I have heard a lot in my day about magnetic personalities; mine it seems is broken as it attract only fools. Several times today, I have been approached by some confounded idiot or other, who always fires off the same "Man, you're a big 'un, aintcha?" It's possible that this is some sort of digbeard (lacking the correct nomenclature, I have chosen to call them this for simplicity's sake) greeting, but I still harbor suspicions that they are expressing a familiarity unbecoming creatures that haven't been properly introduced as of yet. I suspect something is going on, but I have no clue as to what that would be. Once I saw a digbeard clad in purple leaves come up to me, speak to another digbeard, and then wander off. I've observed this digbeard before; it appears that he is of no value, does no work, and, as a result, must be in charge.
It was shortly thereafter that I was approached by a green clad digbeard. I'm not sure as to what his intent was. I know only that he fed me some fish. Fish! Can you believe it? I still find it amazing even now. My initial response was "Don't know much about elephants, do you, old boy?", but I found myself quickly devouring it anyway. Odd thing that; I don't recall ever being that hungry before or since. Or ever being hungry for that matter.
At last, whatever it is going on is settled and I'm blessedly removed from the vicinity of those confounded muskoxen (I fear that their asinine HERE WE GO, GOBBO! HERE WE GO! chant shall forever remain in the dark recesses of my brain) by the same green fellow before being transferred to another cage. Odd thing that; the only difference I can see between the two is that the first was wooden and this one is made of copper. I remain there only a short time before another purpleclad digbeard comes along, pointing at different objects, jabbering rapidly and then heading back the way he came. Shortly thereafter, I found myself, cage and all, being carried, none too gently I might, by the same glimmering miscreant who brought me to this digbeard hellhole in the first place to a small stone structure. I give my spleen full vent and should rightfully be proud of the insults I unleashed upon him, but it was ultimately futile. There is little profit in verbally abusing a barbarian. They either cannot understand you or do understand you. The former results in confused looks or laughter while the latter results in a sharp stick in the face.
I leave off my lengthy list of insinuations about my porter's heritage to note the largish collection of folks around the stone structure. There seem to be three different types of creature involved; the reedy, pointy-eared fellows who like to lecture a hapless elephant who desired only to scratch their back against a handy bit of foliage, the digbeards, and creatures who seem to fall between the two. The latter lack any other defining characteristics and are the most boring creatures I've ever seen. There seemed to be a bit of heated discussion between chosen representatives of the three and that same purple twit, which is punctuated by many a headshake, nod, and waving of fingers. The latter towards me, the sky, and everything in between. The purple chap seems particularly fond of a single digit, which is often employed whenever the pointy-eared fellow is involved.
At least, the matter is settled and I have apparently been purchased by one of the digbeards. I am not sure what to make of that. Pointyears are annoying, but have a decent reputation amongst my jungle and savannah comrades. The nondescript fellows are usually considered quite fair, but it rumored that they consort with that most dreaded of hells, the circus. The digbeards, well, my feelings about them ought to be quite obvious; suffice to say, I do not consider them the lesser of the available evils. I begin to complain about this profusely, but immediately cease when my cage is lifted onto the back of what appeared to be a clinicly depressed warthog. The look he gave me while my porter was approaching him was a great reminder of how somebody is always worse off.
And so we set off. I attempt to make conversation with the warthog once or twice, but the poor fellow will talk of nothing but his lumbago sadly for a few minutes before falling silent. After two such isntances, I abandon any notion of further attempts at passing the hours in idle chit-chat. We travel a day and a night before we arrive at our presumptive destination. Imagine, if you will, a great mountain rearing up against the sky, belching smoke and an eerie red glow reflecting off of everything around. The ground, the sky, and the vast waters in the distance behind the mountain. Beneath that mountain sits a massive rock wall with a single, formidable gate at its center. We pass through the gate in a relative hurry; in fact, we'd been at an accelerated pace like that ever since the scenery went red and purple.
Upon reaching the center of the town, I, along with a rather surprising amount of food and beverage, am removed from my beleagured warthog compatriot. The latter offers several thanks to a particular deity with whom I am unfamiliar. I freely admit, I'm not the religious sort. My family and most of my friends are fairly devout worshippers of The Great Koganusān , but I am sceptical by nature. That is not to say that I was not touched by the sincerity of Brother Warthog's devotions, but I'm not sure that divine anything had to do with his relief. This place seems to have less of the divine and more than the demoniac.
After a brief interlude, one of the digbeards approaches and allows me out of my cage. I laugh triumphantly and head for freedom through the gate; the digbeard pays no mind to this and simply wanders off. So much the better as I can escape without the hassle of fighting my way out. There were traps there to be certain, but I inspected them carefully on the way, could see them quite plainly now, and was quite confident that I could navigate them without any trouble. I was nearing the entrance when I noticed the giant creatures, walloons I think they are called, stomping around in the far distance. I immediately slowed for two reasons. While I only dabble in biology of creatures who do not live in my home territory, I was quite aware of the fact that walloons are sea-going fishtypes. Secondly, I'm quite certain that they usually have skin. In light of that unfortunate development, I thought it not unreasonable to display the greater part of valor and turn back. In doing so, I bumped into one of the squeaky short creatures. I attempted to apologize as I had honestly not seen him earlier, but the little fiend stabbed me with a pointy stick. It did no lasting damage, but stung. A lot in fact.
"MOUNTEBANK! BANDITO!" I screamed. "ASSASSIN! Take this, you lilliputian brute!" With that, I picked the jabbering villain up by his right foot, small toe and threw him, as the vernacular goes, a country mile. Over the gate, over the field, and in the general vicinity of the walloons. I imagine they dealt with him; I have no desire to find out. As I arrived back to the scene of my deliverance, apologies, I noticed several of the dwarves staring at me. I seem to have drawn attention to myself. My dealings with the digbeards remain fairly limited, but I have come to the conclusion that such attention is not to be desired. Oh, bother.
Next time: The Education of Reginald or A Clockwork Elephant.
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Topic: The Life and Times of Reginald Goblinstomper, Elephant at Large. (Read 52715 times)