From Alley Rumbles to Snake Pit Tumbles...

From Alley rumbles to Snake Pit tumbles...

Our tired bunch decide to remain in the lane rather than seek more suitable accommodations for their first night in town, reclining among the trash and rodents, unsure where to venture – so much is dissimilar to the time period they have just left. The evening air is chilly, but used to sleeping under the stars, it is a minor nuisance.

The buildings that surround them are red-clay brick, four stories or shorter, although in the distance they can discern shadows of some that are a little higher, perhaps five or six stories. A mongrel wanders close and sniffs, but is no more interested in them than they are him. It does snarl at Jahlo’s wolf, Benji, (who has kept to the background until now) but thinks better of its actions when the wolf snarls back, baring its fangs.

Jahlo absently rubs the dogs shoulders, yawning, wondering how he wound up snuggling with Benji, while the two ladies, Ooma and Tessalia, huddle together. “’Izz jus’ not fair, yah?” he mumbles, frowning.

A dim light penetrates the blackness as the gas light on the corner is lit. Wary, they ponder their thoughts long into the night, until, their watch complete, they coast into uneasy slumber.

As an uneventful night passes, they are awakened early by the sounds of shouting; the rhythmic clanging of construction assails their senses.

At the far end of the alleyway, where colossal green-trees tower over the tops of the buildings, they can see flashes of vivid colours and the commotion of persons busily jumping to obey the cacophony of instructions being bellowed; the crack of a whip snapping in the clear air causes them each to shudder, for diverse raison d'êtres. (<- that’s supposed to say different reasons...)

Behind them, the dusty street they left when entering the alley, streams with buggies and wagons filled with cargo buried under brightly coloured canvas tarps. Beefy-armed Orc’s sit atop the driver’s board steering the massive War horses, their hooves creating dust plumes as they trot along the hard-packed dirt-road. Riding ponies follow, under their handlers and trainers direction, prancing, wearing feathers, brilliantly coloured bells and harnesses; all emerging from the same direction, the left of the lane, and dipping down to the identical turn a few blocks later, to the right of the lane. The unaccustomed din fills the morning quiet.

Gazing down the trash-strewn alley in the opposite direction, they notice a few, dark-stained doors cut into the otherwise solid red-bricked walls. A wooden bucket with metal staves holds liquid of a dubious quality outside of one door; a dipper, hanging off a rusty nail pushed into the mortar between the bricks above the bucket, conveys the idea the liquid is for consumption. As they brush off the leaves, twigs, hay and other trifles of grime, sleepily shaking their uneasy snooze away, yawning and coming to their feet, with the air warming and the odours from the uncollected dung starting to attract flies; a woman’s scream draws their attention sharply.

They look to the far end of the alley where a couple of large, well-dressed woman, round the corner and stumble toward our group, who simply watch the ladies forward progress, admiring the jewellery they can see from even the hundred feet or so between them, heads canted.

Benji lifts his head and gives a low growl. "Quiet, yah?" he's told.

Following shortly, around the corner, come into view, one at a time, three ragged young ruffians, daggers drawn bearing down on the females. Echoing up the narrow hard-surfaced lane you can hear their threats and barbs; “C’mon lady!” “Hand over them gems!” “We’re no’ gunna hur’ ya.”

Benji leaps to his feet, hackles up, teeth barred, immediately followed by a loud, raucous fit of barking. Jahlo motions with his finger for his pet to interpose himself between the ladies and their pursuers, while calling to the women to come closer.

The ladies suddenly finding themselves cut off by another group of ruffians scream and spin around, stopping, frightened, clutching each other, with tears ruining their heavily made-up faces, looking from one group to the other, terrified and frozen in place as the ruffians advance.

It appears the day is going to be warm, maybe even hot by the late afternoon, and, as the sun’s rays poke into warm the dismal lane, our Heroes toss off their outer garments and bend their weapons to the ladies' aid.

A well placed shaft is launched before the third ruffian has knowledge there are others in the early morning lane. A stone-headed arrow burying deep in his chest, he gasps as he lunges forward, striking the ‘dog’ and gashing his ear.

