Nav Logan's Blog, page 10
August 17, 2015
A Love Drabble
My love for you is like our dog’s love for the lamppost. Over time we have become familiar with one another, and yet, I still look forward to seeing you and spending time together.
My love for you is like the summer sunshine. It’s always great to see you. Sometimes I wish I’d remembered to pack the factor 40, but love is about sharing, peeling skin and all.
Our love is as enduring as the tides. Despite global warming and the erosion of the coastline, we are still drawn to each other, throughout the ebb and flow of the day.
Dedicated to Kathleen
My love for you is like the summer sunshine. It’s always great to see you. Sometimes I wish I’d remembered to pack the factor 40, but love is about sharing, peeling skin and all.
Our love is as enduring as the tides. Despite global warming and the erosion of the coastline, we are still drawn to each other, throughout the ebb and flow of the day.
Dedicated to Kathleen
August 11, 2015
The Truth Within
The medium, Melissa, swirled the last dregs of the tea around in the china cup, before placing a saucer over the top and flipping it over. (She was a firm believer in doing things by the book. No mugs for her.)
With a self-satisfied smile, she placed the saucer upon the green velvet table before her client.
Squinting for a moment, Melissa looked at the remnants of the tea leaves, studying the pattern they formed, and seeking insight. Her mind drew a blank, but she wasn’t paid to admit that.
“Beware of false messengers,” she warned cryptically, “And scam artists.”
With a self-satisfied smile, she placed the saucer upon the green velvet table before her client.
Squinting for a moment, Melissa looked at the remnants of the tea leaves, studying the pattern they formed, and seeking insight. Her mind drew a blank, but she wasn’t paid to admit that.
“Beware of false messengers,” she warned cryptically, “And scam artists.”
August 10, 2015
Pleading the Fifth
Omertà: the code of silence. If it was good enough for the mafia, it was good enough for Flickblade Jack’s gang of cutthroats. “Not a word!” he warned. “Always plead the fifth!”
When young Pedro was kidnapped, he remembered those words. He would say nothing.
Sadly, this wasn’t good cop, bad cop, day. The rival gang poured hot tea down his trousers, and Pedro bit his tongue and said nothing. Then they took out a knife and pruned a few of Pedro’s fingernails. He remained silent until they got to his little pinkie. Then he told them everything he knew.
When young Pedro was kidnapped, he remembered those words. He would say nothing.
Sadly, this wasn’t good cop, bad cop, day. The rival gang poured hot tea down his trousers, and Pedro bit his tongue and said nothing. Then they took out a knife and pruned a few of Pedro’s fingernails. He remained silent until they got to his little pinkie. Then he told them everything he knew.
The Jester’s Revenge.
…And on the third day the spiteful Jester shalt rise from within his shallow grave and charm the unworthy into the darkness. In his right hand he grasps the keys to Hades, and like the other Pied Piper, a set of pipes in his left. He will beguile his audience and lead them down the darkened path towards the abyss.
Be sure to bring two pennies if you follow. The ferryman accepts no I Owe You’s, (Although strangely Kharon now accepts all major credit cards.)
In death, the Jester shall reap his revenge upon the hecklers who poisoned his supper.
Be sure to bring two pennies if you follow. The ferryman accepts no I Owe You’s, (Although strangely Kharon now accepts all major credit cards.)
In death, the Jester shall reap his revenge upon the hecklers who poisoned his supper.
Mr. Scare-the-Crows
It’s a game we play, me and the crows. I have my job to do and they have theirs. I can’t really complain, but I must say there was no need to drop poo on my hat. That was uncalled for!
Every morning, I’m there waiting when the sun rises, and I’m still there each evening, standing guard over the crops. I’m a patient hunter.
Occasionally, I move to a different part of the field just to keep the rooks from getting over confident. Last week, one of the cheeky buggers landed on my shoulder.
I quickly devoured the bird.
Every morning, I’m there waiting when the sun rises, and I’m still there each evening, standing guard over the crops. I’m a patient hunter.
Occasionally, I move to a different part of the field just to keep the rooks from getting over confident. Last week, one of the cheeky buggers landed on my shoulder.
I quickly devoured the bird.
August 9, 2015
Changing Tastes
When I was younger, and still a little shy, I found myself attracted to larger women. I spent every waking moment, and quite a few of sleeping moments too, fantasizing over buxom ladies.
