and while you’re there, keep an eye out for Venetian dude named Mark, and his Uncle. Those two spin fabulous tales!
-Mr Collins
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You will find out soon enough, mister Collins. The year of Armistice frees us from our combative expectations.
Some of us will be visiting distant relatives…
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As I was going to Crécy,
I crossed the path of seven wives.
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kittens,
Kittens, cats, sacks, wives,
And I had to stop and tell then to spay and neuter their pets.
This was just unthinkable.
But I had places to be and I heard this group of blokes I’m hooking up with have some great salami
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A crafty shot, “Mister Collins”, but wide of the mark. I for one am not so green as I am cabbage-looking, nor was I (obviously) born yesterday. The Prize is not to be won by treasons and stratagems, but in honourable combat.
I will go where I go. It may chance that we will meet there.
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Mystical runes appear: 2bbc2c26c27485b5d322c923f450c474721a70d5
Time remaining : 1d 1h 50m
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@manwich @teknocholer @justa_little_whinger @chickied @dreamboatskanky @pogo @tobinl @donald_petersen @penguinchris
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Headed always towards hell at a galloping fury. Hope to have some fun on the way, though. I’d tell you where I’m heading, but I’m sure I don’t know. There may be a hand guiding me somewhere, but how or why, I do not care to know.
- Groß Wilhelm, the First of His Name
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[An excerpt from a scrap of paper found on a bench near the Rhône]
…
War. War never changes.
Pronunciation and diction do, however.
I’ve been yelled at in dozens of languages, and quickly learn the shapes of curse words and epithets in any local dialect. But I’m hundreds of years out of practice and not accustomed to such high discourse, such as that surrounding this Papal nonsense. Thousands of mouths flapping and I only catch the occasional phoneme.
I’m here to face my curse. I was born to never die.
…
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Mystical runes appear: c2d275eae2b5f778bbf7f8e3393fb1e2970d0518
Time remaining : 0d 23h 59m
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@justa_little_whinger @chickied @dreamboatskanky @pogo @tobinl @donald_petersen
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Some things just kind of fall out o’ fashion, like. I met a few other of these “Immortal” blokes over the years. Hell, you live long enough, there’s only so many faces out there, and every now and then you spot a familiar one, and at first you think she just reminds you of this girl you usedta know a hundred years ago or so, but then she gets that look in her eye that tells ya she remembers you too. Anyway, doesn’t happen often, but I know I’m not the only one out there busily outliving popes and kings and wise old philosophers… and not by takin’ care o’ myself, neither!
But like I said, things fall out o’ fashion. This Immortality gig might be one of 'em. I’m pretty sure I’m the youngest Immortal out there. At least, I never met any younger’n me, and I been looking. A long time, too. Long enough that eventually people put up a statue to me somewhere.
Might have been for my piping. Honestly can’t remember.
Let me tell you about my first real duel, with another real Immortal.
Should have been my last.
I’m sixty-eight years old and I look maybe twenty-eight, mostly thanks to the scars and gin blossoms. Otherwise, if I’d lived a cleaner life, I’d probably still look nineteen. A while back I’d crossed the Irish Sea in pursuit of some particular young lady who’d been spirited away by a pair of ne’er-do-wells who intended her harm. My passage was delayed by foul weather, and once I arrived I found she didn’t need my help after all. She introduced me to her brother Aengus “the Young.” Short little chap, a mad demon on the lute, and a sensibility that appealed to my own musical nature. We teamed up for some musical performances in some of the local villages, then headed back over the sea and made our way to Kirriemuir. Usually got paid in ale, when we got paid at all. One night the place got a bit more unruly than usual, everyone yellin’ that our music was crap enough to curdle the beer. Aengus was sensitive about his playing, so he turned around and blamed me, right there in the tavern in front of everybody. I’d had more than my share to drink and was spoilin’ for a fight, so I just grabbed his lute and shoved it right through the wee fucker’s back.
Yeah, they wanted blood… and they got it.
