Stupid Human Year WHATEVER, day 3

Oh, mum!

I’ve got ichor in my beard! I’ve got ichor in my nose! I’ve got bits of demon stuck in my chainmail shirt! HOW DO YOU CLEAN CHAINMAIL? Calm down, calm, calm. I’m lucky to be alive; I don’t mean to worry you, but when the demon fizzed and exploded I was standing right next to it. If it hadn’t been for Fishy Heinrich grabbing my fingers as I went over the cliff edge I’d be food for the sparrows. Starlings? Whatever eats flattened dwarf anyway. Around here, it’s probably flying beastmen.

To the tune of: Björk – Hunter

Oh, mum!

I’ve got ichor in my beard! I’ve got ichor in my nose! I’ve got bits of demon stuck in my chainmail shirt! HOW DO YOU CLEAN CHAINMAIL? Calm down, calm, calm. I’m lucky to be alive; I don’t mean to worry you, but when the demon fizzed and exploded I was standing right next to it. If it hadn’t been for  Fishy Heinrich grabbing my fingers as I went over the cliff edge I’d be food for the sparrows. Starlings? Whatever eats flattened dwarf anyway. Around here, it’s probably flying beastmen.

That Glowing Stone

Sorry, yes, so that arsehole of a Witchhunter turned out to be a big fat liar. He told us that he’d got that funny stone (look, I’ve drawn it – imagine, it’s glowing green and kind of sizzles – I didn’t have any green colour, so I’ve used some of this glowy pink ichor.)  he told us he’d got it from a Cultist temple in the middle of a wood. After threatening him with grandad’s axe for a bit, and him begging for his healing draught, he agreed to lead us there, mumbling about having repented his evil deeds, and the town guard, Heinz or Hurtz, said he’d say we’d set ourselves on fire if anyone asked where we’d gone. Not the best lie, but he said he’d come up with something better later.

What a trek it was! Fishy tied up Rankoff really well, reluctantly left the sacks and sacks of heads he’d found behind (he wants us to carry them to Altdorf to get the bounty), and dangled the glowing rock around Rankoff’s neck, and we were off – aiming for a mountain peak in the distance that was the first stop on the journey. First, we had to cross a huge river at a waterfall. Karl spotted a gap behind the waterfall, so Heinrich snuck across holding one end of the rope (narrowly avoiding waking a hibernating bear (bit like a really big rat)) and then tied it to a tree on the other side of the river. It, uh, was still quite low and I nearly drowned getting across – but Heinrich dived in and swam me to the bank! Didn’t even know he could swim. Then Karl came across and then we dragged Rankoff through the water tied to the rope. He looked like a drowned, um, fish.

Then we snuck along a track, ever so quietly because it was covered in beastmen poo (looks like big raisins) and we were just about to get to the foot of the peak when I heard something behind me – four sheepmen were sneaking up on us!  Karl plonked a couple of arrows into what looked like the leader, I hit him with the axe, and he went down like a sack of, um beastmen heads, sending the three little ones scurrying off in panic. Karl took them all down; he’s really getting good at this archery thing.

I’m not going to bore you with how long it took to climb the peak; it was mainly granite , though had some interesting shales as well. Very unusual! We all roped together, partly for safety, partly so Rankoff couldn’t run off. At the top there was an obsidian plateau with nothing on it, save for embedded white flowers of radial cristobalite. While we all catching our breath and admiring the view, Rankoff pulled his healing draught from his clothing – we’d forgotten to tie his hands! He drank it quickly, intoning that he would “revenge myself on y…”, and then started screaming. The screaming choked off as shifting limbs pushed themselves out of his mouth, splitting it open sideways and… something… crawled out, sloughing Rankoff aside. I don’t think he expected that.

I can’t describe it now. It didn’t stay still for a moment, a gross of gelatinous eyes roiling across the bloody torso. When it sprang and grabbed you, it had eight limbs covered in hooks and claws, but when it swung for you, they melded into one monstrous talon. Karl filled it with arrows until it looked like an Kislevite knight, and Fishy unloaded Rankoff’s pistols at it, but it kept coming. I saw Sigmar’s sign glowing on its shoulder and when a pistol ball struck nearby, the monster shrieked and staggered back. I took careful aim and (on the second go) hewed Grandad’s pick into the sigil. The creature stopped, losing limbs, and just… fizzed. Swelled. I looked around for the others, but they were both hiding behind a rock, which is why I started to worry… and why, I ended up blown over the side of the cliff when it popped. Twice today, Heinrich saved my life.