During the day I’d roam the art galleries, gazing at voluptuous beauties Come evening, I’d get drunk enough to approach one of the goddesses in the flesh.
Sadly, as I’ve matured, I’ve been forced to change my opinions. Though I still frequent the galleries, now I find myself looking for more petite women to woo. They’re easier to cram into the boot, and don’t inflame my sciatica.
During the day I’d roam the art galleries, gazing at voluptuous beauties Come evening, I’d get drunk enough to approach one of the goddesses in the flesh.
Sadly, as I’ve matured, I’ve been forced to change my opinions. Though I still frequent the galleries, now I find myself looking for more petite women to woo. They’re easier to cram into the boot, and don’t inflame my sciatica.
Changing Tastes
When I was younger, and still a little shy, I found myself attracted to larger women. I spent every waking moment, and quite a few of sleeping moments too, fantasizing over buxom ladies.
During the day I’d roam the art galleries, gazing at voluptuous beauties Come evening, I’d get drunk enough to approach one of the goddesses in the flesh.
Sadly, as I’ve matured, I’ve been forced to change my opinions. Though I still frequent the galleries, now I find myself looking for more petite women to woo. They’re easier to cram into the boot, and don’t inflame my sciatica.
During the day I’d roam the art galleries, gazing at voluptuous beauties Come evening, I’d get drunk enough to approach one of the goddesses in the flesh.
Sadly, as I’ve matured, I’ve been forced to change my opinions. Though I still frequent the galleries, now I find myself looking for more petite women to woo. They’re easier to cram into the boot, and don’t inflame my sciatica.
August 8, 2015
Grey Art
Grey Art
Art. What is art?
The first thing that comes to mind for most people is a dusty Rembrandt in a gallery somewhere. In reality, art is as old as the hills, well almost anyway, and it’s all around us. Often, we fail to see it, but it’s still there.
There is, for example, natural art, such as the play of light that makes a rainbow, or the sweet sound a bird song. For those of us who are morning people, there is no greater wonder than the dawn chorus, but for others it’s just the damned birds squawking outside the window again. Which brings me to another point. Art is subjective. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Mankind has been connected with art since we climbed down from the trees, and perhaps even before then. To this day we see evidence of this in cave drawings, pottery etc. Mankind felt a primitive need to connect with the world around him, and not just the physical world too. He also sought connection with the spiritual world; the forces of nature. Effectively art was about the expression of the wonders of life.
Even today, we are surrounded by art, although most of it is corrupted by commercialism. We see it in the clothes we wear, hear it in the music we listen to. It is everywhere. You will even find modern cave drawings in our public lavatories.
If we look back over the last century or so, art has been more than that. Art has been the catalyst for many revolution changes. After the First World War came the roaring twenties, with its bohemian music and fashion and its air of celebration. This new culture was reflected in their Art Deco art and their music. Skipping ahead to the swinging 60’s, we see the likes of Andy Warhol, Mary Quant, and the music of such artists as the Beatles. The Beatnik generation was a catalyst for major social revolution and a powerful anti-war movement that could arguably be said to eventually eliminated the arms race and the threat of nuclear assured destruction.
It didn’t take long, however, for commercial interests to latch onto the Beatniks, bringing the underground movement to the fore, but also diluting the purity of the revolutionary pulse of their art.
By the mid-seventies, the impetus had become almost egotistic and self-gratifying, leading to a new form of art, Punk, and it’s commercial side-kick, New Wave. Like the roaring twenties or the swinging sixties, this revolutionary art started with the social elite, but it was quickly embraced by the masses as a rejection of all had gone before. At its core was a core fundamental that art was for everyone. We each had something to say.
Art continues to be exploited, despite the best efforts of artists to maintain control of their work. The free festivals of the late sixties and seventies were eventually eradicated as too much of a threat to the status quo. The “Pay no more than,” pricing policy of bands in the late seventies petered out as large corporations bought out the independent record labels.
Art continues to struggle against commercialism, even in this age of the global village, but art is much more profound that a picture on the wall. It’s more profound even than a social revolution. It’s about self-expression. It should be something we all nurture and become a part of.
In this digital era, where everything is black or white, art is the grey area in-between. It is the space between the One’s and the Zero’s. Art is a multi-faceted expression of the individual in a world that likes to consume all and make it part of the whole.
