As chronicled by Slimfeather, The Laughing Minstrel...
Rolltar awakened from his heroic slumber with a vein-bulging stretch and a monstrous yawn worthy of the great warrior-kings of old. He had been dreaming of the mysterious and alluring Madame Xzenia, a sorcerous lady who had crossed the barbarian's path several times before and somehow succeeded in rebuffing his cleft-chinned handsomeness and his regularly polished, gleaming biceps (and similarly polished gluteuses, I am made to understand -- but we're only friends) each time they met. Her will must truly be strengthened by the most powerful wizardry, for no female can hope to resist Rolltar's magnetism and manliness, even those of a different species (a quality he is not terribly thrilled about).
He was in his room at The Furry Chicken, one of his favorite inns, and he quickly arose from both of his beds to begin his amazing, peril-fraught, and adventurous day -- he just assumes each one will turn out that way. I say both because Rolltar insists on rooms with double beds so he may use them both. He is a huge fellow, of course, being well over six and one-half barbarian boots tall (though I would not recommend cutting a barbarian's boot in half, especially just to measure something), and possessing the broad shoulders of a long-haired mountain yak or even a Wulfpulaxian shoulder-goat. So for inns with standard beds, he requires the second bed to stretch out his well-muscled toesies out on.
Thankfully, The Furry Chicken has extra large sleeping accommodations, but in situations such as these, he uses the additional bed to rest his huge, double-bladed barbarian great ax to sleep in. His weapon is not sentient nor does it speak nor is it aware, as certain enchanted objects are, nor does it in any way need sleep. But Rolltar feels that his prized instrument of dismemberment works very hard every day "chopping things into tiny, little bloody bits and generally killing stuff," so, the ax should have a place to sleep whenever possible, as well. As Rolltar was donning his wolf-pelt tunic, gem-studded belt, furry barbarian boots (each of which was equivalent to one-and-three-quarters barbarian boots), manly-man gold armbands, and spiked armored wrist-guards, I arose from my sleeping perch atop the wobbly nightstand. Though I had intended to rest on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor, I realized shortly after lamps-out that the floorboards were infested with nose-seekers -- tiny but nasty little things that like to burrow cozy little nests inside your nostrils. Not altogether painful, but terribly disturbing... and also quite hurting.
I unknotted my limbs that were curled up under me -- though my head, left arm and right leg hung off the table most of the night -- and spilled myself from the nightstand to the floor.
"Ready your things, my faithful, skinnier, much weaker Slimfeather -- o' friend of mine! We have bold adventures to seek, foes to hack, and treasures to be gotten!" He grabbed his gear from underneath his first bed, and plopped his mighty barbarian horned helm atop his flowing, golden, well-conditioned head. "When you are finished -- oh, please do hurry up, Slimfeather! There are fiends and foes out there right now who are being left unhacked! You know how I hate that! When you are done, please go forth and rouse the rest of my HEROES OF AWESOMENESS from their beds, and tell 'em to make it snappy!"
Rolltar then stood there very still with his mighty knuckles resting heroically upon his bulging hips as he gazed off into nowhere, waiting for some majestic indoor breeze to flap through his golden locks in remarkable fashion. I, meanwhile, hopped on one foot while trying to shimmy my floppy purple minstrel boot onto the other (and minstrel boots, by the way, are not used as a unit of measurement for anything, as they are much too floppy and flimsy). I said as I hopped, "I am sorry Rolltar, but we are the only ones to have survived the frightful battle with the goblins of the Crawling Chasm and their scabrous Demon-Queen of Stitches, Lady Ygoulra."
"What? Are you sure? What about Jenef, swordsman and sand-ipede tamer?"
"Impaled on a goblin spear," I replied.
"Ouch! Well, that's okay... I really can't stand sand-ipedes. How 'bout Gten-gnur, fearsome wielder of the great bellowing hammer of Garthang?"
"Uhhh... he almost made it, but he was sliced clean in half by the chasm itself as it snapped shut to cut-off our escape."
"So he's dead?"
"Yes. Cut in half."
"What about his hammer?"
"Fell back into the chasm."
"Ahhh, crappers!"
"There is Goink Fithers, the knife juggler that we picked up in the Village of the Thrice-Damned after we slew all those evil gnomes..."
"We?"
"You, sir, you."
"Really? Go fetch Goink."
"Oh, sorry! No, he died."
"No!"
"Yep," I told him regretfully. "He was ripped open by the Demon-Queen, had his innards torn out, and then was made into a stitch-thrall which you then hacked up pretty good with your ax."
"Was he that moaning, pulsating thing with the big, ugly scar running down the middle of its body?"
"Yes!"
"That was Goink? Aw, so he's dead, too."
"Yes, he was killed twice, actually, when you think about it."
"What about that guy... um, wore that shirt? Had those trousers?"
"D'you mean Zip Fang the Trouser Mage?"
"Yeah, what about him?"
"He got caught in his own zipper."
"Stupid!"
"I know."
After a long pause, Rolltar cleared his throat as he was gazing up at the ceiling. "Ah-mmm," he suddenly snapped his fingers. "What about Rolltar?"
There was another long awkward, uncomfortable pause. As he continued to look at me expectantly, I finally said, "that's you."
"Oh, good, he made it!" he said with great relief. "Um, Dameran, the two-crossbow user?"
"Eaten by a goblin while he was loading his second crossbow."
"Sherkeel of the Spikey Helm?"
"Ran into a wall, knocked himself out, and was stepped on by Ygoulra."
"Well, he had his helm, he might still be alive."
"No -- she crushed everything but his helm to a pulp. But I suppose only his head might be alive."
"Grincher the Cracker Thief?"
"We have never known anyone of that name. I think you made him up."
"What about... Sir Jhell Gleaminglance?"
"Oh! Well, he fought very valiantly!" I replied.
"Super!"
"But then you accidentally chopped his head off."
