Sir Robert Inder is a persistent visitor at the Abbey...
And it's uncommonly difficult to drag him out of the hall and in for dinner.
Great picture, though, Bob!
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The Old Firm
- Thread starter Jollyrei
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Sir Robert Inder is a persistent visitor at the Abbey...
And it's uncommonly difficult to drag him out of the hall and in for dinner.
Great picture, though, Bob!
Thanks, Wragg.Sir Robert Inder is a persistent visitor at the Abbey...
And it's uncommonly difficult to drag him out of the hall and in for dinner.
Great picture, though, Bob!
Fortunately, or unfortunately, Wragg suggested the character of Sir Robert Inder, and being suggestible, I couldn't just let that go. Anyway, we take a brief segue from our previous characters (because there can never be enough characters ). I'm sure it will all come together in the end, and I needed someone to go fetch the Amazons.
Old Firm 8
Sir Robert Inder, or Bob, as his friends counted him, was an errant knight. He couldn’t remember why he had been knighted, but the “Sir” was a fixture on his name. It had been there as long as he had known Lord Wragg, and that had been some time. He was pretty sure he had not been knighted just for being errant.
To be quite honest, he was more than errant. Errant implied that he had possibly deviant taste in art, or expressed views that others might not agree with. He sometimes did that, he mused, but at the moment that was not his problem. He was lost.
It had started out well enough. He had been visiting with Apostate, an artist who loved traveling around and painting various scenes of crucifixions, floggings, and other trials and tribulations of young women. Sometimes they were rescued. Sometimes not. Either way, Apostate made sure they were immortalized in oils, acrylics, photography, or computer graphics, depending on the media available in whatever time things were taking place. This had spurred (figuratively) Sir Bob forward, on the quest of his life, his driving goal, and he had in turn spurred his horse (literally) forward to the same end. That quest was to find the mysterious and lovely Alice. Sir Bob was not, it should be noted, sure what he was going to do when he found her (and he was sure he would), but he had so far amassed a collection of art (not all by Apostate) featuring this rarest of beauties, much of which hung in the various halls and salons of Cruxton Abbey. Being errant also meant that you didn’t have your own castle, or even a decent sized house, Sir Bob mused. He was momentarily annoyed at the thought.
He had more pressing concerns. For one, while his horse was still going forward, this was only because it is quite difficult to get horses to walk backward with any consistency. Forward, in this case, could be getting him anywhere. Where he wanted to get, at this moment, was Cruxton Abbey, and due to the strange conditions of that place’s existence, which have been mentioned in previous sections of this story, it was dashed hard to locate. But find it he would. He could almost hear the various artistic renderings of Alice calling out to him. He had to find the Abbey and look upon Alice’s face, and a few other parts as well (as rendered by the artist), and gain fresh incentive for his quest.
He spurred his horse into a gallop, and plunged into a forest. Forests are not good places for a gallop, so the horse stopped somewhat abruptly almost as soon as it started. Sir Bob inadvertently dismounted at this point, assisted by a tree branch that hit him across the chest. He lay on the turf looking up at his horse. He decided to walk, given the number of trees and low branches. He got to his feet, checked his sword and chainmail, grasped the horse’s bridle and forged onwards on foot. He was bound to get somewhere, he reckoned. Hopefully he would meet someone who could tell him where the Abbey was these days.
About a half hour later, he reached the roadway, a sort of 2 lane divided road along which at regular intervals there seemed to be a Porsche or a BMW, sometimes a Range Rover whizzing along. Nobody seemed to care that there was a man with a war charger dressed in chain mail walking along the verge or shoulder of the road. He got that a lot. People see what they want to see, Sir Bob thought. He was never sure what people wanted him to look like. He didn’t really care about them unless they had heard of Alice. His experience suggested most of them hadn’t.
Another 15 minutes of walking took him around the bend, where there was, he decided, an inn. It was actually a roadside rest area with a Nero’s Coffee shop and a McDonald’s, but Sir Bob’s world included roadside inns, and he was not prepared to change with the times. He fished around in his belt purse and came up with 4 pounds and 23 pence. Enough to buy a coffee, he figured. He tied his horse to a box that said “Royal Mail” and jingled into Nero’s.
There was a black squirrel of large proportions talking earnestly with a teenaged girl at the cash. She looked about 18, Bob thought, but who could tell after so many years of being errant. The squirrel was earnestly trying to convince the girl to open her shirt and hold her arms out at her sides. “It’s for an artistic project,” said the squirrel. The girl seemed unconvinced and was suggesting what might happen to her if her manager caught her with her shirt open and pretending to be crucified on the espresso machine. The squirrel made a suggestion about this, which only got the girl to put her hands on her hips and glare at him. Her shirt stayed resolutely buttoned.
Finally he gave up, and was about to leave when he saw Sir Bob.
“Well met, Sir knight,” said the squirrel.
“And you,” said Sir Bob. There was something odd going on. He could feel it. You didn’t stay errant and alive without knowing when things felt odd, and this felt odd. It was odd beyond the simple fact that there was a large black squirrel in Nero’s.
“I suppose you are wondering what I am doing in this establishment,” said the squirrel.
“Not entirely,” said Bob truthfully.
“I would have you know,” said the squirrel, “that I am here on official business of the Lord of Cruxton Abbey.”
This surprised Sir Bob, but he kept his cool. “I seek the very same place,” said Bob.
“You aren’t one of them,” said the squirrel, and then clamped its mouth shut as if it hadn’t wanted to say that.
“One of whom?” asked Bob.
“Oh, nothing,” said the squirrel. “I’m looking out for a couple of people.”
“You, er, wouldn’t know the way to the Abbey from here, would you?” asked Bob. “Only I’ve ridden a long way, and I’m an old friend of Lord Wragg.”
“Certainly,” said the squirrel, happy to be on firmer ground with the conversation. “You take the track behind this shop, and turn left along the old road. It gets you straight to the gates.”
“Much obliged,” said Bob. “I suppose I should be going.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was odd. He didn’t know any black squirrels, let alone ones that claimed to be working for Wragg. He’d have to ask about that.
“You didn’t buy a coffee,” said the squirrel.
“Don’t feel like it now,” said Bob. “Changed my mind. I’ll get a drink at the Abbey.”
“Tell them I’m on the case,” said the squirrel and dashed out the door. Bob looked around. There was no case in the coffee shop. He shrugged. He went back to his horse, untied it, and mounted.
“Oy, nice ride!” said a voice. A large bearded man in a leather jacket, and sitting on a large motorcycle was eyeing his horse with genuine admiration. “Is that an Italian model?”
“Arabian,” said Sir Bob. “It really moves.”
“Didn’t know the Arabs made them,” said the bearded man. “Learn somfing new every day, eh?”
You see what you want to see, Bob figured, and rode around the coffee shop to the back, where there was, indeed, a track. He and the horse trotted down it.
About a kilometer on, there was a clearing, and on the other side of the clearing was the old road. He was about to turn left, as the black squirrel had suggested, when he saw a tuft of reddish fur.
He might not have known any black squirrels, but he knew one red squirrel. He sighed.
“Is that you Racing Rodent?” he asked.
A head popped up out of the undergrowth. “Bless me,” said the red squirrel. “It’s my old mate, Sir Bob!”
“Old mate!” exclaimed Bob. “You ran off to cuddle with Amazons. There I was stuck in a swamp, battling those lizard women…”
“Glad to see you came through that,” said Racing Rodent. “I was a bit worried. How’d you manage it?”
“They were driven off by the Amazons,” said Bob.
“Still questing?” asked Racing Rodent. “I didn’t see how we were going to find your Alice in that swamp.”
“No,” said Bob. “I suppose not. Hey, I met another squirrel today.”
“Lucky you,” said Racing Rodent. “We are a fascinating…wait…another squirrel?”
“Yes,” said Bob. “Big black squirrel. Says he works for Wragg.”
“Black squirrel,” said Racing Rodent, suddenly very serious. “About my size? Black eyes. Furry tail?”
“Yes,” said Bob. “What should he look like?”
“No,” said Racing Rodent. “It’s just that I’ve been tracking my distant cousin, a certain Woodrunning Rodent. He’s always scheming. Up to no good.”
“People say that about you,” said Bob.
“I never!” exclaimed Racing Rodent. “I may get up to a bit of mischief, and some whimsical photography of pretty girls, but I am true as steel.”
“You abandoned me to the lizard women!” yelled Bob.