Art can literally be a life saver. In a world that is rapidly lacking spirituality, art can be a way to connect to other people, nature, our ancestors, and even the future.
Through words, sound, and visual arts, we can express who we are, where we are from, and what we aspire to become. It is the pain of an angst-riddled teenager, the joy of motherhood, the haunted visions of a veteran. It is the expression of a man on death row, locked in his cell for twenty three hours a day. It crosses oceans in the blink of an eye. It inspires change in attitude and in our society. Despite the constant threat of commercialism, it remains one step ahead of the hungry pack, for they can only follow true art, not create it.
Children will naturally pick up a crayon and start to draw, as our ancestors did on cave walls eons ago. They will bang an old biscuit tins in search of that ancient tribal rhythm. They will sing to themselves tunelessly and find joy in the act.
As we get older, we are encouraged to put away our toys and become men and women of the world. We are told to do something more useful with our time. People forget how important it is to express our individuality. They forget that art isn’t about being the next Michael Angelo. It’s about connecting with your inner self and with the world around you. Art, even for the least gifted, is a way to reduce stress, find joy, and find that part of you which you have lost to the humdrum of everyday life.
Ultimately, Art is life. It’s time we freed it from the elitism of dusty galleries and embraced it as an essential part of a healthy society.
Art. What is art?
The first thing that comes to mind for most people is a dusty Rembrandt in a gallery somewhere. In reality, art is as old as the hills, well almost anyway, and it’s all around us. Often, we fail to see it, but it’s still there.
There is, for example, natural art, such as the play of light that makes a rainbow, or the sweet sound a bird song. For those of us who are morning people, there is no greater wonder than the dawn chorus, but for others it’s just the damned birds squawking outside the window again. Which brings me to another point. Art is subjective. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Mankind has been connected with art since we climbed down from the trees, and perhaps even before then. To this day we see evidence of this in cave drawings, pottery etc. Mankind felt a primitive need to connect with the world around him, and not just the physical world too. He also sought connection with the spiritual world; the forces of nature. Effectively art was about the expression of the wonders of life.
Even today, we are surrounded by art, although most of it is corrupted by commercialism. We see it in the clothes we wear, hear it in the music we listen to. It is everywhere. You will even find modern cave drawings in our public lavatories.
If we look back over the last century or so, art has been more than that. Art has been the catalyst for many revolution changes. After the First World War came the roaring twenties, with its bohemian music and fashion and its air of celebration. This new culture was reflected in their Art Deco art and their music. Skipping ahead to the swinging 60’s, we see the likes of Andy Warhol, Mary Quant, and the music of such artists as the Beatles. The Beatnik generation was a catalyst for major social revolution and a powerful anti-war movement that could arguably be said to eventually eliminated the arms race and the threat of nuclear assured destruction.
It didn’t take long, however, for commercial interests to latch onto the Beatniks, bringing the underground movement to the fore, but also diluting the purity of the revolutionary pulse of their art.
By the mid-seventies, the impetus had become almost egotistic and self-gratifying, leading to a new form of art, Punk, and it’s commercial side-kick, New Wave. Like the roaring twenties or the swinging sixties, this revolutionary art started with the social elite, but it was quickly embraced by the masses as a rejection of all had gone before. At its core was a core fundamental that art was for everyone. We each had something to say.
Art continues to be exploited, despite the best efforts of artists to maintain control of their work. The free festivals of the late sixties and seventies were eventually eradicated as too much of a threat to the status quo. The “Pay no more than,” pricing policy of bands in the late seventies petered out as large corporations bought out the independent record labels.
Art continues to struggle against commercialism, even in this age of the global village, but art is much more profound that a picture on the wall. It’s more profound even than a social revolution. It’s about self-expression. It should be something we all nurture and become a part of.
In this digital era, where everything is black or white, art is the grey area in-between. It is the space between the One’s and the Zero’s. Art is a multi-faceted expression of the individual in a world that likes to consume all and make it part of the whole.
Art can literally be a life saver. In a world that is rapidly lacking spirituality, art can be a way to connect to other people, nature, our ancestors, and even the future.
