Art the Wanderer: Chapter 14: Part 2

The stable proved to be one of the smaller buildings on the inside of the courtyard wall. The courtyard itself was immense, with a large open area in the middle and a variety of wooden dummies and other training equipment scattered about the periphery. As Art and Ta’Pan moved along, Art couldn’t help but notice a pair of presumed students, hard at work on the dummies. One was a short, blonde girl who used a pair of swords in a swirling, two-handed style. She went at the dummy in a flurry of arms and metal, bouncing around the target as she rained blows down on it from every conceivable angle. The other was a tall boy wearing nothing but a loincloth, who carried an immense axe. He would stare at the target for a while, as if trying to psyche it out, and then hit it with the axe.
“Students?” Art asked, pointing.
“Yes, sadly.”
“Oh come on, they don’t look that bad.”
“No, it’s not that. Well, in Mugwort’s case, yes it is. What I really meant was that there used to be dozens of students here, beating the stuffing out of the dummies and each other on a daily basis. Now there are just the three of us.”
“You’re a student too?”
“Yes, the senior student. Not as great an honor as it used to be.”
“Why the decline?”
“Oh, you’ll find out.”
After seeing to Corsair, Art was led to the Master, who was in the manor house. After a quick journey through a seeming maze of corridors, they found Oddenstone sitting cross-legged, solemnly contemplating a painting. The Master did seem rather old, but his back was still straight and his eyes calm and focused.
“Master Oddenstone, you have a visitor.”
The Master turned and gestured, seeming to indicate that Art should sit beside him.
Art did so, laying Wrath across his legs. The Master turned back to his contemplations. He had a certain, way about him. Though Master Byrn was a kind, intelligent man, he didn’t have quite the presence of Oddenstone. Neither did Goolan or Dyrp for that matter, though they were certainly impressive men. There was just something about Oddenstone, a calmness, a feeling of strength, of serenity. Art didn’t dare speak, lest he interrupt what were obviously important thoughts.
Eventually the Master turned to him, regarding Art with a penetrating gaze. His eyes went from Art, then to Wrath, and back. He cleared his throat, and then pointed at Wrath. “Sword,” he said quite happily. He pointed to the picture. “Birdies.”
“You’re kidding,” Wrath said.
“You’re kidding,” Art also said, more or less at the same time.
“Nope,” said Ta’Pan. “And this is one of his better days.”
Art looked at the senior student accusingly. “Do you have any idea how long I traveled to get here?”
“Six months, nine days, eleven hours?” Ta’Pan suggested.
“Uh, no. Not quite that long.”
“Well, that’s how long I traveled. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer and explain it.” Ta’Pan gestured towards the door.
“You’ve got beer?” All of a sudden it wasn’t so bad.
“Nah, it’s just an expression. We’ve got some nice tea though.”
“I arrived three years ago, in the middle of the summer,” Ta’Pan started, as he poured the tea. “There were almost twenty five students then and the Master trained them in any weapon they wished or even bare-handed. Then, one day about a year ago, he just sort of . . . went.”
“Went where?” Art interjected.
“No idea. He said he was going to do some special research on creating a ‘heightened perception’ or something like that. Next thing we know, he’s babbling and acting like an idiot. We all figured he’d just gotten a knock on the head and that eventually he’d snap out of it, but he didn’t. The students started leaving and pretty soon, it was just Shiarra and I. She’s the blonde. Mugwort showed up about six months ago and decided to stay. No one else has bothered.”
“So why did you stay?”
Ta’Pan considered the question as he sipped his tea. “I like it here and the Master needs someone to take care of him. So now it’s your turn, why are you here?”
“Like I said, I had some questions for him.” Art shrugged. “I guess I’m outta luck, though.”
“Well yes and no. Once in a while, he comes back, though it’s generally only for a couple hours. If you stick around, you might be able to catch him.”
“I can do that?”
“Sure. Of course, you’d have to become a student.” Ta’Pan sipped his tea, but kept his eyes fixed on Art.
“And what would this involve?”
“Ten dollars a month.”
Art thought about it. On the one hand, he’d traveled a long way to get here and he didn’t know where else to go. On the other, it could be a while before Mr. Serenity visited the planet again. “What the hell,” he finally said. “I guess staying a month or two won’t kill me.”
“Yes!” Ta’Pan jumped up, spilling his tea. “We can buy mutton!” He ran outside, shouting the good news.
A little later, Art was shown to the student barracks. It was a long, empty room filled with a lot of cots. Mugwort pointed to one. “That’s mine.” He pointed to another. “That’s yours.”