“The Amazons were right there,” said Racing Rodent. “Beautiful cuddly Amazons, and their leader, the lovely Messaline. Now she is worth cuddling up to, I can tell you that!”
“They had me stripped naked and tied to a pole,” said Bob. “They were carrying me off to roast me alive. Do you know what that does to a knight’s self-esteem?”
“But you were rescued,” said Racing Rodent. “I saw to that. I said to Messaline, ‘that’s Bob, there. I’d be very obliged if you rescued him.’ See? I had your back.”
“I didn’t know what was going on,” said Bob. “I’m upside down in my ‘altogether’, and this band of fierce topless women with leather skirts bows and swords comes charging in.”
“Must have been quite a sight,” said Racing Rodent.
“The Lizard Women dropped me into the swamp,” said Bob.
“Oh, listen to you wingeing,” said Racing Rodent. “People pay money for adventures like that. Nobody said this questing thing you’re doing would be easy.”
“Oh, fine,” said Bob. “I can’t really blame you, I suppose. If I wasn’t questing for Alice…”
“Quite,” said Racing Rodent. “Did this black squirrel say anything?”
“Well the whole situation felt odd,” said Bob, “you know, like, er, odd.”
“Ah,” said Racing Rodent, “one of those situations. Not just ‘squirrel in a coffee shop odd’?”
“No,” said Bob, “really odd. Like ‘convincing the serving girl to strip off and get crucified on the appliances’ odd. And then he says to me, “you aren’t one of them”.”
“One of whom?” asked Racing Rodent.
“He didn’t say,” said Bob. “Why are you tracking your cousin?”
“He’s got some notion of attacking the Elves, or something,” said Racing Rodent. “Messaline sent me word that Barbaria, Queen of the Elves, was in danger, and Erin was bringing her to the Abbey for safe keeping. But you know the really big problem here?”
“What?” asked Bob.
“I saw them,” said Racing Rodent. “Two days ago at the Travelodge in the village.”
“Which ‘them’?” asked Bob.
“The Old Firm,” said Racing Rodent.
“The old firm,” said Bob experimentally.
“No, with capital letters,” said Racing Rodent. “The Old Firm.”
“Not one of them…the Old Firm,” mused Bob. “Good lord! Your distant cousin is waiting for the Old Firm!”
“Seems likely. But why?” asked Racing Rodent. “They’re extremely nasty.”
“We have to warn the Abbey!” said Bob. “Wragg thinks your cousin is working for him.”
“And then what?” asked Racing Rodent. “We can’t stop the Old Firm, and we’ll all be captured if they’re making for the Abbey, and then we’ll be dead. I don’t know about you, but dead was not in my plans for next week.”
“Why can’t we stop them?” asked Bob. “I’m a knight. I have a sword, and I’m pretty good with it.”
“Nobody can stop the Old Firm, when they get going,” said Racing Rodent. “Not in the usual ways, anyway. They’re sort of unstoppable.”
“So, what do you suggest,” asked Bob.
“Ride like the wind to Dover,” said Racing Rodent. “Bring back the Amazons.”
“And why would they come with me?” asked Bob. “I’m a chap, and all. They only follow women, specifically Messaline.” He didn’t ask why the Amazons might be in or around Dover.
“Look, they rescued you from the Lizard Women. They like you,” said Racing Rodent. “Anyway, you just tell them that Messaline is in danger and under attack and they’ll be at Cruxton Abbey before you can get your horse turned around.”
“Great,” said Bob. “So I’ll end up abandoned in Dover.”
“I don’t think there are any Lizard Women in Dover,” said Racing Rodent. “You’ll be fine.”
“And what will you do?” asked Bob.
“I’m going to keep tracking my cousin. I think that finding him is the only way to save everyone’s lives.” He stopped and smiled. “I like the sound of that. Maybe more ominous, though.” He continued in a deeper voice, “finding him is the only way…”
“Yes, very effective,” said Bob. “Okay, I’ll get the Amazons, but you find the black squirrel. I have a lot of art at Cruxton, and I need Wragg around to keep it safe for me.”
“What?” asked Racing Rodent. “Wragg has all those pics of Alice you’ve been collecting?”
“I don’t criticize the way you live your life,” said Bob. “You have whole hollow trees full of nuts that you don’t know where they are.”
“Fair enough,” said Racing Rodent. “Now ride!”
And so Sir Robert Inder rode to Dover. At some point he realized he was in the 21st century and he put himself and his horse on the train, which was considerably faster, and came with a meal and drinks service.
* * *
“Not long now, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei. “It’s been an interesting few centuries, although this is certainly the least interesting part.” He gazed balefully around the modern café-style restaurant of the Travelodge. “In a few hours, we shall fulfil the terms of our contract and…”
“…kill a few people,” said Phlebas, stabbing a grilled chicken breast with his fork. It made for a bit of emphasis.
“Indeed I hope you have better things, or people, on whom to use your toad sticker,” said Jollyrei.
“I’ve been quite patient, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas, “all things considered.”
“All we need is word from our employer that all is in readiness for our arrival, and Bob’s your uncle,” said Jollyrei.
“No,” said Phlebas thoughtfully. “I don’t think he is.”
“A figure of speech, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei.
“Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas.
“If you say so,” said Jollyrei. He scowled at his empty glass on the table. Service in this place was terrible. The staff seemed terrified of them. Occupational hazard, he thought.
To cheer himself up he thought of stripping the clothing off Barb, Messaline and Erin, and hanging them on crosses. They would look lovely stretched out and hanging helplessly. Come to think of it, he’d have to do something with Wragg and Windar as well. Then Mr. Phlebas could set to work. He’d enjoy having so many different canvases on which to practice his art.
“We all have our little interests, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei. He picked up the annoyingly empty glass, stared at it for a moment, and then crushed it in his fist. It made a satisfying crunching sound and when he opened his hand, there was only a fine dust that piled up and glittered on the tabletop.
“Diversity makes life interesting, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas. He began cutting the chicken breast into very thin strips with his knife, arranging the strips along the edge of the plate.
“You are so right, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei.
The hotel staff cowered at the bar.
to be continued...
). I'm sure it will all come together in the end, and I needed someone to go fetch the Amazons.Old Firm 8
Sir Robert Inder, or Bob, as his friends counted him, was an errant knight. He couldn’t remember why he had been knighted, but the “Sir” was a fixture on his name. It had been there as long as he had known Lord Wragg, and that had been some time. He was pretty sure he had not been knighted just for being errant.
To be quite honest, he was more than errant. Errant implied that he had possibly deviant taste in art, or expressed views that others might not agree with. He sometimes did that, he mused, but at the moment that was not his problem. He was lost.
It had started out well enough. He had been visiting with Apostate, an artist who loved traveling around and painting various scenes of crucifixions, floggings, and other trials and tribulations of young women. Sometimes they were rescued. Sometimes not. Either way, Apostate made sure they were immortalized in oils, acrylics, photography, or computer graphics, depending on the media available in whatever time things were taking place. This had spurred (figuratively) Sir Bob forward, on the quest of his life, his driving goal, and he had in turn spurred his horse (literally) forward to the same end. That quest was to find the mysterious and lovely Alice. Sir Bob was not, it should be noted, sure what he was going to do when he found her (and he was sure he would), but he had so far amassed a collection of art (not all by Apostate) featuring this rarest of beauties, much of which hung in the various halls and salons of Cruxton Abbey. Being errant also meant that you didn’t have your own castle, or even a decent sized house, Sir Bob mused. He was momentarily annoyed at the thought.
He had more pressing concerns. For one, while his horse was still going forward, this was only because it is quite difficult to get horses to walk backward with any consistency. Forward, in this case, could be getting him anywhere. Where he wanted to get, at this moment, was Cruxton Abbey, and due to the strange conditions of that place’s existence, which have been mentioned in previous sections of this story, it was dashed hard to locate. But find it he would. He could almost hear the various artistic renderings of Alice calling out to him. He had to find the Abbey and look upon Alice’s face, and a few other parts as well (as rendered by the artist), and gain fresh incentive for his quest.
He spurred his horse into a gallop, and plunged into a forest. Forests are not good places for a gallop, so the horse stopped somewhat abruptly almost as soon as it started. Sir Bob inadvertently dismounted at this point, assisted by a tree branch that hit him across the chest. He lay on the turf looking up at his horse. He decided to walk, given the number of trees and low branches. He got to his feet, checked his sword and chainmail, grasped the horse’s bridle and forged onwards on foot. He was bound to get somewhere, he reckoned. Hopefully he would meet someone who could tell him where the Abbey was these days.
