From: dhenry@plains.NoDak.edu (David Henry)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Yep. Another batch of new people.
Message-ID: <20318@plains.NoDak.edu>
Date: 14 Sep 92 18:22:12 GMT


	It was always the first impressions that got the most attention.
	The man was waving his hands in the air; fine leather gloves having
been slipped off some time ago, and stowed under the belt; he was dancing, it
seemed, avoiding the counter-step of the spilled beer and ale guts; and he
was singing.
	"It is a good thing that I removed my hat, eh, so it would not have
been subject to this serenade?" Phillipe stuck a finger in his ear, and
specualtively dug.
	"Put that away," said his companion. Phillipe sighed and dropped his
hand back into his pocket, the hand wearing the ring.
	"This crowd needs a hemmorage," muttered his friend, twisting his
hands under the table. Phillipe merely nodded, looking over the crowd.
	In the middle, the impromptu dance floor was still held hostage to
the singing man, now twisting his hands into a strange moose design above
his head, and prancing loudly around the happy drunks surrounding him.
	Phillipe drummed his fingers on the table. "Ah, you know, *ami*,
that for all the talk there is of the grand decadence which has gripped my
homeland, at least there we have the decency to have our fops fall into
their cups alone."
	He wasn't listening, Phillipe noticed, at least not to any voice
coming from this room. He was looking around again, his eyes reading the
lines between the spaces. "The best thing..." he began, and then stopped.
	"The best thing," he decided, while Phillipe carefully inspected his
ale mug for strange sediment on the bottom, "is that these outlanders tend
to attract all the attention to them."
	"Who, us?"
	"No, no, no. Him. The Moose Dancer."
	"Eh?"
	"The Moose..." Phillipe knew that expression. He quickly sat up and
backed away. A live cobra dropped out of a emerald decanter wouldn't have
produced as quick a response. This was not empty metaphor: it had really
happened, and Phillipe had a good grasp on relative times it took him to
respond to impending crises. Phillipe lived a very interesting life, the
main goal of which was keeping the verb tense "had" out of the opening
statement.
	"Don't you see it?"
	"Moi? No. Sorry. The smoke, in here, it's very dark."
	"No. All the hirers, the employers -- they're all drek. The people
who would fall for the Moose Dancer, think he's some great adventurer,
they're not the ones for us."
	"I've always held that the ones for us are usually far away, *ami*."
	"Really? Where?"
	"Some place where it's actually safe has always been my fondest
dream."
	"Hhh." Another pause, another cough. "Look. If you want employment,
this is where you come, right? From all over this silly world. This is the
place.
	"And what do we get? Just tonight, we've seen some poor excuse for a
gnome and his trained hamster-theives, the vicious Walrus Berserkers from
the Palogo Islands, some specialist in divination using using fish lungs,
and a woman who'd've convinced the Prince Laurey himself that his jester was
witty in comparison. Then there's that guy with the burning robe sitting at
the bar -- there's subtlety in action. Then there was that guy who just
appeared in that flash of light -- sure, it's fancy, but do you call that
*credentials*? All of these people, looking for employment, looking for
adventure. Thinking they're heroes. Thinking they're Mercy Phelps, for
godssakes, or whassname--"
	"Pengo, the Wonder Ape."
	"Yeah. Silt-dumb ged-domned simian *heroes* are getting the gold,
Fil, while good-looking guys like me and you end up here, watching...
watching..."
	Phillipe fumbled in the dark with his makeshift marquee. A funny man
with a dead carp had been selling the playbill outside the Inn, claiming
that it was a detailed list of all the prospective adventurers that would be
found looking for employment that night. Phillipe wasn't sure that he could
trust anyone carrying a dead fish to begin with, and the accuracy of the
playbill so far had added nothing to his respect of them.
	"Terrence, the Moose Shaman," read Phillipe, "Feare... um, Feared
Aspirator of the Darkness. No, Expurgator." Phillipe squinted, trying to hold
up the playbill to better light.
	"Yah, Terrence, the Moose Shaman. Man can't even sing right. But for
all of these prospective heroes--"
	Phillipe was still reading from the playbill. "Do Yew feare the
VASTY Spirites of THE AIR? HAH! Relife is Juste a Chantment away, whn. you
use TERRENCE, the MOOSE SHAMAN. Call before Cock's Crow for best rates.
