A short tribute to Among the Dust , and inspired by the writing from both @Y'ttar Scaletail and @Bowser and a few other collaborators. Really enjoyed your work, and was inspired recently to come up with this one. My plan is to do four parts. Edit: Second half of the story is complete, and was originally posted as part of the October/November 2019 Short Story Contest under the title of "The Skink with No Name." Part 1: The Well Part 2: The Brawl Part 3: The Fort Part 4: The Mine
Part 1: The Well Many leagues north of the City of the Sun and west of the scorching plains of Poneextlan, three dark elves came to a halt in front of an abandoned well. Weary after a long ride through the desert, they dismounted to draw water from the wellspring, and give their reptilian mounts a brief respite from the sun under the shade of the ancient, drought-stricken tree. Each rider was dressed for hard riding, with bandanas to shield their sharp features from the blowing sand and broad hats to protect them from the summer heat. They were armed to the teeth with repeater-crossbow pistols and plenty of ammunition, as well as barbed spurs welded to their boots. One carried a massive crossbow-shotgun, able to fire many withering bolts at once; while the dark-eyed leader of the group carried a deadly, serrated cavalry saber. In the shade of the withered tree, the dark elf leader noticed a dust cloud appear on the desert horizon. As the dust cloud grew closer, it coalesced into the form of a fourth rider, likewise dressed to shield himself from the elements, galloping towards the well. His silent instructions understood, the Druchii leader and his two companions took up a guarded position directly between the rider in the distance and the well behind them. The rider slowed his pace; shortening to a trot, then stopped only a dozen paces away from where they stood. The fourth rider’s cold-one was strange. Unlike the mounts of the dark elves it was a much brighter shade of green, like one accustomed to live in the jungles to the far south. It scales were also different, much blockier and rigid; even its head scales and face were strange and foreign to the Druchii eyes; with an almost stupid looking and vacant expression in its eyes. Unlike the brutal and savage looking raptor mounts they rode, the beast hardly looked like predator at all; at least in the eyes of the dark elf leader. The rider was humanoid in appearance, but judging from the scaly-skin visible on his uncovered hands and the scaly-green tail protruding from the back of his native-print poncho, he was definitely not human. A dark, wide-brimmed hat shielded his face from view, but the dark elves were quick to notice the set of multi-barreled pistols hanging from his belt, as well as the long, thin package strapped to his back that looked suspiciously like a wrapped-up black-powder rifle. The lizardman dismounted and stood in front of his vapid steed, holding a water bag over his shoulder. Both sides sized the other up in the desert sun before the skink broke the heavy silence. “I am looking for Blue Bart,” the skink croaked, in the manner of one unaccustomed to using the common tongue. “Never heard of him,” answered the leader of the dark elves. His companions on either side said nothing. The lone lizardman looked past the three Druchii, where the raptor-like cold-ones of the dark elves were chained to the well. Their water bags had already been attached to their saddles, and the cold-ones were gorging themselves on what little their masters had deemed to share with them. “Well got water?” “Yes it does, but it’s mighty dry out here in the desert...” said the leader, glancing over his shoulder and again at his companions, before returning to the skink, “…reckon it has only enough water for three cold-ones today.” His companions snickered, patting the weapons on their belts. The lizardman slowly removed the bandana from his face as he replied, revealing a grin full of sharp teeth. “Or one cold-one for three days.” The sneering smile dropped immediately from the leader’s face, to be replaced by abject rage. In a flash before any of the dark elves could draw their weapons, the skink had pulled one of his multi-barreled pistols from its holster and fire three shots: one for each elf. Each bullet hit its mark, and rage was replaced by shock as the elves slumped into the dirt. The third elf staggered, firing a single wild blast from his crossbow-shotgun at the skink before the he too collapsed in a heap. The skink had no time to dodge the bolt blast and was hit in the shoulder and knocked off his feet. ******* The sun had creeped several fingers higher in the sky by the time the skink got back up. He saw all three dark elves still on the ground. Sand was beginning to cover their remains. Staggering forward slightly and nursing his wounded shoulder, he gathered the water bags from the dark elf cold-one saddles. His own mount having taken its fill of the well while his master lay out cold, waited patiently at his master’s side. It watched silently as the skink bandaged himself, refilled his pistol, and tightened the long package to his back. Once complete and re-provisioned, the skink mounted up, and set off down the dusty road to the west.
