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THE WORKS OF YE GREATE BARD (NO THE REAL ONE)
CAERENDIL ELANDIANOR
(the unofficial title of this tome is
'The Mad Ramblings of an Aging Hippy Fool')
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as penned by Gray
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Handicapped Superheroes
Cue excitable reporter voice....
By day he is Professor Robert Pembrey, the slightly dippy, bumbling and eccentric physics professor at
Saints College, University of Metropoloville. By night he is......... Wheelchair Bob, defender of the
indefensible....sorry I mean defender of the undefended, upstanding (well metaphorically speaking) guardian
of the people and all-round do-gooder. He runs his wheels over the toes of evil and bashes his footrests
into the shins of the corrupt.
He had led a quiet, idyllic life until one tragic, summer afternoon at the tender age of 6, his legs were
horribly mangled by the accidental activation of the full scale, working Lego replica of a 50 ton Challenger
tank he had built from scratch that weekend. The doctors tried to save his legs, but to no avail. His
mother, bewildered by the turn of events staggered, trance-like out of the hospital into the road and was
mown down like wheat before the harvester by a gang of armed bank robbers escaping from another appalling
heist.
The young Pembrey adapted himself to his wheelchair-bound situation and studied hard at school. He vowed
in his heart to do his utmost and honour the name of his dear departed mother.
But then, oh what calamity did strike. A mere 4 years later, his older brother was turned into a pile of
sherbet when the arch villain, Sweet Tooth, raided the corner shop on his way to take over the world that
evening. The family were mortified. Despite the awful disaster Pembrey battled on through school, putting
up with the taunts of the other kids. He vowed to create a wheelchair to be proud of. He'd show them.
Years past and then at his graduation day, oh misery and anguish. His fellow student, the brilliant young
geneticist and Pembrey's secret heart throb, Cordelia Scrowtowser, was kidnapped by the devilish DNA-Chain
Gang and their leader, Mutator. Snatched during her acceptance speech as student of the year. What woe
was upon them. She was never heard of again. Pembrey was stunned, he was aghast, he was dumbfounded. He
vowed to avenge the evil deed and to hunt down the depraved purportrators.
What followed was a brilliant career. His work was astounding. He published widely in learned journals.
He was admired and honoured by his fellow scientists. He achieved his professorship at the age of only
30.
But then what wretchedness and sorrow a cruel world can inflict. His father was mysteriously turned into a
gibbering maniac by an alleged encounter with strange alien beings. His hair was turned pure white and only
grew out of his nostrils and ears...lots of it. He escaped from the hospital and was killed when his head
imploded after receiving a lift from the much feared Alabama Billy Joe JimBob, country and western star and
full blown scoundrel. The elder Pembrey's few remaining brain cells couldn't take the constant music it was
subjected to it seems. Pembrey vowed to avenge his fathers tragic death and began to develop his wheelchair,
to allow him to fight no'er-do-wells and villains.
So appeared the magnificent Wheelchair Bob.
Voice over ends
Now his wheelchair could contain a whole host of stuff.
Chair-o-copter where it sprouts a small propeller above his head from the back so he can fly.
Chair-o-sub. When the chair is underwater a clear plastic bubble appears over it.
Chair-o-boat. Nuff said.
Chair-o-tank. The chair sprouts tracked wheels to allow it to navigate difficult terrain.
Chair-o-legs. Allows the chair to climb stairs.
Plus all the other usual paraphernalia like rocket launchers, grapples, smoke grenades, chaff, jets, skis,
wings, binoculars, satellite navigation, radios, lasers, radar, freezing jets, water cannon, computers,
microwaves, washing machine etc.....you get the picture.
Now he will of course have super strong arms. With that lot in a single wheelchair, you know it's got to
weigh at least 2 tonnes. Its a bugger to push.
But you can't get all that equipment into one wheelchair you cry. Hey we're not talking about some dull,
courdroy wearing, average research modo here. Wake up and smell the coffee god-damn-it. He's a super hero
for gods sake. I mean, Spider Man can climb walls, swing between buildings and lift ridulous objects.
Superman can fly so fast around the world that he can make time go backwards.....and you're quibbling over a
few puny square meters of high tech equipment squeezed into a simple wheelchair.
So according to your rules I guess Wheelchair Bob would have to have enhanced strength in his arms,
scientist with gadgets etc. He might have to talk multiple minor traits in one area i.e. gadgets if that's
OK by you.
