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Episode One
It is a brisk autumn evening. The sun is just setting, throwing long shadows through the forest. There is a well-traveled path through the woods, and on this path, a lone traveler makes his way. The person is a bit shorter than average, but otherwise normal looking. The figure wears sturdy boots and a long cloak with a hood. He carries a pack and bedroll on his back, and a large leather pouch slung across his shoulder. The most notable feature is his walking stick, which is four feet tall and made of dull gray metal, with a fist-sized, cloudy-blue sphere on top. For those of you not using body-reference measurements, fist-sized is about four (4) inches in diameter. The sphere is glowing brightly, chasing away the shadows on the darker stretches of the path. Since flashlights don’t exist in this world, it is safe to assume that the illumination is magic in nature, and that this mysterious figure is none other than Binge. As Binge walks, a cold evening breeze begins to rustle through the trees. The strip of sky visible above the path is deep blue, clashing with the earthy colors of the fall foliage lighted by his staff. Binge pulls his cloak tighter around himself. His tattered map tells him there is a town ahead, and that it isn’t too much farther. After five days on the road, he is looking forward to staying at an inn, with hot food, a soft bed, maybe a friendly girl both hot and soft, and wine. He could definitely use some wine to help shake off the chill in the air. Binge grins and his mouth gets moist at the thought. Both wine and women tend to make him grin and drool. As Binge plods on, the sky darkens and the woods take on their typical late-fall evening creepiness. The glow from Binge’s staff is just bright enough to light up the trees on each side of the path, and the occasional low tree branch. The canopy of leaves and the sky are made one by the silent cloak of night; they form a single black canvas dotted down the center by early evening stars. It would be a pleasant evening, thinks Binge, if he wasn’t still in these damnable woods. The darkness amplifies every noise, and the mind turns patches of blackness into toothy evil monstrosities. This is worse for sorcerers, who generally have a larger mental list of monstrosities than the average person. Binge concentrates for a moment, and the glow of his staff intensifies, pushing back the gloom a bit more. He picks up his pace and keeps his mind on what pleasures he will indulge in when he gets to town. The path widens and turns into a modest clearing, a flat circle of dirt thirty feet across, enough space for a traveler to set up camp. As Binge approaches the clearing, he slows and stops; his glowing sphere dims to near-nothing, and he holds it close to the ground. He stands and listens intently to the forest, and does not like what he hears. Binge mumbles to himself, and casts a spell to augment his hearing. Now he can hear every leaf falling in a fifty-yard radius, he can hear squirrels humping in a nearby treetop. . . and there, twenty feet into the woods off the right side of the path, he hears them. Human voices, more than one, whispering in hushed tones. Voice: (whispering) . . .where’d he go? Voice: . . . dunno, shhhh. . . Voice: c’mon, gitty gitty! Voice: shhhhh, dammit! He’ll hear us! Voice: I dunno, I don’t wanna mess with no wizard. . . Voice: . . .wizards have gold, idiot. Or they can make it. Now shut up! Voice: . . . but what if he turns me into a toad? I don’t wanna be no toad. . . Voice: hey, that glow’s gone – now shut up and watch. . . Oh boy, thinks Binge. Bandits. Stupid ones. If he wanted, Binge could turn a quarter acre of the woods into fine ash, but he is tired, and doesn’t want to answer a dozen questions in town about the huge mushroom cloud that appeared over the woods. Unlike certain flat-chested red-haired sorcerers, Binge doesn’t solve all of his problems by blasting a crater out of the earth. Binge whispers a spell, and as he does, he becomes less and less substantial. . . soon, he is translucent like wax paper. The light from his sphere collapses inward, until it is a single pinprick of light, like a star plucked from the night sky. Placing the sphere on the ground, and his foot on the sphere, Binge separates it from his staff with a tug and a quiet *pop*. (How many times can ‘sphere’ be used in one paragraph?) He then kicks the sphere down the path; it rolls about thirty feet down the hard, dusty path, and stops. Binge can just see the point of light on the path; it will be his guide as he walks past the stupid bandits. They probably won’t jump him if they can’t see him. Binge walks in silence, listening to the men crouched in the trees. There are more whispers, but none that indicate an attack. As Binge reaches his sphere, he gives it another kick down the path. Better safe than sorry. When he again reaches the sphere, he re-attaches it to his staff with a quick stab, making a *clink* noise. Binge drops his camouflage spell, and listens. He can hear the bandits now, even without his enhanced hearing. They are confused and angry, and have decided to wait for easier prey. Binge smiles at his cleverness, and returns his hearing to normal. The sphere glows again, faintly but just enough to show the path. Binge continues on his way. (‘sphere’ used 8 times! New record!) Not long after passing the clearing, the woods start to thin out, and the path widens into a respectable road. The trees at the edge of the woods are younger and smaller, and give less resistance to the wind. The wind is using this freedom to blow straight into Binge’s face. Binge knows he is near the edge of the damned forest, and feels a bit better about life in general. He was considering going back to the bandits and incinerating them, just for the warmth. But he knows that he will be indoors soon, and his violent thoughts are tempered by the promise of creature comforts and fleshy indiscretions. Urge to kill. . . fading. . . Soon Binge is completely away from the forest’s fringe, and the road continues on through a field of tall grass. With the protection of the trees behind him, Binge is completely at the mercy of the mischievous wind. The grass waves and sways in the wind, rolling like an emerald ocean; only the sighing of the field gives away its fluid aspirations in the darkness. The autumn night sky is clear and brilliant, with all the seasonal constellations vying for attention. Despite his hunger and thirst and coldness and horniness, Binge can’t help but smile, and take a moment to appreciate the beauty of nature, the sensation of being a solitary dot of cognizance in an infinite realm of sightless sensations. A hundred yards from the edge of the woods, the road reaches the crest of a small hill; Binge pauses here to look out across the landscape. He doesn’t see much since it is dark, but he does see the most important thing to him: lights, about a half-mile distant. Judging by the coverage of the lights, the town is perhaps a mile square in area, probably a few thousand