Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

Com'on Petty Feel the fighting talk

Petty tends to mostly talk and deliver not very much action, whereas Ol' Anon floats in and out like a butterfly, making no promises and delivering the goods like unexpected parties.

Is there a smidgeon of playground tactics here ?

Oh no, perish the thought. I'm a pure neutral and just make a casual observation....

{{{{ Ok I know its been awhile, but this does have an ending, I promise, but this isnt it, exactly. I realised it was gong to be far too long for a single post. So I went back to the start (of the end if you see what I mean) worked out a break point and edited up that first bit so no more waiting (assuming anyone is still waitiing of course!) here is the next chapter, enjoy I hope.}}}


Gingerlocks sat with her chin cupped in her hands and stared out the round window of the barrel and tried to ignore the riotous noise going on immediately behind her.

The McTyrant family, in order to celebrate Petty's rise to manhood, had taken to the pub earlier in the evening leaving her locked and alone in the barrel. Though she had no more cause and no more reasons to escape than before so they could have left every door and window unbarred for all it would have mattered.

Besides the lock on the back-door was no match to her picking skills which had allowed her to take the kitten out to the shed where she would herself later be locked in for the night, Pretty having reclaimed her room.

And now the McTyrants had weaved their drunken way home and were making uproarious noise immediately behind her.

She peered through the thick glass of the window over a moonlit, for want of a better word, lawn. The tattered couch was a pale blue outline but the empty buckie bottles strewn about it gleamed in shifting patterns as the wind blew them to and fro.

They probably clinked together Figg thought dolefully and it was probably rather pleasant in the dark, like wind chimes, but she could hear nothing from outside thanks to the events over her shoulder.

Petty, drunk and bright red in the face and vibrant in the nose was blowing for all he was worth into a set of bagpipes whilst Pretty capered about him and Paw cried drunkenly over the screeching and wailing of the pipes “Didnae yi dare stop laddie, nae matter whit, prove yer a man noo! Finsh yon reel.”

Figg turned just in time to see Pretty pirouette to the music and kick Petty swiftly and firmly between the kilt.

Petty's eyes bulged in bloodshot agony and the pipes squeaked up several octaves as Pretty and Paw roared with laughter,  “Dinae dare stop!” Paw threatened between bouts of guffawing laughter, “git tae the end o' reel laddie!”

Pretty pounced again and the tune went up several more notches and Petty's eyes bulged like a frog on a hot plate and finally on the final bars of the reel his lungs gave out and he keeled over backwards as the pipes emptied of air in a sad drawn out whine.

Paw and Pretty, hugged each other for support to avoid collapsing in merriment. Figg shook her head. It occurred to her she had met a witch on her travels, an experience she had always thought would be rather terrifying. And it wasn't. Entirely. But watching Pretty, how she constantly manipulated Paw so that he had no capacity left to see fault in anything she did, or how she tormented Petty seemingly just because she could get away with it, and perhaps to see just how far she could get away with. Pretty was it seemed to Figg far worse than any witch. She turned her gaze back to the window and her ruminations on what tomorrows might bring.

As the moon rose and the McTyrants began to either collapse where they were all stumble blearily to rooms Petty was given the final task of locking Figg in the shed for night.

He swayed unsteadily before her on the rough path outside the kitchen door, took a step backwards and careered off her, stumbled three steps forwards, one back again then cannoned forward in the direction of the shed, shot right past it and projectile vomited over the fence and then fell over onto his face and started snoring.

“Here truly lies a Scotsman!” Figg snorted ruefully standing over his prone body. She went to the well and returned with a bucket of freezing water and doused Petty in it and he thrashed about on the ground and yelped before finally, slowly pulling himself upwards into a sitting position groaning quietly to himself.

“Shed key” Figg demanded holding her hand out.

With some effort Petty turned two fireball eyes upon her, “Murghhh?”

Figg sighed again, “Right its like that is it?” she said through gritted teeth and stalked off into the dark returning a moment later with two full buckets of icy water. She threw both of them over Petty who finally after a great deal of protest found himself more or less on his feet again, soaking wet and shivering.

“Key.”

“Nae need tae shout,” Petty whispered back at her, “Uve hud a rough first night as a man. Hope it's noo aw like this aw A'll never huv wains.”

“Well why do let her get away with it?”

“Whit cun a dae aboot it?” Petty retorted sullenly digging into his sporran in search of the shed key.

“Fight back!”

Petty stared at her his face a mask of horror, “Hit a lassie?!” he managed finally in the same sort of bewildered, uncomprehending tone he might have applied had someone offered him a salad for dinner, “A cunnae hit a lassie!”

Figg put her hands on her hips in a moments consideration of this and then reaching out a hand towards Petty's face she said, “what if I do this?” she flicked  him hard right on the end of his bulbous red nose. Something she almost immediately regretted in that it caused not just Petty to squeal and clutch at his offended nose, but a spot to erupt on the side of it too and dribble disgustingly down his cheek.

Nevertheless she was curious how far she could push this and unable to resist temptation she grabbed one of Petty's flapping earlobes and twisted as hard as she could, causing Petty to contort  and yelp.

“Oowww ya bugger!” Petty squealed wriggling from her grasp. But Figg moved for the coup de grace and stomped on his foot as hard as he could and hopping backwards Petty stumbled against the shed wall and tumbled over backwards into the rabble of wild herbs and vegetables that bordered the garden.

Figg stared into the dark but at first could see no sign of Petty. Then a figure rose from the undergrowth, plants, creepers and trailers and the pungent smell of herbs trailed from him as he advanced his hands balled into fists at his sides as he stalked menacingly up to Figg, who refused to give an inch and then after a moment heavy breathing he said through gritted teeth, which were teeth actually coated in grit from the verge, “Git in the shed nooo!”

“You really won't hit me back?” Figg enquired with a half smirk on her face, “even if I just punched you in the face?”

“I cannae hit a lassie,” Petty repeated firmly and slowly as if talking to a child.

And there it was Figg realised in a flash, the very thing that repelled her most about him beyond the obvious like visuals and smell, and the thing that was most noble about him all at the same time. Once he had latched onto an idea he would stubbornly stick by it to the bitter end.

When it was 'never hit a woman' it was a good noble virtue. When it was 'you have to kill something to prove you are a man' that was a stupid ignorant idea. But to Petty they were the same, and he would stick by both, defend both till his dying breath.

It seemed it really was that simple- his Maw had brought him up to never hit a girl, and Petty believed it was right that men should not hit girls, so he didn't. No matter how much his sister physically provoked him that stubborn hanging on in there meant he would never do it, she could see that plain as day written all over his wide-open face, the very idea was a betrayal of that stubborn arse that he was deep down. There was no point arguing the issue further with him and she suddenly felt very tired, “Key”.

Petty finally fished the key out of his sporran and handed it to Figg who unlocked the door then handed the key back to Petty.

She paused at the threshold and turned back to Petty, “What else did your maw tell you?”

Petty considered a moment, “Will there wus this wan thing she used tae sae aw the time, but a cud never unerston it?”

“What was it?” Figg enquired genuinely intrigued, “maybe I can help.”

