Alneyan
Level: Smitemaster
Rank Points: 622
Registered: 07-06-2004
IP: Logged

This tiny story (the younger sister of the short story) actually started out with a more serious tone, but it took a life of its own, and got a new narrator in the process. I'm not quite happy with its new incarnation, but at least I've actually managed to write something. With no further ado:

One: The Story of an Oaf

At the time our story begins, the kingdom of Dugandy was ruled by Dugan the Ninety-Seventh (or thereabouts), and while he could not compare to some of his predecessors (or any of them), he was still a good king - that is, he kept his head straight on his shoulders, and his crown on top of that. There was a man known as Beesro Budkin, who had taken the fair Rosee Budkin as wife. In the village of Swordend they dwelt, living in peace with their neighbours, save for the occasional friendly brawl.

Beesro and Rosee had three children, but alas, two of them died in their infancy. They met the local seer so to fathom why such misfortune should strike them. These words he said: "Worry not, for you are still young - of mind, if not of body. A third child you shall beget, and to greatness he shall rise." The Budkins thanked the seer for his wise words, and gave him twigs aplenty for presents.

It was during the heart of one of the bitterest winters that they gave birth to another child, a son they called Beethro, following familial traditions. He did not show any promise of greatness at his birth; precious little had changed many a year later, when Beethro met his first challenge. His father had sent him forth with those words: "Son of my blood, your mettle shall be tried on the morrow. Go with all speed, swift as the arrow!"

Thus did Beethro set on his quest; he knew not what for purpose he roamed the countryside, but roam he did. He came upon a lost goblin, apparently as busy roaming as he was - perhaps another fated hero, his nemesis. Beethro did not heed his wiser half that yelled "Flee, fool!" at him, and rushed to cross swords with the goblin. Their fight was a wonder to behold, with Beethro swinging his mighty sword at the foe, battering down its defences, crushing its bones with the sheer might of his attacks.

Meanwhile, the goblin was whimpering and pleading for mercy: its feet were sore, it had no weapons, and it was but a little child. Beethro was undaunted by the unexpected resistance the goblin displayed, and unleashed his full wrath on the foe. At last down it went, whispering a "I shall remembers" before passing on to the otherworld. At last his sword Beethro unsheathed, for he had forgotten to do so before meeting the goblin in battle. "If such is the taste of battle, I shall enjoy this line of work," said he. With these swords, he cut one ear of the goblin (whether it was the left or the right, he could not say), and headed back home.

A fortnight came and went by, and at least Beethro reached home, following many a detour in various taverns. In the house he dashed, showing his trophy to anyone who might be interested � or who would be polite enough to appear to be interested. His father followed him to give him the hug
of welcome, and addressed his son thus: "This is but the first step of your journey, son - and I expected it would be your last too. I will offer you a sword that befits you, for you will need it in your errands. This sword will be none other than my own trusty blade, who helped me so often - when I had to impress guests paying me a social call."

With these words, Beesro produced the weapon. It was quite plain, and, dare I say, rusty, but a serviceable sword it was. "Only one thing you must know to wield this sword: the proper handle to use is right on top of the 'Your hands here' label. The sword is sure to help you, and more than once; alas, I doubt anyone has the means to help the sword.� Beethro thanked his father profusely by staying quiet, and took his new sword. "Now you must make a name for yourself, for I can do naught else to assist you," said Beesro. "Come back here either covered in glory and wealth, or not at all!"


Thus did Beethro obtain his treasured sword, at great peril to him. Many a moon he spent training with his weapon, dummy stabbing dummies, until he felt ready to enroll at Smitenovice 101. There, he was clearly an example for his fellow students, and his performance earned him an assignment before he had even finished freshman year. "Beethro, you are to take this key and clear a rat infestation in one of our buildings. We will be most happy after your successful completion of this assignment: in fact, we might not ask you to give us back your grants when we review your case." Heedless to the obvious dangers the offer implied, Beethro agreed and set forth to his destination. Upon reaching the place, he walked round the structure, desperately looking for an entry of any sort. At last, he found where the secret entrance lied, its brownish hue cleverly melding in the background. "How cautious these folks are," said he. "Not only was the entry concealed, but I also need to use my key to open it."

His sword glittering in the fading sunlight, Beethro entered the lair. A swarm of rats immediately rushed in, and he was hard put to repel their assault. Dodging, jumping and occasionally hitting the ceiling, Beethro managed to hold them at bay nonetheless, and eventually killed the first two rats - and the only two rats that were there. Deeming his assignment a critical success, he claimed his reward, and soon started looking for more work.

Thus did Beethro made a name for himself, and one more flattering than "Fool", though he felt that "Mediocrity" was not much of an improvement. He became quickly known as the only smiter who would take any assignment, no matter how dangerous it was, and how little was offered: it was not courage or heroism that drove him to such boldness, but sheer desperation. Still, he survived all his assignments, earning him the nickname of "At least he has luck on his side".

His reputation was such that even the good, old King heard about his feats, though he also heard the nastiest rumours told about the delver. Of course, other things relating to Beethro were to reach the King, like the sweet fragrance his body gives off, or his poor manners. Heedless to all his less welcome traits, the King amiably invited Beethro to his castle, with twenty guards to protect him on his way. There, he was welcomed by the King himself, a honour, however dubious, few had been given. Dugan the Too-Many-Already introduced him to his three breath-taking daughters, Princesses Echidna, Banshee and Rusalka.

Beethro found himself dumbfounded by so much beauty, and his eloquence, ordinarily slightly lower than nil, was even less adequate to-day. "What about the job?" he managed to blurt out.

"What about it? Going to clear up my place?" someone replied matter-of-factly. By all rights, it should have been Dugan, but he was now leaving his councillors in charge of all non-vital meetings. In these occasions, they appeared pretty much similar to Dugan, with a crown of their own, a mighty girth, and an attitude.

"The whole castle? Pretty tall ordeal, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"You did what?"

"I didn't ask you. Unless you want to end up in my oubliettes, you leave the castle alone. The dungeons are your domain."

"Sure then."

"Good. We will discuss rewards and all that once - or should I say if? - you come back. Fare well!"

His escort still in tow, Beethro was directed towards the entry of the dungeon. "Have you written your will?" the captain of the guard asked, with the best intentions in the world. Beethro tried to come up with a witty answer, but by the time he had settled on his reply, the guards were long gone. They had slammed the door shut before leaving, apparently not trusting Beethro's courage and good faith (with good reason).

So, while the King was feasting with his three Goddesses of Beauty, and the whole court was busy dancing and running around, Beethro started his long journey downwards. He only had his clothes on his back, his wits scattered around, and a sword; he also had enough food and water to last for three days, but he would be dead and buried in dust long before. So it is my task to narrate the last days of Beethro the Fool, lest anyone should forget about his folly. Clearly, I cannot rely on that King, even in this small matter.