3ldritchy's Shameless, self-centred, Cringeworthy Leverage!

[3ldritchy 1xp 1]

I dislike my job – I’m going to post crappy short stories, passages and worse, until someone hires me to do something involving writing silly things with poor spelling and grammar, in a fantasy setting. I’m hoping, as a result of me taking this small part of BOW hostage, that many of you will develop Stockholm syndrome and employ me…

On a serious note, I’m a work in progress, midway through studying Creative Writing. I would love some feedback positive or negative, bit of banter welcome….but if its positive feedback I will take it as a job offer…

The carriage jolted unnaturally still outside the inn – The pair of horses drawing the carriage stamped their hooves, huffing and rumbling, inexplicably enraged. “Evenin squire, will your…eh…horses need stablin tonight?” the stable hand gasped and recoiled as a horse made a lunge for him.

The collar came down revealing a pallid white face, with the sharpest geometry the stable hand had ever seen, topped off with that deadly pout. There was an expectant pause… “STAY-BA-LIN?” stated the stable-hand a little louder.

The man’s pout unfurled “I am Count Broker of Transveria” the Count accompanied this declaration with a flurry of hand gestures, culminating in powerful pose, with his chest thrust out.

“Who?” exclaimed the stable hand.

The Counts shoulders slumped “I am famous in Transveria and beyond…” The Count sliced his hand through the air, pointing to the great beyond, across the mountains that circled the city – The stable hands eyes followed the gesture and the count noticed, that his new acquaintances face was disturbingly close his hand and going cross eyed.

“Don’t follow squire” the stable hand shrugged.

“Like a nobleman from these lands” sighed The Count

“oooooooh a nob – fancy” cooed the stable-hand.

“Why are you driving your own carriage then?” the stable hand announced, a little too loudly for the Counts taste.

If The Count could have blushed, he would have “As you say – Cutbacks” he sighed.

“Ah yes, the cost of wood has sky-trebucketed and I’m almost embarrassed to tell you the cost of our hay, since the Tsar’s war on the corrupt autocracies of his neighbouring kingdoms. It is amazing that a Warlord finds time out of his busy schedule of maiming, expansionism and being autocratic, to help free neighbouring kingdoms of their tyrannical rulers. Woe the age of the lumber wars”. The stable hand wiggled his stubby fingers as his arms flailed overhead.

“Yes.” the count looked slightly concerned, as he looked around.

“Why don’t you raise a grotesque, undead monstrosity or flesh golem if you will, to do your bidding and drive your coach?” silent tension lingered, as both men contemplated each other carefully…well one carefully, the other with a silly grin on his face like a content puppy.

“Ah ah ah” The Count bellowed, joined by the stable-hands facial cacophony…he probably found it too funny if anything. His face distorted, as he snorted loudly.

“Very good, very droll, if slightly culturally insensitive” murmured The Count

“But the undead are merely fairy tales, folk traditions handed down in Transveria” The count flapped his sanguine cloak and pouted HARD.

 

“Any who m’lord, welcome to The Cockathrice! As trice as a Cockatrice but three times the eh…speed… Wilf at your service m’lord”. Wilf curtsied.

“Ah ah ah, Wilf my good man, a room for the night”. The Count gestured wildly to the Inn, now a little happier that he was being addressed properly.

The Cockathrice was a wonky old thing, that is for sure, its timber frames sodden and rotting and there was a pungent smell of human secretions, which might have been a nice change from the smell of excrement in the city, but it wasn’t. The Count put a silky hand to his mouth in disgust “Lead the way my good man” he gagged

“Will m’lord be requiring any food for the horses and what of yourself?”

“Let’s just say I will make my own plans for dinner…ah ah ah and my horses have recently eaten in the local farm stead on the outskirts of the city”. The Counts eyes flashed.

“Oh, the Evans family are good friends m’lord, more like family really – you will never meet a stouter hearted, welcoming people, they are like a second family to me, I do not know what I would do without them, I would likely poke out my eyes, cover myself with jam and cartwheel through Ghoul quarters, screaming” the stable hands face contorted in jest.

“Did they offer you food?” Wilf enquired

“My horses ate…” The count had suddenly become very intrigued with the cobblestone pathing, as he kicked it gently with his velvet boot.

“I’ll give them your best, when I visit them tomorrow” smiled Wilf

“Ah yes – yes please do…ahem” The Count made for the inn door.

“I’ll leave you be m’lord, enjoy your stay at the Cockathrice – oh and the Monster Hunters Guild is in tonight, they are a lovely bunch…bit rowdy mind”.

The count looked at the door, he could hear the ruckus of laughter within. He contemplated Wilf’s words. “Monster Hunters Guild” he whispered.

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