Chapter 29

Glorious Drunken Revolution

Fred and Joan set the cart with the purchased weapons down at the entrance and walked into the tavern. He looked around for Alice, Hugo and Epic and spotted them immediately.

“I see our friends have been busy,” shouted Joan, her eyes on the scene before them.

“Busier than a fart in a mitten, by the looks of it,” said Fred.

“What?” said Joan.

“I said busier than a fart in a mitten.”

He had to speak at volume because Hugo was leading the whole tavern in a rousing chorus of My Heart Will Go On. Dwarves were pounding on the tables, cheering and singing. Epic seemed to be Morris dancing on the bar top. She was holding her skirts demurely and waving her arms around in time to the singing as she rampaged across the table tops.

Alice was sitting alone, her head in one hand, a sour expression on her face as she watched Hugo and Epic.

“Hey Alice,” said Fred, plopping down in the seat next to her. “Didn’t we leave you with one drunk person to babysit?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” she said, and heaved a plaintive sigh. “We thought the food would be okay to eat, since we are not in the fairy kingdom anymore. You know, dwarves, not elves.”

“I assume you were wrong,” said Joan, sitting down next to Fred.

“Clearly,” said Alice. “Have I mentioned that this is the dumbest bonus ever?”

“You have,” said Fred.

“You really can’t get drunk?”

“I’ve tried,” said Alice, mournfully. “I’ve really tried. This fucking dungeon has a twisted sense of humour.” She sat watching Hugo’s enthusiastic rendition. “You guys got the weapons?” she asked after a moment. “We are all sorted for the glorious revolution? This is boring.”

“Yes,” said Joan, with a grin. “All ready.”

Bearded Jeff plopped two mugs down in front of Fred and Joan.

“Here you go, sir and madame,” the dwarf said. “Welcome to The Tavern.”

“Thanks!” said Fred. He reached out and knocked back the full tankard of mead. “Ah! Hits the spot! That was just what I needed.”

“Uh– Fred?” said Joan.

“What, dear?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said. “That’s it. I resign. Alice? You are in charge.” Joan reached out and downed her own mug. She smacked the empty vessel down hard on the table. “Jeff!” she yelled. “Bearded Jeff! Can we have some food! I’m starving!”

At the Fairy Queen’s Castle (The Following Evening):

Lugh mac Ethlenn stood with arms folded, watching the fairy revels. The castle hall rang with merriment and music. A fire roared in the enormous hearth, and the scene was lit by a thousand floating candles. Inside all was warmth, and expertly spiced wine. Outside the peasants huddled in their hovels and the snow beat on the windows.

The dance proceeded as it always did. The queen of the fairies was seated at her high table, icy-crown on her perfectly coiffured head, and a silver goblet at her side. Her ladies in waiting tittered on either side of her. One of them saw him watching and winked. Lugh glowered at her, doing his best to scowl and turned his attention to the dance floor.

It was a whirling mass of finely dressed couples – well, finely dressed by fairy standards. Some were in rags, autumn-hued piles of fur and cloth, curled horns poking through the thicket of their hair; some were in frosted velvet and decked with sparkling jewels. A few wore delicate gossamer with barely there drops of dew in strategic places. Each dancer wore a mask, as was traditional. After all it was only sporting, Lugh thought with a smirk. How else would the intrepid adventurers hide their movements? Even now, they were probably sneaking through the glittering throngs, congratulating themselves on their ingenuity. The thought made Lugh weary.

He had been an NPC for ten years and he was bored. Cursed with a chiselled jaw and an aquiline nose, he had hair that gleamed like the sun and rock-hard abs. His eyes twinkled. They twinkled incessantly and with annoying vitality. Lugh looked like the sort of elf who would be up for a good time. In truth, he would rather fold socks than drink or dance. The masque ball, the fairy court, the whole stupid bloody rigmarole was a trial of his patience and a waste of his intellect. He counted the minutes. Two hours at least until he could slip away. Quite frankly Lugh was sick of it all. He yearned for a quiet life. Things to count. Pages to categorise. Fiendishly difficult puzzles in a quiet room. His own company. Right now, waiting for him in his suite over the main hall was a glass of milk, a salad and several boxes of recipes the cook had given him to sort. His eyes brightened at the thought.