"What? Me?"
"Yeah, you were doing your blood hurricane of radical fury maneuver that you sometimes do, you know, where you close your eyes and spin real fast?"
"I love that!"
"Yeah, well you...." I made a chopping motion at my neck with the edge of my hand and stuck out my tongue while rolling my eyes up into my skull. This display went on for a short while longer before Rolltar got the distinct impression that all of our bold companions were dead...
to be continued!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
PART II: Into the Iron Mitten (of Doom)
Rolltar was pinned beneath that snaking monstrosity for who knows how long (certainly Rolltar did not know -- he was never taught to tell time -- he just knew "now" and "then" and "huh?"). He was kept relatively warm by its immense bulk, and he was able to subsist on its blue, gelatinous, semi-transparent, and super-disgusting innards. So, he was in no particularly huge hurry. But he started to get bored after a while (and it really made him depressed to imagine that his existence would be -- essentially -- a quasi-alive, barbarian-shaped boil on the abdomen of a wholly dead snow-ipede forever and ever more).
One day while pondering these matters (and thinking "huh?" over a brunch of gelatinous sorbet and semi-transparent souffle), he decided to finally get up from underneath his slowly decomposing comforter. Unfortunately, the creature was so incredibly long and heavy (even after Rolltar had dined on quite a bit of it), that no matter how high he lifted one of its chitinous segments off the frozen ground, he still could not get out from under the beast. Whenever he started to scoot out of the way on his masculinely chiseled and amazingly prehensile buttocks, he found that he was no longer in a position to lift its humungoidness off of him. He would then find himself squished once more. He, of course, had other courses of action open to him, but if you learn one thing about Rolltar (besides his heroically clefted chin and mountainous biceps and flowing, golden hair and his surprisingly sweet singing voice and his --), you, uh...
If you learn another thing about Rolltar, to add to all the other things, you must learn that he never tries any other courses of action besides the first one. He either forgets the first thing he tries (so he just attempts it again believing it had just occurred to him), or he simply refuses to comprehend that he could possibly improve on anything he would do. In any case, Rolltar stayed there for a while longer, just waiting to forget what he had just tried.
After yet another indeterminate amount of time, our mightily snoring and awesomely drooling hero awoke to a distant, piteous cry that echoed in the dark around him. It was night, naturally, which is why he could not see anything. But he insisted on assuming that he had not yet opened his eyes. So, he spent the next few minutes trying to pry his eyelids even further open, which did pretty much nothing for the blackness. As the sounds came closer, he came to know what it was out there that was closing in on him as he lay there helpless. It was the bark of the murderous ice weasels that he heard. Creatures so malign, so utterly blood-thirsty and foul, that once Rolltar even considered being afraid of them. I myself can say without regret that I wet my little minstrel under-trousers just about every night from the thought of them.
They are just complete little, shitty bastards.
So there our protagonist lay, unable to move, unable to defend himself, unable to open his eyes, even unable to wipe the frozen drool stalactites from his barbarian chin-cleft. While out there, in the dark, the terrible howl of the weasels drew ever nearer and nearer. He was unable to reach the blade of his master, the now rather headless Snow-Eyes, so he instead attempted to tear off a couple of the snow-ipede's clawed legs to use as improvisational nunchuks. Luckily, his plan worked the first time he tried it, so he wouldn't have to waste all that time failing at it over and over again. He whirled them around a few times yelling stuff like, "hah! Hoo-yah! Yi-yi-yah! Hooo-hah! Kee-YAH! Cha!"
For some reason, the weasels were now much more determined to kill him. He could hear several of them pattering across the snow on their bastardy clawed feet. But one thing about ice weasels... if they wish to, they can be perfectly silent as they slither along on their bellies like furry serpents. So, I am guessing, the noises he heard were only very clever decoys intended to make their victim believe the attack was coming from one direction, when in truth, they were really coming from the opposite way. Cunning little whisker-faced buttheads, aren't they?
Though Rolltar had assumed his eyes were closed, when he turned his head towards the noise, he could see the soft glow of the white expanse of snowy terrain as far as his eyes could reach. Suddenly, there came into view, white blurs snaking closer and closer to him across the icy ground. These indistinct shapes were the source of the patterings, and soon hissing, throaty growls joined in. Rolltar could now see the glittering of beady, little, evil eyes racing his way. Snow-Eyes had warned the youth not to be out in the frozen wastes at night as the scent of human flesh summoned the ice weasels from out of the dark. Rolltar had typically ignored or done the opposite of what the old man told him, but something made him obey when it came to observing a respectful curfew over the blinding wastelands. As the sounds grew nearer, he could make out three of the blurry, white shapes (which, at the time, was coincidentally how high Rolltar could count).
No sooner had he raised up his snow-ipede leg-chuks, that he felt a sharp pain in his right forearm. He dropped the makeshift weapon held there, and spun his head around to see an ice weasel that was clamped into his flesh. It had approached silently and attacked before the barbarian knew it. "Hey!" he shouted as he instinctively swung his arm across his chest. Luckily, the weasel's body slammed into one of the beasts that had closed in from the other side. He turned back to face the three, and was narrowly able to swing the segmented leg into the jaws of another one of the weasels. He swept the first creature back across his chest, whomping against the hard ground. Then, in what would become a very Rolltar-esque maneuver, he brought the weasel clinging to his arm and the one attached to the leg smacking into each other in mid-air. The two monsters made a very satisfying whddt! sound (and also two barely audible squeaks like two bath toys thrown against a brick wall).