There wasn’t much of it left, or of Rankoff. Just a curious bottle, with a sign on it, a bit like Sigmar’s comet, but with an extra tail or two. Heinrich said “Can I have a look?” and when I gave it to him, hurled it over the edge. It fell a long way, and I was again glad that I wasn’t following it.

I don’t feel like writing any more now mum. I’ll write again soon.
Grok.

Stupid Human Year 2265 or whatever it is.

Continuing my naif fanfic from our WFRP group. If you’re wondering why my dwarf student speaks Yiddish, and why Dwarvish sounds so much like Hebrew, it’s down to Tolkien. He created some parallels between Jews and Dwarves; both were “at once natives and aliens in their habitations, speaking the languages of the country, but with an accent due to their own private tongue… their words are Semitic obviously, constructed to be Semitic.” However, he only wrote a very small number of Dwarvish words in any of his works, such as “Baruk Khazad”, so I have to go back to Yiddish to pull out anything appropriate. It definitely changes the Lord of the Rings if you think of the Dwarves as Jewish – and points up Games Workshop’s depressing anglocentrism that they took something hugely multicultural and made it just English – Orcs are Cockneys, Dwarves are from Yorkshire, etc.

To the tune of: Miles Davis – The Man With The Horn

Continuing my naif fanfic from our WFRP group. If you’re wondering why my dwarf student speaks Yiddish, and why Dwarvish sounds so much like Hebrew, it’s down to Tolkien. He created some parallels between Jews and Dwarves; both were “at once natives and aliens in their habitations, speaking the languages of the country, but with an accent due to their own private tongue… their words are Semitic obviously, constructed to be Semitic.” However, he only wrote a very small number of Dwarvish words in any of his works, such as “Baruk Khazad”, so I have to go back to Yiddish to pull out anything appropriate. It definitely changes the Lord of the Rings if you think of the Dwarves as Jewish – and points up Games Workshop’s depressing anglocentrism that they took something hugely multicultural and made it just English – Orcs are Cockneys, Dwarves are from Yorkshire, etc.

Dear mother,

I know you didn’t expect me to be writing this so soon, as I promised to save all the ratskin parchment for important letters, but I gotta kvetch – don’t worry I’ve written this on beastman fleshig, so apart from the holes from extra eyes and that glowy green gunk I wiped off, this is kosher. Beastmen, apparently, are those big schnook sheep I was telling you about in my last letter. We spent a lot of today running away from them, whilst frantically bandaging each other (turns out I’m not very good at it – the other Big, the yeger Cully, seems to think that just pulling on a sprained ankle doesn’t help it) and following that little nebbish we rescued through ancient dense woodland (I was mainly dragged through the schmutz, to be fair; short legs, too many meaty stouts and tzimmes). It was only when we got out that I noticed that my big fishy friend had a crude arrow sticking out of his shoulder. I wanted to pull it out, but he said that it was lucky and it might be worth enough money to buy a boat. He’s really a schlub, but he’s proving hard to kill. Thankfully, there was the goys’ village, and a young guard just let us all in.

Mr Wit Chunter.

Anyway, no sooner had we got into the palisade of the takhshet boy’s village, than he was grabbed by a langer loksh pervert all in black leather, with pistols and a big floppy hat (who they all called Mr Wit Chunter Sir and who the other Big, Cull(?) recognised from his bounty book). This new Big pulled off the little wossiname’s hat to reveal he had dinky beastman horns! While we argued amongst ourselves, the Wit-chunter did a talk (a bit like Hammerer Morgrim gave before we had to raise the new buttressing for pit number 4), and by the time we stopped arguing the village folk were baying for the little boy’s blood! Heinfish (I think that’s his real, real name) stood up and tried orating back, but he’s got those funny webbed fingers and croaks rather than talks, and when he tried to make them scared of beastmen outside the village, it was rather counter-productive – they actually got scared of the boychik. It was only when they were actually carrying the little chap to the stake for burning that Fishy actually achieved anything, when he tried bullying that dybbuk Mr Wit into letting the boy go, by pointing out that he needed proper Beastman horns to get his bounty in Altdorf. Mr Wit agreed and cut the poor lad’s head straight off to keep the horns. Such tsuris.

Anyway, as it was getting dark, we all piled into one of the watchtowers, so we could see outside and inside the village. While the others got some shuteye, I got to thinking. We’re not much cop at this sight-seeing lark; the wildlife keeps attacking us, anyone nice we meet gets killed, normally because of us, and the local police force are rubbish. I was wondering if Norsca might be nicer at this time of year? Or the Dead Lands (Sounds nice, but I can’t find a guidebook anywhere.)