people. Binge is happy – a town this size will most likely have a decent inn. Binge is practically drooling as he traipses down the hill, deciding which of his bodily needs to satisfy first. Binge is all smiles as he approaches the edge of town. The side of the town bordering the woods has been protected with a sturdy timber fence, and there is a wide opening where the small road meets it. There are two large logs standing upright to form a gate; there are cutouts for cross members in them, to form a barricade as needed. Binge walks through the opening, under the watchful eye of a large man, obviously a guard. The man wears a leather breastplate and helmet, metal arm braces, and carries a mean-looking polearm. He wears a loose-fitting, forest-green shirt and trousers beneath his armor, and has leather boots laced up to his knees. The guard is standing beside a sconce nailed to one of the logs, where a torch lights up the area around the gate. The man gives Binge a nod; Binge smiles and holds an open hand to his brow in greeting as he passes by. This must be a modestly wealthy town indeed, if it can maintain a formal guard. Binge floofs the dust from his hood, pulls it back, and vigorously scratches his head with his free hand. Binge is a rather handsome man. He has a squarish face, and a high forehead topped with medium-length light blue hair. His eyes are light blue, expressive, and intelligent. His nose is small but angular, like it was chiseled from stone and then stuck on his face. Binge has a strong jawline and chin, and full lips surrounding a constantly grinning mouth full of white teeth. He has no facial hair whatsoever, which gives him a very youthful appearance; he is usually taken for a youth in his late teens, instead of a man in his mid twenties. The only tell-tale signs of Binge’s age are the slight beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the effect of years of squinting at the sun and smiling at the ladies. Probably from doing it the other way around, as well. Binge walks down the street, happy to be back in civilization. There are quite a few people in the street, but no one pays him any attention. The buildings along this street are private houses and apartment buildings, and most of them have lights and people inside. Sounds and smells waft into the street, as working men and women come home to families and have their evening meals. The savory odors of home-cooked food make Binge’s stomach growl with uncommon ferocity, causing a pair of young ladies passing nearby to giggle and whisper to each other. Binge blushes, and picks up his pace. He has finally decided what he needs first; food edges out his other options. For now. Binge comes to a cross road at the edge of the residential area. There is much more foot traffic here, and a few horses pulling carts rumble past. There are other people that look like travelers, wearing the same gear as himself. Binge decides to forego the grand tour, and ask someone for directions to an inn. Across the intersection, he sees the perfect candidate: another guard, in the same green outfit and leather armor, watching the traffic attentively. Who else but the guards would know about the layout of the town, thinks Binge. And if he is like the other soldiers Binge has known, he will know which inn has the best wine. Soldiers love their booze. Looking both ways like a good boy, Binge carefully weaves his way through the milling people to the other side of the street, and hums a tune as he approaches the green gentleman. The guards so far have looked serious about their jobs, so Binge makes himself as obvious as possible. He stands two paces in front of the guard, and once they make eye contact, Binge smiles, and gives the guard a happy greeting. Binge: Good evening to you, fine sir! The guard looks down, nods and grunts an “m-hm” sound, and continues to scan the streets. Wow, such commitment, thinks Binge. But the citizens passing by don’t seem to even notice the soldier. This is a good thing; Binge is convinced that the head authority figure in this town is a good honest man. People would shy away from the henchman of a despot ruler. Also, the lack of rape and pillaging in the streets is a good hint that this is an orderly town. Binge has seen his share of rape and pillaging. There tends to be much less of it after Binge sees it. It’s hard to rape or pillage anything after you have been blown apart into your component molecules. (What is ‘pillaging’, anyway? Sounds nasty, whatever it is. . .) Binge again tries to get some information out of the dutiful guard. Binge: I hate to be troublesome, but could you direct me to the finest inn of your fair city? Guard: . . . lodging district’s that way. (Guard tilts his head to indicate up the street) Move along sir. Binge: Ah, let me put it differently: where will you be going tonight, after your watch is done, to knock back a few? The guard’s eyes widen, and he fixes a frown and a stare on Binge. Binge: Now now, I mean no offense. Why, it would be an outrage to deny a keeper of the peace the opportunity to hoist a mug or two with his brothers, after a long day’s work! The guard’s stare relaxes; his frown cools by a few degrees. Binge: I myself look forward to such a pleasure, having been on the road for the better part of a week. And I trust that a professional such as yourself would know where to find the best, hm? Binge smiles up at the man. The guard is motionless for a few moments, and then glances up and down the street. He looks down at Binge, waiting patiently. Guard: Go that way (glances up street) six blocks, and go right. Four buildings up you’ll see ‘The Spirits’ Lair’. They have the good stuff. Best ale in Eekwil-Ybriom. (Yes, the town’s name is Eekwil-Ybriom. Either you get it or you don’t. Take your Prosium.) Binge: Thank you, burly protector! Should I see you there tonight, it will be my honor to fill your first mug. Binge gives the guard a bow and a flourish. A hint of a smile crosses the guard’s face as Binge departs, making his way up the street. Binge takes a moment to look about while he walks, and likes what he sees in this city. He notices that there are guards at every street intersection, and is more and more impressed. There must be a hundred men in Eekwil-Ybriom’s regiment. Binge sees shop fronts all up and down this street, selling anything and everything you would normally find in a city – clothes, food, furniture, magical charms (ha! thinks Binge; he senses little magic there). Farther up the street, he can see an immense building made of white stone, four stories high and well-lit. Flags with a green and white standard fly from each corner. There is a cubic penthouse at the top center of the structure, with huge windows on each side, the perfect lookout for the whole city. This could only be the palace of the city ruler, or whatever title is given in this area of the land. The building looks large enough to include barracks as well as government offices. Binge is happy to see such law and order; he can relax tonight, and leave the hero responsibilities to the