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Imperial Artisans ... The Painters, Crafters & Writers Guilds => The Imperial Office => Topic started by: Alexander de Wissont on March 19, 2008, 12:57:55 PM
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ALEXANDER DE WISSONT GOES TO ALBION!
Note: This story was originally written in Tilean and was translated by a stupid scholar to reikspiel. Any faults are because of this idiotic monk.
First of all, my dear masters, I would like to give you an advice. Don’t listen to those brainless adventurers who tell everyone that Albion is a wonder-country. That’s a bloody lie. Albion is ugly, uncultured, and it rains literally every day. Yeah, the hills are green as emeralds, but they smell like they were made from rotten troll corpses. The fens and marshes are dangerous, so are the barbarians. The weather is cold, so is the attitude of the elves. They hate us, men. No, actually they don’t hate us, in their opinion we do not even deserve to be hated. But it seems to me that elves are the smallest problem. Wild beastmen roam in the dark forests, skavens live under the mountains, and other mutant creatures wander the plains.
But how did I get here? My dear masters, this is going to be the first part of my story.
I live with my lovely wife, Eva Elissa Rackham-Wissont, in the island of Sartosa. I thought it is a dark, gritty, smelly place until I was in Albion. Now I know how a true gothic place looks like. But, back to the Pirate Island! I was born in the Empire; it’s only after my marriage that we moved here. Eva is a handmaiden of the princess, so I got a good job; I’m now the Head of the Pirate Police of Sartosa (HPPS). I have a small team of nineteen halberdiers, selected from the best soldiers of the Old World. But I think that’s not interesting for you, my dear masters. So, enough of me, let the story go further!
I was called by the Princess during a boring investigation; a dwarf killed a guy who drunk his beer. Not very funny, but Ironmonger, the murderer, had to be punished. The executioner already prepared his axe when we had to stop. A messenger, a fat, green-dressed Halfling, arrived and sent me to Her Majesty. I always hated to stop an execution, but the decision of the ruler is over everything.
So I followed the fat thing on the streets. A drunken crusader wanted to arrest me in the name of the inquisition. These days, even the best cities are filled by some idiots or fanatics who are playing god against the hard-working citizens.
We entered the palace. Half-naked soldiers saluted me (I’m after all a captain of them). I must mention something, but never tell anyone that I said it: All these guardsmen serving in the palace were handsome, strong men with, I think a big pen..., yeah, a big pen. We had no Pirate Prince, so you can imagine what these guards did at nights... But let me stop to talk about such pervert tings, my dear masters! I never followed Slaanesh, and my relationship with my wife was always clean. But, I’m very sure, that’s not your business, my dear masters.
So, we entered the palace. It was a huge, Reman-styled villa, with reliefs, columns and such out-of-mode things. We’re living the age of steam, after all! Tanks of steel are crashing armies in the north and our ruler lives in a ruinous house! But, after all, you would like to listen to my story, masters. Okay, okay, I continue:
I get inside the Main Hall from a secret passage. The princess was waiting me; I had no time to walk down the long corridors. The passage took me behind one of the ugliest tapestries I’ve ever seen. It showed a beastman chasing a cat. Once, the bastard who did this thing explained to me that it symbolizes the temptation of Chaos on the good.
So, I got inside the Hall. It was a huge room with plenty of (I think around thirty-forty) arches around. I each arch, a soldier. The main entrance was next to my passage-exit. It was made of red marble with golden carvings on it that told the story of our island. In the Golden Age of explorations, when Marco Colombo found at last Lustria, it had to be a fantastic sight. Now it is only a simple gate.
Tell me, my dear masters, if I’m arrogant or narrow-minded. Tell me, and you all going to be cut in hundred pieces like a potato from the mentioned and distant land of the Lizardmen. I can’t be arrogant, because my wife loves me. I don’t know why, maybe because of my two blue eyes or my manly nose, or my other qualities. Hundred times I asked, and I never get a correct answer. Women are more intelligent than us, men. Eva is a good example of this. She’s the perfect wife. And voila, as would say a Bretonnian! I found an example against my arrogance!
In the opposite side, there was the throne. The Pirate Princess was sitting there. No, I won’t give you, my masters, a description of Her Majesty, because I do not forget that she is the most wanted female criminal by the Imperial, Bretonnian, and Luccinian Navy. Only thing that I can tell that she is a dark-haired, beautiful lady in her mid-thirties, maybe near forty. I don’t know. I never dared to ask. The legend that she is ten times crueler than any of her predecessors, well, it’s not a legend. It’s the historical fact. In her order, I already had to execute more than eighty men, not to mention the inhumans.
Next to her, stood an old man in a stupid costume. It was completely white. I mean, completely. His long tunic, his coat, his cloak, everything was as white as a yeti’s pelt. This strange dress was accompanied by pure grey beard, a sharp nose and under two very bushy eyebrows, two brown eyes. He was talking in strange accent of reikspiel.