Benji yelps and circles his prey as Tessalia brandishes her smoothly worn nubbly Quarterstaff at the nimble-footed scoundrel closest to her, who narrowly avoids being brained as the tip whiffs past his forehead. Tessalia places her footing, preparing to swing again as the bandit lunges forward, hacking his dirty blade along her shoulder.

Ooma shouts mightily, annoyed that these dudes arrived before she’s had a chance to wash up or comb her hair, darts and thrusts her blade into the belly of the third luckless would-be thief, slicing an elongated, clean incision intersecting his belly-button. “It’s too early to be fighting!” She grouses, planting her feet firmly and grinning her full-lipped smile, “Are we done yet?”

Laughing, Morgan swallows the last drops of his Meade, grateful that Ooma made sure everyone’s wineskin was topped off before they set out, stumbles to his feet, draws his shining rapier and swings it aimlessly at the group in front of him, muttering about, "needing another drink."

The ladies' eyes are wide; their mouths open in horror as they back against the wall, gripping each other so tight their fingers are ashen.

Benji growls and lurches himself at the crook who ripped his ear. The man, near death, manages a heroic effort to kick Benji sharply and deflect those fangs from sinking deep!

An arrow, nocked and let loose, flies true and dispatches the ‘dog’-hater’s soul to his maker as a stone flung, misses its mark and the other two thugs snarl and rush, threatening to avenge their friend’s demise.

One slices at Wik, stumbling and falling before his blade can find its mark. Ooma steps forward and slices his head clean off, causing the women to scream louder! Ooma calmly wipes her bloodied blade on a tattered scrap of cloth she carries in her belt for just such a purpose.

Jahlo leaps as the villain closest to the ladies turns to lunge at them, his actions result in him tripping to the ground, and his aim off as he hurls a stone from his sling missing the lucky bastard, leaving Morgan to swing his blade ineptly, slicing a short length of rope dropped in the alley days earlier.

Wik allows his bow to fall and draws his short sword, leaping and deftly striking the remaining ruffian and ripping a wide gash in his abdomen, his bowels spilling forth as he falls on his face in the dirty lane.

They no sooner dispatch the ruffians when the guards, who were to escort the ladies to view the circus setup, enter the alley, misinterpreting the actions of the ‘team’ and rushing to aid the ladies.

Breathing heavily from exertion and expended energy so early, our travellers are dismayed and, as one, fall into fighting positions, while Jahlo shouts to be heard, falling at the ladies' feet and begging for mercy. “We’ve just rescued you and now you would have us arrested?”

“Hey! You there, scum! Get back; drop your weapons!” The guards reach them and one extends his blade under the chin of Jahlo, “Shall I run him through My Lady?” as the others create a semi-circle, facing the band of Heroes.

Suddenly snapping from their panic the two ladies stand tall. “Release them! It’s true, they kept us from being robbed, and who knows what else while you,” her brown eyes harden as she turns her wrath on the luckless man, “who are supposed to be escorting us, were nowhere to be found! These brave souls saved us and deserve to be rewarded, while you,” she points her finger at the head of the guards, so denoted by the green stripe across his cap, “will go and get the authorities to clean up this mess.” She shudders, turning her attention to Jahlo, who is still quite concerned about the sharp-pointy-blade resting against his throat.

“Excuse me?” he tries. The soldier stares at him and then turns in disgust, his blade nicking the skin and drawing a drop of blood. “’ey there! Did you see that?” he turns to the ladies who are very sympathetic and fawn all over the decidedly handsome male, who is bleeding, handing him a handkerchief to wipe the blood.

Jahlo sidles between them, an arm going round their thick waists, “May we have the pleasure of knowing the names of such lovely damsels as yourself?”

Giggling, “I am Jane, and this is my sister Jennifer.”

“We only wanted to watch them erect the tents and see the parade of performers,” Jennifer pouts. “When those brutes demanded our purses!” She shudders.

“We ran, the guards our husbands sent with us, well, as you can see, were not doing their jobs; oh! I cannot tell you how grateful we are. To think we could have been murdered right here!”

