I traveled the East Road through the Fallen Lands. The Fallen Lands, once home to a number of thriving kingdoms, are now made up of small regions ruled by local warlords, with an occasional city-state. Despite this description, the road was far from lonely, as it was filled with merchants and trade caravans making their way to Aerithraine and Catolan in the west and Goth and Theen in the East.
Only a week after I left Shoopshire, I stumbled into a little roadside inn, halfway between the towns of North Shinbone and Goblin’s Bluff. I was tired and well into my third tankard of ale, when the local innkeeper introduced the great story-teller Eaglethorpe Buxton. Before I could stand up and accept my just accolades, which is to say the appreciation of the soon-to-be audience, another fellow launched into The Story of the Queen of Aerithraine.
This fellow, while a decent story-teller was no match for the genuine Eaglethorpe Buxton. He also looked a bit like me, I confess, though not nearly so handsome. He was tall and well-built, with brown hair, but with only a half an ear on the right side. I am not one to cast aspersions on those suffering partial ear disfigurement, as I once had half of my own right ear bitten off by a goblin. Fortunately I had mine sewn back on. This fellow was not so lucky. That night, when the story-telling was done, and the false, half-eared Eaglethorpe Buxton left the inn, I was waiting in the shadows, dagger drawn.
“Who are you?” I demanded, grabbing him from behind and placing my blade against his throat.
“I am Eaglethorpe Buxton,” he replied.
“All the country knows the name of Eaglethorpe Buxton and it knows that he is not one to suffer imposters and fools, and it knows that you are not he. You are an imposter.”
“You may rest assured that I am not,” said he.
“You cannot be Eaglethorpe Buxton.”
“Why can’t I be? If anyone can be, why not me?”
“Just look at me!” I exclaimed, spinning him around and sticking the point of my dagger in his nostril.
“Eaglethorpe Buxton?”
“Exactly!” I cried. “Hey, wait a minute. Don’t I know you?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am Cleveland Normandy of Oordport. You once cut off half my ear.”
“That doesn’t help me,” said I. “I have cut off lots of parts of lots of people.”
“I was engaged to the lovely actress Megara Fennec, whose real name was Megara Capillarie.”
“Oh yes. I remember. So what have you to say for yourself? Why are you stealing my name and notoriety?” I pulled my dagger from his nose, wiping the blade on his shirt.
“Well, Megara didn’t want me. So I set out to make a name for myself. It just never worked out.” His shoulders slumped and he sort of deflated. “Then one night I told a story—one of yours, and everyone loved it. So the next time I told it, I said I was you, and the people loved me, and they gave me money and free beer.”
“Yes, story-telling is a lucrative career choice,” I said. “But it is immoral to steal a man’s name.”
“Are you going to kill me?” he squeaked.
“No, I am not going to kill you. I am going to let you go. Which way are you going by chance?”
“I was going to Aerithraine, eventually,” he replied.
“Good,” I said. “I am not only going to let you go, but I am going to let you go on being me. Go on to Aerithraine and I will guarantee you that you will make a great deal of money telling the Story of the Queen of Aerithraine, especially at a tavern called The Winking Wench.”
And so one Eaglethorpe Buxton headed west and a better Eaglethorpe Buxton continued east. It was only three weeks after encountering the false Eaglethorpe, that I was camping beneath a small hill, when a young woman ran into the light of my fire. Despite her tear-streaked face and her hysterical condition, I immediately recognized her as the serving wench Eventually.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“It’s Rex! He’s right behind me!”
And sure enough, no sooner had she stepped behind me than a raging werewolf ran from the darkness into the firelight, hissing and snarling like a Virian leopard. There was no way that I could reach my sword, as it was sitting on my saddle, which was at Hysteria’s feet, which was on the other side of the fire from me, which is to say out of reach. Fortunately, I had just finished a crabapple pie, and while the pie was not wholly satisfactory especially in regards to the crust, I did have my fork in my hand.
As the creature leapt at me, I stabbed it right in the throat. It gasped and wailed and wheezed most hideously, but finally crumpled to the ground and died. A moment later, it transformed back into the farmer that I had once seen through the gap in the wall with Eventually, which is to say that the farmer had been with her and not that the gap had.
“Poor Rex,” moaned Eventually, stepping up from behind me. “Without his potion, he had no control over the beast within him.”
“Few of us do,” I said prophetically, stooping down to recover my fork. “This does make eight times that I have killed a werewolf with this very fork.”
It took me two more months to cross the continent and reach my ultimate destination. I had many adventures and saw many sites along the way, but nothing prepared me for Goth. A huge city, fully the rival of Illustria, Goth is a port to ships from every far away land you can imagine. The temples, the forums, and the theaters are all wonderful to see of course, but none of them can match the Goth Raree.
The Goth Raree could be described as a tavern, the way the great Skagarack glacier could be called an ice cube. On a huge stage, hundreds of topless dancing girls paraded back in forth, while below, hundreds of tables hosted games of chance. All the time, just above their heads, a completely naked elven girl twirled on a trapeze. Around the edge of it all are balconies on each floor; the higher one goes, the smokier, the warmer, and the more exotic the activities.
I sat on the fourth floor balcony, my feet propped up on the table, a pipe of fine tobacco in one hand and a stein of frothy ale in the other. Across the table from me sat three serving wenches, who listened in rapt attention to my story. They all had dark chocolate hair, plump plum lips, and smoky eyes—and rings in their noses, as is the custom in the east. They were all pleasantly plump. While their blouses had no buttons, it made no difference because the material was completely sheer—it was so sheer that as I stared at their bosoms, it sometimes seemed they were staring right back at me.
“So you left two women standing at the altar?” asked the left-most wench, whose name I remembered was Voluptua.
“No,” I replied. “I left three women standing at the altar—one in Shoopshire, one in East Knucklewick and one in West Knucklewick.”
“So what happened to Eventually?” asked the center-most wench, whose name I recalled was Curvatea.
“I left Eventually at the town of Hapmanny. As far as I know, she is still there, working the tavern as a serving wench.”
“So where did you pick up this fellow?” asked the right-most wench, the prettiest of the three, who went by the name of Gorgea. She pointed a slender, well-manicured hand at my companion.
“We ran into each other in Theen,” said I. “We have been good friends for many years, but had not seen each other in a while.”
My companion nodded and picked up a recently filled stein of ale.
I handed the girls a fist full of sovereigns.
“It’s getting late. Bring us some brandy, some chocolate pie, and some oil so that you may rub our feet.”
The three of them scurried off, giggling.
“Women may come and women may go,” said I.
“But brothers in battle are forever,” completed my companion, once again raising the frothy stein. “Here’s to us.”
“Indeed,” said I. “Friends and brothers forever—Eaglethorpe Buxton and Ellwood Cyrene.”
The End