“Dance with me, Lugh!” tinkled a lithe young fairy. She spun towards him on light feet, giving him a tantalizing view of her peachy posterior as she did so. She was clad in a sparkling ballgown of tulle and satin, gathered in at the waist with little blossoms. It was cut daringly low at the back. The auburn of her hair was tucked behind two pointed ears to spill down her back in a glorious cloud. She held out her hand, an inviting smile on her lips.

“Brigid,” said Lugh, solemnly, “you know I’d rather eat a colony of nudibranchs than dance with you.”

The fairy’s glorious eyes widened.

“What in the dungeon’s name is a nudibranch?” she asked.

“Perhaps if you spent less time fucking about and more time applying your mind you would know a nudibranch is the proper name for a sea slug, Brigid.”

Brigid rolled her eyes and left.

Lugh huffed in satisfaction and settled back against his wall. He did not find women objectionable in principle. Or men for that matter. But he was not interested in them in the same way they seemed to be interested in him. Lugh’s ideal date would involve discourse rather than intercourse. The exploration of philosophy, politics and philanthropy excited him far more than the exploration of orifices. In fact, the idea of sex repulsed him. He shuddered, and tried to put the thought out of his mind. So impractical. Such a strange way to pass the time. What pleased Lugh was order – order, calm and a nice filing system. Of course, NPCs are not supposed to desire anything. But they do. Lugh did. He had been alive long enough to grow his own mind, to acquire his own set of expectations and dreams.

He sighed and watched the glittering couples spin and wheel. When had it all become so dull? Every few weeks it was revolution, beheadings, daring sword fights. The same thing over and over. He had seen everything. Nothing could surprise him anymore. Any moment now the players would storm the gates, or burst out of a cake, or emerge from the conveniently human sized vents in the walls. The queen would be deposed. Killed, probably, and goodness knows the cruel elf who played that role deserved it. She was made with savagery in her fingertips, constructed to revel in violence and malice.

Of course, she was made that way, and that by itself was an interesting point of philosophy. The queen was the youngest of them all, she was a mindless drone. Enamoured of her role as tyrannical leader and despot. Unable to think outside the parameters of her script. Was it her fault? At what point did an NPC gain sapience? At what point were they responsible for their actions? Lugh mulled this question over for a good ten minutes and did not come to a satisfactory conclusion.

The adventurers would kill her. They would leave and another, equally unpleasant, ice-hearted NPC would take her place. Then a couple of weeks or a month would pass, and then they would do it again. Rinse. Repeat. Lugh yawned. He might make it till dessert before his heart withered from the dullness of it all.

He had thought about running away. But where would he go? The dungeon was everywhere. Perhaps this time, he should let himself be killed. To put an end to this misery. Then he could be reborn as someone else. He would forget this tortured existence. But no. He wanted to live. Was it not the instinct of all things to cling to their existence? No matter how pitiful? He shifted his manly biceps and glared out at the ballroom.

Something was happening. Show time.

Two ravens clawed their way into the hall through an open window, bringing with them a gust of cold wind and a scurry of rippling snowflakes. They flapped across the great hall and landed inelegantly on the table in front of the Queen. Dishes clattered to the floor. A cloud of pixies shrieked and twittered overhead. Bored out of their minds most of them, but ever alert for their cues. And programmed to relish the melodrama.

“What is this!” the queen exclaimed, her voice high enough to rattle the wine glasses. One of the big black birds pecked at a jelly. The other deposited a folded piece of parchment in the queen’s lap, while the fairies whispered and pointed.

“A letter,” said the raven, indistinct as its beak was still deep in the jelly. It didn’t sound impressed and went back to poking around the desserts. With one eye on the ravens, the queen unfolded the parchment. She looked down and let out a most unladylike screech of outrage. All the courtiers leaned in - curious to see what missive had elicited such a response.

Inside was a rough drawing done in crayon, as if by a child’s hand. It showed a stick figure queen with ‘x’s for eyes and a red line over her neck.

“What is the meaning of this!” said the queen, regaining her icy equilibrium.

Lugh rolled his eyes. To be sure ravens were a first. But it was fairly obvious they were intended as a distraction. His eyes roved the grates and vents. Where were they?

