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Roguesongs – Tales from Galron

18 Jul
Roguesongs – Tales from Galron

This probably won’t make much sense to anyone, but I’m going to post it anyway.

There’s a city in my world where all of the thieves and assassins come from.

I was sleeping a few days back when I felt a knife at my throat and this gravelly voice in my ear said, “Wake up, maggot. Time to write.”

So I did.

There’s a lot of what feels like Thieves Cant in these. Can’t be certain I understand it all either. I do know that “Mok” is what passes for Thieves Cant in Galron. And that “Becky” is his bow. That’s all I know.

I just did what the man told me.


Atop the windward passage,

zipping razorwire nearly takes

my head.

Leftwards

a twing! Sends me

diving

for

the floor and

I

tumble, praying

Old Man Shifty

knew his stuff. And then a breath!

And I’m free –

Lighter and heavier for my troubles.

-Would not have it any other way


 

The

shaft

slicks

southwards,

luring

me

with

Cannot.

Will not.

Laughter tumbles, scampering

into silence, spilled

from my lips;

descending.

quiescent

and fast – like the bug.

Drop down, top down

Becky up, her back bent

Nothing but drip

drip

drip

I look moonwards

through the mocking cylinder

I’m in.

I’m dust and shadows

I begin. Now.


They call it a

Banghammer.

I call it 18 seconds that could

be better spent

suppressing that glyph on

the west wall that I

know the old wizard stuck there

not

long

ago.

When it’s down I hustle quick

no time for this and that.

I’ve got business with the master.

His guards are lax, his defences

laughable

and the next thing you know –

CLICK


Jewels.

They’re pretty.

But I prefer something

a bit

more

portable.

Power works nicely and never

clashes with my custom-gripped

poison-fang Takma-forged daggers.

or take Becky. She makes

any man look good, ‘specially when

she’s bent

and

ready to pop.

Arrows are her kisses and damn ain’t she sweet?

Gems in my pocket, time to beat feet. Power comes

later, down on Muckleknife Street.


Cinched up tight and descending

herky

jerky

(Apprentices….)

Quickstop! (clenched fist)

Darkness fades and bootheel beginnings

I’m dangle bound

and need to piss. (Is that a sneeze?)

The watch reveals in tintype lightern

Oh great…a grell-mutant


Windswept parapet,

three dead rogues.

Arrowshot, ribshot, damn soggy boots.

Shuffleclutch half-slips, pocketful of cash.

Tumble-drop crunchflop, on the sand at last.

The kid looks grim as the cliffs fade back. And my guts, they scream,

but my pockets burn

Twilight in bedlam


Whisperquick down midnight sneak line

stop

drop and peep

Six stories up – all fast asleep

Safe and satchel, diamond and gold.

Greedy grabquick, feelin’ so bold.

Crouch, stash, feet for the line

I’m out, wind’s up –

just in time.


Fenny Fennick feeds me a line

Moll-wretch, rat-fuck, swiller of swine.

his do’s always stink,

too many shitheels in a line.

I nod and scull the small beer and drop Fenny

a wink, and quick as a flash, that rat’s dead

and I order another drink.

 


 

So Vinnie Sly’s gots this

cousin who’s down on the Glide

messed up, trashed out, mecha-head high.

He copped a sweet sniff

of some dooners

trading greenJack for 30 big

come Saturday –

I’m in.

Suckers come in

I’m flyball up high

scope the whole rundown

then drop and say hi.

The blast takes out 20 –

Becky drop half

head up, feet down, the twins

snicker-snack – that’s the rest.

Beatwatch heard the tussle and I

pull my uprip,

I’m out and pissed off. Too many

down and not enough Crowns.

 


I slide over to Slinky’s to get

the lowdown on Gowdy –

(sheckleshackle rumdum dandy)

1000 crowns could come in handy.

“What He’d do to get the Guffy?”

Slink shoots “Doubletap”

and my gullet slips, quickflip.

”How long’s the paper? Who inked the spot?”

Slink slides slyways, drops

silentquick into the mok and spits,

“Drum-the-Quick, but unTalk

paints the page –

word dropped from Owl Town,

from Dunson Moor.”

His eyes dart quick, dobs his bog

with a slick pink

and burps, “Highgate, the

Markslock and some say, the

Shadow — All hunt Gowdy.”

I ponder and chumble for a miff,

chewing mindscapes,

and then drop

“If Gowdy ain’t got the guff in 1

moon, paint the paper at

doublepay and

spread it round that I dropped the ink.”

Ol’ Slink ain’t no fool, and his mok

is better than most’s, and he just

cackle

and drop me a wink –

and in 40 day Ol’ Slink got his

gullet up when Gowdy’s head

showed up!


Rimble timble thunder

rain splots my brow

rikkitik on the tinshed dwarfs all but its own voice.

N’er no mind I’m watching Crag Street

and all that that implies.

Underneath the drumroar I heard a

knuckle two-drop on the tinshed wall.

I smile, drop a nod as Onedrake Mason joins me in the roar.

Drake’s a cold-heart,

he’s no way-back from the hill,

he’s a fresh blooded

unwalker,

stank of meat and blood and I’m

about to roll into Crag Street

(into the mouth of)

with no moon,

with this crazy unwalker,

this unfuck, this eater of bones,

with no moon.

Becky’s back at the squat.

Useless to me in this waterfall

I’ve got the twins, that’s all.

Crag Street. Showtime.

Who’s got my back?

Me.


I’m squat down in Plotz corner –

two blocks down Dogshit way.

Talking grift with Dick the Dale,

laughin’ and jawin’ for a change.

Shoulda known shadow wouldn’t

leave me be.

iced up ‘hoppers come smashing

lookthroughs all over Dick’s joint,

jibberjibe and beeblesqueek tears

the air with blab, tossing unfocus

yowls.

I spit a fouling mok and let Becky

strut her stuff.

The dale’s all afume – murderous

hatchet athwack with ‘hopper

meats-and-scrim

He’s bellowing hotflack, the ‘hops

are screechik-blare, and I’m

laughing at how

much fun I’m having down in

Dogshit and can I come again?

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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in D&D Fiction

 

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