West Karana

Stout Henry pulled the blade of the staff from Farmer Jonas’ chest. The crowd of Cotsberry competitors, families and fans from the small farming town were silent, but for some weeping.

“Did ya SEE THAT?” yelled Stout Henry. “Circle Strafe Left, Disarming Block, Crushing Blow and Swift Impale, 1 2 3 4 and it was OVAH!” He looked around at the crowd of silent people.

“Well, come on,” said Henry. “I won! I mean, aren’t you glad you found out what a noob he was before he got in the Tournament? No way you’d win. Weak link and all. So, I’m in, right? Because we’re going to have to change things up around here.”

A woman dressed in bright green with yellow ribbons entwined in her sleeves and bodice rushed to Jonas’ body — crying, but still, eerily silent. She felt for Jonas’ pulse, found none, and looked at Henry with bitter hatred in her eyes.

Silently, four men arrived with a board, lifted Jonas’ body onto it, and carried it gently into the bed of a wagon. Others in the contingent began striking the tents and the tables. All around, the Cotsberry folk made preparations to leave.

“You cannot leave!” yelled the leader of Ferd’s guardsmen, who had been hoping to enter Stout Henry in the Tournament, where he would fight to his death. “Who’s going to represent Cotsberry?”

The woman who had tended to Jonas’ body turned, and said the only word any of the folk had said in the long minutes since Henry had slain Jonas in their short, bloody, duel. “We won’t share a field or a stage with a murderer. Hell be with you all. It’s more than you deserve.”

(more…)

Ferd’s guards, sent to apprehend Stout Henry and bring him back to face his sentence — death — had decided instead to have him face the penalty meted out by the mysterious that… THING that lived in Owlshead Forest. Which was, to enter the Tournament that had filled all the inns of Nodding Fields with contestants and the crowds who had come from all over the Southlands to take part in the many battle royales that would give bragging rights to the villages and towns who’d sent their best to compete.

The Keeper of the Lists, though, wasn’t having any of it.

“The Tournament has been going on for a week, now. This is the very last day. The people fighting today are the very best. Half the people within a dozen leagues are here today to cheer on their teams. And you think you can just enter this… this… I hesitate to call him a fighter. Just what ARE you?”

“I,” said Stout Henry, “am an adventurer!” His voice was strong and proud, and though showing the signs of a fairly enthusiastic and recent beating, he gave a good imitation of a bow. “I advent! And I do it well!”

(more…)

In honor of my friends and fellow bloggers either taking part in the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) or just writing for the pleasure of it, here is a special NaNoWriMo-sized entry. I now have even more appreciation for what those writers are going through :) 29 more like this one? Maybe next year!

—

Nodding Fields was not the sort of place known for its nightlife. It wasn’t all that exciting during the day, either. If it hadn’t been Tournament week, even the most tenacious barfly would have stumbled his or her way back home before dark.

“Because of the werewolves?” asked Stout Henry, as he and the thief who had found him stumbling through the forest walked along the cobbled road toward the center of town.

“Werewolves?” said Marta, keeping her footsteps as quiet as she could make them, though given Stout Henry’s loud footsteps and louder talk, she needn’t have bothered. Habits are hard to break. “What an odd thing to say. Do they have many of those where you come from?”

“Where I come from, we have no werewolves,” said Stout Henry. “I used to live just outside Cotsberry, and we haven’t had werewolves in oh, ten years of more. Nope. Vampires ate ‘em all, and then the vamps were quite a problem until the, uh, trolls smooshed ‘em. Trolls,” repeated Stout Henry, with disgust. “I hate trolls. They take all the good women.”

“Uh huh,” said Marta. “Trolls. Right.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that, and so they both fell silent. The noises of the night rose around them. The loud croaks, the rapid clicks, the squawks, the rustling of something running through the undergrowth, the rhythmic crashing as something tore through the trees…

(more…)

“This man,” shouted the Magistrate, “who has come before us, an inhuman wretch, devoid of pity; void and empty; stands before you exposed. Let they who have issue with him come forth, and tell to us his crimes.”

“Crimes?” grinned Stout Henry, his quilted jerkin somewhat soiled, the tattered cape with an embroidered wolf on the back, its muzzle raised to howl at the moon, much the worse for wear. “The only crime here is how little you offered for those good, solid candlesticks that look JUST LIKE GOLD. I could get twice as much in Greenswold, you know.”

The Magistrate grimaced. “By the pleasure of the Duke, I summon Farmer Jonas…”

The hours wore on. Farmer Jonas cried once more as he described the tragic fate of his prize beagle, Poochie. The pastor of the chapel that Henry had robbed described, with a dead, flat, voice, the carnage of that day. The owner of the ducal livery stables explained how Henry had distracted him and stolen the Duke’s proud mare. The merchants of the bazaar recounted in amazement the sort of animal remains that Henry attempted to sell them.

