I've decided to continue on from my story (#1578).
Apologies in advance if it violates anyone's sense of taste, decency or continuity.
Or if it breaks the whole board by being too long. (It's long. I've spent way too much of my time on this. And there's another one coming soon...)
The Hounds of Hell
“So, what’s your name?” said the lady, after they had walked together for a while.
“In human towns, I am known as Matthew.”
“And your real name?”
“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”
“Try me.”
“Downie.”
“Downie?”
“Not even close! Your human tongues are so graceless!”
“Charming.”
“If you travel with me long enough, you will learn that the tongue of an elf is nimble and versatile.”
“Sounds like fun. Aren’t you going to ask my name?”
“No,” said Downie. “I prefer you with a sense of mystery.”
“Why?”
“It’s for your own safety. Literary convention. No author would dare to kill you off with so many unanswered questions lingering.”
“You’re weird. So what will you call me?”
“Whatever takes my fancy, lady. Words are my weapons, after all. They are my bread and butter. They are… you know, important stuff.”
They passed a site where a new spaceport was being built, but Downie hurried on by. The whole thing seemed dreadfully unevocative to him, especially after all the trouble they’d been to in establishing a High Fantasy style. And what was the point in speculating about the stars if you could just go and visit them the next day?
Instead, they travelled into a stretch of green virgin forest.
“Ooh, a red squirrel,” said the lady, pointing.
“As a matter of fact, I am fluent in the speech of squirrels,” said Downie, and he signalled to the creature with a twitch of his nostrils.
“Really? What’s he saying to you?”
“‘I like acorns.’ They’re not great conversationalists.”
It was almost midnight now, but the weather was fine, so they decided to bed down in a clearing, beneath the stars. Downie pointed out some of the constellations. “That’s Skowbo... That’s Vizzard… That one’s Gladstone…”
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?”
“It is hard for me to do anything else. My lady, I think you should know that I am still young and do not yet feel ready for a long-term relationship. It seems wrong to settle down when you’re only 1200 years old. What I’m saying is, don’t count on this thing lasting more than a few dozen years. Also, as an elf, I am unable to give you a child,” he said, since they were operating within a strict Tolkien milieu rather than some derivative knock-off with half-elves in it, “so if you want to start a family, you’ll have to find someone else to help.”
“Taking a lot for granted there, aren’t you?”
“No, no. You misunderstand. I just felt that it was best to caution you of these obstacles up front. If we were already romantically involved, bringing up such difficulties might spoil the mood somewhat.”
She slept. He stayed awake, watching the stars.
“We seem to be travelling aimlessly. Do you have a plan?” she asked, the next day.
“Indeed I do. We will wander about at random until something happens, and one of us has to save the other’s life. Romance will follow on from there.”
“But suppose nothing happens?”
“We’re adventurers! Something always happens!”
“I thought you were naught but a humble poet?”
“Good point. I’d best don my adventuring hat.”
He took off his feathered cap, and put on a studded leather cap, with a furry trim to keep the ears warm.
“Now,” he said. “There is a village a league or two ahead. We’ll go there, and accept the quest they offer us.”
“How do you know they’ll offer us a quest?”
“It’s an isolated village! Of course they’ll offer us a quest! The mayor’s daughter will have been kidnapped, no doubt. Either that, or they will all be living in fear of a terrible troll.”
“Or a pack of savage wargs?”
“Exactly! You know, that reminds me of a song.”
“Which you’re going to sing to me?”
“Later.”
“Promise?
“I promise.”
“Is there any chance of a chamomile tea?” he said.
“This is an inn, not a herbalists,” said the innkeeper.
“I could use a beer,” said the lady.
“Peppermint tea, perhaps?”
“Make that two beers,” said the lady.
“I don’t drink beer,” said Downie.
“They’re both for me.”
“Why do all my travelling companions turn out to be alcoholics?” he mused.
“Probably just coincidence,” she said.
He addressed the innkeeper. “I don’t suppose the mayor’s daughter’s been kidnapped?”
“I’m the mayor, and I don’t have a daughter.”
