Perils of Adventure Ch. 00 - Prologue

Author's Note: Welcome back, dear audience. My latest story needs perhaps a little more introduction than some others. Not only is it less, serious, in tone (I imagine the fantasy setting it takes place in as that of an old cartoon or a high school Dungeons and Dragons campaign.) but it is also something of an experiment with a more active style of narration than I usually employ. I'm curious to see how people respond to that, but won't be switching over full time regardless. Also, I should note (for anyone who has read this far in) that while there is a lot of talk in this prologue there is no actual sex. For that you will have to wait for chapter one to drop in a few days. Once it does, know that the series will be primarily non-consensual in nature as it mostly depicts the fate each character suffers after being defeated and captured by this or that opponent. Now, enough preamble and on with the show.

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It must be said that the Sleepy Sheep Tavern seldom lived up to its name. As the only halfway decent place to get a suitably fermented drink for miles around, the Sheep had long been something of a local treasure. Day after day, the siren call of revelry served to draw in a steady influx of off-duty labourers from the area's bountiful farms and the many lumber camps which skirted the edge of Wolfhome Forest alike. That call alone was enough to ensure the tavern saw a healthy number of patrons still drowning their boredom well into most evenings. On payday at the lumber camps, though, when every other hale and hearty fellow for miles had coin to spend, well it was those nights that saw thirsty workers descend upon the tavern in droves to transform their favourite haunt into a truly raucous scene. It is upon just such a lively evening that our tale of woe begins.

As was their wont, the few local elders who had managed to survive long enough to be phased out of their work sat propping up the bar, a half dozen or so old coots with few hairs yet to fall out and even fewer things to do with themselves. Just as predictably for a payday evening the tavern floor and tables were packed full with scores of sweaty, burly, and malodourous men gleefully guzzling the feeble swill that locals considered beer and generally making merry. They sang, they danced, they told the same few bawdy jokes each one knew by heart, and they made sport with the weary tavern wenches not a one of whom was destined to escape the night with an unpinched bottom. Of that you can be assured.

Quite unlike other nights, however, there was one table tucked away into a secluded corner of the tavern around which several unusually well clad young women crowded, conversing amongst themselves in hushed tones. Now, lest this or that reader devise any fool notions to the contrary, it wasn't the sight of a woman in the Sleepy Sheep which was so unusual. Why, the place could hardly function without its small army of haggard serving wenches carting drinks back and forth, and it was a rare night when a handful of local floozies weren't scattered about looking to earn their share of the lonely labourers' pay. Rather, it was the peculiar nature of these particular maidens which was of note, so entirely aberrant they were next to the usual girls whose modest charms graced the Sheep every evening.

The pack's ringleader was a tall redhead, her dark coppery tresses bound up in a long ponytail which split into halves the intricate sigil emblazoned on the most ornate cloak any of the tavern's regulars had ever laid eyes upon. It was she who stood out the most, her muscular figure stretching nearly a head above even the tallest of her companions and wrapped up in a shiny coat of mail which hung over a bright crimson tunic. Few indeed of the tavern's visitors had ever laid eyes upon a knight before that particular young lady had stepped through the entrance, and fewer still had heard one's furious voice. "I'm telling you, we are not lost!" The young warrior's arms were crossed in front of her bountiful chest and a stern scowl was etched across her noble face as she glared down at one of her companions.

"Of course we are, dimwit," that second girl cut back. She was the shortest of the bunch, her own plentiful curves only partially concealed by a tight tunic of dark cloth. While not quite as large as those hidden beneath the warrior's chainmail, her own breasts were appreciated all the more by her many admirers throughout the building for how they bulged off her smaller frame. And the girl's admirers were indeed many. Out of all the alluring travelers she was perhaps the most popular. Her own hair was red like her comrade's, but a much fiercer shade that couldn't possibly have been natural. In addition to her scant attire and fiery locks the shorter redhead also wore a venomous scowl which matched the warrior's and then some, the pair glaring at each other from across their table. While a wordly reader might find dubious the notion that the colour of one's hair has the slightest relevance to their temperament, those who hold otherwise would find themselves an excellent example in the near-constant clashes between our pair of feisty redheads.

