Torbjorn snores some more...
*sssssnnnnrrrrrzzzzzzkkkkkkkkkk*
/dead_wake
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Torbjorn snores like a red dragon in heat. *sssssnnnnrrrrrzzzzzzkkkkkkkkkk* /windows_rattle
"I say that's the best idea I've heard all day. Nothing like a bit of a nap in the shade, especially after this...unpleasantness..."
This 'accursed mark' you mentioned intrigues me, however. What led you to believe this mark was cursed? Truly the fate of your ship and it's mates is tragic and smacks of some ill fortune, but if there is any reason to believe that this incident is anything more than the vengeance of wrathful gods, I would hear more of your tale. It would not do to have a curse levied upon our fair city." Tobjorn slowly stood to his full height, dusting the soot from the knees of his leather breeches. He sighed heavily, as if shrugging off all pretense of deception before this holy man. Better that the curse passes to this wretched hive of scum and villainy than follow me about, he thought. He stood for a moment, fidgeting with his helm and staring blankly at the bodies before him. Turning to the priest, he said, "Several weeks ago we acquired a shipment of goods, all carrying a common sigil the likes of which I had never before seen. While none carried the aura of magics, those who chose to bear the marks sometimes met...curious...ends. But nothing my eyes have witnessed in the days since have proven to me that these marks were accursed, or that their fates were anything more than the the leavings of vengeance's hot pursuit. Aye, for all I know, their demise, and the fate of the ship last night, may be nothing more than the simple dice roll of chance, playing games with men's lives. It is as it is," he said with a shrug. Reaching two fingers into a small belt pouch, he produced a small glimmer of coin. "Thank you, father, for guarding their souls from harm, and showing them the light and the path," he said, dropping three gold pieces gently into the priest's outstretched palm. "May the eyes of the wet gods now pass from these souls, and hopefully not linger too long over mine..." Torbjorn turned, and walked back to Othos, who seemed to be watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and humour. Plopping his helm back on his head, Torbjorn smacked his hands together back and forth, as if to drive the very memory of this day from his body. "Come, you wee pink mystic," he said gently to Othos, "let us be gone from this place and never return..."
Well, when you can't bedazzle them with the s+@&e of a bull, sometimes the truth ends up being stranger than the most bizarre fiction,Torbjorn though, coming to his senses but not leaving his knees nor raising his voice when he spoke. "Yes, father, in fact I do. The Nansen took on some goods some weeks back that bore what appears to be an accursed mark. Many on her crew fell victim to unusual calamities and some grisly ends before we finally arrived here. But that in and of itself isn't so terribly unusual - which is faint praise considering the atrocities our captain and some of his associates are rumoured to have perpetrated." Torbjorn threw his chin at the pile of bodies, his eyes never leaving those of the priest. "You see those men behind me? They tampered with great evils far beyond their comprehension in the relentless pursuit of wealth. Never did they stop and truly take stock of what forces were at play when they schemed their great scheme. The cursed items were most certainly partial payback from the gods for what they had presumed to do; or perhaps it was simple fate that brought them on board, and the Nansen's retribution awaited them last night with the storm." His eyes, never blinking, bore through the priest's gaze. "Tell me, good sir, did one of these bodies have a silver tooth, here?," he asked, pointing to his own teeth. "If so, then the captain has indeed put paid to his transgressions, and perhaps those of us who remain can move on in peace, knowing that our deaths aren't so insurmountably preordained..."
I'm sure he would be pleased to know that he is not the only survivor. Tell me though, have you found yourself similarly visited by the spirits of your fallen compatriots?" Well, THIS can't end well, Torbjorn thought, swiftly kicking into action and producing a whimpering sob. With teary eyes, he simpered, "I...I'm not sure just what they are, good sir...indeed, something haunted my dreams last night, but *sniffle* I'm not entirely sure what it was..." With a mightly plumpfh, he plopped his girth right on the surface of the docs before the priest, and folded his hands as if to beg. Tears streaming down his face, he whispered, "Please, dear Father, tell me what you know of this terrible curse that has afflicted our crew and my friends! I am but a simple seafaring man, and know nothing of the will of the gods!" Which is not entirely true, but he doesn't know that, Torbjorn thought. Best see what this pasty old fool knows, so I can get on with this terrible business at hand...
