Tales of the Green Griffon Inn
Thought I would share this with people. If you are into short stories, this might be somewhat interesting, from the perspective of Adom enthusiasts. Hopefully, this will continue with more stories, assuming there is at least some interest.
Unfortunately, this forum does not respect inlines, tabs, indentations etc., the way it should. Of course, constructive criticism is very much welcome. I added a somewhat better formatted .txt version as well.
Bart & Torgall
The sound that his empty mug made when he slammed it against a table, made Bart wonder if it’s a good thing or bad. On one side something came to an end, some irreversible loss, but for the tingling feeling in his belly, as the last droplets of ale drifted down. Then the grizzled gladiator thought of the other side, so much more to look forward to, a nigh unending supply of drinks. He glanced at Torgall, the innkeeper, his well-kept red beard twitching in rhythm with each successive piece of crockery he polished to a glittering shine. Bart pushed a golden coin towards the shorter man, and barely managed to pull the arm away as a thick, scarred hand grabbed the gold and pocketed the precious piece of metal somewhere within the folds of his dirty apron.
“Hast ye heard? They say that being able to read is very useful when visiting the library,” the red-beard spoke, his deep voice resonating within the walls of the relatively small room, which was, despite its cramped interior, called an inn. A Green Griffon Inn to be precise.
“Oh shut it Torgall. How many of these stupid rumors do you even know?” the gladiator asked, his annoyance clear in the irritated tone of his voice.
“One for every ale ye buy, ye old drunkard. I can see yer sagging man-tits from here.”
“Says the ginger midget. Of course you need to be able to read when you’re going to, wait for it, a LIBRARY. Duh. Why the hell would you go there if you couldn’t read? Fuck me.”
Bart asked the question, not really waiting for an answer. As expected, he did not get one. Older than Torgall, at least in appearance, he likewise carried a convoluted web of scars on his skin. Though age has caught up with the man, he had barely lost a portion of his former splendor and fitness that only a gladiator could boast. They’ve known each other for years and the bickering was part of the ritual the two men took part in, every single day. Both shared some dark and painful past experiences, which connected them on a more spiritual level than physical, made them immune to even the vilest of insults.
The other tables were empty, though the unpleasant, musty smell in the air was not the cause of that. It was simply too early for the decent folks to bloat themselves with ale, save for a stray adventurer coming in once in a while. Indistinguishable walls drowned in the hazy torchlight, as much as in the smoke drifting from the hearth and from the outside. Living underground had its perks but also a few downsides. The two dwarves existed in something akin to a peaceful bubble, where alcoholic vapors replaced air and maintained a tight cocoon of inebriation that gave them both a false sense of blissful, unassailable security in an otherwise crumbling world outside.
All of a sudden, a curious new sound breached that fortress of calm. Frantic steps mixed with clattering of iron armor plates and muffled yelps intertwined with hateful grunts. Somebody was being chased by something else. At first neither man moved. This was not out of the ordinary, with chaos forces making ever bolder forages into the surface world, more and more treasure hunters flocked from distant lands, lured by the promise of wealth and glory, only to find death, corruption and mutilation. The sounds faded into distance but a minute later could be heard again. Whoever was the person in trouble, he or she was trying to dodge the pursuit by snaking between the buildings. They were not doing a good job. Torgall had the privileged position next to a window behind the bar but Bart needed to glance outside the entrance to find out what’s going on, now that his curiosity has been tickled.
Sure enough, another damned adventurer headed his way, thick blood leaking through the seams of his punctured breastplate, down his torn pants and off the side of his helmetless head. Slowed down by the tons of luggage he carried, it was a human no less, not a rare sight all things considered, followed by a ratling duelist, a claw bug and something else, an entity that was clearly there, yet not visible to the naked eye. The adventurer appeared to be aware of that invisible stalker pursuing him, but like the gladiator, he was incapable of telling exactly where his adversary was. He tried to buy himself some time and swung an orcish spear he was wielding, in a horizontal arc, at the nearest attacker, only to have it deflected and then ripped out of his grasp by the considerably more skilled ratling. Bart recognized the creature instantly and not just because they had another one of its kind in town but also because he had vivid memories of facing one such enemy at the arena all those hazy years ago. It was a very painful memory indeed, for much the same reason that he could observe now, as the newcomer hid behind a chipped tower shield, probing for his weapon, while the relentless ratling pummeled his cowardly shield-arm.
