hwango

At the foot of the Skyreach Mountains, near the banks of the Frostrun River, and just west of Darkheart Forest, there lies the village of Stump. Yes, I know exactly what you're thinking, and I agree. It's like they weren't even trying. In fact, it seems even more likely that they went out of their way to annoy the bards and storytellers. After all, who wants to tell a story about a place called Stump? Nevertheless, that is the name of the place where my tale both begins and ends.

It was a fine spring day when I first entered the village which I shall not give the satisfaction of calling again by its name. The sun glittered on the surface of the swiftly flowing river, and the chirping of birds was blissfully absent. I can't abide birds. Dreadful creatures.

A pleasant breeze teased the crisp mountain air down from its lofty home in the peaks above and into the streets around me, which helped take the edge off the abominable reek of the place. Garbage and filth filled the streets. In particular, it seemed that no one had seen to the leavings of the first horse to pass through the village, nor any horse since. Really, the place was filthy.

I was soon to learn that the shameful upkeep of the streets was but one of many consequences of a general feeling of hopelessness and despair that gripped the populace. I braved the local tavern and found the place already filled nearly to capacity with miserable souls drinking themselves insensible in a vain attempt to forget what a wretched town it was in which they lived. Or so I guessed at first.

The barman could barely motivate himself to serve me, such was the gloom that gripped these people. My first impulse was to move on immediately, but I admit that soon my curiosity overpowered my disgust, and I implored the people to tell me what it was that caused them such obvious distress.

None would answer me, and more than one gave me a strange look when I spoke to them. Perturbed as I was by this treatment, I decided that my curiosity no longer outweighed my distaste for the place, and I resolve to depart without delay. But just as I rose to leave, another soul entered the bar and caused such a transformation in the crowd that I could do nothing but stand transfixed in wonder.

To the untrained eye, the newcomer was the very image of the hero of song and story. Gleaming armor, flowing blond hair, flawless teeth – the whole package. Instantly he was beset by drunken men and women weeping and imploring him to save their pathetic town from some terrible monster that plagued it, which was apparently the cause of all of their misery and woe. Besotted as they were, they missed all of the important details that my carefully trained eye immediately noted.

The armor that shone so brightly did so because it was quite new and unused. The boy wearing it bore not a single scar. This was no hero. Real heroes wear armor that is falling apart, have teeth missing from epic battles with dreadful beasts, and have long since learned to cut their hair shorter than that so it doesn't acquire so many bugs. For example, my own armor is so battered and worn that it is scarcely recognizable as armor anymore.

I cleared my throat to gain the attention of the crowd. When that failed, I pounded my tankard upon the bar. When that also failed, I resorted to smashing a stool upon it.

As all eyes finally turned towards me, I assured them that it was I who would be their salvation, not this untrained youth. To my great outrage, my words were met with incredulous stares and not a few unrestrained guffaws. One man even went so far as to point at the newcomer as if I had somehow failed to notice him.

The youth himself gave me what he probably assumed was a kindly smile, but I could see that he too doubted me. I demanded of the townsfolk that they tell us the particulars and whereabouts of this dreadful beast, and then we would see which of us managed to slay it.

The crowd seemed agreeable enough to that suggestion, and immediately launched into detailed and contradictory descriptions of the creature. At one point the count on the number of heads reached as high as five before finally being brought back down to one. Similar fluctuations occurred in the recounting of the number of limbs possessed by the beast until a consensus was reached at four. Indeed, I began to suspect that we were dealing with nothing more exotic than an ordinary bear or some such other mundane animal, but the mob assured us that it was covered in scales and had been seen to expel gouts of evil-smelling fire.

For my part, I wondered how anyone who lived in such a fetid place could possibly call something else "evil-smelling" with a straight face, but I decided that now was not the time to raise the issue. Our eager young savior was already nodding sagely and proclaiming their tormentor to be a least drake, a small though still quite dangerous cousin to the mighty dragon.

