This revision fleshes out some detail about Bitter the talking squirrel. Otherwise, I still don’t know where I’m going with this story. Grin.
“We need a wizard,” Kaither stammered.
He was nearly out of breath from trying to push the stone door open. His body was beginning to ache from his right shoulder to his feet.
“A wizard!” Bitter growled. “You’ve got to be kidding! Besides being a pain in the ass, they cost money, too!”
Bitter was right: wizards were not worth their trouble, at least these days. Most times, they were unreliable, never remembering their spells or potions. Other times, if they weren’t drunk, they were usually soliciting prostitutes at the docks of Rangon. It seems they had a penchant for dwarf whores, which made little sense because it was difficult to tell male and female dwarves apart. Maybe that didn’t matter to them. Making matters worse, wizards were now charging ridiculous sums for even the smallest potion or whisper of magic words.
Ever since that worthless wizard Tensil opened the stone door in the Coffen Mountains several years ago with a few magic words, wizards have never been more ornery. His magic words came by accident too. He was a drunk as a Balisian sailor and throwing all manner of preposterous words at the door. As luck would have it, Tensil blabbered the right words: loc, loc, snolsifin, senso, to, remim; and the door opened. Then he fell flat on his face. The explorers found a great cavernous trail leading to gold, and a lot of it. Now even the most novice wizard demands a healthy fee just to remove a wart.
“Do you have a better idea to get this door open?” Kaither glared back at his small friend. “I can’t make heads or tails of this writing and it will not budge.”
The stone door was quite large, nearly 15 feet high and nine feet wide. Scroll work traced outside along the outside perimeter forming an arc. Under the lavish patterns of leaves and flowers of the arc, letter and symbols in shimmering gold formed 12 words. Kaither believed they were from the Ancient Days, the language of the Elders, or possibly the elusive, and thought to be extinct, Amarilli. But Kaither wasn’t a linguist, just a fortune seeker and sometime mercenary for hire.
“Yeah, I’ve got a better idea,” Bitter answered. “Let’s get the hell out of this place and forget the whole damn thing.” He scanned his dark surroundings quickly expecting a demon to jump out from the gloom and devour him. Demons loved to eat squirrels.
However, they might have a bit more trouble with this squirrel. Bristol “Bitter” Sherinian Southwick was not your ordinary fuzzy tail vermin. Hailing from the northern Omaris forest, the Sherinian clan in the Southwick shire, this squirrel, as all the squirrels of the north, stood nearly three and a half foot tall when on his hind legs, which was often the case unless he was running.
His fur was a misty grey, and his tail had a current of light red from butt to end. Bitter wore a red triangular cap with gold braid and pheasant feather. Around his neck was a scarf of the same color and markings. Both were symbols of his clan. Bitter also carried a short polished sword, a dagger, and a slingshot, secured by leather brace around his chest. On his back brace held secure a quiver of arrows and a small bow. These weapons were not something common for his clan.
Bitter had a caustic, sometimes insolent, demeanor, favored honey mead, and liked to cuss, and more than a bit at that. Yet, he was fine companion and friend to Kaither, and handy to have in fight.
“That’s helpful,’ Kaither said.
Kaither took several steps backward and lunged hard at the massive stone door with all the speed and strength he could muster. Nothing. Nothing but a grimace of pain on his part.
“Damn,” He muttered rubbing his shoulder. He was getting nowhere but more sore. Kaither slid down and sat with his back against the door. Bitter kicked a leather flagon of water to him. He took a deep swig, and sighed. Maybe his furry friend was right, he thought.
Maybe they should forget the whole thing. It was only a tale told by an old man in a tavern. So what if he could produce a map. It could have been a clever deception just like his story. However, the two days journey from Rangon through the Forest of Oberon, a place even the most valiant men and stubborn orcs feared to tread, would be forsaken. All this for the promise of riches, gold and more gold. Yet, he had heard the tale more than once before he heard it again from Old Man Rolther. Could it be true? Obviously, he was willing to find out or maybe he just had nothing better to do. Anyway, he they were.
“Alright,” Kaither began, “one of us has to back to Rangon and get a wizard. And you’re elected.”
“Why me?” Bitter groaned. “I don’t want to go back through Oberon alone.”
“Do you want to stay here in the gloom and darkness and guard our little secret?”
“No. But who knows we’re here anyway? If they do, would they follow us through the Oberon? I don’t think so. Only we were crazy enough to do that.” The squirrel’s tail twisted and turned quickly as he made his argument.
“And who are we going to get anyway? Not Weezil, I hope.”
“No, not Weezil. That buffoon couldn’t open his own outhouse with a spell if it was locked and he lost the key. He’s worthless. I was thinking maybe Crasis the Grand, if we can keep him sober long enough to make the trip back here.”
“Crasis! Ha! You’ll need him drunk to get him through the Oberon. He’ll never come otherwise.”
“But he’ll come if the money’s right,” countered Kaither.
“You mean a portion of our plunder.”
“Exactly.”
“He’ll want better than 20 percent, and you know it,” Bitter cautioned.
“What if there’s nothing,” Kaither mused.
“My very next words,” Bitter added.
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