Equal opportunity exorcist, all major karma accep'td."
	"-- for all those prospective heroes, Phillipe, what do you notice?
Do you notice them getting *hired*, man? Do you notice any great, legendary
member of the Thirteen walking up and saying 'Excuse us, but you'd be just
right for our replacement-- Mercy Phelps is feeling a little tuckered
today.'? See any of the local guards take any away to meet in shadowed
corners and discuss legendary amulets?"
	"My night vision has never been that good, *ami*."
	"Phillipe! Do you understand what I'm saying?"
	Phillipe sighed, and looked around. "That these peole are pursuing
harmless dreams? Eh. Perhaps. It is certianly not a dangerous way to expend
your energy, always being turned down for adventures."
	"Exactly!"
	"But, *ami*, look! All these people, even the Walrus Tribesmen, they
were taken by those employers, over there..."
	"Yeah. Look at them, Fil. Look at them!... All of them second-rate.
Listen, the best thing about these second-rate people is..."
	Phillipe had a bad feeling that he was supposed to be filling in a
blank, instead of extending it.
	His friend finished his thought. "First-rate folks will all ignore
them! Don't you see!? All the people that would have the real money, the
cush jobs, they're not going to pay attention to this circus act at the
Dragon's Inn. They'll be the ones in the darkness, the ones not paying
attention."
	Phillipe looked around. "It would appear that most of the true
heroes then are busy retching in the corners."
	"No, no, no. I've been looking for them. Really. See, like... um,
well, look at that elf, over there."
	"What, the seedy-looking courtier?"
	"Which one? Oh, no, not him. HER, the tired-looking one, with the
guy she keeps propping up on his barstool. She knows her business, by
Laurey. And I'd say a few others, too, know what's going on.
	"Now, all those other losers, all these gawkers for the public
consumption, they're not going to bother the real movers and shakers. They
don't have the brains. They don't have the insight!
	"But not us, Phillipe! Not us! We're special. Do you know why we're
special?"
	"Our keen fashion sense?" hazarded Phillipe.
	"Because we know we're worthless. And, we're willing to admit it."
	Phillipe was stunned speechless by his friend's logic. It was a
habit he had foolishly fallen out of practice with.
	"So we're going to get hired because we have no marketable skills?"
	"EXACTLY! We, of course, won't put it that way, because it's bad for
business. People will think we're incompetent, and we can't have that,
because *we're not*. We're just... hmm, not a threat to the power structure.
I mean, which hero really wants a bunch of other folks grabbing up all his
glory and stories? Not many, pal. Listen:  answer me this, what has every
major quest had? Always? What's one thing they've had in common?"
	"Too much pain for not enough gain."
	"Ennh. Well, okay, something else they've had, too. CAMP FOLLOWERS,
Phillipe. Cooks, cleaners, people who sit back and watch the horses while
the brawny types handle the deep, dank dungeons."
	"I am not a cook!"
	"No, no, no. Wasn't even thinking about it -- Phillipe, man,
Phillipe, it's just common human nature, man! When Prince Laurey came
stumbling out of the Wizard's Gap, carrying the Crown of Defiance under one
blackened armstump, who met him?"
	"His personal attache, Drier."
	"Right. And who salved his pains, handed out the wine to the
victorious troops, and shared the glory?"
	"Drier."
	"Bingo. Drier was able to boast, in his later years, 'Yep. I saw the
Gap of True Enchantment. Was right there when Prince Laurey faced down the
Lords of Dismissal, and Baron Tlyn was engaged in the famous magical duel
with Sandol. Saw it all.' Do you know why I worship that man, Fil?"
	Phillipe sighed. "No."
	"Because, he got all the glory for being there, but he didn't
actually have to *fight* the Lords of Dismissal, he wasn't catching those
plasm blasts in the chest like Tlyn. All he had to do was *watch*, and then
cash in on his experiences in a lucrative deal of bard epics in his old age.
Now that, Phillipe, that is the mark of a smart adventurer."
	"But he didn't get to keep the Crown of Defiance."
	"True. But then he didn't have the Sideways Shadow-Beast chasing
after him for the next ten years to try to get it back either, now, did he?