Further thoughts and superheroes to follow. How about Praying Mantis, or Captain Slug, or Geek Boy, or
Bag-O-Wind?
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Party Fuck Ups
OK guys it goes like this.
It wasn't so much a deviation from the plan, in fact you all were rolling along bloody well right up until
the very end. It was more that when it came to the crunch there was a lack of curiosity about who was
telling the truth about who and whether therefore your own government were speed crazed power freaks or
whether the Kalitan authorities were using you for their own bent, savage and devious means, or both. I
had hoped, since you are all good characters (with the possible exception of Percy Vader
 ) that you might be more interested in nailing the
evil party(s) whoever they turned out to be.
OK so perhaps you didn't know what the Kalitan authorities did and didn't know, but why should they tell you
everything, and I had hoped that you might have thought that a few minutes spent in one office in the
Foreign Trade Bureau where someone mentioned dwarves, weapons and mountains in the same sentence and a
couple of names of revolutionaries from your own country does not constitute a major coup in intelligence
work.
I can't say any more in case you want to carry on with this specific part of the adventure. I must add that
I really enjoyed it all, it's just that I suddenly ran out of stuff when you decided to leave the city.
So you didn't all actually deviate from the adventure at all, and lord knows you've bypassed a few places
and possible events so far by taking one path and not another, literally and metaphorically, and that's no
complaint from me.
I have to say I rather liked Rod's frenzied soup attack and the resulting mess. Now you'll have the law on
your backs as well. Things could get decidedly messy from here on in :-). Perhaps having a major fight in
the same bar twice in one day, nearly killing the barman, raiding the till and then scarpering in all
directions leaving one member of the party dying on the floor means that you now have a debt to society!
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Player Sleeping Patterns and going to the Lavy
Rod certainly does, a lot, and very noisily, so bring some ear plugs or a lump malet.
Sukh has been known to but not later than 6:30am.
PJ does and complains about how early it is on Sunday morning.
Rich does and is very smelly about it.
Phil Jones does, occasionally very noisily and generally after watching a b-movie.
Phil Morgan does, drifting off while talking about his character.
Dave does, without noise or complaint, but then Dave is Dave.
I do, but winge about the noise of the above and how bloody uncomfortable floors are. I guess it serves
me right for being a skinny git!
Graham.
p.s. we also tend to leave the lights on. Not 'cause were scared of the dark or anything, but it means
that in our drunken, soporific state, we can find the loo and do so without maiming or killing ourselves,
others, next door's cat etc, and having found the loo, we then don't get stuck in the dark unable to get
back to the santuary of our sleeping bags.
The last session at Dave's place was a frought night where people got stuck at the top of the stairs and
Rich I think it was, took the phrase 'going for a slash' to new heights by opening up his hands on a
mysterious sharp object still undiscovered to this day!
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The Death of Ramon Fuggles
How about..
In the distant past, a band of dwarves from the Fuggles clan had gone out in a savage drunken state and
raped and killed Reginald Quimby, father of a young boy called Eustace who vowed to overcome the evil that
is clan Fuggles.
About the same time the gentle family trading company, b'Ender & Co. passing through the badlands of Fuggles
Rock, were whipped like dogs in the street for not giving away free gold with every chamber pot sold. Young
Raven, still a babe at the time, later saw the terrible scars on his family and decided to put a stop such
behaviour. He became a mage and vowed to turn all the members of clan Fuggles into poodles.
Ooer Missus had just arrived in Essendare, with enough money to enroll as a trainee accountant, when he was
ambushed by the Fuggles Ladies Knitting Circle on a spree down from the mountains. They stabbed him with
needles and knitted him a hideous sweater which he was forced to wear, before running of with his meagre
funds, in order to buy more wool. The poor Ooer turned to a life of crime in order to earn a crust and
swore revenge.
As a child, Hamwold Stout had always been fond of the animals and plants and so he was deeply shocked when
he heard about the Fuggles Horse Whipping and Sheep Tearing Competition. The young halfling was appalled at
the scene and decided that these people must go.
Rabba Shanks, priest of the almighty Thor had noted the perversions of the Fuggles clan on previous
occasions. He had noted how they used the Thor name in vain, stole from the temples and defiled the
statues. Such behaviour was not to be tolerated.
The Wildebeaste's had always enjoyed being in the circus, providing entertainment, laughter and music.