Part 2: The Brawl The skink rode into the town of Powder Keg later that afternoon. It was a small town with only one road, one water tower, a poor collection of haphazardly constructed buildings, and one barely legible sign. On the sign was crudely written: TOWN OF POWDER KEG DAYS SINCE LAST BRAWL: 3 This did not bother the skink of course, as he rode into the town and stopped in front of the town saloon, and tied his cold-one to the fencepost along the railing. The saloon was run by an exceptionally fat ogre, with the apt name of Big Gus. The ogre glowered from across the bar at the skink when he entered, wiping down an exceptionally dirty bar-mug with a soiled bar-rag. Several gnoblars under Big Gus’s employment also tended the bar, as well as serving the rowdy patrons throughout the room. Two identical gnoblars played the chipped piano in the corner, under a sign that stated plainly “Please Don’t Eat the Pianists.” The saloon floor was crowded, filled with many unsavory types such as skaven, orcs, and goblins, most deeply consumed with the various billiards, poker, and blackjack tables spread throughout the room. Though they all pretended to ignore him, there was not a single patron or worker in the saloon who didn’t notice the skink enter through the swing-doors and take a seat at the bar. “Whiskey?” said Big Gus gruffly, continuing to wipe the mug in his hands as the skink sat in his stool. “No thanks,” The skink answered, surveying the orc snoring loudly on the barstool beside him. “Wad you have?” “Grasshopper.” The skink heard the ogre grumble audibly “city folk” as two gnoblars appeared to serve his drink. One pulled a large, lime-green grasshopper from a box beneath the bar, while the other turned the grinder to crush the insect to dust and scooped the remains into a bar-mug. The process only took a few moments, once complete the gnoblars heaved the mug of milky-green liquid in front of the skink. Big Gus continued to clean the dirty mug, obviously bored his attention had moved away from the skink when his order was made, and back to the game of blackjack over at the table nearest the bar. Half the goblins on one end of the table were accusing the other half of cheating and vice versa; but so far the disagreement hadn’t escalated beyond name-calling. “Lots of brawls in here,” noted the skink, seeing where Big Gus’s attention was focused. The ogre snorted derisively in response, continuing to watch the game as he cleaned his mug. “Last fight was a bunch of black-orc wyvern-rustlers. Darn near took out the entire front of my saloon, had to close down for three days. Cost me a fortune, blasted dwarf carpenters. Just reopened this morning.” One of the goblins had discovered several cards up his opponent’s sleeve, and was now attempting to convince the others that the cards in his own sleeve were completely legitimate. Big Gus returned his attention back to the skink at his bar. “Anything else you need, stranger?” The skink took another swig from his grasshopper before he replied. “I am looking for Blue Bart.” “Never heard of him,” Big Gus replied. “Grechit has heard of the one you look-seek for!” hissed a low voice behind him. The skink turned to find a small, shabby skaven with a straw hat. He leaned in towards the skink as he continued, his eyes glistening emphatically as he held the skink’s rapt attention. “Grechit has heard of Blue Bart, yes! Blue Bart is an outlaw, bad-bad around here yes! Wanted by the blue-coats he is. Robbed the bank he did! Buried-hid the gold out in the Badlands!” “Pay my slave Grechit no mind, lizard-skink,” another skaven interrupted. The second rat had darker fur, still dirty but not as covered in filth as Grechit. He wore a mockery of a top-hat on his head and a broken monocle over his eye. He held out a hand to the skink as if to shake, but quickly dropped it when the lizardman did not take it. He bowed instead with a flourish of his hat. “I am Skeezik, owner the medicinal establishment just up the road, Skeezik’s Malady Apothecarium, perhaps you have heard