This a a mid-section of a short tale that comes in at just of 5k.
I've started using these characters for shorts involving established myths / fairy tales. This one is finished and I'm currently nearing the end of another based on The Odyssey.
There are four main characters. Gil, a human warrior that is also ex-King of the Goblins. Orn, a mage of questionable power but not bravery. Nael, a young barbarian just out of school. Brol, the world's only bardic dog - his hired scribe, Nikolai, doesn't count.
This one should be obvious. As normal, good, bad, ugly comments welcome.
The tunnel beyond the gate led out into a single hall. To all extent and purpose it looked like the inside of any farm house. The only exception? The size.
They could not help but add the word ‘giant’ to everything they saw, like their eyes had been branded with it.
Far above them rafters the size of tree trunks arced across a ceiling from which a hung a waxed coated wheel holding candles taller than Gil. Off to their left lay an unmade bed, its coarse blanket trailing onto floor like some woven frozen waterfall. On their right, a dining table, the length and breadth of an Emperors throne room. Towards the end of the hall, a single seat covered in the hides of what must have been a thousand cows sat before a fireplace that could have housed a barn.
Then that word burst like a firework. It didn’t need it to be attached to something, in this instance it happily existed all by itself.
Giant.
It sat in the chair, all thirty feet, head lolled forward, unruly mass of black hair eclipsing its face and uttering snores the sound of rampaging elephants trampling over a plain of cotton wool. Two feet, clad in mismatched socks, were perched up on a stout stool made of four tree stumps lashed together, a single grimy big toe sticking out of one of them. Two pudgy hands, fingers clasped tight, rested on a belly that pushed the shirt buttons to the edge of pinging across the room.
“Anyone see Orn?” said Gil.
“Nope, I’m too busy looking at the giant in the room,” replied Brol.
“Nael?”
The barbarian stood vibrating, every muscle in his body tweaking and twitching, eyes fixed on the giant.
“Nael, not now, find Orn first, yeah?”
“Right, Gil. I’ll look around the giant,” said Nael, unshipping his axe.
Gil grabbed hold of him before he took a step. “I don’t think so. We’ll do the giant last. Let’s check out the table.”
A soft whistle dragged their eyes upwards. High up, head over the edge of the table, peered Orn. He waved an arm, beckoning them up.
“How we going to get up there?”
A rope snaked down.
“There’s your answer, Brol.”
Nael dashed over and grabbed hold. “It’s spaghetti, Gil.”
He gave it a tug before swarming up. Nikolai followed and Gil tied the end around Brol to be pulled up by the others. He waited patiently, the spaghetti, dropping back down a moment later. The stickiness of the pasta helped with the climb, covering his hands in a slimy white film.
On the top Brol had his muzzle deep in his belly, worrying at the pasta that had stuck to his fur. Orn knelt behind a barrel that had been turned into a pepper pot pointing out something to Nael.
“—break easy with one swing,” finished Orn.
“What will?” he said, joining them.
“The lock on that.”
Gil followed Orn’s finger and spied an ornate gilded cage sitting atop a dresser beyond the table. Inside, on a nest the size of a shed, sat a goose that would have made an elephant look like it needed a good meal.
“It’s the goose that lays the golden eggs,” said Nael. “We’re going to rescue it.”
“Rescue? Don’t you mean steal?”
“It’s in a cage, Gil. It’s a rescue. It’s only right. That’s what Orn says.”
The wizard looked a picture of innocence and Gil didn’t believe it at all.
“That’s one fine goose,” said Brol, padding up.
“These pair want to rescue it.”
“And so we should.”
“Not you too, Brol,” said Gil. “We don’t even know if it lays golden eggs.”
For all intent and purpose, it could have been as if the God looking after Fate that week had an eye on them. With a ruffle of feathers and a shift of its backside the goose gave a gentle honk. They all heard the thud as something dropped into the nest. They followed the sound of the object as it rolled around in the cage. With a soft click, a flap opened at the front of the cage and a shining golden egg appeared.
“I think that’s decided it,” said Orn, licking his thin lips, the other pair nodding to back him up.
Gil sighed.