The princess called me there. She said:
‘This man is the new Albionian Merchant Ambassador, Gandall Mac Kellen. The other ambassador had a small problem at home.’
I wasn’t surprised. Show me a person in the Old World who has no problems! I want to give him my congratulations.
‘Problems? Of which kind?’ I asked.
The old Gandall answered my question.
‘He was murdered’.
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My first story. How do you like the arrogance of Herr de Wissont?
Guys! Please reply! Even two of you are in it! Find yourself, guys! No, wait three of you!
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I like it! Even though the main character gets distracted pretty often :blush:
Gr.
Lucas
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What do you think of th appearance of Wyzer, Rufas and Philly?
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I couldn't really find Wyzer and Rufas but I will try to find them now. The scene with Philly was hilarious in my opinion, no one can argue that they didn't laugh when they read that scene. :biggriin:
Gr.
Lucas
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Wyzer is the drunken crusader.
Rufas is aka Ironmonger.
Others will appear.... :evil:
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Wyzer is the drunken crusader.
Rufas is aka Ironmonger.
Others will appear.... :evil:
Yes, now I see who you meant with Rufas and Wyzer. Nice job so far IMHO when will you continue?
Gr.
Lucas
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....
And I would have gotten away with it too... if it weren't for those meddeling kids Imperial Human Rights Laws..... :roll:
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I like the story a lot, actually! For reading purpose, could you consider having fewer sub-paragraphs and making the general distinction between paragraphs more clear? Other than that, well done! :::cheers:::
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Okay. Next part will appear this afternoon.
I'm going to write with less subparagraphs, guys.
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This was not a surprise, too. Each day, hundreds of men are murdered in the Old World. I barely talked a word with the other ambassador, so I lied when I replied:
‘Sad.’ Silence. No one answered. ‘What shall I do with this news?’
‘Excuse me, Milord, but I think you’re not very empathic.’ said Gandall.
I started to be nervous. I know him for about ten heartbeats, and he already insults me.
‘And, what happens to me if I’m not empathic at all? This quality is a stupid invention of those silly wizards. At least, I’m not dancing around a chalk circle chanting in an incomprehensible language as they do.’
The Princess chose this moment to interrupt.
‘Signor Mac Kellen is a druid, a Truthsayer. That’s how they call the wizards in Albion.’
I looked the old man again. It seemed now impossible that I haven’t seen that he is a wizard. The idiotic cloak, the long beard. Everything. I took a great breath of air, and said to the druid:
‘I’m not going to ask pardon or take out my previous phrase. I said the truth to you, Truthsayer.’
‘So did I. But let’s get back on the topic. Your ruler would like to ask something from you.’ said Gandall and turned away making like he is admiring the tapestry of the beastman.
‘What do you think of him?’ asked the Princess in a whispering voice.
‘Stupid old man. Why?’ I replied in the same manner.
‘Because you are going to accompany him back, to Albion.’ she answered.
I was simply astonished. Accompanying this? I mean him.
‘WHAT?’ I shouted. You can understand me, my dear masters; Sartosa was a perfect place for me. No great troubles, but excellent weather, job and wife. But I had to calm down a little bit. “You’re talking to your ruler, Alexander, cool down.”
‘Wha... Why?” I said at last.
‘Because he asked me to send somebody to help the detective, Sherlock Mac Conandoyle.’ she answered in a dark, chilly method.
‘I don’t think that Mac Colourcorn needs help.’ I said, trying to save myself from a pointless voyage.
‘Conandoyle. And there’s another cause.’ she replied, and while looking in her eyes, I found out that there’s no chance to stay at home. ‘We want to establish a merchandising contract with the barbarians of Gandall’s kind. Pelts, coal and mercenary soldiers are there for a very low prize. Another emissary will be with you. Your men are the best of the city, protect her.’
What? Her Majesty’s last word took my attention.
‘Her? You mean a woman?’
‘She didn’t say it? Eva was voluntary for this job.’
Great. Tzeentch’s trap. My dear masters, that was one of the greatest dilemmas I ever had: If I don’t accept the mission, an other man will be with my wife for months, but, if I accept, I need to go to an ugly and cold country with an idiot wizard. It’s a question of confidence in my wife. I know she only loves me, so...
‘Okay, I’m going.’
‘Prepare your luggage then. You sail away with the Santa Myrmidia tomorrow morning. ‘
Tomorrow? That means no party with the buddies tonight.
‘Thank you, Majesty. Please send the same message to my unit. They’ll be glad to be on mission again.’ I said, maybe with a little bit too much sarcasm in my voice. Never mind, let the Princess learn what I do really think. I turned round, put my lovely hat on my head and rushed out, only hearing half of the Princess’ last sentence:
‘If you don’t behave properly, Alexander, I will...’