“Yes, it’s a good thing we were unable to find a room for the night, and had to sleep out here in the lane, yah?” Jahlo agrees, lowering his eyes. “Now I’ve got a nick on my neck that’ll need mending, I can’t imagine how I’ll pay the physician.”

“Oh! You poor man! Oh Jane, we must help him.”

“Will this aid your troubles?” Jane asks, producing a silk purse and handing it to Jahlo.

“Well, now,” Jahlo smooth voice purrs as he slides the purse under his tunic, “you needn’t have done that.” The ladies giggle and preen.

“It is too bad our husbands are not here, I am sure they would want to thank you personally for your bravery! I know! Please join us in Father’s pavilion for Twilight Supper! Our husbands will be so grateful!” She untwines a gem crusted hair comb from her slightly dishevelled chignon and hands it to Jahlo, “Show this to the guard at the gate.”

“Why, thank you M’lady,” he bows deeply, while tucking the diamond and ruby comb into a pocket in his tunic, joining the silk purse.

The ladies make their way out of the alley under the care of their guards and our band sets to checking the loot upon the bodies. “They won’t be needing these any longer,” Wik grins, removing the luckless man’s shoes and discovering, folded up in a circus flyer, ten gold sovereigns! odds and ends of assorted stolen goods come from the would-be thieves: a single gold circle of gold with a centre of red-glass, or ruby?; a deck of cards; three daggers; a torn net and a clear glass-vial of blue liquid.

Discussing the division of loot results in animosity and grumbling as Wik, determined to hold onto the coins, vial and circle of gold, mutters that he dispatched two of the blighters and would have the third if Ooma hadn’t got in the way. Morgan ends the argument by announcing loudly that “I don’t care; Wik, you’re buying, let’s go. I’m way too thirsty to think about such things so early!”

“Wait, I’d like to examine that hair comb for a moment.”

Morgan smirks, “Why, think it’ll go with that new hair colour?”

Wik frowns and turns his attention to the comb. Upon examination they find a small coiled serpent engraved along the bridge of the comb. “Well.” They hearten, wondering what it means.

“It means we head to the tavern!” Morgan announces, turning and marching away.

And that settles it, our group heads toward the park emerging onto a wide avenue, with buildings lining one side and a great, massive green commons on the other. The trees soar, towering above the buildings casting large pools of shade, and an odd assortment of vegetation such as they’d never seen before.

The park is a buzz with workers dressed in pants, their already sweaty grayish-green bodies bare from the waist up. Our group watches for a bit, meandering among the construction.

Jahlo speaks to the workers, now that they are looking close they discover these are Half-Human-Orcs, the Orcs are all wearing odd lenses, like eyeglasses, but darker, over their eyes. “Ex’use me, but might you know of a tavern or place where a thirsty traveller might acquire a drink?”

The Orcs barely pause as they grunt, “Shove off!” Earning them a crack of the whip as the overseer tips his hat and blithely encourages you to return later; “We’ll be here for four days!” his jovial voice at odds with his deep crimson pants and short coat, knee-high black boots and a flat-cap completing his outfit. His bushy beard and coal-like eyes give him the appearance of a profiteer; not a very nice one at that.

Jhalo, and others in the group are appalled at the use of the whip, thinking it barbaric! They mutter as they turn away.

Continuing, Morgan approaches a passerby and enquires the location of the nearest tavern and is told there are two nearby and a nicer one on the far side of the park. They choose the closest, which is appropriately named, Red-Eyed Snake Pit, with a large coiled wooden snake sitting at the entrance, two red-glowing eyes keeping watch.

Entering, Morgan goes straight to the bar. “A brandy and chicory, please,” he requests and is served, paying the two coppers from his own pocket.

Ooma tilts her head, “Do we know you?” she asks the bartender, puzzled, thinking he looks identical to the Brewer in the Mysterious Tavern.

“Well, I’ve been here for many years, my whole life, it’s possible we’ve met,” the man nods.

“You don’t work at another tavern? Say one in the middle of the woods?” she pesters.