of it?” The skink took another swig from his grasshopper as he eyed the rat suspiciously. Big Gus muttered “medicine-show freaks” behind him at the bar. Skeezik continued as if the skink had answered “yes” and ignored the ogre. “Like I was saying, ignore Grechit, sir stranger. “The legend of Blue Bart the Pirate is well known around this our humble village-town. He was the richest pirate ever to raid the Cactus Coast. When he retired, the legend states, he forced his skeletal-crew to carry his loot far across the desert, and bury it in a hidden-secret location not far from where we now sit! “Truly a fascinating story. Are you one of the many treasure-seekers hunting the legend? If so perhaps I can interest you in a bottle of balm for your scales as you continue your quest-journey? Or perhaps a potion of beetle-grubs from my Apothecarium to assuage the…” “Ignore this fraud, noble lizard-beast,” interrupted a third skaven, “…for he means to steal-rob you of all your coin.” This one wore a brightly stitched and equally dirty vest, with a bow-tie and a hat quite as gaudy as Skeezik. The third skaven bowed low, elbowing top-hat wearing Skeezik out of the way as he jostled for the skink’s attention. “My name is Nurgbill, proud owner of Nurgbill’s Snake Oil Emporium, an honest business which places its customers far above gribbly business-practices of certain other disreputable stores. And this is Gurch, my office assistant.” The sales-rat Nurgbill motioned offhandedly to the monstrous and ugly rat-ogre behind him, who also wore a bow-tie and carried a case of glittering potions and remedies of dubious origin. The skink heard Big Gus mutter “lying rats” as the ogre continued to wipe down his bar-mug with the dirty rag. Skeezik attempted to cut the new skaven off and regain the spotlight, but Nurgbill simply shouted louder over the sound of the general saloon, which had grown in pitch due to the impending violence at the goblin poker-table. “The truth of Blue Bart is well known in the history of these parts. “Many years ago, the humans from the Old World launched many expeditions to search for the fabled Lost Cities of Gold. Most expeditions failed, but Blue Bart, actually known in those days as Bartholomew, was a proud Estalian conquistador-mercenary from the city of Cadavo. He amassed a great deal of gold before the great Slann decided to put an end to that unfortunate city… but Blue Bart escaped prior to the cities end-destruction! “He escaped to the far north, with his men and horses taking shelter in a location not far from this very town, but the anger-wrath of the lizardmen knows no bounds, as I am sure you are aware! The minions of Lord Mazdamundi caught up with him, and left his bones and his treasure to rot under the desert sun in a long forgotten-lost location…” At this point Nurgbill was overwhelmed by his competitor Skeezik’s cries of protest, and both set upon the other in loud screams of “lies-lies” and accusations of falsehood. The skink, having heard his fill of skaven storytelling, left the squabbling sales-rats to their quarrel and returned to the bar. He was about order a refill on his grasshopper-infused drink, when he heard the scratchy voice of the slave-rat Grechit over the din once again. “What is this that Grechit sees? Grechit sees the scaly-man has gold in his bag!” Before the lizardman could stop him, the slave rat had pounced, ripping the cloth-covering off the long package on his back. Inside the package was a rifle, whose barrel was made of smooth and polished metal, and a stock made out of shiny, solid gold. A set of glass-mirror sights were affixed to the top of the barrel in the form of a primitive scope, and the sides of the weapon were covered in block glyphs and symbols, unfamiliar to anyone in the bar except possibly the skink himself. The weapon made no sounds but almost seemed to hum with power as the skink held it in his hands and attempted to yank it away from the slave-rat. The entire saloon froze (except for the bickering poker-playing goblins) for only a