I galloped with my horse quite quickly to the Via Ertinia, the street of our home. It was constructed on the side of the enormous volcano of the Pirate Island. We had a lovely view from here, at least when neither the rain was falling; neither the volcano was smoking poisonous gases. That happened quite often, but we had the luck (or at least enough money) to have a villa in the side from where wind took the smoke away.
I rushed inside our house, a newly built, nice-looking residence. We had no servants, so the only one who greeted me was Beatrice, my pet crow. I threw her a dead mouse, and started to look for my clothes.
I was looking for them for about half an hour, and I started my monologue about “this stupid house where everything is lost”, when a voice said gently behind me:
‘Your things are already prepared, darling. I knew your decision when you didn’t even know the question.’ said my better half, Signora Eva Elissa Rackham-Wissont, my wife.
She was unlike the normal women of Tilea. She wasn’t full of black hair and fat, neither did she have the loud voice of the mammas of the normal tilean families. She was rather slim, with nice breasts and long legs. She was a bit pale skinned, but because of the always-burning Sartosan sun, this disappeared. Her nice open face was place on a long, sexy neck, but her mouth was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. Holy Myrmidia! Each time I looked her face, I wanted to bring her in my bed and... And do what are you imagining, my dear masters. And I didn’t talk about her eyebrows, which weren’t removed as those of the “modern”-looking ladies of the Empire. Very, very sexy. And she was my wife, mine! You cannot imagine my proud!
‘Thanks.’ I replied. I cannot help myself to not to be astonished when watching my wife. I completely forgot my anger against her decision to go to Albion.
Or, at least, I forgot my anger until tomorrow’s daybreak. We had to get up early, no matter the busy night. At the port, the Princess’ personal ship was waiting for us.
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No guest appearances at this time, discounting Mr. Holmes.
In next issue: the broken personality of Mathi, and the arrival in Albion.
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It was the hugest sailing vessel of the Old World. It was five-masted with great number of cannons. I think that ship was one of the few things to what Sartosa can be proud. I navigated on it only four times, but I think I’m a member of the few captains of the known world who knows this vessel perfectly. The Fore-mast was my favourite piece of it. It was made, like the greatest part of ship, of original, Athel Loren-wood. Perfectly balanced, nicely sculpted, that was all true. But I simply loved its feeling. The forward-looking, the fearless, the freedom-seeker feeling. The feeling always searched by us, pirates. I simply could not pass over it.
‘You have an impressive boat, you Sartosans!’ said a sadly much known voice behind me. The old Gandall Mac Kellen was here. The druid didn’t change his clothes. In the colourful crowd (which included a strange pair, a Norscan and Wood Elf discussing about Sigmarism and Luthor Huss.) his white cloth seemed more outstanding. I always hated, my dear masters, those people who wanted to be better than us, average citizens. Wizards, for example are one of my most hated class.
I turned my face to my boys. They were all great soldiers, most of them from different countries; Ivan was from Kislev, Kahisi from the Southlands, Nikolas from Sylvania, Jean-Marie from Carcassonne, but there were also Tileans, an Arabyan, other Imperials, an Ogre and an Albionian, too. Let me, my dear masters, present you Hamish Mac Ian.
This day, I hate most of the Albionians, they’re harsh, cold-headed, sometimes brutal, but always ceremonial. And arrogant. Especially when they meet such a brilliant person as my humble being. They state that they are better, stronger and cleverer. But I like Hamish. He is also harsh and arrogant, but one of the greatest playboys I ever met. He was dressed as a normal, continental citizen, but he had a handsome, typical Albionian face. Brown eyes, well-did hair. No ugly bushy moustache as it is typical for his nation. He smoked a lot, having more than six pipes a day. He used for this a special blend of tobaccos from the Border Principalities, from a place called Morlando. He was a bit chauvinistic towards women; most of his relationships barely left the one night stand quality.
He wasn’t the only excellent soldier of my team. But...
‘Where is Toni?’ Antonio dell’Nozze was my second-in-command. I can tell you, my dear masters; that he was one of the best soldiers I ever met. I of course never met such legends as Karl Franz or Lord Louen, but I think Toni would be on pair with them.
‘Hasn’t arrived yet, Sir.’ answered Jean-Marie, the Bretonnian standard-bearer. ‘Must have been in theatre last night.’
Surely. That would be typical to Toni, being one of the few Sartosans going to theatre every second night. But if he hadn’t arrived arrive in two heartbeats, I would have taken out his eyeballs and glue them on the stage of the Sartosan Scala. But he did. He was here, with his famous smile.
‘Yo-ho, boss! I’m here!’ greeted me. ‘I was on the Life of Brygan. A very good play, listen this:
“Some things in life are bad...”