Eyeing her, his brows raised, “Tavern in the woods? No, only here, my whole life. Used to be just the Snake-Pit,” he reminisces, “but my granddad renamed it after returning from an expedition in which he and his companions tumbled into a pit filled with vipers; red-eyed vipers.

"They fought a fierce battle, to hear my granddad tell it; they were bit by the poisonous creatures. His comrades fell, stricken by the poisons; he alone escaped the venomous reptiles, slicing the head off of several and gouging the eyes out. He said there was something about the glow that wasn’t right."

"He claimed the snakes were huge, the size of a small child! but those eyes! When he held them (the eyes), he often recollected the tale. They seemed to burn in his hands, even after decades, they were still warm to hold. The few gems my granddad  returned with, he hoarded, selling one to spruce the place up, keeping the others on display in that there empty case.” He points to a wood-framed glass case at the end of the bar. “They were stolen a few years back.” The bartender shrugs, “The old man should have sold ‘em years ago. They attracted too much attention.”

Jahlo’s ears pick up, as do Morgan’s and Wik’s. “Here, now. He didn’t happen to leave a map or anything did he?”

“Nothing as far as I know. I haven’t been through all his papers though; might be something in his journals.”

“Pity,” Jahlo comments, his eyes lighting up as he spies two lovely, scantily-clad women sitting at the far end of the room. He sidles down to them and strikes up a conversation.

Ooma sighs, running her hand through her hair, “Do you have any public restrooms I might take advantage of?” The bartender points to a small hallway.

“Thank you.” She goes off to remove the dirt and debris that has been itching at her since they awoke, eager to eliminate the blood and grime drying on her fingers.

Morgan requests some food, and is brought a large bowl of stew and some fresh bread, which he tucks into heartily, along with a fresh mug of his special wake-up concoction. Wik requests a mug of ale and sits with Morgan, quietly contemplating what they should do next.

Jahlo sweet talks the ladies and convinces one of them to offer her services of massaging his neck easing the crick he complains of. She tiredly agrees and Jahlo, not wanting to seem unfriendly invites the other, who declines. He then extends his invitation to Tessalia, (Ooma having left the room), who, surprisingly agrees to this encounter and climbs the stairs behind them.

Once in the sparse room, containing an unadorned four-post bed, a dresser with an ewer and washbasin. The prostitute leads Jahlo to the lumpy mattress and sits behind him, her strong fingers kneading his neck muscles a little too strongly for Jahlo’s liking as he comments that, “H’y, maybe you could ease up with the pressure a little, yah?”

“I’m sorry,” the sleepy hooker yawns, her head drooping as she again massages his neck, her fingers closing around Jahlo’s tender throat.

“Hey there!” Jahlo leaps to his feet, “I’m not into that, yah!?” he gripes.

The hooker leans back on the bed, spreads her wares openly, crooking a finger to Tessalia, “Maybe we should start first?” She sleepily murmurs, her eyes closing as she waits for their response.

Tessalia glances to Jahlo, and back to the hooker, who is now snoring daintily, her evening placating the circus crowd finally catching up with her. Jahlo is fairly disgusted with her, but manages a smirk for Tessalia, who smiles back, accepting the implied invitation. The two do not return downstairs for quite some time...

Meanwhile, Ooma returns from the washroom, sits with Wik and Morgan, her appearance greatly improved; her hair tidy, her face is lightly made-up and she does not have a shadow across her chin. She drinks the mug of ale, set before her, thirstily.

Morgan decides to check up on his two ‘distracted’ companions, climbing the stairs, arriving at the top just as one of the heavy doors lining the hallway drops from its hinges and falls inward. He hears the curses of his companions and moves forward to investigate.

Unfortunately, as they are ready to leave the room, Jahlo and Tessalia find themselves locked in! The door simply will not budge!

Jahlo, cleverly uses a dagger’s edge to loosen the hinges. Unfortunately he forgets to prop the door, and while Tessalia peers over his shoulder, he removes the bottom hinge first, then the top, causing the door to thud-down and tip over, banging Jahlo’s shoulder and smacking Tessalia’s face, bloodying her nose and injuring her shoulder in its attempts to flatten them, continuing to bounce on the floor narrowly missing Tessalia’s toes.

