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April 19, 2024
Return of the Quill: He’s just sitting there again. That’s all he does anymore. He drags himself out of bed and into the city, then returns to sulk in his chair. His dark brown hair is matted and black with filth. The long mustache that he once prided himself on is twisted into chunky locks hanging down to his navel. His shoulders slump and I’ve forgotten what his smile looks like. Long past are the days of sitting at Papa’s feet while he tells us the stories he gathered from the many adventurers of the land. Tales of heroism. Tales of exploration. Tales of conquest. Dragons, decromancers, and, perhaps even more terrifying, battles with other adventurers. The larder is bare, and my stomach is growling. Something has to change. I creep out of the house, closing the door softly behind me, and head toward the Mudslinger office. The dirty front window is less than inviting, but not as discouraging as the disarray within. There is no staff at the reception desk, only heaps of boxes strewn about with their contents half removed long ago by scavengers. Strange noises can be heard coming from the back. Inhuman skittering sounds come from the hall, which is impassible with debris. I poke around aimlessly for a while, trying to find anything that might give me a clue on how to help. I clean as I go, not in any purposeful way, just so I know where I've been. Hours later, at the bottom of a pile of crumpled papers that missed the toss to the bin, I find a memo from a former reporter. He states that he is following a rumor of a golden quill sighting in a snowy mountain village. If this date is correct, the note is from after the last Mudslinger edition that was written! Could this be the answer? Did he find the mythical golden quill? Does it exist? Is it’s magic real? Inquiring minds need to know. Armed with the mostly illegible memo, I head out. I step into the portal, and the world fades into the mist. I feel so alone! I get a creepy feeling like I’m being watched from behind. I dodge rats and catacomb eggs. After a long, strange, and confusing mist trip, I finally stumble into Trellor. After a quick trip to the bank for dragon money and then to the donation room for a warm coat, I head to the snowy island. What luck! Someone has left extra skis laying around. I climb to the top of the jump, put on the skis, and step off. Snow swirls about, covering me in a sparkle of flakes. I race onward, faster and faster. The slope suddenly changes, propelling me up and into the air. The ground rushes up at me. Somehow, I stick the landing. A blizzard is raging all around. A large collection of footprints is visible. Their creators must have just come through here. Surely, they must lead to the village. I remove my skis and start to trudge through the deep snow in the pine forest, following the tracks east. After a short while, the tracks start to climb. So do I. The wind is fiercely blowing me around. It’s hard to stay on the path. On and on I go. A battle-scarred fir darrig leaps from his hiding place in the shadows and attacks me! I flee in terror and rush toward the village. Higher and higher up the mountain, as fast as I can go. Wait, no! Why is there a cliff at the end of the path? I scream and fall. Air rushes past my face as I plummet towards the ground far below. Ground which, by the way, seems to be approaching rapidly. I gasp as I narrowly miss a tree branch. I grimace in pain as my knee and a protruding rock make intimate acquaintance. Another gasp, another branch. With a final jolt, I slam into the ground. The pain is agonizing. I’m not sure how I’m not dead. With a groan, I try to roll onto my knees. Ahhhh! Something under the snow jabs into my kneecap, and I collapse once again. Once the pain subsides, I feel around so as not to impale myself again. My numb fingers finally connect with something solid. It seems to be stuck, so I firmly grasp it with my mittened hands and yank. CRACK! I fall on my rear, holding a bony arm with a reporter’s bag tangled around it. I instantly toss it away before realizing what I have found. My disgust fades, and I crawl over to the bag to rummage through it. I find water-damaged notes and sketches, but nothing useful. Is this the end of my quest? Frustrated, I kick the corpse. Gold? Was that a flash of gold? I dive towards it, digging frantically where the now-severed hand fell. I pry the cold, dead fingers open and retrieve… the quill. The golden quill. As I hold it reverently, the waterlogged papers I discarded begin to flutter around. They float through the air, encircling me and shaking off the old damp. As the papers dry, words begin to appear on the pages. It’s a story! It’s MY story! By the time I get home, the pages have fully formed, not just into a story but into the newest edition of the Mudslinger. I proudly present the paper to Papa. His eyes flick over it with a note of pain before freezing on the headline. As recognition stirs, his eyes brighten, and a smile starts to form. Jumping up from his chair with renewed vigor, he hugs me briefly before grabbing his coat and racing for the door. I hear the shouting begin before he even reaches the street. Famar, the town crier shouts, “Let it be proclaimed throughout the land, the Mudslinger is back in circulation!”All Rights Reserved. For more information contact: Webmistress: Soleil |
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