And he started the song for the first time. I didn’t know that in this time but this song will drive me mad with his “always look on the bright side of life”. At this moment, we were only a bit nervous because of it, but nothing more. So, we, the nineteen pirates, Eva, the senile druid and I got on the ship. The good smell of the humid wood touched our nose. Or at least mine, because the old Truthsayer started by criticizing the odour of the normal seagull-excrement. I hated this arrogance. Maybe he was a half-elf? Phew. In this case, I hate him more.
You may say, my dear masters; that I’m a racist toward the pointy-ears, but in that case, I would explain to you that ten years ago, in the small imperial town of Kleinneuhoff, I was taught by some Asur. Yes, masters, by High Elves.
I was born in the mentioned town of the Empire from the marriage of Herr Arthur de Wissont and Frau Judith Braun-Wissont. But, unluckily, they were killed by my vampire uncle, Alfred von Wissenland, brother to my father. I was only one at this time, but I’m physiologically affected by this day, the 9th of Urlicszeit. At least, that’s how the doctor, Herr Gregor Huss, tries to explain my hatred for all vampires and Varghulfs. I was grown up in the local Sigmarite Temple. Hence, I hate every gods, priests and monks. They’re all crazy fanatics or hypocrite hedonists, sons of Slaanesh. Burn me, my dear masters, burn me, if that’s your will, but I’m not going to change my mind! Then, when I turned seventeen, I was fired out of the Temple, because I didn’t want to peel my hair like they did. I first was a halberdier in the army, then a sharper, a thief, a bodyguard. After an attempt of assassination by my dear uncle, Lord Nemeris of Sparconia, a noble elf adopted me and trained me to overthrow my uncle. In my life, the first blood tasted by my sword was my relative’s vampire blood.
But, let’s come back to present times. The ship’s cabins were not as big and nice as it would attend from the size of the vessel. They were all dark and seemed to have never been cleaned before. I couldn’t try to imagine myself sleeping in its bes. It was rude and hard, like a couch of the continental town of Spaarta. At least, the food and the drink were good. The bargee, Signor Giacomo Passero, was a great spark, and he loved to drink. We not only had of the normal, unsavoury slop of rum, but also great barrels of Bugman’s finest beer, Desghulles’ best wine and Stirland’s unsurpassed schnapps. If I could say something good on this ship, it would be her food stock. A good memory for me was when Gandall asked us:
‘Who will pay all this?’ He seemingly forgot that we are simple, dishonest buccaneers.
‘Maybe the Kislevite Lord of Erengrad, I dunno.’ answered Passero with a proverb to design stolen things. The Truthsayer’s face was simply hilarious! So funny!
The journey passed well. We were only pursued once by some idiotic Luccinians who ran in cowardice when we showed them the Princess’ Jolly Roger.
After days of voyage, we arrived to the Sea of Claws, near an island completely surrounded by fog.
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In the original script, the ship's crew included PistolPete and such, but were erased.
Clins-d'oeils:
(which included a strange pair, a Norscan and Wood Elf discussing about Sigmarism and Luthor Huss.)
This is Mathi Alfblut.
Hamish Mac Ian is Sean Connery as James Bond.
Toni dell'Nozze is Tony DiNozzo from NCIS.
Giacomo Passero is Jack Sparrow from the Pirates of the Caribbean.
And if you haven't find it out til this moment:
Gandall Mac Kellen is Ian McKellen as Gandalf.
EDIT: Forgot to mention: Gregor Huss from House, M. D.
and the Sartosan proverb is derived from P.I.O.M.T.
And of course, Life of Brygan is Life of Bryan
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I got all the references! Awesome story! I like how you let Tony go to theatre to represent the movies. Keep it up man! It's awesome!
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Love the story so far, keep it up! Got most of the references, laughed at the Tony DiNozzo one! Good job!
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I could barely see anything from the vessel. I vaguely saw some white rocks, the shadowy shapes of a port. To tell you, my dear masters, the truth, it didn’t really interested me. Neither did my soldiers. Toni was telling some sailors a play; I think it starred Johann Weyner, or an actor with such a name. Hamish and the ship-engineer were discussing their favourite subject: “which is better: a small, but practical pistol or the long, easy-to-use rifle”. Kahisi Barack, the Southlander was campaigning: he wanted to be the next Pirate Prince. No one really listened to him; Lobellyx, the ogre, for example, was eating as always while speaking with Jean-Marie, the scare-faced Bretonnian. The only one watching the island was Gandall, one of the two Albionian aboriginals of the crew.
‘So fantastic! So beautiful!’ he said to Signor Passero, the bargee, who shaked his dreadlocked hair in sign of his disagreement. But the idiotic druid, as always miscomprehended the notice and started his favourite song: “Taal save our gracious chieftain...”