Both of the weasels let go and tumbled across the ground, but another one dashed at him and got a frightening grip on his throat -- the trademark death-grip of the ice vermin. The creature would next tear a gash in Rolltar's mightily veined and powerfully Adam's-appled neck (Adam being, as you know, the lost earl of Schliblog who had that lumpy thing in throat that was so large, he had a team of eunuchs with puffy, sequined pants carry it around for him -- and the rule is, if you have eunuchs carry something around for you, you get it named after you... that's just the way it is). But Rolltar was as quick as a Gyrfinkin racing chicken, and he immediately grasped the beast at the back of the neck and squeezed. This opened its jaws (but then, of course, the thing scraped the heck out of Rolltar's chin cleft as it wiggled around furiously). Be advised, our hero is very particular about the care and condition and grooming of his chin cleft. At this transgression, Rolltar took the weasel's head and whacked it hard into his own, essentially performing a weasel-butt (a term that to this day makes him giggle like a pig-tailed little girl).
Some of the weasels that were earlier stunned were now scrambling to their feet in a blink. They hissed menacingly and prepared to advance once more upon the young warrior. Rolltar, meanwhile, gently dabbed his cleft with his free hand. Feeling tiny droplets of blood there, the blue-fire behind his eyes suddenly rose into a terrible inferno. What started as a low growl, ascended into a roar that echoed across the frozen wastes. If ice weasels could know fear in their merciless hearts, they would have felt it then. Instead, they charged at the barbarian youth, their razor sharp jaws snapping and slavering. Um-yum-yum-yum-yum!
One by one, Rolltar plucked the whiskered fiends out of mid-air as they launched themselves at him with murderous abandon. In a blink, the orphan of awesome has two of the creatures clutched tightly in each hand as they continued to gnash their mouthfuls of wicked daggers together. In one deft movement, Rolltar pressed the accursed albino death ferrets against the lifeless girth of the snow-ipede. The creatures perhaps did not know exactly what they were chewing into, but before Rolltar could count to that-number-that-comes-after-three, the quartet of wasteland predators had gnawed clear through the body of the deceased snow beast.
Our hero released the bloodthirsty critters as he scrambled to his feet. Before he could seek out his master's blade that was embedded somewhere in the snow-ipede's carcass, the weasels had got a whiff of him again, and were curving their way around to bring him directly into their path once more. In the nick of time, Rolltar leaped up to one of the severed halves of the enormous monster and he began to run down its winding length. The weasels were in close pursuit, devouring great swaths of the dead creature like a powerful acid. But Rolltar was not running away -- NO! He was not even making a strategic withdrawal (as he has said to me time and time again, 'strategy is for those who can't beat you by punching you straight in the face.'). He was simply looking for Snow-Eyes' trusty punchin' stick -- what he would one day learn to call 'a sword.'
Just as the rapacious ice-demons were about to add barbarian boot to their menu, Rolltar sprung forward, grasped the hilt of Snow-Eyes' weapon that was still buried in the creature's armored plating, and somersaulted on his shoulder then twisted so that he was facing his pursuers, blade poised to strike. Three swipes and three weasel bodies fell to the frozen ground without their heads. The fourth creature let out a blood-chilling howl before becoming impaled on the point of Rolltar's outstretched weapon. The four beasts continued to flail and convulse about as though there was still a battle to be won...
But the battle belonged only to Rolltar on this day!
The next time anyone had met a sunfire-haired youth wearing much less clothing than would have been appropriate striding across the western wastes of Valgrim's Gauntlet, it would have been weeks or even a month or two after Snow-Eyes had breathed his last and the Dragon Clan mysteriously disappeared from the songs of the skalds. The man-warrior that emerged from the swirling winds and blinding snow was so different from the lost child that had wandered into the unknown after accidentally decapitating his blind foster father. The hunters of the nomadic Elk Clan saw a young man walking towards them with four weasel skulls skewered on his sword and two snow-ipede mandibles cradled under his arm. The cry went up back to the hunters' encampment:
"Can we get him some pants?"
Oh, and get him pants they did... pants with a side of legend.
One day while pondering these matters (and thinking "huh?" over a brunch of gelatinous sorbet and semi-transparent souffle), he decided to finally get up from underneath his slowly decomposing comforter. Unfortunately, the creature was so incredibly long and heavy (even after Rolltar had dined on quite a bit of it), that no matter how high he lifted one of its chitinous segments off the frozen ground, he still could not get out from under the beast. Whenever he started to scoot out of the way on his masculinely chiseled and amazingly prehensile buttocks, he found that he was no longer in a position to lift its humungoidness off of him. He would then find himself squished once more. He, of course, had other courses of action open to him, but if you learn one thing about Rolltar (besides his heroically clefted chin and mountainous biceps and flowing, golden hair and his surprisingly sweet singing voice and his --), you, uh...
If you learn another thing about Rolltar, to add to all the other things, you must learn that he never tries any other courses of action besides the first one. He either forgets the first thing he tries (so he just attempts it again believing it had just occurred to him), or he simply refuses to comprehend that he could possibly improve on anything he would do. In any case, Rolltar stayed there for a while longer, just waiting to forget what he had just tried.
After yet another indeterminate amount of time, our mightily snoring and awesomely drooling hero awoke to a distant, piteous cry that echoed in the dark around him. It was night, naturally, which is why he could not see anything. But he insisted on assuming that he had not yet opened his eyes. So, he spent the next few minutes trying to pry his eyelids even further open, which did pretty much nothing for the blackness. As the sounds came closer, he came to know what it was out there that was closing in on him as he lay there helpless. It was the bark of the murderous ice weasels that he heard. Creatures so malign, so utterly blood-thirsty and foul, that once Rolltar even considered being afraid of them. I myself can say without regret that I wet my little minstrel under-trousers just about every night from the thought of them.
They are just complete little, shitty bastards.
So there our protagonist lay, unable to move, unable to defend himself, unable to open his eyes, even unable to wipe the frozen drool stalactites from his barbarian chin-cleft. While out there, in the dark, the terrible howl of the weasels drew ever nearer and nearer. He was unable to reach the blade of his master, the now rather headless Snow-Eyes, so he instead attempted to tear off a couple of the snow-ipede's clawed legs to use as improvisational nunchuks. Luckily, his plan worked the first time he tried it, so he wouldn't have to waste all that time failing at it over and over again. He whirled them around a few times yelling stuff like, "hah! Hoo-yah! Yi-yi-yah! Hooo-hah! Kee-YAH! Cha!"