Through words, sound, and visual arts, we can express who we are, where we are from, and what we aspire to become. It is the pain of an angst-riddled teenager, the joy of motherhood, the haunted visions of a veteran. It is the expression of a man on death row, locked in his cell for twenty three hours a day. It crosses oceans in the blink of an eye. It inspires change in attitude and in our society. Despite the constant threat of commercialism, it remains one step ahead of the hungry pack, for they can only follow true art, not create it.
Children will naturally pick up a crayon and start to draw, as our ancestors did on cave walls eons ago. They will bang an old biscuit tins in search of that ancient tribal rhythm. They will sing to themselves tunelessly and find joy in the act.
As we get older, we are encouraged to put away our toys and become men and women of the world. We are told to do something more useful with our time. People forget how important it is to express our individuality. They forget that art isn’t about being the next Michael Angelo. It’s about connecting with your inner self and with the world around you. Art, even for the least gifted, is a way to reduce stress, find joy, and find that part of you which you have lost to the humdrum of everyday life.
Ultimately, Art is life. It’s time we freed it from the elitism of dusty galleries and embraced it as an essential part of a healthy society.
August 3, 2015
Soar Like an Eagle
Congratulations again to the winners of Michael's excellent short story competition. It was themed on an Alice in Wonderland picture, and it's worth checking out the winners on http://thecultofme.blogspot.ie/2015/0...
A wonderfully diverse set of stories.
Here is my own humble submission to whet your appetite ...
Soar Like an Eagle
My real name is Sours like an Eagle, but everyone just knows me as Alice Clearwater. That was my grandfather’s nickname for me: Alice; like the little girl in the book. People said that grandfather was blessed by the spirits and could see into the future, but I always thought him a crazy old goat.
Now, I’m not so sure.
The wind buffets my summer dress, and for once I feel alive. I’d been away from the reservation too long, and I’ve forgotten how my people climb the mountains to commune with the spirits of the earth and air.
Standing on the top storey of a skyscraper, I now understand why.
I have a strong urge to leap off the edge and sour like an eagle. I want to cast aside my earthly body and be reborn, if only briefly, as that regal bird.
I feel tiny, standing amongst these giant concrete monoliths.
A piece of paper flutters annoyingly in my hand, taunted by the breeze. I cast it skyward and watch it dance with the spirits of the air. The meaningless words are lost upon the eddies.
It is with regret that we announce … company restructure … create a new vision for the future …
The words are as much a vision of madness as the story of Alice, but one word stands out: Redundant. I have become redundant. After twenty years of hard work I am no longer useful. Unwanted. How they make you feel small.
Strange, I should feel angry, sadness, or loss, but in fact I’m a little relieved. I’ve been feeling lost for some time now. My world has become like Alice’s. The characters she met on her adventures are all around me.
The Mad Hatter: that is surely Jeff, the mail clerk, running around the office each day, bringing a moment’s insanity to the otherwise humdrum day.
The hookah-smoking caterpillar is certainly David, the janitor. He spends his life in a haze, avoiding reliving his past while dancing on the edge of madness.
What will happen to them now? Will they end up on a ledge somewhere, assessing their futures?
The Queen of Hearts is my supervisor; a right bitch if ever there was one.
Below me, I see the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles rushing to the scene. Tiny people gather around and crane their necks towards heaven; towards me. I feel like a giantess looking down at them. The coyotes will be so disappointed. I didn’t come up here to entertain them.
I came here to find myself again.
It’s ironic. I hadn’t even realised that I was lost …Until now.
Slowly, I raise my arms and flap my wings, letting the wind caress my fingertips. In my mind I fly and am at one with the eagles.
“Ma’am!” a gentle voice asks. “Are you alright?”
I look around at the young police officer, and smile. “I’m fine,” I reply. “I just want to go home.”
A wonderfully diverse set of stories.
Here is my own humble submission to whet your appetite ...
Soar Like an Eagle
My real name is Sours like an Eagle, but everyone just knows me as Alice Clearwater. That was my grandfather’s nickname for me: Alice; like the little girl in the book. People said that grandfather was blessed by the spirits and could see into the future, but I always thought him a crazy old goat.
Now, I’m not so sure.
The wind buffets my summer dress, and for once I feel alive. I’d been away from the reservation too long, and I’ve forgotten how my people climb the mountains to commune with the spirits of the earth and air.
Standing on the top storey of a skyscraper, I now understand why.
I have a strong urge to leap off the edge and sour like an eagle. I want to cast aside my earthly body and be reborn, if only briefly, as that regal bird.