Well, that surprised the hell out of Aengus… but it barely slowed him down. I broke his lute over my knee and skewered him with it a few more times, finally leaving him for dead on the floor of the joint.
And then I passed out flat on the floor.
I woke up about nine hours later on the sticky floor of an empty tavern, with this ugly mug staring at me from about four inches away:
“Oi! The fuck you doing? Get off!”
“Just making sure yer still breathin’, Bon.”
“I’m still… what? How are you still alive?”
“Me? Oh, I’ve had worse. I just felt I should apologize for denigratin’ the quality of yer singin’ last night.”
“But… but I stabbed you through the heart with yer own lute!”
“And I know ye didn’t mean it. I had it comin’. Besides, that’s a guitar, not a lute.”
“I… well, be that as it may, I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It was the drink, y’know.”
“No problem, mate. But you owe me a new guitar. Ye drunk fuck.”
“Maybe a shirt too.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Makes for a good show!”
“Seems like a touch… a touch too much.”
“Where the hell is everybody?”
“I think this’ll explain why everyone was in such a shit mood last night. Turns out they’re all headed out to Stirling to fight the English.”
“What the hell for?”
“Why do you think?”
“You know I don’t follow politics, Aengus.”
“…'cause they’re the English…?”
“Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense. Let’s go.”
“Go? What, to a battle? Are you mad?”
“Mad? Mate, you were run through with a guitar last night and today you’re fit as a fiddle. What do we have to be afraid of? They can’t hurt us, can they?”
“Us? Well, I don’t know about you, but in my family, we’re not completely invulnerable.”
“How do you mean?”
“Most things won’t kill me. I’ve been smashed into a pulp, had me eyes gouged out, me elbows broken, my kneecaps split, my body burned away, my limbs all hacked and mangled… me head smashed in and me heart cut out, my liver removed and my bowels unplugged, my nostrils raped, my bottom burnt off, my penis…”
“Yeah, I get the picture. And that’s me too. I should be dead six times over by now. Hell, set me on fire, that won’t hurt me.”
“But there’s one critical thing you gotta know, Bon. Your head gets chopped off, that’s the end o’ ye. Happened to the rest of my family. 'Swhy I’m the last one left. And in a battle, there’s plenty of opportunity to get one’s neck sliced.”
“I’ll be careful. You can stay here if you want. I can’t pass up a chance to take a swing at a few English blokes.”
“You’re a madman, McEvoy. You’re on your way to the Promised Land.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Aengus. I’m no madman. I’m a Scot.”
“Talk about redundant.”
“How ‘bout we play a quick number, just to rouse the ol’ national spirit?”
“All right. But you’ll definitely get there before me.”
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young and sweet…only seventeen…
Dancing queen
Feel the beat from the tambouri…
Mmmmmm wha…?
Orders? bah, go away… orders… …oh, my head…
Fine, fine… I’ll go, I’ll go… Just give me a few minutes.
[sound of hurling]
should have know not to challenge half the bar…
Hey! Bar keep! Another of that swill you peddle while I make up my mind…
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But this pint of ale has to last me… I guess I can amble off in the evening and find some transportation.
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Never say never. If your life has grown so dull that you are anxious to end your career, there are those in this city who would grant you that boon, and cheerfully. (I do not refer to myself. I eschew all unnecessary violence.)
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Scots…why does it have to be Scots?
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Axes. Very dangerous. You’ll go fast.
Alternately:
I’ve had it with these Monday to Friday Scots on this monkey fighting plain.
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I’m comin’, Bos! Someone’s gettin’ erased, or at least scribbled on.
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Pal, I just get on the bus and go. As long as we get there before the show I’m cool, I had a tough one last night with the local crew not understanding how to put boxes on a truck. We tossed 'em shirts and hit the road.
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Guess I’ll go to Lübeck.
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Sounds appropriate, with your interest in suggesting merchandise. I’m headed that way myself with my trading caravan. Perhaps we’ll meet there.
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