About a half hour later, he reached the roadway, a sort of 2 lane divided road along which at regular intervals there seemed to be a Porsche or a BMW, sometimes a Range Rover whizzing along. Nobody seemed to care that there was a man with a war charger dressed in chain mail walking along the verge or shoulder of the road. He got that a lot. People see what they want to see, Sir Bob thought. He was never sure what people wanted him to look like. He didn’t really care about them unless they had heard of Alice. His experience suggested most of them hadn’t.
Another 15 minutes of walking took him around the bend, where there was, he decided, an inn. It was actually a roadside rest area with a Nero’s Coffee shop and a McDonald’s, but Sir Bob’s world included roadside inns, and he was not prepared to change with the times. He fished around in his belt purse and came up with 4 pounds and 23 pence. Enough to buy a coffee, he figured. He tied his horse to a box that said “Royal Mail” and jingled into Nero’s.
There was a black squirrel of large proportions talking earnestly with a teenaged girl at the cash. She looked about 18, Bob thought, but who could tell after so many years of being errant. The squirrel was earnestly trying to convince the girl to open her shirt and hold her arms out at her sides. “It’s for an artistic project,” said the squirrel. The girl seemed unconvinced and was suggesting what might happen to her if her manager caught her with her shirt open and pretending to be crucified on the espresso machine. The squirrel made a suggestion about this, which only got the girl to put her hands on her hips and glare at him. Her shirt stayed resolutely buttoned.
Finally he gave up, and was about to leave when he saw Sir Bob.
“Well met, Sir knight,” said the squirrel.
“And you,” said Sir Bob. There was something odd going on. He could feel it. You didn’t stay errant and alive without knowing when things felt odd, and this felt odd. It was odd beyond the simple fact that there was a large black squirrel in Nero’s.
“I suppose you are wondering what I am doing in this establishment,” said the squirrel.
“Not entirely,” said Bob truthfully.
“I would have you know,” said the squirrel, “that I am here on official business of the Lord of Cruxton Abbey.”
This surprised Sir Bob, but he kept his cool. “I seek the very same place,” said Bob.
“You aren’t one of them,” said the squirrel, and then clamped its mouth shut as if it hadn’t wanted to say that.
“One of whom?” asked Bob.
“Oh, nothing,” said the squirrel. “I’m looking out for a couple of people.”
“You, er, wouldn’t know the way to the Abbey from here, would you?” asked Bob. “Only I’ve ridden a long way, and I’m an old friend of Lord Wragg.”
“Certainly,” said the squirrel, happy to be on firmer ground with the conversation. “You take the track behind this shop, and turn left along the old road. It gets you straight to the gates.”
“Much obliged,” said Bob. “I suppose I should be going.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was odd. He didn’t know any black squirrels, let alone ones that claimed to be working for Wragg. He’d have to ask about that.
“You didn’t buy a coffee,” said the squirrel.
“Don’t feel like it now,” said Bob. “Changed my mind. I’ll get a drink at the Abbey.”
“Tell them I’m on the case,” said the squirrel and dashed out the door. Bob looked around. There was no case in the coffee shop. He shrugged. He went back to his horse, untied it, and mounted.
“Oy, nice ride!” said a voice. A large bearded man in a leather jacket, and sitting on a large motorcycle was eyeing his horse with genuine admiration. “Is that an Italian model?”
“Arabian,” said Sir Bob. “It really moves.”
“Didn’t know the Arabs made them,” said the bearded man. “Learn somfing new every day, eh?”
You see what you want to see, Bob figured, and rode around the coffee shop to the back, where there was, indeed, a track. He and the horse trotted down it.
About a kilometer on, there was a clearing, and on the other side of the clearing was the old road. He was about to turn left, as the black squirrel had suggested, when he saw a tuft of reddish fur.
He might not have known any black squirrels, but he knew one red squirrel. He sighed.
“Is that you Racing Rodent?” he asked.
A head popped up out of the undergrowth. “Bless me,” said the red squirrel. “It’s my old mate, Sir Bob!”
“Old mate!” exclaimed Bob. “You ran off to cuddle with Amazons. There I was stuck in a swamp, battling those lizard women…”
“Glad to see you came through that,” said Racing Rodent. “I was a bit worried. How’d you manage it?”
“They were driven off by the Amazons,” said Bob.
“Still questing?” asked Racing Rodent. “I didn’t see how we were going to find your Alice in that swamp.”
“No,” said Bob. “I suppose not. Hey, I met another squirrel today.”
“Lucky you,” said Racing Rodent. “We are a fascinating…wait…another squirrel?”
“Yes,” said Bob. “Big black squirrel. Says he works for Wragg.”
“Black squirrel,” said Racing Rodent, suddenly very serious. “About my size? Black eyes. Furry tail?”
“Yes,” said Bob. “What should he look like?”
“No,” said Racing Rodent. “It’s just that I’ve been tracking my distant cousin, a certain Woodrunning Rodent. He’s always scheming. Up to no good.”
“People say that about you,” said Bob.
“I never!” exclaimed Racing Rodent. “I may get up to a bit of mischief, and some whimsical photography of pretty girls, but I am true as steel.”
“You abandoned me to the lizard women!” yelled Bob.
“The Amazons were right there,” said Racing Rodent. “Beautiful cuddly Amazons, and their leader, the lovely Messaline. Now she is worth cuddling up to, I can tell you that!”
“They had me stripped naked and tied to a pole,” said Bob. “They were carrying me off to roast me alive. Do you know what that does to a knight’s self-esteem?”
“But you were rescued,” said Racing Rodent. “I saw to that. I said to Messaline, ‘that’s Bob, there. I’d be very obliged if you rescued him.’ See? I had your back.”
“I didn’t know what was going on,” said Bob. “I’m upside down in my ‘altogether’, and this band of fierce topless women with leather skirts bows and swords comes charging in.”
“Must have been quite a sight,” said Racing Rodent.
“The Lizard Women dropped me into the swamp,” said Bob.
“Oh, listen to you wingeing,” said Racing Rodent. “People pay money for adventures like that. Nobody said this questing thing you’re doing would be easy.”
“Oh, fine,” said Bob. “I can’t really blame you, I suppose. If I wasn’t questing for Alice…”
“Quite,” said Racing Rodent. “Did this black squirrel say anything?”
“Well the whole situation felt odd,” said Bob, “you know, like, er, odd.”
“Ah,” said Racing Rodent, “one of those situations. Not just ‘squirrel in a coffee shop odd’?”
“No,” said Bob, “really odd. Like ‘convincing the serving girl to strip off and get crucified on the appliances’ odd. And then he says to me, “you aren’t one of them”.”
“One of whom?” asked Racing Rodent.
“He didn’t say,” said Bob. “Why are you tracking your cousin?”
“He’s got some notion of attacking the Elves, or something,” said Racing Rodent. “Messaline sent me word that Barbaria, Queen of the Elves, was in danger, and Erin was bringing her to the Abbey for safe keeping. But you know the really big problem here?”
“What?” asked Bob.
“I saw them,” said Racing Rodent. “Two days ago at the Travelodge in the village.”
“Which ‘them’?” asked Bob.
“The Old Firm,” said Racing Rodent.
“The old firm,” said Bob experimentally.
“No, with capital letters,” said Racing Rodent. “The Old Firm.”
“Not one of them…the Old Firm,” mused Bob. “Good lord! Your distant cousin is waiting for the Old Firm!”
“Seems likely. But why?” asked Racing Rodent. “They’re extremely nasty.”
“We have to warn the Abbey!” said Bob. “Wragg thinks your cousin is working for him.”
“And then what?” asked Racing Rodent. “We can’t stop the Old Firm, and we’ll all be captured if they’re making for the Abbey, and then we’ll be dead. I don’t know about you, but dead was not in my plans for next week.”
“Why can’t we stop them?” asked Bob. “I’m a knight. I have a sword, and I’m pretty good with it.”
“Nobody can stop the Old Firm, when they get going,” said Racing Rodent. “Not in the usual ways, anyway. They’re sort of unstoppable.”
“So, what do you suggest,” asked Bob.
“Ride like the wind to Dover,” said Racing Rodent. “Bring back the Amazons.”
“And why would they come with me?” asked Bob. “I’m a chap, and all. They only follow women, specifically Messaline.” He didn’t ask why the Amazons might be in or around Dover.
“Look, they rescued you from the Lizard Women. They like you,” said Racing Rodent. “Anyway, you just tell them that Messaline is in danger and under attack and they’ll be at Cruxton Abbey before you can get your horse turned around.”