I feel tiny, standing amongst these giant concrete monoliths.
A piece of paper flutters annoyingly in my hand, taunted by the breeze. I cast it skyward and watch it dance with the spirits of the air. The meaningless words are lost upon the eddies.
It is with regret that we announce … company restructure … create a new vision for the future …
The words are as much a vision of madness as the story of Alice, but one word stands out: Redundant. I have become redundant. After twenty years of hard work I am no longer useful. Unwanted. How they make you feel small.
Strange, I should feel angry, sadness, or loss, but in fact I’m a little relieved. I’ve been feeling lost for some time now. My world has become like Alice’s. The characters she met on her adventures are all around me.
The Mad Hatter: that is surely Jeff, the mail clerk, running around the office each day, bringing a moment’s insanity to the otherwise humdrum day.
The hookah-smoking caterpillar is certainly David, the janitor. He spends his life in a haze, avoiding reliving his past while dancing on the edge of madness.
What will happen to them now? Will they end up on a ledge somewhere, assessing their futures?
The Queen of Hearts is my supervisor; a right bitch if ever there was one.
Below me, I see the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles rushing to the scene. Tiny people gather around and crane their necks towards heaven; towards me. I feel like a giantess looking down at them. The coyotes will be so disappointed. I didn’t come up here to entertain them.
I came here to find myself again.
It’s ironic. I hadn’t even realised that I was lost …Until now.
Slowly, I raise my arms and flap my wings, letting the wind caress my fingertips. In my mind I fly and am at one with the eagles.
“Ma’am!” a gentle voice asks. “Are you alright?”
I look around at the young police officer, and smile. “I’m fine,” I reply. “I just want to go home.”
August 1, 2015
Crime Doesn't Pay
Leaving the rest of our party at the top of the stairs, me and my fellow scouts crept through the darkness to the door at the bottom of the stone steps. Senses on high alert, we paused and listened at the door.
So far, we had encountered a number of monsters within the dungeon complex, everything from Orcs to Zombies, and we were confident that more foes lay ahead. We were coming to the end of our quest, and inevitably, these things always end in a big battle.
This wasn’t our main reason for scouting ahead, however.
It had been agreed before the adventure started that all loot was to be shared equally by any who survived the quest. What our companions did not know was that the scouts had come to a separate arrangement, just between ourselves.
Anything that we found during our scouting expeditions was ours by right of finders keepers. It would be split three ways, and not to be declared to the rest of the group. Small items like gems or coins were quietly hidden away beneath our dark clothing when the others weren’t watching, to be counted later. Larger items were left in place to be divvied out amongst the larger group. After all, we couldn’t steal everything, or our companions would smell a rat.
In reality, they were suspicious before we had even left the communal Tavern, but they needed us more than we needed them. We could, if Laverna, the Goddess of Thieves, was feeling benevolent, slip in and out of the dungeon undetected. They, on the other hand, needed our skills with locks and traps to get them through the dungeon unharmed.
Carefully, I checked the door for traps. It opened inward, but I could feel nothing untoward on our side of the door. A short whispered conversation ensued, before one of my fellow thieves twisted the knob and slowly opened the door. He opened it only wide enough to see a crack of light within, but that was enough.
Beyond the door, a flickering strobe light gave us a creepy view of the room beyond. The strobe was a black light, illuminating only the white within the room. We saw only the teeth of the creatures within, their eyes, and the occasion piece of white clothing they wore. It was an eerie sight.
We estimated that the room was large. It was perhaps forty feet square as best as we could make out, with walls darker than a daemon’s soul. Within the room we could see perhaps a dozen mysterious creatures, but the light denied us a clear picture of their identity. Thankfully, they at least were living creatures, for the room did not reek of the undead.
We closed the door as silently as we had opened it, and breathed a sigh of relief. They had not spotted our brief intrusion.
Slipping back up the staircase, we signalled for our companions to douse their lights. The last thing we needed was to have our night vision ruined. Once they had done this, we approached and relayed our findings.
“At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a door.” I explained. “We found no traps on it.” (I didn’t need to add that I hadn’t checked beyond the door for traps. They really didn’t need to know that. Why worry them unnecessarily? Anyway, they’d find out soon enough.)
“Did you find out what’s beyond the door?” our intrepid leader, the paladin asked.