"Ladies, can we please not fight?" a third maiden pleaded. Standing between her companions in height she was lithe and willowy with long white-blonde hair that fell to the small of her back and contrasted starkly against the midnight-blue hue of her robes. So slender was the blonde that she barely seemed to be there at all, yet the longer any nearby revelers stared the less they found her wanting and the more she entranced even those men who preferred their wenches buxom. Her kind were rare enough that the local hayseeds could be forgiven for not knowing, but a wise reader would do well to know that it was the girl's fey ancestry which granted her such an ethereal allure. While her companions crowded around their table to survey the intricately detailed map resting there, the wispy girl stood a step or two back supporting herself with a long silver staff every bit as slender as she was the top of which flowed seamlessly into an intricate crest with a large sapphire at its heart.

"We are not fighting," the tall warrior growled, momentarily redirecting her glare towards the slender blonde who shrunk back as if she'd been struck. The shorter redhead just harrumphed at her counterpart's declaration, rolling her eyes in a manner that was far more practiced than the many onlookers could possibly have known. "There's no reason to fight because you know exactly where we are, right?" the warrior asked, turning at last to face the final girl at the table.

The young woman in question paled as all three of her comrades were suddenly staring at her, their gazes joining those of the modest handful of revelers who fancied her most of all. Had she appeared alone in the tavern, or, perhaps laying amidst your sheets or mine own, friends, then our fourth adventuress would surely have turned many a head. In light of the company she kept, however, her charms had gone largely overlooked by most of the excited locals. While slender and shapely in her own right simply standing beside the timid blonde was enough to make her figure appear downright brawny, and next to the pair of redheads, well, she might as well have been flat as a board. Her long, dark brown hair she wore pulled up into a high ponytail which revealed ears just sharp enough to signify a partial elven ancestry, and her lightly freckle-dusted face was vaguely familiar somehow in a way that lent her a pleasant, sisterly appearance. An unstrung bow lay strapped across her back, though the accompanying quiver had been removed to lean against a nearby table leg.

"Uhhh..." the brunette stammered, her eyes falling from the tall redhead down to the party's map and rising back up again. "I think so? I've... uh, never actually been this far from home before, though..." The shorter redhead barked out a single harsh laugh at her comrade's admission, the sort she had issued a hundred times or more in the short span of time the pack of adventuresses had been traveling together, then turned away to down the last contents of one of the dozen earthenware tankards scattered around.

"So, do you even know where you're taking us, oh glorious leader?" the spiteful girl finally asked once she finished her drink and returned her gaze to her favoured partner for verbal sparring. "Because I was promised easy wealth and fame, not hiking and crappy camp rations."

"Oh shut up already, you'll get your money," the taller redhead growled, looking to all the world like she was on the verge of slapping her comrade across the face. It was hardly the first time the two adventuresses had nearly come to blows and I assure you, it would certainly not be the last given the trials which lay ahead of them. For the moment, though, the knight managed to reign in her temper, such self control sorely disappointing the many patrons who had hoped to witness a catfight between the two alluring women. "Now. The kidnappers' letter said Princess Celeste has been taken to Wyrmflight Keep. It's right here," she jabbed her finger at a small marking on the map, "just on the opposite side of the forest. All we need to figure out is whether going around to the East or the West will get us there sooner."

"Because we're lost," the short girl muttered, that snide remark drawing a glare from her rival.

"Um..." in the lull caused by the redheads' latest staring contest the willowy blonde between them spoke up hesitantly, instinctively raising one hand like she was still in temple classes. Of course, that shouldn't come as much of a surprise given how recently it had been that she spent her days in such a fashion. "Wouldn't it be faster to go through the woods?" At those words her trio of companions turned towards her as one, looks of shock and horror blossoming across their faces.

It was the archer who managed to find her voice first, the fear in her tone unmistakable. "Are you mad? Wolfhome is completely overgrown, not to mention crawling with monsters." An involuntary shudder wracked her body at the thought of what might befall any travelers so foolish as to traverse the untamed depths of the nearby woods. "Even I wouldn't want to take more than a dozen steps into that nightmare."