For some reason, the weasels were now much more determined to kill him. He could hear several of them pattering across the snow on their bastardy clawed feet. But one thing about ice weasels... if they wish to, they can be perfectly silent as they slither along on their bellies like furry serpents. So, I am guessing, the noises he heard were only very clever decoys intended to make their victim believe the attack was coming from one direction, when in truth, they were really coming from the opposite way. Cunning little whisker-faced buttheads, aren't they?
Though Rolltar had assumed his eyes were closed, when he turned his head towards the noise, he could see the soft glow of the white expanse of snowy terrain as far as his eyes could reach. Suddenly, there came into view, white blurs snaking closer and closer to him across the icy ground. These indistinct shapes were the source of the patterings, and soon hissing, throaty growls joined in. Rolltar could now see the glittering of beady, little, evil eyes racing his way. Snow-Eyes had warned the youth not to be out in the frozen wastes at night as the scent of human flesh summoned the ice weasels from out of the dark. Rolltar had typically ignored or done the opposite of what the old man told him, but something made him obey when it came to observing a respectful curfew over the blinding wastelands. As the sounds grew nearer, he could make out three of the blurry, white shapes (which, at the time, was coincidentally how high Rolltar could count).
No sooner had he raised up his snow-ipede leg-chuks, that he felt a sharp pain in his right forearm. He dropped the makeshift weapon held there, and spun his head around to see an ice weasel that was clamped into his flesh. It had approached silently and attacked before the barbarian knew it. "Hey!" he shouted as he instinctively swung his arm across his chest. Luckily, the weasel's body slammed into one of the beasts that had closed in from the other side. He turned back to face the three, and was narrowly able to swing the segmented leg into the jaws of another one of the weasels. He swept the first creature back across his chest, whomping against the hard ground. Then, in what would become a very Rolltar-esque maneuver, he brought the weasel clinging to his arm and the one attached to the leg smacking into each other in mid-air. The two monsters made a very satisfying whddt! sound (and also two barely audible squeaks like two bath toys thrown against a brick wall).
Both of the weasels let go and tumbled across the ground, but another one dashed at him and got a frightening grip on his throat -- the trademark death-grip of the ice vermin. The creature would next tear a gash in Rolltar's mightily veined and powerfully Adam's-appled neck (Adam being, as you know, the lost earl of Schliblog who had that lumpy thing in throat that was so large, he had a team of eunuchs with puffy, sequined pants carry it around for him -- and the rule is, if you have eunuchs carry something around for you, you get it named after you... that's just the way it is). But Rolltar was as quick as a Gyrfinkin racing chicken, and he immediately grasped the beast at the back of the neck and squeezed. This opened its jaws (but then, of course, the thing scraped the heck out of Rolltar's chin cleft as it wiggled around furiously). Be advised, our hero is very particular about the care and condition and grooming of his chin cleft. At this transgression, Rolltar took the weasel's head and whacked it hard into his own, essentially performing a weasel-butt (a term that to this day makes him giggle like a pig-tailed little girl).
Some of the weasels that were earlier stunned were now scrambling to their feet in a blink. They hissed menacingly and prepared to advance once more upon the young warrior. Rolltar, meanwhile, gently dabbed his cleft with his free hand. Feeling tiny droplets of blood there, the blue-fire behind his eyes suddenly rose into a terrible inferno. What started as a low growl, ascended into a roar that echoed across the frozen wastes. If ice weasels could know fear in their merciless hearts, they would have felt it then. Instead, they charged at the barbarian youth, their razor sharp jaws snapping and slavering. Um-yum-yum-yum-yum!
One by one, Rolltar plucked the whiskered fiends out of mid-air as they launched themselves at him with murderous abandon. In a blink, the orphan of awesome has two of the creatures clutched tightly in each hand as they continued to gnash their mouthfuls of wicked daggers together. In one deft movement, Rolltar pressed the accursed albino death ferrets against the lifeless girth of the snow-ipede. The creatures perhaps did not know exactly what they were chewing into, but before Rolltar could count to that-number-that-comes-after-three, the quartet of wasteland predators had gnawed clear through the body of the deceased snow beast.
Our hero released the bloodthirsty critters as he scrambled to his feet. Before he could seek out his master's blade that was embedded somewhere in the snow-ipede's carcass, the weasels had got a whiff of him again, and were curving their way around to bring him directly into their path once more. In the nick of time, Rolltar leaped up to one of the severed halves of the enormous monster and he began to run down its winding length. The weasels were in close pursuit, devouring great swaths of the dead creature like a powerful acid. But Rolltar was not running away -- NO! He was not even making a strategic withdrawal (as he has said to me time and time again, 'strategy is for those who can't beat you by punching you straight in the face.'). He was simply looking for Snow-Eyes' trusty punchin' stick -- what he would one day learn to call 'a sword.'
Just as the rapacious ice-demons were about to add barbarian boot to their menu, Rolltar sprung forward, grasped the hilt of Snow-Eyes' weapon that was still buried in the creature's armored plating, and somersaulted on his shoulder then twisted so that he was facing his pursuers, blade poised to strike. Three swipes and three weasel bodies fell to the frozen ground without their heads. The fourth creature let out a blood-chilling howl before becoming impaled on the point of Rolltar's outstretched weapon. The four beasts continued to flail and convulse about as though there was still a battle to be won...
But the battle belonged only to Rolltar on this day!