Well, at least no one's swinging a sword at my head this morning, Torjorn thought. Things could be just a little worse... As he stared unseeing at the ritual before him, Torbjorn's mouth remained dry as parchment. He knew with certainty that he should be among those bodies. Through and through his very bones, he simply...knew...that he had inadvertently avoided the steely hand of fate. Had it been luck, or destiny? Did the gods single him out for some greater duty, and purpose? And if they felt him so singularly special, why then spare the life of Helg as well? Was it blind, dumb luck for them both? What if perhaps Helg was the chosen one, and Torbjorn had simply been in the wrong place at the-- Othos' question, direct and sharply delivered, seemed to snap Torbjorn out of his reverie. He mentally shook out the cobwebs, and spoke to the mage out the side of his mouth in hushed tones, almost in reverence to the charred remains of his fallen comrades. His voice emerged as the sound of crumpled dry leaves, so dry was his throat and so great his tension. "The captain was an impressive man, indeed, sharp of wit and strong of body, and spirit. He had not the blood of giants, if that's what you're asking, so no, he wouldn't stand out quite like this one. "As for markings and the like, well, I wouldn't much know. Can't say as I ever saw him out of his clothes, nor would I imagine he was of that particular sailor's persuasion. He did have a single solid silver tooth, bottom left of his jaw, which I suppose could still be in place. Then again, fire may melt or thieves may abscond, so who knows if it's still in place." Only one way to find out. Torbjorn stood and walked slowly to the priest, who seemed to be finishing up his cleansing rituals. Removing his horned helm, he approached with caution and lowered eyes, and spoke far softer than it would seem possible of someone his size. "Excuse me, Father, but these men are my shipmates, my brothers. I was away on shore leave when the tragedy struck, and know naught of what happened. Do you have any information on what happened here, or the identities of any these bodies?"
...oooooh, not so loud.... Torbjorn rolled over onto one arm, snapping his lips and rubbing his eyes. For someone who had obviously had a Very Busy Night, the big Northman awoke with surprising quickness and was on his feet in moments. After yawning and stretching so wide he virtually filled the tiny sitting room, he ruffled his long hair and beard and smiled at Othos. "You're the great seer, magician," he said, smirking at the tiny pale man before him. "If anyone knows the whereabouts of the captain - or his corpse - it would be you and your macical agents spread far and wide about the city, no?" He scratched his wild mane for a moment, then mumbled, "Yes, I can now see that some of these cursed items made it here. But surely there are hundreds, perhaps thousands more just like them, and from other sources. I would wager that this nasty little purse was not from the same shipment that we obtained. In fact, I cannot say that I remember any bags such as this among our number." Shrugging, he said, "I suppose too that Helg may know some small bit more, as he was part of the load gang that brought the original crates on board. But I for one was, shall we say, preoccupied...yes, that's it, preoccupied, when we overtook that sloop and lightened its holds of some unnecessary cargo. However," he said, his voice and gaze turning slightly darker, "I would not wish to visit upon Helg more of the same unluck that seems to have attached itself to my ignorant hide. For all his weaknesses, he is a good man, and had the common sense to not carry any of the marked goods. All things equal, I would prefer to leave him out of this mess." Torbjorn shouldered his pack, and smirked at the dwarf who seemed to have nothing better to to than sip his tea like some schoolgirl at play. "Well, wee man? Are you just going to sit there enjoying your crumpets, or did you have someplace useful to be?"
"Nay, Helg had no interest in the decorated items. It seemed as if the curse would pass him by...but then again, who knows if the curse still lingers on all who touched it? The wet gods did strike my ship from the face of the sea, and for all I know we two are the last survivors of the calamity." He scratched his head in thought, then said, "The captain? Hard to say. When the things first arrived, he laughed and wore a bit or two as a way to have some fun with the crew, but after the second day moved on to the business of running our ship. It is...or perhaps, was...hard to tell what motivated the captain to do the things he did sometimes..." Torbjorn stretched, nearly filling the room with his bulk in the process. "Lads, it has indeed been a long night, and while I don't normally require a lot of sleep, I feel that a nap is in order, especially in light of the rather busy day we've all had. If you don't mind, I'll pass on the snack and curl up on this open chunk of floor in the corner." "Unless, of course, you're hiding your own wench in there," he said, gesturing towards Othos' curtain-covered sleeping chamber with a meaty finger, "and intend to keep us up all night with your screams of ecstasy..."
