The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - The Revenge of the Entish Bow

The Squatter of Amon Rûdh · 02-11-2003, 04:41 PM

Earnur awoke and groaned. It was a groan of agony for his pounding headache; a groan of deep, heart-rending frustration for his sudden alcoholic fainting fit and a groan of total humiliation because he had been tied up by someone who looked as though he'd failed the audition for a fish-finger advertisement. This would never do: The sword Wylkynsion was already annoyed because it had killed nothing in weeks, and now at the first sign of a real fight, not to mention an opportunity to kill someone with a silly beard, he had keeled over like a nun in an abattoir.

His position was especially awkward as he could reach neither of his flasks. If this situation couldn't be resolved soon he would begin to sober up, and it was far too early in the day for that. Urgently he cast about him for a means of escape, perchance to drink.

Fortunately the pirate crew, being grizzled sea-dogs, were fond of the stronger spirits that were distilled around Greyhaven* and other less salubrious Elven enclaves. A bottle of Strangereek's had fallen to the deck very near where he was sitting not more than a day ago, and he could smell the spilled liquor eating its way into the planks. Shuffling closer to the reeking crater he allowed the bonds at his wrists to touch the highly volatile beverage, at which a substantial proportion of the rope evaporated. Now able to reach a miniature of the good Captain's Olde Amber Amnesia that he kept in a secret pocket in case of unfavourable customs laws or chemical weapons treaties, he applied a few swift drops to the ropes around his legs and was free.

The solitary tar assigned to guarding the prisoners was reasonably good. Given that the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin was more sober than usual and fighting unarmed, the other man had a certain advantage; but all the same it took an entire rambling paragraph to make a deprecating comment about his haircut and break his neck like a dry twig.

Swiftly untying those of his companions that he could see through his stinging eyes and stinking headache, Lord Etceteron now addressed himself to the real problem of the day: how was he to recover the sword Wylkynsion, which had never failed in battle, and for which the pawnbroker in Minas Vëatë always gave at least ten silver pieces? He turned to his companions, but it was too late to say anything: the greybeard loon was returning to gloat, and had noticed this daring piece of escape work. In his hands he held a blade that was the terror of three continents and thousands of temporary incontinents; a blade that would have sold its forger for the amusement value, as indeed would this narrator. There was a viciously satisfied gleam along the edge of Wylkynsion's black blade, and the Captain's first words were not encouraging:

"What d'ye mean, ye lily-pommelled landlubber? Captain Byrdsae always gloats over 'is victims afore they walks the plank."

"Lord Etceteron exercises no man's pet." announced the bemused nobleman, glancing for support to his manly companions.

The Captain engaged in a one-sided bout of whispering, which culminated in "All right; we can kill 'em now." and lunged towards our gallant party, beginning the second skirmish in two episodes. The action was hotting up in earnest.

Note:
* Now Grimsby

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]

02-11-2003, 04:41 PM	#96
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh Spectre of Decay Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Bar-en-Danwedh Posts: 2,177	Earnur awoke and groaned. It was a groan of agony for his pounding headache; a groan of deep, heart-rending frustration for his sudden alcoholic fainting fit and a groan of total humiliation because he had been tied up by someone who looked as though he'd failed the audition for a fish-finger advertisement. This would never do: The sword Wylkynsion was already annoyed because it had killed nothing in weeks, and now at the first sign of a real fight, not to mention an opportunity to kill someone with a silly beard, he had keeled over like a nun in an abattoir. His position was especially awkward as he could reach neither of his flasks. If this situation couldn't be resolved soon he would begin to sober up, and it was far too early in the day for that. Urgently he cast about him for a means of escape, perchance to drink. Fortunately the pirate crew, being grizzled sea-dogs, were fond of the stronger spirits that were distilled around Greyhaven* and other less salubrious Elven enclaves. A bottle of Strangereek's had fallen to the deck very near where he was sitting not more than a day ago, and he could smell the spilled liquor eating its way into the planks. Shuffling closer to the reeking crater he allowed the bonds at his wrists to touch the highly volatile beverage, at which a substantial proportion of the rope evaporated. Now able to reach a miniature of the good Captain's Olde Amber Amnesia that he kept in a secret pocket in case of unfavourable customs laws or chemical weapons treaties, he applied a few swift drops to the ropes around his legs and was free. The solitary tar assigned to guarding the prisoners was reasonably good. Given that the Lord of Ilvers-in-Slógin was more sober than usual and fighting unarmed, the other man had a certain advantage; but all the same it took an entire rambling paragraph to make a deprecating comment about his haircut and break his neck like a dry twig. Swiftly untying those of his companions that he could see through his stinging eyes and stinking headache, Lord Etceteron now addressed himself to the real problem of the day: how was he to recover the sword Wylkynsion, which had never failed in battle, and for which the pawnbroker in Minas Vëatë always gave at least ten silver pieces? He turned to his companions, but it was too late to say anything: the greybeard loon was returning to gloat, and had noticed this daring piece of escape work. In his hands he held a blade that was the terror of three continents and thousands of temporary incontinents; a blade that would have sold its forger for the amusement value, as indeed would this narrator. There was a viciously satisfied gleam along the edge of Wylkynsion's black blade, and the Captain's first words were not encouraging: "What d'ye mean, ye lily-pommelled landlubber? Captain Byrdsae always gloats over 'is victims afore they walks the plank." "Lord Etceteron exercises no man's pet." announced the bemused nobleman, glancing for support to his manly companions. The Captain engaged in a one-sided bout of whispering, which culminated in "All right; we can kill 'em now." and lunged towards our gallant party, beginning the second skirmish in two episodes. The action was hotting up in earnest. Note: * Now Grimsby [ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ] __________________ Man kenuva métim' andúne?