The next time anyone had met a sunfire-haired youth wearing much less clothing than would have been appropriate striding across the western wastes of Valgrim's Gauntlet, it would have been weeks or even a month or two after Snow-Eyes had breathed his last and the Dragon Clan mysteriously disappeared from the songs of the skalds. The man-warrior that emerged from the swirling winds and blinding snow was so different from the lost child that had wandered into the unknown after accidentally decapitating his blind foster father. The hunters of the nomadic Elk Clan saw a young man walking towards them with four weasel skulls skewered on his sword and two snow-ipede mandibles cradled under his arm. The cry went up back to the hunters' encampment:
"Can we get him some pants?"
Oh, and get him pants they did... pants with a side of legend.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Quite Possibly True Origins of Rolltar, the Greatest Hero Ever
As told by his nearly constant companion and chronicler, The Laughing Minstrel, Slimfeather
Ah, welcome road-worn and weary traveler. Welcome to the famed Furry Chicken, the inn where many a fabulous and harrowing tale of high-adventure has begun. I bid thee good day. Please, sit, while I wave down the husky and humorless bar maid. Shall we both partake of a frothing ale? Why not make it mead? Yes, you are weary and worn and all that sort of thing. Treat yourself. Let us slake our gullets with a golden honey mead. Nobody will pamper you but you, right? Oh, Hilgrid the Husky! Yes, my sweet… two flagons of mead, if you please, stout queen of the stool. Ah, yes. Do you hear that annoyed, barely-audible grunt? That means “right away, good sirs!”
Except… hmmm. Hang on just a moment. Hilgrid? Yes, excellent empress of the scullery. Could you pretty please add a twist of lemon? And perhaps a sprig of chamomile? Many thanks. I’m sorry, you’ll what? Oh my, I cannot wait to see what surprise you will have awaiting me in my delicious mead! Ah, wonderful creature, Hilgrid. We go way back. Completely harmless. None too clean, of course, but only Talcruskian fleas spit, and we’re nowhere near there. So, now… where were we?
Yes, your weariness and worniness from your long journey, new best friend of mine. Now that our tasty and fortifying beverages have been sent for, why not a tale or ballad of fantastic heroism and peril to quench thy parched ears that no doubt have been choked with road dust? Eh? No ballads? Not a fan of ballads, are you? Well, no matter. A tale then. A story spun by none other than myself, Slimfeather the Laughing Minstrel of Filindria. No one weaves a narrative like myself, if I do say so. What is that? You have never heard of me? Surely you have. Slimfeather the Dashing? Slimfeather the Charming? Slimfeather the Moderately Enthralling? Slimfeather of the Floppy Boots? See?
Ahem! Very well then. It matters little. For you see, I know you have heard of the protagonist of the tale you are about to hear. My story is a first hand witnessing of the heroic and utterly remarkable exploits of none other than Rolltar himself. Yes. That’s right. That Rolltar. The one you’ve heard so much about. The Barbarian Prince. The Axe of the North. The Bastard Son of Blurg. Sorcerers’ Bane, Giant-Slayer, Bear-Warrior, Dragon Noogier. Barbarian of the Month three years running. Rolltar the Mighty. Rolltar the Freakishly Handsome. Not only do I possess many accounts of his deeds and feats of heroism, but I am his official chronicler and president of his fan club. When grim-faced Nooull finally decides to harvest his soul with the Pale Blade of Nothingness, then only the tales I tell will live on to remember his amazing adventures.
Hah! Still you scoff! Well, the velvety mitt of challenge has been tossed at my floppy boots duly and well. So be it. Let the story I regale you with be of his birth and origins in the harsh and unforgiving realm north of Valgrim’s Gauntlet then. For I have been personally told of his history by the glisteningly muscled Rolltar himself. The other tidbits of information I have pieced together from the songs of the aged skalds of Tilgarnost and from the night I spent around the campfire of Ilkorr Icedrake, last of the Dragon Clan. Nice guy. Some ancient folk are known to have birds nesting in their long silvery beards. Ilkorr has wolverines nesting in his. And his beard is actually silver.
Ah-hah! Here are our meads! Fresh from the keg! Thank you, oh prickly chinned Hilgrid! Now that our drinks have arrived, will you not sit a while, rest your bones, sip your delectable mead, and listen to my tale? First permit me to wetten my throat with this golden, frothy goodness before I jump in…
…oh, that is horrible. That is really just horrible.
PART I: The Birth of Heroness
Good. You’re still here. I’m sorry for the delay. I just had to do something about that terrible coating on my tongue. I think that I will just stick with ice water for now. And some handfuls of this pretzely, nutty stuff in this bowl right here. Okay. Here we go. The origins of my story about Rolltar’s beginning time… just allow me to get my trusty five-string lute out of its gig bag here and I will – no, no I’m not singing a ballad. No, never fear, my friend. I only plan on plucking a few notes here and there during my tale for effect. Yes, just background music. No ballads. No. Honestly. I promise, no ballads. Sit down, please. Okay.
The only part of Rolltar’s history that is still shrouded in the mists of unknowing is the identity of his father. Some rumors say that he is the progeny of the aforementioned Ilkorr Icedrake – a quite nearly legendary warrior in his own right. Other stories floating around claim that he was fathered by the demigod Blurg or that he came into being from a gob of spittle spat forth from Valgrim himself from his precipitous mountain throne. Most accounts besides the latter, of course, agree that his mother was a Bluefire Sorceress… powerful, beautiful, and cold-hearted. She gave him up immediately after birth, abandoning him to the icy realm north of the Frozen Sea. Perhaps she wished to be rid of him because of the memories he evoked of the mysterious father. Perhaps she knew somehow that he did not need her, and that he was not yet fated to die. Take your pick.
His first days were certainly not easy, however. It is believed that he was still warm from the womb when a giant walrus came by and gobbled him up. Fortunately, Rolltar did and always has tasted horrible – a bit like the mead around here – and the enormous beast quickly spat him out and sent him skidding across the ice. Shortly thereafter, he was found by a pack of bored ice bears who batted him around a bit before a skate-ship appeared on the horizon. It was crewed by hunters of the fabled Dragon Clan. They were hardened warriors who once ruled the Barbarian Peninsula, but are now faded into obscurity. No one knows what happened to them, but years ago they simply disappeared. Today they are almost forgotten. In fact, you probably don’t even remember who I was just talking about.
