Scene Fifteen - The Moonstone Beckons

Many months had they spent in the quiet of  Norscan Hinterland. The land was not expansive, but was fed by a good stream from the local river and was remote from marauding bands. There was little talk or news of the local Jarl or anyone of authority in the area, so the old homestead had been slowly repaired over the last 18 months without disturbance. 

After many years of travel the "Widow" was happy in her new environment, despite the brambles and the nettles that first faced them as they tried to clear the land, and the invasive slugs that seemed to gloat  and feast on anything planted in the ground - but yes - she was happy ....

Initial problems with debts and gold in store had been mainly resolved - the loyal wenches of the Crimson Moon had been offered a re-location or a substantial monitory advance to set them up in a new life - and all obligations to Lord Wolf were paid in full. Rumour abounded that Pip (the Boss Lady)  had found herself a sinecure with the Magister of the War Host itself .. Good for her. It was something that we would never have been able to achieve...

But in the hinterlands of Ffynnon Wen a quiet oasis in Norscan backlands - where the Crimson Wolves were once rumoured to have held sway, the "Widow" planted her crops and harvested her goods, and Vollsanger helped out where he could.

Her wish was to make the ground grow and provide her bounty ..
His wish was to see the piles of wood that surrounded the homestead could bind together and build an edifice fit for the Gods - a Temple to Norsca - a Tavern fit to bear the name "CRIMSON MOON".

For so many years the tavern had moved from place to place - from war zone to war zone, providing that small element of safety and joy to the heroes who each day would put their lives upon the line, not knowing if they would return to pay their bar tab..  and now, in the quiet of Norsca, the shell was taking form ...  Indeed today, it seemed that it was taking a pulse of life as he wondered around the walls made of wood rather than canvass, almost as if it was whispering to him ..

"Have you seen the Moonstone?" Agnes asked..
"No!. I haven't seen it since I came here. You must have brought it with you when you left the War Host"
"It is on the hearth in the kitchen .. I though it best to keep it where it could be seen but where no-one would think to find something so valuable."
"The mottled stone ? I thought it was a paper weight or something"
"No - that is the the Moonstone that is the heart of the Crimson Moon. As long as it survives, the Crimson Moon will always exist. Whatever happens to any of us. Agna found it may years ago before we had any ideas other than a kitchen to feed the Storm Wolves. Sometimes I miss Agna. Crazy man - quiet through almost any conflict - but out in battle he became a berserker healer - would fight through anyone to save a life...  then lost his own life going back to fetch some water for the fighters.. such a waste ....  But the Stone is acting strangely  - look "

He looked. And she was right. The Stone was glowing. Sort of Pulsing with no rhythm.

"I wonder if it is because I finished the last walls on the Tavern and she is waterproof tonight ?"
It was a Tavern and this was the Tavern Stone - it seemed that there may be a connection ..

"Be careful" said the Widow...
"I am always careful" replied the Bard.. which elicited a snort from Agnes  - he had never been known to add caution to his list of attributes...

With a nod to Thor and a salutation to Frigga - after all she was the one that Agna was aligned to, and presumably may have had some dealings with the finding of the Moonstone, he gingerly lifted the stone. It was not heavy. Indeed it was only really a hand full, striped but strangely warm in the cool evening air.

He took it to the newly assembled Tavern and looked around.
"Probably should be in the middle of the building" he mused..  so he put it onto a high shelf at the center of the structure...  He waited .. Nothing happened ..

"Oh well. Probably another Norscan Fable!" he thought and shut the door as he left ...

But the Moonstone knew.

The Moonstone waited ...

It was a Quarter to Eleven - so the Tavern could be anywhere .. 

It was always a Quarter to Eleven in the Crimson Moon ......

Vollsanger called in next morning to see that all was well.  The door opened to the Tavern and it seemed somehow more vibrant than it had before. No longer a building site where panels were being screwed to the walls - but almost as though there were people already in the building.

Any Place - One Time 

It was a quarter to Eleven - of course it was . It is always a quarter to eleven in the Crimson Moon ..

But the doorway to the bar was shimmering - Vollsanger grabbed a guitar and headed through the shimmering curtain - always one time ..but where was he now??   
Faint hearted never would know - He was Der Vollsanger - He would find out ..
He would be "Here All Week"  - or die !
 

Scene Fourteen - Maiden's Cream

"Ah greetings Traveller - welcome to the Crimson Moon...  Come on in and take a place at the bar...
Travelled far ? Ahh - no wonder that you are tired...
What can I get you ? We have the finest wares.....
A speciality? Well yes .. as it happens we do have a drink created for this very Tavern ...
We call it Maiden's Cream.
Not heard of it ? Not surprised it is a very special and unique drink.

Perhaps I should tell you of its origin as I mix you a Maiden's Cream...

It was far in the past. Back in the days when the Lions and the Wolves were not talking - indeed were actively fighting each other. No-one remembers the cause these days, but if a Lion Knight of Albion should meet a Viking Wolf of Norsca then blood would normally ensue..

