Small excerpts from his various bar tales forthcoming...
Felthar and Cubbard were out there somewhere; and they were in danger. Even
with the warm fire of the hearth at his back and the cold, smooth ale
sweating in his hand, Dogus knew that Gorg Stinkrot was out there as well.
"Stinkrot," Dogus cursed to himself under his breath, "Stinkrot and that
damned nightstand."
One of the bar maids seemed to have overheard this muttering and stared at him
with big, concerned pupils.
"Worry not, child," Dogus placated her, "These are but the troubles
of an old Elemenstor...long out of the loop."
She placed her hand on his shoulder and then smacked another froth-spewing
mug onto the table next to him, leaving him to his thoughts.
His thoughts remained out the window, which framed a perfect
Middleclang night of trixillating stars over high-peaked mountain ranges.
Somewhere out there, Dogus thought, Gorg was causing trouble in Ezermethalon.
"He's causing trouble and I'm not there to assist old Felthar," Dogus hissed.
Lifting his purple-furred head up, Teremus recovered from his stupor long enough
to gaze at his bearded master.
"Back to your sweet-addled, temporary coma," Dorgus lured, "Back to the haze
we have both garnered for ourselves here in this drunken land."
It had been many years since the Wasted Elemenstor had lived a true tale of
heroics, looting and adventure, many a yearicle since he had engaged himself
in some journey of worth and excellence. Now, he sat in the Pig's Annoyance,
oggling the lady-folk and entertaining the scarred patrons near the kegs with
his tales of High Elemenstoring and dark deeds unwrought.
Looking at the snowy caps of the mountains, Dogus wondered if he shouldn't leave
it all, go back to a life as a great Fire Elemenstor, forge new tales for
himself, and steal those of others. He could still return, he mused, return
and live off the new tales here in this diminutive, hidden paradise of ale
and skirt. Lately, Dogus had found he was exhausting his well of stories
to impress and beguile the folk of Middleclang.
He had been improvising lately, and improvising badly. Many a drunken night
he had crafted a poorly-conceived tale and he was beginning to suspect the
townsfolk were now only humoring him and no longer believed his recountings.
The Pig's Annoyance was starting to let out. Few were left to stagger on home,
and fewer still remained to buy Dogus drinks in exhange for Dogus' many epic
recallings. Tonight the chubby waitress, her considerable girth and bossom
barely held tight underneath her white bar-maiden's dress, was the only one left
to listen. Would he enthrall her with tales of battle and mercy? Would he
remain where he was, content to tickle her ear with an Elemenstoring saga
or two? Or would he get up from this wooden stool, lay down his basket of
deep-fried Runtberries and rejoin the great fight for the world of Battal?
Dogus Brankorking, former Fire Elemenstor of Battal, awoke on a slobbered
pillow, the smell of leaf smoke and wet ape-hair in his nostrils. He turned
to peer over his shoulder. Plump and cute, flushed cheeks smiled back at
him contentedly. Her bar-maiden's red bow un-tied and lying limp on her
beard-scratched shoulder. In the background of her chubby form
was the ape, snoring smugly in what Dogus assumed were probably arrogant,
smug dreams.
"Tell me more of Elemenstoring, Dogus," cooed the soggy bar-maid, "Tell me more
of the furniture and the glory."
Dogus turned over briefly to look out the window of his room. The
snow-splattered mountain range was lit by an enduring sun now. Somewhere
beyond them was his old friend, in trouble, somewhere out there new stories were
still being lived...and TOLD.
--Taken from Book 6, Nightstand's Peril''
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