The Village of Mudspot
The Never Ending Quest - Episode 34313
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Not so far away, in the smokey lobby of the pub of The Boar's
Head... "Three cheers for Elder Benchely!" the unanimous cry rang out throughout the crowded tavern, followed by a roar of hurrahs offset by some friendly (and possibly unfriendly) vulgarities. And was that another cheer for the choice ale on tap? Benchley had never been quite this drunk. He stumbled and swooned about the great lobby like a big fat idiot (which, coincidently, he was) and offered up some impossible promises of grandeur to the highest deities of the land, promises he could never keep in a million years. "That's right! You heard it, folks!" *HIC!* said the inebriated addlebrain. "I'm gonna - *HIC!* - slay the dragon! Tonight! Oh yeah - WhooOoAAAH!" And he collapsed to the wooden floor like a sack of potatoes. Again, the modest tavern was all astir with coarse laughter and shouts of encouragement. Benchley, after three failed attempts, regained his composure like some kind of toddler just learning to walk. "You see - I'm the biggest, baddest, boldest warrior ever! I'll take on the Tentacled Monster of Tol Nostra! I'll vanquish the Two-Headed Ogre Queen of the Goth! I'll destroy the Moony Mage of the Desert North, within his Fell Black Tower! I'll - I'll conquer the gods above! I'll exterminate on the dragon below, oh ya!" He didn't know when to stop. "YA! That's right! *HIC!* You heard it! I'm gonna bring back it's head and place it over the mantle in the lobby of the inn! We'll rename the place to the 'Wyrm'sHead'! Bwhahahaha!" Again, he hit the floor hard, like some great pine being felled under a lumberjack's axe.The man was in his fifties, you'd think by this age he'd have learned to handle his liqour. But, before he could even begin to think about sobering up, he grabbed a great jug full of cider and struck off, out of the Boar's Head and toward the blackened hills, a flimsy sword at his side. He untied his horse and clumsily mounted it, nearly falling off the beast in the process. He spurred the steed onward, on into the mysterious night. The shouts of the tavern's patrons (namely, every male in Mudspot), followed the man into the darkness, and emboldened him only further. Benchley sang as traversed along the miskept roads that wound precariously toward the windy mountains. It was a pleasant song, a song about heroic deeds, about the virtue of honour, and especially about riches and damsels to follow in the wake of selfless quests. Let it be restated; he was very, very drunk.Somehow, Benchley found himself, several hours later, at the great yawning mouth of the southern caves. Well, which way, drunken Benchley? Benchley took a swig of his cider and lit a torch, burning himself (pretty badly). This done, he wobbled, sword raised harmlessly, to the entrance on the...(drum roll)
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10/6/2003 7:33:22 PM
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