Gnomic Utterances

Turnips’s head ached with the pains of the previous night’s feast. His stomach roiled and the luminosity of a volcano sun tortured his eyes. He quickly threw his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the light.

Strange dreams had plagued his sleep. He had imagined himself to be Hannon, cleric of Heimdall, fighting trolls during the great rear-guard battle at Ragnarök. Why, he had even engaged the great lord in conversation on Bilfrost Bridge!

He thought to himself, “Surely, this must have been the result of some piece of ill-digested mutton.”

No matter how Turnips sought to ease his mind with this rational explanation, he remained uneasy and unsure of himself. The floor swayed beneath him.

Clenching his fist and raising it to the skies, Turnips cried aloud, “Trouble me no further Idun - The woof of darkness you have woven is thick and has hid all delight from me!”

Luckily, Woody, the Admiral and the Planetary Sovereign’s crusty Chief Petty Officer arrived to comfort Turnips in moment of madness.

The Admiral spoke first “Come, come old bean, you’re amongst friends - ”

“Yes, we heard you talking excitedly and I thought you might be composing a new drama so we rushed to your cabin,” Woody added, “and I didn't want to miss out a chance to hone my own dramatic skills. Remember, I played the third Triton in 'The Lokarian Chamber Pot Merchant'."

The Chief, not wishing to miss out on an opportunity to appear in the blog, joined in, “No kidding, we was all a bit confused by all that Shakespeare talke you were spouting, why we was ready to –.”

The chief, however, was rudely interrupted by a fourth party who appeared leaning casually on the cabin door, applauding softly, almost sarcastically into his supple leather gloved hand.

“Bravo, bravo, my good man, bravo” said the shadowy figure, “But, I’m afraid we have no time for this sort of nonsense, we have ports to sack and Marzipans to rescue. When the time comes for poetic recitations, I shall be the one to deliver them.”

As Sir Bocking stepped out of the shadows, Turnips noticed the large badge he wore – a badge bearing the legend “My Green Dragon ate your Honor Student.”

Ever wise, the wiley Chief thought crustily, "Whew, I reckon we can't get to Lord Toranaga's quickly enough."

Regarding the Troll Fens

The cleric Hannon, honest and lawful servant of the Norse god Heimdall, was not to find happiness when all the trolls in the eponymous Troll Fens were slain.

Lo, he was unhappy though he was able to gain ample vials of the Arch Mage Toth's famous Universal Solvent - which according to Toth's brochure was necessary to dispatch a troll's cruelly-regenerating form, and lo, though he was able to smite the entire population of trolls in a mere 24 moons of constant violent campaigning and lo, though he was able to finally plant firmly in the ground near the spot where Trolls had carried off his boyhood dog, his family's battle standard with the crest so familiar to the people (and in particular the troll population) of this particular plane of existence: "Dude, have you seen my dog?"

Hannon and his party of robust adventurers had searched multiple planes of existence for the necessary means to defeat the trolls of the Troll fens. They had slain mighty balrogs, giants and even a few ice dragons. They had defeated entire armies of time-travelling undead, including many score thousand ghouls and ghasts as well as several very powerful arch-liches. To win they had to use some of the mana they found whence they ventured to a plane of existence known as the Reagan Administration. Thoughts of this made Hannon grimace because he knew that he would have to explain himself to his Lord Heimdall on the Bilfrost Bridge during the final, rear-guard battle of Ragnarök for his use of the fire weapons that greatly assisted his fight against the trolls. Naturally, no self-respecting cleric of Heimdall should use anything but a trusty sword. Hannon would have to explain his cowardly use of these devices even though their impact was not unlike the powers Heimdall himself had granted Hannon through the awesome powers of his Blade Barrier and Flame Strike spells. Surely he could plead his justifiable and honorable blood lust resulting in many glorious victories and a land shorn of all trolls to his master.*

But all that glory in the defeat of the trolls and his myriad accomplishments, trophies, and battle streamers had left Hannon wanting for something. He recalled his reading of the sages from the amok time of the undead wars:

"Without stimulus or focus, the individual is confronted with nothingness, the meaninglessness of existence, and experiences existential anxiety. Heidegger states this idea nicely: "Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals
being as a whole." Arthur Schopenhauer used the existence of boredom in an attempt to prove the vanity of human existence, stating, "...for if life, in the desire for which our essence and existence consists, possessed in itself a positive value and real content, there would be no such thing as boredom: mere existence would fulfil and satisfy us."