“She used ta sae, 'girls ne'er fart, only boys fart. Lassie's only start farting wance they git married.'”

Figg wrinkled her nose at the crudness and frowned at the meaning, “I don't think I understand it either,” she said.

“A've noo finished yit,” Petty admonished, “she sud, 'wimmin only start farting whin they gut married, cause that's when they acquire an arsehole.'”

Petty frowned in bafflement and Figg tried to stifle a  laugh and failed. “Whit?” Petty demanded, “That's whit Maw wid dae tae, efter saying it, start laughing! Whit is it? I didnae get it. If lassies didnae huv an arsehole wur dus aw there shite go? An whits marriage tae di wi it?””

Still laughing Figg turned and went into the darkness of the shed and closed the door behind her. Petty stood outside a moment in annoyance hearing her laugh echo inside the shed and then with a snarl he locked her in, taken less than three drunken minutes to successfully insert the key into the lock.“Yu'll go tae market the morrow!” he shouted at the shed door, “un, un gud riddance tae!” he added and turned and went back inside the barrel with the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him that he not only regretted saying that but that he was actually going to miss her when she was gone.

Miss her more than he ever missed any lassie ever.

Not that he knew many lassies, at least not ones that did not run a safe distance away and throw stones at him that was, but even so, he had never wanted to spend any time with any of those lassies anyway. Somehow Gingerlocks was different, which was completely baffling as she was also the most stubbornly annoying person he had ever met and seemed to delight in saying and doing things just to torment him.

He frowned some more, causing the eruption of a further spot of two and staggered blearily back indoors tired and confused and uncertain of the morrow but increasingly certain he did not want tomorrow to be the last time he ever saw Figg.






The Constellation of Lesters Cat was slinking about the horizon  looking for a comfortable spot behind the hills to sleep, a sure indication that night was passing slowly towards day. And in the town of Dunfuckinaboot, in the sprawling tangle of streets in a very cheap part of town, in a very cheap inn, in a  very cheap rented room that smelt alternatively of old boiled cabbage and some foul unknown and unseen person's socks Lance paced nervously and worriedly, again.

And that was the point, it was again. He was back where he started only worse. The clock on the wall told him it was almost 5am. Shortly he would once again begin the arduous process of vetting candidates for the role of scuttle thief. Something he was acutely aware he had all but failed to do last time until the timely arrival of Wee Mad Malky. And whose untimely departure in a flaming wreck in the harbour had, he had since been reliably informed, made the pool of likely candidates for the job even smaller.

Word had got about, first that Lance had hired wee Mad Malky in the first place, a sure sign the job was fraught with the sort of peril that stomped or fried you to death almost immediately, and secondly that Wee Mad Malky had gone down in flames before even getting to the real job. The upshot of this was even fewer candidates of the desired stature than before and a hefty increase in the money being offered for the job to those still interested. And naturally by definition those left interested were only the ones who were even madder than Wee Mad Malky. This was not Lance considered a comforting thought to start your day with.

He stared anxiously as the bag of gold on the table, both hoping the increase amount offered would be enough and that no one would take it. This last thought was because it was not his money. It was Queen Tinuviels' money, the Royal Purse, or as she was fond of reminding him it was the people of Forumshires' money, at least what was left of it after the Admin had been through it. And she looked very darkly on agents in the field who spent her money frivolously, or in vain. Or not on rasberry buckie for her cellars.

And given the likelihood was, with less than a day to go till the heist, that all this money would be spent in vain he paced some more only harder.

At which point the door of his cheap rented room which was a cheap rented door, swung inwards with a crash into the cheap rented wall, significantly cracking it and reducing what remained of the cheap door to a pile of cheap kindling with a dented cheap brass doorknob atop it. It was joined a moment later by a significant piece of cheap ceiling crashing to the floor which, fortunately, was not cheap and did not collapse under them. Although it did creak and groan a bit.

A short angry figure stood in the doorway. It was soaking wet and yet what remained of the hat perched atop its head smouldered gently.

Lance's first reaction after shock, and some more shock at the thought he was going to have to pay a lot more for the room now out of the Queens Purse, was elation, “Wee Mad Malky!”

“Aye!” Wee Mad Malky said advancing and holding up the flyer Lance had circulated among Dunfuckinaboot's lowest, in ever meaning of the word, members of society, “Whit the fuck is this aboot? Yi geing awa ma job ya bastard?” Mad and possibly Mental Malky demanded in one voice.

“NO!” Lance cried waving his hands in front of Malky, “No, no, no, thrice no, not at all old bean.”

Malky waved the flier threateningly at Lance as if daring him to deny it again.

“Well, ok, yes. Yes, I was hiring again for your job. But! “ he added hastily as Malky started to snarl and foam slightly at the corners of his mouth, “I rather thought you had given your all for Queen and Country old chap, gone boots up in the noblest bravest manner, in the line of duty, or rather flaming downwards to drown in black oblivion in the noblest bravest manner in your case. A goner old chap none-the-less however in everyone's eyes. But really, I'm delighted to see you in fact old chap. And of course the job is still yours if you want it.”

Malky faltered in his anger at this, then spying the bag of coins on the table he stalked towards it and seized it before Lance could protest, “A'll keep the job thun, un A'll take the pay rise yire offering tae,” he turned to Lance with a fierce look burning in his eyes, or it may just have been that his eyes and around them were actually burnt, “fur yi're fucking cheek.”

“Um, righti-ho then,” Lance gulped. That was it. He was going to have to gamble all that was left of the Queens money at the big game tonight just in the hope of breaking even. And he had absolutely no idea which of the Scottish pub themed games he was going to be even playing the Chief at. He gulped again. But at least he had Wee Mad Malky back in the team. They would at least be ready to go.

He surveyed that last thought and realised he had just rated as a positive the fact he had a diminutive violent insane schizophrenic drunken Scotshobbit back on his team. And that in turn made him realize just where his expectations were for this missions success and his future career as an agent of her Majesty. Or indeed his future full stop.

He slumped down onto a chair heavily and started to moan softly to himself.

Wee Mad Malky reached up a reassuring hand to his slumped shoulder, “Aye lad, I feel fur yi, wi've aw hud hangovers cum oan us like thut afore noo.”

Lance moaned some more.




Dawn broke gently over the McTyrant barrel in a lazy haze of yellow sunlight that softly filtered through the mists of morning that clung about the woods and the barrel itself.

No cockerels crowed to greet the dawn, at least not within earshot of a Scotshobbit, natural selection had soon seen to that. And any cockerel that ever got the controversial thought in its bird brain of  'I'm going to crow today, why not?' soon found out why not when it woke any angry Scotshobbit with a hangover. Which was all of them.

The chance of surviving as a crowing cockerel greeting a dawn in a Scotshobbit settlement was about the same odds as them spontaneously offering to buy you a drink. Very long indeed. In fact the odds of a Scotshobbit voluntarily offering to buy anyone a drink has been calculated by mathematicians as being the worst odds available anywhere for anything in the known universe.