Morgan looks in and shakes his head a wide-grin lighting his face, helping to move the heavy door aside, ignoring their dishevelled appearance, before they all troop back to the common room, Jahlo complaining to the barkeep they’d been locked in the room!

The bartender assures them the hooker should have opened the door with her key. “I’ll see to it at once,” he reassures them, offering them all drinks on the house, filling large mugs and passing the ale to them before heading upstairs.

A couple of circus workers residing in the corner, nursing their hangovers suddenly become vocal. One of the Half-Orcs stumbles toward Wik. “Don’t I know you?” he asks, sneering.

“I don’t believe so,” a worried Wik replies, pulling his cap down lower.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around; you look different though.”

Our group shifts uncomfortably, Jahlo stands and speaks, in Orc, to them, shocking them. A conversation takes place in which Jahlo increasingly convinces the Orc’s this is not the same fellow, the stupid, inept Elf, they believe him to be, to the point the one returns to his seat moments before the overseer stomps in, booming at them to get their good-for-nothing-asses back to work.

Our party takes offense at the overseer’s brusque attitude and a few words are exchanged, ending with the overseer stomping out his face as crimson as his outfit, after warning his hired hands to get to work or find new employment.

Discovering the location of a few dress shops from the remaining hooker, (Ooma is determined to show up looking presentable to the supper party) and a haberdashery for the gentlemen, they take their leave, heading first to the Apothecary, for some salves and dressings for their wounds. Jahlo whistles for Benji, who appears on cue and follows one pace behind his Master, the blood on his ear caking slightly.

Up the street they saunter, adroitly avoiding the lane where they’d fought as a large crowd gathers and rumours are rampant. Judiciously agreeing to find another road to take back up to the Apothecary, they manage to saunter nonchalantly passed and a good hundred yards along before a shout, “HEY YOU!” assails their ears.

“Just ignore it, keep moving,” Ooma encourages, which Wik heartily agrees with, stepping a little quicker. Footsteps, pounding up behind them, make them pause and hold their breath, hands moving to their weapons, Benji growling softly at his owner’s increased agitation.

The footsteps are directly behind them and a voice shouts again, “Halt!”

Our group turns their weapons half-exposed as a few soldiers and civilians rush passed, elbowing Tessalia, spinning a fellow just in front of them about, “Tha’s ‘im!” one of the civilians nods. “You’ll ‘ang for this, ‘eh? Denyin’ it won’t do you no good! We all saw yer las’ nigh’ arguin’ with them boys; threaten’ them inside the Red-Eye,” the greasy fellow smirks, taking a copper from the copper as he turns back and the guards arrest the fellow.

The crowds disperse to follow and our group breathes a sigh. It sits heavy with them that this fellow may swing for their actions, but reflect that they will be able to speak with the ladies and have them sort the confusion out before any real harm is done. They continue up the next road to the top and back toward the Apothecary, where they are surprised to find the authorities still rummaging through the lane.

They explain to an overzealous guard and his companions that they are on business for the ladies Jane and Jennifer, whom, after conferring with his superior, and being shown the hair comb, grudgingly allows them to continue on their way.

Cheekily, Jahlo asks if he might learn the name of the town. “Why, Triton,” they are told, “Lord Triton is the Ladies' Jane and Jennifer’s father.” He eyes them with even more suspicion.

Thanking him, our group feels they’d best remove themselves to the Apothecary.

Upon entering, Morgan deciding to remain in the street, they hear the familiar voice of the Apothecarist and soon his/her familiar rotund figure materialises from behind the curtains.

“Oh! Why it’s you! Welcome; Hello... OH MY! What happened to you?”

Wik, taking a deep breath refrains from shouting, although his voice is thick with sarcasm, “The dyes you gave me...” he starts and the Alchemist interrupts.