The feud was all resolved by an honour battle - lasted 68 seconds so I am told - though the men of Albion claimed that they only put on a show with their second best fighters... who is to say?       

But be it as it may - before that resolution there was once a Knight of Albion.
A Lion by the name of Sir Verdun.
A brave and noble knight, but one that the Gods had treated very poorly, but a true and pure soul.
He was travelling along the Lace Road travelling from West to East, when he chanced upon a Norscan man, who was known as Agna.
A healer of the Wolves.
A man skilled in the healing arts and knowledgeable in the power of the Fountain of Life..
He was travelling home from the south heading Northwards.

They chanced to meet at a crossroads, and both being proud representatives of their factions - neither would back down to let the other pass..
In other circumstances - this may have led to the shedding of blood, but Sir Verdun had been afflicted in his constition by the Gods, and Agna the Healer was cursed with not being able to hold bladed weapons - a sacrifice he had made to achieve his greater knowledge and skills,
and so instead of crude attack they chose to challenge each other with their intellect and words...

"A duel" cried Agna - "I challenge thee"
"Accepted" answered the brave knight" under what terms?"
"Compliments" replied Agna
"A Capital Choice " came the rejoinder
"Ahh - I see that you have dueled before" replied the healer..

And so they pitted their wits, one against the other, with compliments, and insults, and tricks and riddles, and each found the other to be a worthy foe...

Indeed, so evenly matched were they that the sun soon started to set....
And being gentlemen they decided that they would stop for the night and commence again in the morning...
And so in the centre of the cross road they lit a fire and shared provision and drink, and set about discussing their personal areas of expertise -
The finest alcohols that they had drunk and the finest Ladies that they had ever met.

.. and needless to say - they did not agree on these either!!

Now I should have mentioned that Sir Verdun was not travelling alone!
He was accompanied by a Lady.. The Lady Bryant was her name.
Now! I say lady .. though perhaps I should say that she was a ...  "lady of the night!"
 And what a fine lady she was.
It was rumoured that to spend a night in her arms - could cost up to a castle and lands...
It is a shame that she has not been mentioned before - and I can assure you that this must be the first time that she has ever been overlooked for a such a period of time...

But the three travellers spent the night in that lonely crossroads upon the Lace Road...
and as the sun rose the next morning...
It seems that Sir Verdun and Agna the Healer were in complete accord....

Both swore to the end of their days that there was no lady in the land that could surpass the beauty, the presence and the abilities of Lady Bryant...
And they resolved immediately to commemorate that meeting by designing a drink that would pay full tribute to that Lady and her bounty...

And they did.
They created a drink which held the coolness and creaminess of her skin..
the tender sweetness of her kiss...
the bubbling of her personality...
her boundless energy.
and deep within... her clear and dauntless spirit....
finished now with a straw, so you can suck deeply of all the Charms

The Maiden's Cream .. brought by that very same Agna  to this - the Crimson Moon Tavern... 

This of course is Au Naturale - I am told that Agna would suggest a drizzle of Red aftershock over the top - Maiden's Cream "A la Agna"

Enjoy my friends ...  And remember - you heard it here first ..  The Crimson Moon......

Vollsanger .. the skald...

Scene Thirteen - Reflections on the Skildir

Free the Lands of the Skildir

The rain dripped from the branches, splattering on weathered pelts but failing to penetrate to the skin. Joints ached from remaining still too long, but it was only an hour since the last hunting party had moved through the valley below him. Patience is learned. That moment when you think you are safe is the time that you get careless. Best to wait until you are sure. Many have failed to reach mature age, let alone into their late sixties through premature action. Bundled by his side, carefully wrapped in waterproof skins, the battered lute rested against his right knee. The knap-sack with precious papers was also well hidden under his cloak. It was too wet for adding to the intricate map that he had been working on, but this part of the hills was well studied. It was time to move down into the wide and open lands in the valleys below him. The Bread Basket of Norsca it was once called - now named Karelia, even the settlement of Archangel carried that name, and after years of occupation, the land was beginning to return to its green and fertile nature..

Ceded to Heyami at the Treaty of Thrones in the year 1103, 16 years ago. There were youths in these lands who had never known their Norscan heritage. Who only knew their imperial masters, the Mempo. There were others as well. People who walked quietly and kept themselves to themselves.

Some would welcome a travelling Bard, occasionally food and a warm bed for the night. But many still had fear and worried about repercussions and reprisals. And so he crouched in the shrubs and trees on the hills overlooking Archangel - (Karelia he reminded himself) and watched from a distance. His stomach was full. He had eaten well from rabbit caught the day before. There was still mead in his flask so other than the rain all was well.

As he waited, his thoughts passed to the War Host. He wondered if they had better weather in Albion. It seemed strange not to be with the War Host - For many years his life had revolved around the factions, and the people who lived and fought so bravely to make the world a better place. He had watched their heroics, seen some die, had sung in praise of the former and had done his best to provide a fitting memorial for the latter....