They found this newborn lying on the ice and could not believe such a thing was possible unless the child was a gift from the gods. They wrapped his little body in white furs and returned to their encampment. The ice folk were amazed by the infant’s resilience, and incredibly annoyed by the way he was constantly into trouble by the time he could jiggle around in a baby kind of way. Somehow, they just knew he was “special.” Before he was able to walk, Rolltar (which in Tilga, means “bumps into things”) was as strong as a full grown man, but even dumber. Soon he had punched out his first wolf. When he was finally able to walk, he used his new mobility to punch out wolves that were far away. And when he finally learned to speak, it was to laugh at unconscious wolves.
When he had learned to speak using actual words, it is said his first word was “awesome.” It seemed even at the tender age of six, he knew that he was destined for great things and to accomplish fantastic deeds. Since he had said this while gazing at himself in a pool of still crystalline water, he also realized that he was rather great and ruggedly handsome in a toddler-who-shaves sort of way. His distinctive chin cleft was already deep, and his pectorals were already chiseled. His golden hair shone like sunfire. His eyes were the color of frost in the light of the full azure moon and they often sought out the young women of the Dragon Clan (which the men found quite disturbing).
Once the barbarians could no longer handle raising the young upstart (or deal with his inappropriate ogling of the ice women), they chose to send him into the empty cold wastes to live with a lonely hermit. The old man was once a great swordsman and adventurer in his youth, but he had fled his bloody past to be alone and at peace. He had become blind in his old age, and perhaps did not even know the child was there for quite some time. While the hermit (who Rolltar called “Snow Eyes”) had sworn to never draw a weapon in anger or spill another man’s blood, he still practiced with his sword to maintain his vitality and vigor. He was nearly one-hundred years old, but his skill with a blade was still remarkable. Rolltar would watch him carefully and try to imitate his movements. The youth thought to himself, “this could be even better than punching!”
One day, Rolltar decided to try out the weapon for himself. Unfortunately, he was much stronger, more inexperienced, and impetuous than his venerable mentor. The hermit had his back turned one day while cooking up some hearty stew consisting of snow, icicles, and ice over a fire fueled by his own dried dung (I’m sorry – that’s just how the story goes). The golden-haired boy spun about with sword in hand and cleanly lopped off the old man’s head. The lad barely understood what had just occurred, but when he was unable to “wake up” either the hermit’s head or body, he realized it was time to move on. Plus he got just terribly bored.
Rolltar took only his former master’s blade, a thick cloak of ice bear fur, a spear, a change of wolf-skin underwear, and a hunter’s bow with half a quiverful of arrows. He was but thirteen years old. When he departed the hermit’s ice cave, he did not look back but swore to avenge the old man’s death. Probably Rolltar did not correctly understand what this meant at the time. But it sounded good and manly.
The brave and hardy youth traveled boldly across the windswept wastes to the east. He did not have any destination in mind, it’s just that the opening to the hermit’s hole faced that way. The elements battered him relentlessly, but Rolltar took little notice. He just knew he was hungry and bored out of his mind. He just wished he could find something to eat. And if he could punch it also, then that would be equally great. Or better yet, punch it with the shiny metal pointy thing that hung from his hip. Hmmm…
Mile after mile, day after day, Rolltar journeyed east, never knowing where he was going. He faced vicious snowstorms and biting winds that would shear the wool off of a fanged Chulfaxian cave sheep. He got so hungry, that he decided to eat most of his clothes. When eventually he was able to find some game to hunt, he found that the enormous thousand-legged snow-ipedes of the frozen wastes did not die very easily. In fact, instead of dying, they tended to grab Rolltar by the wolf-skin undies (all he had left) and whip him around viciously with their sharp mandibles. After the youth had his skull bounced off the permafrost a few times and received a absolutely wicked wedgie (or grundy in the Outlander tongue), he flung his dead master’s sword in a wild gambit of frustration. The blade flashed twice in the morning sun as it flew through the air end over end. With a loud SHREEKHT (I believe that is the proper spelling), the weapon buried itself to the hilt through the creature’s chitinous exo-armor. With one of its nine hearts pierced, the snow-ipede immediately began to spew bluish vital fluids all over the ground and Rolltar himself.
The barbarian lad was thrown to the ground and the huge beast began to thrash about in its throes of death. Its lashing tail actually clubbed Rolltar really good a few more time before it finally ceased its uncontrollable movements (and even then it landed on him with a ground-shaking crash). The fearsome monstrosity was defeated. Even though Rolltar was unconscious, pinned under a giant dead myriapod, and covered with disgusting blue goo, he was smiling to himself. Deep inside of him, he knew that he had finally discovered his purpose and true calling. He knew why he had survived being left alone in the frozen wastes. Why he was found by the faded Clan of the Dragon. Why he accidentally beheaded an old blind man. It was because he could kill things in truly unusual and fantastic ways. He did it real good and it was super fun.
But the super fun had only just begun…
Okay! Bathroom break!
Ah, welcome road-worn and weary traveler. Welcome to the famed Furry Chicken, the inn where many a fabulous and harrowing tale of high-adventure has begun. I bid thee good day. Please, sit, while I wave down the husky and humorless bar maid. Shall we both partake of a frothing ale? Why not make it mead? Yes, you are weary and worn and all that sort of thing. Treat yourself. Let us slake our gullets with a golden honey mead. Nobody will pamper you but you, right? Oh, Hilgrid the Husky! Yes, my sweet… two flagons of mead, if you please, stout queen of the stool. Ah, yes. Do you hear that annoyed, barely-audible grunt? That means “right away, good sirs!”