“Have you nothing to say to this?” demanded the Magistrate after each person had their time to recount Stout Henry’s crimes.

Stout Henry would only shrug. “Next!” he’d say. “Next! Next! Next! Continue! OK! Man, I hate these friggin’ walls of talk. Could you all just speak faster so we can get to the end and you all can just tell me where I have to go and what I gotta kill?”

“It ends now,” snarled the Magistrate. “Good Duke Ferd, this man waits upon your judgment.”

The Duke rose from his chair. He’d not said a word throughout the entire trial.

“Make room,” said the Duke, “and let this villain stand before us.” The jailers grabbed Stout Henry off the stand and shoved him before the Duke.

“Henry,” continued the Duke. “The whole of this village thinks, and we think, too, that you cannot be alone in your villainy. and that you lead’st in the fashion of your malice to the last hour of your thought. How say you?”

“What the farg are you on about?” said Stout Henry. “Talk ENGLISH. Friggin’ roleplayers. You want to know why I do what I do? You’re such a noob. Killing stuff is the only way to WIN.”

“Then,” said the Duke, dismissively, “we win. Magistrate, conduct this villain to the care of the gallows keeper, and let his death seal his crimes.”

The villagers who had crowded the courthouse let out a roar, and were barely kept from tearing apart Stout Henry as he was hustled to the courtyard where the gallows stood ready. The hooded gallows keeper settled the noose around Stout Henry’s neck, and adjusted and tightened the knot. Guardsmen kept the crowd not more than a spear’s length from the gallows. Duke Ferd himself stood on the porch of the courthouse.

“Gallows keeper,” shouted the Duke, “perform your office. Let Stout Henry be hanged until he is dead, and may God have mercy on his soul.”

The gallows keeper put two massive hands on the lever that would release the trap door beneath Stout Henry’s feet and looked out at the crowd. They roared for blood. He slammed the lever to the other side. The trap door fell away, and Stout Henry began to fall.

The crowd suddenly fell silent.

So did everything else.

A gnome stood beneath the gallows. There was a strange, glowing contraption strapped to his back. He cut Stout Henry’s noose, and Henry fell to the ground.

“About time you got here,” growled Henry. “I almost had to run back from the graveyard.”

“Give me a break,” sniped the gnome. “One of those paws you gave me was twisted, and I had to run it through my Tarsalator. You’re just lucky my Chronopawser only killed one of my assistants when I tested it, or I’d have been too late.”

“Let’s get going,” said Stout Henry. “I hear they have some battleground action going on in Nodding Fields.”

By the time the crowd noticed Henry’s sudden disappearance, both Stout Henry and the mysterious gnome were halfway out of the county.

—

Who is the mysterious gnome? Where is Nodding Fields? Why does Duke Ferd talk so funny? Tune in next week where we’ll answer at least some of these questions, in Stout Henry Gets Lost.

Being a generally peaceful land, few people ever saw the inside of Cotsberry Prison, and those that did were often the sons of nobles who were left to sleep off their drunken carouses out of the sight of commoners. As such, the cells were clean and dry, the cot mattresses stuffed with soft feathers and the ticking, tick-free.

The cell’s unusual comforts were lost on Stout Henry. Stout Henry was spending his time trying to force himself into the cell’s corners and between the narrow-set bars on the tiny slit in the wall that let in air and light, hoping to pop through. It wasn’t going well.

Duke Ferd chuckled when the jailor told him of Henry’s antics. The odd man who’d stolen Ferd’s horse, slaughtered a church full of peasants and then stripped the church of its meager riches and lastly skewered a farmer’s prize hound, didn’t have much of a future, but Henry was acting bizarre even for a condemned man. “We must see this for ourselves,” said the Duke.

When Duke Ferd arrived at Henry’s cell, Henry was sitting on his cot, motionless. “What’s this?” demanded Ferd.

“I’m AFK,” muttered Stout Henry, still sitting motionless.

“You said that when you were captured,” said the Duke. “Instead of fighting.”

“Look,” said Stout Henry, still motionless, “you cheated. We were in battle, and then I went AFK, and then YOU’RE supposed to leave me alone and then go win or whatever it is you do, and then it would all be over and we’d both get honor and then I could leave. Instead, you drag me to THIS place, EVEN though I was clearly AFK, and toss me in here. You’re just a lousy cheater and you don’t know the rules and now you can let me out.”

“Let you out? Rules?” said Ferd, getting a little angry. “The rules for stealing a Duke’s horse are well known to all, save you. And for the slaughter of innocents, well…”

Stout Henry stared at Ferd. “So this is all about faction? I should have known Cotsberry was a faction grind. Look. Let me out and I’ll kill enough Greenswold farmers until I’m not KOS. And then you’ll love me and we can get ON with our lives.”

