oh, and a mug of stout as well.”

  ***

  Carric, always a people-watcher, looked over his companions, his friends, with a good and strong feeling. He smiled broadly, feeling, within himself, some part of his being—some resistant part of his soul damaged by being different and an unaccepting youth—give. We are one, we are strong, we are heroes!

  Striding up to the empty stage he was interrupted by the brewmeister, who was quite vehement in his protestations.

  “You, no, get off! You are a curse on my soul. Get away from my stage!” He tugged at his spidery gnomish beard in anger as he protested.

  There is something about near-death experiences that changes people. Some gain a paralyzing sense of foreboding that destroys what they had. Others, finally, have control over their life, realizing how quickly and thoroughly it can be ended. Carric, full of friendship, joy, and carpe diem, shoved the gnome aside and strode onto the stage.

  “Who in the seven hells, here, tonight, wants some music!”

  The people cheered. The brewmeister, intimidated, backed off with an evil glare.

 
The bard had his lute ready and his mouth harp in place, on a wired apparatus that allowed him to sing when he wasn’t blowing. His legs stood firm, his face resolute, as he played a mellow, hauntingly beautiful song of celebration from his homeland. His voice, no longer quaking and nervous, provided a strong timbre. He felt alert and acutely alive. Scanning the crowd, seeming to meet each and every set of eyes present, Carric addressed the audience.

  “How many of you are going to take on the world some day?”

  Carric’s eyes bore into each and every one of them. There was a brief silence, punctuated by a stifled belch from the barbarian.

  “Sounds difficult, that does,” a voice offered up.

  “It is. But”—the bard’s very presence burned with and emanated energy—“tonight, we are going to do just that. Who’s ready to stand with me and defy the times we live in?”

  The crowd could feel the intensity coming from Carric. Rising throughout the crowd, one could hear, “We are!”

  “And are you waving your banner of success all over the place?”

  Seemingly on tune, the crowd responded with energy, “We are!”

  Carric, right on beat, asked, “Are you going to make some peace someday?”

  And, back on the beat, the crowd roared, “We are!”

  At a fevered pitch, suddenly Carric screamed out, melodically, in tune, “Well, then I will rock you!”

  And Carric began to sing:

  “I’ve paid my dues

  Adventure after adventure

  But earned no gold

  And bad mistakes

  I make a lot

  I’ve had my share of

  Skeletons kick me in the face

  But I’ve come through—Rising Action

  And, I need to go on

  and on and on and on

  “We are the

  Heroes my friends

  And, we’ll keep on

  Fighting till the undead are dead

  We are the heroes

  We are the heroes

  No time for losing cause

  We are the heroes of Rising Action Tower”

  The crowd starting going wild.

  “Is that Carric up there?” asked Yenrab.