“Okay.” Art looked around at all the other cots. Besides Mugwort’s, none appeared to be in use. “Where does Shiarra stay?”
“Big house ‘cause she’s a girl!” This seemed inordinately funny to Mugwort, who seemed to have the intellectual capacity of your standard haystack, minus the vermin. “Get up at dawn, start practicing,”
He wandered off.
For the next few hours, Art wandered around the grounds, toyed with some of the practice weapons, brushed Corsair down, and pretty much killed a lot of time, as Ta’Pan and Shiarra were off buying provisions, which left only Mugwort for conversation. This was pretty much not going to happen, so Art poked around until he got bored enough to watch Mugwort practicing. This, as previously mentioned, consisted of the tall kid staring at the dummy until he felt the need to whack at it. Intellectually speaking, this was an even fight.
After watching for about ten minutes, Art couldn’t stand it anymore. “Excuse me,” he said, after Mugwort finished a whack. “Why do you wait so long before you take a swing at it?”
Mugwort furrowed his brow. “Gotta visu-something attacking.”
“Visualize?”
“Yeah.” Mugwort grinned.
“And what does ‘visualizing attacking’ mean?”
Bad idea. Mugwort’s brain started to attempt an explanation, which resulted in all extraneous functions shutting down. After a few minutes, his mouth started forming words. “Kinda like, imaginin’ hittin’.”
“Thanks, Mugwort,” Art said sincerely, though he still didn’t understand.
“N’prob.” He went back to his slow demolition of the wooden dummy.
Thankfully, Shiarra and Ta’Pan returned a little bit later, but they immediately sequestered themselves in the kitchen for another couple of hours, preparing the mutton and getting dinner ready. Art watched Mugwort some more and tried a few experimental hits on the dummies with his walking stick, only to almost give himself a concussion when his stick bounced back at an unexpected angle and bounced off his head. He then decided to find a nice safe chair and simply wait for dinner.
An hour later, Shiarra stuck her head out of a nearby doorway. “Food!” she screamed, as loudly as possible.
Within thirty seconds, everyone was seated around the table, upon which bubbled a cauldron of mutton stew. Ta’Pan, being the senior student, ladled out helpings for everyone. Art, being the newest student, was served last.
Everyone paused after the food was served, heads turning to look at Ta’Pan. “Normally,” he explained. “The senior student is expected to make a small speech welcoming the new student. This is followed by formal introductions, some singing, demonstrations of marital prowess, and so forth. However, considering our diminished numbers, we’ll dispense with most of the formalities. Everybody, Art. Art, everybody.”
Mugwort grinned at him.
“Heya.” Shiarra waved her spoon in his general direction.
“Hi.” Art waved back.
“Now that we’re all friends,” Ta’Pan continued. “Dig in.”
Up until this time, Art had assumed his family was unique, as he’d never seen a group of people tear into food as ravenously as they did. If anything, the students did it just as fast, and with fewer manners to boot. Art felt briefly homesick, recalling many a fond memory of fighting over various turnip-based dishes, the shouting, the stabbings, and the broken crockery.
The familiar phrase “You gonna eat that?” whipped Art back to reality.
Mugwort was staring hopefully at his bowl, while Shiarra was actually just reaching for it.
Instinct took over. “Mine!” Art grabbed his bowl and began shoveling it in as fast as he could.
The entire meal was over, in maybe, five minutes. Dessert, which consisted of a couple skinny pieces of sugared bread, didn’t actually last long enough to register as a unit of time. All four students then retired to the sitting room, which consisted of a couple cushions on the floor.
“So,” Shiarra asked Art straight off, demonstrating her amazing powers of bluntness. “You don’t look like the warrior type. What’s your deal?”
“Well, you’re right. I don’t really want to be a warrior. A friend thought that Master Oddenstone might be able to answer some questions for me.”
“Like what?”
“Shiarra,” Ta’Pan cautioned. “That’s his business.”
She made semi-rude gesture in his direction. “Like what?”
“I’ve, uh, got this problem with a sword.”
“Can’t get it up, eh?” She managed to say this with an absolutely straight face.
Art sputtered. “No, no, there’s nothing wrong with . . . that.” He was fairly certain he was blushing.
Shiarra confirmed this. “Wow, you’re redder than a baboon’s butt!”
“Let the poor man be, Shiarra. He just got here.”
“Art’s all red!” Mugwort said, pointing.
“He won’t answer if he doesn’t want to,” Shiarra said to Ta’Pan, half-turning around.
“Be that as it may, he has a full day tomorrow; perhaps we should save the interrogation for later.”
“Art’s all red!” Mugwort repeated.
“Yes, thank you, Mugwort.” Ta’Pan rose. “Why don’t we all turn in early tonight, so as to be at our best tomorrow?”