Duke Ferd stared silently at Stout Henry for a long moment. “Your guilt is plain; I see no need for a trial,” remarked Ferd. “Make peace with your maker, for at dawn, you will be hanged.”

—

Things look dire for our dear Stout Henry. Will he escape? Will he be hanged? What happens when you die? And where do babies come from? Find out the answers to at least some of these questions next week, in “The Death of Stout Henry”.

Stout Henry walked with a quick step toward Cotsberry Market, leading a beautiful brown mare. He looked up at the morning sun, adjusted his broad brimmed hat, flipped back the corners of his tattered cloak with the hand-stitched emblem of a wolf howling at the moon adorning the back, and took a sip from the water skin slung at his hip.

Before long, he caught up with an old woman pushing a cart full of apples. “Hail, apple merchant!” called Stout Henry cheerily, “Tis a beautiful day, is it not?”. The old woman looked back over her shoulder. “Hmmph. Be a darn sight better day if’n your horse could pull this cart to market.”

“Oh ho, no, no can do, grannie. A horse like this one costs at least six thousand gold coins. She is far too nice to pull a cart.”

“Six thousand coins, you say?” croaked the woman. “One gold coin would buy a dozen like her. Why, I doubt there are a hundred gold coins in all of Farthingham. You’re putting me on, you are.”

“Well, that is what I’m going to sell her for at yon market. She’s a good one, she is. I was lucky to find her in the Duke’s stables.”

“The Duke, you say? If I were you, boy, I’d get on that horse and ride as fast as I could. You best be well away from here before he comes looking.”

“Oh, no. I’m only twenty-five. Have to be thirty to ride, you know. I say, though, you ARE planning on selling those apples at market?”

“What kind of idiot question is that?”

“Well, then, I have some things I need to sell to you.” Stout Henry unswung his pack and set it on the ground. “There’s these brass candle sticks I got from the chapel up the way, I’ll sell them to you for a dozen gold coins each. Here’s a shiny pebble I found on the ground, I think it may be magic, perhaps you could use it for jewelcrafting. I found a squirrel dead on the road where a cart had crushed it, so I have some squirrel eyes and a really nice squirrel tail for you. What say, a hundred gold coins for everything?”

“You’re mad,” she muttered, and went on her way. “You don’t see pebbles like this one every day!” he called.

She continued to ignore him as he passed her by. Soon, he topped a hill and saw the brightly colored tents and pavilions of the Cotsberry Market spread below him. He marched into the middle, horse in tow, and yelled at the top of his voice, “[Duke Ferd's Parade Mare] 4 SALE. HAS 4 LEGS, TAIL, TEETH, CAN BE TURNED IN FOR Find the Duke’s Stolen Horse QUEST OR SPLIT INTO PARTS. 6000 GOLD OBO. PST.”

“What the hell does OBOE PISSED mean?” asked a young cloth seller from the door to her tent. Her raven hair was tied back in a knot

“It means, babe,” said Stout Henry, leering, “that I’d like to imagine you with your clothes off. What say you and me… pretend to undress each other.”

“Hah,” she laughed, smirking. “The only thing you’re gonna lose is your head. That’s Duke Ferd coming up the road with his elite guard, or I’m blind. He’ll be wanting his horse back, I think.”

Stout Henry stood staring at the plume of dust raised by the galloping horses. “LFG Duke Ferd’s Revenge! PST!!!!!”

“Loofug? Pissed? That’s Ferd, but he is most definitely pissed.”

I was writing a new Stout Henry story last night, when I got the idea to try and model him with the character creators from all the MMOs I had which could actually make unique characters. That left out EverQuest and World of Warcraft right off the bat; neither one has many character choices and people generally look a lot like other people of their race and gender.

I started off with City of Heroes, because its character creator is legendary. Unfortunately, the options are not tuned so much for a medieval adventurer wearing simple clothes and wielding a staff. Still, after a couple of tries, it didn’t come out too bad… but it wasn’t Stout Henry.

Next up was EverQuest 2. Unlike EverQuest, EQ2’s character creator is pretty customizable. Stout Henry would be a bruiser in EQ2 terms, and I soon had a decent looking character, except that the clothes were entirely wrong. Also, he’s a little TOO clean cut. Personal hygiene is not at the top of Stout Henry’s priority list.

Given the discussion we were having yesterday about the Vanguard character models, I figured I’d have a go with theirs. When I saw the Qalian human disciple, I’d found Stout Henry. Nothing to be done but level him up to 3 and buy a staff, and there he was. My hero.

