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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Sep 2005
Location: Here. In London. Not as good as Scotland, but fun nonetheless!
Gender: Male
Posts: 234
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Tavern Tales -
This is a peice i have written for a Black Library forum.
All comments welcome!
All jargon, story etc, property of Games Workshop and BLack Library.
Tavern Tales – A Small Encounter
So, young warrior, you have returned once more I see? Good, good, I like a bit of company while I drink. Another story? Why of course. Did I tell you I was once a writer? No? A scribe, I was, for a reputable Noble who liked to read about the world. He had grew weary of the ‘boring’ scripts he found in his library, and commissioned myself to travel the world – generally to places too dangerous, or sordid, for one such as himself to set foot; and I was to record my travels, for his pleasure.
Sorry son? No, I do not write any more. My hands… too arthritic you see – no, these days it’s a good story, with company such as yourself, over a good pint of ale. Mines an Altdorf Special when your there.
Well, I’ll go right to the beginning, just after I had left my university in great Altdorf. I was desperately poor, my family losing what money they had – that’s a story in itself – and I was determined to make my way in the world. One rainy winter month I had been instructed to search the hills for greenskins, the marauding brutes we all know and love, and report my findings back to my master. He wished to find out more about these savages. A dangerous task, yet the crowns were good; so off I went with some hired help, feeling safe – yet life can throw strange things at you, as I was to find out…
The young scribe looked out of the wagon, and miserably stared upon the dreary weather – torrents of rain pounded the earth, turning the firmest of ground slippery. Taal must be in a hell of a mood, he thought. He was glad his employer had given them money to book travel such as this – he was sure he would drown just breathing outside, the rain was that thick. For several hours now the wagon had edged its way along the road, but with the said road more akin to a river, they were not moving with any pace.
Dieter Ubereck was a bright young scholar, just out of university and determined to make his name in the world of writing. Travel writing had such drama and adventure attached to it – supposedly – but looking at the wall of water outside, stuck in a cramped wagon, it would seem it also had its downfalls…
Ubereck was of medium build, thin, agile, and ordinary looking. He wore ill fitting clothes consisting of travelling breeches and shirt, good sturdy boots and a thick cloak. He almost looked comical with his over filled backpack of quills and paper tied across his back – most people in these parts sported a myriad of weapons about their person. The life of adventure seemed like a good way of getting women, he deemed, rather than good looks. Years of university playing second fiddle to rich sons were testament to it. A thin scar crossed his right cheek upon his clean shaven face; even his startling blue eyes could not hide it.
He did not travel alone. His potentially fatal (or crazy, as some had said) task deemed that he needed some form of protection. Three hired ‘bodyguards’ accompanied him on his writing quest: Two men and a Dwarf. It was almost a title to an Altdorf play, he mused. He was sure these vagabonds would slit his throat if they were not so well paid, so gruff and mean minded were they. Manners were something to rob to them.
They shared the ride with a quiet hooded woman, slunk in the corner reading some form of foreign book, if he was not mistaken, and absolutely keeping herself to herself. The smell of the Dwarf alone was off-putting. The driver of the wagon was the only other soul aboard, and you could get better conversation from a door.
So it was that Dieter sat staring out at the watery wilderness, wishing for a warm fire and decent conversation.
The hours pounded by, and finally Taal’s mood eased and the rain trickled to a fine mist. Soon Dieter found himself standing in drying mud with his entourage of mercenaries, preparing for a hike into the unknown – the save haven of the wagon a dwindling memory. His ‘writing task’ was to search out some Greenskin monstrosities from the hills, and discover more about their nature, if possible. It was a dangerous assignment, fraught with danger and uncertainty – but the rewards were great: acclaim for the scientific research, the bravery in doing it, and the pay was damn good; not to mention the bragging to women about his heroic deeds. Only the more deranged fanatic would take on such a quest – but in these dark times, the money, and said fame, was too much for a young scribe to turn down.
As they walked from the trodden path, Dieter and his protectors venturing into the brush, what light there was fading, even as the dark storm clouds lazily rolled into the distance, the young scholar looked upon his colleges:
Bruno, the silent Man Mountain – Tall, muscular, yet with a large beer belly; he held a large warhammer and constantly wore brown – brown leathers, brown shirt, even brown hair and eyes. Dieter never mentioned it, just encase the giant of a man took offence.
Ulrich, a tough, medium sized individual, loved swords and women alike (although which one he favoured most could be debated). ‘I have twelve children across the old World’ he would boast – and probably as many enemies – his scarred face (probably) evidence of this. Below his bald head and marked face he wore a colourful assortment of leather armour mixed with a red shirt and tight black leggings.
Finally came Storri Gottison, the four foot four menace. He could be possibly the foulest, rudest, and ugliest Dwarf this side of the Misty Mountains. He wore ancient, shabby rags and held a pack full of old food and rusty weapons – blades, axes (for all occasions), darkening breads, and Sigmar knows what else – however, he held a gleaming axe, which he named Whitebeard. This weapon he looked after better than anything he owned and was sometimes seen talking to it in low whispers.
Overall, it was a strange lot, but the young scholar had to rely on them to watch over him – which, quiet possibly, made this journey even more dangerous.