We gave a description of the room beyond, adding, “You won’t need your torches for this. There’ll be enough light to fight by, once you get inside.”
“Right,” announced the paladin, “Arm yourselves, lads. We’ll form up in a shield wall and enter the room together. That way, we can protect each other’s backs. Fighters to the fore. Let us send them back to whatever hell they came from.”
It was a very uplifting speech, and the three scouts tried not to snicker openly. Thankfully, with our faces heavily-sooted and covered, they could only see the amusement in our eyes, had they been looking.
We followed the rest of the party down the steps, keeping a safe distance away from any possible confrontation. We had, after all, done our bit. Now it was the time for strong arm of righteousness and the might of sharp steel. We were only humble scouts. We weren’t dressed for that sort of nonsense.
The paladin led the way, shield and sword at the ready. On either shoulder stood other stalwart warriors, and close on their heels was our god-fearing cleric, emboldened by the faith in his deity.
Behind the steel clad fighters was the a sorceress of little renown. She looked around nervously at the three shadowy scouts who were bringing up the rear, unsure if the real danger was beyond the door or lurking in the shadows on the staircase.
To be fair, she had a point. If the warriors looked to be failing, we would have no qualms about slipping a sharp knife through her back and fleeing with all the loot. We could worry about retribution from the militia later. As long as there were no witnesses left alive, we had nothing to worry about.
Battle cries were yelled, and the door was barged open with wild enthusiasm. The warriors charged into the room, waving their weapons about as they met the monsters within head on. The cleric was as blood-thirsty as the warriors and followed hot on their heels. The sorceress weighed her options for only a brief moment, before following the steel encrusted pack. Evidently, she had decided that her safety lay in remaining close to the warriors. Within seconds, a mad melee was underway
We, the three scouts, looked at each other and shook our heads. Warriors never learned. They thought with their weapons and not their heads. Had they stood in the doorway and let the monsters come to them, they could have taken them on two or three at a time, rather than facing the full brunt of the enemy at once.
We scouts waited for a few moments, letting the battle get well established before slipping into the room.
Naturally, we hugged the walls as any good scout should. Keeping within the darkest of shadows, we crept around the walls of the room, well away from the entrance. If asked, we could justify this manoeuvre by pointing out that we were checking for any additional threat.
While we lurked in the shadows, we took the time to hide whatever treasures we found lying around. There was no need to rush into battle. The rest of our party seemed to be handling themselves well enough, and besides, they were keeping all of our enemies distracted.
Finally, as the numbers of foes started to deplete, we resigned ourselves to engaging in combat. If we turned up after the fight with no blood on our blades, hot words would surely be exchanged. We needed to be seen to be committed to the fray.
Creeping up behind the combat, we dashed out of the darkness and stabbed a knife into an enemy back here, garrotted a foe there, prudently slipping back into the darkness to await the next opportunity to a quick strike.
In reality, we probably killed as many of the enemy as the rest of the party put together, as we were attacking the enemy’s undefended backs. They were unable to fend off our blows, and if they were foolish enough to turn around and give chase, they were quickly dispatched by the valiant warriors.
Finally, the last of the enemies lay dead, and torches were lit. It was time to give the room a thorough search. The quest was for a precious magical gem, and it must be hidden somewhere within this room. In reality, it was stuffed into my tunic, but the rest of the party didn’t know that.
The search proved fruitless save for a large golden plate of nominal value. Any gems and coins that might have been scattered around the room earlier, had all disappeared. Who knew where?
Without the gem, we had failed the quest and therefore, would not receive the offered bounty. Disheartened, we prepared to leave.
“Hang on a minute!” demanded the paladin. “There should have been more treasure than this. Empty your pockets.” He was addressing the scouts. The others clustered around us, waving blooded weapons menacingly.
“Really gentlemen! Where’s your trust?” I objected.
“Never mind trust. Just empty your pockets, or you’ll feel the length of my wrath,” demanded the leader of the party, waving his big sword in my general direction.
With a hurt look, the scouts began to unload their hidden bounty. Amongst the loot was the magical gem that the party had been sent to find.
The others gasped at the amount of gems and coins we revealed.
“Why you …!” cursed one of the warriors.
“I warned you that we couldn’t trust them,” reminded the sorceress.
“You don’t understand. We were just minding it, that’s all.” I protested weakly. “We weren’t planning to keep it for ourselves. What do you take us for?”