Ignoring the little man appearing suddenly at his elbow, Torbjørn's brows creased as his thoughts took form. "I know little of the mechanics of runes, or how they come to exist. But I do know that curses and foul evil lurks within the curves and points of some symbols." Taking a deep breath, Torbjørn leaned back and stared directly into Othos' eyes. "While I may not have the skill or experience to decipher exactly who made these marks, nay even that they are anything more than decoration, I have witnessed with mine own eyes the results of brandishing such things on one's being. "Seven, perhaps eight moons ago, as we sailed across the southern seas, the crew came to possess several containers of clothing and personal goods - belts, capes, some tunics, belt pouches, blankets, what have you. All carried this very mark. Rumour has it that the cursed thing had become quite the fashionable trend with Calishite tailors and haberdashers; indeed, some of these items were covered in a ridiculous amount of the things." Torbjørn shifted uneasily in his stool, his glare never wavering. And yet, slowly, the fire began to seep back into his eyes as he remembered those distant times. "Myself, I have no need of such accouterments, and am perfectly happy in a kilt and cape and metal. But there were many on the ship who reveled in vanity, gallantry, putting on fine airs at every turn...as if there was time or place for such things on a working frigate such as ours." he sniffed. "These new shinys were just the thing to set them prancing about the deck, as if their duties meant nothing in contrast to how they appeared. RUBBISH!!" he added with a solid thump on the table with his ham fist. "Why the captain allowed such foolish behaviour to continue was a mystery whose truths I shall now never know, but I for one was disgusted by the whole thing. He simply laughed it off, as the articles had little resale value," Torbjørn said; " apparently he felt it lifted morale, heightened spirits, made for a happier crew. Piffle. A war galley is a place of combat, and pillage, and HONOUR!" A cautious glare from Othos calmed the rapidly rising volume of Torbjørn's booming voice. "It was thus that the crew began to have, shall we say, mysterious accidents. No, before you ask, neither I nor my mates were responsible for their fate. Not everyone, and not simply those who continued to carry this accursed mark; but many that did experienced unsavory endings, or accidents. Some could be passed off as simple carelessness or drunken idiocy. But many men simply vanished into the night. Others discovered missing limbs, as if chewed from their torsos, with not a clue in sight as to the attacker." "Some slipped and plummeted to their gruesome deaths from high atop the yardarms. Others were fine one moment, then by first bell were covered head to toe in pestilence and puss, and expired in a most unpleasant torrent of screams. Some who simply used pouches, like these," he said, indicating the rune before him, "were robbed and shivved. Common thuggery! On our ship!" Torbjørn breathed deeply, shook his head, and continued. "No, I am no expert in the ways of magical runes and abhorrent curses. But I can assure you that I, for one, will never carry on my person anything bearing such a device. The Calishite faeries may claim the blasted things are good luck as much as they wish. But from what these eyes have seen...this is the mark of a terrible, terrible curse." Seemingly finished, Torbjørn looked around him, noticing his surroundings for the first time. "Well, what are you two sitting there gaping at? Don't you have any ale and meat in this hovel? A fine tale like that calls for some replenishment. You there, wee man," he said, pointing a massive finger in Shador's face, "fetch me a full tankard and I promise you I won't use your skull as a footrest later." Torbjørn's eyes gleamed and his cheeks crinkled as he chuckled to his own jape...
...bells and memories, indeed... Torbjørn's meaty hand shook slightly under the sketch, his heart racing. Gods! he thought, the curse has followed me, even to this place! When will the torment cease! He turned to Othos with fear in his eyes. "Aye," he said, barely above a whisper, "this symbol is indeed familiar to these eyes. It represents death, and suffering, and curses of which I know naught." Torbjørn gently released the paper from his grasp, letting it flutter to the floor of the apartment, afraid as if the thing might well explode in his face. "This symbol crossed the path of me and my crew some weeks back. It brought to us nothing but heartbreak, and we destroyed all in our possession that bore this mark. This bodes ill, indeed. Where did you find this, good sir? And why are you offering me assistance, and yet throwing me back out into this foul night? Shouldn't we perhaps discuss this further?" His brow creases with concern, tinged perhaps with a bit of fear, fear to leave this place and encounter yet more horrors this night...
