"What am I, the universe's personal punching bag?" wondered Julian.
Here he was with an army of angry furniture bearing down on him, with
no goats to fight for him. Argio, however, was slightly more optimistic.
Eyes wide, he exclaimed, "Such rare and plentiful furniture! I will
make a year's worth of profits!" as he charged the kitchen table.
Thrust! Parry! Parry! Thrust! Thrust!
The table lay dead in front of the warrior, its
legs still twitching involuntarialy.
A tiny footstool, unnnoticed by anyone, slowly made
its way to the front of the mob.
"Who wants me next," asked the hunter, slaying a
nearby hat rack, "it doesn't matter, beause you're all scrap anyway."
The mob seemed hesitant to advance on such a fearsome warrior.
"I want you," screamed the footstool, "that table
was my father!" The footstool launched itself into the air at Argio,
connecting with the warrior's face. Blood gushed from his nose as
he staggered about, unfortunately into the arms of a waiting couch.
Before he could realize his mistake, 12 dining room chairs were upon him,
kicking and biting and doing whatever it is that dining room chairs do
when they're really pissed off. He had already ceased moving, but they
didn't seem to notice. Furniture berzerkery is not a pretty sight.
Julian tried to back away, but bumped into a rather
angry looking wardrobe. "You humans are all alike," it bellowed,
"you kill trees to make furniture and then look suprised when the spirits
of the trees reclaim their bodies. As if they actually belonged to
you. Only the elves understand us. Perhaps that bard had some
elf in him."
Just then, a small wooden wastebasket hopped in
to report to the wardorbe. "Sir! I spotted another moving toward
the town! He appears to be a magic-user."
"Bazil!" grumbled Julian.
"Hmm, another human to deal with . . . . well, we
shall have to kill this one quickly," said the wardrobe. The couch
and chairs got off of the broken form of Argio and circled Julian, along
with the wardrobe, the footstool, the wastebasket, and the rest of the
horde of bloodthirsty furniture . . .
Balanthalus sniffed the salty sea air of the salt
lake as he looked out from the deck of the ship. He had almost lost
sight of the remains of the port town but could not yet see the island.
He picked up his harp to play, noticing the burns on his hands and arms
that were just beginning to heal. As he played a low, haunting melody with
a ghostly but hearty "Arrr!" in the
background, he recounted the last day . . .
As the town was burning at its hottest, Bal realized
that his answer lay under the sea and that only something contained in
the fires of this town could help him. He moved into the heart of
the blaze, using his cape to shield himself from the flames. A very
ancient looking building seemed to be where the fires were most intense.
Driven by pure instinct, Bal walked into the inferno and descended to the
catacombs below. As he entered the largest and last chamber, he nearly
passed out from the heat. Hell's fires must seem like a cool autumn
day to this heat! In the center of the flames hung a strange medallion.
It was gold, fashioned in the shape of a great bird, but it was not melting
as gold should at such temperatures. What was more, the medallion
itself seemed to be ablaze, but it was not being consumed by the flames.
With a short moment to gather himself, the bard grasped the medallion with
his bare hand, searing it unbearably. He fled the building seconds
before it collapsed, holding onto the object with sheer willpower.
He ran to the lake and plunged his hand into the brine with a deafining
scream.
He pulled the medallion out of the water, and, to
his surprise, it was cold and no longer on fire. His hand, though
terribly burned, was intact and would heal. The rest of his body
was covered with minor burns, but they too would heal. He hung the
medallion around his neck and waited for the result.
Deep under the water, he could see an unnatural
blaze starting to slowly rise . . .
Balanthalus' attention was momentarially distracted
by movement in the sections of town which were no longer burning.
Dozens of pieces of furniture were slowly standing up and moving around.
Slightly apprehensive, he remembered the advice his father had given him
years ago, "If you don't mess with posessed furniture, it won't mess with
you. Remember, it's just
as scared of you as you are of it. Let it be."
The blazing object continued to rise from the briny
deep. Balanthalus could now see that it was a ship! As it finished
its ascent, the flames faded to an eerie red glow, then ceased. A
small dinghy with no one in it floated toward the bard. As he stepped
in, it moved back toward the ship with unnatural speed. As Balanthalus
climbed up onto the deck, he saw that
the ship was manned by a skeletal crew. As his hand moved to
a weapon, the crew kneeled and whispered in unison, "Arrr . . . ye be our
captian for this voyage. We will serve ye . . ."
As he played his melody, Balanthalus noted that
the crew was remarkably talented. They seemed to have several hundered
years of experience, and he'd hate to be on the other side of them in a
battle. Their skills added to the ship's already otherworldly speed.
He was not at his destination yet, but the bard knew he would be soon .
. .