Oliver "Back Bacon" Bernuetz writes:
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
>"While in Pavis I was told an unforgettable dining experience was to
>visit an establishment quaintly named Thunderbreath Gobblebuts. I
>ventured out to the Elder part of Pavis and dined there. All I have to
>say is that unforgettable does not begin to describe the experience.
>It left me both nauseous and disgusted with myself. I can only hope
>to forget."
>
>>From Fresser's Gourmet Guide to Glorantha
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
>(with apologies to MOB)
No apologies necessary, keep 'em comin'!
Howard Fielding growls:
>Did anyone else watch the Network Premier of "Roar" last night? Not
>perfect but [IMO] a big leap forward. Those Auzzies do it again!
As an Aussie (and even one who works for a television company), I've never heard of this 'un.
>I thought that it was [almost] a fairly good representation of
>Orlanthi barbarians...though the Elmal Housecarl would never have
>fallen down drunk on the eve of the wedding!
>
>Overall pretty good show, despite the fact that they appeared to be
>too Worldly and over-educated!
Ah, is this another Hercules/Xena/Sinbad spin-off? They're actually filmed in *New Zealand* of all places! A lot of otherwise out of work Aussie actors fly over for roles in these shows, and it's quite amusing watching Aussie "ocker" character actors put on crude approximations of Yank accents when they appear.
Nigel Phillips asked:
>Some months ago (last Christmas maybe?), I read a wonderfully amusing
>interpretation of the Sun Dome history in Prax, and the reasons for the
>geases against dressing as a woman. (Somash & Teshnos links).
Peter Metcalfe kindly replied:
>>The article can be found in digest volume 3.080. There's also an
>>related article at 3.081 and some effort has gone into combining
>>the two along with a third set of theories. As a result, the sequence
>>of events and details has changed a bit but the connection is still
>>there. I'm given to understand that final theory might be published
>>in Questlines II.
Yep, Peter's right: Jane Williams is writing this up for us. It should be a dandy read!
And now, I'm off to Canada for a week, so I'll see some of you there!
Cheers
MOB
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p1*]
>From their oft-used ditch, the brigands thought the lone traveller an easy
target: slouched, hooded against the biting cold, and moving slowly,
hesitantly, as if crippled, or at least, infirm.
"Hey old man", cried they, springing from their hide, "why out so late? What would your brats think, to say nothing of your devoted wife?"
Their prey did not answer, but halted, pulling his scarf tightly about his face. With quick movements, he glanced to both sides anxiously, as if looking for a place to flee. But beyond the ditch, so favoured by these reavers, spread flat, listless fields, made bare by the frosts of the Dark Season, unthawed by the sullen Yelm, now low in the sky. Sensing that flight was useless, he stood still, as if estimating his adversaries. In the distance, a crow gave a desultory croak: but for this, all was silent.
And so both parties stood, for some moments. The crow flew overhead, croaking some more. Finally, inevitably, one of the brigands shuddered, as if to break a charm. "You cannot scare us by standing still there, old fellow," he cried, " Give us your purse in peace."
"It would be of no use to you", replied the stranger, in a low, measured accent which none of the bandits could place. Slowly and deliberately, his hand, gloved so that only his finger-tips (unusually hairy, thought the brigand leader) were exposed, slipped in to his cloak. When it withdrew slightly, his opponents noticed it was gripping the handle of sword, which seemed to shudder a little as it was drawn from the scabbard.
"Even if there's just one damn silver in your purse it's ours! Come bullies", cried the leader, lurching forward. A scant second later he fell to his knees, brilliant blood splashing on the road in the dying light . Pulling his sword from the bandit's throat, the stranger turned to face the others, less brave, but with weapons drawn. Though bloodied, the stranger's sword glimmered in the dusk-light: running the its length they could make out the cunning etchings of enchantments.
The brigands wrestled for a moment with the dilemma which confronted them: greed for the wealth this stranger (wielding an obviously valuable blade) must have under his cloak, versus fear of injury or death, from that very same blade. As was typical with such men, greed won out. With a shout, they flung themselves at this unlikely foe.
The first struck low, but his opponent neatly stepped to one side and the bandit's weapon merely rent his cloak. As the bandit pulled back to strike again, he himself was struck by the stranger's sword, almost cut in two by the blow.
The other struck high, his blade connecting with the hardness of a helm (or so it seemed). As he brought back his weapon it caught on the stranger's hood, revealing two short, curled horns, long, tufted ears, and a pair of startled black eyes. Only then did the bandit realise the stranger's shambling gait was due not to infirmity, but to cloven hooves, hidden under the flowing cloak. He stood, paralysed with fear, staring into that goat's face. His stupefaction was long enough for the broo to slash at him with his sword. The man's head flew, coming to rest in his once-favoured ditch.
Calmly, the broo scabbarded his blade and muttered sadly, "You saw me. I am sorry." He began to carefully cover himself again and intended to go on, but hesitated. Quickly, he kneeled and gathered up the few coins the brigands themselves had on their bodies: the pitiful booty of a poor week in a poor land. Pocketing the spoil, the broo continued down the road. Another crow flew by, croaking as if in disgust at the scene the broo left behind him.
*note: this is the first part of a story submitted to Tales so long ago I have lost the author's name. The english language version here was substantially polished from the original submission by me; I think author might have been Finnish or Swedish. I've put it up here because it is unlikely it will ever be published in the zine but I think it is good 'un (and I spent quite a while working on it at the time). Any ideas?
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