Their looks said more than words ever could, but they couldn’t prove that we had been planning to rip them off. They had acted too hastily. They should have waited until we were back at the tavern, and had everyone put their loot on the table before they accosted us.
Fools.
Later, once the treasures were equally divided and the party had gone their separate ways, the thieves met again in a secluded dark stairwell. Additional gems and coins soon gathered in a pile before us, as the rest of our pilfered treasure was revealed.
The idiots hadn’t even searched us to make sure we had revealed all of the stolen loot. They were too busy patting themselves on the back for catching us red-handed, but had taken it on faith that the treasure we revealed was everything that we had found.
And they say that crime doesn’t pay.
*****
This is a true story. Many years ago, myself and some of my friends would go away for a weekend of live role-playing at a castle in Chester. Three of us were scouts. Another played a paladin, and two warriors, one male the other female. As the party was small, we were joined by another group which included a cleric and a sorceress.
So far, we had encountered a number of monsters within the dungeon complex, everything from Orcs to Zombies, and we were confident that more foes lay ahead. We were coming to the end of our quest, and inevitably, these things always end in a big battle.
This wasn’t our main reason for scouting ahead, however.
It had been agreed before the adventure started that all loot was to be shared equally by any who survived the quest. What our companions did not know was that the scouts had come to a separate arrangement, just between ourselves.
Anything that we found during our scouting expeditions was ours by right of finders keepers. It would be split three ways, and not to be declared to the rest of the group. Small items like gems or coins were quietly hidden away beneath our dark clothing when the others weren’t watching, to be counted later. Larger items were left in place to be divvied out amongst the larger group. After all, we couldn’t steal everything, or our companions would smell a rat.
In reality, they were suspicious before we had even left the communal Tavern, but they needed us more than we needed them. We could, if Laverna, the Goddess of Thieves, was feeling benevolent, slip in and out of the dungeon undetected. They, on the other hand, needed our skills with locks and traps to get them through the dungeon unharmed.
Carefully, I checked the door for traps. It opened inward, but I could feel nothing untoward on our side of the door. A short whispered conversation ensued, before one of my fellow thieves twisted the knob and slowly opened the door. He opened it only wide enough to see a crack of light within, but that was enough.
Beyond the door, a flickering strobe light gave us a creepy view of the room beyond. The strobe was a black light, illuminating only the white within the room. We saw only the teeth of the creatures within, their eyes, and the occasion piece of white clothing they wore. It was an eerie sight.
We estimated that the room was large. It was perhaps forty feet square as best as we could make out, with walls darker than a daemon’s soul. Within the room we could see perhaps a dozen mysterious creatures, but the light denied us a clear picture of their identity. Thankfully, they at least were living creatures, for the room did not reek of the undead.
We closed the door as silently as we had opened it, and breathed a sigh of relief. They had not spotted our brief intrusion.
Slipping back up the staircase, we signalled for our companions to douse their lights. The last thing we needed was to have our night vision ruined. Once they had done this, we approached and relayed our findings.
“At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a door.” I explained. “We found no traps on it.” (I didn’t need to add that I hadn’t checked beyond the door for traps. They really didn’t need to know that. Why worry them unnecessarily? Anyway, they’d find out soon enough.)
“Did you find out what’s beyond the door?” our intrepid leader, the paladin asked.
We gave a description of the room beyond, adding, “You won’t need your torches for this. There’ll be enough light to fight by, once you get inside.”
“Right,” announced the paladin, “Arm yourselves, lads. We’ll form up in a shield wall and enter the room together. That way, we can protect each other’s backs. Fighters to the fore. Let us send them back to whatever hell they came from.”
It was a very uplifting speech, and the three scouts tried not to snicker openly. Thankfully, with our faces heavily-sooted and covered, they could only see the amusement in our eyes, had they been looking.
We followed the rest of the party down the steps, keeping a safe distance away from any possible confrontation. We had, after all, done our bit. Now it was the time for strong arm of righteousness and the might of sharp steel. We were only humble scouts. We weren’t dressed for that sort of nonsense.
The paladin led the way, shield and sword at the ready. On either shoulder stood other stalwart warriors, and close on their heels was our god-fearing cleric, emboldened by the faith in his deity.
