“Are Those Bells for Me?” – From the Journal of Quinn of the Kingston Barrow

I woke to the ringing of bells (looking back as I write this, I’d say that was probably the least fucked up morning call I could have expected). I was dizzy, disoriented. I had no idea were I was. I tried to sit up and, immediately upon the attempt, was sick into an empty bucket that lay nearby.

As thin, filmy bile mixed with what tasted as the sweet coppery flavor of human blood in my mouth, images began to flash in my head: there was an explosion…my cellmate and one of their friends lay dead…then there was this gruff human dragging me out, throwing me over his shoulders. Then the smell of shitty river water…and then I woke up to now incessant ringing. 

I was in a small room with a window. From the light I could tell it was mid-morning and cloudy (not an untypical day). I rose, carefully and unsteadily, as I examined my surroundings. I had been laid on a plank across two barrels. On a barrel opposite, I found a plate of food and drink (which I attempted to devour and was promptly sick again before keeping down a few bites) and my pack that contained what was left of my possessions.

I searched the bag, almost ignoring the copious amount of coin therein (it was only then that I recalled my brief time with those brigands had already yielded a rich harvest). It wasn’t there. The ring my male had given me before…

More images came to me: of pulling the tongue from that lying shits face with my teeth…of escaping that hellhole with the German…of going to the office to find the ring, only to have been nearly blown to pieces. 

I screamed. I kicked the bucket containing my bile. I slipped and fell as the bells in my ears played a dirge. 

I sat there, enraged and weeping, in a pool of my own sick until the sun rose half-way through the sky. Only then did the perils of my situation become clear: I a lone elf in what was likely a human village. What happened to my…”friends”? Was I safe from the King’s Justice? 

I slapped the tears from my face and got up. Wrapping a length of tarp around my head and ears, I took my pack and what looked like a broom handle in hand, steeled myself and left the storage room. I’m happy to write that I was pleasantly surprised by what I found:

I was in the common room of the local inn. The proprietress, Mrs. Dempsey, was quick to explain my situation: a gruff man with foul mouth had paid her well to hide me in the storage room and to tend to my needs till I was well. I was further informed that my “cohorts” had apparently headed south and, she added, that foul rumors were floating in from there abouts.

Thus informed and still fucking starving, I considered my next actions carefully over a boiling hot bowl of vegetable stew.  I was free again…but the Law, I presumed, still had it in for a “deviant little cocksucker” like me, given what they had accused me of. The ringing, which had dulled, soared again as white hot anger filled my eyes.

No. I had to be calm and deliberate. Going back as I was would mean another stay in one of London’s finest dungeons or a hangman’s noose on the side of the road somewhere if they couldn’t be bothered to bring me all the way. I needed coin – a lot more of  it than I already come into – to have my revenge in peace and those boys seemed to have a way about them…

That is how I ended up here, at a campfire along the southern road heading after rumors of murder and debauchery. I’m writing again, as one can tell, because I was told it was “good for the soul”…not as good as gouging that condescending pricks eyes out (it had been worth the beating and the hot iron) but it shall have to suffice for now.

I hope to be caught up soon. Then the work will begin.

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Author: John Drury

Hi, my name is John and I REALLY like my blog...

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