Needless to say, the young Theo was shocked when members of Clan Fuggles forced his sister to perform acts
with her pony that weren't a usual part of her performance before forcing her to walk a tightrope over
Fuggles Canyon, whilst they throw axes at her. Furious at her death Theo picked up his longsword and vowed
to avenge her death, but stabbed himself in the foot instead. As he limped away he knew he would see at
least one of the Fuggles die before he did!
And so it came to pass that a group of young traine's lured Ramon Fuggles into their group, and did slice
him in two on that fateful day in the Kobold lair. Upon their return to Essendare, mourning the loss of
Theophilous, they heard of the arrival of Hairy Hengist Fuggles. The group rubbed their hands with glee.
This had been an extract from 'The Extermination of Clan Fuggles' by Ermintrude Grossenhaarch.
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The Kebab of Life
Gasp!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He mentioned.....the Kebab of old Dublin Town.
The Kebab of Prevention from Hunger that was malevolently smitten from Phil's hand and cast down upon the
grimy pavement and thus rendered inedible (more inedible, more edible?).
Oh the horror of it all. What woe was upon our Phil. His kebab savagely taken from him in his darkest
hour (i.e. after closing time).
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PJ loves Sukh
Cue German psychiatrists voice
> Keeping in mind that I'm strongly heterosexual, I had a dream that You and I were trapped
> in a high security prison. (Some sort of castle... on an island.....)
So Herr John, you ver locked ins ze castle eh? Vell, this sounds like you have strong feelings about your
repressed sexuality, sumzing you refer to yourself. Being trapped in a secret location with your friend
clearly exzites you no?
> I can't remember why we were locked up, but I'm pretty sure it was your fault
Clearly you are punishing yourself for these strong feelings for you friends by locking yourself away, but
wiz ze person you love and desire. Nevertheless in you angst you blame ze friend for your status. Ziss
is classic repression syndrome. Do go on.
> Anyway we were tagged so all our movements around the prison could be monitored, but we
> came up with a brilliant escape plan (One of mine I might add), It involved getting to
> the top of the prison, on the outside and jumping into the sea...
I zink that you secretly vish to be found out, hence the monitoring, but ze thought terrifies you and you
vish to escape. This too is very common.
> The drop only looked to be a 100 feet or so !!!!!!!! But to make it tricky, we needed
> to avoid the jetty that was sticking out just where we would hit the water.
You ze, the jetty is a Fraudian manifestation of the male sexual organ, jutting out into ze sea of desire.
> We then had to swim to shore. Only a few miles and we didn't think that there were any
> sharks !!!!! We reckoned we could do it.....
Ze continued references to WE indicates how you feel you need the love of you friend.
> however the guards turned up and started going on about how each cell was bugged and
> they'd heard every word of our plan......
So, now ve come back to ze need to be caught und ze secret thrill of being watched. Ziss is very
interesting.
Freud vould probably zay that you are still suffering from sexual repression and guilt and that you have
never come to terms with the fact that your father sleeps vith your mother and you vish to replace him in
his role.
Now Jung was a pupil of Freud of course, but he vould probably say that you have ze sort of personality
type zat is inherently repressive and fearful and zat although you long to break free you feel inadequate
and unable to do so vich produces ze clashes of emotion.
Me, I zink that you are probably just very fucked up Mr John, a dirty little dangerous pervert. In fact
I feel very uncomfortable having such a veirdo on my couch. Please leave immediately. I vish to
masturbate furiously over a picture of my mother.
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His Fondness for Dwarves
Right then......
Shut the [act of procreation] up you ugly, squat, Dwarven git.
You're not fit to kiss a kobold's boots. You couldn't dig your way out of a wet paper bag and wouldn't
know gold if someone stuck it up your nose. My elven half-sister has a more impressive beard than you
do and can drink you under the table even when she's already pissed.
And oh yes, you put on an impressive show of anger when you dropped your axe into the fire pit, but we
know that you did it deliberately in order to avoid combat, because when it really comes down to it, you'd
rather be a mage, tucked up in bed by 8:00 every night with a cup of warm milk and a good book.
You're keen to get to Valhalla alright. The nice club in Keoland with the pink napkins, where they serve
a cracking mint julep and don't object in the slightest if you like to ponce around in women's underwear
and prefer to be called Ulrica.
Your mother uses soap and your father crochets toilet roll doilys for a living.
We've seen you fight. You're all mouth and no trouser boy! 'Oh no, that big, nasty gnat has messed up my
hair-do. I'll have to cry and fall over, and maybe he won't hurt me'.
