Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Fable.
Maxiey had the next day off to shop for equipment for his duel and had a special employee discount on food and potions at the tavern, which was a relief. In Albion, gold was somehow extremely hard to come by, even for certain famous and powerful heroes; even with his salary, Maxiey's budget was about as small as he was.
Practising on distraught traders during his hobbe life had made Maxiey adept with axes and hammers and he was able to find a decent steel hammer for his duel.
By the time Maxiey returned from the tavern, Fran Fran was already upstairs, sleeping with many a frightfully loud and fake snore. Tavern staff never needed to sleep.
"Maxiey, I have something to show you," Mr. Pooplewagon said.
The tavern owner led the hobbe down to the cellar where he had first found Maxiey. Mr. Pooplewagon grabbed the lid of a rather smelly chest the hobbe had never noticed before and lifted it to reveal –
The most horrid smell that had ever found its way up Maxiey's nostrils.
"A leather chest piece," said Mr. Pooplewagon reverently, as though he had never seen a piece of armour made out of treated cow skin. Poor cow. "It used to belong to my long, lost and long lost son before he was lost long ago. Foolish boy, I told him to bring it on his way to see his friend, Charlie the vegetarian balvarine. But he wouldn't listen. Now I have no idea where he could be since he's so long, lost and long lost. Here." Mr. Pooplewagon passed it to Maxiey, who, resisting the urge to gag, accepted it reluctantly.
Either not noticing or blatantly ignoring Maxiey's reaction, Mr. Pooplewagon continued his speech, moustache quivering with emotion. "Use it tomorrow in your fight with Morphumax. You two would have gotten along well if he wasn't so long, lost and long lost. Try it on."
Maxiey shook his head vigorously, not trusting himself to speak. He didn't feel like opening his mouth right now.
"No really. I won't mind," Mr. Pooplewagon assured, mistaking the hobbe's horror for concern for the memory of Fran Fran's long, lost and long lost brother. After all, it wouldn't be Mr. Pooplewagon that would mind if Maxiey put it on.
Feeling like he would regret it for the rest of his hobbe life, Maxiey held his breath and pulled the chest piece over his head. Mr. Pooplewagon seemed impervious to the stink. Maybe it was the moustache.
"You remind me of him a lot," the tavern owner said. "Although he was much more long, lost and long lost than you are. Fran Fran has never been the same since her long, lost and long lost brother was lost long ago. She still thinks he'll come back someday, bless her. But that's enough of my talk. Get some rest, Maxiey. You're off tonight."
Just like the rest of a hobbe's body, Maxiey's lungs were nowhere near as big as humans. Between death and near death by vile stench, Maxiey would take near death by vile stench. But the choice was very close. The hobbe took a small breath and felt as though he would pass out.
Rather hastily, he pulled the nauseating piece of leather off himself, taking in deep breaths. Mr. Pooplewagon didn't seem to notice; Maxiey's boss was still staring starry-eyed into the distance.
Leaving Mr. Pooplewagon to reminisce about his long, lost and long lost son, Maxiey left, seeking a place to s.
His search brought him to Bowerstone Quay. There was a nice dirt circle that Maxiey could have napped on, but he had only just laid down when a bunch of testosterone-pumped, shirtless men came and started whacking each other with their fists. Disgruntled, he settled in a barn. Unfortunately, the constant smack of fists and yells of "Yay!" and "Get him!" kept Maxiey awake until they cleared out. By that time, Maxiey could only get a few hours sleep.
Although hobbes are rumoured to have the emotional sensitivity of dead grass, Maxiey could not help but feel nervous. After a quick bowl of Maxiey stew to revitalize his body and mind, he suited up (using liberal amounts of his own cologne) and went on his way to Bowerstone Jail.