~
The gap between the table and the dresser looked too far to jump. Orn had been happy to allow Nael to try but Gil had prevented them from doing so. Just a pity that he’d used up his daily levitate spell getting up on the table in the first place.
This had been Brol’s idea. The more absurd ones often were and, while Orn could see the science behind it was sound, the application together with his involvement in it left him feeling like he always did.
Very nervous.
Orn shifted his foot, altering his balance on the edge of the bowl. Before him, they’d managed to setup a wooden spatula on the pepper barrel to act as a makeshift teeter-totter. Nael stood on the other side of the spatula, back to the dresser, a length of spaghetti tied round his waist. He shifted his feet again, the wood of the bowl shiny from use. Why they’d had to pick the bowl of piccalilli to use he didn’t know, the smell sending his stomach tumbling over and over.
“Gil, can we go? Otherwise I’m going to add the contents of my stomach to this stuff behind me if I don’t jump soon.”
The ex-King of the Goblins gave a final minute shove on the spatula, frowned and gave a thumb up.
“At last.” Orn jumped, his aim true, landing on the tip of the spatula, his momentum and weight shoving it down. Nael flew up, straight up, arms stretched to the ceiling. Then, gravity doing what it does best, he started coming down... straight down.
“Gil… he didn’t—”
Nael landed back on his side of the spatula, catapulting Orn up in the air, spinning backwards to land deep in the grey green mulch of the piccalilli. He surfaced gaging on the relish, fighting hard against the stodge and head sized chunks of cauliflower, onion and gherkin. Orn reached the side of the bowl as Gil appeared, hands out to drag him out of the piccalilli.
He slumped onto the table with a splat covered in the stuff.
“You stink, Orn,” said Nael.
Orn patted his waist, trying to find a pouch, any pouch that wasn’t sodden. He gave up and flung a gobbet of piccalilli the barbarian’s way. It missed.
“My best robes, Gil. Ruined.”
“What you on about, Orn? You stole those after your others were ruined when that flatulent cow exploded.”
“Yes, and whose fault was that?”
“I didn’t know,” said Nael. “No one’s ever told me that you’re not meant to have a flame by a cow’s backside.”
“I give up,” said Orn.
I've started using these characters for shorts involving established myths / fairy tales. This one is finished and I'm currently nearing the end of another based on The Odyssey.
There are four main characters. Gil, a human warrior that is also ex-King of the Goblins. Orn, a mage of questionable power but not bravery. Nael, a young barbarian just out of school. Brol, the world's only bardic dog - his hired scribe, Nikolai, doesn't count.
This one should be obvious. As normal, good, bad, ugly comments welcome.
hr
The tunnel beyond the gate led out into a single hall. To all extent and purpose it looked like the inside of any farm house. The only exception? The size.
They could not help but add the word ‘giant’ to everything they saw, like their eyes had been branded with it.
Far above them rafters the size of tree trunks arced across a ceiling from which a hung a waxed coated wheel holding candles taller than Gil. Off to their left lay an unmade bed, its coarse blanket trailing onto floor like some woven frozen waterfall. On their right, a dining table, the length and breadth of an Emperors throne room. Towards the end of the hall, a single seat covered in the hides of what must have been a thousand cows sat before a fireplace that could have housed a barn.
Then that word burst like a firework. It didn’t need it to be attached to something, in this instance it happily existed all by itself.
Giant.
It sat in the chair, all thirty feet, head lolled forward, unruly mass of black hair eclipsing its face and uttering snores the sound of rampaging elephants trampling over a plain of cotton wool. Two feet, clad in mismatched socks, were perched up on a stout stool made of four tree stumps lashed together, a single grimy big toe sticking out of one of them. Two pudgy hands, fingers clasped tight, rested on a belly that pushed the shirt buttons to the edge of pinging across the room.
“Anyone see Orn?” said Gil.
“Nope, I’m too busy looking at the giant in the room,” replied Brol.
“Nael?”
The barbarian stood vibrating, every muscle in his body tweaking and twitching, eyes fixed on the giant.
“Nael, not now, find Orn first, yeah?”
“Right, Gil. I’ll look around the giant,” said Nael, unshipping his axe.
Gil grabbed hold of him before he took a step. “I don’t think so. We’ll do the giant last. Let’s check out the table.”