So Figg was not woken from her slumber to her last day of sort of freedom by the distance call of the cockerel but instead by the shrill harsh cries of Pretty, “oot o there Missy, time tae pay back yer keep,” and laughing Pretty banged on the door, there was a brief snapping noise then a lot of cursing, “my fucking new nails!” Pretty growled and the door of the shed shuddered as she kicked it, “get up yi lazy sassenach! Yi owe me a manacure hen!” Pretty called and booted the door again.

Figg waited in the semi-darkness for the sound of Pretty unlocking the door, it swung slightly ajar letting a, to Figg, blinding stream of daylight in, “Cum oan yi've a sale tae git tae.” Then Pretty turned and left to go repair her damaged nail, still cursing under her breath as she tottered off her heels sinking into the damp dewy grass.

Figg waited till she was sure Pretty was gone before she moved.  She clutched the kitten to her chest and petted it,cooing and whispering soft meaningless sounds at it and it responded with a deep warm purr.

Carefully she placed it in the warm bedding that she had lined a small wicker basket with -which she had carefully woven in the night with straw from the floor and then concealed in the breadth and complicated undergarments of her bustle. Opening the shed door she went outside squinting into the light.

On the road before the barrel was a cart drawn by a sturdy horse. This in itself Figg would not have considered unexpected, what was unexpected was how grand both cart and horse were. They both gleamed. The cart was painted silver and had gold trim which shone and the horses coat gleamed in the morning light and its mane was beautifully and tightly pleated. The sides of the cart bore some sort of heraldry; crossed buckie bottles and a candle above just the top of a head on a background of McTyrant tartan.

As if this was not a surprising enough sight to behold outside the barrel even more splendid or possibly ridiculous but  still equally polished to within a gleaming inch of life was Paw and beside him Petty.

Both were outfitted in full McTyrant tartan which was a garish criss-cross of vivid yellow and green with red stripes. Paw had a huge helmet upon his head with a massive white feathered plume in it and wore a shining breastplate polished like a mirror. He looked regal, rather fearsome and somewhat ridiculous all at once.

But it was Petty that Figg could not stop staring at. His wild and crazy hair had been calmed, from the shine of it and the faint aroma with several pounds of animal fat quite possibly, but however it had been done it was tamed and neat.

The dirt was scrubbed from his face and hands, his teeth were white and shiny when he smiled embarrassedly in her direction at her gaze. For a brief moment in occurred to Figg that the real Petty must have been abducted and replaced with a Changeling during the night. But then he sneezed a huge green stream of snot that splattered violent down his front to cries of outrage from Maw.

It was definitely the real Petty under the glossy exterior. But she was hugely puzzled as to what was going on and was just pondering what all this portended when Pretty emerged from the barrel, or at least her legs did as at first that was all Figg could focus on as there was an awful lot of them and very little skirt to conceal them.

It was naturally a tartan skirt of the same garish colour scheme as the rest of the clan, but somehow on Pretty she pulled it off by matching the colours subtly elsewhere in her makeup and about her person. Which in turn was a feat of fashion given how little clothes there were on the rest of her to work with.

It seemed to Figg that Pretty consisted visually of four things you noticed in this order- legs, breasts, lips and hair as all four were exaggerated to comical overblown proportions, yet the overall effect was somehow stunning. Well in so far at least that upon seeing her you were certainly stunned. Watching her get into the cart was going to be an education Figg considered.

Even as she was thinking this Paw climbed easily up and sat down and Maw followed him and it began to dawn on Figg that once Pretty had organised her legs enough to join them there would not be room for her and Petty. And indeed this proved to be true once Pretty had clambered aboard and the cart rolled slowly forwards and behind it, previously concealed by the barrel was a second cart.

This cart was not silver and it had no gold trim, it was not polished or even clean. And though it too was drawn by a horse this horse has mad swivel bloodshot eyes and ears that were flat back against its head. Its nostrils flared and its mane had clearly never seen a comb so much as a pleat in its lifetime. Even as this second cart driven by Petty drew to a halt and he beckoned her aboard the horse made a spirited attempt to kick her to death through the cart and its harness, it shook and wobbled violently under the pounding until the horse, exhausted gave up for now allowing Figg to nervously and tentatively climb up into the cart.

“Here wi go,” Petty said with a flick of the reigns following the first cart, “tae Dunfuckinaboot an' the slave market.”

Curious as she was about the why the McTyrants were travelling in such style and pomp and why Petty had been scrubbed to a dull shine Figg found she did not want to ask any questions as the first few miles rolled and bumped by.

Just being out of the confines of the McTyrant barrel was such an overwhelming joy. She wanted to savour it. For one thing her sense of smell was returning. She supposed it had left her for its own safety whilst in the barrel, now she could smell the freshness of the grass on the verge as they rolled by, the moisture in the air around her and the pine of the woods beyond and distantly the river which, though hidden still by the trees as the road climbed seemed to follow it below, and which she knew was there because she could smell the sharp tang of it.

She could also smell carbolic soap and animal fat which could not quite mask either the buckie or the mouldy smell that emitted from Petty sitting next to her. There were obviously going to be some downsides to a return of her senses.

As the cart trundled on upwards she indulged in the feel of the wind against her and in her hair, it made her again feel alive and free, which uncomfortably drew on thoughts that she was about to soon be very not free. But here and now, the sun rising up the sky and in warmth, with the mists and fogs uncoiling and burning off underneath it revealing rolling hills and rocky cliff-sides as the road continued to rise upwards and curl about great outcrops of jutting cracked granite rock dressed in the green and yellows of mosses, she did not let worry spoil the moment.

She looked again at Petty as he drove them onwards in silence and suddenly the desire for answers came flooding back to her, “Petty?” she enquired breaking the long silence.

“Mmm? Whit is it?” Petty replied as if stirred from some great inner depths, which surprised her as she did not think he had any.

“Why the silver cart and the fancy hat and clothes?” she said nodding ahead to Paw in the front cart.

“It comes wi Paw's job, the cart and the hat A mean, fir when he goes oan duty,” Petty replied as the trees either side finally fell away and they began to crest the high incline they had been ascending, “when wi git tae toon wi'll drop Paw aff at his joab, and then wi go oan tae the market. Maw'll dae the selling , she's better than Paw, she'll git....” Petty suddenly trailed off.

“She'll get what?” Figg demanded, “a better price for me?”

Petty hung his head, “Aye. Its nuthing personal like.”

“Nothing personal!?” Figg cried indignantly, “you are selling my person. How much more personal can it be?”

“It's no ma fault! “Petty cried back looking unhappy, “if its wis up tae me,” he stopped leaving the sentence unsaid and shrugged, “doesnae matter, its noo up tae me is it.”

Figg was about to unload some more righteous indignation on Petty but he looked to thoroughly dejected she did not have the heart, besides she knew he was right.

“Fine,” she said finally, “so tell me instead what it is your Paw actually does when he is on duty. Is he a policeman?”

“Polis!” Petty said in a hushed whisper as if he had sworn in church, “naw nuthing bad.”

“So what does he do then?” Figg pressed but just then the cart crested the top of the slope and the land suddenly fell away before them in a stunning view and she fell into silence.

Figg gasped. Before her the hills rolled down to meet the shining blue of the sea, and far below them now she could see the river winding through wide fields, bordered by willows and oaks till it broadened and broke into thousands of small streams and poured itself into the sea.

