The Minuscule Kettle
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Now, this is a tale of some dwarf thieves. They were seven brothers who’d been given their birthright in the east when they came to steal the great bronze kettle from its fire for no other reason than because it was there, and not much else; so it’s said.
But alas! After all the trouble and strife that the old gods can bring on folk even when their hearts are truly set upon something with honorable intentions! It began as it must do most times these days: with prayer, sacrifice, and such.
So prayers were had and sacrifices made (by the eldest of them) to ensure any poor unfortunate souls whose eyes fell upon the kettle would be filled with good intent and turned aside from thieving. And all went well at first – until they heard it ring on a passing wagon, the voice of destiny calling out.
‘There may still be hope,’ one said to another. ‘How could fate have led us to so very carefully prepare ourselves only for what is inevitable?’
They stood up then, feeling lost, disheartened by fate, or whatever force of nature willed that they should take after an object which might make more sense if someone just gave it a shove and let gravity do its thing. Probably.
Their pride suffered greatly and I’m afraid things proceeded along similar lines thereafter; except each brother took his turn pushing down on the handle rather than straight into the fire, so to speak. The result of which is that they kept sliding off course and being thrown back across the countryside for years, the one thing they thought would send them home never quite bringing them past the next bend in the road.
Soon enough, this story takes place about six thousand miles away from where we started it, and on an island somewhere near the coast of Africa. The dwarf thieves now sport the beard-and-long-sleeves look of Middle Eastern outlaws but otherwise, they’ve maintained their unruly attitude.
Though how one thinks having dreadlocks and tattoos gives you the right to cut people in half is beyond me. Regardless, there they are, plowing through the thick undergrowth when suddenly all goes quiet – or perhaps it just seems so because your own heartbeat sounds louder than usual?
Either way, the brothers stand before a large tree whose trunk stretches out as far as the eye can see and is barely interrupted by the few gaps left by vines growing out of it. Whatever lies at the end of the tree’s branches remains a mystery to these rough men of the desert though, although it’s clear their spirits lift somewhat in knowing their search may soon be over; this is
because a path has been left behind them which leads deeper into the jungle, and now they feel compelled to follow it.
Here I’ll pause the tale to ask the reader a question – what sort of person would volunteer to help out bandits and then go and tell everyone he meets about what happened? That’s exactly what happens here.
This time, however, the informant is a man dressed in grey robes, his head covered by a hood – most likely to hide the fact that he’s bald. You don’t get to be a master of disguises without picking up certain skills along the way. He arrives riding a white steed called Gildon, or Golden Goose, as the brothers often call him because of his dazzling white coat.
Anyway, upon seeing the five dwarves standing motionless against a massive trunk, the robed guy asks them a little too casually whether they’re going to put that kettle down, but none of them bothers to reply.
One thing we can assume though is that they all know who he is, maybe not from personal experience – but certainly, based on their response to his arrival anyway.
“You again?” one of the younger ones growls, eyeing Gildon warily. “Come closer,” the dwarf in red says, stepping out between two trees and extending a hand. In response, the other four start walking towards him, the youngest gripping the longsword hanging off his belt ever tighter, trying to squeeze himself into a smaller space between the bark and the trunk as he does.
They stop moving the moment his blade makes contact with the air though, making his arms slip off their blades’ grips. For once in their lives, these adventurers have learned something new about weapons.
Not bad, considering they’re armed with nothing but daggers and swords in that particular battle. Still, they’re determined to learn more, so they repeat the gesture; though not before Gildon shouts:
“No, stop!”
It’s a good idea because the younger brother instantly hurls the sword through the gap left by Gildon’s arm. The one closest to the road actually catches a glimpse of his face before he shoves the tip of his dagger under the ranger’s nose. It looks like some sort of a plant.
Well, the rest of him is pretty much covered in vegetation too, so I suppose it’s only natural he’d be mistaken. Then again, a snake-like appendage protruding from beneath his robe might also throw people off. Regardless, the robed fellow says, “I didn’t mean to do any harm.”
As a matter of fact, there’s no trace of hostility anywhere on his face and voice and he doesn’t look dangerous or threatening in the least.
Rather, he appears to be looking for a reason to explain why he’s traveling alone through the middle of nowhere; while the brothers stare hard at the newcomer – except for the youngest, who keeps squinting through the gaps in the trees hoping the bearded stranger might produce the aforementioned kettle – Gildon says, “Let me introduce myself. My name is Larken Alabaster.
And since I was raised by wolves my whole life, please don’t attack me just yet.”
Well, that’s very nice of you. Now if he were wearing a mask it could all make sense, but luckily enough, he isn’t. Since they’ve stopped advancing towards him, he continues, “Now let’s return to our original point – yes, I’m a Ranger but I haven’t seen any Wolf Riders since I got out of captivity.
