An Adventurer Interrupted

“There we were,” he shouts in a drunken stupor, “Marching through the ol' dark forest, our armor gleaming in the pale moonlight!”

The tavern is alive as it always is, and there's old Gort at the bar, telling one of his tales.

“The townspeople were real quiet about what exactly had been terrorizing their fields, and that was fine with us,” Gort slams his wooden stein on the counter, sloshing some of the ale—no bother, really, he's already had too much, “Brave adventurer sorts like us never backed away from a quest in them days!”

This happened about once a week, or whenever there were new faces in the bar. Particularly, tonight would be bad. Two traders rolled into town this morning; two pretty young elf women, and Gort simply could not help himself.

“We had been following the beasts' trails for some hours, since dusk, at least,” at this point, the bartender refills his stein. Regardless of the noise, Gort was a good customer. The old warrior grabs one of the girls by her shoulder, “Huge lines of some kind of slime,” he smirks. “The ranger with us was new to the adventuring life, small whipper-snapper, had no idea what the slime was, so we had to pursue our quarry blind.”

The other girl giggles at him, while her friend, now tight under Gort's arm, grimaces in the first's direction.

“Finally, we came upon the beasts. We couldn't see them too well; black as the night they were!” He spits a little on this shout, splattering the nearest elf's dress with froth. “Our warlock-aye! We traveled with a warlock. Ye take what help ye can get in the adventurer's life! Well, 'e conjured some kinda great fire spell that sent the critters scattering! We charged in, headstrong and brash was our way, me and meh mate—Albrun was his name, a Paladin of Kord!”

Gort is easily distracted, following tangent after tangent in his conversation. There's a call from the other end of the bar and the tender makes his way over, some pine green liquid spilling from a bottle as he looks over his shoulder at the manic dwarf and the two elves.

“Th' lad! 'e didn't stand a chance,” Gort belches. He still seems to be wearing a vest of mythril under his tunic, it's surprising it still fits him after all these years. “Poor ranger had no idea what he was getting into. While Albrun was off with one, and I—me—well I had two of the foul beasties on me sword already!”

Gort sputters and the first girl, the one not under Gort's arm, just chuckles at the disgusted look on her friend's face.

“Th' lad calls out, 'e was gnomish ye see, and he calls out, 'Oy! Somebo'y help meh! I can't get this thin' away',” Gort chuckles. “Aye, Brarney,” the Bartender's name is Braum, but he can't be bothered correcting Gort in this state. “Another ale, and some o' that fine Goblin Pine-Wine for these ladies!” Gort turns his eyes on the girls again, who both change disgusted looks to smiles again. “Where was I? Ah yes, so the lad cries out for help and I turn and look over my shoulder and there's Albrun, good ol' Albrun, rushin' across the clearing to pull one o' them creatures off o' th' gnome.”

Braum arrives, casting a glance at the two girls again. Taking note of the one under Gort's arm's distressed look, he winks and refills Gort's stein. “What kind of creatures were those again, Gort?”

“Oh-” Gort looks taken aback, and a terror seems to sink into his eyes. “Well you know, they was big—ferocious beasties.”

“Right, right of course,” Braum glances side-to-side as if checking for listeners, “But what were they?”

Gort's words seem caught in his throat. A panic settles into his eyes and suddenly he releases the elf's shoulder. “Aye mate, I just recalled ah've got to be somewhere—somewhere safe. I'mma head home, just charge my tab will ye?”

As Gort turns and dashes toward the door, the elf with the dirtied dress settles into a seat at the bar and smiles. “Thank you—Braum was it? What was that about?”

“Oh, nothing much. Poor Gort can talk for days as long as he doesn't think about what exactly he's talking about,” Braum reached up to the top shelf and produced a golden elven wine. “Y' see, the poor fellow is absolutely terrified of spiders. I don't know when it settled in, but ever since he retired, you can just stop his talking by bringing up the little creatures. That's what he fought in those woods, all those years ago.”