“Great,” said Bob. “So I’ll end up abandoned in Dover.”
“I don’t think there are any Lizard Women in Dover,” said Racing Rodent. “You’ll be fine.”
“And what will you do?” asked Bob.
“I’m going to keep tracking my cousin. I think that finding him is the only way to save everyone’s lives.” He stopped and smiled. “I like the sound of that. Maybe more ominous, though.” He continued in a deeper voice, “finding him is the only way…”
“Yes, very effective,” said Bob. “Okay, I’ll get the Amazons, but you find the black squirrel. I have a lot of art at Cruxton, and I need Wragg around to keep it safe for me.”
“What?” asked Racing Rodent. “Wragg has all those pics of Alice you’ve been collecting?”
“I don’t criticize the way you live your life,” said Bob. “You have whole hollow trees full of nuts that you don’t know where they are.”
“Fair enough,” said Racing Rodent. “Now ride!”
And so Sir Robert Inder rode to Dover. At some point he realized he was in the 21st century and he put himself and his horse on the train, which was considerably faster, and came with a meal and drinks service.
* * *
“Not long now, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei. “It’s been an interesting few centuries, although this is certainly the least interesting part.” He gazed balefully around the modern café-style restaurant of the Travelodge. “In a few hours, we shall fulfil the terms of our contract and…”
“…kill a few people,” said Phlebas, stabbing a grilled chicken breast with his fork. It made for a bit of emphasis.
“Indeed I hope you have better things, or people, on whom to use your toad sticker,” said Jollyrei.
“I’ve been quite patient, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas, “all things considered.”
“All we need is word from our employer that all is in readiness for our arrival, and Bob’s your uncle,” said Jollyrei.
“No,” said Phlebas thoughtfully. “I don’t think he is.”
“A figure of speech, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei.
“Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas.
“If you say so,” said Jollyrei. He scowled at his empty glass on the table. Service in this place was terrible. The staff seemed terrified of them. Occupational hazard, he thought.
To cheer himself up he thought of stripping the clothing off Barb, Messaline and Erin, and hanging them on crosses. They would look lovely stretched out and hanging helplessly. Come to think of it, he’d have to do something with Wragg and Windar as well. Then Mr. Phlebas could set to work. He’d enjoy having so many different canvases on which to practice his art.
“We all have our little interests, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei. He picked up the annoyingly empty glass, stared at it for a moment, and then crushed it in his fist. It made a satisfying crunching sound and when he opened his hand, there was only a fine dust that piled up and glittered on the tabletop.
“Diversity makes life interesting, Mr. Jollyrei,” said Phlebas. He began cutting the chicken breast into very thin strips with his knife, arranging the strips along the edge of the plate.
“You are so right, Mr. Phlebas,” said Jollyrei.
The hotel staff cowered at the bar.
to be continued...
I think Sir Bob would have found four guineas - or, indeed, 84 bob - and an odd groat.
Probably would have got the groat back in change for a large americano nero.
Travelodge???... surely there is somewhere better to stay!
I hope Jolly was cheered by such thinking
windar
Teller of Tales
Since when does Apostate like anything besides crucifixion?
Just like a great many small businesses
Not on Amtrak, it doesn't
A nice cold beer would be nice. OK, it's England, so a warm beer will have to do...
But they play some nice violin music while they burn the coffee beans
windar
Teller of Tales
No, Moore. I am NOT springing for another night at the Dorchester!!!
Bob, I do apologise for dropping you in the soup, old chap!
Mind you, you seem to have had previous experience of such a situation.
You just don't have much luck, do you?
Indeed there aren't
Are there?
Even one night feels like a century. Kind of time travel in reverse!
Jollyrei, I'm off to the hospital now to have my rupture repaired. There was no health warning at the beginning of this episode. You will be hearing from the Cruxton Abbey lawyers.
I'm off to Dover!
I've been collecting a few tree branches along the way...
Oh, and the occasional passenger (yeah, right.)
Outstanding, Jolly - this is hilariously inspiring stuff!
Well written!
messaline
Crucified Amazon
If you're asking whether this will continue, it is my intention to continue, yes. What I need is a bit of time to write and think. Sorry for the delay.
Thank you for the information. I will be patiently.
So, I'm finally posting another chapter in the story, but it has been a while, so I thought a bit of a recap might be useful, especially for anyone who is joining for the first time at this point.
The story so far...
Wragg and Windar were running a flogging business for the Romans, back in the old Roman Empire, probably as a bit of a lark. They flogged prisoners as their main line of work, but also whipped patricial ladies who wanted that done for...er...personal reasons. At one point, a slave girl named Barb was brought in for flogging prior to her crucifixion. Wragg and Windar, however, were not in the crucifixion business, so they handed her over to the guards when they were done, and she was marched off to be crucified (if I remember all this correctly).
Anyway, the guys doing the crucifixion were Mr. Jollyrei and Mr. Phlebas, who are not quite what they seem. Barb is not, it should be noted, a slave girl either, but was somehow (and that was never adequately explained, so I apologise for that) made to lose her memory of who she really was, and the crucifixion was a confusing attempt to assassinate her to fulfil a contract.
Turns out, Barb is really the Queen of the Elves, or so Erin the Elfgirl Warrior says, and Barb was rescued, and whisked off to temporary safety by Erin, who takes her to Eulalia's cottage. Wragg and Windar realise they have made a bit of a miscalculation and that strange things are afoot, and they're not happy with Jollyrei and Phlebas, who they realize are "The Old Firm", a sort of timeless hitman duo, famed for their relentless persistence.
Wragg and Windar head off to Eulalia's cottage and convice everyone to go back to Cruxton Abbey, Wragg's ancestral home. Did I mention that Eulalia and Wragg, and probably Windar are also not what they might at first seem? No? Too bad.
Anyway, Eulalia decides, once Barb is safe with Erin and Messaline at the Abbey, to go back to Roman times to find the Old Firm and figure out what their game is, and who their employer is. Erin and Messaline try all kinds of sexual methods to trigger Barb's memory, and when that doesn't work, Wragg and Windar try whipping her (and Erin and Messaline), because you know, if you lose your memory from a blow on the head, perhaps another blow on the head will knock it back into you, or something like that.
That gets interrupted by a small object in Wragg's coat, which signals that Eulalia is in trouble, and probably almost certainly dead. In fact, things go completely wrong for Eulalia, and she is brutally and artistically tortured to death by Jollyrei and Phlebas, who then dump her body in the forest. Wragg rushes back in time through a portal to rescue her, which he does using the small object in his pocket. Unfortunately, in doing so, his clothes all burn off him (although he gets a fantastic sexual experience out of all this, so perhaps he doesn't mind so much), and he's left with only his leather jacket. Fortunately, he brought along a spare dress for Eulalia, who comes back to life and provides him with the lower portion of the lacy skirt to make a loincloth out of. All good there, right Wragg?
Anyway, back at the Abbey, a large talking black squirrel has convinced Windar and Messaline that he can help fortify the Abbey and scout out what the Old Firm is doing. They tentatively decide to trust him, because it's that sort of story. Anyway, turns out he's likely a bad egg, as found out by Sir Bob Inder, who is out questing for the elusive and beautiful Alice, the girl of his fantasies and possibly the nicer sort of dreams. He meets up with Racing Rodent, a large red squirrel, who doesn't like the sound of the black squirrel at all and sends Bob off to Dover to find Messaline's amazons, while Racing Rodent tries to find out what the black squirrel is up to.
There you are. All up to date. Does it make any sense so far? Never mind, it doesn't to me either, and I wrote it. It's the journey not the destination, right? Anyway, now that you're suitably confused, we'll continue.
The story so far...
Wragg and Windar were running a flogging business for the Romans, back in the old Roman Empire, probably as a bit of a lark. They flogged prisoners as their main line of work, but also whipped patricial ladies who wanted that done for...er...personal reasons. At one point, a slave girl named Barb was brought in for flogging prior to her crucifixion. Wragg and Windar, however, were not in the crucifixion business, so they handed her over to the guards when they were done, and she was marched off to be crucified (if I remember all this correctly).
Anyway, the guys doing the crucifixion were Mr. Jollyrei and Mr. Phlebas, who are not quite what they seem. Barb is not, it should be noted, a slave girl either, but was somehow (and that was never adequately explained, so I apologise for that) made to lose her memory of who she really was, and the crucifixion was a confusing attempt to assassinate her to fulfil a contract.