* * *
Dieter once again pulled out his worn map, and scrutinised it, trying to remember what his employer had said about the whereabouts of the small Greenskin tribe hereabouts.
‘By Grungni lad, have you lost the way already?’ Asked the Dwarf, through his near toothless mouth.
‘He would lose his way in a wenches pants,’ grunted Ulrich, which raised a snigger from Bruno.
‘I- I think we head this way,’ said the young scholar, uncertainly. He started to walk further into the trees.
Storri shook his greasy head, and followed, mumbling about it not being worth the money.
The other two mercenaries followed, with Ulrich moving swiftly towards Dieter. ‘Are you sure scribe? There’s nothing but beasts an’ spirits in here, let me see the damn map…’
A cackle of thunder sounded in the distance. The eye of the storm passed, and the clouds once more promised rain, which was not such a welcome thought out in an unknown forest, as night descended.
The adventurers pulled their cloaks closer – the Dwarf swore – and (after Ulrich finally relented) they trudged into the dark canopy of the forest, hopeful that at least the trees would offer some protection from the rain.
An unpleasant hour of walking through the wild landscape passed. Drip by drip the rain, once more, began its deluge, a soft musical rhythm pattering off the trees turning into a crescendo of noise – as if the Gods themselves fought in the grey clouds.
The water still managed to soak the men and Dwarf to the skin, waying down their armour and clothes.
‘I’m gonna ask for more crowns to pay for my shirt, damnit,’ Ulrich moaned to no one in particular. A solemn mood had overcome the group – the gloom of the forest and weather silencing them, each man discussing with his own thoughts.
Slowly, the eerie forest darkened, with no sign of Greenskins – or any wildlife for that matter – and Dieter began wondering if they were going to find anything at all. His employer had said they would find signs of the savages around this part of the forest, and the hunt for knowledge would begin. But no signs of life could be found. Nothing, There was nothing in these-
A bestial growl broke his thoughts.
A chill swept his spine.
The mercenaries drew their weapons instantaneously, warriors to the core. The young scribe merely looked around, bewildered. ‘What-‘
‘Shh,’ sounded Bruno, hefting his warhammer.
Dieter, straining his ears, could only here the rain as it pelted off his body and that of his colleagues. As he looked around, he realised they had found themselves in a small clearing – the rain pounding into the ground before him.
Then a roar. A roar that rattled the soul, a beast, only to be described as coming from his darkest of nightmares, made even more terrifying by the impending darkness and watery curtain, crashed through the bushes close to the group, and charged at them.
It stood twice, at least, the size of a man. Great horns grew out of its ferocious looking head, long teeth jutting from its horse-like maw. It had a body that resembled that of a mans; naked apart from a loin-cloth, and held a wicked looking giant axe. As it charged, it’s hoofed feet dug deep into the drenched earth, betraying its weight.
‘A bloody Minotaur,’ Dieter could here Storri say, ‘that just makes the day.’
‘Beasts an’ spirits I said. Beasts an’ spirits.’ Whispered Ulrich.
Lumbering Bruno was the first to react, being closest to the Minotaurs' attack. He swung his mighty warhammer above his head and took the charge, yelling Sigmars' name. The horned beast angled its head and horn met warhammer, resulting in the large man being thrown across the clearing, his body skidding gout out of the soaked ground as he fell.
Another triumphant roar.
Ulrich, sword in hand, slowly stepped to the side, watching the beast, awaiting action. He had barely flinched at seeing his friend so easily felled. Storri, the dwarf, held Whitebeard aloft, and stalked the other side of the beast, readying himself.
Dieter had seen action before. Yet only once, and nothing like this. During university he had called out a fellow student for a duel – over a woman, no less. The livid scar he sported today was testament to his failure to win, and he lost the girl to boot. Seeing such a monstrosity shocked him to the core, and he stood frozen with fear, yards away from his foe.
The Minotaur looked at him, it’s strangely intelligent eyes glaring into his soul. It turned to smite him.
Simultaneously, both mercenaries attacked as the beast lunged for the scribe – Whitebeard cutting into its belly, just as Ulrich’s keen blade sliced into the Minotaur neck – all three fell to the ground in a strangled heap.
Dieter stared, dumbfounded at what he had witnessed. Ulrich picked himself up, moaned about his shirt, and hauled his sword out of the beasts throat; blood spilled out, mixing with the mud and rain. Storri grunted while pulling himself out the blood mire he found himself swimming in.
‘Where’s my axe?’ He spluttered, gaining his footing and looking upon the twitching body of the Minotaur.
It was then that Bruno walked over, holding his damaged head and chest. He looked at the now dead Minotaur, then at Dieter: ‘Earned our crowns today, me-thinks.’
Still, the young scribe stood, stationary with mouth open, aghast. How they moved, these mercenaries. Such warriors.
The Dwarf finally pulled his axe from the corpse. ‘Well?’
The rain continued to pour down upon the scene, and within minutes the adventurers had restarted their quest, speechless scribe in tow. The search continued in earnest.
Not that they found any Greenskins.
But that, they say, is another story.
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My website: Heresy
Last edited by Brightside : 01-08-2006 at 10:51 AM.
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