"You forgot about the werewolves," the shorter redhead piped up, a grim smile on her face. "The locals swear there's a pack in there, that they find at least a dozen missing loggers mauled to death each year." There was a devious glint in her eyes as she spoke, but it was clear the thought of those mad, twisted creatures was enough to rattle even her cocky exterior.

"Oh..." by that point the robed blonde's eyes were wide with terror, one hand brought up to shield her mouth. "Sorry..." she murmured, looking as if she might faint. Few beasts indeed were like to inspire as much loathing in an adventurer as the werewolf, there was just something about the prospect of having one's mind and body warped into that of a sworn enemy which gave even the bravest of souls pause. And, well, I doubt it would much surprise any reader to learn that our lovely little priestess was not exactly a paragon of courage.

"It's okay, sweetie," the archer reached out to gently grip her wavering companion's shoulder. "Just... don't go into the forest." Simple advice, perhaps, but wiser words she had seldom spoken. In their wake, a hush fell over the four adventuresses, each one uncomfortably reminded of the risks inherent to their current course.

"Alright, alright, enough with the scary stories," the tall knight finally spoke up, only the slightest stiffness in her voice indicating just how grim had been the dark places to which her own mind had wandered. "We have a decision to make."

The four adventuresses continued their conversation as they leaned in to study their map more closely, but little that was said between them in the next few minutes would be of much interest to a discerning reader. No, at that point the far more interesting conversations taking place inside the Sleepy Sheep were those about the unusual visitors, not between them. Conversations which, almost without exception, revolved around just how the maidens in question might best provide entertainment for their many admirers. One such debate between three of the oldest regulars seated at the tavern's bar had been going in circles for more than an hour. That particular trio of old-timers were mostly harmless, the sort of geezers who insist they have the answer for all the worlds' problems but can't be bothered to solve any themselves. They might leer at some alluring strangers, sure, but they wouldn't have posed much threat even had they acted on their fancies. Talking, though, talking they could manage.

"What'd I say to you, Dev? I said those wenches were more lost than a drunken rabbit, tha's what I said." The first of the old-timers slurred, shaking his head in amusement. No fewer than eight mugs of drink already clouded his mind and clumsied his tongue, but so much booze had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. "Ain't no way they'd still be round here if they wasn't."

"Course they're lost, Gab, ain't never been a lass born yet what can read a bleedin map." The second regular proclaimed before raising his mug and taking a slow sip from the same drink he'd been nursing for the last hour. For him, the current round was his sixth of the evening, and while he had been a heavyweight in his day the old man's tolerance had long since waned. It should thus surprise few readers that he was even more inebriated than his comrade, his words even harder to parse.

"Ha! That's rich coming from you," the third man rumbled, his voice gruff and low. He was a little younger than the others, a lame leg having ended his labours prematurely some years before. He also drank a little less and held his mead a little better. "Ya can't even write your own name, you old git." That particular retort was one which could have been fairly aimed at any of the trio, and nine out of any ten of their fellow patrons besides. While all six of our heroines had at least a rudimentary grasp of the written word, few indeed of the local hayseeds had ever attained such knowledge.

"An jus what's writing got ta do with readin' a map, eh Mitt?" the second snorted. "A map's just a picture, ain't it? Dumb broads can't even manage that!"

"It's a picture with words, Dev," the third sighed, shaking his head. "How are you supposed to tell what's what without reading the names?"

"Ack, what's it matter if'n a wench can read a map, boys? That's ain't what wenches are for, now innit?" the first cut back in, pounding his fist authoritatively on one meaty thigh. The thigh of a younger worker seated next to him, to be precise, one who glared momentarily at the old drunk before deciding he wasn't worth a beating and shifting his stool a little farther away. After all, it wasn't like the old fool had learned his lesson the last time, now was it? Some people just couldn't be taught, no matter how hard you hit them.

