CLOK BBS

"Don don't usually drink that hard," John muttered to Ron. "Think it was the Dunwyr, last night?"

The declaration brought Ron's eyes sliding sideways once again, to the corner. Sitting there, as he had been for hours back into the morning, was the aggressively colorful form of Jimmy, the local harp player. Usually boisterous, easy-going and excessively clean, he instead looked as if he hadn't taken his clothes off last night. And the half-empty tankard that had barely left his lips all morning just added to the image of a man who drank so hard all he could do was drink more to take the edge off of it.

"Hell, I don't think those was Dunwyr," Ron retorted quietly. A brief shudder went up his spine at the memory of those horrible howls and screams from last night. The usual group was out surveying their next tree to take down when it just drifted in on the wind. Now, usually you could hear those damned adventurers getting up to whatever business they get up to in that forest, but this was something different. This sounded like... well, it sounded like something, alright. Like part man, part animal. It turned all their heads, and it just kept going. They all cleared out, and no one blamed them. Especially with the recent Dunwyr problem.

"You keep sayin' that but..." John started, but quickly cut off as Jimmy lumbered to his feet and started making his slow, swaying way over to their table. The two burly men just stared, along with every person in the room, as the bard plopped down with them. He hiccuped, dragging unwashed hair away from his bloodshot eyes. "Talkin' 'bout me?" he slurred.

"Ah... hey, Jimmy. You doin' alright?" asked Ron, reaching over to hesitantly pat his sloshed buddy's shoulder.

"I saw her," Jimmy whispered, leaning forward to stare into Ron's eyes with sudden manic clarity, who predictably flinched.

"Saw wh--"

"The howlin'!" Jimmy interjected, still barely above a whisper. Despite themselves, neither man could stop from leaning in with rapt attention. Jimmy, ever the master storyteller, even in this sort of state, tipped his head back and drained the rest of his tankard as they waited. Neither man complained.

"There's stories of them nethrim in the bog," Jimmy started, coughing heavily from the burn of the drink. "About them being able to mind control. I was tryna learn so I could-- uh... never mind. Point is, I was in it, watching them, when outta nowhere, this thing comes rushing out of the mud and stabs a nethrim right through the heart with a spear! I don't know what she did, but when she stabbed it, parts went everywhere. Like when a flintlock backfires, and your hand kind of..." He splayed a hand out, as if his fingers had been blown back concussively.

Jimmy paused for breath, and for drink, while both lumberjacks thought more or less the same thought. "This guy is nuttier than a squirrel on a hot roof! But I'd rather think about this funny story than what actually might've happened."

"But she didn't just stop there," the bard continued, unabated. "She punched it in the face. The thing was already dead, I'm sure of it, but she still broke its neck with one punch, and then grabbed hold and ripped its face off. I swear to every god you want, she did. Then she laughed, and grinned, blood everywhere. And then she just dropped that spear and threw herself on another one nearby. Tore it apart with her bare hands. It was like watching one of those furies from legend. She just punched and punched and punched. At one point she was on top of it, with its head caved in, but she was still punching its face into the mud. And when she was done, she stood up and she howled, like a wolf. But not like any wolf, or like the Dunwyr. Like a battle-crazed, angry wolf who didn't care about living, and hunting, or any of that. Who just wanted to kill me. And do it in the most... in the most... in the worst way." Jimmy shook his head, face growing more and more fearful as he talked.

The two lumberjacks were no longer having fun with the story. They stared, open-mouthed, at their local storyteller. Twin looks of shock and disgust were etched on their faces. "Jimmy, what?" they both asked, but the bard, now openly fearful, just ploughed on ahead.

"She didn't stop there," he said, shoulders hunching up like he needed protection. "She just kept going, tearing through the bog like it had killed her puppy. But I can't imagine someone like her owning a puppy. She was so... big. And angry. And scary. At one point she left, and I went to sneak away, but then she came rushing back, covered in even more blood." He fell silent for a few long moments, both men waiting. Despite the horror of the story, neither of them could articulate what made them stay. Likely something in the terrified man's eyes.

"She came back three times," Jimmy whispered. "Each time more angry. Each time she killed more of them. She was like a whirlwind. She wore no armor, but none of the blows she took seemed to stop her. They only made her more angry. She would take hits just to get in close to stab, or punch. By the time she was done... the whole bog was covered in them. There was blood, and guts, and who knows what... everywhere!" He took a deep breath, staring up at the two men. "She saw me. She's evil. The look in those eyes. She just wanted to rend and tear. I saw her bite one of them. She must have been Canim, but no Canim like I've ever seen. Then she called my name and..." With that, either the alcohol or the fear got to Jimmy. His eyes rolled up and he hit the table, out like a light. Both men just stared at each other, blinking.

"So do we tip him?" John asked. "I mean it was an alright story, I guess."

"Eh. Could've been better. He could've been a little less drunk," Ron offered, dropping a few coins in front of the sleeping man, and then taking them back. The two men just laughed, shaking their heads and getting up to go to work. After all, it was just another ridiculous story in the Lost Lands. There was no one like that in the town.