Torbjørn's head spun like a tempest. As his eyes flicked from Othos' hands to his expression and back again, his mind raced. He knows! He knows of the captain's blasphemies! I should kill him and all he has spoken to! What if he...what... As Othos finished his offer, Torbjørn's thoughts stilled. This man, whose arcane power was still undetermined, had offered him help. Help. To Torbjørn. To one who thought himself most unworthy. An offer to assist him in discovering the truth of what had happened this stormy night, and perhaps a chance at revenge. And thus did Torbjørn find himself in very unfamiliar territory indeed: speech would not some to him. For some seconds, his jaw simply hung limp and open, his meaty arms slowly falling to his sides. After blinking heavily a few times, as if to rouse himself from the sudden shock, he looked at Othos with all the fire gone from his eyes. "You offer me...assistance, in my time of need. And yet, I simply cannot believe that you do not have some ulterior motive, or wish some payment in kind from me and my troubled dreams." His shoulders slumped, his rage subsided. Torbjørn slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Othos' steely gaze. "Very well, sir. You have me at an advantage. What is it that you wish of me?"
Torbjorn stood still as death, nostrils flared, his eyes afire with rage. Surely he thinks me a fool,he thought, and this is foul magical trickery at play. How can this creature speak any form of truth? I mustn't let my...my... Suddenly, a thought occured to him. He squinted his steely gaze and softly asked Othos, "And how, prey tell, did you know anything of the destruction of my ship, and the death of its crew?" His right arm held up the hammer across his chest, and let the head plop into his left palm a couple of times. "Choose wisely your answer, good sir," he said, "for it is critical to your continued survival."
"QUIET, YOU!" Torbjorn pointed his warhammer at the dwarf with one hand, an impressive feat with a weapon that matched the dwarf's weight and nearly his height. "My business here is with those who would see an END to me, and anyone who stands in my way will rue the day!" Turning to Othos, his eyes ablaze, Torbjorn all bus whispered, "What is it you wish of me, you pink and sniveling fool? If you seek my death, be prepared to waste the life for which you hold such low regard." His huge fingers gripped the warhammer so hard, the leather wrappings underneath creaked in protest...
Odd, Torbjorn thought, they should have come after me and finished the job by now. But then again, I was laid bare to them at the inn, and they didn't so much as take the first step towards me. As the storm continued pounding his sodden hide, he studied the flickering lamplight and strained to hear something, anything, over the din of the storm. An hour or more passed, with no change save a slight slackening of the mighty storm. Torbjorn stood as still as stone, thoughts and considerations flooding his head almost as fast as he could form them. Deception? This could well be a trick to lure him in closer to some miserable fate at the hands of Her henchmen. But that's silly, they could have done it without the slightest hesitation at the inn. Spying, perhaps? Possible, but why sneak and skulk around and offer him adventure, instead of simply punishing him outright? Mercenaries, hired to track him down, and taunt him for a while before striking their deadly blow? Again, possible yet very unlikely. Could they simply be a band of thieves, looking for plunder? COuld the slight man's offer be sincere? Torbjorn dismissed this out of hand; no one had ever had need of him on land, save unloading his ship from one port onto another. Yes, but She made sure to take that home, that life, from you, he thought. As sure as the tides may roll, this entire mess you're in is HER doing. You should have known! Not a single element of this made any sense to him in the least. As time quickly passed, he felt himself grow more heated and angry at his frustration, his inability to comprehend the night's events laid before him. Each thought came quicker still, and was dispatched with equal speed and mounting frustration. Enough!!, he chided himself. Your Master always told you what to do when you didn't know what else to do! Stop avoiding the inevitable and face your uncertainty with your mind, and your skills! A look of grim determination settled upon his rain-streaked face. With one fell swoop, he plopped his mighty horned helm upon his head and dropped his pack at his feet. Grabbing his mighty hammer in both hands, he made a dash across the street, in a dead run that continued up the apartment stair, taking the steps three at a time. He used his momentum to its fullest, crashing against the door with all his weight and bursting into the apartment, ready for battle. Master always told me that the best defense is a strong offense, and it hasn't proven me wrong so far. The truth does tend to come out quicker when three stone of warhammer is flying through your immediate vicinity...