His mind went to the song that he was penning at the moment. Yes, it was at times like this as he sat, silent and hidden in the undergrowth, that songs would spring to his mind....
The Lost Hero Song. He liked the chorus that was developing..

"I can't find a rhyme to your name...
 You're a a hero I know ! It's a shame!
 It's all the same to me 
 But the annals of History 
 are written by the Bards and Skalds you see
 So your wondrous daring do and mighty deeds
 Are fine - but there is one thing that they need
 A name with easy Rhyme 
 Is essential every time
 So tough my friend, there's no mighty song for thee... "

He would enjoy singing that to some of the "so-called" heroes when he found his way back to civilisation.

No, he would let the War Host go their own way while he scouted out the lands in front of him. A visit here. A song there. A bit of news to one group. A message passed to another.
The war host would not miss him. They may be having sun and fun at their gathering. He had heard that Merlin would be entertaining with Dragon Fire in the sky... that would have been worth looking at...

His mind drifted back to the Tavern. He had parted sadly from Moxi, Minibar and the Boss Lady. He had delivered the pensions sent by the "Widow" and given them the options on returning to the Hearth of Norsca, or being free to stay on and support the War Host. They had decided on the latter, but he felt satisfied that they were no longer tied to the post due to poverty. It was not a fortune, but Agnes had sent more than enough to keep them comfortably for a few years should they so wish.

The Mercenary had also had his share. He was also still with the Tavern when the Bard had left  Ravensberg but with cash in his pocket it was anyone's guess how long he would stay or how much the prospect of a greater return through combat would be the appeal. Either way - he wished him well.

The rain began to lessen. A chill was still in the air, but there had been no sign of the enemy for over an hour. Vollsanger felt safe enough to stretch his legs quietly... You could feel that the sun was setting somewhere behind the wall of clouds and storm clouds. It would be getting dark early tonight. Indeed it seemed like dusk already.

Almost time to make the journey into the back streets of the town. Find a place for the evening. An opportunity to talk with locals and tell a story or two. Time to remind another group of an old protest song and a call to arms - not here and now - but in time...  Time to sing of the Skildir. Time to sing
"Free the Lands of the Skildir"

and mead ...   mead would be good...

Free the Land of the Skildir

"Where gentle rains once fed the crops now blood stains all of my kin
 Farmers and their families all butchered by the greenskin
 We'll Fight to free the lands of the Skildir
 Fight to free the lands of the Skildir
 Fenris Teeth to Archangel
 Through Mountain field and range, we'll
 Fight to free the lands of the Skildir

 It almost breaks my heart when I think of devastation
 I swear I'll stand and pledge my arms to destroy the whole green nation

 I sometimes hear the vicotry horns, the Drachenguard in Battle
 I dream I see the lands all free growing green with sheep and cattle

 And the only time I feel alright is when I'm into drinking
 It sort of eases the pain of it and levels out my thinking

 The weight of Torsten's sacrifice, pain of following his orders
 But now the Daygahz brands my skin, "No Mempo in our Borders"

 As each day comes around and we're only into fighting
 My ma would like a letter home but I'm too tired for writing

 With yellow fire of passion, Black cross of secrecy,
 The Sons of Torsten wield a flag to keep us Green-skin Free
  
 And now I hear the victory horns, the Drachenguard in Battle
 and now I see the lands all free, growing green with sheep and cattle

 We'll Fight to free the lands of the Skildir
 Fight to free the lands of the Skildir
 Fenris Teeth to Archangel
 Through Mountain field and range, we'll
 Fight to free the lands of the Skildir"

Scene Twelve - Decisions - The Hearth of Norsca

The Hearth of Norsca

"Tell me again how it happened"

The "Widow" cupped her mulled wine between her hands as she looked into the flames of the hearth.
The cottage was old and had seen years of renovations, but was the place that she had been raised, and was still more home than the Tavern had been, though she remembered the days of travelling with the War Host with quiet nostalgia. But those days had passed, she had made her decisions and the quiet life seemed comfortable. Chickens and Ducks in the keep, her garden to provide vegetable and fruit, and passing traders for her other needs.

"Bothvar was good to us, and after Agna died I pledged that I would support the War Host, even in the bad days when I was declared "Non-Wolf" for poisoning Thorgrimm - Bothvar never declared me renegade, and always had a kind word. Tell me again how he left us.."

In the shadows Vollsanger gazed into the fire, happy to be sitting with the Widow at the fire. He remembered fondly the "year and a day" of marriage with Agnes following the night that the Beltane fires were brought to the Crimson Moon and he found himself wed to his companion. A year and a day - but their paths then parted - he back to the War Host and she to her retirement in the depths of Norsca.

"I did not see it all - but this is the tale as it will be told in the Mead Halls, a tale of deception, bravery, self-sacrifice, honour, the Gods and bravery of the peoples of Norsca....

It was after the time of trials of the Court of Crimson and Gold....

Sable who had been released from the mists surrounding Elvesham.

