From alt.pub.dragons-inn Thu Aug 25 15:16:09 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7582 Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!src.dec.com!crl.dec.com!jac.zko.dec.com!leggy.zk3.dec.com!orb!not-for-mail From: hutch@ibeam.jf.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [CIA - Miro] Nursing the Hungover Date: 24 Aug 1994 18:26:39 -0000 Organization: Duchy of Wabesylvan Obspauk Lines: 72 Sender: news@Orb.Nashua.NH.US Message-ID: References: In-Reply-To: from "David Womack" at Aug 24, 94 12:49:30 pm X-Mailer: ELM [version 2.4 PL11] Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit > Jones awakens from a really *_bad_* nightmare... > he has the nasty feeling that had he actually > machine gunned the (very deserving) protesters, > some particularly unpleasant things will happen. > > As the group *_actually_* gets together...Jones > (who adds a bit of scotch to his morning coffee, > this time) asks Rathan if he knows the city... > and would be able to get the group (discretely) > to a warehouse close to a little used gate... "Smuggling people, and now whoy wou'd ye be wantin' ta do sich a thing," says a grey-clad elf, sitting down at the table next to Jones, without so much as a by-your-leave. He pulls the hood of his cloak back from his face, and a shock of blazing red hair is revealed, framing a face tanned a gold that normally only shows up in advertisements. Or on Elves. Grey eyes narrow as he smells Jones' coffee. "What a thing ta do to a poir harmless scotch. Tis much better ye be putting a bit o' the poteen in the mornin' coffee here." So saying, he takes a large mug of the brew from the waitress as she passes, giving her a courtly kiss on the hand, and pours a generous dollop of something that smells like rocket fuel into the mug. He sips it delicately, his eyes cross for a moment, and he shakes his head. The elf nods to Rathan. "Yuir board is ready, me lad. Stop by any toime, Himself will be there tae hand it off." The Barbarian looks askance at him. "You've been around town more than I have in the last few months. Any ideas for how to get these good people to the city gates?" "Oh, aye, but why don't they just walk down the street like guid honest folk? Mind ye, the spacesuit makes Mr. Jones stand out like a sore thumb. That is a spacesuit, isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, he continues. "Not that it matters a whit, darlin'. Tis nowhere near stranger nae what the fellow in the red hardsuit looked, and him jumpin' aboot like a grasshopper." The elf makes wild hopping motions with one hand, landing at the end in his cup of doctored coffee. He looks down, then sticks the fingers in his mouth, and blinks. "Now who doctored me coffee?" Rathan nudges him with an elbow. Jones just sits, wondering if he should laugh or send for the bouncer. "Aye, Rathan. I do ken a way out, several in fact. And the dozen sassenach out in the street wi' their silly signboards are startin' tae attract a crowd. The guard will surely be comin' by tae haul them off for blockin' traffic and creatin' a nuisance, sic there's four merchants wi' big carts full a' produce wha' wants to pass, and they cannae get around." The elf looks at the four outlanders dubiously. "Tis the sewers will be easiest. There's a secret way in the basement, I'll take ye tae Refic the Cloth-yar, by the East Gate, but the four a' ye will have tae do yuir own fightin'. The tunnel crocs mostly stay away from the ratfolk, but the black sponnger lizards be still thick down there." "Sponnger lizards?" Rathan scratches his head. "Aye, ye ken, the little fellers wi' the tails an' teeth?" "Oh. Tunnelknockers. Yeah." Rathan pats his sword. "No problem." "So, Mister Jones, will ye be wantin' me services? There's the wee matter of a price." The elf smiles greedily.