The last time I saw the king was during the Battle of Blackroot Pass, ten years ago. So it’s safe to say I’d been completely out of circulation, thanks to a rather nasty encounter with orcs several months later; one of whom left an arrow piercing my leg and kept trying to strangle me until his fellows found the opportunity to take care of the problem.”
The dwarf in black smirks, apparently relieved after hearing such a positive story; but still keeping his guard up nonetheless. Red however starts fumbling around inside his jerkin, producing something dark and shiny from somewhere – probably another blade hidden beneath his robes.
Meanwhile, Blue gently pushes aside a few leaves concealing a small nest filled with eggs before dropping a clump of sand over the entire mess. Brown sniffs the air appreciatively, quickly losing interest in the egg case and turning back towards the road.
Gildon waits patiently for the rest of the gang to stop fussing with things until Blue eventually looks up and asks, “What did you come to tell us about, Mister Alabaster? How about telling us whatever useful information your esteemed colleagues have managed to gather recently.”
To which the robed stranger nods, saying:
“Of course. Actually, there seems to be quite a lot of excitement here at the moment. A couple of weeks ago, a group of merchants heading east told us about a village attacked by wolves, the villagers apparently fled only after killing most of them and burning down the church.
You see, these creatures were twice as large as the usual wolf and had six legs instead of four – like spiders. Naturally, nobody has seen one of those around here, although I’ll bet a mountain bear would provide equally satisfactory proof of what I’m talking about.
What happened next I heard about it second-hand. Apparently, three rangers decided to check the place out – with the express purpose of learning more about said bears and bringing back solid evidence to report to His Majesty.”
He pauses, waiting for one of the ruffians to speak, but it’s only Blue who raises his hand – clearly eager to share. After seeing the man shrug off the forest’s other occupants effortlessly, Gildon decides that getting help from someone else is easier than arguing with them; besides, having two guards means less danger to everyone concerned.
It wouldn’t hurt if the guard actually gets them closer to the objective either; because there are plenty of opportunities in the woods for ambush and sneak attacks; and the possibility of encountering bandit scouts is far greater than that of the brothers being ambushed by their own kind.
To prove the point, Brown kicks dirt into his mouth as he watches the robed figure cautiously step forward once more, leading them to the spot where they left the horses. The bearded wizard says, “With regards to our primary mission, this is mostly unnecessary.
But I think it would be very interesting to know how many miles we can travel every day until reaching Baldur’s Gate or wherever our destination may end up being. Also, it’s wise to try avoiding bandits along the way. Do you happen to know anything about people like that?”
He stops speaking abruptly when he notices one of the two men stepping out from behind a tree without uttering a word, closely followed by a bear cub crawling out of the undergrowth too. Blue steps around him carefully, saying, “Welcome! We’re glad you could join us!”
Brown frowns, making the other man chuckle, feeling like he’s been tricked. However, unlike Brown, who didn’t show any inclination to make conversation with others – especially not strange, scarred strangers – both the elf and the bear appear delighted with each new thing the robed figure produces.
Their jaws drop at the sight of a pot big enough to boil an elk inside; along with plates, cups, and various utensils; then one of the ruffians exclaims happily, pointing at the water skins and tins filled with food. Brown grimaces in disgust while Blue eyes the meat hungrily; but Green simply follows the wizard around and keeps asking questions; as does Brown.
As the conversation continues, the ranger in black places his hands on his hips, adding:
“I also have some interesting news from the capital. There was an attack against House Vastwood just days after the coronation of Queen Cersei.” He shakes his head, looking annoyed. “It appears she hasn’t learned much from her father’s mistakes yet, although I’m sure her advisors will soon remind her of that.
Anyway… I hear a company of knights led by the Lord Warden went to the aid of a merchant caravan attacked by bandits.” He gives them a disgusted look and adds, “Apparently, most of the survivors couldn’t remember where the bandits came from.
Nevertheless, a lot of those damned wargs were killed, so Cersei has declared all settlements within five miles of the border to be temporarily safe. If only she would focus half as much effort on helping her people defend themselves… But at least this should mean we won’t meet any trouble along our route, except maybe some orcs roaming the plains northward. They rarely venture south.”
The wizard waves his hands as if trying to shoo away imaginary flies, saying irritably, “Now, now, no need to get upset. I merely wanted to say that such precautions would cost a great deal of money – even for royalty.
Besides, according to my information, none of the bandits attacking settlements had anything to do with the ones responsible for burning down the church. Still, it looks like things are coming to a head quite quickly; in fact, the House of Lannister doesn’t have any time to waste…”
The End