During his time in which he was pacted with Wade of the Unduku he hunted down and ate Hod the blind god of winter. This unleashed a chain of events that was almost cataclismic for the Wolves, in particular but also the rest of the Peoples as it affected the End of the World.

Because Hod was not there to throw the mistletoe dart guided by Loki, Baldur did not die!  Baldur must die if we are to have Ragnarok. If he does not die then Baldur would be the last living soul standing among a pile of burning waste as the world tree and Midgard fall into the Gannungagap (the yawning void that separates Mussplehiem from Nifflehiem) 

In the confusion Wade seeing his chance stole Skuld the Norn who represents the future Skeins of life, so that he could write his future and secure his destiny. 

As seems so often the case when dealing with the Gods, it seems that only the Trickster could help.  Loki was approached by a the luna wolves who attempted to make a deal with him. He agreed that he could fix the problem. After all he’s done it countless times before when Thor got himself into trouble. Hadn’t he borrowed Freya's cloak of golden feathers and fooled Thrym the giant. Or turned himself into a mare to distract the stallion that was building the wall around Asgard… well, we’ll not talk about that, other than to say Odin's Horse Slipnir arrived 9 months later, but that was another story" 

Loki agreed to help saying he could fix the problem but he needed the essence of Hod, a vessel capable of holding the essence of a god and a mistletoe dart, which the wolves agreed they could get. Loki agreed to meet them at the midnight Thyng two nights hence and in front of Odin fix their little problem and return his step brother to the Vanir. 

On that fateful night Loki arrived and asked them to produce the items, reminding them of their agreement that it was all of their doing. They had struck this bargain, it was all on them what ever happened next it was all on their heads. To which they all agreed. 

The essence of Hod was brought forward and then the Dart of Mistletoe, however he refused one after another the vessels offered stating they were not capable. 

“Ah, but no problem I know of such a vessel” he declared and conjured Bothvar to stand in front of him. Then with his dagger cut out his eyes. The Thyng was in uproar, but Loki admonished them spitting vehemence and bile back at them telling them that they had agreed to this. 

They had agreed that it was on their heads. They had said so before the Gods.  Now Loki bid welcome to Baldur the beautiful who played his favourite game of getting people to hurl things at him knowing nothing could hurt him. 

Then leaning low to Bothvar he guided his hand and threw the mistletoe dart sending Baldur to Nifflehiem. Cementing Bothvar as the Hod incarnate. 

Hod reminded the wolves that Bothvar would have them cry not one tear and he will gladly pay this price to save one Norscan from having to. And that is the tale of how Bothvar became Hod."  

The silence deepened. the old bard poked the fire and the embers sparked.

The widow reached into her apron and took out a piece of parchment, rolled and seemingly well read ...  She handed it to the Bard, who accepted it gingerly... He recognised the broken seal of the Jarl of the Hearth, Odinspear.

Unrolling the paper, he scanned the contents. A call to all Tradesmen and Tavern Keepers. Norsca was in dire need of good Tavern keepers and loyal Norscans to come to the aid of the nation. Since the Treaty following the Battles with the Greenskin Empire, the Breadbasket of Norsca had been ceded to the Mempo, and as a result much of the produce needed to keep Norsca thriving was no longer there. Norsca needed to be smarter and more efficient. The best of all traders and keepers were required to make sure that the land could thrive.

"I kept my promises to Bothvar.. The Crimson Moon has followed the war Host for 15 years. I think the time has come for The Moon to stop travelling, and to take up a permanent position to support the people's of Norsca. I am going to call it back and we will look after the peoples of Norsca itself. Build it into Stone and Mortar. A permanent memory of all that we have achieved"

"What of your people?" The Bard asked, "you have many loyal supporters who have traveled with the Crimson Moon through many lands and many dangers?"

"They will be free to return with the Tavern, or stay with the War Host should they so desire. I shall send you with moneys to ensure that those who wish to return can do so with enough gold in their pockets that they can choose their new life. I think the Mercenary will probably stay with the war Host - you shall make sure that he is rewarded for his loyalty. As to all my friends, go to them, explain why I make this decision, and tell them that the Widow will always welcome them back and that the Crimson Moon will always be their home should they wish it..."

The fire burned low and Vollsanger stretched his legs out - thinking of the journey that he would have to take.. once more to the War host... maybe his last...

 

Scene Eleven - On Tramp

Vollsanger put down the battered instrument as he ran his hand around the rough repair on the edge of the Guitar. "Should hold for a while" he mused. His hand reached for the horn at his belt, then he remembered that he was far from the Tavern and his Mead ran out weeks ago. 

Stretching his feet, he wiggled his toes to remove the cramp. Sleeping too many nights on the ground was telling on him, and though he did not like to admit it, he wasn't getting any younger. He brushed a hand through his hair ("Platinum Blond - not White" he reminded himself) and tried to find a comfy piece of trunk to settle himself. Rubbing the excess glue from his fingers he took for his small alchemy kit and reached into the stream to clean the mortar and pestle...