San Diego Comic Con! '10

Well, we have been confirmed for the '10 San Diego Comic Con! Yes, you have to register that far in advance to get a table. We had a blast at this year's con, so we're looking forward to next years!

We will also be appearing at Emerald City Comic Con and Stumptown, and plan on attending the next Portland Comic Book Show as well.

In other news, it's still hellishly cold up here in the Northwest. I actually had the heat on this week, despite my usual 14-layers of clothes. I talked to my mom the other night (who lives in California) and she was complaining that it was dropping down to 50 where she was. I then pointed out that it was 17 the other morning up here. She just laughed and told me to move (preferably closer to her).

Look for a new Art the Wanderer this Sunday and the usual bloggy goodness the rest of the week.

Cheers,
-Jason

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men

Like many of you, I'm sure, I hate Christmas music. Oh, it's all right once or twice (and I love the Sinead O'Connor version of Silent Night), but by the second week of December, I want take a hammer to the radio.

These, though, are pure gold. It's Christmas music done with a Cthulhu theme. They sound exactly like 'regular' Christmas tunes, but then you listen to the words and bask in the warmth that is the promise of Cthulhu destroying the human race.

It's from the folks at HPLHS Bazaar, makers of many fine, Cthulhu products.

Bonus! I found a video on YouTube:


I also recommend 'It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men.'

Cheers,
-Jason

Very Very Not Warm

A strange thing happened this morning. I walked outside, humming a happy tune, fully prepared to go to work and be a productive member of the team. However, as I was locking my door, I noticed something odd.

It was very, very not warm.

“Huh,” I said to myself. “It’s a bit unlike hot.” I then realized that there were icicles already forming on my hair. A closer investigation revealed that it was not just icicles, but a solid layer of ice. In fact, my whole body was covered in a thick layer of the stuff and was rapidly turning blue.

I then made two important discoveries:

1. I had forgotten to towel off after my shower
2. I had forgotten not only pants, but my shirt as well

Moving was becoming difficult, so it took a moment for me to get the key back into the lock and unlock the door. As it swung open, I then noticed a ninja above my doorway, ninja-to ready to decapitate me. Or rather, he had been ready to decapitate me, as he’d frozen solid to the wall, his black ninja garb proving insufficient against the intense un-heat that the night had produced.

So, being the friendly sort that I am, I snapped him off and carried him inside. I set him by the heater and then sat down next to him to get the worse of the ice off. He twitched a bit as he thawed out and I checked on him periodically as I toweled off and put actual clothes on.

It turns out his name is Taro, which is like the Japanese version of ‘John’ or possibly ‘Humperdink.’ I give him full credit, as he did try to stab me when he had thawed out enough. I was prepared for this, though, and merely stepped out of the way because he hadn’t realized that in my haste to get him inside, I accidentally broken most of his toes off. This caused his lunge to fall far short and send him crashing into the carpet.

We then had a nice little chat about ninja duties and obligations, the idea of creating ‘goretex’ ninja garb, and lastly, how useful toes are when you suddenly don’t have any. However, I still had to go to work, so I asked Taro to let himself out and left for work (though he did politely remind me to put my shoes back on).

Anyway, it is incredibly the reverse of sweltering in the Seattle area and I made a new, albeit toeless friend. I’ll make sure to grab his toes when they finally fall off, as I’m sure he’d appreciate having them back.

