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Archive for the ‘Tales from the Third Table’ Category

Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those absent of third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards would spread crimes and plans most foul; were braggards’ left to catch the cutpurse’s pick. Would Bob himself remain to falsify, yet Patchwall’s coming sees none left but porters..

Bear silently your bards acrid tongue!  Well now you’ve burst the sack ‘fore Wenta’s gaze, and what say she?  ‘To lords and land for mercy’ doth cry her dun shirted acolytes to the man.  Welfare welfare you’ll cry, Istus turned north while still you grasp a Commons’ cup.  Adventurer’s, ye!?  Back to stables and pastures with ye then!  Leave my horn alone.

Empty, Bob’s own, you ask thy bard?  As the Porters’ work call fest’s curtain shall I detail this board’s recent hist’ry.  This week did speak of employ lucrative, a dangerous course to move your feet this fall south and east, yeah south and east said they.

And now they’ve gone; flown to, where to?  Know not.
Yet mark the scales of Obad Hai doth settle
in their wake.  They have fled so soon Bob’s
round that still there stands a queue, mettle
and more to test!  Mine own verse to employ
would vanity stand for litmus, but hark!
Criers shriek of robbery in The Quarters, boys
speak of beasts, Ourang-Otans to guard
dark secrets loos’d, river pirates and
sewers stalked.  At Brewfeasts end?  And flown
the coop a Temple Army new!  Forfend,
Pholtus, ‘gainst Syrul’s lies fully sown
across our streets!  Alas the porters’
silence grows more questions than answers.

 

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick. Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.

Hear now then news from your bards faithful tongue!  Now that gold burst sacks  from  honest work, the fairgrounds neat, stalls pitched and prey espied we might, on this eve of viscount’s tourney turn anxious eyes to fear a Patchwall’s dawn.  Ha ha ha we, rogues, sharpers and robbers all, fear?  Drink!  Devour!  Shoot forth thy sacks bounty on yonder doxy’s rouged and faithless cheeks.  Live!  And to Istus a shill for morrow’s turn.  Still know thou Brewfeasts tithes for drunken turns; Trithereon’s week shows poorly Wenta’s flow’ring, and poor delvers are turn’d ‘way first at Needfest.

Well now fear not, pick not thy true bard!  Hear ye now promising news of employ.  Has it sooth patrons few a plan; a project lucrative and dangerous.  Adventure, southern and east of Hommlet, east of Hommlet say I this humble bard!  Dip now tankards full and toast to pleasure, and realize,

Small pieces and patience mend broken walls,
with flocks of strong hands working the pace.
Patient Cyril does promise together on call
a company to work that wretched space
while Rufus works practice martial anew,
turning eyes and minds in the aging sun.
Dain tinkers scrap through word and gift into
cuirass and greave in prime condition.
Long tales share secrets in summer’s twilight
through amber ales to dungeons sealed
by might and sacrifice true, lifting night
that cooks and squires take right to field
phalanxes strong. A temple army, forsooth
to rend winters sinful silence with truth!

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick. Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.

Hear now then news from your bards faithful tongue!  Now that gold burst sacks  from  honest work, the fairgrounds neat, stalls pitched and prey espied we might, on this eve of viscount’s tourney turn anxious eyes to fear a Patchwall’s dawn.  Ha ha ha we, rogues, sharpers and robbers all, fear?  Drink!  Devour!  Shoot forth thy sacks bounty on yonder doxy’s rouged and faithless cheeks.  Live!  And to Istus a shill for morrow’s turn.  Still know thou Brewfeasts tithes for drunken turns; Trithereon’s week shows poorly Wenta’s flow’ring, and poor delvers are turn’d ‘way first at Needfest.

Well now fear not, pick not thy true bard!  Hear ye now promising news of employ.  Has it sooth patrons few a plan; a project lucrative and dangerous.  Adventure, southern and east of Hommlet, east of Hommlet say I this humble bard!  Dip now tankards full and toast to pleasure, yet ride those rims eyes wide to spy,

A steel hard crew, resolve sharp, gaze set
to pierce eye tyrants n’ gas spores alike
would retain sharp spears ‘gainst ancient threat,
given men with the mettle of their pikes.
Short in years, yet long in tears this company
would front aquamarine for swordsmen bold,
lavish amber on skalds for melody,
guide courser’s true with well wrought gold
and strike perfidy with swift and fletched shaft.
Amethyst to the theurgists, or scrolls
of studied might; pearls for burglers craft,
but to the righteous a different dole
would parole their faith south and east to face
foes infernal, or vanish without trace.

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick. Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.