And rising from the blue amid the foaming whites of crashing waves, on a rocky outcrop was a hill about which and all along the coast from on either side was a great sprawling town protected by high walls and from atop the hill a castle stood, a banner flew in the wind high above its topmost tower and caught the mid-morning sun.

“He is a guard,” Petty said in reply to her enquiry.

“What?” Figg said distractedly drawn back finally to the conversation from the vista.

“Paw, you asked whit he did. He's a guard, the Heid Guard in fact. He's in charge of guarding the maist valuable and revered relic in aw McTyranrts lands, he guards the Magic Coal Scuttle. Its a very prestigious position o' honour, yi'll see when wi get doon tae Dunfuckinaboot.”

He turned to her and smiled, “A kin show yi roon the museum if yi want?” he said cautiously and somewhat hopefully Figg thought and she felt, unwanted and unbidden the unfolding of those damned butterfly wings in her stomach again, “If you like,” she replied trying to sound uncommitted but it came out she felt sounding more like desperation, too swiftly and with too much breath in it and she cursed herself. But then maybe there was something to be found to be liked in this Scotshobbit, maybe her gut knew something she did not she considered.

“An' efter the museum, we cun sell yi,” Petty nodded and turned back to the road.

'Bugger my gut' Figg thought sourly and stared ahead at her destination and unknown fate.

Magic Coal Scuttle... well, I'll be!

As to girls only farting after marriage, I think that's true! By gum!

Wow, when you bottle it all in for a while it accumulates. That was 20 minutes solid going, no doubt took hours to write.

{{{Bugger too long? Sorry but I couldn't find a natural break point any earlier in the chapter.}}}

Blimey that was bloody good The imagination is easy to come by here......{{{ if you see what there is lying about }}}....the writing is SO fun to read !!!

The two carts began the long winding descent down towards the base of the glen where the road would once again meet the shining band of the river meandering through the fields below.

The cart jostled and lurched as Petty tried in vain to avoid all the potholes and ruts. Figg adjusted her bustle on the hard wooden seat as they bounced uncomfortably along and the kitten within stirred from its slumber and mewed plaintively.

Figg coughed hastily as Petty turned an inquisitive eye to her, the kitten mewed softly again from the depth of the bustle, fortunately muffled by the many layers of it.

Figg coughed again louder and longer and waved a hand in front of her mouth, she drew in a long draw of air and tried to make a sound somewhat like a mewing cat, “Fly,” she croaked by way of explanation and Petty nodded and turned his attention back to the curving rutted road.

As the two carts rattled off down the slope a long tall head with a downturned mouth slowly appeared from behind a bush, it was followed a moment later by another similar long McBanks face although this one also supported a long dark goatee.

The two McBanks watched the carts disappear over the ridge and then scurried back from the road side to a concealed dip in the hillside where Offo McBanks and forty of his best McBanks fighters, salesmen and jelly chefs awaited.

“Ur we ready lads?” Offo demanded of his men and they cheered as a response, “we'll dine on strawberry jelly afore this night is oot!” and they cheered again even louder.

Offo beamed. He was going to have his revenge on Gingerlocks, steal the McTyrant's magic scuttle, restore the McBanks to their former glory and honour, well ok, glory at least, and avenge himself on Gingerlocks. He realised he had already listed this but felt it was worth gloating over twice. And as a bonus he would be remembered for ever more as the greatest McBanks Chieftain of them all. Offo McBanks the First. He imagined himself as the head of a long line of McBanks destined to be renowned throughout Scotshobbit history. Think of all the jelly that he could have, whenever he desired it!

He took out from his sporran a mini-palantri and rubbed it carefully and peered down into its inky depths, “Ambassador?” he enquired, “Ah, thur yi ur,” he said squinting at the image that was forming of Ambassador Amarie, her eyes sharp behind her glasses, it looked like she was outside somewhere, Offo could see the sky behind her, patches of blue flecked with grey cloud. “We're ready tae begin, we'll muk oor way doon the side o' the glen and be at the toon walls at sundoon, jist yi muk sure an dae yi're part an get us in.”

Ambassador Amarie sighed and stared piercingly into her palantir at the distorted figure of Offo McBanks, although with a McBanks head which already looked like someone in a fun-house hall of mirrors it was hard to tell, “You need not worry about that,” she said steadily, “just be there on time Offo.”

She tapped the palantir off sharply and tucked it away, then leant her hands on the balcony overlooking the McTyrant Keep and Dunfuckinaboot.

She gazed downwards into the mess of streets and alleyways, bustle, yells and drunken fights and smiled to herself.

Down there somewhere Lance was preparing for his big night at the casino and his team were preparing to steal the scuttle in the name of Her Majesty and discovering the truth of it. And here in the Keep itself the Eel-wranglers laid their plans to assist him in the theft.

Her eyes traced a meandering road down the city towards the harbour, to where she knew Norc and Ringo likewise prepared to steal the scuttle in the name of justice and law and order.

That thought made her smile more as her gaze lifted from the hazy smoky town and out beyond it along the coast to where the hills began to rise and the main road ran, and where somewhere Offo McBanks was leading his men on a daring raid to likewise steal the scuttle in the name of restoring the McBanks lands, honour and Pride.

And every single piece she had a hand in setting in motion, and every single piece moved on her board though they could not see the squares.

Her dual masters would be pleased, although she was aware that neither would be pleased by anything else than results, and whilst all was going like clockwork and to the detail of her plan, it was not over or accomplished yet.

The smile of self satisfaction she mentally withdrew from her face, now was not the time for over self assuredness, now was the time to be most observant, most ready for unknown elements to affect the careful pattern of her intentions. It was always the unforeseen elements which proved the most catastrophist.




As the carts meandered bumping heavily down the road to the foot of the glen Figg found her eye was drawn to a distant building, some mile perhaps from the foot of the hill out on the flatter land, which ran maybe four miles from the hills foot to the firth where the river met the sea and Dunfuckinaboot.

The building seemed to be a pub on the main road, it was two storey with stables, a small patch of fields behind it and a small orchard attached. Pleasant and uninteresting enough, but on the road just beyond it there was some sort of contraption. From this distance as their cart made its trundling way down the final slope to the glens floor she could not make out precisely what it was. But it gleamed in the morning sun as if made of metal and belched forth a ponderous cloud of thick black smoke.

A large gathering of interested onlookers had gathered outside the inn and lining the road to witness whatever this thing was.

“What do you think that is?” Figg said pointing it out to Petty who shrugged.

“Dunno, sum new invention probably,” he said disinterested.

“An invention?”

“Aye, from the crabbit and the buckie, probably some great idea came tae sum lucky bugger in the wee hoors o' the morning, an' bingo, cracking idea and fame an' fortune. Crabbit buckie Hall of Fame.”

“So,” Figg said thoughtfully, “Scotshobbit's get blind drunk, rant and rave about things they don't like, and then invent ways to fix them?”

“Exactly!” Petty beamed, “the power o' crabbit, the beauty o' the buckie,” he added reverentially, “its why its so valuable. Aye maist times folks jist git pished, git in fights, shag stuff, fa' doon, throw up or git arrested- but every sae often, when the gods o buckie an' crabbit are in alignment they strike yi wi a blinding idea tae wan aw life's wee hassles.”