...women through windows...werewolves in the hall...the Crusaders of Purity?? Torbjorn's head spun, the adrenaline of the non-attack finally simemring down in his bloodstream. His confusion was so deep that the only action he could muster was to stand and gape at the bizarre scene before him. The small, weasly-looking man had known his name...had they met? His spinning head held no answers, but he knew trouble when he saw it, and this day had brought him more trouble than he'd seen in the past eights months at sea. After what appeared to be the end of the battle, Torbjorn stumbled back to his room, the breeze from the shattered window causing him to shiver and realize his nakedness for the first time. For a moment, he simply stood in his room, staring at nothing while Helg continued snoring loudly, completely unaffected by the ruckus just outside his door. Then, without warning, he sprang into action. Quickly climbing into his clothes and grabbing his things, he made for the door, pausing only long enough to glance back at Helg and consider waking him to inform his friend of his plan. No, Torbjorn thought, better not involve any more innocents in the wrath of the gods. with one last look, he turned and made his way quickly down the hall, silently following the strange and motley band of strangers who had somehow gotten themselves wrapped up in this mess with him. Perhaps one day they can escape Her wrath, he thought, or perhaps at some point they can help ME...
Torbjorn spends at LEAST one round standing around scratching his head, a gigantic red question mark popping straight up above him.
For the briefest of seconds, the only thought on Torbjørn's mind was killing every living being before him. For what possible purpose could so many armed attackers have but to come for me and deliver unto me that which is my due? It is the natural course of things when one angers the goddess of the seas... His mouth agape, frozen mid-howl at the mention of his name, his hammer raised again on high...the hulking northman stopped. His eyes, wide with fear and the adrenal rush, quickly jumped from face to face and downward to the dwarf, who was even now averting his eyes from some horror even Torbjørn could not fathom. Slowly, he lowered the mallet to the ground with a gentle clunk. His arms hung loosely at his sides, as he continued to gape in awe at the scene unfolding in front of him. They...they aren't coming...for me,he thought, ...but if not for me...for what purpose? Torbjørn's reddened brow crinkled in confusion. Through the haze of one practically sleepwalking, he whispered "Who ARE you people?"
They've come for me at last, by the gods it's true, Torbjorn though, seeing the battle before him. Without a second's hesitation he bounded forward, warhammer held high in both hands, his manhood flopping beneath him. Letting out a mighty roar, he swung downward onto the back of the nearest head, a slight man weilding two small weapons...
...never...feet...alerted... His restless dreams violently interrupted, Torbjorn's eyes snapped open Gods, NOW what?? he thought leaping to his feet with a mighty thud. Never a moment's rest for the wicked, he though, grabbing his massive hammer and taking one long stride to the door. Pausing the briefest instant to listen, he clearly heard the sounds of combat mere feet away. Throwing the door wide, Torbjorn took two steps into the hall, hammer at the ready...and as buck naked as the day he was born.
Torbjørn looked wearily down at the tiny halfling, who smirked up at him as if he knew some precious little secret. Softly, he said, "What do you want, small one? As if you didn't already know, it has been a very, very long day indeed for this tired soul. As much as following you proves intriguing, what I most need right now is a stiff drink and a warm bed, not necessarily in that order." He dug in his belt, searching for that pesky front door key...
