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An Overdose of Adventure: Bernardo Mikal Barracuda’s Backstory by +redacted+ & Walsingham All Estalian words and grammar are correct by definition Part One: Beetle Paste Wine In the cramped twisting streets in the Citadel in Magritta is a notably runty thoroughfare called la callejon Hacha. In the middle of this narrow passageway, where the upper stories of the houses almost kiss above the carcass of a dead goat, there sits a well-maintained but sparsely furnished tavern. This drinking establishment so your woodcut guide insists retains a healthy reputation despite the garish sign that swings outside indicating in pictorial form all too vividly that this tavern is the ‘Puto Pintado’. You push you way in, and your nostrils are assaulted by the heady stench of sour wine, singed hair, and vomit. This distinctive perfume hits like a dwarven breakfast, making your eyes water and letting you know your list of places to visit in the city was indeed a cruel forgery. You order a beer from the four-foot tall thug with an eye-patch and a fine collection of scars behind the bar. Then sit at an empty stool. As your eyes grow accustomed to the dark you realise that the bar you had previously thought to be empty is occupied by several figures. Some of these figures are lying prone other are slumped haphazardly around. The man sitting next to you with his head resting on his hands sits up, and takes a sip from the cup in his hand. He carries a sabre with a highly polished hilt in a scabbard hanging from his belt and has a black moustache that curls up at the ends. Both moustache and sword are considerably more splendid than their owner. He has faded clothes that are of good quality but have been repaired by someone who can use a needle and thread while lacking the finesse of a tailor. “Traveller?” he asks in a thick accent that you instantly recognize as Estalian. “Yes,” you reply, “and yourself?” “I am Bernardo Mikal Barracuda,” he lifts and nods his head, a bow in condensed form, “We all here are medical students,” he gestures to the bodies scattered around the room, “salutations.” Various groans of acknowledgements emanate from around the pub. Someone in the gloom make a feeble attempt to wave. “I’ve been in Magritta for several days, and I am beginning the journey back to my village on the morrow,” you lie. “Ah, and tell me what you think of this jewel of a city?” You mention the usual platitudes, commenting on the bustling populace and the amazing sights to see but you make the mistake of using the word ‘uneventful’ in your description. Bernardo’s face changes as soon as you say this word. He cracks his wine cup down hard on the bar, causing liquid to spill out. He makes the gesture of the evil eye on his own forehead quickly to ward off evil and then splutters various curse words under his breath. “Life, my friend will soon fix that for you – saying such a thing is to invite the gods to involve you in their sport. I myself went once in search of adventure and there, could I hang a sorry tale.” “I would love to hear more...” You say. “Alas, my throat it is dry,” hinted Bernardo with all the subtlety of a hanging. “I can solve that,” you say, tapping a Gold Imperial on the bar.” The eye-patch wearing man appears as soon as you produce such a highly respected coin. “Keep the drinks coming, for me and Don Barracuda. Perhaps some golpecitos. Snacks, if you have any.” The worth of the coin is tested by a bite between crooked teeth and then the figure, whose single eye gleams in the semi-darkness, and who you presume is the landlord speaks. “Verdad,” And he pours more drink, this time more generous with his measures. Your new friend lubricates his vocal cords with the last of his old drink, spits a wine drowned fly from between his teeth and taking up the fresh cup... he begins his tale. *** “I was in a tavern. They served wine. Not quite as good as this, but close." "In fact I can say without fear of contradiction that it was a dive packed with villains of the lowest kind. I was a foolish young man who felt his life 'uneventful'. I wanted to march out into the world and make something of myself, leave my mark and have tales to tell on winter nights. To hear my pursh jangle as it filled with coins." The man with the eyepatch grunts with amusement at this last and slides a bowl of honeyed and salted almonds down the bar. A pubic hair waves, nonchalant, among them. "Something happened in the bar to do with purple beetles - my memory is hazy on the details. It may have involved betting on beetles. Or drinking games involving small glasses of beetle paste liqueur. I may even have accused a man of having a mother who slept with beetles. The result of this coupled with the bad company I fell in with resulted in my passing out." "I woke up on a ship, with a hangover larger than any beetle that ever walked. I had willingly or unwillingly signed on to a mercenary venture. I am you should know like a fine wine I do not travel well, boats in particular do not suit my delicate disposition and my food during the journey had frequently the desire to enjoy the sea air. So, the details of this part are not gladly recalled. " "We travelled North East I think we were to defend Guosht - no longer known by that name - from the green plague of orc-kind that causes so much suffering around those parts. I did not speak the same tongue as my shipmates, and so my knowledge in this matter is not as full as I would like. I am still, to this very day, surprised I did not die on the journey as all the cut-throats on-board were itching to get there eager daggers wet.” Bernardo takes a swig of his drink after making a toast to dry-land. Somewhere in the darkness of the pub semi-conscious bodies stir trying to join in the toast almost by reflexive action. The result of this drunken motion is the sound of liquid trickling across the floor. You hope the liquid is wine. “Eventually we arrived at the destination and I was tasked with helping to unload cargo from the ship to the docks. I was glad to reach dry-land and to be out of reach from getting slapped around the head, for pain is the method of instruction when you wish to communicate with a young fool such as I was then. I felt my natural colour returning to my cheeks as I worked, and feeling better I whistled while I worked. " "It was indicated to me that one particular set of provisions and supplies had to be loaded onto a cart some way off. The owner of the cart turned up and gestured for me to drive it forward. I was not aided by the horse the cart was attached to, for it was a most stupid animal, its existence an insult to all horses in existence. It was during this struggle between man and beast that I was separated from the force of men from the boat. Their eventual fate, alas, I do not know." Barnardo notices his cup is empty and pointedly falls silent.

Thought I'd break out a space for anyone playing in this milieu. My first question is - does anyone understand the sodding warhammer calendar? My players keep asking about it. As if TIME actually matters to any real person!