Bastard

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Burt
Nihilist
Posts: 1161
Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2004 5:23 pm
Location: In-and-Out Burger, Camrose

Bastard

Post by Burt »

Grey reclined awkwardly before the crackling fireplace of the Hanged Man. The unassuming furniture was not at fault for his discomfort, even though it was not sized for a ‘man’ of his considerable proportions; nor could the atmosphere of the noisy smoke-filled room of the simple festhall be blamed. The absurd nicety of it was itself disconcerting.

Upon the merciless windswept plains of biting cold Vaasa such a thing was inconceivable - to be at ease amongst ruddy-cheeked mirthful comrades with easy smiles and boisterous jests that did not conceal a dagger ready to fall between one’s shoulders at an misconstrued comment, or more likely, an ill-timed trip to the latrine.

With long slender fingers Grey procured a delicate file from a tattered pouch - about the only thing of sentimental value the half-orc owned - and dragged it languidly back and forth along the point of an immaculate tusk, his lips curled in an ironic smile as tankards clashed in merriment and laughter arose from a nearby table.

Since arriving in this so named Water-Deep, he had found the common folk loose with both their coin and their trust. Grey wondered if there was an orcish word for ‘generous’. Unsurprisingly he could not think of one. Generous tribes, if they existed, would be exploited and then doubtless slaughtered merely for sport, amusement, or perhaps in the most desperate of circumstances, to feast upon their blood-strength.

Depriving these boorish simpletons of their undeserved ‘wages’ (Grey scoffed to himself over his frothy beer at this concept) had been a passing amusement which now seemed tiresome even though it had funded the occasional foray with the objectional, bordering on intolerable, shield-dwarf that called himself Bear into the rat-infested middens, slime-coated caverns, or unhygienically undead infested wells of the City-tribe’s lands.

Grey decided he could stomach the merriment no longer regardless of the effortless income. He decided instead to adjust the tavern’s ambience to better suit his predilections. A “burning of bridges”, to borrow a human metaphor.

Dispensing with the usual profitable sea shanties and rousing lovesongs, Grey made his way to the ramshackle stage and began to rap with his knuckles, at first slowly, on a wide goblet drum made of some local unfortunate beast’s cured hide. As the nightly commotion died down and the attention turned to the recently familiar crimson-haired bard, the rhythm of the beat became faster; almost frenzied. He raised his voice in a deep, guttural chant.


It comes in the night
With a tusk and a bite
Better run for your life
Or be ready for a fight

Neither orc nor a man
Save yourself if you can
A monster with a plan
For you to die by its hand

If you want to save your neck
Better cower at its beck
Forget all you hold dear
And surrender to your fear

You can fill your lungs and scream
Freeze with dread and simply stare
And every time you dream
You'll awake to a nightmare

It comes in the night
With a tusk and a bite
Better run for your life
Or be ready for a fight



Grey looked up, grinning cruelly from behind his tusks, which seemed to gleam all the brighter in the dim firelight. Only stunned silence and ashen faces now greeted him. No more jests, no more cheers, and no more gold.

Well there was plenty more places to play.
Jagoff.
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