Turns out, Barb is really the Queen of the Elves, or so Erin the Elfgirl Warrior says, and Barb was rescued, and whisked off to temporary safety by Erin, who takes her to Eulalia's cottage. Wragg and Windar realise they have made a bit of a miscalculation and that strange things are afoot, and they're not happy with Jollyrei and Phlebas, who they realize are "The Old Firm", a sort of timeless hitman duo, famed for their relentless persistence.
Wragg and Windar head off to Eulalia's cottage and convice everyone to go back to Cruxton Abbey, Wragg's ancestral home. Did I mention that Eulalia and Wragg, and probably Windar are also not what they might at first seem? No? Too bad.
Anyway, Eulalia decides, once Barb is safe with Erin and Messaline at the Abbey, to go back to Roman times to find the Old Firm and figure out what their game is, and who their employer is. Erin and Messaline try all kinds of sexual methods to trigger Barb's memory, and when that doesn't work, Wragg and Windar try whipping her (and Erin and Messaline), because you know, if you lose your memory from a blow on the head, perhaps another blow on the head will knock it back into you, or something like that.
That gets interrupted by a small object in Wragg's coat, which signals that Eulalia is in trouble, and probably almost certainly dead. In fact, things go completely wrong for Eulalia, and she is brutally and artistically tortured to death by Jollyrei and Phlebas, who then dump her body in the forest. Wragg rushes back in time through a portal to rescue her, which he does using the small object in his pocket. Unfortunately, in doing so, his clothes all burn off him (although he gets a fantastic sexual experience out of all this, so perhaps he doesn't mind so much), and he's left with only his leather jacket. Fortunately, he brought along a spare dress for Eulalia, who comes back to life and provides him with the lower portion of the lacy skirt to make a loincloth out of. All good there, right Wragg?
Anyway, back at the Abbey, a large talking black squirrel has convinced Windar and Messaline that he can help fortify the Abbey and scout out what the Old Firm is doing. They tentatively decide to trust him, because it's that sort of story. Anyway, turns out he's likely a bad egg, as found out by Sir Bob Inder, who is out questing for the elusive and beautiful Alice, the girl of his fantasies and possibly the nicer sort of dreams. He meets up with Racing Rodent, a large red squirrel, who doesn't like the sound of the black squirrel at all and sends Bob off to Dover to find Messaline's amazons, while Racing Rodent tries to find out what the black squirrel is up to.
There you are. All up to date. Does it make any sense so far? Never mind, it doesn't to me either, and I wrote it. It's the journey not the destination, right? Anyway, now that you're suitably confused, we'll continue.
Old Firm 9:
Lord Wragg followed Eulalia and her rather nice bottom through the forest. She kept stopping and looking from side to side, occasionally bending over to check a plant. He had to admit, he preferred the bending over part. Her skirts were now so short that he got a rather tantalizing view of some rather nice parts of Eulalia when she did that.
This was, of course, because Wragg was wearing some rather fine lace as a makeshift loincloth around his own nether parts, his own pants having been turned to ash in the act of rescuing Eulalia. Every time Eulalia bent over to inspect something, bits of Wragg took notice and he had to think of something like Windar’s terrible custard tarts to make things manageable again and retie the lace around his nether parts.
“So,” said Eulalia pertly, standing up from one of her inspections and turning to face Wragg. “I suppose you’re wondering why I keep stopping. She stood, apparently unaware that her dress was now resting on her hips and a pretty triangle of light hair was nicely framed by her thighs. Wragg’s anatomy responded in the normal manner, and the lace loincloth fell to the ground.
“Urmph!?” said Wragg, and meant it.
Eualia looked at Wragg, and then down at her own clothing. “Oh dear,” she said. “Here let me help you.” She picked up the lace and moved to try to help Wragg wrap himself up in it again. Just the proximity of her was almost too much. When she reached out to try to move his erection with her hand, he grabbed the cloth and jumped back. The other option was jumping forward and having them both fall to the ground in a tangle of legs and other bits. He wasn’t sure he had made the right decision.
“No,” gasped Wragg. “Thanks very much, but I can manage. So,” he continued, a bit more brightly than was strictly natural, “what is it that we’re looking for.”
“A bush with a red flower. Nearby should be a well. It’s one of my time portals and we can use it to get back to the Abbey,” she looked at Wragg who still looked a bit, well, stiff. “Are you sure I can’t help you?”
“No,” said Wragg. “That is I’m not sure. In fact I’m sure you can, actually, help me, but this may not be the moment. I hate acting responsible, incidentally.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that. Anyway, you see this bush?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you look over there, past that fir tree, what do you see?”
Wragg was again staring directly at Eul’s bottom. “What tree?” he asked.
“That fir tree,” said Eulalia.
“It’s very nice,” murmured Wragg.
“No!” exclaimed Eulalia, “ the well beyond it.”
“I can’t seem to get well beyond anything here,” said Wragg.
“The well!” said Eulalia. “It’s a portal.”
“Oh,” said Wragg pulling himself together with supreme effort. “Yes, well, off we go then.”
“So,” he said a few minutes later, “how do we, er, use this portal of yours.”
“I have to imagine where and when I want to go, and then we jump in together,” said Eulalia. “It’s important that we are touching when we go, or you could get lost. Now be quiet, I have to concentrate.”
Wragg watched her close her eyes. She stood very still. She raised her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. Then she opened them.
“Okay, got it,” she said. “Now don’t lose contact with me.” She reached out her hand and her dress shifted up again. Wragg let out a frustrated growl dropped his loincloth, grabbed Eulalia and made sure he had solid and rather deep penetrating contact. She didn’t appear surprised or upset. She looked at him inquiringly.
“I’m not losing contact,” said Wragg.
“Good,” gasped Eulalia. “How do we jump into the well now though?”
“Details, details,” said Wragg. He lifted the impaled girl off the ground, put her legs around his waist, and tipped them both together into the well.
There was a rather interesting journey through time, punctuated by two people yelling affirmative and encouraging things, after which they appeared out of nowhere and splashed directly into Wragg’s courtyard fountain at the Abbey.
Nobody seemed to be about. Wragg was okay with that. Nobody else needed to see him sitting in a fountain wearing nothing but his open leather jacket. Eul was sitting on his lap facing him, her lacy dress plastered to her body.
“Nice portal,” she said. “Spoils the mood a bit though, all this cold water.” She regarded the showers of water coming from the fountain.
“It’s well disguised,” said Wragg.
“It’s bloody wet,” said Eulalia. “Look, I think I’m going to check things out on my own. We don’t know what’s going on. You go find the others and make sure everyting’s okay. I’ll catch up with you later. Just need a moment to, er, collect myself a bit. I’ve been dead for a few days, and it’s all a bit much.”
“Of course,” said Wragg. “Oh, and Eul.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the help,” he grinned at her. She smiled and ran off in the direction of the kitchens. Wragg stood up, which was about when Windar appeared, accompanied by a large black squirrel.
“Lost your trousers, M’lord?” Windar asked.
“Long story,” said Wragg. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” said Windar. “And Eulalia?”
Wragg looked at the squirrel. The dark eyes were watching him rather intently, he thought. “Um, not quite according to plan,” he said evasively. Well, he hadn’t actually planned to screw her twice, he figured. “Who’s the fuzzy guy?”
“Woody,” said Windar. “He’s a squirrel with information about the Old Firm. He’s helping us sort out defenses and running covert surveillance.”
“Huh,” said Wragg. “Well, I want to see the defenses,” he looked down his dripping body, “after I find a towel and some dry things.”
“It’s been a rather unique day, I expect,” said Windar.
“Really?” said Wragg drily. “What makes you think that.”
“Look,” said Woodrunner the squirrel, “I want to check the perimeter, and then I’ll scout to see where the Old Firm is now.”
“Okay,” said Windar. “Good man, er rodent.” The squirrel ran off.
“You trust this squirrel?” asked Wragg as he strode to the house.
“I think so. He’s pretty good at planning defenses and he knows the enemy. Erin seems okay with him.”
“Well, alright,” said Wragg, “but I want to hear about our defenses.”
“You got it,” said Windar, and they went inside.
* * *
Barb, Erin and Messaline strolled into a large room in the Abbey. It looked pretty empty, but was decorated in lots of gilt paint on archways, and had cherubs doing various naughty things to voluptuous feminine angels and Valkyries painted on the ceiling. At least, it looked to Barb like the cherubs were doing things.
