Uktar 26, 1386 Year of the Halflings Lament – Greatgaunt
Dec 8, 2022 10:28:13 GMT -5
DM Grizwald, cloakedandhooded, and 13 more like this
Post by DM Hawk on Dec 8, 2022 10:28:13 GMT -5
Damn it was cold. Not as cold as last year, but still too cold for his liking.
Waric Fetter stepped out of the Regal Griffon Inn into the chilly dawn. Taking a hurried sip of hot Dark Desire, he set the mug down and rubbed his hands briskly together. As he lit the lantern he looked over his shop. The carpenter was proud of his little shop. It wasn't much compared to the other stores in the village but it was his. It kept his mug full and food on the table. With coin to spare he was saving up to buy her a ring.
Kentin walked by with a nod, stepping into the inn. The guardsman was stepping up to keep things together with the militia and the Volunteers. Everyone felt the old knight's absence but Kentin was making a good effort. No doubt he was inside buying breakfast for the morning watch out of his own wages as Sir Callen would do.
Though muffled by snow, a strong tenor sung a verse behind him. Waric turned to squint through the snowflakes into the gloomy town square. He heard the voice again.
"One house divided is two houses!"
The voice sang from Frubo's stage, but it wasn't Furbo's voice. Of course it would not be. Frubo was scarcely out of his bed before the crack of highsun.
A critique was made. "That's reduh...reduh...redundant." Frubo?
The tenor sang again, "One house divided falls in half!"
"One house divided falls in twain, doom doom doom!" Without question, Frubo. Waric looked up into the dawn haze. Had he overslept? He scratched his head.
"One house divided...?" The tensor sang, in question. Waric looked back to the stage. Biedello, that's who it was. He had forsaken the comfort of the inn to sing with Frubo. Madness.
"It cannot stand!" Frubo declared in his singing voice.
"That's it!" Sang Biedello.
"I do turn a good lyric." Furbo allowed.
Waric scratched his beard and glanced towards the fields. As the gloom brightened a little, he could make out the shapes of farm hands moving about their early chores. Maybe MacDunald would want to buy a fine stool to use while milking cows or shucking corn. Harvest season had come and gone though. Waric sighed. Maybe Giselle needed a new sign.
"That's enough work for one night, I think" Biedello was saying. They were trudging through the snow towards him, making for the inn. Had they been up all night? Madness.
"That's one verse and two lines of chorus." Frubo was saying.
"Progress! Good morn, Waric!" For a man half-frozen Biedello was chipper. He carried nearly a yard of snow atop his hat.
"Good morn you two. Up late?" Waric asked as he considered the fashioning of a small, wooden snow plow with which to remove buildup from hats. Would it sell?
"Aye and then some. The muse was upon us and when the muse calls..." Frubo led
"The bard answers with song!" Biedello answered cheerfully, shivering.
"Siren's song more like" Waric muttered. "You look half-froze to death."
"Maybe Cele will warm me up this morn" speculated the guitar-picker.
"When has she ever? Besides, she won't go near your cold hands. They're nearly blue..." Biedello chirped as he opened the door. The warmth and light of Kale's tavern room spilled out into the town square.
"Aye, so you'll need to write down the lyrics. And don't lose them!" The door slammed shut.
Snow fell from the Regal Griffon's tall roof onto the awning sheltering his little shop. Maybe an intermediate wooden plow for awnings too...
The door opened again. One of the bards had probably forgotten something on the stage. Waric wondered if they could find it under the snow. They might have to wait for the spring thaw.
"Greetings!" Waric started. That wasn't Biedello. Or Frubo. He turned to see a short man, a bit fat, wearing warm clothes for the cold morning air. Over the clothes he wore a carpenter's apron, like his own. The man's hair was black, straight, and parted evenly down the middle. It looked like an...
"Arse crack...of sparrows." Waric grinned at his own wit and nodded a salute to the dawn's sun which surely appreciated the cleverness the carpenter was unappreciated for all too often.
"I beg your pardon?" The short, fat carpenter asked.
Had Waric said that aloud? The man might be a customer. He looked familiar. Shite.
"Uh, are you back...on the morrow?" Waric asked, attempting recovery.
"No, no I'm for the Roar today though the road will be cold. Say, are you Fetter the Carpenter?"
"Aye, I am" said Waric cautiously.
"I thought so." The short, fat carpenter put out a hand, "Moses Murley, from Murley Murley & Murley, Murley Brothers Construction."
Waric shook the man's hand. "Waric Fetter."
"Aye, I remember you bid against us on a few projects. Then you were sub-contracted by the Herdols on the orphanage."
"Yes, that's right." Waric beamed with pride at mention of the fence he'd built around Hope's Cradle. The finest fence in Valkur's Roar, if I do say so...
"We could use a good hand on a job...hard to get enough carpenters out in the cold." Moses Murley stuck out his tongue to catch a snowflake. "Nyuk."
"I'd have to close up shop. It depends on the offer." Waric put on his imaginary negotiating hat. It wouldn't need a snow plow.
"The contract is with the treasurer himself, Lord Truman Truesilver." Moses puffed out his chest, "Baron's gold, five hundred pieces for you if we meet the deadline. Pun intended."