If he were not a so important figure of his country, I would have already feed him to the sharks of the sea. What a fool!
The port and the Imperial colony were like I saw: dark, shadowy and full of fog. It smelled the unusual odour of every Old Worlder towns where conduits were not installed.
‘So that’s Albion?’ asked Kahisi Barack, the Southlander.
‘Yes, Albion. You know, fish, chips, cup o' tea. Bad food, worse weather. Morgana fu**in' Poppaea. Albion!’ answered Toni aggressively.
Hamish, Gandall and other citizens stared at him.
‘What? That’s a quote!’ he said in his most surprised tone.
So, we continued walking down the streets. The aboriginals were all the same. Red- or Blond-haired, ugly barbarians with very long moustaches. So uncivilized, so dirty, so smelly. They were wearing kilts and waved huge claymores. So beastly. Disgusting.
But an interesting feature of the island was the great number of inhuman species; Sea and High Elves, Dwarfs, Giants and even Lizardmen. Those seemed to be born here, no sign of voyages were present on their scaly body. Were they born here? But before I could ask anything from our guide-druid, he interrupted, which was not a good thing in my eyes.
‘Look! The followers of the new cult!’ pointed Gandall to a band following a red-clothed, red-bearded small man wearing a red hat. ‘He’s the great prophet, something Star or like this.’ explained the druid.
Great. So they’re not so uncivilized. The Imperials would do the same. Following cults, that’s it. Or maybe the Imperials are more barbarians then I thought?
We were now walking on a long street where every shop was the same; bakery. That was also an Imperial influence. Those Sigmarites loved to put every similar thing on the same place.
Gandall lifted his arm in the air to sign a halt.
‘He’s with a regiment for about a month and he already thinks he’s a warlord.’ I whispered to Eva.
‘You’ve been for two months in Sartosa, and actually you were a warlord’ she answered, pointing to the truth. ‘You’re a bit sadist with him.’
No, I was not sadist, my dear masters, no I wasn’t. I simply hated the Truthsayer. You perfectly know that type of men that you see and you start to hate him in the same instance, no? I assume yes. But my fellow “warlord” continued.
‘You’ve arrived, Sir de Wissont. But, we, the Lady and the…’ he looked down my boys. ‘bodyguard need to continue.’
I grabbed my sword under my cloak.
‘Why, exactly?’
‘Stupid boy. Why, do you think, why? Because Sherlock Mac Conandoyle, your new partner lives here.’ the grey-haired wizard answered.
My reply was on my tongue, but fortunately, Eva stopped me in action, telling me:
‘Don’t discuss. I’m going to his lords and it’s not going to help me if my husband slays their ambassador.’
And I was left behind in front of a huge, dark-green door, where a big X was written. Maybe Sherlock was a Ranald-cultist, or it was simply the house number. The knocker was gold and had a form of a dog’s head. It wasn’t a very artistic one; neither an enormous piece of metal, but it simply ruled the front gate of Signor Mac Conandoyle’s residence. I touched the knocker and I was surprised to find out that the door was open. I drew my sword, prepared my pistol, and sidled inside warily.
I walked two steps and was grabbed from behind.
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Introducing Dendoists, Barack Obama, Obélix, the gaull, and quoting from Guy Ritchie.
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Another fine part on your story. Now continue 'cos I want to read more. :biggriin:
Gr.
Lucas
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Nice work dude! You're good at cliffhangers! We want more! We want more! We want more!
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Beatrice, who was until this moment sitting on my shoulders, flied up with a noisy “croak”. The knife on my neck got loose. It was the moment of action; now or never. With a bit female movement, I kicked behind like a horse, while grabbing the knife-holding hand of my opponent. With a nice Nipponese Martial Art-movement I terraced the attacker on the floor. Not turning my regard away, I looked for my sword that I let fall when attacked. Then I pointed it to my attacker’s neck.
‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘What kind of assassin are to not even know who are you attacking?’ he replied in an excellent reikspiel. I was now stunned. He was trying to kill me, after all!
‘I’m a kind of assassin who’s not an assassin. But, now, as I’ve the sword, you should answer and I should ask.’
‘I’m Sherlock Mac Conandoyle.’
I’m not going to say I wasn’t surprised. You can imagine, my dear masters, when your host attacks you and finally you put him on earth. At least, I did not kill him.
My pet crow chose this moment to get back on my shoulder and to start pecking my earring. With a small, fine movement I stopped her doing so while drawing back my sword from Sherlock’s neck.
‘Excuse me.’ I apologized. ‘I only needed to pay you a visit. I’m Alexander de Wissont from Sartosa, sent here to help you.
He stared at me.
‘Ha! You helping me?’ Then, after a strange glance, he changed his mind. ‘Okay, Wissont. Come inside, but close the door!’