Downie sighed, and turned to stare at the fire, and took off his furry hat.
scent of autumn pine
drowned by smoke of burning logs
hope that’s not an ent…
He became aware that people were staring at him. Had he committed some great faux pas? No, it must have been the unleashing of his ears.
“A soulless faery!” cried the mayor.
“Well, if you like. I suppose it’s more dignified than ‘pixie-face.’”
The lady drew close to his side, and reached into her pocket.
“You’ve sullied this lady, haven’t you?” said the mayor.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Come on, let’s get him!”
“Ah, this must be that adventure we were seeking. How disappointing. When will I find a foeman worthy of my steel?”
They closed in on him, but he flipped himself up onto the mantelpiece, and then leapt over the mob, putting his foot on someone’s head and making it all the way to the door.
“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he added, turning back. “I carry no steel.”
“Hey!” said the lady, but Downie slipped away.
She looked around at the surly men, one of whom said, “Well, my pretty, we may have lost the elf, but we still have you.”
“So it would appear,” she said.
The tall one put his arms around her from behind.
“Hey, she’s wearing splint mail!”
The fat one tore away part of her robe. “Nah, that’s scale mail. Splint mail consists of vertical metal strips on a flexible backing.”
“Really? Tell me, what’s the difference between ring mail and chain mail? I can never remember.”
“Shut up!” said the mayor.
“Hey, is that a chastity belt?”
“Put her down! We’re going to use her as bait. The elf will return for her.”
“You think?” she said, doubtfully.
“You’d better hope so.”
Soon, she found herself in the village square, hands tied behind her back, a noose around her neck and a trapdoor beneath her feet. The mob was now three dozen strong.
“Well?” said the short one. “I don’t see him.”
“He’s out there,” said the mayor. “Been listening to us the whole time, I bet. You know how sneaky elves can be. Go on, girl, call him.”
“Hey! Downie!” she shouted. “For Frog’s sake! You said you wanted to rescue me, now’s your chance!”
A voice came from nowhere.
“It’s not ‘Downie’. It’s Downie. You’re saying it wrong.”
They all looked around, nervously. In the distance, they heard a sound like a wolf howling.
There was a musical note. An arrow sang out through the air, narrowly missing the rope. They turned in the direction it had come from.
“Damn. Let me try that again.”
Another note, another arrow. This time, it went was about a foot lower. If the lady had worn an apple on her head, it would have been a very impressive shot, barely scraping her hair. It grazed the rope, but didn’t sever it.
“You Frog-damned incompetent buffoon!” yelled the lady. “That could have killed me!”
“Sorry. This bow’s been pretty useless since I converted it into a musical instrument.”
A dozen armed men began to fan out, to search for the source of the missile fire.
“Fear not, lady. I always keep my promises,” shouted Downie.
“Oh really?”
“Yes! I promised you a song, and I’ll give you one!”
He began to play. It was the same tune as in the last song she’d heard him sing. She wondered if it was the only one he knew.
When I was young and unaware
I met a maid, and grew quite fond.
Her heart and hands and face were fair.
Her hair? A kind of strawberry-blonde.
I courted her with wine and song
And all my usual tawdry ploys.
I won her love before too long
Despite a dozen rival boys.
Her family never would relent
And threatened me when we did meet.
But we cared not for their consent;
Forbidden fruit is always sweet.
We sought to take our wedding vow,
But tragedy soon came to pass.
A day that haunts me even now;
I found her dead upon the grass.
Her throat was cut, her life was lost,
Her dress was stained with mortal blood,
Her silken skin was cold as frost.
My tears, they flowed as ‘twere a flood.
But who had slain my darling pure?
A brother crazed? A jealous lout?
I sought a plan, a trap, a lure!
I swore in rage to find him out!
A summoning, a scheme quite grim
A settling of scores with death.
A spell I’d cast to seek out him
Who’d left me so sore bereft.
I called up forty devil hounds;
Spilt blood would be repaid with fire.
The killer would be shortly found;
They’d scour the village with their ire!
Their howling made a dreadful din
That filled you with the fear of hell.
The demon dogs could smell the sin
That in a human heart doth dwell.