For hours, the massive sailor stood. Perhaps it was shock, or perhaps a silent resignation of his fate, but Torbjorn hardly twitched a muscle as the rain pounded viciously at his cloak, soaking him utterly to the bone. Dozens of dockworkers streamed past him, hurrying with buckets and hooks, ladders and hand axes; for what seemed an eternity, he simply stood and watched the destruction of the ship that had been his only home since before he sprouted to manhood. Several times, Helg wandered over, occasionally trying to speak with the stunned bard, other times to simply stare silently at his granite visage as if praying for some sign of recognition. All he got for his efforts was the reflection of the ship's leaping flames in the northman's cold, wet eyes. As the dockhands all worked furiously to douse the flames or move neighboring boats out of harm's way, the flames licked higher and higher, glowing with mesmerizing and unholy colors and soared hundreds of feet skyward. Occasional mumbles from the workers showed their belief that something unnatural was to be blamed here. At long last, the flames were quenched, the last of the ship's hissing embers slipping gently beneath the murky black water of the port, chased by the incessant hammering of the mighty rain. As Torbjorn watched in mute horror, several charred remains were removed from the water, barely recognizable as anything once living. A pair of teamsters tripped while carrying one such mass across the slippery dock, releasing the blackened corpse to smash into thousands of shards that sprayed in all directions. One fist-sized fragment skittered across the dock to Helg and Torbjorn's feet, where they watched in mute distress. With one massive hand, he reached down and tenderly lifted the blackened mass to his face. "This..." he spoke, so softly that Helg had to lean in against the pounding rain to hear. "This..." he whispered, turning the black shard slowly in his fingers. "What is it, Storyteller?", Helg asked in their native northern tongue. His face held genuine concern, and fear. He leaned closer and quietly asked. "What concerns you so?" A meaty fist shot out, grabbing Helg by the throat. Gigantic fingers clenched tight, causing his face to go purple, his eyes bulging. As he clawed fruitlessly at the fist around his neck, Torbjorn paid him almost no mind, continuing to stare at the smouldering chunk. Finally, he turned his sodden head towards his long-time friend, his eyes still gleaming witht he now-extinguished spark of the mystic flames. "This is what you get for ignoring the warnings of the gods." He released Helg, who fell to his knees, wheezing. With one mighty whip of his arm and a roar of pain and frustration, Torbjorn flung the charred remains out into the dark, towards the roiling water of the sea. He gathered up his pack from the ground where it had first fallen, and slowly turned to Helg, only now regaining his feet. "This also means, old friend, that you and I...are officially out of work." He glanced back towards the tavern he had so recently left, and sighed heavily. "Come. I have a room where we might find refuge from this gods-cursed storm and perhaps find our wits. Many a hard decision must now be made this night." With that, he began to trudge back into dark and bedraggled city, the rain showing no signs of diminishing...
Torbjorn looked down, the gleaming gold stag practically lost in his enormous palm. He looked back up at Othos, brow crinkling, eyes glistening as he sized up the cleric in an expression of true bemusement. Is this a sign from the gods? he thought, briefly wondering if he shouldn't just strike this blabbering imbecile dead where he stood. Remember your place, lad. You may wish to come to this town again, and who knows what evil may yet befall the ship. Your oaths to the captain remain in place. Cocking his head slightly, he said, "Do you even know my name? Have you the slightest idea with whom you presume to treat? I am Torbjørn Skrælinghjelm, second mate on the frigate Fridtjof Nansen. We make the run from north to south ever six weeks, taking what cargo and plunder the gods have provided us along the way. Occasionally I tell sea stories for the enjoyment of all. Some may find me exceptional, but none will find me extraordinary." His meaty fingers slid the coin inside his belt. His eyes, never leaving Othos', never blinking, were unreadable. Standing slightly more upright, he said, "While I am flattered that you would wish to recruit me to your noble cause, I am afraid, good and faithful ser, that I am the equal...of no man." Torbjorn shifted the rucksack across his broad shoulders, and said, "Good luck to you and your merry band, who and whatever they may be." He grinned an impish grin. "Perhaps, when next we meet, I'll have the pleasure of entertaining your wife. Safe journeys!" With surprising gentleness and grace, he stepped around the stunned Othos and made for the door, completely uninterested in hearing more. He did, after all, have a boat to catch...
Othos' proposal hung in the air, greeted with silence from the gigantic sailor, who stared straight ahead and nursed his ale. The background din of the tavern continued unabated, and for all the world it appeard as if Torbjørn hadn't heard a single word, lost as he was in apparent thought. Finally, just as Othos opened his mouth to speak once more, Torbjørn gently set the tankard on the bar, twisted his massive torso and laid a meaty arm atop the bar. His eyes, before gleaming pools of amusement and mirth, were now at once steely, threatening and intense. The smirk that creased his sea-worn face contained equal parts amusement and thinly-veiled danger. "Now what, good cleric," he rumbled softly, "would make you believe that a simple sailor like me has the slightest interest in becoming 'equal' to the likes of you and your brethren? Hmm?" He stood, slowly. the stool groaning in relief, his head nearly scraping the low smoke-stained beams. He reached into his belt and produced a pouch that seemed a mere thimble in his huge fingers. Shaking loose several gold coins, he set three on the counter and threw a nod of thanks to the exotic barkeep, who nodded silently in return. When he turned his attention back to Othos, his fingers held a single golden coin directly in front of the cleric's face. "I'm certain that this will cover any expenses you may have incurred saving that pitiful whelp's life," he said, turning his hand over and dropping the gold to Othos' feet. Plopping a great two-horned helm upon his head and shouldering his rucksack, he grinned that menacing grin once more and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a boat to catch." With that, he shouldered his way past Othos and made for the tavern door...