Disarmed and pushed to the defense, the adventurer found time to rummage in his oversized bag and pull out one of many long, pointy objects in his possession, sticking out through the tarp of his burlap sack. The moment his hand landed on the grip of a sword, it glowed in a sick black light. The poor man yelped in horror, swinging the blade like a useless appendage, unable to bring himself to release the grasp of the cursed weapon. During all that commotion, the claw bug flanked the flailing man and burrowed its thin claws within the heavily armored leg, finding no resistance to its sharp and barbed pincers, reaching soft meat beneath, ruining the already damaged limb. The human squealed like a gutted wild boar, blood gushing down from the terrible wounds in his right calf, adding to the multiple sources of bleeding already visible elsewhere. With the final berserking lunge, the man stabbed with the sword, hitting the claw bug squarely between the mandibles, the cursed weapon sufficiently sharp to tear through the tiny chitin armor. Although deadly when attacking, the claw bugs weren’t so capable at defending themselves or taking hits. The insect folded in on itself and collapsed down to the ground without a further twitch.
That was when something blunt struck the man's head, the scalp bouncing off the invisible weapon like a watermelon kicked by an angry troll. The unexpected stike clearly stunned the adventurer, his hands instinctively swung both his weapon and the shield to fend off any further attacks, while he stepped away from his enemies, at an almost crawling pace, randomly staggering around. His leg must have not been damaged so badly as it appeared at first, for the man was putting his and his equipment’s massive weight on it without folding. Bart noticed however than an empty bottle dropped to the ground and shattered to pieces, the last few drops of a red liquid still lingering on the adventurer’s lips. On top of that drunk potion, there were mashed up green leaves sticking from the torn clothing covering his leg. He must have rubbed some sort of a plant into the wound, while at the same time fending off attacks from two separate sources. How and when did he manage to do all that was beyond the gladiator, but it likely saved the man’s life.
Or rather, prolonged his torment. The ratling chose this moment of stunned hesitation and without any effort disarmed the human again, not realizing he actually helped his adversary get rid of a cursed weapon, which was flung to the side, yielding an audible clang. Meanwhile, the fighting party was getting close to the Waldenbrook's shop, nearing the entrance where the portly chap of a dwarf lingered in his abode, gauging the ongoing battle with a knowing eye.
The wounded man regained control over his movements and hid once again behind the shield, crouching as he did that, just in time to avoid another invisible attack, swinging above his head, close enough to disturb the sweat-matted hair and make him flinch, but missing any vital areas altogether. His bulging sack was once more attacked by his hand, taking hold of another weapon, this time a battle axe. A lucky choice because it did not glow in black light this time. He swung it at the empty air in front of him and the axe embedded itself in something, hanging in the air as if on its own, blood flowing down the side of the axe-head, before he removed the weapon, foiling another one of the ratling's attempts at disarming him and prepared to attack again.
Bart had to admire the man. He knew his priorities, even if it perhaps appeared that he was random in the selection of his targets. The claw bug posed the biggest threat versus the mere annoyance of the disarmer, as the bug's lightning-fast pincers tore through all armor like it was made of cloth. The invisible stalker had to go next because the ratling would require the adventurer’s full attention and possibly some distance to permit ranged attack, using the short bow he noticed hanging at the man’s side along with a quiver full of arrows.