Except… hmmm. Hang on just a moment. Hilgrid? Yes, excellent empress of the scullery. Could you pretty please add a twist of lemon? And perhaps a sprig of chamomile? Many thanks. I’m sorry, you’ll what? Oh my, I cannot wait to see what surprise you will have awaiting me in my delicious mead! Ah, wonderful creature, Hilgrid. We go way back. Completely harmless. None too clean, of course, but only Talcruskian fleas spit, and we’re nowhere near there. So, now… where were we?
Yes, your weariness and worniness from your long journey, new best friend of mine. Now that our tasty and fortifying beverages have been sent for, why not a tale or ballad of fantastic heroism and peril to quench thy parched ears that no doubt have been choked with road dust? Eh? No ballads? Not a fan of ballads, are you? Well, no matter. A tale then. A story spun by none other than myself, Slimfeather the Laughing Minstrel of Filindria. No one weaves a narrative like myself, if I do say so. What is that? You have never heard of me? Surely you have. Slimfeather the Dashing? Slimfeather the Charming? Slimfeather the Moderately Enthralling? Slimfeather of the Floppy Boots? See?
Ahem! Very well then. It matters little. For you see, I know you have heard of the protagonist of the tale you are about to hear. My story is a first hand witnessing of the heroic and utterly remarkable exploits of none other than Rolltar himself. Yes. That’s right. That Rolltar. The one you’ve heard so much about. The Barbarian Prince. The Axe of the North. The Bastard Son of Blurg. Sorcerers’ Bane, Giant-Slayer, Bear-Warrior, Dragon Noogier. Barbarian of the Month three years running. Rolltar the Mighty. Rolltar the Freakishly Handsome. Not only do I possess many accounts of his deeds and feats of heroism, but I am his official chronicler and president of his fan club. When grim-faced Nooull finally decides to harvest his soul with the Pale Blade of Nothingness, then only the tales I tell will live on to remember his amazing adventures.
Hah! Still you scoff! Well, the velvety mitt of challenge has been tossed at my floppy boots duly and well. So be it. Let the story I regale you with be of his birth and origins in the harsh and unforgiving realm north of Valgrim’s Gauntlet then. For I have been personally told of his history by the glisteningly muscled Rolltar himself. The other tidbits of information I have pieced together from the songs of the aged skalds of Tilgarnost and from the night I spent around the campfire of Ilkorr Icedrake, last of the Dragon Clan. Nice guy. Some ancient folk are known to have birds nesting in their long silvery beards. Ilkorr has wolverines nesting in his. And his beard is actually silver.
Ah-hah! Here are our meads! Fresh from the keg! Thank you, oh prickly chinned Hilgrid! Now that our drinks have arrived, will you not sit a while, rest your bones, sip your delectable mead, and listen to my tale? First permit me to wetten my throat with this golden, frothy goodness before I jump in…
…oh, that is horrible. That is really just horrible.
PART I: The Birth of Heroness
Good. You’re still here. I’m sorry for the delay. I just had to do something about that terrible coating on my tongue. I think that I will just stick with ice water for now. And some handfuls of this pretzely, nutty stuff in this bowl right here. Okay. Here we go. The origins of my story about Rolltar’s beginning time… just allow me to get my trusty five-string lute out of its gig bag here and I will – no, no I’m not singing a ballad. No, never fear, my friend. I only plan on plucking a few notes here and there during my tale for effect. Yes, just background music. No ballads. No. Honestly. I promise, no ballads. Sit down, please. Okay.
The only part of Rolltar’s history that is still shrouded in the mists of unknowing is the identity of his father. Some rumors say that he is the progeny of the aforementioned Ilkorr Icedrake – a quite nearly legendary warrior in his own right. Other stories floating around claim that he was fathered by the demigod Blurg or that he came into being from a gob of spittle spat forth from Valgrim himself from his precipitous mountain throne. Most accounts besides the latter, of course, agree that his mother was a Bluefire Sorceress… powerful, beautiful, and cold-hearted. She gave him up immediately after birth, abandoning him to the icy realm north of the Frozen Sea. Perhaps she wished to be rid of him because of the memories he evoked of the mysterious father. Perhaps she knew somehow that he did not need her, and that he was not yet fated to die. Take your pick.
His first days were certainly not easy, however. It is believed that he was still warm from the womb when a giant walrus came by and gobbled him up. Fortunately, Rolltar did and always has tasted horrible – a bit like the mead around here – and the enormous beast quickly spat him out and sent him skidding across the ice. Shortly thereafter, he was found by a pack of bored ice bears who batted him around a bit before a skate-ship appeared on the horizon. It was crewed by hunters of the fabled Dragon Clan. They were hardened warriors who once ruled the Barbarian Peninsula, but are now faded into obscurity. No one knows what happened to them, but years ago they simply disappeared. Today they are almost forgotten. In fact, you probably don’t even remember who I was just talking about.
They found this newborn lying on the ice and could not believe such a thing was possible unless the child was a gift from the gods. They wrapped his little body in white furs and returned to their encampment. The ice folk were amazed by the infant’s resilience, and incredibly annoyed by the way he was constantly into trouble by the time he could jiggle around in a baby kind of way. Somehow, they just knew he was “special.” Before he was able to walk, Rolltar (which in Tilga, means “bumps into things”) was as strong as a full grown man, but even dumber. Soon he had punched out his first wolf. When he was finally able to walk, he used his new mobility to punch out wolves that were far away. And when he finally learned to speak, it was to laugh at unconscious wolves.
When he had learned to speak using actual words, it is said his first word was “awesome.” It seemed even at the tender age of six, he knew that he was destined for great things and to accomplish fantastic deeds. Since he had said this while gazing at himself in a pool of still crystalline water, he also realized that he was rather great and ruggedly handsome in a toddler-who-shaves sort of way. His distinctive chin cleft was already deep, and his pectorals were already chiseled. His golden hair shone like sunfire. His eyes were the color of frost in the light of the full azure moon and they often sought out the young women of the Dragon Clan (which the men found quite disturbing).
