The Chronicles of Runic #1

Okay, okay. So I'm taking a week off of the column writing and trying something new. Consider it an experiment. This could revolutionize column writing everywhere! Or maybe it will just distract angry readers long enough for me to get out of Dodge. Sounds like a no lose situation to me.

This week comes the first ever Chronicles of Runic, a typical adventure seeker in this new Dereth. Hey, I write what inspires me, buddy.

[font size = 3]The Chronicles of Runic[/font]

So this Banderling walked into a bar... He'd only earned enough merit badges to be a Raver but I didn't hold it against him. Well, it was really more of a tent than a bar, I guess. A rough joint by the looks of it and nary a familiar face in sight. I'd been tracking this Banderling for an hour in stealth but it was clear I would have to make my move now.

With various parts, a Banderling beard and teeth, Shreth hair, and other tidbits from my sack of goodies, I assembled a disguise and strolled headlong into The Shreth's Den. Immediately I spotted my quarry and took a seat right next to him at the bar. Behind us a band warbled an unrecognizable song with vaguely familiar lyrics. It was just after lunch so many of the patrons were just finishing their power lunch meetings.

"So last quarter's losses are largely due to the R&D expenditures and implementation of axe throwing. Taking these into account, our shareholders should have more in their pockets before the end of next quarter."

"How much of our losses can we attribute to Hooms?"

"Hooms are mostly focused on Tyrants, Dillos, Shreth, and Gearknights right now. Losses to Hoom looters are minimal."

I pulled myself back to the task at hand. I'd been given an important assignment. Find the group of rustlers who were taming armoredillos. I figured Mr. Raver here to be the sort that could point me in the right direction. "Hey," I said.

"Reourkh!" he replied, turning in a drunken stupor towards me.

"Do you happen to know where...oof!"

The slob hit me with his club! We stood there looking at each other for a minute, me blinking stupidly, him with a nasty, broken grin showing through his tangled beard. I rubbed my head, irritated.

"What say?" he said gruffly.

"Now that was just rude," I replied.

He grunted and scratched his flea-ridden head. I was beginning to think this one wasn't the sharpest arrow in the quiver.

"Listen," I said slowly. "Do you know anything about armoredillos?"

"Dillos?" he said, looking at the ground.

"Yes, dillos. I'm looking for a whole bunch of them."

"Mmmm," he mused. "Dillos?"

I sighed, bending to draw a pictograph in the dirt floor. "There," he said.

I looked up and he was pointing over my shoulder. I followed his finger to see a dillo lazily wandering past. Not the right kind, however.

My skull cracked as the banderling walloped me again. I rubbed my head, standing. "Why I oughta..." I said.

The banderling snickered, a rough sound if you've ever heard one, like rocks scraping together. I waved my focus under his nose in mild threat. "I'll use this if I have to, buster."

"Salli," he said.

"What?" I said.

"Not Buster. Salli."

Then it dawned on me. That was his...er her...name. "By the Imperator himself," I muttered. The fleeting curiosity crossed my mind as to how this species ever managed to procreate. It brought indescribable images to my mind that I fear will haunt my dreams until the next Golden Age...

"OK, Salli. I just want to find a group of dillos, they have a special brand on them..."

"You'n order senthing, pal?" said the Eli behind the counter.

"Uh, no," I said dismissively, my eyes still fixed on my banderling prey. "Salli, I'm just looking for the people responsible for stealing dillos..."

"Gurog whiskey?" the Eli said, wiping a filthy glass with his filthy apron.

"I got word they might be Banderlings."

"Mimbu wine?"

"And you being a Banderling...er...woman..."

"Farali Fermented Fetich Fec..."

"Oh, you are NOT about to say that," I said, turning quickly to the grubby little Eli.

He shrugged, setting the still filthy glass back on the bar. "Is good year," he said and hobbled off.

When I turned back, Salli was gone. I spotted her staggering to the dance floor, a Gurog Emissary prodding from behind. I sighed again, leaning onto the bar, my hands clasped behind my head, and stared at the greasy counter.

"Hey," said the chap next to me, a battle-scarred Gurog. "Better luck next time, chum." He took a swig of something murky and slammed it onto the table. "Those hot little numbers are so particular."

There was a wistfulness to his voice that only made me shudder with revulsion. My head was throbbing, in part to Salli's clubbing and in part to the horrible Eli cover band, playing a sappy ballad that just needed to be put to sleep.

"You don't know anything about dillos, do you?" I said weakly.

"Dillos? Good eats."

I felt defeated. Pulling myself together I stepped back from the bar and wandered outside, unfocused by the experience. So much time wasted to learn nothing save the disgusting drinking habits of Gurogs. I shed my disguise and plopped down on a rock a short distance southwest. In the distance the conversations of The Shreth's Den echoed out of the tent.

"Does anyone smell a hoom?"

"Hoom?" said the rough voice of a Gurog as he exited the bar with an even bigger friend. "Good eats."

They and I looked at each other for a moment, scanning the remnants of my disguise that lay in a line between us. Their brows furrowed and lips snarled. I turned frantically and scrambled up the hill as heavy throwing axes whizzed at my head.

I was back in Whitebay in record time.

Will Runic find the infamous Dillo Rustlers? Does he have a chance to hook up with Salli the Banderling babe? Will Runic be booed off the stage and me burned at the stake by an angry mob? These questions and much, much more will be answered...

Eventually...

When I feel like it.

Gurog Grunts appears every Monday here on AC2 Warcry. The opinions expressed here belong to the gruntmaster himself, Theiss. If you wish to grunt about his grunts, grunt to Theiss at editor@warcry.com.

"How do we KNOW he is a witch?"