Cheers,
-Jason

Art the Wanderer: Chapter 14: Part 1

After moving west for several days, Art was really hoping the innkeeper hadn’t been lying. His journey had taken him into a series of low hills, which bordered the Knobby Mountains. Wrath was wrapped in an old sack and lashed to the saddle, so to better prevent any more accidental eruptions. Their formerly amicable relationship had soured considerably, which was unsurprising considering that Art thought Wrath was a psycho, while Wrath thought Art was a gutless wonder.
Still, Art had to concede that it wasn’t really Wrath’s fault. It was a sword and the whole point of a sword was to kill people. It would be different if Wrath was a potato peeler, but then people rarely bother constructing magical, talking potato peelers, seeing as how a potato was unlikely to leap out of the basket and go for your jugular.
“Hey, Wrath,” Art called out, during a particularly boring stretch of countryside.
“What, are we on speaking terms again?”
“Not really. I was just wondering who made you.”
“She was called Emohoa the Enchanter.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, hence the female pronoun.”
“Why?”
“Well, when referring to someone, it’s generally useful to distinguish the gender of the individual. Therefore, we often use different pronouns to differentiate the sexes. Didn’t you ever go to school?”
“Yeah, I knew that.” Art made a face at Wrath, which was incredibly pointless. “Why did she create you?”
“For her boyfriend, a warrior named Ragash.”
“Ah. And how long ago was this?”
“Roughly a thousand years ago, more or less.”
“You don’t know for certain?”
“I spent a hundred or so years at the bottom of a lake. Kinda lost track of time.”
“And what happened to Ragash?”
“He died, eventually.”
“So you weren’t very useful.”
“Bite me! I’m Wrath the Undefeatable. My wielder cannot be bested in combat!”
Art, in fact, briefly considered biting Wrath, but didn’t think he could do sufficient damage to make it worthwhile. “So what’s that mean, your wielder cannot be bested in combat?”
“Do you work at being an idiot or does it just come naturally?”
“Up yours!” This was another particularly useless insult to use on a sword, seeing as how there was nothing to go up. “What exactly does that mean? Does it mean that your wielder can’t die or they can’t take any wounds, or what?”
“Exactly. When using me in battle, my bearer will always win, regardless of the odds.”
“So if five hundred bandits came over that ridge, I could take them all out using you.”
“Yes, though I cannot guarantee that you’d escape uninjured.”
“Which means?”
“I can defend my owner from a certain amount of harm, but I’m not perfect. If facing extreme numbers or an extremely skilled opponent, I cannot guarantee that I’ll prevent all injury.” There was a slight pause. “I never did get the hang of blocking arrows, so if you’re attacked by bowman, get behind something.”
Art thought about that. “What if I took a mortal wound in, say, the first five seconds? Would I still win?”
“I could sustain you for the duration of the fight and ensure your victory. Afterwards, however . . . “
“What? I’d die?”
“Yes, that sounds about right.”
“Great, you answered my question. Shut up now.”
“Yes, oh breast-obsessed one.”
Art guided Corsair on, though it wasn’t really necessary because the horse had somehow become quite good at walking in the correct general direction. Art was unsure if this was a trait all horses shared or if Corsair was special. He kind of hoped Corsair was indeed special, but at the same time, knowing his luck, if his horse were special it’d eventually turn into a giant slug or something. Or worse, start talking. Then he could ride along talking to his horse and his sword, which he was pretty certain would mean he would never, ever, ever, get a date.
Some days later, he came upon a small village, where he found out that Oxbow was indeed a real village, and that it lay still further west. The going became rougher at this point, as Oxbow lay at the foot of the mountains. This necessitated that Art purchase additional cold weather gear, as well as ropes and snowshoes. This was not a particular problem, as Art still had about a hundred and fifty dollars left from his original parting gift from everyone in Locklarn. He tried to spend as little as possible though, just in case he ran into a nice topless bar and was forced the buy lots of beer and tip generously.
Unfortunately for Art, he didn’t find any topless bars, though he did miss Oxbow by several miles and had to turn around when he found another village and got new directions. Thus, it took another good two and a half weeks to reach the little village, which was nestled innocuously in a mountain valley. Actually, Art was unsure if it actually qualified to be a village, seeing how it only had about thirty inhabitants even if you counted the dogs.
The first person Art saw was out tending sheep, a weathered old man who looked like a walnut with a nose.
He glanced up at Art’s approach and promptly pointed to the north. “It’s that way.”
“Pardon?”
“Oddenstone’s. It’s that way.”
“How’d you know I was looking for him?”
The old man gave him a sarcastic look. Or rather, Art assumed it was a sarcastic look. The old guy was so wrinkled and weathered it was hard to be certain. “A young guy with a horse travels all this way to visit Oxbow? Not likely. In all my years, the only people who bother to make the trek are here to see Oddenstone.”
“Okay.” This sounded perfectly reasonable to Art. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Does it look like I’ve got anything better to do?”
Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Art had no idea if that was on honest question or sarcasm. “So, can I ask you the question?’
The old guy rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
“Why’s the village called Oxbow? As far as I know, those generally only occur in relatively flat terrain.”
The old guy shrugged. “Dammed if I know.”
“Well, thanks anyway.” Art went north.
It wasn’t hard to find Oddenstone’s, seeing as how someone had thought to put up signage. His home proved to be a big manor with a large, walled courtyard, with several smaller buildings built along the inside of the wall. The door was a big, iron-banded affair that looked like it was designed to stop a battering ram, though a bell had been provided to announce oneself. Beneath the bell was a sign which read ‘No Solicitors.” Art was surprised that they would need such a sign way out here, but then thought about some of the salesmen he’d met and figured it was better safe than sorry.
Art rang the bell and waited. Then he rang it some more. Eventually, the door creaked open. A young man in his late twenties wearing a long brown robe regarded him impassively. “What?”
“Hi. My name’s Art the Wanderer and I wanted to talk to Master Oddenstone.”
The young man seemed unimpressed. “Why?”
“I wanted to ask him some questions.”
“Concerning?”
Art was starting to wonder if this individual could actually complete a sentence. “I’ve got this problem and thought he could help.”
The man stared at him blankly. “Are you selling anything?” he said after a minute or two.
“No”
“Oh, then come right in.” The man pushed the door open further and stepped aside, allowing Art to lead Corsair in. “I should warn you though,” he said as Art passed, “that if you are a salesman, I’ll have to kill you.”
“Nope, just have some questions.”
“Great. I am Ta’Pan, by the way.” He made a little bow.
“Art the Wanderer.” Art felt compelled to make a little bow back.
“Pleased to meet you. Let’s get your horse in the stable and then we can visit the Master.”

