Deep within the dwarven City of Dath’ryn’vale… stands the somewhat bewildered Oliver.
The young scribe, surrounded by his trusted friends– A small group of adventurers, who have recently found themselves plucked from their normal quest line, not only sidestepping a demon invasion of somewhat mild danger, but commandeered entirely by a new quest-giver.
Swept up by the dwarven lass’s plea for help, they found themselves transported to the Rockthorn Mountains. Far to the north- farther to the north than Oliver, had ever been. Considering it was just a short jaunt through a magical portal, really, wasn’t much of an experience at all. Or so thought the Scribe of Nightsong, Oliver, as he stood wondering why things weren’t quite right.
“It’s pretty clear that we have lost control of the narration,” Aticus chirped in, interrupting the flow of this strange new reality, “I suggest that we try to talk more, less things keep being recapped and over-explained, again and again.”
“Well, maybe we should try to figure out what is being explained over and over again?” Bartello, ever on the hunt for clues, and doubly so, on some way to passively thwart anything that comes out of Aticus’s face hole, argued, “Maybe there is some clue, therein, to solve this before it truly gets out of hand.”
“Ha! I knew it,” Aticus shouted triumphantly, “Passively thwart anything out of my face hole!” the dwarven warrior repeated, and then turned accusingly to the librarian, “I knew you had it in for me– for a while now!”
“What? Hey, I didn’t say that,” Bartello, somewhat miffed, protested.
“Doesn’t make it any less true!” Aticus shot back.
Suddenly, there was shifting noise just outside of the magical ball of light’s reach. The tension that gripped the Scribe’s very being was reflected throughout the small fellowship of adventurers. Including those that had just foolishly shouted at one another in the middle of a city that was, reportedly, overrun by monstrous lizardmen, all at the behest of a ‘Bishop of Darkness’. Needless to say, they regretted their own foolishness.
“If it was truly needless to say,” Aticus whispered in exasperation, “Why was it said?”
With this rather pointless utterance, the small group fell back into silence, just in time for the shifting noise to become a rather staggered set of footsteps. Footsteps falling on the stone cobbles of the extraordinarily crafted stone corridors of the impressively impressive stone craftsmanship known throughout the world as dwarven in make…
“Ok, not only was that last sentence needlessly wordy,” Aticus interrupted, “It made absolutely no sense!”
“Now hear this,” came a grumpy voice, from the same direction as the previous footsteps, “I am an experienced writer— Kings across the realms of Drue have awarded me awards of no small pittance…
“Awarded you awards?” Aticus mused aloud, “Were they impressively impressive?”
“Well of course, they must have been,” Bartello jumped in, the two rivals coming together against a common foe, “If you are going to be awarded awards, they should be impressively impressive!”
“You’re mocking me! ME?” Suddenly the stout form of an ancient dwarf stepped into the magical light, “You dare mock the Great Dandolhoff Macgurdy!”
With that, rather fantabulous reveal, the small fellowship was deeply and thoroughly stunned into silence. For truly if they had known, who, exactly, they were speaking to…
“We were not,” Bartello protested, “You can’t just dictate how we feel about events in the story!”
“Yes, that is going over the line,” Aticus agreed, “I, for one, have never even heard of ‘Dandolhoff’ as an actual name, any sane person may deem to grant a small newborn baby, that they, presumably, plan to love, let alone some old writer…”
“Some old writer!” the ancient dwarf was about to blow his top, “I have never…”
“Wait, wait! Everyone hold on,” the Scribe interjected, secretly because he did not want to find out if ‘blowing one’s top’ was literal of figurative, but publicly, just to try and find out what in the darkest depths was going on.
“Well, now you’re just making up secrets for us,” Oliver pounced on his turn to protest.
For how could they possibly know, that this old -incredibly talented and famous- writer, was simply cut off from the rest of the dwarven people, in their evacuation of the main city, as they left to go cower within the great keep at the city’s core. And how could this writer explain that he simply needed help, and thus, highjacked their story in the only way he knew how!
“I see what you did there,” Oliver commended as he absorbed the new information.
“So, wait,” Fazhalby finally got a word in edgewise, “I didn’t actually break anything?”
The old dwarf, however, completely ignored the filthy little fiend.
“What?” Faz was taken aback. “Why?”
Because not only was it a demon— the old writer had learned a long time ago, that when it comes to writing, you are better off leaving the bad ideas out. That is if you want to be considered a good writer! This particular writer was anything but good. Err, I mean, anything but not bad…
“Wait a second,” Faz said as the imp tried to move within the old dwarf’s eyeline. He found the eyes shifting away. No matter where the imp moved, he was just out of the dwarf’s sight. “Hey!” the imp protested some more, waving his arms in the air. Finally, the imp gave up, “Uncool, man. Uncool.”
Little by little it occurred to each adventurer in turn, that all the old dwarf needed was a way to the central keep. The very place their story was headed anyway. It would take a brain as dense as a pile of stone for them not to realize that he could easily lead them there, provided they were willing to protect him from the aforementioned lizardmen!
“’Escort Quests’ are the worst,” Aticus muttered.
Oliver cut to the chase, “We would all like to invite you to join our ‘fellowship’ as we travel to the central keep…”
“Well, I suppose I should have to,” the old dwarf interrupted the Scribe, who was clearly begging for help, “Otherwise, you lot would surely get yourselves killed!”
With that Dandolhoff Mcgurdy joined the small fellowship. Truly, the mocking mockingness of both the librarian, Bartello, and the dwarven warrior, Aticus, would surely come to a fast end, now that it was clear how much the old dwarf could potentially help them.
The old dwarf felt nothing but a warm glow of respect from all his new friends. Including the rather friendly dog that was quick to greet him with the friendliest greeting ever– as only a canine could! Though, alas, the dwarf gave wide berth to the seemingly seething wrath of the growing impatience of the Dwarven Lass, Mila; truly, the Scribe of Nightsong may learn whether ‘blowing one’s top’ is a literal occurrence, after all.
“Oh, would you just come on,” Aticus demanded as he led the way back.
“So, I mean- you guys didn’t want to do the denouement thing?” the old dwarf asked as he followed along, somewhat crestfallen, “I’m really quite good at it…”
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