From alt.pub.dragons-inn Mon Sep 19 10:09:47 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7690 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] Where's The Warehouse? Date: 15 Sep 1994 04:46:33 -0000 Organization: Duchy of Wabesylvan Obspauk Lines: 71 Sender: news@Orb.Nashua.NH.US Message-ID: X-Mailer: ELM [version 2.4 PL11] Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit The vegetable cart and assorted "shrubberies" meanders down the road towards the docks and the warehouse district. Dragon Way (the main road) is far too crowded at this late-morning hour to permit them to hurry, even if the old woman should want to, or the horse pulling the cart be able to. The lovely odor of Horse With A Cold (you do NOT want to be downwind) is blowing away from the cart, with the breeze off the ocean. Back behind the cart, the author of this lovely odor is being led, by a rope tied around his neck: one of the oldest, most spavined, bony, and generally decrepit draft horses you would ever want to see. But in a city like Generica, there is always someone wanting to buy anything, and a speculative breeder is half-trotting alongside the cart, trying to convince the elf who rides beside the driver, that he should sell the horse. "Well, now, you just be going back there and check the teeth on yon wee pony, and tell me if ye still be wantin' tae buy him then," the elf says, annoyed. The breeder slows down and let the horse catch up. For some reason, after he looks in its mouth, he stands stark still in the middle of the road, and about that time, an alley dog runs barking out of its, well, alley. The horse placidly reaches down and munches it up as if it were a nice mouthful of hay, and the breeder's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. He whirls and runs, screaming, the other direction. "Will, now, that gets us rid o' him," Miro laughs, then pauses as he notices something: Against a nearby wall is a sheen, as of a very thin, almost invisible film sticking to it. It is only by virtue of his elven eyes that Miro can even SEE it, and it colors itself to match the wall exactly a split second after it is visible. Nevertheless, the sight affects Miro greatly. "Not again," he mutters. "Please, not another one." Whatever he's asking seems unwilling to grant his plea. His eyes snap open and he starts shaking, trembling with some kind of palsy. "No!" he says, and smiles reassuringly at the old woman. "Tis just a bit of the delirium tremens, grandmither," he says, in a totally unconvincing voice. She grunts, and turns the cart down a side road. After a block and a half the cart pulls to a stop, in front of a somewhat decrepit but clearly functional warehouse. Miro (the elf) gestures to one of the workers. "Take these loverly plants in tae the storage room, and tell Moghrin that his shipment is here. Tell him Jones will be along presently." The man nods, and approaches the back of the cart. He stops, when he sees the horse looking at him speculatively. "Oh, and take me wee horsie in and give him a nice bucket o' water, if ye don't mind." The elf starts to grin, then shudders, eyes closing tightly. "Biggles, me dear," Miro mutters, "I hate tae meet and run, but if I stick around here you and I are goin' tae regret it. Please, keep this mob o' miscreants from shootin' up the town." Lettering appears along a branch of one of the shrubs, a _Digitalis _Vulgaris_, but the wind springs up, and the elf vanishes. Meanwhile, several warehouse workers have begun loading plants into a room inside, with many complaints about how heavy the shrubberies are.