Figg stared ahead, but now their cart was down on the floor of the glen too the contraption, whatever it was was even harder to see, even as they drew closer, but its tall column of thick black smoke marked its position all the way above the purple and white dashes of thick heather and the reeds and fern that bordered the road on either side.

Finally Figg could see, rising over the vegetation the roof of the distant pub, and as they drew closer the whole building slowly appeared and drew near.

“We'll stop here fir lunch,” Petty informed her as Paw's cart ahead begin to turn slowly into the pub courtyard and stables which were behind a high wall, Petty following.

Figg could hear the now close range cries and shouts, some of derision it seemed some of encouragement that came from the crowd, now close by and sounding ever closer.

The contraption, whatever it was it seemed was slowly making its way towards them down the road.

Curious the McTyrant's joined the crowd for a better look, many patrons of the pub were leaning on the fence and gate of the pub yard gawking over them at the coming spectacle.

The thing which approached was a cart of sorts, upon which there was a large roaring furnace being industriously fed coal and peat by two blackened and sweaty Scots, kilts flapping in the strenuous task.

The furnace was beneath a huge brass barrel that steamed and belched black smoke from a chimney on the top. As it drew nearer a distinct series of smells emerged with it, they were hot smells, and thick smells, yet sweet almost tangy, and most mysterious of all there was , beneath it all the scent of, well, of a ladies boudoir. The sort of lady whose boudoir saw passing trade.

On the back of this huge barrel there was a tap which was currently open and dispensing from this tap was a thick black liquid which spread out over the surface of the road like very thick ink. It was aided in this task by two more scots who, with garden lawn rollers, were spreading it out evenly over the surface and pressing it down.

At the head of this procession was a brightly and well dressed Scotshobbit, he was completely bald, in that not only did he not have hair on his head he did not appear to have any eyebrows either, he was also waving a bottle of buckie and crying, “Behold! The wun'er o' the new age! The saviour o' oor roads!” Figg squinted at the figure quizzically, he looked somehow vaguely familiar, “I gie yi the Majestic, the Glorious, the Wundrous, the Patented and Copyrighted, Resinmcadam!” he cried.

The man's eyes as they passed over the crowd alighted momentarily on the McTyrant family and then went suddenly back again in a double-take to focus on the noticeable ginger cascades of Figg.

“Gingerlocks?” the man cried, “it's yi is it noo?”

“Um,” Figg replied as all eyes in the crowd and the McTyrant's turned on her, “sorry, but do I know you?”

“Frae Glesgae Lass, oan the docks- yi wur the wonderful lass that gie us the buckie! Its me, ma names McAdam.”

There were loud mutterings of approval at this directed towards Figg from the crowd and Petty's eyes widened.

“Oh yes,” she replied memory returning, “I hope you weren't hurt?”

“Oh aye, thur wus a wee rammy wus there noo?” and this elicited laughter from the crowd.

“Were there sheep involved?” Figg frowned.

“A rammy is a fight,” Petty translated hurriedly in her ear.

“So what happened to you after the fight,sorry, rammy, broke out?” Figg enquired, “I thought the police would catch you.”

There was muttering and tutting from the crowd at this.

“Naw lass, efter the polis wer oan tae us a fought mae way across the dock, but unfortunately as a was huving this wee disagreement wi a boaby I goat smashed into a pile o' barrels o' ships pitch. Coated head tae foot, and in my attempts tae get oot a stumbled into the smithy fire and whoosh, up a went.”

Figg gasped, as did the crowd, “That explains the eye brows,” she added.

“Aye,” McAdam said, “but I put the flames oot by rolling aboot like a madman on the sand and shingle of the beach, but I was covered head tae foot in hot pitch and noo A wis also covered head tae foot in sand an' wee sharp stanes. So A'm stumbling alang the beach trying tae get awa wi half o' Glesgaes finest on ma heels when some dafty unloading thur cargo amid aw the chaos oanly gaes un drops a barrel o' resin destined for the Eel Wranglers Guild Hall right on my heid! So thur A um, covered frae head tae toe in pitch, sand, stoanes and this thick stinking resin, smelling like a lady o't he night and whit di yi think huppened?” he asked of Figg and the crowd.

“You made four quid working the docks!” some wag in the crowd shouted to laughter.

“Naw!” McAdam retorted sharply and with annoyance.

“What did happen?” Figg asked finally.

“A cudnae move,” the crowd gasped, “no an inch, no a muscle. It aw hardened and sealed me in. Took four big burly polis tae carry me up oot the harbour afore the tide came in or it wud huv drooned.”

“So what's all this do with your contraption here?” Figg demanded waving her hand at the bellowing machine on whose hot warm sweet perfumed scented smell she was beginning to choke on and which was humming gently as it stood there being stoked.

“Wul efter a got oot the jail, they'd hammered un chiselled the stuff aff me, maist o it oanways, taking aw my hair wi it,” he winced and the crowd winced and cooed with him in sympathy, “aye, but there wis some aw this resin stuff still, yi ken here and there aboot us they hudnae goat aff, and thur a wis ruminating on my losses as the carriage bounced ooer every pot-hole oan the road hame when it hit me.”

“What hit you?” Figg asked impatiently.

“Stuff that was soft and spreadable but that then turned hard as stane itself but smooth. Pitch oan its ane isnae strong enough fur aw the traffic, stanes and sand oan thur ain same problem, but combine them aw together wi the resin and bob's yir uncle lomng lasting nae pot mairr potholes road surfacing- Resinmcadam, A named it efter maeself,” he added in an aside to Figg, “so yi see Gingerlocks, its aw down tae yi and yon bottle of buckie yi threw me on that Glesgea harbour that fateful day when the Gods o' crabbit and buckie were smiling doon,” the crowd cheered as McAdam in a show of his gratitude bowed low to Figg.

“I know a way you can repay your favour,” Figg said keenly.

McAdam straightened hurriedly up, “Repay?” he queried cautiously.

“I'm on my way to the slave markets in Dunfuckinaboot,” she explained, “you could buy me.”

McAdam paused with a puzzled expression as the crowd listened on keenly, “Whit wud a dae that fur?” he asked carefully, “A huv nae need aw oany slaves.”

“Good,” Figg said with grin, “then once you buy me you can set me free.”

There was a sudden hushed shocked silence at this from the crowd. In the emptiness that followed her statement the only rather ominous noises came from the contraption- it had ground to a halt and the stokers were filling her up with ever more fuel- and some of the old grey beards among the crowd who muttered darkly to themselves as if Figg had uttered a blasphemy.

Petty put a hand on Figg's arm, “Yi shudnae huv said that,” he admonished warily.

McAdam put a protective hand to his sporran, “Let me get yi right, yi wunt me tae pay oot sum o' ma money, oot ma ain sporran, this very one here,” he added patting his sporran proudly which was a fine goat hair one, “tae buy you, and then yi wunt me tae let yi go, fur nuthing?”

“Yes,” Figg nodded.

McAdam's face contorted in bafflement for a moment then he said, “But whit dae a get oot of this?”

“You get to feel good about yourself?” Figg suggested.