Rotund and Other Words

Apparently I’m fat.

Seriously.

Whilst in California for Thanksgiving, I ate out with various family members perhaps 8 times. There were roughly four lunches, two dinners, a breakfast, and one ‘random’ meal that just sort of happened when a taco truck crashed into my mother’s backyard.

Anyway, this is not about the food, it’s about the drinks. I always get a regular Coke (Pepsi, whatever). Every single time I got a refill, the waiter/waitress would ask if it was diet. This is pretty much how it went:

Waiter: Want a refill on that?

Me: Sure (hands glass over).

Waiter: That was a diet, right?

Me: Nope. Regular.

Waiter: Okay, I’ll be back with that diet refill in just a moment.

Me: No, regular.

Waiter: Diet.

Me: Regular.

Waiter: Diet.

Me: Reeeeggggggguuuuuulllllllaaaaaaarrrrrrrr.

Waiter: Dddddddiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeetttttt.

Me: Just bring me a water.

Waiter: Toilet water coming right up!

To make matters worse, 1 in 3 times they would still bring me diet. Now, I don’t think I’m that out of shape, but apparently, waiters in California think I am. I didn’t help that my fitness buff brother (he’s approximately 8% body fat) felt the need to point this out.

“Wow,” he would say. “Looks like the waiter’s trying to tell you something!” And then he’d flex and I’d die a little inside.

NOTE: Yes, we’re that mean to each other. It’s how we show affection.

So, I have decided to do something about this. No, I’m not going to exercise more. I’m going to make little stickers that say ‘Regular’ and tape them to the glass when I get it, so the waiter knows what I want.

And maybe stop eating out in California quite so much.

Cheers,
-Jason

Kinda Poopy

Sorry, folks. I'm feeling kinda poopy today, so no blog.

I did try to write one, but I kept coming back to the essential fact that I was wiped. For example:

How about those orcs, eh? They don't even get to go to the prom! I wonder if they ever feel poopy. Seriously. Do orcs get tired and achy? I sure do. I wonder if orcs have Sudafed? I do love Sudafed.

You get the picture.

I'll try and get a full blog up tomorrow, so stay tuned.

Cheers,
-Jason