City of IF

[Chinaren]

Chapter 10 Gungle Juice.

Cast (in no particular order):
Evil Homer as ‘The Paladin Hero’
Chainfire as Homer’s sword.
Araex as Homer’s steed.
DukeReg as Oaf Duke Reginald Percival Thunderking Harwobble the Fifth.
Key as the Magical dignified Chamber Pot.
D-Lotus as the Elven special forces commander
Sunbellina as Duke Reg’s little sister.

Sorrow as a mysterious robed figure.
Idea Master as his wretched minion.
Mother goose as a hydroose
Shady Stoat as The Twisted witch.

Phang as The Dark Mistress
Muaddib as a wheely thing.
Lord of the Night as an Evil Demon Warrior.
Powers That Be as General Powers ‘the perverted.’
Luvd and Mr Moochie as ‘The Ravens’
Smee as the slug.
Dean as the Dean of the Hood

The Fallen.
Jnmrcs as the High Commander
Hyperion as the Mage.

And introducing…
Solomon Birch as a misguided Drow.
Shanty as Captain Shanty.


The Witch

The gnarled figure of the Witch Stoat hobbled around the small room, mumbling under her breath. “Eye of newt, eye of newt, eye of bloody newt. Always bloody eye of newt, never eye of frog is it? I have a bucket of those things. Where did I put those bloody newt eyes?”

She continued rummaging through a cupboard full of jars filled with things that didn’t bear close examination*. As she peered into jars, sniffing at one which contained a brown powder, she called out over her shoulder: “You needn’t stand there waiting for me to notice you. Standing in the shadows all the time, I don’t know. One of them big city pshycolpractopopelers would have something to say about that I dare say.”

She stood up, brushing a couple of dried dwarf fingers off her apron and looked into the corner of the room.

Sorrow emerged from the shadows. “I didn’t wish to intrude mistress witch…” he began.

“Aye, but you did anyway didn’t you?” She stumped over to Sorrow and glared at him, her one good eye bulging, and pointed a long finger at him. “I know who you are, yes I do, and I know why you are here. Well, I am not buying! You hear? Now, get your sorry robes out of my house, ‘afore I decide to try some of my nastier spells on you. I may not be your great mistress” she spat the word contemptuously, “but I can take out the likes of you no problem.”

“I just came to tell you that they are coming…” Sorrow backed away into the corner quickly as Mistress Stoat glared at him. A moment later there was nothing but shadow there. Stoat made a ‘hmpphh’ sound and carried on looking for the jar of newt eyes…

The village of Gungle.

The village of Gungle was a quiet place, nestled in low hills and set back from the main road most people passed it by, not even aware it existed, which suited the inhabitants just fine. They were happy to lead their quiet lives, farming the land for the blue Gungle berry with which they made most of their food with, and distilling the Gungle juice to make the rather potent and hallucination inducing Gungle liquor.

Life passed at a slow pace in Gungle, and the most exciting thing was the birth of twins to the mayors un-wed daughter, which set tongues a-wagging.

Then a figure walked into town. He wasn’t much to look at and wouldn’t have raised any comment in a more visited place. Even in Gungle, where residents were still mainly occupied trying to figure out the father of the Mayor’s off-spring, he didn’t make much of an impact. At first.

The Gungle Arms was not a place for the high-roller. It was a dingy room with a dirty bar and tables where the locals sat, and all had their own mugs. Hence when the door crashed open to reveal the man in gray, all conversation** was stilled. Had the piano been working no doubt that would have stopped as well, assuming anyone could have been found to play it and then been convinced to do so in the Gungle Arms.

The figure strode up to the bar, casting a long shadow from the setting sun, which just about managed to filter through windows, not cleaned since the terrible incident when the Mayor’s wife had had The Accident five years previously.

“Ale.”

The fat barkeep finished picking his nose and wiped it on the cleaning rag hung around his neck. “Got no ale.”

Lord sighed. “What do you serve in this miserable hole?”

“Got Gungle.”

“Give me Gungle then. Give me a lot of Gungle. I am in the mood to party, and looking around this miserable shitpot I am going to need all the help I can get.”

The barkeep was going to object to the maligning of his fair town, but something about the man suggested this would be a fatally bad idea. He reached under the counter and set a bottle of finest Gungle on the counter with a thud.

“That’l be 5 Knigs.”

Lord slapped a gold piece on the counter and bit off the top off the bottle*** before taking a long draught of Gungle juice. He sighed and belched as he lowered the mostly empty container. “Not bad.”

Several of the locals got up and started for the door. Lord looked around. “And where are you going? I said I was in the mood for a party, and when I feel in the mood for a party then everyone joins in!” He pointed at a young woman, passibly attractive, at least in the low light. “You! Come here. Barkeep. A bottle of your finest Gungle for everyone else!” He emptied a small pouch of coins onto the bar.

The innkeeper, who was stupid, fat and thought his horse was attractive suddenly had a fit of survival instincts, and started to pass out Gungle bottles like there was no tomorrow. If he could have read Lord’s thoughts he may well have wished this could be the case…

It was later. Spurred on by half the year’s produce of Gungle wine the inhabitants of the Arms were having a good time. Lord had made it clear that this was mandatory.

