A trip out

Well, it seems like old what's-his-name, oh yes, Eldrigar, really didn't think I was worth checking up on, because I've not seen his smug visage smarming its way into Zarfang yet. So, I had plenty of time to take a trip over to Tumberwell and find that girl, Maevrin. Yes, I know what you're thinking - why didn't I just call her up on the phone? Well, I can't help it if I can't keep the payments up on the bill, can I? I still say it was very suspicious that the last bill was so large. If I didn't know better, I'd say Grott had been using it, though what a person who couldn't speak would want with a telephone call is kind of beyond me. Telephone gambling tip line? Oh God, if it was one of those phone numbers you call up to hear someone talk dirty to you then I swear I'll kill myself. The image of Grott crouched there gurning away as he listened to that is not one for a full stomach, empty stomach or indeed anyone with a stomach at all.


It was a cold, misty sort of morning. I set out feeling fairly positive, after the last few days of grumpy indecision. I decided to leave Grott behind for the day's operation, I kind of thought he'd cramp my style in trying to get some random and possibly inept quest contractor to do my general bidding for cut-price fees. The sight (and, regretfully, the smell) of Grott standing there grimacing beside me tended to make people look on me... unfavourably. I know this by bitter experience, and it's a shame, because we all know Grot's great, and a total living legend. Honestly, you should try his omelettes, you'd never have though something so simple could be so tasty. Have to watch him carefully while he's cooking them, though - I saw one of his boils burst while he was frying an egg, I think you probably don't want to know the details, but all I'm saying is that I'm absolutely NOT going to eat something like that if I can help it. God knows what would happen to you if you did - maybe you'd turn into another Grott - maybe that's how Grotts come about in the first place. Anyway, though, I'm going off topic again.


I walked determinedly across the blasted wastes feeling almost cheerful. I was very close to whistling a happy little song, how unseemly for one so awesomely wreathed in occult powers such as myself. The weather was gradually improving; I could make out the faint disk of the sun through the murky clouds above me. The mist seemed to be clinging to my robes and beading it with a shroud of tiny water droplets. I thrust my hands into my pockets as I walked, and thought about my situation. I was feeling optimistic, but in reality the unpleasant certainly that in the coming struggle I'd have to do incredibly and superbly well just to have a chance was hovering around accusingly in the outer edges of my consciousness. Yes, it had to be said that I'd be doing bloody amazingly for the whole thing to be able to be technically termed a "struggle" when all was said and done. Now, I don't want any readers to get the wrong idea. I am, of course, a dark wizard of the very highest echelons of the uttermost force of supreme evil, but for reasons that I don't want to go into at this moment, I've not been, how could we say... on form at this present time. Yes, that's exactly what's happening. Off form. I could crush this guy, what's his name - I keep bloody forgetting it, in about five minutes normally, it's just that I don't quite feel up to it right now, that's what's happening.


I soon enough came to the edge of the howling wastes, and passed briefly across the edge of the Swamp of Unending Festerment, passing close by the Swamp of Unending Festerment Gift Shop. No special offers in the window, no point in looking at it any further. Who would have thought that commercial venture would be a success? Well I for one didn't see that coming. Gives me hope for that potion business, eh? Maybe I could make it as a TV chef after all? Anyway, I wandered on, coming within distant sight of the Ebon Tower of Unyielding Gloom, at which I gave the finger in petulent protest for my ridiculous treatment there last week. After a short and squelchy walk across the boggy land, I met up with the east road into Tumberwell, taking me through the southern fringes of the Shadowed Forest of Eternal Night. Actually, it's not so bad as the name suggests, honestly I think whoever it was that named the places around here was just a big drama queen. It's just got an awful lot of these big, almost black pine trees that fit together so tightly they block out almost all of the light. Personally, I quite like pine trees. Don't ask me why I said that, I don't have a clue. Still, they say the forest is the ancient home of the dreaded BLACK MANGLER BEAST, though of course, it's pretty obvious the story was totally made up to scare kids and the idiotic. I don't believe in the Black Mangler of course, but I somehow prefer not to dwell too long on the thought of it while walking the forest. You know, they say it has fifteen eyes and seven heads, and has an inexplicable hatred for bowler hats? Yes, I know - creepy.


