Tired Of Death

"A necromancer living in a swamp?" Urt tried not to show any alarm. "It doesn't sound very likely."

"Well, I've never seen him," the shopkeep conceded. "The other necromancers all live over in Banesville. A dark wizard every other house over there, so I they say."

"Really?" Urt had to work to suppress the excitement in his voice. "Every other house you say? Where is this place?"

"You want to know where Banesville is? I told you, it's a dark place, only the evil reside there." The man rolled his eyes. "Evil," he repeated. "So they say."

"Yes, yes of course. I only want to know so I don't wander that way by accident. I'm new to these parts see."

"Yet you smell like swamp," the man commented.

"That's because I fell into the fool thing!" Urt banged his fist on the counter. "You should have warning signs up or something."

"Alright then, keep your shoes on. No need to go bashing my shop apart." The shopkeeper rubbed at the spot Urt had attacked.

"Sorry. I was just, er, nervous when I heard there were necromancers living nearby. You did say they lived nearby didn't you? My, er, father was killed by a necromancer. Evil man. The necromancer, not my father of course." Urt realized he was starting to babble and shut up.

"Well don't you worry then, Banesville is far, far away from here, so they say. Even out of the swamp, though I don't expect that's a shock to a well travelled fellow like yourself. You've probably been to Scudbloom or even Old Snog I dare say."

"It's quite likely I have," Urt countered. "Hard to keep track of everywhere I've been, all these places blur after a while." He shrugged gently. 

"Aye, I suppose so." The shop keep squinted at him for a moment, as if trying to divine the truth of his customer's words. "Well, Banesville is to the north, so they say."

Urt was beginning to wonder who these people were, who kept saying these things, because the man certainly didn't seem to wish to impart the details. He looked around the shop. Perhaps if he bought something he would be more forthcoming. 

"How much is that thing?" He pointed at a turnip sitting forlornly on its own, next to a pile of potatoes. 

"Five bits," the shop keep replied promptly.

Mangle had told Urt about shopping. 'You have to haggle hard,' his old master had said. Urt was ready to do just that.

"One bit, or I'll tear your spleen out," he said fiercely. 

The other man took a step back. 

"Er, two bits?" Urt realized he may have overdone things a little. "Two and a half?"

"Four," croaked the man, rallying slightly.

"Very well." Urt fished around in his purse and pulled out a gold coin.

"I can't change that!" the merchant protested, spotting the money. 

"Of course not," said Urt, and improvised quickly. "I don't know what currency you use in this village do I? This is the norm in Old Snog." He tipped out several more coins onto the counter top. 

"Here, this half Groat will do. Wait a moment, I'll get your change." The man picked up a rather bent silvery coin and scurried along to the other end of the counter, where he pulled out a wooden box and rummaged around in it, no doubt trying to work out how much he could rip this stranger off without endangering himself.

Urt scowled and scooped the rest of the money back into this pouch. It was clear he had much to learn about local customs. 

"Here you go." The man poured a few tiny copper coloured coins into his hand and then stood back, beaming. 

"Mmm." Urt decided not to make a big deal of things, and added them to the contents of his purse just as inspiration struck. "I say, you don't know where I could buy a map of this area do you? I think I may have gone off course somewhere along the way." 

"Master Tinkle usually does maps," came the reply. "But he's visiting his sick uncle over in Lower Scrag. Won't be back for days probably."

"That's a shame." Urt picked up his new purchase and, after one final glance around the shop, nodded at the man. "I'll be going then. Thanks for the turnip."

The shop keep nodded back. "Nice doing business with you. Pop back in in two weeks, we'll have a load of pickled pigs feet in then. Tasty things, pig's feet, as I expect you know."

"Just so," Urt said, sidling towards the exit. "Though you can have too much of a good thing. Goodbye now." He fled the store before he was roped into any further culinary discussion.