He quietly hummed the new song that was going through his brain "Valeria of Mythodea", a song that reminded him of the heat of that Land, the dust and the sand, the fighting and strange creatures he had met, the Taverns and the Dancing Girls, the friends and musicians he knew there. As he mused his fingers touched upon the small silver coin he always held in a special leather pouch at his belt - a rough coin, with raised features, solid and strong. His deft fingers, more used to caressing the neck of a lute, picked out the outline of the Boar and strange lettering like a blind man reading an imprinted scroll. Turning the coin in his hand - he felt the outline of the ship upon the rear - "Hope Dies Last" he muttered to himself ... "Huzzah!"

A chill wind stirred and he shivered, and wrapped his furs a little closer around him, wondering if it would be safe to light a fire, but he was unsure of the lands, had not seen another friendly creature for days, and was far from a safe path. Another night travelling and hiding in the day and he would hope to see some landmarks that he recognised.

He hoped to join the War Host and see old friends in the Crimson Moon before he tried passage to the lands of Mythodea. He would not have time to call at Dunholme, but the word was that the Oathsworn had set up camp near the front lines - and that would be his next goal - the Western section under the Adamant Banner. the Spirit of Dunholme would be where the Dunholme Household took up residence

Rumour had it that there were bright new taverns to see in the Tross. Sadly, the Black Pearl had burned to the ground last year, and the Klabautermann, the Jollie Rouge, and the Scorpions Inn had all suffered from the troubles at the battle front. All taverns that he had written songs for! He would have to pen some new ones for the Red Star, the Norderby and his old favourite the Winstube. Maybe he would see some of the lasses that appeared in those old songs, maybe see some new faces. Most important, he wondered who he would find there from the Oathsworn, his Brothers and Sisters in the Mead Oath...

A crack in the undergrowth... A quiet footfall...  The Old Bard quietly pulled his guitar under his furs and blended into the undergrowth as he had done for many years.....
"Old Bards should never die" he mused "They should just decompose!!"
He resisted the temptation to snort at his own humour...

Scene Ten - Not all Goblins are Green

It was a cold evening and all the travellers were huddling in their furs as they sat around the fire. There was the normal motley crew that could be found at a wayside camping spot, near to a crossroads, with trees and shelter nearby, with wood for a fire and good game in the area for dinner. There was a merchant of some description, a little portly and unused to roughing it by the side of the road - clearly wishing that the weather had been more clement allowing him to reach the next village before dark. But the night had closed quickly, and he had felt it more prudent to join the travellers in their open campfire - rather than chance the path in the dark - even with his two sell-swords to protect him. After all - some sell-swords are only as good as the flow of money, and the prospect of gaining an entire purse can be tempting on occasion..

So the merchant was doing his best to get comfortable on the tree stump that barely supported his buttocks... His sell-swords had conducted a quick circuit of the camp and were now sitting sharing some caustic spirit from a bottle.

A cleric of some type was sitting quietly - with his head leaning into a tome that he could hardly read by the flicker of the fire... One gained the impression that he was listening and watching without moving his eyes - it seemed unlikely that he was really deciphering the words before him..

Four or five other travellers were trying to dry their clothes against the fire that was burning and occasionally turning the small spits on which a selection of rabbit, squirrel, and some unidentifiable small mammals were hanging...  At least the rain had stopped for a while..

Vollsanger also crouched by the fire. His wraps were relatively dry, his thick fur outer garments having kept much of the rain from his inner tabard and trews... His Lute was carefully wrapped in well oiled leather and would be fine for the night..  He reached out to turn his meat - and pulled from his pack some wild cabbage that he had gathered from a field on the journey out...

"What's that you got?" asked one of the sell-swords pointing at the cabbage....
"Wild Cabbage - it is good for the teeth and helps the digestion" answered the Bard without really looking at him..
"Rubbish Greens!! " was the retort..   
"Nothing wrong with Green" said the Bard without implying any offence in his tones..
"Green is rubbish - only good for Goblins!!" came the retort..

"Ahh - interesting that" said the Bard .. "Not all Goblins are Green"
"Course they are" came the response from the group around the fire ... each brightening as they realised that a tale was forthcoming from the enigmatic Bard they had only just met - but who had a reputation that spread across the whole land....

"I could tell you of the tale of Fitta'n Elfie" sighed the Bard as he settled himself down .....  and then proceeded to fill his drinking horn from a flagon that miraculously appeared from under his cloaks ...

A long pause...  Some feared that the old man had drifted off to sleep ... and then he told a story .. and I shall repeat it to you - even as I heard him tell it...

The Tale of Fitta'n Elfie..