He stood up and rushed inside his salon. After closing the front door, as he asked, I followed him. But, strangely, he disappeared. I couldn’t believe my eyes. You can imagine, my dear masters, such a thing. He was here, a heartbeat passed, then he was nowhere.
I looked around. The salon was full of bookshelves. Actually, apart from three armchairs, a desk and a fireplace nothing was in the saloon, just shelves. All full, of course. From the Praises of Magnus to Leiber’s Loathsome Ratmen, every theme was included: theology, herbology, zoology, warfare, strategy, politics, and novels, diaries, dramas. I approached a shelf where Detlef Sierck’s works were, when Sherlock appeared again, sitting behind a shelf written “Khemri and its history” on it. He said:
‘I needed to hide. They’re looking for me. I know too much. Nobody has seen you?’
I shook my head in sign of “no”. Of course, I didn’t look around, but when a paranoiac detective asks you, the best thing is to reply what he hopes.
And Sherlock was one. A typical, crazed paranoiac. I hoped that he won’t be one, but I wasn’t surprised. Detectives are usually idiotic, or simply mad. A strange kind of men they are. Fouls, savages, sadists and every sino- and antonyms you can imagine. From the outlook, you can’t usually tell it.
For example, Sherlock Mac Conandoyle was looking like a normal man in the stupid Albionian wear; in height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, but his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of frenzy and paranoia.
‘Who are you hiding from?’ I asked.
He looked around like a night goblin encircled by dwarf clansmen.
‘From the Dark Emissaries.’ He replied whispering. ‘I know too much…too much…
‘I’ve heard this before’ I yelled at him.
He seemed disturbed. I mean even more disturbed than before.
‘Give me…give me some of that box.’ he said in a dying voice while pointing to nicely sculpted wooden box on his desk.
I exactly knew what was in it. Drug. Now, I can get my information.
‘I’m not going to give you ‘til you don’t speak!’ I said aggressively.
‘Okay…Well, I know that the Emissaries assassinated Mac Gore, the other ambassador to your country. He was an Imperial wizard that was the cause. Master Mortiaris hate the continentals. Now let me go” he explained. I stood out of his way and he crawled like a dog to the desk. He opened the box and sniffed the white powder inside. His face went blank for a minute and then he stood up. He seemed concentrated and clear. Only his eyes proved the negative effect of the drug.
I tried to continue the talk:
‘Who’s Mortiaris?’
‘Who?’ He replied quite surprised. ‘Ah, yes, the Master. I was talking about him to you? He’s the Chief of the Dark Emissaries. He’s a Tzeentch-worshipper, idiotic warlock. Completely crazy and paranoiac.’
Another paranoiac? No, I can’t support more. I hate them all…
‘You have a strange expression. Too much stress, isn’t it? Take some of this, it will help.’ Sherlock said, offering some of the white powder.
‘No’ I declined. ‘I ought to go now. Thanks for the discussion.’
I ran as fast as I could out of the house, not looking behind. I knew that Eva must be in a Palace or something, so I started looking for it, while promising myself that I’ll kill Gandall for sending me to this foul.
After hours of search, I found the Parliament.
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Another nice piece of storytelling!
Gr.
Lucas
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I was not very pleased with the new part, but as long you like it....
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You are the author you should of course do what you like and your free to completely ignore my opinion. Which is mostly rubbish anyway. :blush:
Gr.
Lucas
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Nice work man! I like it too. No new references though, but hey that's kinda hard to do in a house...
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Next part wil be full of!
Well, actually not, but there's some .
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It was like a small-sized Imperial cathedral. It was completely imperial in style; descent sculpts all around the wall, a tower with a clock on it and brownish stone as raw material. Although, it wasn’t a great building, even our Principal Palace was better looking. Soldiers in silly bear-furred hats were standing the guard around it, wielding second-hand handguns and old-fashioned imperial swords. I knew that Eva was inside, so I prepared myself to enter.
‘Hey, you!’ I heard from behind. I didn’t concern with it, but now, my dear masters, I know that was a fault.
‘Hey! Yes, you, you Sartosan scum!’ the voice shouted. I turned around and found ten spearmen in rugged Nordlander uniform aiming at me.
‘You’re researched in the whole World Sea, pirate!’ said the sergeant.
‘Oh, I should be surprised?’ I replied not without sarcasm in my voice.
‘Hold your tongue behind your vampiric teeth, buccaneer!’ hissed the champion. ‘You have no right to offend us! We are the mighty Nordlander 45th Spearmen Unit!’
The 45th...I’ve heard about them.
‘Oh, the one that was annihilated by Harkon’s zombie handgunners?’
‘No, that one was the 54th.’ answered now a slim, elderly spearman with binoculars.
‘So, not so famous’ I said cynically.