locals. (You know how it is, being the protagonist, constantly saving the day. . . It gets old.) Binge is beside himself with joy as he makes the right turn off the main street; soon he will be fed and boozed and cuddled, maybe in that order. He sees many attractive women in the street, a few of them walking alone. With luck, Binge will manage to meet one of the unattached ones tonight. Unattached and easy would be best, since he isn’t the type for long courtships. A short walk down the street, and Binge is standing under a large, ornate hanging sign, with an elaborate coat-of-arms carved into it, declaring ‘The Spirits’ Lair’ to all. Binge pauses for dramatic effect, tries to strike a dramatic pose (think of George Washington crossing the Delaware). . . and then grins like an idiot, and hurries through the door. Binge pauses briefly in the doorway to take in the room. The main floor of the inn is a big square dining room, fifty feet to a side. The main entrance is in the middle of the wall. Windows line the entire wall, giving a good view of the street outside. Against the left wall is a large wooden bar, with stools for patrons. There are seven wine barrels stacked in shelves and racks behind the bar, along with dozens of smaller kegs of various beers and ales. The rest of the room is populated with a dozen large round tables, except for a wide aisle leading straight from the entrance to a decorated archway in the middle of the far wall. A sitting room and a stairway are visible through the arch, obviously leading to the rented rooms. There is a plain swinging door at the left side of the far wall, behind the bar, leading to the kitchen. Behind the bar there is a large man with dark skin and short brown hair, wearing a leather apron and wide leather forearm protectors; he seems to be in charge of tapping barrels and filling mugs, and shuffling barrels back and forth through the swinging door. All but three of the round tables have people at them, groups of three and four and five, talking and laughing and drinking. Running back and forth between the bar and kitchen and the tables are six very lovely young ladies. They are all wearing colorful ankle-length dresses (to Binge’s great disappointment) and matching blouses, sporting very low V-cut fronts lined with frilly lace (to Binge’s great delight!). The lively scene is lit by four monstrous hanging chandeliers; they burn oil instead of candles, to prevent wax dripping on the customers. There is a circular vent in the ceiling above each one, to allow smoke to exit and to keep the ceiling from catching fire. The floor is well-worn hardwood; the *clack clack clack* of the server’s shoes is just audible above the chatter. Binge makes his way to an empty table near the center of the room. A few of the closer (and drunker) customers shout general greetings his way; Binge responds with a smile and a nod. He removes his backpack and shoulder pouch and deposits them under the table. His staff, however, is always in one of his hands, even while he shuffles out of his traveling cloak, raising a small cloud of dust. As he is fighting with his cloak, a ferociously cute blond server approaches, and halts a few steps away, smiling at catcalling customers, and watching as the stranger wrestles his way free. She secretly admires his physique; although Binge is shorter than the average man (he is barely a hand taller than she is), he isn’t scrawny and wiry the way others his size are. Binge has solid round shoulders and well-defined arms and chest, easy to see because of his pale skin and armless shirt. The slightest move of his hands sends ripples across his forearms, and as Binge pulls the cloak over his head, his latisimus muscles flare out, giving his back an inverted pyramid shape. He wears baggy pants tied at the waist and ankles, so she can’t get a look at his butt. . . however, you can bet that it is round and firm and fully-packed. If the server had ever seen a Bruce Lee movie, she would say that Binge looked sorta like him. Maybe a Caucasian Bruce Lee that took a day off training each week to watch ‘Most Extreme Elimination Challenge’ on TV and eat pork rinds. Let’s face it, no one looks like Bruce Lee, but Binge is mostly there. In a strange twist of fate that will be explained later, Binge has seen Bruce Lee, and hopes to be that good a fighter someday. Good luck. . . Binge finally triumphs over his outerwear, and tosses it on top of his gear. As he sits down, the cute server comes to the table and arranges a cloth placemat in front of him. The server leans over to do so, and her cleavage almost pops out of her blouse, causing Binge’s eyes to almost pop out of his head. It takes him several seconds to regain his composure. Gods almighty, thinks Binge, it has been a while since he saw those up close. It’s no wonder this inn is so busy. Good booze and fine girls make a profitable combination. (Too bad nobody in Binge’s universe came up with the name Hooter’s.) Binge steadies his nerves, and cranks up the charm. He will be damned before he sleeps alone tonight. The cute server ignores the waves of horny energy washing over her, and stands clasping a serving tray at her waist, slightly smooshing her bosoms together. (Hey, she’s good at her job; she knows how to work it. Her name is not important, but I’m not gonna type ‘Cute Server’ a hundred times during the upcoming dialogue, so her name is Cutie. It’s either that or Hootie McBoob, and Cutie is easier to type.) Cutie: Good evening, sir! My, you must have come a long way. Just to see me, right? (Hey, I told you she knows how to work it. . .) Binge: Why, what other reason would there be to come here? (Cutie giggles; Binge concentrates like a fiend, and maintains eye contact) Is it that obvious that I’m a traveler? (waves hand through dust cloud) Cutie: Well, I doubt a strong man like you would need a backpack to walk across town. We have rooms available; I can have one warmed up if you want. . . Binge: Why, that’s very clever of you. Imagine, beautiful and smart! Your husband is a lucky man! Cutie giggles again, and blushes slightly. Amazingly, no one has ever flattered her this way. This stranger isn’t like the local oafs; he is cute and different – she hasn’t ever seen someone with light blue hair! – and he has piqued her interest. And no, she doesn’t have a husband. Cutie: Hmmm. He would be if I had one. But no one wants a girl with common sense for a wife. And. . . (leans slightly and whispers) . . . I don’t cook that well. . . Binge: Eating out every night, intelligent conversation, and radiant beauty. Sounds like hell on earth to me! (Sorcerers generally know more about hell than your average person. . .) Cutie blushes even more, and says ‘Yes, well, hm . . .’ while she nervously glances away, and absent-mindedly runs her fingertips along her bosom. In Binge’s mind, there is a giant novelty thermometer, just like the ones at charity telethons, that says SCORE at the top. And Binge has just taken a red marker and filled in a fifth of it. Cutie: That’s a nice staff you have there. So you’re a magician? Too easy, thinks Binge, and refrains from making the obvious comment. He cringes inside – magician? Feh. A ‘magician’ creates useless potions that are supposed to make your friend’s girl hot for you. Binge can cause rifts in the very fabric of time and space. Magician. Feh again. Binge: Well, my darling girl, I manage. (Binge twirls his staff between his fingers, then sets it back down on the table) So, might I peruse the menu? Cutie: . . .Oh! Sorry – how careless of me! Here you are. . . Cutie opens a menu and hands it to Binge. Then she holds her hands behind her back, smiles sweetly, and sways back and forth slightly. Cutie’s marvelous torpedo-shaped party trays are pointing right at Binge’s head, bouncing gently as they sway, with almost hypnotic results. The menu could have been printed on a burning weasel and Binge wouldn’t have noticed, or cared. With herculean effort, Binge forces his eyes to meet the menu. And immediately notices something strange. Almost all of the items have been crossed out. Most of the entrees are x-ed out, only simple side dishes are left, and there are no desserts whatsoever. Binge: Ahhh. . . excuse me, but isn’t it customary to actually serve the items on one’s menu? Cutie: (stops swaying – damn, thinks Binge) Oh, that. We deeply regret that our supplies were . . . depleted recently, and we won’t be back up to our full menu for a week. We do have fresh bakery goods, and assorted seasonal fruits and vegetables. . . Come to think of it, no one in the place is actually eating, thinks Binge. He doesn’t see a single plate of food in the room. Every person has a mug or a glass, but no plates of comestibles. And no one else seems to be the traveling type, either. This place must have a hell of a local following for booze. Binge: So how do you keep packing in the locals without food? Cutie: Well, our owner is also our brewmaster. He comes from an island in the south, where they specialize in brewing spirits. He’s been in Eekwil-Ybriom for ten years – everyone knows about him! Binge has heard of the spirit wizards in the south sea. He knows now that his coming here is fate, and that this event has been drawing near since the dawn of time. . . aw, hell with that. He just got an old-fashioned reach-around from Lady Luck. What a slut. Binge: Ah, very good. Lucky me! So what exactly happened to your once-great stores of nourishment? Don’t tell me. . . (leans in slightly to whisper – anything to get closer to the bosoms) . . . you have a rodent problem? Cutie: (Straightens suddenly, bounces mightily – YES! thinks Binge) Oooo, no sir! Perish the thought! Although, it would be easier to handle rodents than those two. . . (Cutie stares out window, her eyes widen and she has a cute scared look on her face) Binge: Two? Did you say two? Only two people ate all your food? Cutie: (Looks back at Binge) M hm. There was this short little red-haired lady, and she was with a handsome tall blond-haired man, and they just kept eating and eating. . . I don’t know where they put it all. And she was such a beast! She did such terrible things to that poor man every time he reached for a plate! At least they paid for all the food – until the owner had the money in his hands, I thought he was going to bite right through the bar from worry. . . Ah, SHIT, thinks Binge. He knows of those two. Few members of the magic community don’t know about them. Binge briefly promises to dedicate his life to charity for the good fortune of not being in town at the same time as those two. And he wonders how it is that most of the town is unharmed. Perhaps this explains the diligence of the soldiers. One encounter with those two is enough. So, no real food. Binge thinks for a bit. . . and decides to let loose for a night. He has behaved himself for the last few months, and he just completed a road trip, and there is an individually-wrapped-for-your-protection-single-serving-size of sex bouncing on her heels in front of him. Binge decides to have fun tonight. Let the record show that no good EVER comes from Binge deciding to have fun. Binge: (Perusing what remains of the menu) Well, don’t you fret, my lovely. You’ll have no such problems from me. I promise to behave – at least, as long as people are watching us. . . Cutie giggles again, and playfully smacks him on the shoulder. But the smack turns into a stealth caress as she pulls her hand away. Her blush deepens, and the smile on her face betrays her thoughts. Binge mentally takes out a can of spray paint, and colors in another part of his SCORE thermometer. With the promise of *ahem* exercise later on, he decides to get at least a little food. Binge: Now then . . . I will have a bowl of the house stew (probably rabbit and squirrel, thinks Binge – it could be worse) and a whole loaf of your freshest bread. (Binge turns his head to count the wine barrels behind the bar) Oh, and three of those barrels of wine should suffice. There are seven there, so I won’t be leaving you short. Cutie laughs, and smacks Binge again. When she finishes, Binge is still looking up at her, smiling innocently. She pauses – he doesn’t look like he just told a joke. Cutie loses a bit of her smile. Cutie: Um, I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. What serving of wine would you like? Binge: I would like three whole barrels, good lady. No need to send them to the room; I’ll have them here. Cutie: Ah. Um. Eh. Ahh, I’ll go check on that. . . And I’ll get your food, sir. Don’t go anywhere. . . (smiles coyly) Binge: If you promise to come back, I’ll wait. . . even if I have to start a colony here at this table. Cutie smiles, and turns away, and walks to the kitchen. She doesn’t notice that Binge’s eyes are stapled to her rockin’ ass. Binge sighs, and looks around at the rest of the room. The other serving girls are attractive, but Cutie is by far the best looking of them all. Most of the patrons look like laborers and shop owners; there are a few well-dressed men that must be government people. One table is occupied by five men wearing green shirts and loose trousers; they must be off-duty soldiers. There is something not quite right about one party in the corner. There are three men, and they are drinking and talking, but something about them makes Binge give them a second glance. . . Ah, probably nothing. (See, this is called foreshadowing. Good writers do it all the time. So I’m gonna give it a try.) Soon, Cutie comes out of the kitchen with a tray of food. She approaches the owner, and there is lots of talking and gesturing, and glancing and motioning in Binge’s direction. The look on the owner’s face is not promising. Finally, the owner makes a dismissive motion to Cutie, and she nods, and comes over to Binge’s table. Binge decides that the only thing better than watching her leave is watching her approach. Cutie sets a steaming bowl of stew and a plate with a fresh loaf of bread in front of him. This involves a great deal of leaning; this time, Cutie sees Binge’s glances, and doesn’t mind. At least he keeps his hands to himself, unlike the local jerks. If she could see