Behind the steel clad fighters was the a sorceress of little renown. She looked around nervously at the three shadowy scouts who were bringing up the rear, unsure if the real danger was beyond the door or lurking in the shadows on the staircase.
To be fair, she had a point. If the warriors looked to be failing, we would have no qualms about slipping a sharp knife through her back and fleeing with all the loot. We could worry about retribution from the militia later. As long as there were no witnesses left alive, we had nothing to worry about.
Battle cries were yelled, and the door was barged open with wild enthusiasm. The warriors charged into the room, waving their weapons about as they met the monsters within head on. The cleric was as blood-thirsty as the warriors and followed hot on their heels. The sorceress weighed her options for only a brief moment, before following the steel encrusted pack. Evidently, she had decided that her safety lay in remaining close to the warriors. Within seconds, a mad melee was underway
We, the three scouts, looked at each other and shook our heads. Warriors never learned. They thought with their weapons and not their heads. Had they stood in the doorway and let the monsters come to them, they could have taken them on two or three at a time, rather than facing the full brunt of the enemy at once.
We scouts waited for a few moments, letting the battle get well established before slipping into the room.
Naturally, we hugged the walls as any good scout should. Keeping within the darkest of shadows, we crept around the walls of the room, well away from the entrance. If asked, we could justify this manoeuvre by pointing out that we were checking for any additional threat.
While we lurked in the shadows, we took the time to hide whatever treasures we found lying around. There was no need to rush into battle. The rest of our party seemed to be handling themselves well enough, and besides, they were keeping all of our enemies distracted.
Finally, as the numbers of foes started to deplete, we resigned ourselves to engaging in combat. If we turned up after the fight with no blood on our blades, hot words would surely be exchanged. We needed to be seen to be committed to the fray.
Creeping up behind the combat, we dashed out of the darkness and stabbed a knife into an enemy back here, garrotted a foe there, prudently slipping back into the darkness to await the next opportunity to a quick strike.
In reality, we probably killed as many of the enemy as the rest of the party put together, as we were attacking the enemy’s undefended backs. They were unable to fend off our blows, and if they were foolish enough to turn around and give chase, they were quickly dispatched by the valiant warriors.
Finally, the last of the enemies lay dead, and torches were lit. It was time to give the room a thorough search. The quest was for a precious magical gem, and it must be hidden somewhere within this room. In reality, it was stuffed into my tunic, but the rest of the party didn’t know that.
The search proved fruitless save for a large golden plate of nominal value. Any gems and coins that might have been scattered around the room earlier, had all disappeared. Who knew where?
Without the gem, we had failed the quest and therefore, would not receive the offered bounty. Disheartened, we prepared to leave.
“Hang on a minute!” demanded the paladin. “There should have been more treasure than this. Empty your pockets.” He was addressing the scouts. The others clustered around us, waving blooded weapons menacingly.
“Really gentlemen! Where’s your trust?” I objected.
“Never mind trust. Just empty your pockets, or you’ll feel the length of my wrath,” demanded the leader of the party, waving his big sword in my general direction.
With a hurt look, the scouts began to unload their hidden bounty. Amongst the loot was the magical gem that the party had been sent to find.
The others gasped at the amount of gems and coins we revealed.
“Why you …!” cursed one of the warriors.
“I warned you that we couldn’t trust them,” reminded the sorceress.
“You don’t understand. We were just minding it, that’s all.” I protested weakly. “We weren’t planning to keep it for ourselves. What do you take us for?”
Their looks said more than words ever could, but they couldn’t prove that we had been planning to rip them off. They had acted too hastily. They should have waited until we were back at the tavern, and had everyone put their loot on the table before they accosted us.
Fools.
Later, once the treasures were equally divided and the party had gone their separate ways, the thieves met again in a secluded dark stairwell. Additional gems and coins soon gathered in a pile before us, as the rest of our pilfered treasure was revealed.
The idiots hadn’t even searched us to make sure we had revealed all of the stolen loot. They were too busy patting themselves on the back for catching us red-handed, but had taken it on faith that the treasure we revealed was everything that we had found.
And they say that crime doesn’t pay.
*****
This is a true story. Many years ago, myself and some of my friends would go away for a weekend of live role-playing at a castle in Chester. Three of us were scouts. Another played a paladin, and two warriors, one male the other female. As the party was small, we were joined by another group which included a cleric and a sorceress.
