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Beethro's First Weapon?! - Banjooie

It was afternoon in the Eighth, in a small town nobody'd heard of in a vaguely larger forest nobody particularly cared about. It was said, that, on this particular day, the most successful Smitemaster ever would be born in this very town, and the Holds would empty themselves out of sheer terror. It was probably also a worthwhile mention that nobody was born this particular day, nor would there be any births until at least a week later. The Oracle involved is still the recipient of various rotten fruit for getting everyone's hopes up.

There was, however, a fifteen year old boy of less than attractive demeanour, and considerably less attractive appearance. He was, of course, aware of this fact, and had already chosen a worthy profession that would handle his problems quite nicely. And what could deal with appearance issues more readily than a profession that involved being alone in dungeons making copious amounts of money slaughtering monsters? Possibly something else, but that's not important for our story. What is particularly important for our situation is that the fellow happens to be Beethro Budkin. Not that this mattered to anyone else at the time.

Naturally, there were things that went bump in the night in the forest surrounding our nameless village, and there were something that went bump in the day, possibly due to having evolved terrible, terrible vision. Regardless, our teenage Beethro was determined to one day slay them all with righteous vengeance. And, being as though he'd recently earned enough money to purchase one, he made his way down to the local weapon store. It had, oddly, been in business for some time, as Smitemasters from various towns would lose their swords and/or have them stolen or what have you. (It was also somewhat odd that the Shopkeeper kept so very well stocked with weapons, and there was a striking similarity in his new stock to recently lost or stolen equipment. It was all assuredly a rumour, of course, but the shopkeeper's various means and methods of accomplishing his merchantry are outside the scope of this story.)

The Weapons Dealer himself was a relatively portly man. He stood out as expressively average looking, with a mustache somewhat lengthier than his face was wide. He was polishing one of the various swords in his possession, in fact, when Beethro walked in. His eyes sort of furrowed in that look shopkeepers get when possibly thieving teenagers wander into their establishments.

"Have you got money this time, Beethro." The shopkeeper said, with an exasperated look on his face. "Because if not, this is the third time this month you've abused my 'try before you buy' policy."

"Not at all, bud." The soon-to-be-Smitemaster said quite cheerily. "For you see, I actually have money this time, and I intend to purchase that hammer over there." Mr. Budkin was, at this time, rather enamored of the concept of beating monsters and things until they stopped moving.

The shopkeeper stopped his polishing for a moment, staring at Beethro with a sort of shock behind his thin-rimmed glasses. "And by 'hammer', of course, you mean 'sword roughly as long as I am', right? As opposed to a weapon which is significantly less sword-like and shorter."

The yellow-shirted boy was, naturally, taken aback by the merchant's inability to accept his desire to purchase a bludgeoning weapon over a cutting one, but nevertheless, he intended to leave having recently acquired a club with spikes in it.

"No, sir, I want the weapon with the stick and weight designed to repeatedly bludgeon and/or beat monsters I am wanting to kill until such time as they explode rather gushily and unsanitarily." Beethro was, of course, much more polite at this time, and it was years of exposure to toxic fumes from dying monsters that eventually eroded his social skills and hygiene.

The shopkeeper re-affixed his glasses. "So you are, in fact, wanting the Master Ceremonial Hammer, which is said to have a minor temporal dislocation enchantment on it, and may very well exist within its own timeline?"

Beethro nodded, walking over to the weapon as if to pick it up to test it. The shopkeeper immediately leapt in front of him, speaking in an unnaturally rhythmic tone.

"Stop. You can't touch this!"

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Three dead cats, some broken weaponry, and one god-awful stench later, the argument was finished. We move now to the conclusion of the discussion between Beethro and the shopkeeper.

"There. So you're buying the sword then." The shopkeeper said, smugly. He crossed his arms. Oh, yes. Everything was well in order, and everyone's problems were solved. "Just 1,000 greckles, and we're all good, then."

Beethro, naturally, shrugged, and pulled out the conspiciously large bag of money he had brought along with which to purchase the sword.

"Alright, I've got 532 and a half."

"A half. You do realize that is entirely impossible, and probably illegal."

"Yessir."

-----------------------------------

Four dead cats, one china shop, and one submachine gun(!?) later, it was relatively evident that Beethro did not, in fact, have the money to purchase the sword which he was already obligated to buy. This was clearly an issue, but the merchant would not be cowed by such things as lack of money, nor obligated to give it to him half off. Oh, no. This was a situation that clearly required a deus ex machina plot device, and by god he was going to get it.

There was, naturally, an uncomfortable pause, as the promised god from the machine did not, in fact, arrive, nor did any other convienient plot incident that would hurry this story right along to the bit where Beethro stabs things with swords. Oh, wait. There was a rather conviently posted bulletin on the door.

TO ALL DELVERS

CHEF REQUIRES INGREDIENTS FOR FEAST

- EVIL EYE IRISES

- SERPENT TAILS

INQUIRIES AT LOCAL HOLD 5 MILES EAST

REWARD: 467.5 GRECKLES

DO NOT ENQUIRE AS TO LEGALITY OF HALF-GRECKLE