Grendel…
Grendel stared out the back of the covered wagon, lost in thought. Lady Bri, no, Mom, has been forcing me to practice my writing and maths. Wow it’s weird to write that. I’ve been wishing for it for so long. We’ve been traveling together for so long now, that we even act like a real family! Max, I mean dad, has been teaching me every night how to fight, how to talk to people (or not to talk to people, if you ask mom), and how to work out problems that don’t “Require” violence.
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The day had started warm and sunny, and Grendel had chosen to avoid his writing by walking beside the wagon. As lunch approached, they stopped near a stream; and while lunch was prepared, Grendel took a pan, and began the slow process of panning the sand and gravel of the stream bed for traces of gold and silver. A half of an hour had passed in the blink of an eye for the boy when lunch was called. A little disappointed in the lack of gold, he quickly returned (drenched in stream water), and consumed a rather wonderful sandwich of smoked ham and some sort of crisp vegetable. Then the wagon continued on its way.
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The gods…
Sarah (small god of small shadows), Maximilian (god of war (and called Mil by his friends)), and Pendelton (small god of the gnomes), sat around their evening fire. Mil, after staring long and hard into the fire, spoke, “Why haven’t we found the summoned yet? I almost feel like something is interfering in our search.”
“Someone, or thing, interfering with us would explain why we haven’t caught up to them yet.” Pendleton said, staring up into the sky. “Sarah, any word from your brother?”
“Nothing of substance. Just repeated apologies for sending us down here.” Sarah took a sip from a teacup. “Something big must have happened for him to be acting like this.”
“I still claim “Auditor”.” Pendleton said, not looking down from the sky.
Sarah rolled her eyes, “We all know that’s just an old wife’s tale, Pen-Pen.”
Finally looking down from the sky, Pendleton directed his glare at Sarah. “You keep thinking that.”
Mil glanced between his two friends, “That’s enough of that. We’ve been over that a dozen times, I counted. There is no hard evidence either way. Let. It. Drop.”
Both Pendleton and Sarah harumphed, but stilled their tongues on the topic.
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Grendel…
He daydreamed as he watched the countryside roll past. Visions of Dragons being slain in the Giants War (from a book Brianna was reading him and Dad at bed time). Dreams of finding the “Lost Gnome Mine”, a place that supposedly held glittering delights the likes of which had not been seen by Gnome or man since the mine’s loss to history. The daydreams were vivid and fun, even though he knew there was a fireballs chance in hell of it happening (especially since the last of the Giants had been killed off to the last by their god during the “War on god”). He sighed, continued to ignore his slate and chalk, and let his mind wander.
Why is it called a parkway, when we drive wagons and carts along it? Grendel asked himself. Probably because of the parklike landscaping along the side of the road.
I wonder how the fat bumbling bee’s fly. The wings are so tiny as opposed to the size of their body. Maybe the body weighs less than it looks? Or maybe the wings have some sort of magic in them like fae wings?
I wonder what kissing a girl is like?
Is there a better weapon in a street fight than a half-brick in a sock? A brick can be found anywhere, and most people have socks. Easy weapon to come by, and easy to dispose of.
How much wood can a woodchuck chuck?
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The gods…
Pendleton stared daggers at Sarah, “Of course a half-brick is a brawling weapon!”
“No, according to the rules, a half-brick is an improvised weapon, and requires the improvised weapon skill!” Sarah shot back. “Mil, would you explain to this cretin the difference between an improvised weapon and a brawling weapon?”
“What in the world do you mean?” Mill looked up from the pile of sticks he was turning into a miniature cabin. “In the really real world, a half-brick is a very versatile weapon. You can throw it like a rock. You can put it in a sock, and use it like a flail. You can hold it in your hand and just bash someone in the eye with it.”
“Exactly!” Pendleton piped up. “It’s a brawling weapon!”
“No!” Sarah yelled. “That makes it an IMPROVISED weapon!!”
Then a beam of golden light shined down from on high, narrowed into a thin beam, and wrote “The new errata states that all “Improvised Weapons” are to be considered “Brawling Weapons” and vise versa.”
The three looked at each other as the light fizzled out, and sighed. Mil was the first to speak, “He gets to message us once a week, and he wastes his message on a rule’s clarification? Typical.”
“Well, now that that has been taken care of, what about the bumbling bee?” Sarah asked, hoping to derail Pendleton from going off on another rule.
Mil sat up quickly, “I was observing one just yesterday, and it’s amazing that it can fly! I think the weight of the cute little thing is much lower than people think, that’s how it flies.”
Pendleton leaned forwards to listen more closely to his friend, nodded, and continued the thread of conversation, “That coupled with some sort of unique wing design would explain its flight patterns, as opposed to the more standard honey bee.”
“I think it would make the most sense if the bumble had…how do I explain it…words are hard…” Sarah cocked her head to one side, then the other, before speaking again. “I think they have softer wings than their kin. Like how an owl’s feathers are softer than a kestrels? Softer wings that allow for a different amount of wind current?”
Mil and Pendleton looked at Sarah, then each other, then back to Sarah, before Pendleton opened his mouth. “Sarah, I…I think you’re on to something there. We will have to stop and study the next one we see.”
-
…Meanwhile, some five or six miles away, a trio of undead-slaying “heroes” were smashing up yet another graveyard…
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