Actually, now that she looked more closely, it was difficult to say who was doing what to whom. There was a cherub, whose tongue was definitely doing something to an angel. She looked up at the ceiling high above her head. That tongue, she thought, must be, in real terms, about 2 feet long, and the clitoris it was stimulating, was likely quite large as well. The ceiling was quite graphic.
It could also be that the Valkyries were doing the things, especially that Valkyrie in the centre of the ceiling who was wrapping her thighs around a slender naked angel’s one leg, while scissoring…
“I suppose,” said Barb, “that they all manage that up there because they all have wings.”
“Barb,” said Erin, “it’s a painting.”
“Yes,” said Barb, “but they’re all flying around in the sky, and…er…doing things.”
“I think it’s an Apostate original ceiling,” said Messaline. “He has a very interesting idea of heaven. I like it.”
“What’s an Apostate,” asked Barb.
“He’s an artist. He paints things,” said Erin.
“What kind of things,” asked Barb.
“Mostly crucified girls, I think,” said Messaline.
“As long as they’re naked,” said Erin. “I would never let him do that to you.”
“Crucify her or paint her?” asked Messaline grinning.
“How very strange,” said Barb. “So what sort of room is this? This Abbey goes on forever. It’s huge. Did you see all those four-poster beds on the upper level of the west wing?”
“Hard to miss,” said Erin. “Especially that one with the kitchen maid cuffed to it spread-eagle.”
“She was very happy we came by to let her go,” said Messaline. “Someone forgot her there, I think.”
“I don’t understand how she got to be there to begin with,” said Barb. “Who would do that?”
Erin rolled her eyes and Messaline smiled mysteriously.
“Anyway,” said Barb, “so I remember being called the Queen of the Elves before, but I don’t actually remember doing any actual…er…Queening? How does this work? Do I give orders or commands? Am I supposed to rule someone. Is there a palace or castle or something?”
“It’s pretty symbolic, really,” said Erin.
“So…”
“Very symbolic, in fact,” said Erin. “Actually there is no palace or much of anything. It’s mainly that I have decided to follow you and protect you.”
“Why?” asked Barb.
“Well,” said Erin, “because you have a great attitude in the face of danger and death, and I just love you.”
“Very sweet,” said Messaline.
“And if you call them,” said Erin, “there are a legion of Elven warriors who will come running to help…”
“That’s nice,” said Barb, “isn’t it?”
“…but mainly because they follow me. They know I love you, so they’ll do anything for you…or me. It’s a bit confusing.”
“So what happens if the Old Firm kills me,” asked Barb. “Do they get to take over Elf…er…land?”
“No way,” said Erin. “That’s the weird part. None of that makes sense. The Elves wouldn’t follow the Old Firm. Anyway, ruling a country isn’t their style. They’re more the burn everything down types. Someone is paying them for something.”
“Erin is right,” said Messaline. “Anyway, we are very fortified here, and we will keep safe. Now we have a nice afternoon while we wait for Lord Wragg and Eulalia to get back.
“So why does this room have a painted ceiling full of angels having various forms of sex, and nothing else in it?” asked Barb.
“I think it’s a ballroom,” said Erin. “You know, for parties and dances and…stuff.”
The room was pretty empty. The floor was polished hardwood parkay, with several square brass inlaid tiles placed in a semicircular formation near the middle of the room. There was a colonnaded balcony running around the room on an upper level. Along the wall were several wooden objects.
“What are those things over there?” asked Messaline.
“It looks like a bunch of crosses,” said Barb.
“So,” said Messaline. “An entertainment room, certainment.”
“You mean Wragg crucifies people in here for his entertainment?” asked Barb. “That’s barbaric. And he’s supposed to be on our side!”
“Well,” said Erin, “I think it’s only partly for his entertainment.”
“For the girl’s entertainment and pleasure as well,” said Messaline.
“I don’t believe this,” said Barb. “Well, he’s not going to crucify me or chain me to a four-poster.”
“Don’t criticise until you try it,” said Messaline.
“I will always have your back,” said Erin.
“As long as I can have her front,” said Messaline. “Now, I want to see these crosses.”
* * *
Sir Bob Inder rode the train to Dover. He slept for a bit, reflecting as he dozed off that train travel had much to recommend it over the bouncing around on a horse, or even a motorcycle.
After that he had dinner in a real Pullman dining car, reflecting that he didn’t know that British Rail still had dining cars. It hadn’t for several years, but that didn’t bother Sir Bob. Neither did the fact that there were no other passengers eating in the car, and the Southeastern Rail train staff seemed surprised to find themselves there serving Bob a rather nice dinner. Bob wasn’t about to complain if this train had a dining car. It was something that should be expected, he reasoned, and it was serving reasonable food instead of just dry sandwiches made last week. None of the other passengers seemed to find it, and after Bob went back to his seat, the train staff couldn’t remember where it was either.
He looked out the window and wondered how he was going to find the Amazons once he got to his destination. Dover in the old days was a nice little place. Now it was a bustling metropolis. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was more known now for not having a nightlife than the opposite, so he might find that the Amazons themselves were the excitement in town. If he remembered the last time they had met, when they finally pulled him out of the swamp of the Lizard Women, they could be quite conspicuous. Somebody was almost bound to have seen them, probably breaking something.
He didn’t expect them to be standing on the platform at the train station.
They weren’t standing on the platform.
They were creating a scene in the main ticket hall. The station manager was of the opinion that horses did not belong with what he called “nice young ladies” in the ticket hall. The “nice young ladies” maintained that their horses always travelled with them.
There were about 40 of them, Bob reckoned, all of whom were wearing clothing that normally would have covered about 10 women. There was a lot of chain mail which had been fashioned into attractive, and yet ineffective breast coverings, and mini skirts. Armour, thought Bob, for Amazons was mainly what Victoria’s Secret products were to lingerie – mainly there for show, not function. Some of the Amazons had helmets. Some had bits of cloth woven into their chain mail, mainly for fashion. All were armed, and most of them had horses. The ticket lobby was quite crowded. 40 horses take up some space.
Bob reflected that the station master had probably had a choice about whether to complain about the horses or that the women all appeared to be fully armed with bows, arrows, and swords. He had chosen the horses and it wasn’t going well for him. Either way, thought Bob, it would soon be about the weapons.
Sure enough, right on cue, the lead Amazon, a tall blonde woman in a chainmail skirt and shining steel breastplate, drew her sword.
“Madam, please!” said the station master, staggering back a step. “I’m only trying to follow the regulations.”
“We bow to no man,” said the lead Amazon.
“Perhaps not,” said the station manager, “but I have to bow to Her Majesty’s government’s regulations, and horses are not permitted in the common areas.”
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Sir Bob chivalrously. “May I help in any way.”
“Bob!” shouted about 40 voices cheerfully together. He was quickly mobbed by several young, pretty, and aggressively armed women, who seemed very happy to see him. So that was one less worry. He was wondering if they would remember him. As breasts, pretty necklines, and well toned tummies pressed against him as they embraced him in greeting, various parts of his own anatomy started to remember them as well. In his experience, if the Amazons generally didn’t like men, this dislike did not extend to him. They hugged him. They kissed him. They asked all sorts of cheerful questions.
“Where have you been lately?”
“Fall into any other swamps?”
“I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!”
“Did you find Alice yet?”
“Hey girls,” said the Leader, “maybe if you give him some air, Bob can tell us what brings him here and we might get somewhere.”
He found himself facing the leader. “Hello, Miss,” he said (he knew she wasn’t married, so he thought Miss might be the way to address her, although one never knew these days. She could just kill him for that too, he thought. There were worse ways to go. She didn’t seem inclined to kill him right away.)
“It is nice to see you again, Sir Bob,” said the leader. “We don’t say that about many men, do we girls?”
“No,” said a chorus of female voices.
“They don’t like me much, anyway,” said the station master. “Sir, if you know these ladies, could you get them to take the horses outside at least.”
“He’s very fussy about this,” said one of the Amazons. “Needs to relax.”
“He probably needs a good fuck,” said another.
“He’s not getting one from me,” said a third voice. There were sounds of general agreement and some glares thrown at the station master. He looked unhappy.
“How are things in your quest?” asked the lead Amazon.
“Well, I was going to Cruxton Abbey, where there is rumoured to be a very fine new painting that may provide a clue about where Alice is,” said Bob. “Unfortunately, I have been told there is a crisis at the Abbey. I fear they are under attack, That is why I came looking for you.”
“And you found us,” the lead Amazon said, “but why do we care about Lord Wragg and his Abbey?”
