Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
Hi all, here's another piece set in the world of the Dark Lord but standalone.
Meet Short, a dwarf private investigator.
As normal, good, bad, indignant comments always welcome. Cheers.
[1105 words]
--------------
Life and the universe love a good stereotype, often cunningly hid beneath layers that suggest uniqueness. Peel back those onion skins though and all you get is the same design, cooked up before – probably the Tuesday before last.
One such stereotype is the private eye.
You can bet whichever dimension you hop into you’ll find one. Take a look into the petri dish empire of the Nethal Amoebas or crane your neck at the Long Step Giants of the Gethilly Mountains. They’ll be there, dressed in battered brownish coat, smoking some grizzly dog end and swilling a glass of throat searing rot gut.
This world, sketched out on a piece of celestial blanket, would have liked to buck the trend, but life and the universe always get their way with existence.
It is, after all, their football.
~
Allswelcome, that floating magnificence of the Great Rift, a lashed together collection of flotsam and jetsam that classes itself as the most cosmopolitan city in the world. Indeed at one point some patriotic Guild Chairman suggested that because it was so good they should name it twice. This suggestion, whilst applauded, was soon dismissed once they worked out how much it would cost to replace all the official stationery.
Within the cosmopolitan district of the Dregs – it has a diverse mix of down and outs – stood The Barrel, an establishment that prided itself quality beer and fare… when they could steal it.
Drummond, the pigeon eyed owner and not the brightest of stars in the firmament, slapped down a cloth marked by the ale stains of his predecessors. “What?”
“I’ll take that free pint please,” said the dwarf.
“I ain’t giving you a free pint,” said Drummond indignantly.
“That’s not what your sign says outside.”
“Sign?” He rubbed his chin for inspiration, it was quite smooth from over use. “Idiot, you need to buy a Laxian to get a free pint.”
“It doesn’t say that. Hold onto this for me.” The dwarf tossed over a leather leash that ran to the bound hands of a sullen looking violet skinned man.
“Hold on a second,” said Drummond eyeing up the man. “Oi,” he called to the disappearing figure of the dwarf, “he ain’t dangerous is he?”
“Nah, just a bloody nightmare to catch,” responded the dwarf as he disappeared out of the tavern door.
Even over the nightly din of the bar, Drummond heard some grunting from outside and a squealing of nails being pulled from wood. The Barrel’s door slammed back open and a sign, freshly ripped from the wall outside, made an appearance. “Oi, you can’t do that.”
With a dramatic grunt the dwarf dumped the sign down in front of him. “Too late mate, now give it a good read.”
“I know what my own sign says.”
“I said... read it.” The dwarf’s voice was full of gravelly authority.
He glanced down, sourly saying. “Free pint with every Laxian.”
“There you go, here’s my Laxian,” the dwarf pulled the leash out of Drummond’s grimy mitt. “Now where’s my pint?”
“But that’s not what it means. You have to buy a bowl of Laxian jhunari,” appealed Drummond, realising that the firm footing of his arguement was rapidly turning to quicksand.
“Ah, well that’s all down to interpretation isn’t it and as you know us dwarves are a logical, straight talking lot,” said the short figure. “It says free pint with a Laxian. As you can see, I have just caught me a Laxian. So, do I need to ask again?”
Drummond pulled a pint and slammed it onto the bar. “I hate you, Short.”
“My pleasure,” replied the dwarf.
Drummond swore heartily, fully and in some parts anatomically impossible.
“Where’s mine?” whined the Laxian.
“Shut it you,” growled the dwarf, dragging the man over to a free stool.
“What about me?”
“You can sit on the floor in the crap or stand up. I don’t care which as long as you keep quiet from while I enjoy my drink.”
“You’re a right sod, Short.”
“Yea, that’s been said before and by better folk that you. Does this face look like it gives a dungball what you or anyone else thinks?”
Evening, rather than continue this heart warming scene I thought I’d better introduce myself. I’m Gnoritharkenhul Stalghollasson, Short for short, and that nickname’s not due to my height, I’m a dwarf, we’re all this size. It’s for my beard. I keep it short. You see, while tradition says we should have a long flowing beard — and us dwarves certainly eat and sleep traditions— the thing is damn inconvenient in a scrap and a bugger to comb. Now back to tale, a free beer and short walk later.
Short kicked the door a few times, denting the intricately carved scroll work.
“Ah, come on, Short, I can pay you.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Can to,” pleaded the Laxian.
“Look, Yuilk. This if the third time I’ve had to bring you back to your wife. I know Laxian society. You don’t have any money; you’re not allowed any money.”
“I know,” replied Yuilk despondently. “Stupid bloody tradition.”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Short.
“Well—“
“I was being rhetorical, Yuilk. Now, shut your hole like a good Laxian husband.”
The door opened and Short craned his neck looking up to the fleshy mountain that was Yuilk’s wife. “Evenin’, Mrs Drubchak. Here he is.” Short stood on tiptoes and handed over the leash. A bag dropped from on high which he caught with a pleasing chink. “Thank you, Ma’am. You’ve got my card if he goes missing again.”
Short tipped his hat and stood to one side, waiting as Yuilk was dragged into the house. He gave a chortle as the door slammed shut without a word from either. Laxian’s, the men always tried to run when they thought their wives were about to press for conjugal rights. I mean, it’s not as if the wives often ate their husbands after mating these days. Good return business though. The men never ran quite far enough.
So, as you may gather I find suff. That’s my job, I’m a private investigator and, as far as I know, the only one in this floating turd of a city. I’m quite proud of that fact. Between the Guild forces, the Gnomish Mob, questers and the general hodge podge of people that end up here, I get by. I’ve also, as you can tell, developed a bad habit of talking to imaginary people in my head. I find you all better conversationalists than real life folk... well... you don’t answer back for one thing.
Meet Short, a dwarf private investigator.
As normal, good, bad, indignant comments always welcome. Cheers.
[1105 words]
--------------
Life and the universe love a good stereotype, often cunningly hid beneath layers that suggest uniqueness. Peel back those onion skins though and all you get is the same design, cooked up before – probably the Tuesday before last.
One such stereotype is the private eye.
You can bet whichever dimension you hop into you’ll find one. Take a look into the petri dish empire of the Nethal Amoebas or crane your neck at the Long Step Giants of the Gethilly Mountains. They’ll be there, dressed in battered brownish coat, smoking some grizzly dog end and swilling a glass of throat searing rot gut.
This world, sketched out on a piece of celestial blanket, would have liked to buck the trend, but life and the universe always get their way with existence.
It is, after all, their football.
~
Allswelcome, that floating magnificence of the Great Rift, a lashed together collection of flotsam and jetsam that classes itself as the most cosmopolitan city in the world. Indeed at one point some patriotic Guild Chairman suggested that because it was so good they should name it twice. This suggestion, whilst applauded, was soon dismissed once they worked out how much it would cost to replace all the official stationery.
Within the cosmopolitan district of the Dregs – it has a diverse mix of down and outs – stood The Barrel, an establishment that prided itself quality beer and fare… when they could steal it.
Drummond, the pigeon eyed owner and not the brightest of stars in the firmament, slapped down a cloth marked by the ale stains of his predecessors. “What?”
“I’ll take that free pint please,” said the dwarf.
“I ain’t giving you a free pint,” said Drummond indignantly.
“That’s not what your sign says outside.”
“Sign?” He rubbed his chin for inspiration, it was quite smooth from over use. “Idiot, you need to buy a Laxian to get a free pint.”
“It doesn’t say that. Hold onto this for me.” The dwarf tossed over a leather leash that ran to the bound hands of a sullen looking violet skinned man.
“Hold on a second,” said Drummond eyeing up the man. “Oi,” he called to the disappearing figure of the dwarf, “he ain’t dangerous is he?”
“Nah, just a bloody nightmare to catch,” responded the dwarf as he disappeared out of the tavern door.
Even over the nightly din of the bar, Drummond heard some grunting from outside and a squealing of nails being pulled from wood. The Barrel’s door slammed back open and a sign, freshly ripped from the wall outside, made an appearance. “Oi, you can’t do that.”
With a dramatic grunt the dwarf dumped the sign down in front of him. “Too late mate, now give it a good read.”
“I know what my own sign says.”
“I said... read it.” The dwarf’s voice was full of gravelly authority.
He glanced down, sourly saying. “Free pint with every Laxian.”
“There you go, here’s my Laxian,” the dwarf pulled the leash out of Drummond’s grimy mitt. “Now where’s my pint?”
“But that’s not what it means. You have to buy a bowl of Laxian jhunari,” appealed Drummond, realising that the firm footing of his arguement was rapidly turning to quicksand.
“Ah, well that’s all down to interpretation isn’t it and as you know us dwarves are a logical, straight talking lot,” said the short figure. “It says free pint with a Laxian. As you can see, I have just caught me a Laxian. So, do I need to ask again?”
Drummond pulled a pint and slammed it onto the bar. “I hate you, Short.”
“My pleasure,” replied the dwarf.
Drummond swore heartily, fully and in some parts anatomically impossible.
“Where’s mine?” whined the Laxian.
“Shut it you,” growled the dwarf, dragging the man over to a free stool.
“What about me?”
“You can sit on the floor in the crap or stand up. I don’t care which as long as you keep quiet from while I enjoy my drink.”
“You’re a right sod, Short.”
“Yea, that’s been said before and by better folk that you. Does this face look like it gives a dungball what you or anyone else thinks?”
Evening, rather than continue this heart warming scene I thought I’d better introduce myself. I’m Gnoritharkenhul Stalghollasson, Short for short, and that nickname’s not due to my height, I’m a dwarf, we’re all this size. It’s for my beard. I keep it short. You see, while tradition says we should have a long flowing beard — and us dwarves certainly eat and sleep traditions— the thing is damn inconvenient in a scrap and a bugger to comb. Now back to tale, a free beer and short walk later.
Short kicked the door a few times, denting the intricately carved scroll work.
“Ah, come on, Short, I can pay you.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Can to,” pleaded the Laxian.
“Look, Yuilk. This if the third time I’ve had to bring you back to your wife. I know Laxian society. You don’t have any money; you’re not allowed any money.”
“I know,” replied Yuilk despondently. “Stupid bloody tradition.”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Short.
“Well—“
“I was being rhetorical, Yuilk. Now, shut your hole like a good Laxian husband.”
The door opened and Short craned his neck looking up to the fleshy mountain that was Yuilk’s wife. “Evenin’, Mrs Drubchak. Here he is.” Short stood on tiptoes and handed over the leash. A bag dropped from on high which he caught with a pleasing chink. “Thank you, Ma’am. You’ve got my card if he goes missing again.”
Short tipped his hat and stood to one side, waiting as Yuilk was dragged into the house. He gave a chortle as the door slammed shut without a word from either. Laxian’s, the men always tried to run when they thought their wives were about to press for conjugal rights. I mean, it’s not as if the wives often ate their husbands after mating these days. Good return business though. The men never ran quite far enough.
So, as you may gather I find suff. That’s my job, I’m a private investigator and, as far as I know, the only one in this floating turd of a city. I’m quite proud of that fact. Between the Guild forces, the Gnomish Mob, questers and the general hodge podge of people that end up here, I get by. I’ve also, as you can tell, developed a bad habit of talking to imaginary people in my head. I find you all better conversationalists than real life folk... well... you don’t answer back for one thing.