If you were a real dwarf, you'd stomp off down the passage way and attack the frost giants, but you won't
of course. You can't handle anything without your little bowl of ready brek and your satchel packed with
your pencil case, ruler, handy writing pad, flower pressing kit, wine skin of warm tea and a packet of
fun-sized chocy bars, and maybe a scarf in case you get cold and a clean pair of underwear with your name
sown into them.
You're nothing but a elven-chainmail wearing, orc loving, shandy drinking, hanky waving, perfumed, flouncy,
overblown, blubbering piece of giant's rectal fluff.
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His Fondness for Halflings
I understand the culture all too well. The study of it always leaves one asking the question, what
culture? The words Hobbit and culture no more happily coexist in one sentence than two hobbits with
one pot of stew.
Anyway, I think you underestimate my depth of knowledge. Firstly it is well known amongst scholars such
as myself that hobbits never share stews. Not unless one hobbit has a very large bludgeoning object and
one doesn't.
Secondly you never do know what you're eating when your eating a stew made by a hobbit. As the saying
goes, 'The way to a hobbit's heart is through his stomach'. But that's only because the stomach takes up
some 85% of a hobbits body.
"The I-Spy Book of Hobbits" by Caerendil Elandianor, Orlain University Press, 1 CP.
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The Warrior known as Starfast Chaos Destroyer
And the enigmatic cavalry leader, lance in one hand, sword in the other, stood in his stirrups and his
voice carried out to the milling orcs.
"Begone foul.... err, oh what are you called, erm, foul somethings or whatamacallits, um, or I shall suck
your, erm, tip of me tongue, erm..."
"Cocks sir?", suggested his trusty aid standing by the horse.
"What?" said Starfast, turning his head down to the aid. "Don't be um, err"
"Insolent sir?"
"Yes, that the word. Now where was I?"
"Sorry sir. Bidding the orcs to depart from these lands sir."
"Yes that's right."
"Or you'd suck something sir."
"Yes. Thank you, squire," he added, pointedly. Starfast turned once more to the multitude of orcs and
cleared his throat.
"Yes, begone foul creatures or with my mighty sword I shall suck your souls."
"Very good sir."
"Begone or face the wrath of Starfast.. erm, no wait a min, erm."
"It's on the 'if found, please return to...' label attached to your sword sir."
Starfast flopped back into the saddle, leaned towards the aid and shook his sword contemptuously, causing
the dangling label to dance in the air. "Well that's no bloody good is it," he hissed. "I can't bloody
read can I! Why do you think I employ you?"
"Sorry sir. Chaos-Destroyer sir"
"What?"
"Chaos-Destroyer sir"
"Where?"
"No that's your name sir"
"What is?"
"Chaos-Destroyer. Starfast Chaos-Destroyer. You were telling the orcs that they would have to face the
wrath of Starfast Chaos-Destroyer," the aid said. "Sir," he added.
"Was I? Why would I want to do that then?"
"Oh good grief," sighed the aid quietly. "Because they're attacking the Gran March sir"
"Gran March. Never heard of her. Whose Gran is she and why are these orcs after her?"
"No sir. Gran March. It's where we live and you're it's protector and defender sir."
"Am I? Sounds interesting."
"I tell you what sir. Why don't we go and kick some orc butt sir."
"Now you're making sense me-laddo."
Sheathing his sword he once again stood tall and proud in the saddle. Silence settled over the rolling
countryside. The horses, dipping their heads figeted a little. A bird flew rapidly out of bush and up
the valley. The breeze gently stirred the various pennents and standards.
"Attack, kill, kill, kill, sir," whispered the aid.
"Attack, kill, kill, kill, sir," hollered Starfast and lance lowered, he shot off down the slope with
his army streaming in behind him.
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The Changing Face of Paladinhood
Nibble-Pibbly is a Paladin in the more traditional mould. A Paladin of the old brigade, entrenched in
the ancient history of Paladinism. Good, rightous, loud and a leader.
Quimby on the otherhand is one of your new wave, young upstart, know-it-all Paladins, who cares not for
the traditional ways and prefers justice on the end of a sharp, pointy object. Preferably his.
Percy Pickles or Black Rod as he is also known is another example of this new breed of paladins that we
see coming through the ranks.
Time will only tell if this new wave represents the future or whether it will prove to be just a flash in
the pan, or in Quimby's case, flash in the stables.
Extract from "Paladinism : It's not what it used to be" by Caerendil Elandianor,
University of Orlain Press, 5gp, ISBN : 145, by kind permission of the author.
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| BACK TO THE REALM OF GREYHAWK |
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