few moments after the golden rifle was revealed and brilliantly showered the entire room in gold-bathed light. All the patrons stood with mouths agape as the rifle clattered to the floor and fought over between the skink and the slave-rat. Then all the patrons sprung into action. The sales-rats piled onto Grechit: both Skeezik and Nurgbill grabbed either end of the golden rifle in an attempt to wretch it out of the skink’s grasp. The rat-ogre Gurch ran to the aid of his master, but clumsily tripped and instead threw his box of merchandise directly at the skink. It missed and hit the bar instead, showering the gnoblars behind the bar in acidic boil potions, who presently ran screaming into the back. The two gnoblars at the piano quickly took stock of the situation, and began playing a conspicuously louder and more fight-music-oriented-tune for the benefit of the rest of the patrons. The orc wyvern-rustlers, who had been monitoring the escalating sales-pitches of the rats from the corner, made their move. Chairs flying and tables upended, they roughly pushed their way through the billiards tables between themselves and the bar in a mad scramble to enter the fray. The goblins at the poker table had meanwhile reached their breaking point. In a final insult two far, the lead goblin balled his fist and slugged his competitor across the face. This sent the goblin flying across the table directly into the orc stampede, tripping up the orcs in front and cascading them into the blackjack table. The rest of the orcs, forgetting their original objective, turned on the goblins and proceeded to pick up the remaining furniture (that was still intact) and began throwing it across the room at the goblins (and each other). Big Gus continued washing his mug, grumbling about all the poker chips being lost between the floorboards. A shot rang out over the commotion, causing the fighting to cease. In the swinging doorway stood three shadowy figures, tall and thin, and wearing broad-brimmed Stetsons and uniforms of deep blue, almost purple. The center figure walked out into the light of the chandelier above, in full view of the saloon patrons with his pistol raised to the ceiling. The skink, twisted amongst the bodies of the frozen ratmen, heard one of the skaven squeak from somewhere beneath him, “Cheese it, it’s the Law!” “Nobody move!” shouted the dark elf, now with his eyes narrowed and scanning the saloon, looking for someone. His pistol was still raised to the ceiling, but he was prepared to aim it at any patron in a moment’s notice. The skink recognized him: it was the dark elf leader that had accosted him at the old well, miraculously recovered from his wounds from a few hours prior. “Who started the commotion here?” the uniformed dark elf demanded to know. “It was him officer-sir!” shouted Skeezik, immediately getting to his feet and pointing at the skink, “…the one with the golden rifle!” “Yes-yes! It was him officer-sir!” agreed his rival Nurgbill, who enthusiastically continued throwing the glowering skink under the metaphorical wagon, “…we were simply conducting honest-legitimate business when this one began making grandiose claims and spinning stories out of…” The dark elf lowered his pistol at the skink and the two ratmen. The skaven immediately raised both their hands and took a step away from the lizardman. The Druchii grinned as he gave his instructions to his cronies. “Take him.” ******* Big Gus sighed grumpily as the dark elves pulled the skink out of his saloon. The rats had disappeared, the orcs had begrudgingly gone back to their original table in the corner, and the goblins had returned to their blackjack table, the previous transgressions forgotten. “Lurg! Stiggle!” the fat ogre bellowed. “Yes boss!” Two gnoblars appeared from beneath the bar. “You gnobbos go change the town sign again.” “Yes boss!” The ogre put down the dirty mug and picked up a new one to begin cleaning with his soiled rag, as he watched the gnoblars scurry out the saloon doors pulling a bucket of white paint between them.
