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Sho I've been in, around and almost entirely inebriated in the mediocre little town of Brininford for ... I don't really remember quite how long, but a while.
I get along with most of the locals I sh'pose, 'though I don't remember most of their names. Lately I've been working out of the Baron's Inn as a bouncer/cook/medic in the evening hours in trade for some coin, a lice-free bed and chow. My placard of Cayden Caileen, the Ultimate Drunken Hero and Patron Gawd of Real Adventurers, has its place of honor adjacent to the fancy chamber pot with the seat built over it.
Jusht got done making up 'Drunn's Special Brew' for the party held in celebration of the other local bunch of adventurer types besides mine, paying handsomely for a couple of weeks' work. Gave me something to do while the pointy-ears of my drinking club/adventuring party extricated themselves from an intense legal battle. Seems there was a pimp-lawyer involved, explaining why she was convicted of anything at all.
I mean really, what else are wererats good for besides gamey meat and a supply of accessories? Fireball practice of course! Mosht unfortunate about the whole burning down a block of the warehouse district thing by one of the pointy-ears.
Well, sure enough, I'm all decked out with properly glittering bling - four rings on each hand and the really shpiffy crystal-encrusted silver-silk headband covering my phylactery - when the baron's daughter shows up in his stead as the Big Kahuna of the party.
Naturally, as the night wore on the ladies made their way to my superior partying presence. A little trio of rather homely blonde midgets with a fondness for pink and a matching set of pocket-sized "tea cup Yorkshire terriers". The ladies are Bambi, Barbie and Becky. The little yapping pocket snacks are Itsy, Bitsy and Mitsy. They sure could hold their liquor for a midget - they each downed a full pint!
We were hitting off nicely and I was thinking about my extreme good fortune in hooking up with a set of identical triplets - perhaps my beergoggles were rather thicker than normal. I do confess to the 3 midgets being rather remarkably homely with shockingly bright blonde hair and a distressingly profound fondess for pink and lace. A pleasantly feminine counterpoint to the longish cast of face and rather yappish-voiced. And the eeriness of hearing all three speak more or less in unison, drinking about the same...
Anyhoo, I'm doing my thing while the chow gets spread around, much drink is quaffed, much chow is devoured and everyone celebrates the heroes-of-the-month. Ricket the "ninja" and Dawnflower are the pointy-ears, standing off to one side munching carrots, sniffing granola, sipping fancy smancy wine and probably itching to go hug a tree after a few hours in human 'n' midget company. The lawyer was no where to be found - I guess he was off counting his fees or something.
Once the party wraps up, we're hanging out after the vee-aye-pee's have gone off to sleep or something, scarfing down fried chicken wings and swigging decent lager with a half-dozen still-conscious commoners in the main room, when things got entertaining... er, adventuresome!
Next thing I know a quartet of malevolent little winged stinger-tailed party crashers have come out of the rafters and gleefully engaged in skewering several of the locals with those vicious little stingers of theirs. I made one of them blind with a particularly noxious belch - mixing roast boar, lager, tarts and ranch-slathered veggies generates a nasty breath - and proceeded to pummel mightily with the mighty tankard of the Great Drunken Hero always at my belt. The trio of midgets-n-yap dawgs made herselves useful, peppering the diminuitive foes with pretty rainbow spells and whelmings and what not. Dawnflower webbed the entire chamber during the tussle before dismissing it so proper keister-kicking could be administered. Ricket did his wierd "ninja" stuff - and both of the pointy-ears wound up administering stabbity-death to two of the party crashers with some silvered steak knives and a fork.
Sadly, two of the locals were butchered by the malevolent little flying-stinging turdlings, but at least we crushed three of the quartet before the fourth one fled the scene.
Once the watch arrived, took the particular details down and ushered us off to a well-deserved rest - oh yeah, and we picked up a local flake with a serious mad-on for fiends and the slimy critter-thingies that live beneath sunlight soil. I like his enthusiam though, and he appreciates a good ale and a platter of tater skins appropriately.
At far FAR too early the next morning - what moron gives a public speech to the masses and me at 9 A.M. ?! - I had to get up, drink some more of the dawg that bit me to get back into functioning form. Sadly, one of the homely midget triplets wasn't around, but at least she took her yap-dawg with her, so breaking fast was fairly pleasant. Ricket and Dawnflower tagged along to the pronouncement of His Lordship's latest brainfartings.
Aye wound up with a pair of pink-clad blonde homely midgets on my shoulders to get a good view of the pronouncements. Dawnflower for some reason saw fit to sport a badge proclaiming her allegiance to the Pelorite church. Bah! Sunlight and bashing undead - there's MUCH more to adventuring than bashing undead! Bashing down doors, bashing gnolls in the 'nads, good old-fashioned bar brawls, drinking contests, impromptu singing and wenching are far more fulfilling aspects of an adventurer's careers. And sunlight is a bit rough before it has begun its proper place in the western sky.
Well, sure as Hades, His Lordship had to announce some draconian edicts and introduced a ginormous winged fiend-gargoyle-thing as one of his mini-onions, along with a small horde of much larger bony-carapaced scorpion-tailed mini-onions and a pack of slavering dawgs of Heck, among others I'm quite certain are beyong my admittedly limited powers of perception. Something about crushing the temples of Heironeous and Pelor 'neath hobnailed feet, reporting to militia barracks for 'civic duty', blah blah blah.
Needless to say, Dawnflower's symbol o' Pelor drew undesirable attentions. We had to rumble with a pair of the dawggies from Heck and a handler. We barely, collectively stomped the two Heck dawgs into the ground in the back end of an alley. Never did figure out who the handler was. I was down to orisons by the end of that scrap, and lemme tell you, the dawgs can just royally rain on a good time with a single whiney howl. Dawnflower said it was a "crushing despair" or something - all I know is I had a hard time kicking proper kiester for a little while.
We wound up this exhilerating 24 hour period camped out in Malfoy's lead-lined basement-scry shelter. Malfoy's the fun local flake with a fondness for tater skins I mentioned earlier. Think the lawyer is still lost - or mebbe signed up with the malicious midgets for all I know, don't know yet. Maybe Malfoy stuffed him in a tater sack and stuffed him in a corner in the basement to stay warm and safe.