I passed through the forest entirely un-mangled, and found myself walking down the cobbled high street of Tumberwell. The odd car trundled its way steadily along the busy avenue, and despite the chilly mist there were shoppers out in force. The whole architectural style of Tumberwell gave the impression of a master architect with serious balance problems - somewhat impressive, though antiquated buildings hopelessly crooked and higgledy-piggledy. After about fifteen minutes of ineffectual wandering I found what I was looking for. Maevrin's place turned out to be less than impressive, a small basement below a grubby and battered row of terraced housing, but in a way this was encouraging. Anyone who was willing to live in there was presumably willing to work for the pitiful pay I was going to offer. I climbed carefully down the crumbling steps to the rather battered front door, noting the rather crude hand painted sign above it, reading:


"Maevrin, Mistress of Quests, warrior maiden. Enquire within, budget rates and concessions for the elderly."


Below it was another sign, though this one was much better made; elegant gold script on a dark green carved wooden plaque.


"Tumberwell Stamp Collector's Club


President, Maev Wiggler."


Reading the second plaque didn't exactly make my heart sink. Rather, I just kind of... stopped. It was moments like that that made me really wonder what on earth it was that I was trying to accomplish. A warrior maiden who was also big on stamp collecting. Why exactly was it that some people's lives seem to work out in great dramatic waves of exciting and fulfilling accomplishment? I expect there are any number of black mages as I write this who are commanding a dark horde or two into battle, plotting over a bubbling cauldron of unspeakable power or flying around somewhere on a black dragon. OK, I know life never goes well the whole time no matter how lucky or talented you are, but there are a certain sort of people that would never be about to knock on a door and place their faith in the services of a philatelist nerd-girl with a sword. It wasn't the last time I felt like that as the day wore on.


After a short moment of quiet introspection, I pulled myself together and knocked on the door. There was a shuffling, rustling sound from within, a few bumps and curses, then the muffled voice from somewhere within:


"Just a moment! I've knocked over the glue!"


The feeling previously described made another dire assault on my mind, but I fought it back to the inner recesses of my concious, where it slunk, grinning to itself in the sure knowledge that it would soon be back to sink its wicked little teeth into me before long. After a while, the door slid itself open reluctantly, grinding and stuttering aside to reveal the round, bespectacled face of the girl that had knocked on my door a few days ago.


"Yes?" She asked, absently.


"Ah, yes," I began. "I'd like to hire your services for a quest, if you're available?"


She looked taken aback for a second.


"A quest?" she asked, "Are you sure?"


What sort of an answer was that? That nasty little thing in my brain's grin widened. I think I'll have to give that thing a name. How about George? If I make friends with it and give it a friendly name, maybe it'll leave me alone. Anyway, what was this girl implying? That I was the sort of person who shouldn't even bother hiring people for quests?


"Yes, I'm sure. Is there a problem?"


"No, no," she said, trying to backpedal furiously, "It's just been so long since someone actually wanted to hire me. You know what it's like with this bloody credit crunch. You know, I thought there'd be plenty of questing to do around here when I moved in - I've had nothing! Still, my stamps have never been better. Did you know, I've just got the complete set of commemorative stamps the King of Trandeburk issued when his favourite cat died in 1181? You know, it's a little known fact that..."


With that, she launched into a fearsome assault of stamp related information, while I stood staring at her in disbelief, while George had come out of his hole and was dancing around happily. At first, I tried to interrupt her subtly, trying to edge my way back into the monologue, after I while I gave up and just stood there nodding at the right points. Now, some might at this point ask me why I didn't get angry and make her stop, after all this was customer service so dire both contained no service whatsoever and in fact precluded me from becoming a customer. Actually, it was strangely mesmerising watching her rattle on, scarcely pausing for breath, the incomprehensible torrent words spewing unending from her like a waterfall; it took my mind off my own dire situation. OK, it sounds a bit strange now, maybe you'd have to have been there. And have been me.


After perhaps five or ten minutes of this, the flood appeared to be stemmed momentarily, though I sensed it hadn't dried up one bit.


"Well, I must say, it's a pleasure to talk to someone with such a keen interest in stamps and stamp related matters. What's your name?"


I feel the need to report the fact that at this point I had only spoken the one sentence of introduction. To tell you the truth, I don't mind eccentrics, I'm not a hypocrite, most people would say I was one myself (though of course they'd have missed my hidden ABSOLUTE POWER of course).


"Just call me Ivan", I said, deciding to leave the other part a mystery for the time being, remembering Eldrigar. "I'm a dark wizard. Don't you remember knocking on my door the other day?"


"Err, no, can't say I do."


"You can't remember me, all dressed in black robes, living in a large tower in the middle of nowhere? The only inhabited place for five miles or so of blasted wasteland and heath?"


"No," she said blankly, "I expect I was thinking about stamps."


I wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, I didn't have to.


"You'd better come in. Excuse the mess, I've been re-mounting my Krumlian Blue album."