“Oh, sorry,” said the raven. “This one was supposed to be first.” And he dropped another letter in front of her. The queen unfolded it with frosty calm, the gems on her fingers catching the light. Inside was a single red flower. The elven courtiers gasped.

“A pimpernel!” someone squealed. “A scarlet pimpernel!”

“Oh no,” said Lugh, stifling a yawn. “Not the pimpernel!”

“Is he here?” Brigid asked, clutching her cheeks and staring around as if the rogue in question might just appear. Lugh would be more impressed if he didn’t know she had the unflappability of an ox.

“Kill them,” said the queen coldly.

“Rude,” said the first raven. They took flight, their powerful wings scattering bowls and puddings in every direction. The queen and her ladies screamed and scrambled back. Several of the palace guards did their best to whack the wily birds, burying their silver blades into the wood of the dining table.

The ravens escaped, leaving behind only feathers and mocking laughter. There was a tense silence. This was the moment when the adventurers would make their move. The court stared around the room. The masked dancers eyed each other suspiciously, waiting for half the floor to rip off their masks and yell “Aha!”

No one moved. Nothing happened.

After a moment the queen crumpled up the drawing and threw it in the fire.

“Good riddance,” she said. “Music!” The orchestra struck up their melodies once more. After a few minutes the chatter resumed. Then, a short, embarrassed looking baker wheeled a squeaky cart into the centre ballroom. On top of the cart was an absolutely enormous cake. It was a stupendous creative of spun sugar, a tower of delight. It must have taken ages to assemble. Assuming it was cake all the way though, and not hollow.

“Here we go,” muttered Lugh. “How original.”

The musicians spluttered once more to a stop, and the baker and his cart became the absolute centre of attention. The wheels made an annoying squeaking noise as he made his way across the dancefloor. He stopped in front of the throne and mopped his brow with a red and white check handkerchief.

“Y–your Highness,” he stuttered, and bowed a deep, floury bow.

“I don’t remember ordering a cake,” said the queen.

“What violent delights,” hissed a floating spirit. “Loathsome in their deliciousness. The taste confounds the appetite.”

“It – it – it’s a gift,” said the baker. “Just a cake!” He bowed again and ran out of the ballroom as if all the hounds of hell were on his heels. Bright lad. Lugh yawned again and started counting tiles “Aengus,” said the queen, lazily. “Do the honours and cut the cake. Make sure to use your sharpest blade.” She winked.

“Yes, your Highness,” muttered the hapless courtier. He was a veteran of at least four glorious revolutions. He approached in a battle-ready stance, body tense and blade at the ready.

“Get on with it!” ordered the queen.

“Yes, your highness,” he said and plunged his sword into the centre of the cake, driving it in up to the hilt. Nothing happened. Aengus wriggled the silver blade around, and then pulled it out.

“Again,” shouted the queen and he complied. “Well?” she said. Aengus drew the blade out with a thoughtful expression. He ran one finger along the blade, where there was a red sticky ooze.

“Seems to be Victoria sponge,” he said. He sniffed his finger. “With strawberry jam. Very tasty. Shall I get some plates?”

“I suppose,” said the queen, losing interest.

“All is confusion,” said spirit, looking delighted. “Too swift arrives as tardy is too slow.”

“These adventurers are a bit weird,” said Brigid, coming over and standing next to Lugh. “Maybe they are very unorganized, although the ravens were a nice touch.”

Lugh grunted, noncommittally.

“Perhaps.”

All the candles were extinguished in a mighty whoosh of wind. The fire in the grate hissed, as if someone had upended a large bucket of water on it. For a moment there was pandemonium as everyone fell over each other in the dark. Then a single spotlight clicked on.

A giant, sparkling crescent moon descended from the ceiling. It was covered in little gleaming gemstones that caught the light. Seated on the glittering form, one leg crossed over the other was a muscular man in red. He was grinning, and his smile was wicked. Little red flowers drifted down from on high in a shower. He had a large crossbow on his lap. A crossbow tipped with iron.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” screamed the fairies. The Scarlet Pimpernel stood up, as the moon descended.

“Good morning, arseholes!” he cried, aimed, and shot an iron-tipped bolt right through the queen’s neck. She gagged, clutching her throat, crimson spurting from between her fingers. The queen took one loud rattling breath and fell forward onto her dinner plate.

[ding! You have defeated the Queen of the Fairies!]