What did it all mean? What was left? He must undertake a journey to find out. He must discover that which was within....

*despite the clear stipulation in the 1979 edition of the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons rules that clerics could not use edged weapons.

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."

The Ecstasy of Gold

The Admiral consoled Turnips who sat forlorn atop a stool at the bar in the decidedly downscale Hydra’s Lair Tavern & Betting Clubbe.

“There, there Turnips, we’ll see to it that Livoniumtonchester is fixed up … right as rain!” the Admiral exclaimed, beaming with confidence.

He continued, “Why with me and Sabrina and old Woody here we’ll pop over, rescue Lady M, complete the Lost Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and use it to restore balance, beauty, justice and goodness to our faire lande!

As he spoke, the Admiral’s teeth glinted and his aura glowed warm gold as his noble gaze turned skyward to rest on an imaginary star.

Turnips was not to be so easily swayed however, “Don’t you patronize me Rossaronius, we’ll never find the Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and poor Livoniumtonchester shall remain in the evil clutches of whoever…..”

His energy flagged at that moment due to effects of the half-pint of ale he’d been nursing for an hour.

Turnips roared back however to continue his diatribe “… and whatever, but I don’t see how a washed up illusionist / cleric and a freebooter with a super-powerful magic sword could hope to achieve anything other than to be clapped in irons and escorted off to the nearest looney bin.”

The Admiral, being a man of the sea, had to face many situations like this before and took the appropriate action. He slapped Turnips, then grasped his collar and held his face close.

“Now listen up and come to your senses; we are attracting all the wrong sorts of attention here and that’s the last thing we need.”

No sooner had he finished this utterance than up sauntered Livoniumtonchester’s favorite gang of bullies led by their chief, The Schott (coincidentally, he was the second cousin, once removed of the Admiral’s oaf, also named ‘Schott.’ Funny that.)

The Schott was first to speak.

“Well la-dee-dah, ‘oo ‘ave we gots ‘ere?” he menaced, his foul breath overwhelming the more delicate olfactory receptors of our would-be heroes.

"Harhar harhar harharhar harhar" went the gang

The gang’s evil, insensitive laughter went on for a full seven minutes until The Schott raised his hands in the universal sign of ‘stop larfing you oafs, I gots somefin to say.’

“Now stop larfing, you oafs, I gots somefin to say” The Schott continued, “I have a fine idear – let’s take their lunch money what their mommies done gived them!”

Then to add insult to injury, he farted.

At was at that moment that the Tavern owner, Schlamazel the Butcher, entered, carrying a large serving bowl made of a very heavy earthenware with a pale blue flower motif.

“Ahhh, who ordered the paella for six?? Hey, I said who ordered the paella for six!!” he called out.

Schlamazel the Butcher stopped and his nose wrinkled and his eyes began to tear. Temporarily blinded, he tripped over the Admiral’s magical cutlass, Sabrina, and the paella bowl flew from his hands. The bowl flew in a perfect arc and landed heavily atop The Schott’s surprised noggin, sending him crumpled to the sawdust floor.

The contents of the bowl spilled showering the floor with bits of saffron rice, shrimp and other stuff that was very slippery. Although the gang tried to advance upon our heroes, they were unsuccessful as their feet could find not purchase. In fact, their legs spun madly about ala Shaggy and Scooby Doo.

Unhesitatingly, the Admiral seized the initiative and called out “Let’s get the H-E-Double Hockeysticks out of here Woody! – there’s another exit through the kitchen .. last one to the Planetary Sovereign is a rotten egg.”

“Hey but what about my Morey Amsterdam sandwich I just ordered?” Woody whined as the Admiral dragged him out.

Turnips however, had the last word. “Oh shut up, that sandwich hasn’t been invented yet”

Final ahem

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72cHfOKoA1c&eurl

Ok, Lord Turnips is off the proverbial box of cleaning products.

ahem part II

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL08/811160434/?imw=Y

ahem

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL07/811160459/?imw=Y