She shuffled back through the door and I followed, grinding the door closed behind me. The room was murky, with the exception of a very large and solidly build dark oak desk which was brilliantly lit by a bright spot lamp. I couldn't really make out much of the rest of the room, though there did appear to be a very large number of rectangular shapes hanging from the wall, which turned out to be covered in innumerable stamps. The desk was covered in bottles of glue, brushes, papers and all sorts of odd and outlandish looking bits of equipment of indeterminable function.


"Please, sit down," she said, gesturing at a rather elderly chair. She herself set herself down on a stool by the desk. "Sorry about the lights, the landlord still hasn't fixed them yet."


I noticed she wasn't wearing the ill-fitting suit of armor that she'd been wearing the first time we met. Instead, she was wearing a plain brown dress, nice enough, but kind of nondescript. She was kind of on the short side, brown, slightly curly hair. The freckles and large, black rimmed glasses were still very much in evidence. You know, those glasses were quite remarkable in a way. Most of the time, those kind of glasses make your eyes seem disproportionally large, with hers, you rarely could make out her eyes at all, god knows what bizarre powers to distort light they had. It gave you the strange feeling of speaking to a giant pair of window panes when talking to her, you kept trying to make out what was behind them. She gave the impression that she didn't spend an extensive amount of time each morning on a complex beauty routine while not looking in any way scruffy, the sort of appearance you sometimes find in a research scientist in gerbil science or a librarian that dealt with books on vintage plumbing. I was having slight doubts about her athletic prowess, which was something you did generally look for in an adventurer for hire, she was the sort of shape that was just one cream cake away from definite chubbiness.


"So," she began, and I for one moment thought she might be about to be helpful. "If you're a real dark wizard, what's your name of power? You know, like "Black Stone" or "Grim Fire" or something like that."


This wasn't helpful in the least. I had to tell her, assuming the grimmest expression I could muster.


"It's 'The Limpet'", I said, glaring at her. I've told you before, I can't actually see the problem with the name, it's just everyone else can't seem to understand it.


She paused for a moment, rubbing her chin delicately as if in deep thought, then said:


"That's a bloody stupid name."


I was incensed! However, being a master of self control and incredible self-discipline (as I'm sure you're well aware) I didn't give her the satisfaction of having some kind of spasm, instead I remained very calm.


"Well," I said, assuming the most aloof voice I could muster ,"I'm afraid I'm an entirely self-taught wizard, I wasn't fortunate to be born into a family that could afford a proper dark master. That was the name that the Obsidian Tome came up with for me, and that will do as far as I'm concerned."


"Well, OK," she said, "Sorry about that. I keep forgetting you're not a stamp, so I can't say what's on my mind."


Once again, George did a little caper around my mind and grinned toothily at me. He's getting to be a real problem, and I'd only just thought him up.


"Anyway, bypassing your excellent customer service," I said, my best sarcasm met with nothing but blankness, "Are you going to help me or not?"


"How much are you offering?"


"56 Waldroons"


"56 Waldroons!" she said indigently. "I charge 70 to join the stamp club, honestly, you don't expect me to work for that do you?"


"Well," I said, sucking my breath through my teeth in the way a car mechanic does when it's going to be expensive, "Times are hard, you know. Besides, once you've helped a famous dark wizard like me, I'm sure your reputation will go through the roof. You'll have so much work you won't know what to do. Plus, this is only the beginning - I'll probably have lots more work for you, depending on how well you do."


She didn't look terribly impressed, especially at the "famous dark wizard" part (annoyingly). But, I could kind of tell she needed the money as much as I needed the help. At last, she grudgingly agreed.


"OK, you've got yourself a deal. I tell you what, I'll come back with you to your tower, or whatever it was, then I'll change into my business clothes when I get there. Come on then," she said as she stood up and walked over to a murky cuboard in the corner of the room and began shoving various items in a rather mouldy looking green leather bag.


We walked off down the street together, Maevrin staring ahead sullenly, no doubt internally grumbling at the pittance she was being paid. I tried to lighten the mood with a little conversation.


"So, err, Maevrin," I began rather awkwardly. "This stamp club of yours, how many members have you got?"


Her grimace intensified.


"None," she said, "Can't seem to find anyone with even the remotest interest in stamps around here. Hey, how about you joining?" she seemed suddenly eager with a slight edge of desparation. I couldn't help feeling a bit awkward.


"Ahh, well, I'm sorry, I just don't really have the time, you know, never really was in to stamps..."


She looked crestfallen, I felt irrationally guilty. Maybe as business partners we weren't so mismatched after all.