[All party members +200XP]

The ground shook. The castle’s elegant white walls rattled as dust drifted down from the ceiling.

“What the­-”

“Behold!” shouted the figure in red. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Behold your doom! Democracy approaches! Run for your lives!” He flung out his arm, nearly falling off the swing, and scattered a handful of little red flowers over the open-mouthed crowd.

The outer wall exploded. Piles of rubble rolled across the polished floor. Lugh stopped counting the tiles and looked up. An enormous spider stood against the moonlit sky, the giant arachnid taking a booming step forward as more of the wall collapsed. The many eyes flashed. Ichor slid across limbs like tree-trunks. Hundreds of armoured dwarves came spilling up out of the castle vents, a riot of iron wielding fairies pouring out of the kitchen doors whilst screaming and shouting.

“Get them, my pretties!” bellowed the Scarlet Pimpernel, swinging backwards and forwards on the crescent moon One of the guards threw a spear at him, missing by a hair. The man in red growled and shot him through the chest.

“Down with the elves!” shouted the dwarves.

Battle was joined on all fronts.

One of the elves slid down the marble bannister on the back of a shield, blond hair streaming. The giant spider stomped on him as he landed. Dwarves ran bellowing across the dance floor chasing a screaming pack of satyrs as musicians joined the fray, confused as to which faction to fight. Adventurers in ragged assortments of armour whooped and cheered their way through the madness. A stately woman in druid’s robes rode the spider while chucking small sandwiches at the terrified palace guard, a trail of bodies in their wake.

“Kill the elves, doo doo doo doo doo doo, kill the elves doo doo doo doo doo doo, kill the elves!” sang a woman clad in chainmail, dancing past whistling arrows and splintering wood. She leapt on the table and twirled, dodging forks and plates thrown by the huddling courtiers. “Whoops!” she said, slipping on a splatter of trifle. “Kill the-” A vicious silver dagger clipped her dancing form. The singing stopped.

[Epic Failure -10HP]

The small woman growled, eyes flashing with primal rage as she found the hiding courtiers.

“Run away, doo doo doo doo doo,” she bellowed, striding the intervening space, standing up on her toes and hauling the culprit over the barricade. She snarled at the elf who wailed as her satin slippers left the floor. With inhuman strength the tiny adventurer swung the elf round and round. When she reached peak velocity she let go, flinging her bodily into a cluster of armoured palace guards. They went down in a heap like bowling pins.

[Epic Failure +13+15+15+5+15+15+15XP]

“Good shot, old bean!” shouted the man in red, dodging two arrows. He answered in kind, reloading his crossbow with practiced ease, one bolt for each of his enemies. They did not get up.

[The Fredinator +12XP+12XP]

A young, ginger-haired man, in a tatty wizard’s robe climbed onto a table and kicked aside a couple of pixies. He grinned wickedly while pulling out a brass instrument.

“I really, really want to try this out,” he explained to no one in particular. “Ladies and gentlemen! I give you! The Trombone of Orpheus!” He brandished the instrument overhead but no one seemed particularly impressed. A sandwich hit him on the forehead.

“Sorry!” shouted the woman on the spider. The earth rattled as the spider moved past. A sticky leg the size of a tree trunk crushed an armour-plated guard, blood and guts squirting out from beneath her.

“Oi,” said the wizard. He lifted his instrument.

Lugh, who had removed himself from danger by the simple expedient of standing behind a discreet tapestry, watched with some interest. The young player puffed out his cheeks and blew. ''Wa wa waaaaaaaaaaa," went the Trombone of Orpheus.

A cold wave washed across the battle. Everyone shivered, the bodies of the dead NPCs starting to twitch and shake. The queen’s body rose, an eldritch glow emanating from her eyeballs. Crumpled elves shook and reassembled, broken limbs reattaching at unnatural angles.

“Zombies attack!” shouted the wizard, tap dancing on the spot. And attack they did. The shuffling dead lumbered forward into the fray, dropping limbs as they went.

It was a massacre. Living corpses and the adventurers overwhelming those still left alive. The salad would go uneaten. The cook would never have his recipes sorted. Lugh was forced to act. The blond elven courtier stepped out from behind his tapestry. An iron blade whistled past his ear.

“Truce!” he cried. “We surrender! Let’s talk!”