inside his head, she would have taken a red marker and filled in more of Binge’s SCORE thermometer. Almost there! Cutie: Here you go – enjoy! Oh, the owner didn’t think your joke was very funny. He has a sore spot about selling wine in bulk – there are a bunch of rich snobs in Ynik-Walhyty (it’s a nearby city) that bought five whole barrels last year on credit – that’s almost half of the batch! – and they still haven’t paid for it. They told him some rubbish about the honor of supplying a family of their class and prestige being payment enough. . . Hee hee! I thought the poor man was going to take his sword and go murder every one of them! Good thing the inn keeps him busy. . . Binge: Oh, really? My dear, I think I have a solution to all of our problems. If you could tell Mr. Owner to grant me a moment of his time, I have a proposition for him that he may find interesting. Cutie raises an eyebrow, and gives Binge a questioning look; Binge playfully shoos her away toward the bar. She giggles again and goes over to talk to the owner. Binge can’t believe his good luck. Now, he has a chance to make a friend of a master brewer, get the wine he wants for the evening, and lock down his prospects of bouncy love happening tonight. And all he has to do is spread some money about. Money is of no concern to our hero; it is possible to make gold in his universe, but it’s damned difficult. In Binge’s case, he got wasted one night, and got into an argument with a traveling merchant’s pack horse. . . and for some reason, ended up turning the poor animal into solid gold. (Don’t tell me about differences in density, and Conservation of Mass; magic has no respect for the laws of physics.) He got lucky; he was trying to turn the horse into banana pudding. Hey, it always makes sense when you’re drunk. Binge’s share of the beast netted him about 700 pounds of gold. That’s well over four million dollars in our world; in Binge’s world, it means he never has to think about money again. EVER. It’s amazing how nice people are when they find out that you have money. Binge generally keeps his riches secret, however, because it’s amazing how criminal people are when they find out that you have money. Cutie seems to be having a hard time with the owner. Neither of them looks happy; Cutie is trying her best to get the owner to at least meet the stranger, and the owner is scolding her for taking so much time on a single customer, and please stop annoying him with this nonsense. Finally Cutie grabs him by the front of his apron, and drags him a few steps down the bar. With much spluttering and harumphing, the owner breaks Cutie’s grip, and gives her a few sharp words. Cutie puts on a mad pouty-face, and folds her arms under her bosoms, which amplifies their power a thousand fold. The owner glares for a few moments. . . and then throws his hands in the air, and relents. He agrees to talk to the weirdo. Cutie smiles and leads the way to the table. (Sometimes it’s sickening how much power a cute pouting girl has over the feeble mind of man. . .) Cutie arrives at the table with the still-grumbling owner in tow. She stands at attention, hands clasped behind her back, chest pushed out (YE GODS, screams Binge in his head) and hips thrust slightly forward. The owner is wiping his hands on a stained cloth towel, and sizing up the short man at the table. Cutie: Sir, this is the gentleman who would like to speak to you about the wine. His name is. . . (she blinks, and concentrates for a few moments. . . hey, she never did get his name. . .) Owner: Sir, thank you for your patronage of my fine establishment. I understand you wish to speak with me about my wine supply. As you can see, I am very busy, and have little time for idle chatter, so please be brief. (Folds arms, stands glaring at Binge, taps foot on floor) Binge: Brief – OK! I would like to purchase three barrels of wine. I would like to consume them here at this table. And to help persuade you to accept my offer, I will settle your account with a certain group of nobles. So. Deal? The owner blinks, and stares in silence for a few moments. Then he throws back his head and laughs. The outburst gets the attention of the nearer tables; lots of people are now watching and waiting to see what develops. The owner fixes his stare back on Binge. Owner: Very good! You are a funny man! For giving me a laugh, I will allow you to finish your meal, and leave without a boot print on your ass. You can buy wine the same way everyone else does – one glass at a time. And if you have been sent by the noble assholes from Ynik-Walhyty, you can tell them all to take a wild jump and land with both feet planted firmly in hell, saving me the trouble of sending them there. The owner folds his arms and regards Binge with a sneer. Binge takes no offense; he understands that the man doesn’t have a personal grudge against him, that he is merely angry at being cheated, and is venting some steam. Binge likes making people happy, and he is about to make the owner very happy indeed. Binge: That would be quite a jump. No, I don’t represent anyone but myself. We could argue all night, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. I have only one argument to make in my behalf. Binge reaches into his pack under the table, and finds a leather sack a little bigger than a softball. Hefting it in both hands, he bounces it a few times next to his ear. Having verified the contents, he pulls the tie on the top of the sack. He looks the owner right in the eye, and smiles. Binge gives the bag a toss; it arcs through the air, and lands in the middle of the table with a loud *thwack*. A dozen more heads turn his direction – only one thing makes such a sound. The top of the bag falls open, and a radiance like early spring sunshine gushes forth. The bag is full to bursting with thick gold coins, more money than most of the patrons have ever seen in one place. The bag of coins is particularly interesting to a certain group of three men in the corner, who stare at the gold, and then settle down and start a whispered conversation. This display of wealth has the expected effect on Cutie. She gasps, and covers her mouth with her hands. She stares at the gold, then at Binge, then at the gold, then at Binge again. The SCORE thermometer now has one thin sliver of white at the top. Binge folds his arms and watches the innkeeper carefully. The owner is motionless for seven heartbeats; then his arms slowly unfold and drop to his side. His face loses its sneer, and becomes completely blank. He stoops slightly, and his knees shake a little. His head slowly pivots to Binge, and the owner regards Binge with questioning eyes. . . Binge gives the owner a single nod. Slowly, the owner turns around to face the bar and the kitchen. Behind him, the room is suddenly very quiet; whispers have passed from table to table, and now everyone is watching to see the show. The owner straightens up, and adjusts his apron. He coughs softly, and clears his throat. Then he closes his eyes, and takes a huge inhale. . . Owner: (bellows) STAFF! HERE! NOW! All the