Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: andsol@arcadien.owlnet.rice.edu (Andrew J. Solberg) Subject: [KQ] Kron:[Scr.Ram]: After You, Alphonse Message-ID: <1992Jul7.050352.5635@rice.edu> Date: Tue, 7 Jul 1992 05:03:52 GMT Involved: Full roster of Kron Questors [TRANSLATED FROM LIZARDSPEAK, COURTLY DIALECT] "....so we decided that Tallyton was a dead loss, after the big defeat..." "SSSSSS!! Victory, you meansssss....." ".....heh! Well, the battle anyways...." "...acssssseptable...." "....so Gorgon platoon went over to Red Bluffs." "Shhktt! We lossst a chimera ally ssssomewhere in thosssse partsss...." "That was us! No, really!" "....ah, no huge lossss......thingsss with too many headssss tend to be -- sss -- unreliable partnerssss...." Human and lizardman laugh as one as they head down the streets. Twenty years ago they would have shot on sight; now Kron is perfectly at ease with marching down an alley with the High King of All Tribes, and wouldn't think of harming his new friend. Thk, too, is at ease, but it is a collosal exercise in willpower, and as for thoughts of harming Kron -- well, let's not talk about that, shall we? The two chat amiably about the long-dead was between their species. The different perspectives on the same conflict lead to some interesting observations. However, both talk because they know they are headed into dangerous territory at the tavern called the Scrappy Ram. Finally, Kron and friends arrive before the inn. The Scrappy Ram lies on the inland margin of the Low City. It is close enough to the less- dangerous parts of the city that most travellers may walk freely here with only a mild risk of extortion or mugging. As it is, on their journey here the group saw few people -- at this time of night, most sensible folk have locked up their doors. Those few whom they spotted did not stick around to be identified. Kron is certain that half the Low City knows of his band's presence here, but he believes that nobody recognized him. If this is true, he and his friends have little to fear from the denizens of the Low City unless they venture deeper into the maze. It is said that buildings reflect the true personality of their owners. An excellent case to back this supposition lies in the Scrappy Ram. A squat, simple building, the Ram seems quiet, but it radiates an aura of inner activity and danger. This, thinks Kron, is a parallel of Verdigren, who keeps on smiling right up to moment he goes berserk and tears your throat out. Sensitive people don't patronize The Scrappy Ram. They don't like the ambience. Kron's not too fond of the atmosphere either, but it beats stalling. He flashes a hopeful look at Maleiu. "After you, Alphonse?" Maleiu frowns: "Who is this 'Alphonse' of whom you speak?" "Never mind," says Kron, and enters the inn. The interior of the Inn's common room is dimly lit. It extends perhaps forty feet in, and thirty feet across. Running along the back wall is a polished oak bar, tended by what looks to be one of the savages from the warm islands to the southwest. Trestle tables fill the floorspace; there seem to be over a dozen patrons drinking silently in this area. A door in the far left wall is blocked by a huge, bald, shirtless man -- obviously a bouncer. Another door behind the bar and stairs up to the right complete the scene. There are a few trophies on the walls -- swords, a shield, etc. -- but no real decorations. Verdigren is not the type to go in for interior decorating. The patrons stop drinking as the crew enters the inn; they stare sullenly at our heroes who are framed in the doorway. Well, thinks Kron, there goes the subtle entrance. There oughta be a rinky-dink piano player in the corner, and he oughta stop playing too. Over by the bar, an odd-looking fellow stands up and gapes. He looks like nothing quite so much as a red-bearded viking who has been squashed down to less than five feet. He's been mistaken for a dwarf exactly five times, according to his arrest history. It's Verdigren, and he's grinning. "Gods, Saints, Demons and Tax Collectors! It's our old friend Kron! Kron, lately of the Watch, more recently of the Generican dungeons, I hear! Heh Heh!" He pokes his companion, a sallow-looking fellow dressed in buckskin. "Iannon! You remember Kron, don'tcha? We all remember Kron." Iannon smiles unpleasantly, takes a pull at his beer. Verdigren stands staring at Kron with a nasty look in his eyes. Kron says nothing. It pays off. Verdigren starts. "But I'm being rude! These *fine*, *well-appointed* guests, just standing there steaming on my very own rug, and me not showing them to a table to rest! Take a load off, friends!" Verdigren bustles over to the party, takes Kron firmly by the arm, guides him to a table in the center of the room. "Queriche! You lazybones! Pour off a brew for each of our guests! Oh dear -- Kron, old buddy, you don't like beer, do you. Queriche! Fill Kron a tankard, there's a chap!" He seats himself across from Kron. The other patrons go back to quiet drinking and conversation, but they keep an eye on the table of newcomers. Any time Verdigren is this friendly, something interesting is bound to happen. "So," Verdigren begins conversationally, "how is it that Mr. T. E. Kron, professional busybody and eldest survivor of my Shit List, shows up here on my doorstep? And why is he parading this motley collection of eelspit beings" "around, leaving a trail of slime in my nice clean inn, if he is only here for a friendly visit? Hmm?" Verdigren leans back in his chair, grinning, and awaits a response. Meanwhile, Queriche, shaking his head, picks up Verdigren's broadsword and puts it on the top of the bar. He'll be VERY surprised if it doesn't get used.... ADMIN: So, let's see you guys NOT insult Verdigren! I dare ya! :^) -- Andrew Solberg |"Moving faster than a speeding bullet isn't andsol@owlnet.rice.edu | much use if you and it are headed straight Phone:713-529-8627 | for each other." John Brunner bridge-sleep-eat-sex-bridge-sleep-eat-sex-bridge-sleep-I'M STUCK!!!!