Part 3: The Fort Fort Dank stood high above the desert atop a lofty mesa, its wooden palisades were topped with the skulls of trespassers into the elfin domain. Many slaves toiled about the fortress, strengthening the trenches and earthworks that led up the craggy path to the fort entrance. From the walls a lookout could just barely able to see the town of Powder Keg across the desert with a looking glass. The Skink with No Name could not see the town of course; neither the cacti in the desert, nor the toiling slaves and the great views of the mesa. Nor could he hear the sounds of a thundering battle in the distance, where elf-fought-elf in a struggle for supremacy over this shadowy continent. Water leaked from the roof of his jail cell, where he had been thrown by his captors after they had confiscated his weapons. The jail was mostly empty, save for a single bearded dwarf in the adjacent cell. “Where did you get that rifle stranger?” dwarf asked immediately after the elf guards had left. The dwarf had introduced himself as Ruco, a prospector, after the skink had arrived in his cell. The skink said nothing, contemplating his fate as the dwarf continued to pester him with questions. “Your pistols, they were dwarf make? But your rifle, it looked like the hilt was made out of gold! Those were not dwarf runes, they looked foreign. Not elfish either, too complicated for gobbos...” The skink could tell the dwarf had been in the cell for some time; unwashed dwarf was a pungent odor. The dwarf was unfazed of course, he was too happy for the company. “…heard the stories of a fabulous golden weapon that could never miss. Were the runes Arabyan perhaps? Cathay? Is that why they captured you? Why did they bring you here?” The skink finally responded to Ruco’s torrent of questions. “I am looking for Blue Bart.” “Never heard of him,” replied the dwarf, scratching his beard as he pondered the skink’s statement. “I reckon you mean Barin Bluebeard? He was a dwarf prospector too, went mad looking for the gold mines at the Lost City of the Sun, up high in the mountain provinces.” The skink did not answer, listening to the approaching footsteps in the distance as the dwarf continued to babble on about the legends. “…clan thought he was daft, especially when he came home babbling about the huge mother-lode he found with no proof to show for it. Nothing but a map with strange symbols on it no proper dwarf could read. Went back to go get proof too, captured by dark elves and never seen again.” The dwarf continued uninterrupted until the jailors returned. “The Captain wants to see you,” one of the elves said, ignoring the dwarf. The two elves unlocked the cell and grabbed the skink by either arm, roughly dragging him out into the corridor and up the steps. Ruco hollered after the skink, “…say, the glyphs on the map probably looked a lot like the ones on your rifle, where did you say you found that rifle again? Cathay? Ind? Let me know when you come back stranger!” I doubt I will be back thought the skink as he was led up the corridor into the gloomy fortress. ******* “I should torture you like I do our other ‘visitors,’ but I know that our pleasure would be wasted on a child of the First. So tell me skink, where are you from and where did you find this weapon.” The skink was crouched in front of the elf captain, seated on a wooden chair and dressed in his navy-blue robes of office. Behind him were the blood-striped flags with the rattlesnake emblem of the army, fluttering to the breeze of a distant thundering battle. Prodded by the saber of the elf guards to his rear, the skink replied to the captain. “I am looking for Blue Bart.” “Never heard of him,” replied the captain, dark eyes glinting as he surveyed the skinks weapons, laid out on the table next to him, “But I believe you.” The dark elf picked up and examined the hilt of the golden rifle. “These markings, they are the writings of the First, aren’t they?” The skink said nothing, but even the elf could pick up on the new wariness now hovering over his prisoner. He smiled as he continued, soft booms of artillery sounding in the distance. “I too know the legends of the lost Black Ark, that long ago raided the Lizardmen city of Zarmunda. The Blue Dark itself, filled to the brim with stolen Lizardmen artifacts, lost forever in the Undersea.” The Captain rose from his dais and pulled out a mold-worn parchment. “Do you recognize this, skink? It was believed to be a map, drawn by your priests detailing the location of the lost Blue Dark and its treasure-hoard. No elf alive can translate these glyphs, but they match the ones on your weapon here.” The dark elf smiled. He watched the skink blink