The crowd muttered some more only louder and darker, more angrily, someone at the back shouted 'sassenach'.

Petty laid a hand on Figg, “A think we shud go,” he suggested he had one eye on the crowd and another on the contraption which was rocking side to side on its wheels as the stokers, with no other instructions being given just continued to stoke it.

“But,” Figg began to protest as Petty pulled her back from the contraption and the crowd, “what about him buying me? He owes me.”

Petty groaned at this and the crowd booed and someone threw a rock at her which fortunately missed.

“I made no legally binding agreement wi this wayward lassie!” McAdam declared to the crowd, “I owe her nuthin' but ma gratitude which yi aw saw me show, efter that ma sporran is ma ain!” This got rousing cheers from the crowd.

“What about doing the decent thing?” Figg cried in reply as Petty tried desperately to pull her away, the rest of the McTyrant clan having seen how things were going having retreated to the pub already.

“We're oan a shoogly peg here Gingerlocks,” Petty hissed at her.

The contraption, which had now been sitting unmoving on the one spot for some time, and which its stokers were still vigorously stoking began to whistle in a high pitched squeal, then as Petty dragged Figg behind the stables the barrel of the contraption suddenly swelled up, expanded like a balloon and exploded.

Hot resinmcadam splattered in all directions, coating one wall of the pub and a considerable portion of the courtyard, but fortunately not on Petty or Figg.

They emerged from the shelter of the stable and saw a crowd of people running about yelling in panic and covered from head to foot in thick black resinmcadam, including McAdam himself.

And even as they watched opened mouthed at this spectacle the resinmcadam began to harden and they were soon left staring at a weird tableau of black statues of whom only the eyes moved.

Figg walked up to McAdam and his wide eyes rolled down to look at her, he tried to say something but his lips were locked in place beneath his own invention and all he could manage was “Mphulurgle.”

“You should have bought me when you had the chance,” Figg said with her hands on her hips, “serves you right for being so mean.” And with a toss of her head she felt was entirely justified in the circumstances she turned from the scene and strode off to join the McTyrant's in the pub where they had a very nice lunch whilst the local McTyrant Sheriffs arrived to carry off the frozen resinmacadamed crowd.

Figg also took the opportunity to visit the little ladies outhouse where she could change the straw in her bustle for the kitten and given it some milk. It pressed its tiny head against her hand and fell over trying to rub against it purring happily.

Heading back to their respective carts the McTyrant family and Figg continued their journey, the first mile of which was on McAdam's newly laid road. It was smooth, it was quiet, the cart did not bounce once, no small stones pinged up to hit them randomly in the face, they both considered this with a thoughtful 'mmm' until they left the new section of road and returned to the old one with a sudden jolt which made Figg's teeth clattered together painfully.

The cart bounced and rattled, small stones ricocheted off the underside as Petty tried to steer them round the worse of the pot holes.

“Yi know, A think yon McAdam chappie might be oan tae sumthing,” Petty commented through clattering teeth as the sky clouded over and it began to rain.

Ahead of them seeming to loom now through the grey sheet of water was the hill and Keep of Dunfuckinaboot. Within the hour they would be passing beneath the towns outer walls. And within an hour of that Figg guessed she would be put up for sale.

She shuddered as she sat squelching in the cart but it was not the cold rain which caused it.

She stared mournfully ahead into the rain and realised, much as she had being trying not to think about it, that now was the time to come up with a plan of escape. Now or never. The trouble was she could not think of one.

Yes, I'll read this, when I'm not so tired from a day at the market pot selling... But only under duress, being offended on Ol' Anon's part that you are daring to include Magical Goal Scuttles in your tale! And when I do read your latest instalment, I vow to dislike it.. How much? ... a lot!!!

being offended on Ol' Anon's part that you are daring to include Magical Goal Scuttles in your tale!- Orwell

{{{{ }}}}

I will read this - no matter how plagiaristic it is. But your pieces are longer than Ol' Anon's and deserve a time and place for proper patient enjoyment - with an eye, of course, for fault finding.....

I love the frozen crowd with only the eyes moving.

I think part of what makes these so beguiling is the obvious affection the author has for the characters. It rubs off on the reader.

I think part of what makes these so beguiling is the obvious affection the author has for the characters- Halfy

{{ I like to hope that comes across Halfy, I do enjoy writing these characters I have to admit}}

I really enjoyed both of the last two chapters. I'm glad you're still doing this, Petty!

I did mention on here but, maybe I hit the wrong button ? Its always fun reading your stories You keep going now

{{Thanks everyone- so happy you are still enjoying it. Hope to have the next bit up late tonight or early tomorrow}}

“Hurry,” a voice called back into the room with all the delayed patience of someone keen to make a point, “the,” she paused again making sure the next word got its full and proper emphasis, “FUCK” and one final pregnant pause of pent up annoyance, “up!”

Ringo, who was desperately slobbering glue on his upper lip and applying a large mustache to it, which when on made him look debonair and which when off, at least by one corner or another as the damn thing would not stick, he looked like what he was, an undercover cop.

“We are going to be late for the Ambassador and if we are late we won't get into the fucking keep.”

“Yi didnae think I ken that?” Ringo shouted back, slapping the mustache hard against his upper lip where, finally it seemed happy to remain.

Ringo emerged from the room and into the hallway of the upper floor of the inn where Norc awaited him. She burst out laughing.

Ringo stared at her in annoyance and disbelief, not at her mirth at his appearance, he was after-all wearing a huge hat with an ostrich feather stuck in it and shoes so pointy you could use them to make the holes in Swiss cheese, the really small ones. The entire ensemble was also in a variety of shades of purple. The appearance of a dandy businessman.

No, her mirth he expected and would have taken in the good humour it was meant, that was not the problem.

“Yir supposed tae be unnercover?!” he finally exploded incredulously.

She was dressed in leathers and furs with sturdy hard wearing boots and a thick hood and an array of sharp pointy things. Or to put it another way, exactly the same as usual.

“I am under fucking cover,” she replied indignantly.

“As whit?'

“A Viking warrior.”

Ringo stared at her,”But that's whit yi awready ur!”

“Ah,” said Norc tapping the side of her nose with one finger, “but they don't fucking know that.”

Ringo blinked at her, he sighed and was about to argue the point but realised they simply did not have the time if they were to meet the Ambassador.

“Firget it, lets jist go.”

They went down the rickety stairs and out through the main bar into the cold cobbled alleyway outside, which before they had reached the end of it had begun to rain: a heavy squall blown in from the sea, salty, sharp and freezing.

It washed Ringo's moustache all the way down to his chin where it finally and resolutely decided it had found somewhere it really, really wanted to stick onto.





The mass of wooden, thatched, rickety, pointed, high and low roofs that had dominated the skyline as the McTyrant carts approached Dunfuckinaboot were now receding from view as the outer wall of the town rose up to swallow them from view as they approached it.

They had joined a main road now which came down from the north and passed through the arched gateway in a long line of carts and wagons of varying degrees and burdens.

Figg noticed however that they got preferential treatment, well Paw's cart did at least, as where he would be waved through by guards and given the prime routes on the rough cobbled streets the traffic would snap closed just before their cart as they tried to follow or they would be force don the the even rougher dirt fringes to the road.