Grinning broadly, Torbjorn sidled up to the bar, the lone free stool audibly straining under his girth. The patrons to either side suddenly found themselves with some very important business to attend to elsewhere, ducking and moving quickly away. "Ale for a thirsty minstrel, my good sir!" he bellowed with mock respect to the bartender, a man who had seen the Northman's adventures time and time again and, for reasons unknown even to Torbjorn, continued to cast a blind eye. Ale may quench the thirst of my throat, Torbjorn thought, and my loins are still, for now. But what of this madness with the captain? His brow furrowed in sudden, deep thought, as the pressing concerns of the outside world came crashing back into his relatively sober consciousness. By the gods, what if the threats and curses upon the ship play out? THEN what will I do?
Laughter spilled from the gathered knot of locals, side-splitting at some jape, gasping for air at the audacity of some lie. One booming laugh stood out above the rest, a laugh that sounded like nothing so much as boulders caroming off one another, tumbling down a bottomless cliff. Varl slowly and carefully worked his way through the crowd, vigilant to not spill a single drop of his hard-won victory. The slight smirk on his face gave him some small measure of bravery, enough to deliver the massive tankard to the brute once more. "For you, our most favoured storyteller," he said, grunting in effort while heaving the foot-tall flagon to Torbjorn. "May you tongue be loosened and your tales ever greater!" Torbjorn drunkenly turned his head toward the voice, twisting to avoid the tiny arms now wrapped around his trunk-like neck, the fragile fingers toying with his flowing hair and beard. His brows lifting in surprise, his eyes agleam, Torbjorn let loose a mighty laugh and bellowed, "Why Varl! My good sir! I didn't think you had it in you to return! A good man indeed, and worthy of the merchant guard yet!" He turned to Varl's now-smitten, giggling wife and whispered, with a smile and shocking tenderness, "My sweet. Your husband has brought me a great gift. Honour dictates that I must return the favor." She smiled nervously in return, unsure what this all meant. Torbjorn grabbed her diminutive hips and lifted her gently onto the table to his right. Placing hands the size of ship's wheels upon the table, he stood upright to his full height Whipping his arms wide and turning side to side, he yelled, "Friends! Gathered acquaintances! Come close and listen, for I have a new hero of the Realm to present to you!" The tittering crowd grew silent. Looking down to his left, Torbjorn placed his massive paw on the back of Varl's neck. "This fine lad wishes to join the ranks of the most high Merchant Guard. Now stop that snickering, and don't laugh - he has proven himself this very night to be a man of high virtue, a man who honours his word, and a man who, beyond else, values his dignity." He reached down, grabbing the gigantic tankard in his right fist and raising it high. "Let us toast this fine example of bravery and honour! Let us recognize Varl The Brave! Varl The Just! Join me in a drink, and a toast, in the name of one MOST respected and loved! To Varl, of Calimport!" Many of the drunken revelers raised their glasses with a laugh, or shared a knowing smile at what they suspected was to come, and crowded near. Varl, already uncomfortable with the apparent ease with which his wife so willingly betrayed their vows, now glanced about nervously like a trapped rat. Torbjorn swung his ale side to side, encouraging more and more glasses to fill the air, and continued his toast. "May his arrows fly true! May his aim be clear!" Suddenly, Torbjorn's left hand clenched the back Varl's scrawny, pale neck, the tendons in his forearm stretching taut from the grip. Varl's eyes snapped open in shock and sudden realization, yet he was simply too stunned to react. In a brief flash, the massive tankard whipped toward Varl's gasping face, already rushing forward with frightning speed from the pressing hand on his neck. The sudden, sickening crunch of bone, wood and tin, mixed with two gallons of ale rocketing forth, drew startled gasps from some; cheers of support from most; and a tiny, high scream from Calimshaw's newest widow.