"Aye, that's the truth, surely it tis," the second letch agreed, taking a long swig of his drink before letting out a staggering belch so loud the subjects of their conversation may well have heard it. They didn't, but only because someone closer by had drowned it out with his own. Needless to say, our well-mannered adventuresses (which is to say all but the shorter of the redheads) would never stoop so low as to put on such a display and were growing quite weary of the men around them (and the shorter of the redheads) doing so. "Oi, lookit!" the same regular suddenly exclaimed, elbowing the third whose attention had momentarily wandered. "Them redheads are goin at it again! Think they finally gonna fight?"

"Ha, I wish," his friend muttered, the marginally younger man's eyes drinking in the sight of the young women in question. True enough the warrior and her rival were arguing again, each leaned across their table to get into the other's face. Whether or not they realized just how enticingly such a posture left their respective rumps jutting outwards is a question best left to each reader's own imagination. "Maybe they'll snog instead. That'd be a sight."

"As if," the first drunk snorted. "Them reds hate each other. Not like you, eh Dev?" he nudged his friend, a knowing grin on his bearded face. "Ye've got it bad for the biggun, dontcha?"

"Course I do," the old man snorted, puffing up with something almost akin to pride. "Just look at er. Tall as a man an arms like a logger. Wench like that'll surely have a rump to die for buried neath all that metal. And she sure don't look flat up front neither."

"No, she sure don't," the first agreed, his head nodding sagely as if some great wisdom had just been imparted. Of course, by the standards of the Sleepy Sheep, such an assertion actually did approach a reasonable approximation of cunning.

"I'm telling ye," the other drunk rambled on, not even realizing his friend had spoken, "that big one's the girl for me. Lass with a body like that'd give her man some right strong brats, you jus know it. She's damn lucky I'm too drunk to have a go at er."

"Ha!" the man's younger companion nearly spewed his drink over the tavern floor, tears in his eyes as he choked the brew down. "That girlie'd eat you alive, Dev," he laughed as soon as his throat had cleared. "She'd have you on the floor squealing for your old wifey before you even touched her." One could hardly fault the cripple for his amusement, were this tale destined to offer our heroines less tragedy and more comedy such a scene might well have proven a perfect appetizer. Alas, their foes would prove more capable than an inebriated, elderly drunkard and Mitt would not get to witness his boastful friend being beaten down in such a delightful display.

"Shaddup," the drunk in question snarled instead, once more puffing up his withered chest. "I could take er, easy. Then I'd teach er a wench's meant for ridin, not fightin."

"In yer dreams, you old fool," the first drunk chuckled, throwing back the last of his drink and banging on the counter for another. "Now that little un, she'd be reeaaal fun..."

"Aye, that's a damn fine pair of milkers she's got," the third letch agreed, letting out a low whistle as he watched the girl in question laugh in the face of her taller counterpart.

"Ain't they just," his friend muttered. "What I would'n give to smash between them pillows and blow all o'er her face. And just lookit those clothes," he gestured wildly in the young women's general direction. "I betcha tha's a girl who'd love e'ry second of it."

"She just might, but I say you're both idiots," the younger, more sober regular declared. For emphasis he rapped his knuckles on the bald head of his nearer friend. It was a wonder, truly, that no resounding boom like that of a great drum rang out, given how empty each of the trio's heads got once they took to their booze. "That scrawny one'd be the best, no doubt about it. You see the staff she's leaning on? I'd bet my last copper that fancy knob up top is the mark of Maelure."

In a more well-informed locale, identifying an even passably pretty girl as a sworn servant to the goddess of the moon would have prompted a sudden flurry of attention her way. The Sleepy Sheep Tavern, however, lay no fewer than thirty seven miles from the nearest shrine dedicated to that particular deity, a distance greater by far than many of its patrons had ever traveled away from the place of their birth. As such, the ways of her acolytes were a mystery to most, so neither of Mitt's drinking buddies so much as batted an eye at the revelation. "Yeah? What of it? Who wants 'is wench flat as a board?" the first asked, one hand waving dismissively. "I ain't ploughin no girl what looks like a little kid."