It is a sad story to tell. Young Fitta'n Elfey did not really know his background. He was unaware of the start to his sad upbringing. He was from quite a proud family and that was part of his downfall. His mother, Fitt t'Bust was always a popular lass as a youngster. She was outstanding in her field, and was well noted by the lads who chased after her. They loved the way Fitt t'Bust would carry on jiggling after she stopped, and would take all sorts of opportunities to drop items in her way so that she would bend over to pick them up, leaving plenty of flesh showing on her ample bosom. She was generally unaware of the ploys but enjoyed her popularity with a simple approach...  She was not really renowned for her intellect it must be said...  but for her profile!
But one of the most popular lads was a cousin, Fitt f'Nuthin. He was always hanging around her and complimenting her and dropping sweets and flowers, and generally courting in his own individual way. He also was not the brightest glowworm in the cloud, but he meant well and she grew to like him. And in the end, he asked her to marry him and she blushed bright green - as most Goblins do, and said an eager yes..

They say that they made a really charming couple as they strolled across the fairy ring stamping on the ants and bugglywigs and blowing raspberries from their backsides and making faces at the congregation - the way you are meant to at a Goblin Wedding - for the Fitt's were a very old Clan of Goblins from the darkwoods. 

Everything went very well for the couple, Fitt t'Bust bloomed and Fitt f'Nuthin was the proudest Goblin in the neck of the woods. A couple of other cousins came to help build them a house. There was Fitt f'Purpuss and Fitt f'Wurk and they built them a fine home while they went on a honeymoon arranged by Fitt f'Travul... A lovely honeymoon with mead and a place to stay on a Greenfield Site.

They even had a personal trainer to help them relax, Fitt'n Well made the whole honeymoon a pleasure, while the evenings found Fitt f'Nuthin becoming better acquainted with the finest attributes of his new wife...

Yes, they had an idyllic start to their life together. Now, no-one knows what went wrong. Whether there was a bit of jealousy from the other Goblins and some underhand magix, or whether it was a natural but unfortunate outcome... but all was well until they had a small baby goblin - their first!  They had looked forward to this moment and had made plans for the upbringing of their little offspring, but when Fitt f'Nuthin first saw the baby - he gasped and pointed accusingly at Fitt t'Bust.. for the baby was white - or rather a pinky colour and not a healthy Green One at all!!

Fitt t'Bust protested her innocence, and even the feeble brain of her husband had to agree that he had really not left her alone long enough for any other form of liaison !!  So they called a family member to help them out ..  Fitt z'Avidle the doctor came and examined the baby..  

"Definitely a Goblin" he pronounced after looking at the child.... "but the wrong colour!  Not a hint of Green here at all!! " He consulted his medical books and came up with no answers, but then decided to go and call on the wisest goblin of the Fitt Clan - who was a little pompous, but knew everything!!

When Fitt'n E'nosit examined the child he recalled that once back in the histories a similar thing had happened.. "What we have here" said the wise goblin, "is a case of  de-pig-mentation and could have been as a result of eating too much bacon  - but all the colour has gone!! You have an Albino Goblin"

Well!! What should they do!!  They were proud Goblins from a fine family and a fine clan. The Fitt's had ruled the darkwoods for such a long time that only the trees could remember - and many of them were senile!.  If they kept the child it could turn out to be an embarrassment like Fitt'n Nerdy who covered his whole body with brown cloth except for his pot belly sticking out and lay down and pretended to be an unripe acorn... totally unacceptable behaviour for the Goblin Rulers of the Darkwood..  His continued presence in the Darkwood would shame the whole family and clan.

It was decided that he could not stay in the Darkwood.. but unwilling to set him adrift in the big world with no idea of his heritage, they tied a bell around his neck, with the inscription "FITT'n" on it, and took the babe to a a place outside the Darkwoods.. there they found an elf couple who had never had any children of their own, and left the babe upon their doorstep ...

And so it was that the little child; he with the pointy ears and the bright red hair; he without a trace of Green about him; he with a little bell about his neck with the name "Fitt'n"; was loved and brought up by those elves as though he were their own elfling...

True, his mannerisms were often not those of a high elf. True his voice sounded a little course to the refined elven tongue. True, his red hair was a little shocking. True, they hid him in a box in the basement when guests came to visit. But he grew up in a family knowing that he was an "elf to be reckoned with" because his "parents" told him so. They taught him to be Elf Sufficient.. to stand up for Hims Elf .. and to seek his own Elf and Happiness...

And so, when he grew to age - Fitta'n Elfie made his way into the world ...  but he never knew why he was so attracted to the colour Green - and anything that turned out to be a Green One!!   And in fairness - no-one ever told him ...

And that was the story of Fitta'n Elfie ...

Fitta'n Elfie

Vollsanger took a hearty swig from his battered horn and started munching upon the meat from his spit ...  a twinkle in his eye as he watched his fellow travellers around the fire...
He wondered who would be the next to tell a tale...

Scene Nine - The value of the Badge...

"What??  What did he say ??" Vollsanger stiffened as he ran the conversation back through his mind.

Sitting at the gnarled wooden table, a goblet in front of each of them, Colour Sergeant Snatch looked across the table into the eyes of the French Captain, who was seemingly oblivious of any offence he may be  causing..... 