Hear now then news from your bards faithful tongue!  Rufus, scout of Hommlet fame passed through anon; third time to Verbobonc this fall, a charm!  Save now fail’d he to bring fair loot to town.  Rather he trail’d ‘cross threshold fellows new.  One of oelvenkind did second quietly.  A pitiful sort did third; a mendicant whom I would swear did but attach by chance.  His loincloth mirrored our soot filled night.  His gnarled nails scratched boils festering, and flies furrowed his long, matted dreads.  Disgusting!  Yet, respectful were his wardens.  Fed him they, and slaked did they his thirst.  And in their company was he transformed.  Donning thoughtful manner he turned wise, consulting matters grave in fairest tone.  And as the night grew old and tankards light, others came, pressing lips to his faded cloth, which he in magnanimity allow’d.  I wondered silently at this treatment, and sought to learn his true identity.  Yes, the cloth  reveal’d it all – Celestian!
Rare are such wanderers to this fair ‘burg, who through disciplines arcane journey far.  They know not bounds of merest Oerth, but kiss the saltless seas of Luna, and hurling past Celene their souls do fly.

Still in lidless slumber, skin a tatter’d film
to masque the countless leagues travell’d within,
the Celestian remains. Gone from home
he treks the muted stars, through the welkin
and onto stranger planes. Flames ethereal
do trace his frozen flight, and nighthags soar
to warp his weary arc to ends infernal –
but he escapes. On and on, past far
Elysiums fields to trace the astral skies
rides he the Devas wing onto Olympus.
Always alight the Celestian now flies
past barricaded Gith, warring endless –
Thither and yon showing the strain
to mortal coil still, Celestian remains.

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick. Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.

Hear now then news from your bards faithful tongue!  Feign, hold.  Pick not!  Hold hid thy shivvies now!  recent notes herald from ole guard Maxwick; warden to the ‘Bonc’s south gate.  Hold you I said!  Pertains here this yellow letter to Hommlet, the brawling maids flown past a fourth night gone; hints, hints mind you of traffic there most foul.  And tho’ quiv’ring in fact and flush in fancy, note doth allude to longer shadows known!  Hold the knife say I!  Finish me at curtains.

Know I, ask you, of maids most recent past?
Grim were they and tall flush by on steeds proud
and though armored past south gate flew they fast
towards Hommlet way. Well! Past Porter’s shroud
came this morn same troop, form’d in strangest train!
Bridle? Down! Lances, leaning! Smiles, yet.. armored
they still ‘gainst mischief. Asketh I what mortmain
lumber in yon virgin truck? Prey, killed
by this company, and boiled in haunches
to sink the table whole! Toasted we the grizzled
vets of Hommlet ‘fore nuts and sheaf arras
on Porter’s Day, and to the ‘Bonc returned.
‘Tis all? I ask’d, poking yon cover’d bed.
A smile, two rubies and from the gate they fled.

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray! When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table. ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick. Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.
Hear now then news from your bards faithful tongue! Know young strider Rufus, from forest gnarl’d? Returned he from vastness wild to find, shining in armor bold, young Dane Lancer! Lost here young maid in thirst’s delight until, caught fast in eyes half-oelven, she had her fill. And from that glancing stare did burst adventure! Hearken ye! Hear ye now! Listen doth! My rim now dry but lips still wet with Kolsch shall I descry a truthful shanty oh! Those brawling maids of Saint Cuthbert.

Chorus
The dear maids are comin’ now out of their way
The brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
virgin and true form to save all the day
stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

A strappin’ young strider fresh from the field
the brawling maids of St Cuthbert
lookin’ to see what the ‘Bonc might now yield
Stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

She comely and young now expected to dance
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
upon river’s field to win her own lance
stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus-

Met they in dark halls the rafters May-zee
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
He her inspiration she drove him crazy
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

Crack’d they a strong plan under ‘Phora’s sweet gaze
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
to delve yonder moathouse down Hommlet way
stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus-

The Abbey’s old mother had different plans
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
she’d marry the lancer to warrior man
stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

Childrearing and fighting in Shield Lands she’d be
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
A fierce and rather pregnant valkyrie
stand clear, the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus-

Sucklin’ sweet babes lance useless by
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
only gave sweet girl more reason to fly
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert

Fearless young strider he won’t let her go
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
He enlists the help of the half man O-lo
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus-

With Olo and Bruisers now in on the deal
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
Rufus the ranger his woman would steal

The Brawling Maidens will suffer no thief
The brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
and Brammage will return his handkerchief
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

Surrounded outnumber’d by fighting bimbos
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
our strider now stood to be castrado’ed
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus

The dear lord Abbess she understood
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
“Give back his kerchief expect motherhood”
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

The lancer gave lord mum her worn piece of cloth
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
“here now young strider you’d better be off!”
stand clear the maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus

But the innamorado instead grab’d her hand
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
Comely Dane Brammage and Rufus they ran
the Brawling maids of St. Cuthbert

The young lovers fled mother’s thund’rous cavil
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert
joyously opting for life imperil’d
the brawling maids of St. Cuthbert

-Chorus

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Tall tales, whiskey and blood doth Mazy’s spray!  When clear’d espy those drinking at third place; home to Robert Footswift, Bob’s own table.  ‘Twixt tankards do spread crimes and plans most foul; those caught bragging catch the cutpurse’s pick.  Worse Bob himself may flay standing liars and cheats caught dressing the table in brass; dress your tales plain ‘fore jousting this drake sooth.