And, one other thing:  of all of Prince Laurey's enterouge, who was the only
one who was guaranteed an income from the Gap Quest?"
	"Drier."
	"By contract. Servant man and personal groom. Income guaranteed,
whether the Vanishing Lords kept their silly crown or not. No combat
necessary, except in times of personal need. I actually looked up his
contract the last time I was at the Prince's castle -- clever man, that
Drier."
	Phillipe nodded. "So, what does this all have to do with us?"
	His friend leaned closer. "Okay. Now, I was overhearing that lady
elf and her randomly conscious friend over there. Seems Head-Wound is
looking for some Princess or something, and babbling on about a quest to
save her, or something equally tedious. I don't know, I don't care. What I
do know, is that I'm going to show him *this*."
	He pulled out the Seal.
	Phillipe winced. The Seal of Authority, that mighty magic item more
powerful than a sword, more destructive than an eldritch blast, more
commanding than a charm. Its only power was the uncanny ability to
transform into exactly the right kind of pass, amulet, paper, or signet
needed to gain admission, permission, or submission from any form of
bureaucratic setup. It had been in his friend's possession since Phillipe
had met him, and even apparently lost once or twice, but his friend always
got it back eventually. Somehow. Phillipe had no nice memories about the
Seal. It had ushered him into far too many places where he hadn't even
wanted to think about.
	"Listen, Fil. We're going to go up there, flash the ol' Seal, and
say 'Look, good knight! Why, we're representatives from Her Majesty's
gummint, and boy, aren't we happy to find you!' Nicer language, of course,
but you get the idea. Then, we simply tell him that we know how to help Her
Majesty, and get him and his lady elf and other assorted baggage to, like,
oh say, free the Spire of Despair from its mooring? Eh, what do you think of
that, heh?"
	"That's inhuman! The Spire of Despair -- we would never survive that
adventure!"
	"But we wouldn't be going on it -- they would. Or if we did, only as
official observers. No adventuring required. Then, we grab the Spire, keep it
off market for a couple years to boost up resale, and retire with a nice
castle or two under our belt."
	"But what if this man, he has his own idea how his quest should go?
You know, those silly prophecy things, 'First seek the cow that bays at the
moon.'?"
	"Then we scrap the Spire idea, and follow him along anyway.
Appropriating only those things necessary that the heroes we've attached
ourselves onto find that we find necessary to return to the Princess,
of course. We'll be companions to heroes, Fil. All the glory, none of the
gory."
	Phillipe shut his eyes. "I'm truly impressed."
	"Really? Thanks!"
	"This is the dumbest idea you've had in years."
	His friend looked hurt.
	"Listen, *ami*, at least your previous plans had at least the
semblance of morality behind them. Now, you intend to twist this poor
invalid's sense of duty to his lost Princess, lie and cheat to get them into
all forms of danger for our profit, and generally make a nuisance of
yourself."
	"Don't you go taking the high moral road with me, pal. I'm not the
one who deserted from the Duc's cavalry!"
	"I did not desert. I am only AWOL."
	"What's the difference!?"
	"When you are AWOL, you intend to return."
	"Pffffgh!" His friend got up. "Come on, let's at least meet the
couple. Worst comes, we can at least request a private meeting away from all
Moose Shamen."
	He walked carefully through the crowd, his small body vanishing less
than five feet from the table in the press and shove. Phillipe heard him
call from further on in the pub: "Don't forget your hat!"
	"I have never forgotten my hat," Phillipe muttered behind his teeth,
taking his fine, broad chevalier's hat from its saftey perch behind a
crossbeam support. He fluffed out the feathers, as if in prayer. Then he
glanced at the ring on his finger.
	"PHILLIPE!" came the distant call. The mercenary got up, adjusted
his baldric, and headed across the floor.
	He tried thinking about a smile.

	ADMIN:  Two new characters, with a slightly different motivation
than most of the out-of-work heroes I've seen hanging around the Inn.
-- 
David R. Henry - Rogue Fan Club - CTHULHU in '92! Why vote for LESSER evils?
For Kate is a jealous God, and requires sacrifice./What was your question?--K
"All you of Earth are IDIOTS!"-P9fOS // Thanks... for the memories.--Rogue
dhenry@plains.nodak.edu * ud137927@ndsuvm1.bitnet * ud137927@vm1.nodak.edu