Once the barbarians could no longer handle raising the young upstart (or deal with his inappropriate ogling of the ice women), they chose to send him into the empty cold wastes to live with a lonely hermit. The old man was once a great swordsman and adventurer in his youth, but he had fled his bloody past to be alone and at peace. He had become blind in his old age, and perhaps did not even know the child was there for quite some time. While the hermit (who Rolltar called “Snow Eyes”) had sworn to never draw a weapon in anger or spill another man’s blood, he still practiced with his sword to maintain his vitality and vigor. He was nearly one-hundred years old, but his skill with a blade was still remarkable. Rolltar would watch him carefully and try to imitate his movements. The youth thought to himself, “this could be even better than punching!”
One day, Rolltar decided to try out the weapon for himself. Unfortunately, he was much stronger, more inexperienced, and impetuous than his venerable mentor. The hermit had his back turned one day while cooking up some hearty stew consisting of snow, icicles, and ice over a fire fueled by his own dried dung (I’m sorry – that’s just how the story goes). The golden-haired boy spun about with sword in hand and cleanly lopped off the old man’s head. The lad barely understood what had just occurred, but when he was unable to “wake up” either the hermit’s head or body, he realized it was time to move on. Plus he got just terribly bored.
Rolltar took only his former master’s blade, a thick cloak of ice bear fur, a spear, a change of wolf-skin underwear, and a hunter’s bow with half a quiverful of arrows. He was but thirteen years old. When he departed the hermit’s ice cave, he did not look back but swore to avenge the old man’s death. Probably Rolltar did not correctly understand what this meant at the time. But it sounded good and manly.
The brave and hardy youth traveled boldly across the windswept wastes to the east. He did not have any destination in mind, it’s just that the opening to the hermit’s hole faced that way. The elements battered him relentlessly, but Rolltar took little notice. He just knew he was hungry and bored out of his mind. He just wished he could find something to eat. And if he could punch it also, then that would be equally great. Or better yet, punch it with the shiny metal pointy thing that hung from his hip. Hmmm…
Mile after mile, day after day, Rolltar journeyed east, never knowing where he was going. He faced vicious snowstorms and biting winds that would shear the wool off of a fanged Chulfaxian cave sheep. He got so hungry, that he decided to eat most of his clothes. When eventually he was able to find some game to hunt, he found that the enormous thousand-legged snow-ipedes of the frozen wastes did not die very easily. In fact, instead of dying, they tended to grab Rolltar by the wolf-skin undies (all he had left) and whip him around viciously with their sharp mandibles. After the youth had his skull bounced off the permafrost a few times and received a absolutely wicked wedgie (or grundy in the Outlander tongue), he flung his dead master’s sword in a wild gambit of frustration. The blade flashed twice in the morning sun as it flew through the air end over end. With a loud SHREEKHT (I believe that is the proper spelling), the weapon buried itself to the hilt through the creature’s chitinous exo-armor. With one of its nine hearts pierced, the snow-ipede immediately began to spew bluish vital fluids all over the ground and Rolltar himself.
The barbarian lad was thrown to the ground and the huge beast began to thrash about in its throes of death. Its lashing tail actually clubbed Rolltar really good a few more time before it finally ceased its uncontrollable movements (and even then it landed on him with a ground-shaking crash). The fearsome monstrosity was defeated. Even though Rolltar was unconscious, pinned under a giant dead myriapod, and covered with disgusting blue goo, he was smiling to himself. Deep inside of him, he knew that he had finally discovered his purpose and true calling. He knew why he had survived being left alone in the frozen wastes. Why he was found by the faded Clan of the Dragon. Why he accidentally beheaded an old blind man. It was because he could kill things in truly unusual and fantastic ways. He did it real good and it was super fun.
But the super fun had only just begun…
Okay! Bathroom break!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Awesomeness... what does it mean?
To some it is a word that is hard to say without spitting crumbs all over the place when you have saltines in your mouth. Or perhaps pretzels. To others it is a very high pinnacle, one that could never, ever be reached. Higher than many other pinnacles around it. Like the tallest pinnacle in the Great Lost City of Pinnacles. But what awesomeness means to a rare, select, chosen and carefully-plucked-with-the-thumb-and-forefinger few is a way of life. Yes, some truly amazing individuals make it their mission to be… awesomeness.
Prepare yourself to enter the fabulous world of high adventure with the Heroes of Awesomeness and their utterly magnificent and bulgingly muscled captain… Rolltar. But be warned, intrepid reader – you should only embark upon these hastily scrawled pieces of parchment (which have since been transcribed into Microsoft Word) if you be stout of both mind and brain. For within these manuscripts are tales of such harrowing peril and monstrous terror that you will surely leap out of a high window or throw yourself in front of a passing turnip wagon if only to be free of these horrible images. If you dare continue, know that your eyeballs will bear you a grudge for at least twelve to fourteen months for succumbing them to such unspeakable sentences and paragraphs of doom.
You have been mercifully warned. Now let us begin, brave souls…
Prepare yourself to enter the fabulous world of high adventure with the Heroes of Awesomeness and their utterly magnificent and bulgingly muscled captain… Rolltar. But be warned, intrepid reader – you should only embark upon these hastily scrawled pieces of parchment (which have since been transcribed into Microsoft Word) if you be stout of both mind and brain. For within these manuscripts are tales of such harrowing peril and monstrous terror that you will surely leap out of a high window or throw yourself in front of a passing turnip wagon if only to be free of these horrible images. If you dare continue, know that your eyeballs will bear you a grudge for at least twelve to fourteen months for succumbing them to such unspeakable sentences and paragraphs of doom.
You have been mercifully warned. Now let us begin, brave souls…
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