“The dyes? Well no wonder they didn’t work. You used the hair dye on your skin and the skin dye in your hair. Oh my my my!” s/he mutters. “Not good at all. This is a permanent dye, you know that, right? Dear me dear me...”

Wik, upon learning he may have skin the colour of the spice called Turmeric, and hair the shade of Pomegranate juice, forever, is slightly dismayed. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“Dear me, dear me. Let me think.” The person waddles into the back, returning a few minutes later, searching through drawers and labels until s/he mixes a paste, infusing it with a rich, deep-green oil she fills a jar. Holding Wik’s arm s/he rubs a small amount into his skin, “Try this for ten-days, it should fade the colour faster. But as for your hair,” s/he allows a small smile, “I’m afraid only shaving your scalp will work.”

Wik is about to say more when the alchemist spots the gash in Tessalia’s arm, the blackening eyes and crooked, bloodied nose, “My dear,” s/he shuffles over, “What happened? Let me fix that for you.” Placing her hand upon Tessalia’s face, and remaining still for a few moments, Tessalia is pleased to discover her face no longer feels like she’s run into a few too many cupboards.

“Thank you.”

“Tut-tut,” s/he frowns looking at the group, “How did this happen?”

Upon explanation, s/he is satisfied and even offers her suggestions to attend the dress shop, newly re-named, Madame Quirry’s Dress Shoppe, “she’s very reasonable.”

S/he is pleased to discover her new, albeit strange friends will be attending the Twilight Supper in the pavilion of Lord Triton, “A most honourable person; his sons-by-law are a little waspish, but they do seem to get along. His daughters are very special ladies; charitable to a fault! They started the homeless shelter and soup kitchen for the needy. They are always ready to take up a cause. Jane and Jennifer. There’s a third daughter who, is not so generous, but I suppose you shall meet them all this evening. Now off with... what is THAT!?”

Jahlo smiles, “My pet wolf, Benji.”

S/he softens immediately, “You’ve been injured! Why didn’t anyone say anything.” Scolding them she reaches for the pet, who allows her/him to stroke his fur and cup his torn ear, mending it as her/his lips moved slightly. “There, all better.”

Jahlo watches, and mutters, “Sure, heal my dog before me, yah?”

“Oh, hush, your injuries are not painful,” as s/he touches him, and he feels the healing power surge within him. “Now, may I give your pet a treat?” She heads toward the back, “And where is my Eye-of-Newt?”

Jahlo follows, “I haven’t had time to seek out the product, I do apologise, but I assure you I will return with it as soon as I locate it, yah?”

S/he hands the wolf a bone as long and thick as a man’s leg! “Good puppy,” s/he says patting Benji’s head. “I am trusting you to do that,” s/he nods to Jahlo.

“Wh...whaaa what IS that!” Jahlo’s expression shows disbelief.

“A bone. I did ask.”

“He can’t go carrying that around town, he’ll knock people over with it!”

“Okay, fine, give it to me and I’ll make it smaller.” Jahlo ensues on a game of tug-o-war the heavier wolf relinquishing his prize only out of love for his owner. The Alchemist shakes her/his head, taking the bone from Jahlo and easily snaps it into four, approximately equal parts while Jahlo stares in astonishment.

“How...how did you do that?”

“Some secrets aren’t meant to be revealed,” s/he shoves him gently out of the back room, handing the wolf a much reduced version of the large bone.

Having received medical attention all round, our group returns to the street, almost surprised to find it unchanged, and Morgan leaning against the wall, waiting for them.

They head to the dress shop first. “It will take us much longer to pick out our outfits and have them altered,” Tessalia confides, thinking if she recalls any spells which could assist them in obtaining the ornate clothing they will require, at a low-cost they can afford.

Our fine group ambles off down the street. The men grumble, but Jahlo’s step is high, “What’s to complain about,” he defends his high spirits, “We get to watch the ladies change, I for one plan to make myself available to assist.”

Ooma’s eyes roll and she shakes her head, “Why did we bring him along?” she teases.

"Well," Tessalia smiles, "he's quite adept at loosening stays."

o0o

dressing room fumbles...?

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress...

khrys...

*~*~*~*