his reptilian eyes as the artillery sounds on grew louder and closer. “I can read it,” replied the skink with a flick of his forked tongue. “Then we can help each other after all,” the dark elf said, replacing the rifle on the table and leaning back in his chair. “We both have something the other wants. You desire your freedom, and I desire to know where this map leads. This civil war is not very profitable for a lowly commander of troops, and the recovery of the Blue Dark would be worth a lot of gold.” Another muffled artillery barrage, closer this time, rocked the fortress gently as the dark elf finished the terms of the deal. “…when we arrive, you will be set free and on your way. Refuse, and I will have to rethink my policy of how I deal with the children of the Old Ones.” The elf looked down at his prisoner with a wicked sneer, “What do you say, skink?” A loud explosion tore through the side of the stone wall before the skink could answer. Stone fragments and splinters were thrown into the air as the blast ripped through the room. In the shower of debris the skink jumped up, eluding his elfin guards under the collapsing ceiling, and snatching the map and his golden rifle in the confusion. Panic quickly spread through the fortress as artillery pounded the walls. Elves ran to return fire as slaves scurried for cover. Soon the escaped skink made his way to the fortress stables, guards having fled in the madness. Not finding his previous mount, he stole a new cold-one (one that was less derpy-looking than a Lustrian cold-one and much more lethal, like a raptor) and snuck away as the High Elf army closed in on the fortress.
Part 4: The Mine The Skink with No Name looked up at the mountain, noting that its four sides were perfectly symmetrical. It almost appeared as if an ancient pyramid had been covered over with earth, and now had small trees and shrubs growing up its smooth slopes. This was the location the map led him too. Climbing up the slopes of the mountain, the skink soon found himself at the entrance of a mine-shaft at the top. Lighting a torch from the shrubbery and wood lining the entrance, he peered down the tunnel. He did not hear the figure come up behind him. “Well done, skink, you have found the entrance.” Whirring around in shock, the skink found himself face-to-face with the dark-eyed elf captain. His uniform was not as clean as it was in their last encounter, but his leveled crossbow pistol was enough for the skink to realize that the elf had no trouble escaping the fortress explosion. “Thank you for leading me here. But your job is not finished yet.” Pointing at the shadowed entrance, he gestured the skink forward. “I have been in enough tunnels to know there could be deadly things waiting for us inside. Just keep that torch in front of you and your other hand where I can see it.” Shadows played along the rough corridor walls as they travelled down the mine-shaft. Slowly, the walls began to grow straighter and cleaner. The skink noticed that the walls were now more solid; the wooden struts that held up the rough tunnel were replaced with smooth masonry. Muffled footsteps were replaced with the sounds of claw and shoes hitting stone steps. “This is no entrance to the Undersea,” the skink heard the elf mutter under his breath as he followed. “…this is a tomb!” At the end of the long corridor they arrived at a half-broken door. Inside was a small chamber, ornate and covered in painted murals barely visible in the torchlight. In the center of the room the skink and his elfish shadow could clearly see the lidded sarcophagus. “That is one of the Slann,” the dark elf breathlessly intoned, staring at the stone lid with a greedy expression while keeping the skink in the sights of his crossbow pistol. “It is,” responded the skink. The stone slann’s froglike visage was unmistakable, as were the carvings detailing the world tree and underworld symbols to his lizard-eye. “This must be it then!” The elf exclaimed. “Blue Bart, a name for a Slann? There must be a fabulous treasure buried here, maybe even the remains of a buried slann itself! Just think of the magical properties of a slann skeleton, how much gold it would be worth!” Behind both the elf and the skink, a figure stepped out of the corridor and into the stone room. “It would be worth a fortune.” Ruco the dwarf stepped into the chamber, shackles still chained to his ankles where the artillery explosions had blown off his chains, a pistol aimed at the two of them. In his other hand was a stick of dynamite. Immediately the dark elf rounded on the dwarf, repeater crossbow pistols at the ready. The skink, sensing his chance, unslung and pulled out the rifle