servers look up with wide eyes, and immediately rush over to the owner. Three men in white shirts and aprons come from the kitchen and join the group. All of them make a huddle, and there is a minute of whispering and nodding, and several incredulous glances at Binge. They become silent; all of the girls look around the room, getting their bearings. The servers fan out to the owner’s side; the kitchen workers take positions behind the bar. The owner stands in the middle of the room, in front of Binge’s table, his eyes are closed, his hands are clasped behind his back. He opens his eyes, and looks at Binge. Binge folds his arms on top of his staff, and regards the owner. Then, the owner smiles, a big warm goofy smile – Binge knows that this whole inn is his playground. In the quiet room, with all eyes on the two men – well, almost all eyes, several are on the gathered girls – the owner breaks the silence with one loud word. . . Suddenly, there is a flurry of activity. The girls all rush forward and start moving the closest patrons away from Binge’s table, apologizing and bowing. The people don’t mind being displaced, and start jockeying for the best vantage points from which to see the action. The owner watches as the three kitchen men wrestle a barrel rack out of the back and carry it out to the table. He joins them behind the bar to bring down one, two, three heavy wooden barrels, and roll them out to the rack. Cutie emerges from the kitchen carrying a silver tray, upon which is a block of white cheese, a bunch of crimson grapes, and a fancy wine glass with an ornate metal base, carved with dragons and griffons. She moves in close to Binge as she places the tray on the table, and gives his leg a gentle squeeze. Binge turns to thank her, and his words stick in his throat; the look in Cutie’s eyes would give a corpse a woody. She backs slowly away from the table to join the rest of the girls and the owner. The staff members are all in a line, bowing slightly, looking at Binge with hopeful gazes, seeking any sign of approval. The other customers are all standing on chairs and tables to see the spectacle. Now, all eyes ARE on Binge, who is sitting still and admiring the work of the workers. Binge grasps his staff and stands. He reaches down and picks up the wine glass. Balancing the glass on his fingertips, he holds it at eye level and squints at the carving in the base. Good work, he thinks. Then his hand twitches and the glass flies over his shoulder toward the surprised owner, who just catches it before it hits the floor. Binge looks at the barrels lying horizontally in their rack, made of dark wood and thick copper bands, looking noble and civilized despite the weathering of a dozen seasons. Strange . . . they are also somewhat scorched. Ah, well – no matter. He then looks at the owner with a raised eyebrow. The owner stares for a moment, and his mouth falls open in an ‘o’ shape, as he realizes his mistake. He smacks one of the kitchen men and points at the bar, hissing at him. Owner: Idiot! Get a bung and hammer from behind the bar! How is the gentleman supposed to open the barrel without. . . Binge: (Interrupting) That is quite all right, my good host. I shall make do. Binge smiles and twirls his staff in his left hand. He steps over to the barrels, and leans over to grab the far rim of the end barrel with his right hand. With a grunt, he pulls the barrel upright to land on the floor with a resounding *thwump*. The owner is secretly impressed; he grapples with the barrels every day, and he knows how much they weigh. If this short man can haul one up with one hand, he must have disproportionate strength in his small frame. Binge smiles at the staff, and then at the patrons, and then he turns his attention to the barrel. He grabs the sphere at the end of his staff, and separates the two with a grunt and a *pop*. He flicks the sphere into the air, and balances it briefly on the back of his hand. Binge flicks the orb into the air again, and makes a motion as if to swat it to the ground – but there is a *whoosh* sound, and the sphere is . . . gone. Oooos and Aaaahhs come from the crowd. Binge holds his staff in both hands, palms up, and closes his eyes in concentration. As the people watch, Binge’s staff starts to change shape in his hands. The flared end where the sphere would be starts to draw out, thinner and thinner, until the whole four-foot-tall staff is an inch in diameter, with a sharp point on one end and a rounded lip on the other. Binge opens his eyes and looks at his staff. He holds it like a blowgun, and placing the rounded end in his lips, puffs air through the hollow tube. It makes a low note like a reed flute. (Not to give it away, but think of a giant metal straw.) Binge turns and smiles at the people, who still have no idea what the hell this little man is going to do with his staff. Binge again faces the barrel, and looks at the thick wooden lid. Ah, hell, he decides, as long as he’s putting on a show, he might as well do it right. Binge takes two steps back from the barrel. He holds his staff firmly in both hands, parallel with the ground, and steps back with his left foot, assuming a low wide stance. His face is almost a scowl as he focuses, and visualizes his move. His muscles tense and ripple, much to the delight of the serving girls. The room is unusually silent. With a loud yelp, Binge explodes from the ground. He leaps up into the air, somersaulting over his staff. The people are too shocked to even gasp. At the top of his arc, Binge kicks out of his somersault, arcing his back and throwing his hands above his head, pointing the sharp tip of his staff straight at the center of the barrel lid. Binge descends with a wild whoop, and slams down his staff. It hits the lid of the barrel with a wood-splitting *thwock*, and pierces deeply into the barrel. It comes to rest with six inches of the staff protruding from the top of the barrel. A small geyser of deep purple foam shoots up into the air. Binge straightens, and pants once, twice. Then a mighty cheer fills the air. Even the owner is applauding – best damned tapping he has ever seen! Binge takes a bow, and waves at the serving girls. All are cheering happily, except for Cutie. She is clapping slowly and softly, and staring at Binge with undisguised lust. The giveaway for Binge is the sight of her perky erect nipples poking through the fabric of her blouse, the High Beams of the Limousine of Luv. The big SCORE thermometer in Binge’s head totally freekin’ explodes into a billion sex-sized pieces. Well, then! Binge can’t let a lady down, can he? He plans to get drunk enough to tap the low-level Dragon Magic for a specific purpose. Yup, it has to do with sex. Binge turns and eyes the barrel with wild eyes, and slams his face onto the rounded end of the ‘straw’. The crowd hushes as Binge gives the barrel a mighty *SUCK*. Wine gurgles up into the short sorcerer with an obscene noise. Binge finally disengages, and savors the wine for a moment. It is heavy with flavor, and has a distinct bite; he would expect nothing less from a spirit