An overdoes of adventure - Zat, zatico, ke zat prequel

[Walsingham]

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.

 

 

[melkathi]

*taps another Gold Imperial on the bar counter*

[Walsingham]

  

...There is a pause as the cups are refilled...

 

Part Two: The Good Doctor

"The owner of the cart turned out to be a doctor attached to the military force. I was several days acting as assistant and driver, before I realised that the doctor was a woman. I learned her name was Tristessa Mandragora, and though Tilean she could speak just enough of Estalian to give me tasks without resulting to slapping me about the head.  This pleased my dignitya little, but it pleased my ringing ears still more."

 

"We spent a month or so, travelling by cart towards what I presumed was the front lines. Around us a great army was on the march, the first I had ever witnessed. Crossbowmen, spearmen, axemen, and at our head a pack of what you Reiklings call 'freelancers' on huge horses. Songs in a dozen languages ran up and down, and round our night fires. For we were a mercenary army. Hired to die for a few silver shillings a week." 

 

"On the road my mistress and I treated the soldiers for the usual complaints a marching army suffers from: blisters, floury bowel, and broken cheeks. I learned chirurgical wisdom from watching the Doctor. The horse remained a mystery, but with kindness I found matters improving. By night I slept on the ground, and doing so I developed a cough which plagues me to this very day. Only good wine and good living will treat it."

 

With this statement Bernardo bangs his cup upon the table. You take the hint and gesture for your cup and for Bernardo's to be refilled As an afterthought you gesture towards the one-eyed man serving you, but he shakes his head.

 

"Parche there won't drink," Don Barracuda explains seriously. "He is concerned that his buttocks produce unholy and abbreviated noises. Refraining from alcohol is my prescription."

"Nonsense!" You interrupt.

"But is it not written that abstinence makes the fart grow sounder?" Bernardo says quickly tweaking the curl of his moustache with his fingers."Parche!" He continues, "Time for the food?

"Soon, Don Barracuda, soon," says the man behind the bar in his rough voice. This is good enough for Bernardo who resumes his tale.

 

"With the good doctor I travelled for a considerable amount of time. What sights there were for a young man to see! Did I mention the cavalry riding past looking splendid in their fine uniforms, and some of your Reiklander troops wheeling strange engines of war?"

 

"Eventually Guosht drew near, and with it disaster. Word and wounded came back down the line that our vanguard had ridden ahead, full of confidence and been ambushed. Confusion and dissension reigned for it seeemd that all the agreed leaders had perished in the fight. Our forces fell to bickering, and agreeing on no strategy we ground to a halt."

 

Bernardo's expression here is as fierce as it is rueful. And he refills his own cup while staring into the distance.

 

"Not that I knew much of this, any more than a worm knows the feel of the breeze. We only knew as much as we did because our overnight halt had become a point where wounded men would accumulate. A patch of flat ground in a valley out of the wind, with a bit of fresh water and pine trees all round. We had no cause to abandon our labours and retreat, nor anyone to order us to advance. The wounded would pay us when they could and the doctor would barter for supplies from wagons going to the large camp some miles onwards. The year turned, the ground hardened then dissolved into a muddy autumn. Of victories we heard nothing."

 

"Part of my weekly duties during this time involved transporting the capable and willing to a village back down the line of march. The headman would take them under his large roof for a few silver and feed them until they were strong enough to strike out on their own. This village was a full day's ride by cart away - and the horse who now responded eagerly to my commands soon could practically make his own way there and back."

 

"As the days wore on, the number of injured grew and we had many people to attend to. We erected a small stockade, just of branches you know. I was no engineer! However, we were not without help. A small wiry man who everyone called Weasel was of assistance. He was a scarred veteran of many a savage encounter with the infection that is the green-skinned hordes. He helped nurse his fellow mercenaries while he waited for his leg wound to heal up."

 

Bernardo's eyes have sunk into the mists of memory now, and are red veined with wine. He smiles suddenly, looking much younger, and says "We had another helper too, a big man who got given the nickname bear."

