Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,

Distressing Dawn [22 Nivvem 4385]

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Distressing Dawn [22 Nivvem 4385]

Jagraton sat up in bed as dawn gave him new cley. This was somewhat remarkable, as (1) he was now able to move his own body, without interference or even residual clumisiness from the paralysis; and (2) he was no longer drunk, though he was enjoying one of the most vicious hangovers of his whole life.

“Ho there, foreign Sir Mister. Are you awake now?” asked the tall Orren woman in the next bed.

“I am — oh, I am! Do you know what has become of Prince Rastomil?” asked Jagraton, who had not as yet assembled the story in his mind quite so coherently as it has been presented thus far.

“Sir Mister, I don’t know who or what your Prince Rastomil is or might be. was he also teleporting around, blind drunk? ’cause if he was doing that, that’s not a good idea in Hanija, Sir Mister.”

Jagraton got out of bed and engulfed two quarts of water. He had been stripped and re-dressed in the night, and he was wearing a pleasing peach nightgown. “I hope he wasn’t, then. Where am I, and where are my clothes and equipment?”

“You’re in the Bipothzing Residence. I’m Ropaf Bipothzing, at your service,” said the Orren woman. “Your clothes and weapons are off in the laundry-room, hanging to dry. I have never seen so many weapons in one fumbergine’s clothes! Not that I often have call to strip a fumbergine naked and dress him and put him to bed and count his weapons, mind you, for I’m not that sort of a girl.”

“Well, allow me to thank you for saving my life. I was just about out of tricks,” said Jagraton.

Ropaf curtsied. “Quite welcome! I’m a poor boat-woman, and you’re a wealthy fumbergine, but I’m the one to pull a Rassimel out of a canal when he needs it most!”

Jagraton collected his weapons and proper clothes, got directions, and gave Ropaf a respectable reward, and, lacking any useful ideas, headed back to Strayway.

Helping the Prince [22 Nivvem 3485]

Jagraton returned to Strayway, having lost Prince Rastomil, and nearly his own life. He didn’t have much hope that the Hanijan city guard would be terribly helpful at poking at a member of the greater nobility. So he asked us for help. This would have gone better if he had made himself well-loved in the skyboat beforehand.

“Ah, Grinwipey, my good man…” said Jagraton to the first adventurer sort of person he found on board.

Grinwipey is not the best target for that. “Foh! I’m your good man now? Years and years I spend with Sythyry and Castle Wrong, fending off advance after gleensnigging advance from all these porkydotting traffs, and suddenly! With no notice at all! I’m your man! And your good one, at that! Without even being asked if I’d rather have your piffipoker in my snoodberry, or whether I’d prefer it in my gunders! A fine frottle of frogs this is! Even Inconnu’s not half so rude!”

“No! That’s not what I mean…”

There is little escape from Grinwipey when he’s in a mood. “No? No? You’re spurning me? You’re rejecting me? You’re out-and-out flobbering breaking up with me? After all our time together, all those evenings of squelchy romance, all our adventures! You’re just sending me off with just a ‘not what I mean’? You lout, you vundrel, you pile of gromp’s shomps! I’m just burnt squid eggs on toast for you to take up when you want me and feed to your pet geese when you don’t, am I?”

“It’s an emergency!”

“Oh, that’s what you all say, you two-legged pluffers. You get all sweet and seductive, with them words all dipped in malt syrup. Then when I’m all seduced and everything, ready to render up the virginity that I’ve preserved so carefully through four marriages — and you’re all “it’s an emergency!” and toss me off like a used-up squirtie-hankie. What’s this emergency of yours you’re making up? You met yourself a flousy floozy, one what can actually find your dingerdong under your fur and can pretend to enjoy the nine seconds between intromission and extrohaustion, and that’s the sort of emergency to dump me?”

“Nothing of the sort! Prince Rastomil has been kidnapped or murdered!”

“Well, ain’t that the whip’s tips! You’d better go goggle off to the prince’s loyal bodyguard, the one what won’t let the prince out of his sight for a minute on account of he’s so dorbitty concerned with the prince’s safety and well-being, and ask him about it. Much more efficient than making those passes at the ship’s tailor what never did anyone a flea’s worth of harm.”

Jagraton stomped off to find me, with Grinwipey floating behind. He actually found Phaniet, since I was busy with that morning’s work.

“Phaniet! I need your help!” cried Jagraton.

“Oh, he does, he does. He’s gotten himself all erunct and horniry over me, and I sure as sheepwrack won’t shimmer his shindig. So who does he go looking for, but Sythyry? Probably needs a finding-spell, he does,” noted Grinwipey helpfully.

“Shush, Grinwipey. What’s wrong, Jagraton?” Phaniet kept her voice carefully cool and professional. She doesn’t actually like Jagraton very much.

“The prince! He’s been kidnapped or murdered or something!”

Phaniet nodded. “That could be unfortunate, or even sad. Tell me more?”

“Can I please see Sythyry and Vae?”

“Not unless you persuade me it’s important,” said Phaniet. “As of now, you look like a Rassimel imitating an Orren in a wild rush.”

So the bodyguard told Phaniet a chopped-up and scrambled version of the story. After which, Phaniet said, “Well, you were certainly quite drunk. The rest of the story will take some checking. It doesn’t sound all that plausible, even from you.”

“Quickly! Quickly!”

Phaniet was not inclined to move quickly. “First of all, did Prince Rastomil come home last night? If he did, that would indicate that he was not kidnapped, and even reduce the likelihood that he was murdered.” But checking with Windigar in the pilot’s chamber found that Rastomil was not on board. “Well — he was supposed to be seeking a dissolute lifestyle. Perhaps he is simply sleeping in with this appealing Lady Noshi — illegally — or even enjoying a second round before breakfast?”

“No! I’m sure it’s worse than that!”

“Oh, dear. You do seem quite jealous. Why don’t you trot ’round to Lady Noshi’s house and ask after him? If he’s been kidnapped, I’m sure someone will want to hand you a ransom note,” said Phaniet.

“They tried to kill me!”

Phaniet flicked her tailtip. “Well, you are an adequate warrior, I believe. Simply don’t let them paralyze you or get you stinking drunk, and you should be fine.”

“I need assistance! The prince’s life is at stake!”

Phaniet shrugged. “I will be glad to assist you save the prince, should he need saving. At the moment I think you are misunderstanding the situation, based on an overload of strong drink and other peculiar Hanijan intoxicants, and, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised, jealousy as well. Still, if you want assistance, ask Jyondre and Yerenthax. They’re usually good for an adventure.”

So Jagraton did. He also collected Bryef (who was his official but uninspired deputy) and Invincible Fire Demon.

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