City of Villains

EverQuest II

Vanguard

Since I was in City of Heroes *anyway*, I decided to look in on my mastermind, the villainous Tara Mythcrafter. Next up on her mission list was a mayhem mission, where she would go to Paragon City and raise havoc and rob a bank and survive somehow. I failed the mission right at the end. But I had realized why I always fail these missions — I keep thinking the point of the mission is to rob a bank. That is NOT the case. The POINT of the mission is to cause MAYHEM — killing the good citizens of Paragon City, blowing up cars, breaking through barricades, defeating so-called heroes, and in general, making your mark on the world.

Next mission sent me to the PvP area, so I went to Booty Bay to look around. Some sort of player-run PvP battle was just ending, so I made a note to look them up when one was starting, and went to Pocket D, the CoX nightclub, to hang out with some fellow costumed adventurers.

There weren’t enough people there to make it interesting, so I accepted a team invite and as anyone who looked at Xfire saw, spent the night in CoV, doing missions and hitting level 19.

After the team broke up, I got a new mayhem mission from my contact, returned to Paragon City and played the mission how it was meant to be played. I blew up EVERYTHING. Cars, trucks, mailboxes, bus stops, phone booths, cardboard boxes… here’s me and my crew villainously attacking a dumpster.

We robbed the bank, too, and defeated the heroes they sent at us. Afterward I kept blowing up cars and cardboard boxes, working on badges, until the timer ran out.

I did get some writing done, but not enough, so that will be tonight’s job. I hope I don’t get sidetracked again….

This is a story about Stout Henry, an average citizen of an average land, doing the average things one might do, in a land far away.

“Forsooth!” cried Stout Henry from his reading chair, as the morning sun’s bright beams seeped around the edges of the dark oilcloth that covered the window. “I have wasted my last candle on this tale!” Stout Henry hurled the badly penned tome, with its thin parchment color, to the ground. “And now I must be about my morning tasks, with no benefit of the double experience a feather bed might grant. Well, I be off!”

Stout Henry tied his tattered wooden cloak around his neck, and picked up his carved staff. Shading his eyes against the light, he stepped out of his small cottage.

No sooner had he done so, than a beagle, its tongue out and lolling, rushed up to him with a joyful bark!

“Back, foul vermin!”, he cried, as he stove the puppy’s head in with his carved staff.

Farmer Jonas ran up, anger and shock twisting his normally placid face. “What have you done to Poochie!” he screamed.

Stout Henry pulled a small book from his tunic and quickly flipped the pages. “Farmer Jonas, I do apologize. I have been tasked with killing three large dogs by a wandering guardsman I met upon the road yesterday. Poor Poochie wasn’t quite large enough to satisfy him. But if you would just step back a pace or three, I’ll have her fangs for the witch over in Cotsberry and her two front feet for the gnome by the mill who is tryin’ to build a machine to stop time.”

Farmer Jonas knelt by his dear, dead puppy. “P-p-p-poochieeeee!!!!”

“Heh, yeah, apparently he needs a ‘paws’ button. I didn’t quite understand it myself. Well, off I go. You wouldn’t happen to have any larger dogs back at your farm, would you?”

Making a mental note to stop by the farm later, Stout Henry left Farmer Jonas and the corpse of the farmer’s best friend behind as he wandered over to Cotsberry to deliver the dog fangs to the town witch. Along the way he passed a chapel, from which arose a joyful singing. Stout Henry checked his book, then sneaked in through the sacristy and broke the pastor’s legs with one swipe of his staff.

“No hard feelings, Father,” said Stout Henry. “But I can’t have you healing the congregation while I train my fighting skills!”

“But… they’re peasants!” gasped the pastor. “Why would you ever want to fight them?”

“Well,” admitted Stout Henry, “they aren’t the best. I mean, I would definitely like to be killing dragons, but I’ve been living here twenty-five years now, and I’ve seen precious few dragons, but you can’t hardly swing a stick without staving in the head of a peasant, so which do you think ‘twould be best to level up on? I mean, if you were me.”

Stout Henry strode into the nave, where the congregation, expecting their pastor but instead finding this poorly dressed man with a bloody staff in his hand, wearing a woolen cloak decorated with a poorly stitched picture of a wolf howling at a crescent moon, fell silent. Stout Henry weighed the brass bowls and candlesticks in his hands and tried to guess how much the merchant might buy them for.

“These are a rather poor kind of brass,” said Stout Henry, disappointment plain in his voice. “Well, I hope you lot have brought better coin in your pockets. Come now, who’s first, then?” He hefted his staff and set his feet apart in a fighting stance; the congregation screamed and run from the chapel. Stout Henry sighed. “Runners. Might have known. No fight in them at all.”

He unfolded a bag from his belt and filled it with everything from the altar that would fit, then went among the pews to see if anything had been left behind. Nothing.

“This is turning out to be a very dull day. A dull day indeed,” muttered Stout Henry.