As you can imagine, I scoffed at this ridiculous notion and informed the people that they were in fact dealing with what was clearly a quifurbulous gangertwaddle. By the sound of it, the creature was a female which would soon lay its eggs. The noxious stench of the flames meant that it had been consuming the ingredients needed to intensify the flames enough to incubate the young. This behavior is what makes it so easy to distinguish from the ogliviate gangertwaddle, which eschews the use of fire in favor of using its remarkably dexterous forepaws to knit egg cozies with which to warm its offspring. In any case, I told them that we must proceed with all haste to destroy the beast before it had a chance to lay the eggs, as it would only be harder to vanquish once it was fighting to protect its unborn young, and at which time its flame would be at its hottest and most foul.

This proclamation of doom elicited from those assembled the awed silence that it so rightly deserved.

After allowing the crowd a moment to absorb the full magnitude of the task I would be undertaking on their behalf, I asked again where I might find the monster. Unlike the physical appearance of the creature, it seemed that the location of its nest was a matter upon which there was universal agreement. All reported sightings indicated that the beast made its home in a cave at the base of the mountains. I assured them that this was indeed a common nesting practice of the gangertwaddle, and that my victory over the beast was assured.

The youth suggested that we wait until dawn to make our attack so that the creature would still be sluggish from its night of slumber, and offered to pay for a room in which I might rest until then. I shook my head in despair at his ignorance and informed him that the gangertwaddle was primarily nocturnal. We should proceed with all haste to the creature's lair while the sun still shone so that we might catch it unawares.

He asked me if I was sure I would not first like to rest and recoup my strength from a long day on the road, and I realized his true motives. The boy knew very well the activity cycle of our prey, and was hoping that I would be foolish enough to stay behind while he snuck off on his own to claim all of the glory! He thought himself cunning, but I saw through such an obvious ploy. I assured him that I was quite fit enough to make the journey now. He sighed in defeat and agreed to depart immediately.

We rode forth to the cheers of a populace transformed. I had given these people hope where they had none, and they were rightly grateful. A number of young ladies offered tokens of their favor to the youth who rode with me. Clearly they could see that, as the more inexperienced of the warriors riding forth to do battle, it was he who most required their support. Indeed, I have no doubt that he was naïve enough to be filled with courage by their attentions. I, veteran of so many such encounters as I was, needed no such displays to boost my morale, and spared them not a glance.

The youth and I exchanged few words during our journey to the creature's lair. Many times I spotted him stealing glances at my weapons and other accouterments. No doubt he was jealous of such fine gear, having only his own quite mundane armaments for the approaching confrontation. I resolved to try to keep from harm's way as much as possible during the fight.

At last we espied the cave of which the townspeople had spoken. We secured our horses some distance away and made our final approach afoot. The youth attempted several times to get ahead of me as we neared the cave, his eagerness to prove himself obviously overpowering his good sense. At the very mouth of the cave he even went so far as to whisper a suggestion that he go in first. I nearly laughed out loud, and plunged inside before he could argue further.

The smell of the town had been abominable, but words fail me as I wrack my mind for a way to describe the cave. If the strength of the flame corresponded to the reek that it caused, then the gangertwaddle would likely have incinerated its eggs rather than simply warm them. Or perhaps the creature was simply ill. As my nose shut down in protest against the smell with which it was assaulted, my other senses strove to compensate. Even in the dim light of the cave I could make out the many piles of bones, the scorch-marks on the walls, and the mound of rotting vegetation that served as the creature's nest. From deep inside the cave I could hear the dripping of water, and hiding behind that sound I detected the faint echoes of a large creature's breathing.

I crept slowly forward, my spear held before me, ready to brace against a charge in case the creature was awakened by the clumsy fumbling of the boy would-be hero. I could hear him behind me, his fancy armor clanking softly as he moved.

What happened next I suppose a lesser man would cloud with prevarications. Such a man would claim that they alone slew the beast with a single mighty stroke. But I will not stoop so low, and will instead provide you with the unvarnished truth.