What’s this?  Air flogg’d with notes a Dyvers ways?  By what foul messenger wafts these stories?  Above mine tankard’s rim espy the agent I, not four feet and two say this bard.  Halfling ho and living proof say you of Bob’s largesse?  Sit now friend now, drink and tell tales.

Not dat I’m a riverboat kind a guy, per say. . . But any prolonged expozur to an environment dat could be odiferously mistaken for one a doze industrial half-orc self-flatulation colon cleaners, is just not my shotglass of vodka. . .

And speaking of Halfling pints of vodka. . . So Ize finally get my keester outta Drivers, (Yondalla & Brandobaris care for da souls of all doze Danderfluffs dat could not join me, due to da unjust persecution of dem by da governing establishment legal authorities of de aforementioned municipality) floatin downriver to dat fu*kin sh*thole of Nulb, and den finally, Verbabonc. I’m outta immediate risk to my corporeal self, and on dry land, and find my own little slice o Mt. Celestia : Maisy’s Tavern. . .

A finer emporium of overindulgence, commerce, comarderie, and well-armed, pious super-models (love ya, steelcheeks!) deze eyes have not seen downriver of de aforementioned metropolis I called home. Badabing, badaboom, next ting you know, we got da biggest bastards in de place, boozing (drinking contests) and grab-assin’ (arm-wrestling) for da underserved wagerin’ public. Leavin yours truly to fill da needs of dis market segment wit my new-found pal, a thick, blessedly quiet mountain dwarf, carryin’ a cleaver twice his size, at my back. You Gnomepunter, you round little bastard, you are all good in my book!

Of course, respects must always be paid, and our success draws de attentions of da boss. But dis f*ckin guy, he’s got eyes, he can see de economic potential, you know, even if I gotta lay it out for ‘im. So after respects are paid, we parlay our audience wit de boss into an deal to git doze two thirsty freakin half-orcs, de big bi-colored bastard, Agnor, and his Max Headroom lookin sidekick, Gracchus, in all his sartorial Technicolor, an entry in dis local tagteam, peasant wrestling ting dey got goin at de local festival. I am already countin all doze riverfolk waitin to put their coin down!

But you know, de boss has always got a play, and Bobbay ain’t no exception: Bugbears. The fattest, smelliest, freaks a nature you’d never want to see without your armor. And de goddamn assface twins are strippin down and runnin at em like their nympho-freakin-maniac maiden beer brewers from St Cuthbert! Fortunately, de boys made a good show of tings, generating enough interest for yours truly to diversify our stakeholder portfolio so dat when dey finished on da wrong side, after one helluva shot, we still manages to reap some nominal fiduciary benefits. And de boss definitely liked the draw of havin doze boys on his dancecard, so de assface twins martial acumen and showmanship allowed me to secure a regular dividend, at least until we could figure out our next move.

Den I remembered mention of some upcoming jousting and chivalraic type endeavor dat Steelcheeks was all geared up about, we, yet again, awaken de Boss to de economic potential and our fair maiden’s desire to battle wit de big boys, and Bobbay has gotta a guy. We so see dis guy, grease a few palms and Dain Bramage de la Croix is in! Nows all weez gotta do is find Bobbay’s fat cats and make a little coin. In high society, like everywhere else, it’s all about who you know, and dis time we got Rufus makin de intros, and making sure everyone is comfortable enough to part with some of their not-so-hard earned coin. Deez f**kin guys, talk about a bunch of clueless, gold laden, inbred aristocracy! They woulda bet the world was freakin flat if I wanted ‘em to, but I laid it out, nice n pretty for ‘em, connected de dots, and they laid out a big bag a stones on our smokin’, lethal, steel-clad underdog.

Hats off to Steelcheeks, loved the effort, excuse my little fib, but I couldn’t break yer focus (or challenge that everlovin’ moral code, Ms. Paladin) and tell you which way the money was really bettin. . . And bless ya, you worked it, laid it all out, and da sisters at Cuthbert’s woulda been proud! But nobody ever became de best by not losin’ a few along the way, and we did manage to parlay it into a nice lil’ payday for our crew…

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