wizard. But there’s something else about it. . . Binge swallows, and pleasing warmth spreads from his belly to all of his 2,000 body parts. Aaaaaah. Binge has waited for this for a week. A grin spreads all the way across his face, almost shaking hands with itself behind his head. This is obviously not normal wine. . . but who cares? It’s here, Binge is here. . . It’s party time! Binge turns to the anxious owner. With a flourish, he sweeps the bag of gold from the table and deposits it in the waiting hands of the owner. The owner’s eyes light up, and he looks like he is about to cry. Binge: I approve! The whole room erupts in massive whoops and cheers. The girls all gather around the owner, happily hoisting his prize above his head, shouting happy slogans in a foreign language. The kitchen men are roaring and high-five-ing each other. Binge has already gone back to his barrel, and is busy slurping down great mouthfuls of wine. Dozens of customers are gathered around Binge, giving him slaps on the back and telling him how much ass he kicks. (Quite a lot, it seems.) Cutie works her way through the happy throng of party people, approaching Binge from behind, and puts her hands on his shoulders, pressing her bosoms into his back. This is the physical equivalent of a ten-foot high flashing red neon “DO ME!!” sign. She breaths heavily into his ear. Cutie: Might I have the honor of knowing your name, my lord? Binge turns to his woman (let’s face it, she belongs to him for tonight), wiping his mouth on his arm. He gently grasps Cutie’s hand and bows low, giving it a gentle kiss. Cutie blushes from her cleavage all the way up to her eyebrows. Binge faces her with a twinkle in his eye, and replies in a low sultry voice. Binge: My lovely young lady, you may call me . . . Binge. Binge downs his first barrel of wine in no time, to the amazement of everyone. Binge himself could fit inside a wine barrel, so the opposite seems unlikely. Binge taps his second barrel the same way as the first, once again to resounding cheers. The kitchen staff have taken over the barbacking duties, and they cart away the empty barrel in a timely manner. Many patrons are trying to keep up with Binge’s drinking pace; all of them end up passed out and tossed on the floor, next to the wall and out of the way. At some point, Binge’s stew and bread disappear, and Cutie whisks away the dishes. Cutie has barely left Binge’s side, and has begun defending her territory, snarling at the other girls when they approach Binge, all puppy eyes and bouncing bosoms and overflowing cute, all with the same proposition for the charming rich stranger. The owner is sitting at the bar, with almost the same happy grin as Binge, studying a ledger of expenses and removing gold coins from the bag, one by one. When he finishes, less than half the coins remain in the bag; there are several stacks of coins on the bar. All is accounted for in the ledger – there is such a thing as an honest businessman, you know. The owner carefully reties the bag, and presents it to Binge with a formal bow. Binge accepts it with a nod, and starts to put it away in his backpack, then pauses to remove one coin from the bag before stowing it. He does a variation on the oldest trick in the book – every grandfather has done this one to his grandchild. (Well, maybe not quite this way.) Binge shows the coin to the crowd, and then hides it in his fist. When he opens his hand, the coin is gone. Binge starts looking around at individuals, and they all get excited for a moment; everyone knows this trick. Finally Binge looks at Cutie – you should have guessed it ! – and gives her a wink and a smile, and the crowd goes WooooOOOOooooo! Cutie blushes and blinks, pauses for a moment – and then blushes more. With a fancy hand gesture, she bows low at the waist, giving a free show to all the men in the building. Then a gold coin rolls out from between her bosoms and into her outstretched hand. While the crowd whoops and laughs, Cutie glances at the owner with questioning eyes; he grins and gives her a nod. Isn’t the owner cool, letting the girls keep their tips? Cutie laughs and dances a few happy steps, and then places the coin back from whence it came. Fast-forward to three hours later. It is late evening (let’s say 10pm), and Binge has finished his third barrel of wine. He has repeated his gold coin trick with each of the serving girls, resulting in more high-pitched happy squealing than anyone should have to put up with in one night. No one but Cutie has noticed a strange thing about Binge: his hair and eyes are losing their blue color, and are taking on a pale crimson tint. She doesn’t make the connection between this phenomenon, the huge volume of wine, and the magic that Binge has been performing. Binge has been entertaining the people with various magic tricks. He takes a huge gulp of wine, and then belches a fountain of bubbles, which pop and turn into songbirds. He singles out a fat man, and levitates him about the room. At one point, he arm wrestles with a muscle-bound guard, and almost loses, but uses a spell to sap the man’s strength (no one notices – what a cheater). His best trick of the night is his ‘Wine Snake’ trick. Using complex hand gestures and lots of concentration, Binge coaxes a tendril of wine out of the barrel, like a snake from a charmer’s basket. It lengthens and thickens, and Binge makes it weave complex patterns in the air. The Snake makes single-line shapes resembling people in the crowd, and famous landmarks, and fearsome monsters. At one point, the liquid forms a huge quivering model of an impossibly large set of boobs, resulting in much hooting and cheering, and pointing at the serving girl who came closest to those dimensions. The endowed girl razzes the horny gorillas, and shakes what her momma gave her, causing more cheering. Binge has the owner distribute wooden mugs to all who want one, and then with sharp flicks of his wrist, makes the Wine Snake snap like a whip at its tip, sending globs of wine shooting across the room into the upheld mugs of happy men. More than once, a mug-holding hopeful is pushed into the path of the booze missile by his friends, and ends up wet and embarrassed. Eventually, the third barrel is almost empty, and most of the people in the inn are intoxicated enough to go home. It has been a good night for The Spirits’ Lair; many people came in just to see what was going on, and stayed to drink. The owner is sitting at the bar, happily clinking some coins together. Guards were summoned to remove the unconscious, and take them to a special room in the city barracks to sober up. Five of the serving girls are making their way around the room, cleaning up after the show, and attending to the dozen or so patrons still inside. Three of these are still lurking at their corner table. Not talking, not drinking. . . just lurking. Cutie is sitting at Binge’s table, her head cupped in her hands, watching with sultry eyes as Binge slurps up the last wine in the third barrel. He finishes with the same noise as a kid trying to suck the last bit of a