The beast indeed awakened, and sprang immediately towards me, foul smoke oozing from its gaping maw. I heard the youth cry out in fear as I stood my ground against the terrible monster. I pointed my spear directly at the vile beast's heart as it leapt, certain that I would fell the creature immediately. Alas, fate chose that moment to mock me, and on impact my spear splintered apart in my hands. The youth, clearly blinded by panic, stumbled into me and knocked me aside, purely by accident saving me from the gangertwaddle's ghastly teeth. He then stood between the creature and myself, clearly too paralyzed with terror to realize that his position was preventing me from slaying the beast.

I quickly regained my footing and drew my sword. I attempted to maneuver myself into position to strike, and was continuously frustrated as my inexperienced companion repeatedly stumbled into my path. Again and again I would prepare to ram my blade through the creature's jaws and into its brain, and each time the youth would smash the creature's head aside with his shield before I could complete my strike. It was infuriating.

Finally I was able to maneuver around the youth and attempt to simply behead the beast. Truly, though, the universe was mocking me that day. I swung my sword in a devastating arc towards the creature's neck only to have the blade snap off upon contact. The creature turned to face me and I saw it draw in a great breath, preparing to blast me with its flame.

As I stood stunned by this latest incident of ridiculous mischance, the youth's clumsiness caused him to trip over his own feet and send him hurtling into the foul creature, knocking it to the ground and causing the stream of fire to wash harmlessly over the wall of the cave. Then, clearly imitating my own superior fighting skills, he brought his feeble blade down upon the monster's neck. The beast must have been ill as I had previously suspected, for its head was shorn from its body by this one blow. Or perhaps my own attack had weakened the creature. Yes, that must be it. Before breaking, my own blade had most likely shattered several of the monster's bones, allowing the boy to easily dispatch the creature by capitalizing on the damage I had already inflicted.

Regardless, the gangertwaddle was dead. I confess, I felt some disappointment. Here had been my chance to demonstrate my skill and heroism, and I had been undone by cruel mischance. Through nothing but ridiculous dumb luck and an attempt to emulate my own greatness, this untested youth had been to the one who technically vanquished the beast, though as I said I still suspect that I did rather more of the work than it might have seemed.

The boy asked me if I was injured, which of course I was not. He then searched the cave to be sure no other horrors dwelt within. Satisfied, he dragged the creature's head back out into the sunlight and tied it to his saddle.

I have no doubt he would have liked to return to town alone to claim all of the credit for himself, but he must have sensed that I would never allow such a thing. Instead, he offered to escort me back to town since I was now weaponless, and other terrors might still lurk nearby. Hah! As if I required an escort. Still, I wanted to give him no excuse to make the journey without me, and so I played along with his laughable suggestion.

When the townsfolk saw us returning, they were jubilant. When they saw that we bore the creature's head, they were ecstatic. A number of them begged us to tell the tale of how we slaughtered the terrible fiend. After a quick glance at me, the youth told them that the details were not important, but what truly mattered was that the menace to their village was no more.

I confess, at first I was furious that my own significant part in the creature's demise would not be told. Quickly, however, I realized that the youth was too ashamed to tell the truth of his own clumsiness and cowardice, and dare not lie while I was there to contradict him. I decided to be magnanimous and allow him to keep his shame a secret.

And that is the tale of how I defeated the terrible monster that had for so long tormented the people of that village which I refuse to call again by name. I departed the next day, glad to be rid of the place.

While passing through the haunted forest just outside the town I found a new sword and spear lying beneath a magic oak tree, and so I was well-prepared for the next time the downtrodden and the helpless required my strength and heroism. Truly, this life of adventure is my true calling. When I look back on all of those years I spent making hats I shudder to think of the time wasted. But what use is it to dwell upon the past? Instead we must look to tomorrow, that magical place where things haven't happened yet. Or something.

Anyway, I just hope the next village has a better name.