Twisting his open fists together with all his strength, Torbjorn felt the all-too-familiar slurry of shattered bone and gore ooze from between his clenched fingers, as the dagger-sharp fragments of the mug burrowed through the pulverized skull. A smile crossed his face as Varl's body twitched once, twice, then slumped still and silent before him. Varl's feet cleared the floor as Torbjorn raised his bloody hands up to eye level, still clenching the head; his lips drew close to the shattered skull in his grasp. Quietly, he whispered, "...and may his lovely young bride rue the day she was born." He released his slippery grip, and the shattered remains of Varl's corpse slumped to the floor, to the raucous cheers of the gathered crowd. Torbjorn turned with lightning speed and grabbed the tiny, hysterical woman by the arms and tossed her over his shoulder, laughing. He turned and took six great strides towards the half-orc guard at the bottom the stairs, a guard who hadn't even so much as flinched at the gory display. Torbjorn stood before him, with a grim face, and asked, "Well, Timothy? What do you think? Should I be carted off before the magistrate for my crimes this day?" The guard, hardly moving, looked Torbjorn up and down, paying close attention to the bloody mitts now holding the screaming, struggling young redhead tight to his shoulder. "I think," Timothy said, "that your room is still in the same spot you left it." With a toothy grin, the half-orc stood aside and allowed Torbjorn, and his squirming prize, to begin the climb up the steps. The crowd below, till now quietly anticipating the judgment of the bouncer, let out a loud and mighty cheer. Torbjorn turned his ruddy head and laughed to the guard, "Thanks, old friend. As always, I'll save some for you!" With that he turned and thundered up the stairs three at a time and disappeared from sight, to the loudest cheers he'd heard all night long. Yes, he thought with a smile. A very long time, indeed...
"...and before the last head had hit the floor, by Edvark's beard, we had taken the ship as our prize!!" A great cheer of victorious laughter rose from the gathered throng, as the hulking mountain of a man finished his story with some small flair. Sloshing about a tankard that could easily serve as a halfling's washbasin, gripped tight by gnarled fingers scarred and dry from years on the open sea, the storyteller basked in the glow of his admiring throng. Ahh yes, he thought to himself, THIS is why I put myself through this. His ego, always craving a steady stream of affirmation, was for the moment sated and comfortable. Or was it simply the alcohol, rushing to his head and making him slightly woozy like a peach-fuzz greenie fresh from his mother's robes? Hmm, he though. Been too long since I've had stiff drink. Must remedy that. Much too long for other things as well... His sharp grey eyes caught the fawning blush of the young hopeful's wife, coming hither unto him like a smitten schoolgirl. He felt the familiar rush of blood, perhaps hastened by the ale. Yes, too long... Leaning back in his chair, he turned to the man whose wife had so wanted to hear the story so vividly told - a story that he'd already flung from his memory. Was it an honest tale, or like so many other sea stories before it, simple fancy? No matter. It had been birthed to the imaginations of the gathered enthusiasts, and set free to be retold and twisted to the circumstances for the rest of time. His steely glare caught the man as if around the throat, in a tight grip that would broker no argument. "So, young Varl, do you think your fair lady has had her share of my stories, or shall I continue with more tales of adventure and daring in the merchant guard?", the last accented by a quick glance and wink at the now-blushing beauty. "Oh but I know you've just begun, Master Skraelinghjelm. By all means, please continue with--" "CONTINUE?!?", the mountain roared, appearing furious and yet with a playful gleam in his salty eye. "By the gods how can a man tell further stories when his throat is DRY and PARCHED as mine??" He tipped back the massive urn and poured the remaining gallon of ale straight down his throat, wiped his gnarled red beard with a trunk-like forearm, and belched for a respectable eight straight seconds. After acknowledging a raucous round of cheering, he smashed the empty tankard into the young hopeful's belly, hard enough to draw a startled whoof. "I've been at sea for six straight weeks, lad! Now go," he said, leaning close, "go and get me some more ale. You ARE buying, after all. And do it...slowly." His eyes held an unspoken menace. "Yy...yes, of..of course..." the now-pale youngster said, casting frightened glances at his suddenly unattended wife. "Please, feel...feel free to continue while I'm, uhh, away..." Torbjorn hardly heard a word, as his attentions had now turned to the brightly blushing vixen. With one massive paw, he reached out, scooped her up by her backside, and planted her, squealing with glee, squarely upon his lap to the cheers and bellowing laughter of those around them. "Well now, lass," he said, holding her giggling form close, "have I got a little story just for you..." |