A soft whistle dragged their eyes upwards. High up, head over the edge of the table, peered Orn. He waved an arm, beckoning them up.
“How we going to get up there?”
A rope snaked down.
“There’s your answer, Brol.”
Nael dashed over and grabbed hold. “It’s spaghetti, Gil.”
He gave it a tug before swarming up. Nikolai followed and Gil tied the end around Brol to be pulled up by the others. He waited patiently, the spaghetti, dropping back down a moment later. The stickiness of the pasta helped with the climb, covering his hands in a slimy white film.
On the top Brol had his muzzle deep in his belly, worrying at the pasta that had stuck to his fur. Orn knelt behind a barrel that had been turned into a pepper pot pointing out something to Nael.
“—break easy with one swing,” finished Orn.
“What will?” he said, joining them.
“The lock on that.”
Gil followed Orn’s finger and spied an ornate gilded cage sitting atop a dresser beyond the table. Inside, on a nest the size of a shed, sat a goose that would have made an elephant look like it needed a good meal.
“It’s the goose that lays the golden eggs,” said Nael. “We’re going to rescue it.”
“Rescue? Don’t you mean steal?”
“It’s in a cage, Gil. It’s a rescue. It’s only right. That’s what Orn says.”
The wizard looked a picture of innocence and Gil didn’t believe it at all.
“That’s one fine goose,” said Brol, padding up.
“These pair want to rescue it.”
“And so we should.”
“Not you too, Brol,” said Gil. “We don’t even know if it lays golden eggs.”
For all intent and purpose, it could have been as if the God looking after Fate that week had an eye on them. With a ruffle of feathers and a shift of its backside the goose gave a gentle honk. They all heard the thud as something dropped into the nest. They followed the sound of the object as it rolled around in the cage. With a soft click, a flap opened at the front of the cage and a shining golden egg appeared.
“I think that’s decided it,” said Orn, licking his thin lips, the other pair nodding to back him up.
Gil sighed.
~
The gap between the table and the dresser looked too far to jump. Orn had been happy to allow Nael to try but Gil had prevented them from doing so. Just a pity that he’d used up his daily levitate spell getting up on the table in the first place.
This had been Brol’s idea. The more absurd ones often were and, while Orn could see the science behind it was sound, the application together with his involvement in it left him feeling like he always did.
Very nervous.
Orn shifted his foot, altering his balance on the edge of the bowl. Before him, they’d managed to setup a wooden spatula on the pepper barrel to act as a makeshift teeter-totter. Nael stood on the other side of the spatula, back to the dresser, a length of spaghetti tied round his waist. He shifted his feet again, the wood of the bowl shiny from use. Why they’d had to pick the bowl of piccalilli to use he didn’t know, the smell sending his stomach tumbling over and over.
“Gil, can we go? Otherwise I’m going to add the contents of my stomach to this stuff behind me if I don’t jump soon.”
The ex-King of the Goblins gave a final minute shove on the spatula, frowned and gave a thumb up.
“At last.” Orn jumped, his aim true, landing on the tip of the spatula, his momentum and weight shoving it down. Nael flew up, straight up, arms stretched to the ceiling. Then, gravity doing what it does best, he started coming down... straight down.
“Gil… he didn’t—”
Nael landed back on his side of the spatula, catapulting Orn up in the air, spinning backwards to land deep in the grey green mulch of the piccalilli. He surfaced gaging on the relish, fighting hard against the stodge and head sized chunks of cauliflower, onion and gherkin. Orn reached the side of the bowl as Gil appeared, hands out to drag him out of the piccalilli.
He slumped onto the table with a splat covered in the stuff.
“You stink, Orn,” said Nael.
Orn patted his waist, trying to find a pouch, any pouch that wasn’t sodden. He gave up and flung a gobbet of piccalilli the barbarian’s way. It missed.
“My best robes, Gil. Ruined.”
“What you on about, Orn? You stole those after your others were ruined when that flatulent cow exploded.”
“Yes, and whose fault was that?”
“I didn’t know,” said Nael. “No one’s ever told me that you’re not meant to have a flame by a cow’s backside.”
“I give up,” said Orn.