‘WE’RE THE BOUNTY HUNTERS! THE PIRATE SLAYERS! THE SIGMARITE SEAINQUISITION!’ cried the sergeant, now with a dramatically aggressive tone.
‘Oh, then I’m in big trouble’ I abused him.
Their reply was clear and fast. All of them charged me shouting Sigmar’s name. I had no other choice, but to prepare to the fight. My dear masters, you see that I had no other choice. I never liked to kill the Emperor’s soldiers, but in some occasions, I was forced to do it.
Although outnumbered, I always was an excellent duellist, capable to fight more than one enemy at a time. I drew my sword and fought.
The first wound was on a tall, elfish-looking man, whose index finger was cut off. Then followed a silly-bearded warrior, whose bald head has been since decorated by a nice injury made by my sword. The musician had his ear cut down, while the standard-bearer lost several teeth due to a meeting with my fist. Beatrice, my crow, also did what she attacked the small man with binoculars.
I now prepared to fight my next opponent; the sergeant. All his soldiers knew that this is going to be a duel, so no one stood between me and the champion.
He was tall and bearded. His shoulders were as wide as rhinoxen. Actually, the whole man looked like these horned beasts of the Ogre Kingdoms. Hairy, savage, fierce with small, incredibly stupid-looking eyes. No fat was present on the warrior, only bones, skin and muscles everywhere. His teeth were yellows and at least half of them were missing. A nice Sigmarite twin-tailed comet tattoo was designed next to his ears, on his hairy head.
He shouted Sigmar and charged.
I parried his spear with ease, telling him that his god seemingly was busy helping other, more important people.
‘Everybody is in the same importance in Sigmar’s holy eye’ he replied angily.
Now he tried to stab towards my heart, but, of course, my blade was much faster.
‘Go home! 500 golden crowns are not enough for your life, and believe me, one day they’ll pay more for my head.’ I said.
‘Coward!’ he yelled.
Now he tried to jab my right arm. My dear masters, maybe I forgot to mention it, but I was always fighting with my left hand. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t defend my right limb in need. On the contrary, I easily turned out of his spear’s way. That started to be rather boring...
‘I say for the last time: Go home! I’ll only cost more if I kill you’ I told him.
‘No, if I’ll kill you!’ he shouted and prepared to attack.
But he couldn’t attack. It was my turn and I did my best; I knocked his pole arm out of his hands and cut his throat. Blood split everywhere. His men ran in cowardice, seeing their champion slain. The passer-byes didn’t look on us; they only walked to their job, dodging my enemy’s blood-puddle.
‘Oh man! That’s what I call a flesh wound!’ said a known voice behind me. It was Toni, my second-in-command.
‘What?’ asked Kahisi, the Southlander.
‘Didn’t you see the Monthias Pithoner’s Holy Grail-parody? It’s about Gilles le Breton who...’
‘Toni, please shut up.’ said my wife, now appearing from behind my unit. ‘Alex, bravo! We’re here to discuss in the political way, you know. Not killing as barbaric orcs, but talking as civilized humans...’
I always hated when she told me off, but I needed to admit she was right. However I couldn’t lose my face in front of my soldiers!
‘So you would prefer an imprisoned or dead husband’ I said coldly.
Her face went blank.
‘No, I’m not saying that...’ she started, but I interrupted:
‘Yes, you’re saying that.’
‘No! But you shouldn’t have to make a bloodbath in front of the assembly!’
I felt I’m losing, so I asked:
‘By the way, how did the politics gone inside the Parliament?’
‘Mediocre. Half of the chieftains were in accord with me, half not. At least, two of the three great clans’ chief is with us; Willis the Bruce, who was converted to Sigmarism and is bald as a priest, and Mel “Braveheat” Mac Gib.’ she replied, seemingly forgetting our discussion, but her eyes showed that she retained it in her memory. ‘But the leader of the hugest and richest tribe is against the alliance, Master Mortiaris of the Mac Laggen-clan.
Her last phrase drew my attention:
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘The Mac Laggens. Silly name isn’t it?’ replied Toni instead of Eva.
‘No, I asked the patriarch’s name.’
‘Mortiaris, why?’ answered my wife surprised.
-
Small update with Monthy Python's Holy Grail,
Bruce Willis who will reappear
Mel Gibson I think he too
all in front of the Big Ben
:biggriin:
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Nice part, I really like the way you write.
I don't get the Mac Laggen thing, but that may be just me. Also, I like how you slaughtered our elfblood friend.
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I had no other name to come up with... :blush:
I think a guy in Harry Potter is named like this, and there a singer (actress?) named McLachlan
-
‘Nothing, nothing.’ I answered, while trying to not look in her eyes.
‘How was the detective?’ Toni asked.
‘He was simply mad; paranoiac, drug-addicted coward.’
‘G’eat’ assumed Lobellyx, the ogre, speaking for the first time since we were in Albion.