Fortunately they had it seemed a secret weapon however. Their horse. For some reason it seemed other horses were keen to get out of it's way, even to the point of causing minor traffic accidents by crashing into neighbouring traffic in a bid to manoeuvre.

“Um, why are all those other horses trying to get out of the way of ours?” she eventually ventured curiously.

“Thuv probably met him afore,” Petty replied with a firm nod.

Eventually the cobbled thoroughfare they were on came to a junction, to the right a wide avenue led on up to the Keep, there was a large square before it at the base of a set of huge marble stairs. This square seemed filled with bustle and many coloured stalls and a great press of people.

Immediately Figg was drawn to it, the colours and the people and the noise, the bustle, it looked exciting, full of exotic and exciting things to see and she thought if she could get free she would like very much to get a chance to see it close up.

“What's going on in that square up there?” Figg enquired pointing in the direction of the stalls.

Petty sighed and turned his head away as they crossed the junction and continued straight on, “thut's  market day,” he said softly, “thut's wur yi'll go tae be selt.”

“Oh, I see” Figg said thinking to herself that she was at least going to get her wish to see it closer up.

They went further along this road then turned to their right, running parallel with the road leading ot the Keep, an indeed this road likewise seemed to do so as the rocky cliff-face upon which the Keep stood loomed darkly at the roads end.

At the roads end, directly ahead of them and directly below the Keep was a tall important building  with a high pointed roof. It was entirely carved from fine woods and had the feel of being an older part of the town. The rear of it was stone and seemed to meld into the rock of the cliff behind. There was a reverence to how people approached it Figg noticed or even walked by it which reminded her almost of a church.

Their cart slowed as Paw's cart ahead slowed too and finally stopped right before this grand building.

Immediately from under the shadow of the wooden canopy that overhung the high double-doored entrance two uniformed guards approached. Attired in similar but slightly less ostentatious attire as Paw himself.

They stopped, came to attention and saluted as Paw stepped down from his gleaming cart and marched off up the stairs.

“Wu'll no see him fur a fortnight noo, thut's how lang his duty lasts guarding the sacred scuttle,” Petty informed her.

“So the scuttle is in there?” Figg asked.

“Naw, that's jist the museum and the the processional way the Heid Guard hus tae go, thurs passage go intae yon cliff and right up straight into the sacred Scuttle chambers above. Yi canne see the scuttle save oan special days when its oan procession, but yon place is the museum a telt yi aboot earlier, if yi still wanna,” he paused restlessly,”yi ken, go in and see,” he paused again having gone from merely restless to active figitting in his seat, 'wi me,' he finally ended.

Well Figg considered if it meant time where she was not being taken to be sold then all the better, and it might be just the place, a large probably dark cornered museum, to get herself lost. She could work out what else to do after that.

She glanced at Petty's nervous yet eager face, it bore also a pleading aspect to it, like a cockerel spaniel hoping to get a scrap from the table. And the dreaded butterflies of the belly unfolded their wings and stretched again within her, fluttering experimentally. Maybe she admitted a tiny bit of her did want go with him to see the museum just because it was him.

“An' it'll no matter aboot yir sale cause it jist means we skip lunch tae go in,” he added in hopeful and completely misplaced encouragement, “so yi'll no be late, and it'll no matter no eating cause yir new owner wull huve tae feed yi oanyways.”

The butterflies folded back up their wings and considered the possibility of going back to the cocoon stage.

'That is it!' Figg decided, she was definitely giving him the slip in there.

“All right,” she nodded smiling sweetly, “lets go see your museum to a silly coal scuttle”

Petty looked horrified and put a hand to her mouth, “didnae say, that, dinae say that!” he pleaded, no here, yi'll git us killed yi daft lassie!”

Figg bristled at this admonishment but considered that maybe it was wiser not to defame a sacred relic right on its sacred doorstep so swallowed her response and fumed instead.

“A'll huv tae check wi Maw first,” Petty said, “once huv found sumnwhere tae tie up the horse.”

Even as he said this a man approached with a bucket and a shovel, “Haud yer horse fur a crown?” he asked, “dae the shite fur yi fir only an extra farthing.”  He held up the shovel then foolishly reached out a hand towards Petty's horse to seize its bridle

“Ah really widnae dae that if a were yi” Petty warned sternly.

“Didnae yi worry sonnie,” the horse handler said, “A've being daen this man an' laddie.”

The horse turned a sideways bloodshot eye at the man's hand then promptly swept its head round, teeth first and bit his fingers off.

The man fell back screaming and clutching his bloodied hand whilst Figg stared on in horror.

“Yi see, he's ma ain horse, an' A, um, well A ne'er exactly quite managed tae break him in, goat tae admire his crabbit stubbornness though, but he isnae precisely whit yi cud call tame,” Petty elaborated, as if the man needed this particular point elaborated on when the horse in question was eating two of his fingers like carrots and he was trying to bind his destroyed hand together with his own shirt.

Petty nudged the reigns and the cart pulled away from the building front and the man, Petty leant over, “A did tell yi that A wudnae huv advised it.”

Further down the street there was a row of tethering poles embedded in the cobbles next to a large stone water trough which ran the length of the poles.

Petty brought their cart to a halt behind the already stationary cart of Maw and Pretty, which once they had disembarked pulled immediately away to go, Figg figured, wherever it was glitzy carts went when off duty.

“Go oe'r tae Maw an' keep wide o' the horse” Petty ordered Figg.

“Oh don't worry I intended too,” Figg confirmed and gathered up her bustle and prepared to clamber down from the cart with as much dignity as possible. And just as she was taking the final step down the horse choose that moment to kick the cart.

This was not an accident, this particular horse was practised in being a cunt, prided itself on it in fact and had, over the years of having to pull and lug people and things about built up a staggering loathing and dislike for absolutely everything. It had boiled its resentment down to a precision art. Its one sole pleasure in life was doing whatever it could do to commit acts of wanton violence.

The kick was perfectly timed to jostle the cart at just the precise moment of off-balance for the disembarkee- the exact moment one foot was about to touch the ground and the weight was being lifted from the other-  and the precise angle necessary to catapult them forwards, out of the cart and face down into the street .

Figg squealed and yelled as she was flung headlong from the cart. She landed heavily on the stone street and cursed twice as heavily.

“Oh aye,” Petty called after her, “A meant tae warn yi he does that.”

Figg painfully hauled herself up from the ground, “Well thanks for remembering now!” she managed. The kitten, which she had felt jostled and hitting against the back of the wicker basket was mewing in distress, but fortunately the myriad sounds of the town around them and the many mysterious layers of Figg's bustle was enough to make the noise inaudible save at extremely close range.

Figg stared at the horse which stared back first with one mocking bloodshot eye, then turning its head with the other swivelling crazy eye.

“Does that,” she waved her hand at the horse in search of an appropriate word for it, “creature,” she finally settled on, “have a name?”

“Aye”, Petty nodded, “A cull him PB.”

“PB?”

“Aye, it stands for Pure Bastard.”

“Good name,” Figg nodded in agreement as she skirted a very wide berth of the horse in the direction of Maw and Pretty.