I was still sat up and the others were asleep (Fishy folded up protectively around the arrow protuding from his shoulder) when I saw a shtickle green glow by the village well. I gently kicked the other two awake and had them follow me down, surrounding a tall man who was busily engaged with the well chain. It was Mr Wit and, when we asked what he was up to, he got rather threatening, before offering to bribe us! I pointed out, rationally enough, that if we really wanted his money we could just take it, and I was about to open my purse to show just how rich we were and how we didn’t want his stinking money anyway, when he pulled his flintlocks on me. Well, the other Big, Cully, shot Mr Wit in the back, but not before meshuga Wit’d shot my belly. It is really getting awfully bruised and the chain links are seizing together. In revenge, I hit the rotter with my pick, which knocked his teeth clean out, and while klutz Fishy was falling over his own feet distractingly, I gave the schmendrick a potch in the face and laid him out flat. As he fell over, his hat fell off revealing two shofar horns, like those on top of the Ionic columns next to the Helmet Store. What chutzpah!

Well, the villagers had heard the ruckus and came running. Heinfish did his weird croaky babbling thing until I had to interrupt (which scared the xenophobes, who’d obviously never seen a dwarf before). I was getting rather worried that everyone in town had those horns, so I got Heiny to croak and point his knife at the guard until he took off his helmet, very reluctantly, to reveal… a big bald patch. He was hugely embarrassed and angry, and was then all for burning the mamzer Mr Wit when we revealed his horns. Whilst Fishy was doing some frankly maven-level knotwork with the toothless and concussed Mr Wit, Cully persuaded the villagers to calm down, and they agreed to give us until morning to ‘torture’ Mr Wit (which Cully now tells me isn’t a name but a title and he’s really called Humbert Humbertdink or something like that. Stupid human names) before they toast him. Though we really just want to steal his pistols and boots (assuming they’re not cloven inside), see if he owns a boat (Fishy is obsessed), chop off his head for Cully’s bounty, and see if he knows the way to Altdorf. Oh, and find out what he was doing in the well!

It’s getting light, so we’d better get on with the torturing; I promise to clean the thumbscrews and empty out the gouging spoons, don’t kvetch.

Love xxx
Grok

Stupid Human Year 2252

To the tune of: Bloodhound Gang – Your Only Friends Are Make Believe

GamesMaster Kieron has persuaded QuinnsMatt Sheret and I to join a game of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay. I’m playing a dwarven student called Grok. I’m already addicted.

Stupid Human Year 2252.

Dear mother, da, and family.

Well, here I am in the Empire! I’m writing this in a waterfront bar which is full of Local Colour. Everyone is very friendly, though the beer seems rather expensive and not at all beerlike. It’s very thin and has hardly any mould or meat in it; no flavour whatsoever!

Oh, I forgot to say; I made a friend! He’s a tall mensch with webbed fingers and a constant cold. He taught me this (very easy) game of cards, and looked very excited when I learnt it so quickly. He jumped all over the place, and said lots of goyim words, then gave me his boat. What do I do with a boat? It would have been orcward to say no, so I accepted it, then asked the landlord, (called Fast Fortlifh – what silly names they have!) to keep hold of it for me.

Heinrich seems lucky (after all he ran into me!), so I’ve decided to keep him. He doesn’t cost much to feed and water, and it’s good to have someone who understands the local customs. He says tomorrow we’ll go up into the woods, as it’s fun up there. I think I’ll finish this letter then.

There’s so much sky here! We ran into a very nice human called Karl, who’s promised to show me a ‘bad time’. He’s crept off oh-so-quietly to go birdwatching I think, so Heinrich and I are having a sit down. We’re

Karl Playing With The Sheeps.

Well, that was EXCITING! After a while Karl didn’t come back but there was lots of yelling (a bit like when father stood on that squig) so we went through the woods to find him being beaten up by sheep! They were a bit taller than the sheep I remember – perhaps twice my height – and carrying axes! I thought it was very funny to see such silly sheep, until the ram gave me a big butt in my belly. Thankfully, I was wearing my mail shirt like you always told me so it didn’t hurt that much, and eventually I jumped high enough to chop his head off.

After we finished the others off, I suggested we stew up the mutton, but Karl looked a bit sick and we could hear what sounded like a whole flock in the distance, so decided to head towards a village a little boy we found stuck up a tree (tell Granda that they’re the big green things you burn if you run out of coal) told us about. Better stop now, as the others are telling me we need to be running rather than writing.

I hope you and the mine-ponies are okay, and the watcher in the deep hasn’t eaten any of the cousins recently.

xxxx
Grok