slung on his back. The standoff didn’t last long, dramatic eye close-ups notwithstanding. The three gunslingers opened fire at the same time. The skink shot the dark elf square in his chest. The dark elf shot the dwarf, crossbow bolts hitting the dwarf full on in the beard. The dwarf, firing widely from his pistol, landed shots on both the elf and the skink, and dropped his dynamite as he did so. All three were knocked down in the resulting explosion that wracked the chamber, throwing them against the walls and onto the floor. ******* Sometime later, the dark elf got back up. Shaking the ringing from his pointed ears and dust from his shoulders, he inspected the damage to his dragonscale shirt under his cloak. Fortunately the skink’s bullet had not penetrated, leaving only the smallest scratch on the scales. Laughing to himself at the two lifeless forms, specifically the dwarf blown to pieces by the brunt of the dynamite blast, he holstered his pistols and sauntered over to the sarcophagus lid, easily prying it open. Immediately he flew into a rage, throwing his hat and cursing the skink for his treachery. Under the lid the coffin was empty; nothing was inside except for a small glass-stone pendant in the shape of a frog. A far cry from the skeletal remains of an ancient Slann, or a vast treasure hoard. ******* The dark elf left the tomb, stomping back down the slopes of the temple-mountain. In his head he planned to travel back to the wreckage of Fort Dank and enlist the aid of his men, who were currently rebuilding the fort in the wake of the last high elf attack. He would assemble an army of slaves and take apart the hidden temple brick-by-brick until they found something of greater value than the worthless trinket in his pocket. The dark elf never got far however. Mounting his cold-one at the base of the temple, he looked back to the top of the mountain, at the entrance to the mine-shaft tunnel he had just left. He saw the flash of light, as though a rifle had gone off within the tomb. Before he could understand what happened he fell from his steed, shot between the eyes by a magical bullet that could never miss, even down a winding tunnel with low light. The skink, crawling up the corridor, had survived. Against all odds, all thanks to his six-plus scaley-skin armor save. The skink slowly made his way down the mountain to the motionless remains of the dark elf, his dragonscale shirt useless against a headshot. Picking through the corpse, he pulled out the small frog-pendant. Once in his hands the pendant began to glow bright blue. His prize obtained, the skink got back onto his cold-one, riding off to the west to report the good news and to collect his bounty.
Author's Notes/Short Story Contest critiques. I appreciate the feedback! This story was fun to write despite the two year period of writer's block. Glad the short-story contest kicked me into finally finishing it! I hope my hat didn't make this entry too obvious I agree with the accent piece... but I couldn't figure out how to write it out on paper! How do you translate funny sounds and the ways people have of talking onto paper? I tried to go the Brian Jacques/Redwall route with how he writes hedgehogs, that completely failed. Will have to try again next time. I can definitely understand the frustration with the jokes, they were mostly an inside reference to my brother's frustration when we used to play 6-8th edition Warhammer. He would sink twenty arrow shots into a 12-skink skirmisher unit, and half of them would still wind up living somehow even though they had only a 6+ save . Foreshadowing would also help, but I couldn't republish the first chapter of my story Dramatic close-ups all around, great summary! It was fun coming up with various identities for "Blue Bart;" the dark elves had one, so did the dwarfs, and the skaven had quite a few in chapter 2. Lots of fun to put together. Thanks for the comments! ::gallops off dramatically into the sunset on a derpy cold-one::
If I could go back in time... Spoiler: idea: mandalorian spoiler ...I totally would have made "Blue Bart" a mysterious baby slann that the skink with no name was hunting for and found at the end of the story for a big shocker reveal. The whole gimmick of the piece was that the skink was looking for an object, not a person. But considering the lore, a baby slann is all but unheard of in the scope of the Lizardmen sub-species. We never see baby slann; we only see super-old-and-ancient slann who are always in a slumbering stupor, so old as to be the oldest creatures on the planet barring the oldest dragons. Who knows where the baby slann kroak would have come from, but it is fun to think about