“Yi think yu've gut it bad,” Petty called after her, and Figg momentarily thought, 'yes you are trying to sell me, so I do as a matter of fact,' but she said nothing as Petty continued mournfully , “A've goat tae tie the bastard up.”




The room was lit by lamp-light because Lance had drawn all the curtains, which were thick and heavy and slightly mouldy. In the centre of the room he had placed the table and upon it was his palantir and within it in image form was Ambassador Amarie in the Keep high above them.

Wee Mad Malky was also there, he was sitting in a corner on a stool. He had taken his boots off and was currently pruning his toenails with his sword.

More pleasant company was provided by Gwen, the latest Head Eel-Wrangler. She in turn was accompanied by three other equally appealing and equally new Eel-Wranglers.

“Go over the plan one more time,” Amarie instructed.

“Righti-ho” Lance replied, “Stage One- you and I take the Chief of the McTyrants and his Court to the Casino for a,” he gulped his mouth suddenly feeling dry, “a high stakes game. Stage Two- whilst this is going on and the guards numbers are low at the Keep that's when you Gwen and your girls go into action,” he looked slightly doubtfully at the four girls Gwen had accompanying her, after the previous unfortunate incidents these Eelwranglers were new, sent fresh from the guild. More expense, Lance cringed inwardly, and were they worth it? “Your ladies, they can get the job done can't they?”

The first of the girls wiggled up to him “You don't think we're up to the job sweetie, you wouldn't want to hurt a girl's  feelings now would you sugar?” she purred in his ear and ran a spare hand through his hair as he gasped and stuttered, “No, no,.certainly not my dear.”

The second one seemed to materialise beside him, “We are very well practised,” she crooned into his other ear and ran a teasing hand across his back between his shoulder blades, even through his shirt he could feel the tracery of her nails, which made his spine tingle delightfully from top to bottom and back up again.

The third and final new recruit slowly sauntered towards him, exuding sexual confidence and a predatory prowl, “I think you will find,”she smiled sweetly and held up a jhand mirror to his face, “that we are on the mark If you were our mark.”

Lance stared back at his reflection there was a series of small red, blue and green dots all over his face, down his neck, he scrabbled at the fringes of his hair in the mirror, dots there too, “Bally-heck! That's not cricket, what have you done to me?!” He asked in fright.

Gwen clapped her hands sharply and the fours girls demurely fell back.

“Training exercise,” Gwen said by way of explanation, “red marks are from Overtly Sultry,” she nodded to the first of the girls, “that's poison. Blue marks were left Suitable Comely, her trade mark is applied through the tips of her false nails, paralysis is her speciality,” she turned to Suitably, “nice touch with the back work. And lastly the green which are left by Openly Suggestive there” she pointed at the third of the girls, “she specialises in rendering people unconsciousness, sometimes for a very long time.”

“How long?” Lance interrupted.

“For about the rest of their lives.”

“So you poisoned me, paralysed me and I'm about to fall unconscious am I?” Lance cried in alarm, “well that is a bit rummy. What did you go and do a ruddy thing like that for?”

“You haven't been poisoned,” Gwen sighed, “it was a demonstration. In that brief encounter with my girls all those marks represent the one touch that could have either killed you or sent you to sleep. If my girls wanted you dead they just killed you twenty times over in less than three seconds. And you didn't even notice they were doing it. Good enough for you?”

Lance sighed in some relief and pulled out a large handkerchief from his breast pocket which he began to mop the marks off with, “Point well made,” he conceded nodding to the Eel-wranglers

“Can we please get back to the plan,” Amarie reminded from the table top, her face sounding tinny out of the mini-palantir.

“Yes, of course,” Lance said, “where was I? Oh yes Stage Two. The girls enter the Sacred Chambers and dispose of or otherwise occupy the guards. And whilst that is ongoing Stage Three will also be undertaken. That's you Malky,” he said turning to Malky who had stretched his foot up to his mouth and was trying to remove a particular resilient bit of toe nail with his teeth. He looked up at them all looking at him, “Whit?” he asked.

“Stage Three of the plan- your bit- do you know what to do?”

“Aye, aye,” Malky muttered between nibbles, “climb up the wall tae the lavvy outflow, use yon stuff in the vial yi gie me tae get the grill aff, climb inside and go up tae the chamber. Nab yon scuttle, open the main doors, and gie the thing tae yon lassies there,” he shrugged in the general direction of the eel-wranglers without looking at them. Which was something Lance had subconsciously noticed and was subconsciously worrying him, the eel-wranglers who could reduce his IQ to that of melting fudge in seconds did not seem to have the slightest effect on Wee Mad Malky, he did not even seem to really notice them. And not noticing a room full of eel-wranglers was surely on the list of the Top Ten Impossible Things You Cannot Do. Everything about them was honed to target the libido and the intellect simultaneously and focus it all on them to the excluding of all other rational thoughts. Malky on the other-hand ate his toe nails in front of them.

“Which brings us to Stage Four,” Lance continued nodding at the girls, “You bring the scuttle over to the casino and give it to Ambassador Amarie, whilst I keep the Chief and Court amused at the gaming tables.”

“And I,” Amarie said from the palantir, “will use Blue's devices to determine if its is genuine or false. The Eel-wranglers will then return it to Malky who will put it back in place and exit the building the way he came.”

“No one will ever know the bally thing was gone- the guards will wake up thinking they had a good night with some lovely ladies and the missing grill, if and when its ever discovered will most likely be put down to natural erosion. The perfect crime I'd say.”

“Yes,” Amarie replied with a smile she hoped did not convey as much across the distance as the thoughts of betrayal behind it, “the perfect crime.” Just, she added to herself, not for you. “We will speak again before tonight's revelries.”

She flicked the palantir to off and put it back in the folds of her robe, she smiled to herself then took it back out and tapped it again and called up Offo, “Progress report.”

Offo squinted down the miles at her from out the jet black orb, “wull be in place,” he snorted annoyed at her seeming lack of faith in him, “jist yi muk sure yi cun dae yer bit, an git me an ma men in.”

“I have my means,” Amarie replied mysteriously, “and when you are in place you will receive your instructions as to what to do. Amarie out.” She flicked off the palantir a second time and again slipped it into her robe.

She went into her chambers and placed three large silver goblets on the table and a jug of wine beside it to air. Ringo and Norc would be here soon to receive their instructions. What a night this was going to be when all the pieces meet on the board.

I think much of this could be revised into a book for the general public. Provide slightly more character introduction and open up the inside jokes, and it's not entirely unlike a Discworld story.

Thought has crossed my mind too, Halfy. Not Discworld, just the novel idea and a few adaptations as you mentioned.

I like it very much You all have brilliant writing skills & oodles of talent. I actually regret not printing out all Ive read & making my own personal "Forumshire Jolly Boys & Girls Annual" !
It could have crosswords & dot to dot, & all sorts of things to do. Norc could be the illustrator maybe





** "dot to dot".......... Daves obscure veg ??

I'm excited to see how everything will go down in the climax! You've built up the characters and the tension extremely well.

{{Glad its going down well, next bit should be up tomorrow night sometime all going to plan}}