Human Fighter


The deck of the f’n ship rocks and rolls. My goram stomach is no longer queasy. Not that it matters. The last contents of my gut went overboard hours ago. I have nothing left to give the frickin’ sea in that regard. But wait! One of the sweaty deckhands is enjoying the cool breeze with a bottle of what l can only call Rot Gut. Deplorable shite, but perhaps I will join him. My charm wins him overly quickly and before long we are both hefting a grimy bottle to our cracked lips as we sit with our backs to the forecastle. He is a good listener (actually, I think he has passed out) and I am in a chatty mood. I have forgotten my goram seasickness for the moment. No doubt I will be reminded in an un-frickin-pleasant fashion. I begin to tell the besotted man of my story, for I have little else to tell.

I grew up a child of the streets in Bet Kalamar. My earliest memories are the smell of the salty sea breeze and the cries of the fishmongers. There is no one figure in my life I can call father or mother, for it was the streets that did that job. Oh, I wasn’t always sleeping in scummy gutters and hiding from the city guardsmen, but it was often enough. You see, I was a bleedin’ handsome young lad. At least, that is what they always told me; the kind of kid who could get away with just about goram anything. A smile and a few words could net me enough coin to get by for the day or preferably some small job or errand that might net more.

As I grew in to my teens, I made a meager f’n living with my calloused hands. I liked tinkering with things, and if people wanted to give me coin to do it, well that was fan-frickin’-tastic! It was one of the few times when my mind wouldn’t wander to whatever shiny thing went by trying to catch my attention. I would patch up cracked wagon wheels, leaky flippin’ rooftops, drafty arse walls…just about anything you can imagine that can be patched up. My thin frame and long reach made me an ideal choice for cleaning out soot choked chimneys. My life was not so goram bad, as far as the life of a street urchin goes. When I did get into trouble, I could generally use my smile and charm to turn it to my advantage. The bleedin’ guardsmen were suckers for news from the docks. If I made some of it up, well, it wasn’t any more incredible than the shite I didn’t.

I may have gotten into a bit more trouble than I have led on. As I learned the faces (if not the names, I am always forgetting the goram names) and who I could call friends, those pukes would engage me in friendly bouts of sparring and teaching me how to use a blade. I proved a quick goram learner. A f’n natural many of them said. Next was the shield. Then other weapons as time allowed. The axe was my mother-lovin’ favorite. I can’t explain why any-frickin’ more than I could tell you why I like fried frickin’ squid. I just do. I soon found myself enjoying the soldiering life even more than the tinkering one. I was able to sign on to the bleedin’ watch at only sixteen. I wasn’t the strongest mother around, but I am tall and lanky and my reach and quickness served me well. It was nice to be off the goram streets.

Spending a lot of friggin’ time at the docks on f’n patrol afforded me the opportunity to hear much of the news that circulates in a place like that; tales of the high seas, some far to astounding to be believable. One particular tale kept catching my ear. A f’n incredible story of an island that moved about f’n seemingly of its own will. When one of the crusty old salts showed me a piece of a relic treasure he had found there I began to believe. Could this place be real?

Well, the bleedin’ soldiering was fun, but not so much the frickin’ law enforcing shite. If you can f’n believe it, there was this notion that f’n yours truly was responsible for making sure every other nitwad followed the laws. That is not what I blinkin’ signed up for! I only wanted to swing a mother-luvin’ axe and beat the crap out of some shite thugs and other riff raff. If a goram sailor wanted to take some wine home to his wife or sell a few f’n weapons on the down low, what did I care if the city had their share? Apparently some of the wealthier goat-lickin’ members of society did care though. I soon found myself once again on the streets with little more than a pocketful of silver and a couple of axes I might have forgotten were in my bag of clothes when I left the f’n barracks. I couldn’t go back to living on the friggin’ streets. What could I do now?

At the shop of some guy I found the answer I was friggin’ seeking. It truly did frickin’ exist! The mother-frickin’ island, that is. In fact, there was a small f’n town there known as Raven’s Bay. The strange land itself was called the bleedin’ Isle of Yendaj. Spending all but the f’n last of my meager arse coin, I equipped myself and booked passage to this mysterious place on this f’n ship. What will I find there? I’m not frickin’ sure, but……

A goram rumble in my belly and a sudden lurch has me up and dashing for the rails. As I watch the f’n sea carry away the latest contents of my treacherous stomach, I can’t help but wonder who I will meet in this strange goram new land. What flippin’ adventures await me there?


Strange World of Random Doom hadurs Viehmagnat