 

Bernardo sips mechanically from his cup.

"Why," You ask, somewhat foolishly, "So many animal names?"

 

"Well calling this big man Bear almost got me a thrashing from him," the swordsman winces, replacing his drink. "He turned up at camp with a wounded left arm - not his fighting arm. There were the usual language problems, even Weasel could not speak his tongue and while I was finding this out I mentioned to my svelte helper that if he was called weasel then this towering fellow before us, must naturally be bear. I laughed and so did Weasel but I could see an expression of thunder on the the newcomer's big furry face. It was as if this was the gravest of insults to him. Perhaps his homeland did not venerate the mighty bear. Or perhaps he'd lost a family member during an ill-fated stroll in the woods. Anyway I had to act fast to redeem my continued good looks."

 

"'A bear is in the woods' I said pointing towards Bear and walking gesturing my height and size as I did, 'and a rabbit comes hopping along', here I put my hands behind my head like two ears and did what I consider a fine rabbit impression. 'The bear says to the rabbit' and here I pretended to be a bear; 'Do lumps of your sh** stick to your fur, little rabbit?'"

 

"You must understand that on a campaign I had most opportunity to learn words for such base terms. I thought the same must be true for this giant. So, trusting to this I continued to mime each animal as they occurred in my little story. 'And the rabbit replies back thinking that this is a strange question indeed, Why no friend bear, it does not. My fur is as lovely and as glossy as ever'."

 

"Well, by this point Bear's expression had altered from fury to bemusement. I seeing this continued

 

"'The bear thanks the rabbit and picks him up, as if to embrace him.  ...Then the mighty bear wipes his arse with the rabbit!'"

 

"I thought my joke had gone badly wrong. Silence had full rein in the camp and I braced myself for the impact for bear's mighty fist.

My ears were the only thing to suffer an impact, and the blow was from the sound of raucous laughter, for when the Bear laughed he did not do so by half measures! "

 

"Such was the power of my story that Bear would roar with laugher and point to me whenever I was in sight of him. It also allowed me and Weasel to treat his arm. However all this had the drawback of him occasionally calling me rabbit, but thank Shallya for small mercies he never picked me from the ground and wiped himself with me!"

 

Some of the drunken students in the room snigger at this story and one even tries a quick abortive attempt to sit upright, but this is to do with the smell of cooking that is masking more bitter smells. Bernardo drinks and seems hesitant to continue.

 

"Surely the tale is not done!" You ask.

Bernardo climbs from the stool and staggers to the doorway in silence. He turns to answer at the door frame.

"My tale grows darker from now on the memories are not peasant for me to recall. With an empty bladder and the imminent arrival of food I will continue my tale."

 

 

  

[melkathi]

So when do we get installment 3?

(And when will the others comment on this thread to encourage the continuation?)

[Walsingham]

The author's computer broke. He's fixed it and I'll get onto him.

[redneckdevil]

good so far, when we getting more?

[Walsingham]

I have just rung the author and left a message demanding more.

Edited May 21, 2013 by Walsingham

[Walsingham]

Sent another reminder.

[melkathi]

And he put you on snooze again?

[Walsingham]

And he put you on snooze again?

 

LOL. No, he's got stuck. I've been trying to motivate him by promising him sexy ladies.

 

I hope to god at least one of you is a sexy lady or I've been lying my **** off.

[melkathi]

 

LOL. No, he's got stuck. I've been trying to motivate him by promising him sexy ladies.

 

I hope to god at least one of you is a sexy lady or I've been lying my **** off.

 

 

You probably were lying to him.

But I got a better reward you can offer him:

A night out on the town with the master himself: Rosbjerg

 

Even if arranging that doesn't work out, you can always get him so drunk that he doesn't remember anything and then pretend

[Walsingham]

You could be onto something there, you know. We could sell holidays with Ros, and then just give people a mickey finn, and roleplay them getting up to stuff. When they wake up, we tell, them. Any complaints and we bring in the midget stripper with the black eye.

Edited June 30, 2013 by Walsingham