milkshake from the bottom of the cup. He stands and whisks his staff through the air, purging the last drops from inside. Then he steps to the table, wobbling slightly, and addresses Cutie in a polite and charming manner. Binge: So (hic). . . um, so, my dear. . . if I am not being presumptuous. . . would you care to join me in my room? Cutie merely makes an UmHm sound, and blinks her eyes at Binge. She thought he would never finish with his wine. Then again, she’s never waited for anyone to finish three BARRELS before. She wonders what that much alcohol will do to his performance. If she knew the significance of Binge’s hair color – which now has a definite pale red color to it, as do his eyes – she would have no worries. And she has forgotten all about her usual plan of stealing his purse when the lovemaking is over. He has charmed the larceny right out of her. Plus, the gold coin still tucked away between her ample cans is more than she makes in tips in a whole summer. Binge: Most excellent, my lovely. Excuse me while I take care of one small matter with the owner – I won’t be long. At least not right now. Cutie chuckles, and stands to stretch her arms and back. Binge approaches the happy man at the bar. Binge: Sir, if I might have a moment of your time. . . Owner: Ah, the good sir Binge! What time I have is all yours, my friend. Binge: Very good, very good. I would like to know – what are the chances of buying two more barrels of your fine wine? Owner: Two more? Hmm . . . That would leave me with only two to last out the season. . . but with the profit from tonight, and the resolved credit from three years ago, thanks to you!,. . . Hm. Very well, for one more of your coins, you may have two more barrels. And for you, I will gladly waive your room and board. Consider it a token of my gratitude, good sir! But I would stow your money someplace safe, if you are taking that one with you. . . Binge: I doubt she’ll trouble me. You say that’s all the wine you have? But surely you have several vintages aging. . . Owner: Not so. I use the techniques of the spirit wizards. I use my own magic to enhance the wine after it is pressed, so it requires only a few months of aging, instead of years. It turns bad within a season, so I only make small batches, twelve barrels maybe, each year. But I can sell the vinegar to all the restaurants in the area. Best damned vinegar you can get! Oh ho, thinks Binge. That’s what he detected earlier, a glint of magic in the wine. But he is troubled – it seemed to be more substantial magic than an aging spell. And just three barrels of wine, even enhanced wine, shouldn’t have him in this state. He can already feel the electric twinge of the low-level Dragon Magic pulsing in his brain; it would normally take five or six barrels of normal wine to unlock the power. He would ponder it further. . . but Cutie is standing at the archway leading to the rooms, with a come-hither grin, and both hands slowly rubbing her belly just below her navel. I challenge you to ponder anything when faced with that. Binge: Is that so? I thought I detected some magic in your wine. Alright, then. My thanks for the room. I will be down . . . um . . . later. . . so if you could stand the barrels up here at that table, I would appreciate it. (Binge produces another coin, and spins it on the bar in front of the owner) Owner: My pleasure, sir. Enjoy your evening! (wink wink) Cutie seems quite taken with you; I imagine she will have many stories to tell during her shift tomorrow. . . Binge: Ah, I apologize, but I think she’s going to need the day off tomorrow. (Wink) The owner laughs, and turns his attention to the coins on the bar. Binge struts over to the waiting Cutie, twirling his staff like a walking stick. She takes his arm, and the two climb the stairs to a landing. There is a long hallway with three doors on each side; Cutie leads Binge to the last door on the right side. Binge leans his staff against the door frame, and as he reaches for the door latch, Cutie takes the initiative. She tips Binge’s head slightly down, and suddenly kisses him. Binge accepts the press of her soft warm lips on his, and pulls her close, feeling the contours of her body with his, his hands completing the survey where his body won’t reach. Despite her generous endowment, Binge can feel her heart pulsing quickly against his chest. Cutie involuntarily digs her nails into Binge’s back and shoulder, sending shivers up and down his spine – gooooood shivers. After a short eternity, Cutie disengages, looking into Binge’s eyes with smoky lust. Binge decides it is time for the magic. In our world, a gentleman may sometimes stuff a cucumber wrapped in tinfoil into his trousers to appear more gifted than he is; Binge, the lucky bastard, has a spell to actually cause such a change physically. Such is the majesty of Dragon Magic! Those dragons knew how to party. Binge reaches up and gently presses his fingertips against Cutie’s temples. Binge: I’ve got a surprise for you, my love. Just relax, and give me a moment; this may feel a bit funny. Cutie gives him a quizzical look, and then closes her eyes and waits. Binge looks at her angelic face for a moment, then closes his eyes and concentrates on his spell: The Variable Wang. This spell searches the brain synapses of the female subject, and finds the areas related to the, um, female fun center; it then runs a quick series of pain vs. pleasure tests, determining what size of, um, man staff, will provide the maximum pleasure and minimum pain. It then (temporarily) alters the *ahem* ‘size’ of the spell caster to match the findings. The result is a superior session of lovemaking for both parties. The spell takes four seconds; Cutie twitches and makes a quiet ‘ummmmm’ sound. Binge feels a brief uncomfortable pressure in his most vital of areas, as the spell makes the change to his physiology. As always, he is slightly bummed that the change is an increase in size; it would be an ego boost to have the spell actually shrink his manhood for once. Binge moves his hands to someplace more appropriate. Cutie is still pressed up against Binge, and feels the effect of the spell through her dress. Her eyes open wide, and her mouth drops open; she gazes at Binge with amazement, her eyes shining with anticipatory delight. Binge: . . . surprised? Cutie answers with a grin and a grab, making Binge grunt. She then opens the door, and leads Binge into the room. Like he could go anywhere else, until she releases her grip. Binge retrieves his staff (no, not that one; the other one ) as Cutie shuts the door softly behind them, and the two make their way to the bed. Go ahead and use your own filthy imagination here. Whatever you imagine, this was better. Here’s one way to think of it: first, imagine all the explosives and fireworks and nuclear weapons on earth piled up in the middle of New Jersey, and then detonated all at once. . . . . . Got it? OK. . . . . . The Binge/Cutie explosion is much more impressive. And it is far away from New Jersey, thank God. End of Episode One Continue to Episode: 1 2 3 Overview |