Meanwhile the dark figure slipped out the back of the inn with the maid in tow. She giggled the giggle of the bit-part actress who would soon be being examined by a forensic team, and wiggled when Lord squeezed her wobbly bits.
“Come into my parlor my dear” Lord said, ushering the maid into a dark and narrow alleyway next to the inn.

Minutes later the sounds of a short struggle could be heard, followed by screams that quickly turned into muffled shouts and finally sobs…

Captain Shanty.

Captain Shanty of the Gungle militia strode down to the entrance of the alleyway near the ale house where two portly constables were leaning against a wall. “What do we have then?”

“Maam,” one of the constables tried to stand straight and salute, an act doomed to failure due to the wrong ancestry. He looked pale. “Maam, I… I never seed anythin’ like it I hasn’t. Bend me over and shove me stick up me arse if I lie maam.”

“I don’t think that will be required constable.” Captain Shanty heaved a deep breath. “I better have a look then hadn’t I?” She stepped forward. The constable held out a hand in warning.

“Captain, maam, I really wouldn’t maam, if I was you…”

“Well I am not you am I?” Captain Shanty interrupted. “Stand aside constable. The constable shrugged, as if to say ‘I tried’ and took a step back. Shanty walked past him into the dark alley…

A pause. Footsteps as the Captain came out, rather faster than she came in. She had her hand over her mouth and had turned a green colour. After a few moments of trying to suppress it she grabbed one of the constable’s helmets and proceeded to barf copiously in it.

The Hero.

“I knew you would come through the rocks you know. I am a witch you see.”

Evil Homer grunted non-committaly. Sunbellina had an ability to talk that surpassed anything that should be possible. Plus she did it in a high pitched, squeaky clean voice that somehow managed to irritate a paladin.

Behind her strode the hulking figure of Duke Reg. He had not questioned how his little sister had come to be there, and when Homer had asked he was rewarded with a 2 hour monologue which started, as far as he understood it, with Sunbellina aged 3.

“Little girl, aren’t you tired?” he managed to get a word in finally. “Look what we have here, it is a magical, er, a magical…” Homer’s inspiration failed him, “a magical thing! You could ride it!” He pointed at Key who was gambling along smelling, if a chamber pot could do that, the flowers.

Sunbellina looked at Key. She wrinkled her freckled nose in thought. “Okay then!” And dashed over to Key, who swiveled uncertainly as she sat on him and said “gee up!”

Homer was distracted by D-Lotus, who had been walking along making a daisy chain. “Rider coming.” He said and drew his sword. Homer followed his example and the Duke stood over Sunbellina protectively.

A figure approached on a fine black horse. It was an elf. Homer frowned. There was something not quite right here. The elf wore the uniform of the Horde, black cape fluttering behind him as he drew up infront of the small party. However, he was pale white, with jet black hair.

D-Lotus took charge. Wrapping his looted cloak around him he strode forward. “Report!”

The new elf looked at Homer and then D-Lotus, confusion mirrored on his face.

“Who the hell are you?” He said at last.

“We…” D-Lotus paused only a moment, “we are spies for Phang, sent on a secret mission. Now, report!”

The elf saluted the salute of the Drow. “Sir! Sir!” He saluted again with his other hand. “Scout, thirteenth class Solomon Birch, attached to the Drow infantry, 14th division.”

“You don’t look like a Drow to me!” said Homer.

The elf sighed and slumped in his saddle. “Yes sir. That’s because I (mumble mumble)”

“You what? Speak up Elf!” said D-Lotus.

“I am an albino Drow elf sir!” Solomon said reluctantly. “And you can’t do anything about it! That’s favoritism!”

D-Lotus looked at Homer, who shrugged. “What is ahead scout?”

“Nothing sir. No enemy forces sighted. They don’t even seem to have mobilized their armies!”

“Okay. Carry on.” Said D-Lotus.

“Wait!” said Homer. “Perhaps you should accompany us. We may need a scout.”

“Sir, yes sir! A secret mission! I am your Drow sir!” and Solomon threw a snappy salute. “Where are we heading?”

Homer told him the general direction and they set off once again.


It was late afternoon when Homer and his band arrived in Gungle. Homer instinctively knew there would be problems when he saw the angry mob standing in the middle of the road waving things.

He strode forward and addressed the leader, a woman dressed in a militia uniform. “We mean you no harm. We only wish to pass…” he was cut off as a bottle flew out of the crowd and smashed near his feet.

“Gettem! Bloody murdering outsiders!” the crowd’s shouts grew and Homer could see they would bubble over any second. He put his hand on his sword, but didn’t draw it, hesitating, not wanting to shed the blood of innocents…


*Not unless you fancied a good vomit anyway.
**Which had got as far as narrowing the suspects down to the mayor himself or the lad who milked the goat.
***Which impressed the locals quite a lot, as it was made of glass.