I heard that his friend, Jean-Marie, the Standard-bearer explaining silently:
‘It wasn’t a compliment, but a criticism, Lobellyx. Mad means stupid, you know.’
We were walking to the bar where we were accommodated. The streets were dirtier and muddier than those of Sartosa, and the permanently falling rain didn’t help it very much. Beggars and mendicants attacked every passer-byes. A Westerlander merchant in Reiklander uniform could only pass by referencing on his three children. They did not molest us, maybe fearing my nineteen excellent halberdiers.
We arrived to the Drunken Deer Inn. It seemed to be okay, but I have since learned to not believe in the first sight in this cursed island. Three soldiers, exactly the same looking as those guarding the Parliament were standing at the door.
Their captain, a thin man with a neat beard, asked if I was A. M. de Wissont?
‘Of course, I’m.’
‘Than you’re arrested, man. Do not resist, if you kill us, all my clan will swear vendetta. You have a great word for vengeance, you Tileans. Great word.’ he added with a wink.
‘Okay. But what’s the crime?’ I pried while letting my hands to be fettered.
‘Homicide, of course.’
‘For that stupid imperial soldier? He was a bounty hunter and if my husband doesn’t kill him, he would cut down Alex’ head and brought it to his count.’ said Eva in my defence.
‘Who cares about imperial bounty hunters, milady? My clan’s member, Sherlock Mac Conandoyle was found dead two hours ago. An information left us without discredit that your husband saw him last.’
My dear masters, I always repeat that I was surprised. But now, I wasn’t surprised. My dear masters, now I was shocked. Sherlock is dead? I am suspected? That was like a nightmare of the worst kind.
I let the soldiers take me away to the infamous prison of Albion guarded by the mysterious Beasteaters.
While going away, I heard Toni’s voice:
‘Boss, do not forget to always look the bright side of life!’
I prepared myself to vow his advice, but without success
The prison was a thick- and tall-walled rectangular building, presumably used to be a palace before being converted to a jail. But now, not even a ghost wanted to chose it as home. It was dark and smelly. Rats ran under your feet. The Sun, a thing long-forgotten under the clouds of Albion became only a dream. Not even clouds were visible because of the billions of crows rotating around the prison. My dear masters, I can tell you that I’m not a coward, but I panicked inside. Everybody would panic inside, behind the bars. I was only here for one night and it became one of my worst memories.
While passing on the corridors, some prisoners shouted at me:
‘Hey, pansy boy!’
‘Look! It’s her majesty the queen!’
But some were only chatting with their cellmate:
‘Michael, you’re simply dumb. No, dumber. Why did you tattoo the delineation of the prison on your chest? We all know how the prison looks like: it’s rectangular and...’
‘Hey, the Schofelds! Shut up or I feed you to the rats!’ yelled the gaoler assigned to their cell.
My Beasteater and I arrived to one of the darkest cells I’ve ever seen. He searched its key and opened it:
‘Catrazzan! Here you are, another Tilean!’ he told the man living inside.
He was tall and elderly. His blue eyes sparkled angrily to the jailer and his voice, spliced in a calm tone, was full of fury.
‘I’m Estalian...sir.’ he said.
The gaoler, not taking the fatigue to answer, pushed me inside and went away.
The old man stared at me and asked:
‘So, you’re Tilean, right?’
‘Yeah. I’m Sartosan.’ I replied.
‘Okay, kid. My name is Franco Morriso. I’m sentenced ‘til death because of theft.’
‘How did it happen?’
To my greatest astonishment he answered without problem:
‘I was a soldier. My colonel, Big Gio was against it. It was my idea. We robbed a bank hosted by imperials while fighting them here. Unfortunately, I was caught.’ he explained.
‘Okay, scum, it’s curfew! All lights out!’ cried a voice on the corridor.
Franco blew the room’s candle, and then, without any word, he went asleep. So did me.
My night was terrible. The plank bed was very uncomfortable, so I didn’t really sleep. But when I slept, nightmarish pictures came in my mind of my dead wife, the crows eating her.
Morning arrived. The cell’s door opened and the Beasteater called my name.
‘Where do you bring me?’ I asked. ‘To the judge?’
‘Somebody paid your bail, Sartosan.’ he told me in a terrible accent.
Eva? The druid? Who?
The answer stood in the gate: a tall, intelligent-faced man with long, brown hair.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked.
‘Braveheart.’ answered the gaoler.
-
Soth, Prison break, Clint Eastwood, Tower of London.
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You're quite right about the MaclLaggen thing. But where is Soth?
-EDIT-
:eusa_wall:
We should get more people in here, so they can see there in it too! Maybe they're just lurking...
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A Westerlander merchant in Reiklander uniform referencing on his three children.
Westerland=Benelux states.
Reiklander colours=His army.
three children.