A Secret Council

The Admiral, Turnips, and W-S beat a hasty retreat from the Hydra’s Lair and made tracks for the Admiral's ship, Planetary Sovereign. The trio wound their way through the city's narrow streets and soon came to the docks and safety.

W-S breathed a sign of relief. "I say, that was jolly good fun. Let's do it again. I know this bar over in the Nymph District where the ladies..."

"I'm not in the mood for another 'adventure' Woody," interrupted a still down-in-the-dumps Turnips. "I still don't see what our purpose was in going to that benighted tavern-slash-casino. The Admiral said it was all part of his 'plan.' " Lord Turnips added air-quotes for emphasis. "All I know was that we were there for an hour and didn't do anything other than get accosted by some low life NPCs."

"But that is where you are wrong, dear friend," replied the Admiral, as he led them into the Sovereign's salon. "You failed to see me concluding my business arrangement with the Hydra's proprietor, the esteemed Master Schlamazel the Butcher. Everything is still going according to plan, as you shall see tomorrow evening when you and Woody attend the great Council I am convening up at the Keepe."

"I smell an adventure!" Beamed an excited W-S. "Do tell us what's in store for us. Please, please, please, please, please!" "Now, now, Woody," replied the Freebooter. "For reasons of operational security it would be best if we wait till tomorrow. Come now, let us forget the travails that face us, and have some rum to celebrate our successful escape roll against those thugs. Schott! Flagons for my guests! ... Schott! Come here! Oh bother, it's so hard to find good oafs these days..."

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Turnips and Woodpecker-Smythe arrived at the Keepe the following evening. Even as Schott led their horses away to the Keepe's stable, they were still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council. "I say, we're still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council," said Woody. "Just cool your jets [Editor: huh?], Woody. We'll know in two shakes of a lambs tail," replied Lord Turnips.

Turnips was in a much better mood now after a good night's sleep and an afternoon teaching his son and heir Stuart some of the finer point of his profession. Young Turnips had impudently stated that all the cool kids at school wanted to be mages, but the elder Turnips explained to his son that 6 generations of Turnips have had the same profession and Stuart was going to make number 7. At least his son didin't come out and say he wanted to be a healer, Turnips thought with relief as he smiled to himself.

The two openned the door to the Keepe's meeting room. The room was dominated by a large circular wooden table, highly polished and inlaid with intricate carvings of strange creatures, half of which probably didn't even exist. The table was surrounded with 12 chairs, with no one chair more ornate or larger than the rest. This was a table meant for equals.

Almost all the chairs were full. The only empty seats were on either side of the Admiral. The other nine seats were occupied by a diverse group, ranging from a fierce northern Barbarian, an armor plated Paladin, a flambouyantly dressed eccentric who could only be a healer, and a ravishing pair of twin sisters who were seated in the 12th and 13th seats. Oh wait a minute, she must be an illusionist, there are only 12 seats here. The Admiral waved them over. "Turnips! Woody! Over here! I've saved some kick ass seats for you!" The duo sat down.

The Admiral began. "Now that everyone is here, let us begin." He solemnly looked around the room. "Thank you all for coming here tonight. I look around the room here and see representatives from many peoples and many cultures. Though we come from different backgrounds, and have different reasons for why we came, after tonight we all share a common purpose. And that is an unwavering desire to rescue Lady Marzipan from the clutches of the Dread Sorceror, the Dark Lord, Lord Toranaga. Let us vow that, from this day, till we acheive sucess or draw our last breath, that we shall not rest until she is returned safely from the Dark Lord's island fortress. Our goal here tonight is to come up with a plan to save her, and then to outfit our group, our fellowship, if you will, to go forth and sail into immortality!"

At this point, where there should have been raucus cheering and shouts of "Here, here!" and "We're with you Admiral!" and "Excelsior!" from 11 excited voices, there was only one voice, one Woodpecker-Smythe crying "Here, here! We're with you Admiral! Excelsior!" And Lord Turnips was curiously looking at the other faces, wondering why they weren't jabbering like W-S was. An awkward silence filled the room.