"Well, that wasn't a total waste of time," he huffed to himself, as he paused to recover after his shopping ordeal. "Banesville, some unspecified distance to the north, probably. A turnip is four bits, and old Tinkle is visiting a sick uncle. We're practically locals I'd say."

Deciding that one vegetable purchase was enough in the way of adventure for the time being, Urt turned about and headed towards the tavern. As he approached he slowed slightly, gathering the courage to enter the place, as he reviewed what old Mangle had told him about them.

'You can't trust anybody in the local drinking establishment. They're all liars and thieves, rob you blind as soon as look at you,' he had said. 'And don't get into any game of chance with them, if you wish to hold on to your belongings.' 

"Not so encouraging," Urt muttered. "Still, onwards we must go." 

Gripping his new turnip firmly in one hand, he took a deep breath and strode towards the entrance. Pushing the swing doors out of the way, he made his way into the bar. 

It was less exciting inside than he had expected. 

There was a long and rather grimy counter set along the wall to his left, with a woman of gigantic proportions wiping a dirty rag around a glass. The rest of the area was full of sturdy tables and chairs, though currently only two of the tables were occupied. One had three men sitting at it, playing some kind of card game. The other table was inhabited by an old fellow with a long beard, nursing an ale, and dressed in what appeared to be a nightgown. 

The whole sorry affair was dimly illuminated by a complex, candle-laden chandelier arrangement. 

 Urt's entrance drew little excitement from the hordes inside. The game-players spared him only a quick glance before returning their attention to the cards, and the old man could have been dead for all the activity he was showing. Only the gigantic bar-woman paid him any attention.

"Hello deary! You're a cute one aren't you? Waddlitbethen?"

"Er." Urt stepped towards the bar nervously. 

Frankly the woman scared him. She must have been part giant or ogre or something, for she was half as tall again as he was, and with arm muscles thicker than his t.h.i.g.hs. Despite her size she was fairly attractive, and her rather grubby top was stretched tight in its attempt to hold back the pressure of an enormous bosom. Her hair was gleaming blond, and washed over her broad shoulders like a golden waterfall. 

"You alright deary? You look like you've never seen a young lady before." She winked at him.

Urt flushed at this unexpected wanton behaviour. In fact, as far as he could remember, he had never seen a young lady before, at least a living one. He had no experience at all with the still breathing opposite s.e.x, though he'd read about them in some of the reference books old Mangle had in his limited library. 

"I, er, what do you have?" He managed to recover slightly.

"Brown ale, black ale, red ale, blood red ale, dark red ale or Scud." 

"What's Scud?" Urt asked, reaching for the odd one out.

In way of an answer, the barmaid leaned forward and reached under the counter, an act that supplied Urt with his first view of the living female body, by way of the traditional glimpse down a woman's top. 

"Here." The barkeep slammed a heavy bottle of clear liquid down onto the counter. "First drink's on the house." She poured a tiny amount into small, and only slightly dirty, glass.

"That's it? That little bit?" Urt raised an eyebrow sceptically. 

"Big man eh? Very well then. The barmaid poured more, until the glass was full. "But in return you have to drink it down in one. Oh, and I get your belongings when… if you die."

Urt picked up the glass and sniffed at the drink cautiously. It didn't smell of anything. He was suddenly aware that the noise of men playing cards had ceased, and looked around. The customers were all staring at him. Urt put on a haughty expression and looked back at the glass.

"Seems easy enough," he said. 

In a smooth, casual movement, he knocked the beverage back, slamming the glass down back onto the bar once he was done. 

"See?" He smiled at the barmaid, who was staring at him. "A bit tangy, perhaps with a hint of orange yes? Pleasant enough I suppose. Now, perhaps I could try one of those other drinks next, maybe that dark brown ale?"

"That's amazing," she said, still staring. "Do you have a metal throat by any chance? Perhaps some kind of enchantment? Yes! That must be it."

"Of course not." Urt raised a hand dismissively. "You're no doubt used to a lesser class of character here. A bit of Scud? That's nothing to…"