And when at last the spell was past
I walked across the scorched land
The die was cast, it had been fast.
But who’d been dealt their final hand?
The hounds of hell had worked too well.
They’d sought out hearts too full of hate
The mad; the cruel; the bad; the fell.
And wrought upon them furious fate.
I walked in hush from house to house
So many sinful souls were bared.
No creature stirred, not man nor mouse
For not a single life was spared!
So though I’m but a soulless elf
Let this warning chill your bones.
Judge not lest you be judged yourself
Don’t be the one that casts the stones.
Downie finished his song, and leapt off a rooftop. He was utterly surrounded. There was silence for a moment. “Is that it?” said the lady. “No hidden spell? No cunning plan?”
“You expected me to work some secret charm into the words of my song? To summon a pack of hellhounds?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you not listen to my message? Anyway, there was no need.”
“You mean,” said the mayor, aiming a crossbow at his stomach, “that you trust us to see the light and let the two of you go?”
“No,” said Downie. “I mean I had no need to cast a summoning spell, because I already did it ten minutes ago.”
The howling sound came again. It was much closer now.
Several huge slavering dogs burst out from the undergrowth and began to run towards them through the village streets.
The mob panicked, broke, and ran.
The lady was left alone in the square, encircled by the dogs. She had some sort of small blade in her hands (which were now free), and was using it to cut the rope above her head, where the arrow had damaged it. “Downie! Call them off!” she cried.
“I keep telling you, it’s not ‘Downie’. It’s Downie.”
“Help me!”
“But surely your heart, at least, is pure as driven snow?” said Downie. The dogs were sniffing at her now.
“Get them away from me!” She had a blade in each hand now, and was desperately trying to ward off the beasts.
“I wonder what that means? ‘Driven snow’?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with you? Surely you aren’t so superstitious as to believe in devil dogs?” said the elf.
“Huh?”
“They’re probably hoping for a biscuit or something.”
“They’re just normal dogs?”
“Of course! After all, I am a pacifist. And anyway, the ‘summon dogs’ spell is a lot easier than ‘summon hellhounds’. If they’re bothering you, I’ll perform the ritual banishment.”
He took a deep breath, coughed, and said, “Go on, shoo!”
The dogs scattered. The square was left silent. No creature stirred, not man nor mouse.
“Well, that was a reasonably entertaining way to pass the time,” said Downie. “Shall we go on to the next village?”
“You expect me to stay with you after that?”
“After what? I saved you without hurting anyone, didn’t I?”
“After… after I had to miss out on my beers thanks to your stupid ears?
“Hmm… There could be a song in that…”
“Tell me, do all your songs involving maidens fair?”
“Most of them. I was hoping to be able to pen one about you, in due time.”
“Hmm… Don’t they all end in tragedy?”
“All endings tend towards the tragic. It’s in their nature.”
“That’s a pretty miserable way of looking at things.”
“I’m a pretty miserable person. That’s why I seek adventure. It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off my melancholy. So, are you coming with me or what?”
“Fine. If I must.”
They set out along a path.
“Where did those knives come from?” he asked.
“Just one of my little secrets.”
“Do you really wear a chastity belt?”
“A young lady out on the road can’t be too careful.”
“You have a key for it?”
“Lost it while back.”
“That sounds dreadfully inconvenient.”
“Not really. I can pick the lock with my hairpin in two and a half seconds. It keeps my thief skills sharp. So, what do we do now?”
“We keep going. Sooner or later, I’ll get into trouble, and you’ll rescue me, and then we’ll have something to base a relationship on.”
“You know, there are other ways to strike up a rapport.”
“Oh, I could win you over with a love poem in half a minute. But that would be too easy.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come on, I think there’s another village this way. Maybe they’re besieged by orc raiders,” said the lady.
“Or live in fear of a dreadful wyvern.”
“Or are ruled over by a cruel necromancer.”
“Or a demon, could be a demon…”
~SDC~
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Also, did they do a little something with the economy? I'm playing Tough and I don't think I've ever had such a robust economy before... 
. Will try to take out ET's cousins (torians) tonight if the baby ever goes to sleep :notsure: