Daytime in Kelethin. It's another busy day for the treetop city of
woodelves.
Well. Busy for most.
For Gikita, self-appointed Town Drunk, it's just another sun-cycle of
lazy meandering. After spending the last of his copper in the local
tavern, he jogs his way --very carefully-- down a long, steep ramp on
his way to a lift.
Being an alcoholic in a town such as Kelethin is difficult work, indeed.
If you're not out of cash and therefore out of drink, you're falling
off one of the giant platforms that the town is built on.
In his unique, wobbly way, Gikita stumbles towards the nearest lift.
Time to gather wasp-wings, or bat-wings, or wolf meat, or something to
sell. Grumbling to himself, the drunkard mashes the button for the lift.
As the construct comes rumbling up, he wishes he'd been born female.
Or at least feminine-looking enough to pass for a lady. People just
toss girls in need whatever coinage they want, and overlook good,
hardworking men like the town drunkard and village idiot!
By the end of the bitter rant, the lift has stopped at our beloved
drunkard's feet. Hopping on, Gikita thwacks the button with an open
palm, having a little inward chuckle at the Paladin racing up to the
lift, hollaring for him to stop the descent of the platform so he can
get on.
When the ground meets the bottom of the wooden lift, Gikita hops off
and jogs off into the forest.
"Oooh, la la," he mutters to himself as he jogs over a hill to see that
a hunting party has just passed through. From time to time, he has
noticed that warriors and such will just run through the forest,
slaying with reckless and stupid abandon. All they want is to keep
themselves sharp and in shape by killing all the giant wasps and the
like they can find. That's just well and good for a bottom-feeder like
Gikita. Whistling, pleased with his good fortune, the cheerful drunkard
goes from corpse to corpse, pulling off a wing here, harvesting some
royal jelly there. A nice afternoon's pull, if he does say so himself.
Deeper and deeper into the forest surrounding his home town he wanders,
happily humming a tune he makes up on the spot. He's never much cared
for -killing- the animals whose body parts he sells, so it's much
better to let the others do the dirty work, and let an opportunist like
himself come bobbling along and make a humble profit. Over a hill,
then another. And another. And another. The town shrinks smaller and
smaller over the wood elf's slender shoulder, but as long as he's
making such a killing off of other people's work, Gikita is loathe to
return. Already he has a backpack or two full of carcass-parts that'll
bring him at least a few Platinum.
Gikita spots a dull-colored object standing out against a tree, so
naturally he darts over to investigate. He lets out an exuberant
chuckle as he realises the bag is a coin purse. Stooping to pick it up,
The elf sees another leathery object out of the corner of his eye. With
a greedy grin, he reaches over and grabs it. To his surprise, it won't
budge from its place on the ground. Mumbling, he releases the money bag
and tries to use both hands. Still no use. In a flash of inspiration,
the drunk puts his foot against the trunk of the tree that the leather
bag is stuck to.
And then the stench hits him.
Blinking, Gikita looks up. Slowly. To his abject terror, he realises
that he's been tugging on an orc's foot. With a choking gurgle of
fear, he releases the foot and backpedals on all fours. The orc makes
a gaggish noise that Gikita assumes must be laughter. Scrambling
backwords, he bumps into another smelly mass. This one hauls him to his
feet, shouting, "Filthy wood-elf!" Gikita, lost in his swirling vortex
of horror, manages to squeek out, "I'm the one that's filthy, when you
stink worse than a necromancer?"
Apparently, orcs aren't fans of the art of smartass quips.
The orc behing him bellows that same crude guffaw as his comrade's
porcine face twists into a hellish mask of rage. Gikita takes a step
back, startled by the expression. This proves to be an unfortunate
error as the orc launches a club-hard fist forward, catching the frail
elf in the face.
Gikita tumbles backwards into his pain, landing on the forest floor
with a crunch of dead leaves. His vision swims, but not in the good
way. He rolls over, scrambling to his feet and taking off in a dead
sprint. Cursing himself for having gone so far, the drunk raises a palm
to his face. Bringing it back, he can see blood. "Damn, damn, damn,
damn," he mutters on an endless loop. How could he be stupid enough to
let the town out of his sight? A glance over his slender shoulder shows
him that he's being pursued. Gulping in a blessed lungful of air, he
does the only rational thing and shrieks like a little girl with a
skinned knee. Thin arms flailing in the breeze, eyes held wide open,
Gikita wails for help. A green fist impacts into the back of his head,
providing him the incentive to keep moving.
Just when he's about to change directions and run another way, Gikita
spots it. Kelethin. Home. Where he gets his booze at. He throws himself
at the feet of the first guard he sees, clawing at the dirt. The sounds
of metal clanging against metal fills the air, until the death rattles
of the orcs informs him that it's safe to rise. Brushing dirt and blood
off his tunic, Gikita smiles thankfully at the guard who turns his head
and pretends not to see him.
The lift squeeks its way upward, as gloriously slow as ever. Stepping
out onto the platform, Gikita allows himself a moment just to breathe
clean elven air. Then he checks his backpacks.
"Empty."
"Empty?"
"Yeah, empty!"
"After all that, your bags were empty?"
Gikita gives the bartender a baleful look, who goes back to cleaning
glasses and chuckling. "Gods. Leave it to YOU to go through all that
and come out empty-handed." Gikita nods with a bitter grin, shoving
off his stool and pouring the remainder of his drink on the bar and
muttering, "Missed a spot."
!*!*!END!*!*!
woodelves.
Well. Busy for most.
For Gikita, self-appointed Town Drunk, it's just another sun-cycle of
lazy meandering. After spending the last of his copper in the local
tavern, he jogs his way --very carefully-- down a long, steep ramp on
his way to a lift.
Being an alcoholic in a town such as Kelethin is difficult work, indeed.
If you're not out of cash and therefore out of drink, you're falling
off one of the giant platforms that the town is built on.
In his unique, wobbly way, Gikita stumbles towards the nearest lift.
Time to gather wasp-wings, or bat-wings, or wolf meat, or something to
sell. Grumbling to himself, the drunkard mashes the button for the lift.
As the construct comes rumbling up, he wishes he'd been born female.
Or at least feminine-looking enough to pass for a lady. People just
toss girls in need whatever coinage they want, and overlook good,
hardworking men like the town drunkard and village idiot!
By the end of the bitter rant, the lift has stopped at our beloved
drunkard's feet. Hopping on, Gikita thwacks the button with an open
palm, having a little inward chuckle at the Paladin racing up to the
lift, hollaring for him to stop the descent of the platform so he can
get on.
When the ground meets the bottom of the wooden lift, Gikita hops off
and jogs off into the forest.
"Oooh, la la," he mutters to himself as he jogs over a hill to see that
a hunting party has just passed through. From time to time, he has
noticed that warriors and such will just run through the forest,
slaying with reckless and stupid abandon. All they want is to keep
themselves sharp and in shape by killing all the giant wasps and the
like they can find. That's just well and good for a bottom-feeder like
Gikita. Whistling, pleased with his good fortune, the cheerful drunkard
goes from corpse to corpse, pulling off a wing here, harvesting some
royal jelly there. A nice afternoon's pull, if he does say so himself.
Deeper and deeper into the forest surrounding his home town he wanders,
happily humming a tune he makes up on the spot. He's never much cared
for -killing- the animals whose body parts he sells, so it's much
better to let the others do the dirty work, and let an opportunist like
himself come bobbling along and make a humble profit. Over a hill,
then another. And another. And another. The town shrinks smaller and
smaller over the wood elf's slender shoulder, but as long as he's
making such a killing off of other people's work, Gikita is loathe to
return. Already he has a backpack or two full of carcass-parts that'll
bring him at least a few Platinum.
Gikita spots a dull-colored object standing out against a tree, so
naturally he darts over to investigate. He lets out an exuberant
chuckle as he realises the bag is a coin purse. Stooping to pick it up,
The elf sees another leathery object out of the corner of his eye. With
a greedy grin, he reaches over and grabs it. To his surprise, it won't
budge from its place on the ground. Mumbling, he releases the money bag
and tries to use both hands. Still no use. In a flash of inspiration,
the drunk puts his foot against the trunk of the tree that the leather
bag is stuck to.
And then the stench hits him.
Blinking, Gikita looks up. Slowly. To his abject terror, he realises
that he's been tugging on an orc's foot. With a choking gurgle of
fear, he releases the foot and backpedals on all fours. The orc makes
a gaggish noise that Gikita assumes must be laughter. Scrambling
backwords, he bumps into another smelly mass. This one hauls him to his
feet, shouting, "Filthy wood-elf!" Gikita, lost in his swirling vortex
of horror, manages to squeek out, "I'm the one that's filthy, when you
stink worse than a necromancer?"
Apparently, orcs aren't fans of the art of smartass quips.
The orc behing him bellows that same crude guffaw as his comrade's
porcine face twists into a hellish mask of rage. Gikita takes a step
back, startled by the expression. This proves to be an unfortunate
error as the orc launches a club-hard fist forward, catching the frail
elf in the face.
Gikita tumbles backwards into his pain, landing on the forest floor
with a crunch of dead leaves. His vision swims, but not in the good
way. He rolls over, scrambling to his feet and taking off in a dead
sprint. Cursing himself for having gone so far, the drunk raises a palm
to his face. Bringing it back, he can see blood. "Damn, damn, damn,
damn," he mutters on an endless loop. How could he be stupid enough to
let the town out of his sight? A glance over his slender shoulder shows
him that he's being pursued. Gulping in a blessed lungful of air, he
does the only rational thing and shrieks like a little girl with a
skinned knee. Thin arms flailing in the breeze, eyes held wide open,
Gikita wails for help. A green fist impacts into the back of his head,
providing him the incentive to keep moving.
Just when he's about to change directions and run another way, Gikita
spots it. Kelethin. Home. Where he gets his booze at. He throws himself
at the feet of the first guard he sees, clawing at the dirt. The sounds
of metal clanging against metal fills the air, until the death rattles
of the orcs informs him that it's safe to rise. Brushing dirt and blood
off his tunic, Gikita smiles thankfully at the guard who turns his head
and pretends not to see him.
The lift squeeks its way upward, as gloriously slow as ever. Stepping
out onto the platform, Gikita allows himself a moment just to breathe
clean elven air. Then he checks his backpacks.
"Empty."
"Empty?"
"Yeah, empty!"
"After all that, your bags were empty?"
Gikita gives the bartender a baleful look, who goes back to cleaning
glasses and chuckling. "Gods. Leave it to YOU to go through all that
and come out empty-handed." Gikita nods with a bitter grin, shoving
off his stool and pouring the remainder of his drink on the bar and
muttering, "Missed a spot."
!*!*!END!*!*!