"And in what particular way do you think that I have been disgraced by wearing the badge?" the old bard asked in a quiet voice.... "

"Ees it not obvious?" queried the captain, "You take a great bard", he spoke to the sergeant, " and you enslave him to your troop, you make him less than he was ...  another of your riff raff.."

It was not just his slightly foppish mannerisms, and his annoying accent that grated. His whole attitude wreaked of insubordination and pretended superiority. Captain Caladan, of the Knights of  Dorn, exuded a religious fervour. 

Vollsanger had no real objection to a man's religion. It was a matter for personal choice. After all, he followed the Norse Gods in general and Bragi, God of song and Verse in particular. No, a man's religion was a personal thing...  but not something to be stuffed down another person's throat.

He had seen the Captain fighting in the courtyard during the day and had to admit that he showed a fair amount of skill as he sparred with Captain Marshall. The courtyard of Castle Quarrel had resounded with the clash of weapons, the hearty grunts of the Black Company Leader, and the incomprehensible french exclamations as the flat of a sword caught the red and yellow tabard.

He had skill to be sure, and by all accounts had fought for his Order under the guidance of the Grand Master with honour in many battles. His reason for being in the castle would be known only to Captain Marshall and the Grand Master who had penned the letter that still sat, seal unbroken at the Captain's table in the Officer's Mess. The Captain was a man of order. A time for everything and everything in its time.... No, he would read the letter later - after the banquet...

"Enslave......   Riff Raff...... " The sergeant pondered over the words as though testing the texture of a foul french Fricassée.....

Vollsanger was wearing his normal finery for the evening banquet. A fine woven shirt in light green, what other colour could he wear? with neat embroidery in the collar and sleeves, a boar on one, the mark of the Oathsworn of Dunholme and a fine depiction of a lute on the collar front.  Around his neck hung the numerous necklets, amulets, talismans and  hangings that represent awards and safe passage to the peoples of many lands. About his waist hung a broad leather belt with his music pouch and the Blades of Berkana, the finely matched pair of master-crafted daggers that he carried as a gift from the "Widow". But the most important item of clothing this evening was the black sash that he wore from right shoulder to left hip. The sash was emblazoned with the Death Head of the Black Company Badge.

A badge that had been awarded and was worn with pride. The only Honorary Fully Badged member of the black Company in the annals...  Normally, a recruit would lose his name and his identity - become a recruit with a number. Some may never achieve a name. But if they persevered and proved worthy, then they may be given a name and the rank of private. But each would hold the day he or she achieved the Badge as their greatest day .... regardless of the promotions that may follow ..

Some of the words that the Frenchman uttered were true ... Many who wore the badge would leave the Company feet first. Many would die. Most were not heroes, they did not crave honours, but would fight to the last with the possibility of being mentioned in the Glorious Dead... perhaps a few lines in the annals..  but always to fight alongside their comrades in arms... But to suggest that it was dishonourable....

Vollsanger sat to the left of the Frenchman, also facing the Colour Sergeant. While the Frenchman had uttered his broad statements, arms flailing in latin fashion, the bard's hands had dropped quietly to his sides, and covered the hilts of the daggers..... In one fluid motion he shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward across the table, his body covering the actions of his hands, which deftly eased the two daggers from sheath and reversed them so the blades were held against the forearm. The Blades of Berkana.. Razor sharp, narrow bladed, etched with the Rune of Berkana, an angular "B" on the hilt. Vollsanger reached out his left hand across the table - palm down - the reversed blade held close to the arm and hidden from view sandwiched between arm and table. Hand open, the hilt palmed in a manner even the Company Fool Devilstick Peat would have been proud of...  As the right hand extended behind the back of the Captain, reversing the dagger, point down, with the tip angled to the that point on top of the chainmail where the neck was exposed...

The Colour sergeant could clearly see the action behind the Frenchman, who, with the experience of a veteran fighter sensed the blade and tensed, yet smiled and said "I have no fear of these ? I am a guest and subject to the hospitality of the Company.." He shrugged. An action as annoying as all that had gone before and Vollsanger held himself back...

The bard looked to the Colour Sergeant. Honorary member of the Company. Company Bard... He had a unique place in the Company, but it was not his call. Every part of his being said that the dagger should slide into the 3rd cervical vertebrae, now !! and without listening to another word...

The Colour Sergeant passed his hand over the arm of the Bard who slowly retracted the limb - leaving Snatch ready with a dagger immediately to hand...  There was no doubt that the soldier was already well armed, but the opportunity to have a surprise dagger in hand would prevent any defensive action from the braggard...

Both company men were now fully armed... but the guest was not heeding a word ...
"Eet is always the same with you ...  you give each a death sentence when they come, look at these idiots and pathetic souls... they are the dregs..."

Colour Sergeant Snatch almost bit off the stem of his pipe. Even the flickering candle light suggested that his finely twisted moustache was curling with outrage.. He made his decision... he was a veteran of the Black Company and would neither sully the reputation of the Company by the death of the insolent upstart, nor would he let the insult lie..