The wounded fighter stepped back, avoiding a trick lunge from the duelist, aimed at disarming him again, then anticipated where the stalker would be and pushed his shield in that direction. It buckled under some sort of pressure almost at the same time, struck by an invisible blow. The concealed enemy was very much alive so the adventurer took another random shot at his estimated location and the axe bit deeper this time. The falling creature pulled it down as it tumbled to the ground but the human predicted such a turn of events and wrenched it out from within the translucent flesh, just in time to parry a flurry of the ratling's tactical moves. It was one on one now and the adventurer could focus his entire attention on his last remaining enemy.
He was clearly more proficient with the axe than either the spear or the sword. Bart did not understand why one would deliberately pick a weapon that one was not proficient with, when it was clear that a preferable battle axe was readily available. It didn't matter at this point though, the human was using what he was familiar with. He blocked yet another attempt at disarming, his skill with the axe permitting him a swift and dexterous move to avoid at least two following attacks aimed at his wounded leg. The ratling showed no signs of tiring while the human had to waste a significant amount of time on patching up his existing wounds to avoid bleeding out to death. Despite that disadvantage, another blocked vertical slash forced the ratling's guard into a small opening which was deftly used by the adventurer - his axe embedded itself into the chest of his smaller but more agile enemy, crippling the ratling's circulatory system, dropping him down in one fell swing.
It was done, the human was victorious in this vicious battle, though he paid a great price for staying alive. He almost collapsed to the ground, tired after the battle, rummaging through his inventory seeking another potion, throwing unknown vials away. At that moment, Bart noticed something strange happening. A housewife that was about to enter Waldenbrook's store suddenly paled, the skin of her face an initial indication of revulsion and then primal fear. She turned around screaming and ran away from the vicinity of the shop. At first, Bart figured she was disturbed by the sight of dead bodies strewn around, but no. Dwarves were used to such things, even children, living in such a place as this.
It was the adventurer. While sitting on the ground, catching a breath, looking for ways to heal himself, he did not realize that something about him caused others in his immediate surroundings to quaver in fear.
All except one. The dwarven shopkeeper stepped out of his store, a massive golden coin glittering in his muscled grip, as he lifted it up in preparation for a throw.
"Stop chasing away me customers!" he screamed, throwing the coin with all of his formidable strength. It went true, colliding with the unprotected head of the adventurer, still unaware of the commotion he was the cause of. It entered his skull with a muffled slurping sound, killing the poor human on the spot. He was already seated, just beside the shop's wall and now his dead body slumped even further down the rocky wall of the store.
Bart noticed Torgall losing his interest now that everything was concluded. He too figured that things were once again back to normal and turned around, heading towards the Inn. The last few trickles of blood dried up beside the shop but not before Waldenbrook and some of his ever-present thugs started tearing off parts of the deceased armor and sifting through his pockets and the huge bag he carried. Sure enough, the dead needed their things no more but yet another of the many secrets of Waldy's limitless supply of items has been resolved.
Before Bart had his third ale this morning, the naked corpse of a nameless adventurer had been dumped into the ogre cave with a splashing sound. Disposed of before with its rot, it could pollute the existing air, itself of an already degrading quality, what with Glod's smithing workshop and his red-hot forge, endlessly spilling toxic fumes all over the Dwarftown. Everything was back to normal and housewives have already gotten excited at the prospect of all those heaps of clothes and leather girdles for sale, magically appearing in their favorite shop. Children ran around town, oblivious to the decomposing remnants of creatures that just moments before fought an intense battle to the death.
"Another ale, Tor," the gladiator spoke, pushing the coin down onto the sticky, dark table-top of the bar. It disappeared as soon as it emerged.
"Hast ye heard? They say that merchants are really well-spoken thieves."
"Ugh, really Torgall? I don't think that's entirely appropriate given the circumstances?"
There was no response to the verbal challenge so Bart just shrugged.
"Whatever. Man this town's turning into a shithole..." Bart spoke, but not before he took a long swallow of the musty drink. After all it was, he thought, pretty good, all things considered, getting better with each sip. Both the town and the ale.
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