“Messaline is there, and asks that you move there with all haste. She and two other women are in danger. The Old Firm…” That was as far as he got.
There were gasps of dismay and grumblings. The heavily armed girls were now clearly agitated.
The leader grabbed Bob’s arm with one hand and swept the station manager aside with the other.
“Come on girls,” she shouted in a voice that demanded obedience, and was somehow still quite attractive and feminine and promised all sorts of delights if she said the right sort of thing to you, “Messaline needs us!”
There was general and boisterous agreement among the Amazon sorority, and they all moved toward the exits, pulling their horses along with them.
“Just hang on a mo,” said Bob. “I have to get my horse out of baggage claim.”
The station master got on the phone to report the amazons and horses to his senior managers, but nobody believed him and he was put on 2 weeks mandatory stress leave.
To be continued…
Lord Wragg followed Eulalia and her rather nice bottom through the forest. She kept stopping and looking from side to side, occasionally bending over to check a plant. He had to admit, he preferred the bending over part. Her skirts were now so short that he got a rather tantalizing view of some rather nice parts of Eulalia when she did that.
This was, of course, because Wragg was wearing some rather fine lace as a makeshift loincloth around his own nether parts, his own pants having been turned to ash in the act of rescuing Eulalia. Every time Eulalia bent over to inspect something, bits of Wragg took notice and he had to think of something like Windar’s terrible custard tarts to make things manageable again and retie the lace around his nether parts.
“So,” said Eulalia pertly, standing up from one of her inspections and turning to face Wragg. “I suppose you’re wondering why I keep stopping. She stood, apparently unaware that her dress was now resting on her hips and a pretty triangle of light hair was nicely framed by her thighs. Wragg’s anatomy responded in the normal manner, and the lace loincloth fell to the ground.
“Urmph!?” said Wragg, and meant it.
Eualia looked at Wragg, and then down at her own clothing. “Oh dear,” she said. “Here let me help you.” She picked up the lace and moved to try to help Wragg wrap himself up in it again. Just the proximity of her was almost too much. When she reached out to try to move his erection with her hand, he grabbed the cloth and jumped back. The other option was jumping forward and having them both fall to the ground in a tangle of legs and other bits. He wasn’t sure he had made the right decision.
“No,” gasped Wragg. “Thanks very much, but I can manage. So,” he continued, a bit more brightly than was strictly natural, “what is it that we’re looking for.”
“A bush with a red flower. Nearby should be a well. It’s one of my time portals and we can use it to get back to the Abbey,” she looked at Wragg who still looked a bit, well, stiff. “Are you sure I can’t help you?”
“No,” said Wragg. “That is I’m not sure. In fact I’m sure you can, actually, help me, but this may not be the moment. I hate acting responsible, incidentally.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that. Anyway, you see this bush?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you look over there, past that fir tree, what do you see?”
Wragg was again staring directly at Eul’s bottom. “What tree?” he asked.
“That fir tree,” said Eulalia.
“It’s very nice,” murmured Wragg.
“No!” exclaimed Eulalia, “ the well beyond it.”
“I can’t seem to get well beyond anything here,” said Wragg.
“The well!” said Eulalia. “It’s a portal.”
“Oh,” said Wragg pulling himself together with supreme effort. “Yes, well, off we go then.”
“So,” he said a few minutes later, “how do we, er, use this portal of yours.”
“I have to imagine where and when I want to go, and then we jump in together,” said Eulalia. “It’s important that we are touching when we go, or you could get lost. Now be quiet, I have to concentrate.”
Wragg watched her close her eyes. She stood very still. She raised her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. Then she opened them.
“Okay, got it,” she said. “Now don’t lose contact with me.” She reached out her hand and her dress shifted up again. Wragg let out a frustrated growl dropped his loincloth, grabbed Eulalia and made sure he had solid and rather deep penetrating contact. She didn’t appear surprised or upset. She looked at him inquiringly.
“I’m not losing contact,” said Wragg.
“Good,” gasped Eulalia. “How do we jump into the well now though?”
“Details, details,” said Wragg. He lifted the impaled girl off the ground, put her legs around his waist, and tipped them both together into the well.
There was a rather interesting journey through time, punctuated by two people yelling affirmative and encouraging things, after which they appeared out of nowhere and splashed directly into Wragg’s courtyard fountain at the Abbey.
Nobody seemed to be about. Wragg was okay with that. Nobody else needed to see him sitting in a fountain wearing nothing but his open leather jacket. Eul was sitting on his lap facing him, her lacy dress plastered to her body.
“Nice portal,” she said. “Spoils the mood a bit though, all this cold water.” She regarded the showers of water coming from the fountain.
“It’s well disguised,” said Wragg.
“It’s bloody wet,” said Eulalia. “Look, I think I’m going to check things out on my own. We don’t know what’s going on. You go find the others and make sure everyting’s okay. I’ll catch up with you later. Just need a moment to, er, collect myself a bit. I’ve been dead for a few days, and it’s all a bit much.”
“Of course,” said Wragg. “Oh, and Eul.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the help,” he grinned at her. She smiled and ran off in the direction of the kitchens. Wragg stood up, which was about when Windar appeared, accompanied by a large black squirrel.
“Lost your trousers, M’lord?” Windar asked.
“Long story,” said Wragg. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” said Windar. “And Eulalia?”
Wragg looked at the squirrel. The dark eyes were watching him rather intently, he thought. “Um, not quite according to plan,” he said evasively. Well, he hadn’t actually planned to screw her twice, he figured. “Who’s the fuzzy guy?”
“Woody,” said Windar. “He’s a squirrel with information about the Old Firm. He’s helping us sort out defenses and running covert surveillance.”
“Huh,” said Wragg. “Well, I want to see the defenses,” he looked down his dripping body, “after I find a towel and some dry things.”
“It’s been a rather unique day, I expect,” said Windar.
“Really?” said Wragg drily. “What makes you think that.”
“Look,” said Woodrunner the squirrel, “I want to check the perimeter, and then I’ll scout to see where the Old Firm is now.”
“Okay,” said Windar. “Good man, er rodent.” The squirrel ran off.
“You trust this squirrel?” asked Wragg as he strode to the house.
“I think so. He’s pretty good at planning defenses and he knows the enemy. Erin seems okay with him.”
“Well, alright,” said Wragg, “but I want to hear about our defenses.”
“You got it,” said Windar, and they went inside.
* * *
Barb, Erin and Messaline strolled into a large room in the Abbey. It looked pretty empty, but was decorated in lots of gilt paint on archways, and had cherubs doing various naughty things to voluptuous feminine angels and Valkyries painted on the ceiling. At least, it looked to Barb like the cherubs were doing things.
Actually, now that she looked more closely, it was difficult to say who was doing what to whom. There was a cherub, whose tongue was definitely doing something to an angel. She looked up at the ceiling high above her head. That tongue, she thought, must be, in real terms, about 2 feet long, and the clitoris it was stimulating, was likely quite large as well. The ceiling was quite graphic.
It could also be that the Valkyries were doing the things, especially that Valkyrie in the centre of the ceiling who was wrapping her thighs around a slender naked angel’s one leg, while scissoring…
“I suppose,” said Barb, “that they all manage that up there because they all have wings.”
“Barb,” said Erin, “it’s a painting.”
“Yes,” said Barb, “but they’re all flying around in the sky, and…er…doing things.”
“I think it’s an Apostate original ceiling,” said Messaline. “He has a very interesting idea of heaven. I like it.”
“What’s an Apostate,” asked Barb.
“He’s an artist. He paints things,” said Erin.
“What kind of things,” asked Barb.
“Mostly crucified girls, I think,” said Messaline.
“As long as they’re naked,” said Erin. “I would never let him do that to you.”
“Crucify her or paint her?” asked Messaline grinning.
“How very strange,” said Barb. “So what sort of room is this? This Abbey goes on forever. It’s huge. Did you see all those four-poster beds on the upper level of the west wing?”
“Hard to miss,” said Erin. “Especially that one with the kitchen maid cuffed to it spread-eagle.”
“She was very happy we came by to let her go,” said Messaline. “Someone forgot her there, I think.”
“I don’t understand how she got to be there to begin with,” said Barb. “Who would do that?”
Erin rolled her eyes and Messaline smiled mysteriously.
“Anyway,” said Barb, “so I remember being called the Queen of the Elves before, but I don’t actually remember doing any actual…er…Queening? How does this work? Do I give orders or commands? Am I supposed to rule someone. Is there a palace or castle or something?”
