《Playing with the Dead: The Dark Art of Bullshit》Fetch - CH 4
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The sense of smell is a diabolical evil, tarnishing the good name of necromancy. Why do the brightest of scholars gag at the sight of undead enlightenment? The smell. Why do common priests want to unjustly imprison rotting corpses in the ground? The smell. Why does no one like brussel sprouts? Probably the smell. So proudly chop off your noses and rejoice for salvation is only just one sniff away.
In my humble opinion, the ideal way to wake up is to listen to the song of birds while basking in the warmth of the morning sun surrounded by one or possibly even two very attractive village girls. The way I awoke was less than ideal, however. Instead of having my ears blessed with the beautiful singing of birds, I witnessed the angry shrieks of a raging zombie. Instead of feeling the warmth of the morning sun, I felt the cold and damp darkness that can only be found deep underground. I will note that I did have some attractive maidens laying beside me, but they were figments of my imagination and I’m not sure that really counts.
“Wake up! Dawn was six minutes ago, and we have a fetch to complete.”
“Just thirty more minutes please, George. It’s not like whatever Alric is picking up is gonna get up and run away.”
“It might if we don’t get a head start. Time is of the essence.”
The undead abomination grabbed my collar and started pulling. I kicked and desperately clawed at the ground like a mouse caught by a cat.
“I’m up! I’m up! You can let go of me!” I shouted.
George let go of my collar and I slumped onto the ground. I regretfully picked my sluggish body off the ground and followed George out of the catacombs.
I grimaced as the sun hit my eyes. I had become a kobold, I realized. It only took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. I took in a deep breath as I smelled the fresh air for the first time in what felt like eternity.
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I was practically skipping as I walked beside George as we left the cemetery. It wasn’t long before we were in the village.
The village of Mudvale was anything but grand. The roads were made of dirt and when it rained they turned to mud. That was where the infamous name came from. But there was more to Mudvale than mud.
The people of Mudvale were a poor but pleasant sort of people. Well, except for the thieves and thugs who bullied the weaklings, but growing men needed to eat; and except for the greedy merchants who fleeced the poor townsfolk, but they needed to bring in coins; and except for the village’s council who did nothing to help the common man, but running the village was tedious work. But there was more to Mudvale than just all the lovely people.
Surprisingly, what made Mudvale truly special was not actually found in Mudvale. It was the forest that surrounded Mudvale that brought the village its fame. Granted, four other villages were also known for the forest but that was beside the point.
“Alright. First business is heading to the Coward’s Brew,” stated George.
“I could use some food. The slop that Alric cooks up isn’t for the faint of heart,” I responded.
“We’re not going to get food. We’re on strict business. The bartender will show us to the entrance.”
“The entrance to what?”
“We’re running late as it is.”
George never did answer my question. Instead he started shuffling in the direction of the Coward’s Brew. It was an odd site: the two of us walking together down a fairly busy village. What I found strange, though, was that no one seemed to notice George’s missing fingers or his peeling skin. Or at the very least they pretended not to notice.
“George, why can’t they see your decrepit body?”
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“An illusion spell was placed on me. Keeps me out of the minds of most of the living.”
“Then why can I see you?”
“Cause you’re a stupid person. The spell must not think you’re a human. Probably thinks you’re a pig or something.”
I scowled. That was obviously not the reason, but I decided to let the issue rest. It was clearly a touchy subject for the rotting corpse.
I pushed the doors open to the Coward’s Brew. George and I entered.
“Ah! I was wondering where you went Arthur. And nice to see you again, Grave Digger George.”
“Hello, Barkeeper.” George replied.
“How can I help on this fine morning?”
“We’re here for different services.”
“Can I get some breakfast?” I interrupt.
“I said we don’t have time for breakfast!” yelled George.
“Aye, you don’t have time for a true breakfast I’m afraid. Not if you’re heading with Grave Digger George. But I’ve got something better and more filling that’ll serve you well on our journey.”
“You're a bartender, Azog. What are you talking about?”
“Look around, Arthur. Look at how empty this Ale house is. I can’t keep this place open without doing some side hustlin.”
“What exactly do you do on the side?”
“We’ll talk about it over yer breakfast.”
Azog pulled out a large tankard and filled half of it with ale and half with a darker liquid. I watched skeptically as he cracked three raw eggs and some chopped onion into the drink. He covered the tankard and shook it violently creating an unholy concoction.
“What, uh, exactly was that dark liquid?” I asked. I was not very keen on this breakfast. There was no chance this tasted better than piping warm eggs and some fresh slab of pork.
“Meat juices. They’ll keep you full.”
I wanted to run but I was no coward. I bravely gripped the handle of the tankard, closed my eyes and chugged the miserable liquid. I wrestled with my upset stomach trying to keep the gross liquid from leaving my body. I prevailed, well mostly. I did heave a bit of it onto the floor.
“Explain.” I managed to spit out.
“I hear stories. Many of those stories are about the forest. They range from tales of lost souls to mysteries and wonders of the old forgotten people. I simply ask for directions, so that I can guide people through the forest. I’ve been a guide for a little over twelve years now and I’ll tell you to be careful when wandering in those woods. You just don’t know what you might encounter.”
“And where are we going?”
“The Sewers of the Past. Named them myself. Adds a bit of mystery to them so I can charge a bit more when I take people out to them.”
“That’s the best name you could come up with?”
“Well it isn’t a bad name. The drunk lumberjack who first told me about this place called it Big Deep Hole. There are a lot of big deep holes out in the world. The Sewers of the Past is unique.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now can we stop wasting time, and get moving?” George added.
Azog grabbed a large leather coat and a larger two handed sword. It looked worn but well maintained, as if it had chopped countless things. There was a story there. But now was not the time for stories.
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