He left the blade on the table and rose to his feet, peering down at the French Captain who was still held in place by a dagger at his neck.... He took out his pipe and gesturing with his right hand accentuated each line.

"Dregs??? " Spluttered the Colour Sergeant... his Badge glinting on the sash of bright crimson across his black leather armour... "Dregs .. Pathetic Souls and Riff Raff ??"

The muscles on his neck tensed with anger, his eyes blazed as he addressed the Knight of Dorn ..

"These Dregs are my Privates" He announced in his best parade ground snarl..
"MY Privates!!! They are precious to me ! I look after my Privates. I keep them close to me! My privates are not to be played with by others, or mocked!! I will groom them and nurture them and let them grow. They are Snatch's Privates!!!  They are the Company Privates...  And one day you may find out how precious my Privates can be!!!"

He glared once more at the Frenchman - nodded to Vollsanger - leaving the blade upon the table.

Vollsanger accepted the decision of the rank and placed his own blade alongside its pair... He got up from the table without a word and walked off to find a tankard of ale to wash the bad taste from his mouth..

The Knight of Dorn sat there awhile... I know not what went through his mind...

Next day, after the Tribunal, the floggings went on for an hour. The entire Company was in attendance as penalties were exacted..  Towards the end, a messenger requested the presence of Captain Caladan to the courtyard. Vollsanger had been keeping a surreptitious eye on him - in case he stole the company silver or molested the serving wenches or abused the animals, he had such a small regard for the man, and followed into the winter sunshine..

Captain Marshall was officiating. "Ah. Yes .. Captain Caladan.. Please come forward"
The Frenchman was obviously a little disconcerted, after all, a series of soldiers had just received  a public flogging..
"I hope eet is not for zee punishment  mon Capitan?"
"Of course not dear boy. Front and Center - there's a good chap!"
The flamboyant figure swaggered into the centre of the circle and stood by the Captain who towered above him.
"Right. Captain Caladan. Knight of Dorn. I have read the letter sent by your Grand Master. And it seems that you have been a little excessive in your religious excesses!"
"Quoi??" Sputtered the Knight..  "I may be a leetle enthusiastic - urr..."
"Over - zealous I think is the expression of your Grand Master.." Continued Captain Marshall, hands behind his back in a stance well known to every recruit of the Black Company ...  Everyone knew now that some bad news was coming for the annoying interloper, and even those nursing their wounds were ready to find out what it was...

"Yes indeed. Over zealous !!  Seem that you - Captain Caladan " he pronounced the name with as much disgust as he would use in discussing a venereal disease " have been a bit of a naughty boy .. Tut Tut!!!
Moreover, seems that your Grand Master wants to be rid of you for a period of time ..  and has given you to us for at least a year - if you survive that long!"

"Mais non. C'est n'est pas possible!" Spluttered the Frenchman and lunged towards the Captain. A bad move. He was immediately seized and dragged back as he yelled and shouted in his incomprehensible tongue .. He was held firmly as the Captain explained that the letter from the Grand Master allowed no confusion or alternative interpretation.... the former Knight of Dorn would now be Recruit No 9 - not even a name, but a number until he proved otherwise...

Volsanger leaned back and pondered that this seemed a much better outcome than the alternative considered the previous night, though it still irked him to have let the insult lie..

Having calmed down a little, Caladan, or rather Recruit no 9 asked permission to speak, which was granted.
"Mon Capitan" said the Frenchman, in far more contrite terms than before. He shrugged off those who held him and slowly pulled out his fine French Crafted Axe and held it aloft..
"Mon Capitan.. You see here a fine Axe n'est pas?"
"Indeed I do" replied the Captain
"Well, mon Capitan, would you use this to dig latrines and graves? or would you use a ... what do you call the thing.. urr  .. a Spade??"
"We always call a Spade a Spade in the Black Company - we would use that " replied the Captain...
"Then please Mon Capitan, consider me!!  I am ...    I was  Knight of Dorn ...   I am like this axe...  Make use of me for what I am good at,, I am an axe not a spade"
"Yes. Well. We shall see. We shall keep a close eye on you and see if you have any value.."

The captain looked around and with a glance at his newly promoted  Lieutenant Snatch, wearing his new Veteran Medal, said " Right Oh.. Jolly Good!!  Carry on then .. " and went back to the Officer's mess for lunch...

The Company slowly drifted away, leaving a rather forlorn figure slumped against a wall. Recruit No 9, formerly Captain Caladan of the Knights of Dorn, now nameless until he proved himself sufficiently to be given a name. And then, if he survived, and not all did, he may warrant to a position where he could be eligible to wear the Badge of the Black Company...

"Nothing is certain in this world" mused Vollsanger..  but somehow here in the Black Company there seemed to be a touch of balance and a little fairness...  Perhaps I should write a song he thought as he hummed to himself " My sword is sharp it's here with me - I'm fighting with the Black Company. "