“It’s pretty symbolic, really,” said Erin.
“So…”
“Very symbolic, in fact,” said Erin. “Actually there is no palace or much of anything. It’s mainly that I have decided to follow you and protect you.”
“Why?” asked Barb.
“Well,” said Erin, “because you have a great attitude in the face of danger and death, and I just love you.”
“Very sweet,” said Messaline.
“And if you call them,” said Erin, “there are a legion of Elven warriors who will come running to help…”
“That’s nice,” said Barb, “isn’t it?”
“…but mainly because they follow me. They know I love you, so they’ll do anything for you…or me. It’s a bit confusing.”
“So what happens if the Old Firm kills me,” asked Barb. “Do they get to take over Elf…er…land?”
“No way,” said Erin. “That’s the weird part. None of that makes sense. The Elves wouldn’t follow the Old Firm. Anyway, ruling a country isn’t their style. They’re more the burn everything down types. Someone is paying them for something.”
“Erin is right,” said Messaline. “Anyway, we are very fortified here, and we will keep safe. Now we have a nice afternoon while we wait for Lord Wragg and Eulalia to get back.
“So why does this room have a painted ceiling full of angels having various forms of sex, and nothing else in it?” asked Barb.
“I think it’s a ballroom,” said Erin. “You know, for parties and dances and…stuff.”
The room was pretty empty. The floor was polished hardwood parkay, with several square brass inlaid tiles placed in a semicircular formation near the middle of the room. There was a colonnaded balcony running around the room on an upper level. Along the wall were several wooden objects.
“What are those things over there?” asked Messaline.
“It looks like a bunch of crosses,” said Barb.
“So,” said Messaline. “An entertainment room, certainment.”
“You mean Wragg crucifies people in here for his entertainment?” asked Barb. “That’s barbaric. And he’s supposed to be on our side!”
“Well,” said Erin, “I think it’s only partly for his entertainment.”
“For the girl’s entertainment and pleasure as well,” said Messaline.
“I don’t believe this,” said Barb. “Well, he’s not going to crucify me or chain me to a four-poster.”
“Don’t criticise until you try it,” said Messaline.
“I will always have your back,” said Erin.
“As long as I can have her front,” said Messaline. “Now, I want to see these crosses.”
* * *
Sir Bob Inder rode the train to Dover. He slept for a bit, reflecting as he dozed off that train travel had much to recommend it over the bouncing around on a horse, or even a motorcycle.
After that he had dinner in a real Pullman dining car, reflecting that he didn’t know that British Rail still had dining cars. It hadn’t for several years, but that didn’t bother Sir Bob. Neither did the fact that there were no other passengers eating in the car, and the Southeastern Rail train staff seemed surprised to find themselves there serving Bob a rather nice dinner. Bob wasn’t about to complain if this train had a dining car. It was something that should be expected, he reasoned, and it was serving reasonable food instead of just dry sandwiches made last week. None of the other passengers seemed to find it, and after Bob went back to his seat, the train staff couldn’t remember where it was either.
He looked out the window and wondered how he was going to find the Amazons once he got to his destination. Dover in the old days was a nice little place. Now it was a bustling metropolis. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was more known now for not having a nightlife than the opposite, so he might find that the Amazons themselves were the excitement in town. If he remembered the last time they had met, when they finally pulled him out of the swamp of the Lizard Women, they could be quite conspicuous. Somebody was almost bound to have seen them, probably breaking something.
He didn’t expect them to be standing on the platform at the train station.
They weren’t standing on the platform.
They were creating a scene in the main ticket hall. The station manager was of the opinion that horses did not belong with what he called “nice young ladies” in the ticket hall. The “nice young ladies” maintained that their horses always travelled with them.
There were about 40 of them, Bob reckoned, all of whom were wearing clothing that normally would have covered about 10 women. There was a lot of chain mail which had been fashioned into attractive, and yet ineffective breast coverings, and mini skirts. Armour, thought Bob, for Amazons was mainly what Victoria’s Secret products were to lingerie – mainly there for show, not function. Some of the Amazons had helmets. Some had bits of cloth woven into their chain mail, mainly for fashion. All were armed, and most of them had horses. The ticket lobby was quite crowded. 40 horses take up some space.
Bob reflected that the station master had probably had a choice about whether to complain about the horses or that the women all appeared to be fully armed with bows, arrows, and swords. He had chosen the horses and it wasn’t going well for him. Either way, thought Bob, it would soon be about the weapons.
Sure enough, right on cue, the lead Amazon, a tall blonde woman in a chainmail skirt and shining steel breastplate, drew her sword.
“Madam, please!” said the station master, staggering back a step. “I’m only trying to follow the regulations.”
“We bow to no man,” said the lead Amazon.
“Perhaps not,” said the station manager, “but I have to bow to Her Majesty’s government’s regulations, and horses are not permitted in the common areas.”
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Sir Bob chivalrously. “May I help in any way.”
“Bob!” shouted about 40 voices cheerfully together. He was quickly mobbed by several young, pretty, and aggressively armed women, who seemed very happy to see him. So that was one less worry. He was wondering if they would remember him. As breasts, pretty necklines, and well toned tummies pressed against him as they embraced him in greeting, various parts of his own anatomy started to remember them as well. In his experience, if the Amazons generally didn’t like men, this dislike did not extend to him. They hugged him. They kissed him. They asked all sorts of cheerful questions.
“Where have you been lately?”
“Fall into any other swamps?”
“I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!”
“Did you find Alice yet?”
“Hey girls,” said the Leader, “maybe if you give him some air, Bob can tell us what brings him here and we might get somewhere.”
He found himself facing the leader. “Hello, Miss,” he said (he knew she wasn’t married, so he thought Miss might be the way to address her, although one never knew these days. She could just kill him for that too, he thought. There were worse ways to go. She didn’t seem inclined to kill him right away.)
“It is nice to see you again, Sir Bob,” said the leader. “We don’t say that about many men, do we girls?”
“No,” said a chorus of female voices.
“They don’t like me much, anyway,” said the station master. “Sir, if you know these ladies, could you get them to take the horses outside at least.”
“He’s very fussy about this,” said one of the Amazons. “Needs to relax.”
“He probably needs a good fuck,” said another.
“He’s not getting one from me,” said a third voice. There were sounds of general agreement and some glares thrown at the station master. He looked unhappy.
“How are things in your quest?” asked the lead Amazon.
“Well, I was going to Cruxton Abbey, where there is rumoured to be a very fine new painting that may provide a clue about where Alice is,” said Bob. “Unfortunately, I have been told there is a crisis at the Abbey. I fear they are under attack, That is why I came looking for you.”
“And you found us,” the lead Amazon said, “but why do we care about Lord Wragg and his Abbey?”
“Messaline is there, and asks that you move there with all haste. She and two other women are in danger. The Old Firm…” That was as far as he got.
There were gasps of dismay and grumblings. The heavily armed girls were now clearly agitated.
The leader grabbed Bob’s arm with one hand and swept the station manager aside with the other.
“Come on girls,” she shouted in a voice that demanded obedience, and was somehow still quite attractive and feminine and promised all sorts of delights if she said the right sort of thing to you, “Messaline needs us!”
There was general and boisterous agreement among the Amazon sorority, and they all moved toward the exits, pulling their horses along with them.
“Just hang on a mo,” said Bob. “I have to get my horse out of baggage claim.”
The station master got on the phone to report the amazons and horses to his senior managers, but nobody believed him and he was put on 2 weeks mandatory stress leave.
To be continued…
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Well, I'm rather beginning to like Dover, now that I've finally arrived here. Took about six months on the train, but trains tend to get lost on the railways for some reason. Right, girls, saddle up, here comes the cavalry!
Good to have this questing romance business moving forward again - well done, Jolly!
There's a lot going on it that episode.
Too much, to my mind.
What this story needs is a couple of sensible, no-nonsense types like myself and Mr Jollyrei to come along andburn calm things down. Perhaps in the next episode there will be less sex and frivolity and horses, and more discipline.
Too much, to my mind.
What this story needs is a couple of sensible, no-nonsense types like myself and Mr Jollyrei to come along and
RacingRodent
Consul
Erin has my back ... no matter what!
So long as she is not using it as human leather binding for one of her collection of books
messaline
Crucified Amazon
So, what interest could it be ? Amazon Messaline needs of sex ( women together of course !
) and crucifixion ! She only hopes that the amazons'troup will arrive to late , at least after that Messaline could have a great love'session with Erin and Barb ...
gif... and perhaps
gifs ...