The Admiral broke the silence, "But what kind of a host would I be if I didn't serve dinner to my hungry guests before we get down to business. Schott! Bring in the mutton!"

As the guests started to eat, Woody, oblivious to the awkwardness, turned to the Admiral. "I've got an excellent felling about this, Admiral. I look about me and see the finest our land has to offer. Free men and women, here by choice, virtuous and honorable, ready to lay their lives on the line for truth and justice. By the Maker, it makes me proud to be alive!" Turnips, a touch more savvy than the eager Woodpecker-Smythe, raised a finger to interrupt W-S, who was now describing how the upcoming rescue would be enshrined in the annals of history and be immortalized by epic song, story, and verse from now until the time the Maker undid the world.

"Ahem, if I may, Woody," said Lord Turnips. W-S, now red in the face from his verbal exhortations, fell silent. Turnips continued, "Admiral, I couldn't help but noitce the, how shall I say, lack of enthusiasm among our guests with our upcoming quest. Would I be correct in surmising that these people are not here of their own free will?" "Wha-wha-what!" exclaimed Woodpecker-Smythe. "Turnips, are you saying that the Admiral kidnapped these people? That's monstrous!"

"Easy now, Woody," explained Rossaroni, "It's a little more complicated. All of these men and women do share one thing in common, appart from their skill in swordcraft and magery. And that is, their lack of skill at gambling. Each and everyone of them has run up extrodinarily large gaming debts at the Hydra’s Lair. Dangerously large. You see Fedor over there? 5000 pieces of gold he owes from the dice table. Lyme-Weoghe? She lost the deed to her father's blacksmithy. And Bocking, the foreigner, has fallen so far in debt in trying to earn his Guild membership money, that the very same guild has put out a contract on him."

Turnips was looking bemused with a slight grin on his face. The only term to describe Woodpecker-Smythe is agog.

The Admiral continued, "These people were all offered a choice by my business parter, Mr. Schlamazel. Debtor's prison (or worse), or a noble and virtuous adventure, as Woody would say. So they really are here of their own free will, if you look at it a certain way."

"You sly dog," chuckled Turnips.

"I'm not sure I like the smell of this, Admiral," said W-S. "It just doesn't seem... um, right, I guess. What about asking for volunteers? I'm sure the tavern is filled with young adventurers yearing to prove their mettle." "When was the last time you were at the tavern, Woody?" the Admiral retorted. "It's only filled with old men and thugs like the Schotts. I had a notice posted on the Help Wanted board for two months with no answer. And all I wanted was someone to go pick up my drycleaning! I knew I could count on you two, old friends, but we'll need a little more muscle for this job."

"Well, all right" replied W-S. "I guess I don't really have much choice in the matter. And, as I am your busom friend, in thick and thin, through orc raid and orc raid reprisal, I will stand by you now."

Turnips and W-S turned to their delicious mutton, one of the Admiral's specialities, from a recipe he acquired while adventuring near Buccaneer Islands many seasons ago. After finishing his delicious mutton, Lord Turnips raised one final question of the Freebooter. "Admiral, one question has been nagging me, old friend. These people are here to pay off a debt to Schlamazel the Butcher, right? But what does Schlamazel the Butcher get out of this? I mean, he gets along and respects Lady Marzipan just like the rest of us do, but I don't see how he will profit from this."

The Admiral uncharacteristically hemmed and hawed. "Hem... haw."

"Well, we just have to do Schlamazel the Butcher a little favor on the way to rescue Marzipan, that's all."

"And just what kind of favor would that be?" asked Turnips.

"Nothing really. Nothing."

"Admiral..." chided Lord Turnips.

"Hem. Haw. Well, we just have to stop at a certain harbor along the way, and, er... sack it."