"That sounds reasonable Mister Moses." Waric shook Murley's hand again. He reached for his shop sign, the finest in Greatgaunt, and fliped it around. He read the letters in white paint and nodded. Sorry, we're closed.
"Oh, one more thing" Murley asked, "Are you good with rope?"
Waric Fetter stepped out of the Regal Griffon Inn into the chilly dawn. Taking a hurried sip of hot Dark Desire, he set the mug down and rubbed his hands briskly together. As he lit the lantern he looked over his shop. The carpenter was proud of his little shop. It wasn't much compared to the other stores in the village but it was his. It kept his mug full and food on the table. With coin to spare he was saving up to buy her a ring.
Kentin walked by with a nod, stepping into the inn. The guardsman was stepping up to keep things together with the militia and the Volunteers. Everyone felt the old knight's absence but Kentin was making a good effort. No doubt he was inside buying breakfast for the morning watch out of his own wages as Sir Callen would do.
Though muffled by snow, a strong tenor sung a verse behind him. Waric turned to squint through the snowflakes into the gloomy town square. He heard the voice again.
"One house divided is two houses!"
The voice sang from Frubo's stage, but it wasn't Furbo's voice. Of course it would not be. Frubo was scarcely out of his bed before the crack of highsun.
A critique was made. "That's reduh...reduh...redundant." Frubo?
The tenor sang again, "One house divided falls in half!"
"One house divided falls in twain, doom doom doom!" Without question, Frubo. Waric looked up into the dawn haze. Had he overslept? He scratched his head.
"One house divided...?" The tensor sang, in question. Waric looked back to the stage. Biedello, that's who it was. He had forsaken the comfort of the inn to sing with Frubo. Madness.
"It cannot stand!" Frubo declared in his singing voice.
"That's it!" Sang Biedello.
"I do turn a good lyric." Furbo allowed.
Waric scratched his beard and glanced towards the fields. As the gloom brightened a little, he could make out the shapes of farm hands moving about their early chores. Maybe MacDunald would want to buy a fine stool to use while milking cows or shucking corn. Harvest season had come and gone though. Waric sighed. Maybe Giselle needed a new sign.
"That's enough work for one night, I think" Biedello was saying. They were trudging through the snow towards him, making for the inn. Had they been up all night? Madness.
"That's one verse and two lines of chorus." Frubo was saying.
"Progress! Good morn, Waric!" For a man half-frozen Biedello was chipper. He carried nearly a yard of snow atop his hat.
"Good morn you two. Up late?" Waric asked as he considered the fashioning of a small, wooden snow plow with which to remove buildup from hats. Would it sell?
"Aye and then some. The muse was upon us and when the muse calls..." Frubo led
"The bard answers with song!" Biedello answered cheerfully, shivering.
"Siren's song more like" Waric muttered. "You look half-froze to death."
"Maybe Cele will warm me up this morn" speculated the guitar-picker.
"When has she ever? Besides, she won't go near your cold hands. They're nearly blue..." Biedello chirped as he opened the door. The warmth and light of Kale's tavern room spilled out into the town square.
"Aye, so you'll need to write down the lyrics. And don't lose them!" The door slammed shut.
Snow fell from the Regal Griffon's tall roof onto the awning sheltering his little shop. Maybe an intermediate wooden plow for awnings too...
The door opened again. One of the bards had probably forgotten something on the stage. Waric wondered if they could find it under the snow. They might have to wait for the spring thaw.
"Greetings!" Waric started. That wasn't Biedello. Or Frubo. He turned to see a short man, a bit fat, wearing warm clothes for the cold morning air. Over the clothes he wore a carpenter's apron, like his own. The man's hair was black, straight, and parted evenly down the middle. It looked like an...
"Arse crack...of sparrows." Waric grinned at his own wit and nodded a salute to the dawn's sun which surely appreciated the cleverness the carpenter was unappreciated for all too often.
"I beg your pardon?" The short, fat carpenter asked.
Had Waric said that aloud? The man might be a customer. He looked familiar. Shite.
"Uh, are you back...on the morrow?" Waric asked, attempting recovery.
"No, no I'm for the Roar today though the road will be cold. Say, are you Fetter the Carpenter?"
"Aye, I am" said Waric cautiously.
"I thought so." The short, fat carpenter put out a hand, "Moses Murley, from Murley Murley & Murley, Murley Brothers Construction."
Waric shook the man's hand. "Waric Fetter."
"Aye, I remember you bid against us on a few projects. Then you were sub-contracted by the Herdols on the orphanage."
"Yes, that's right." Waric beamed with pride at mention of the fence he'd built around Hope's Cradle. The finest fence in Valkur's Roar, if I do say so...
"We could use a good hand on a job...hard to get enough carpenters out in the cold." Moses Murley stuck out his tongue to catch a snowflake. "Nyuk."
"I'd have to close up shop. It depends on the offer." Waric put on his imaginary negotiating hat. It wouldn't need a snow plow.
"The contract is with the treasurer himself, Lord Truman Truesilver." Moses puffed out his chest, "Baron's gold, five hundred pieces for you if we meet the deadline. Pun intended."
"That sounds reasonable Mister Moses." Waric shook Murley's hand again. He reached for his shop sign, the finest in Greatgaunt, and fliped it around. He read the letters in white paint and nodded. Sorry, we're closed.
"Oh, one more thing" Murley asked, "Are you good with rope?"