Hail friends,
Another day. Another homocide. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The past few days have been time well spent yet uneventful. There's nothing more boring than snooping (literally) hundreds of packs waiting for a big score.The past few days, this is all I've been staring at.
(Note to self: If you ever end up depending on fletching as a main source of income, end life.)I sit and scratch and snoop and sniff and wait and wait and wait for my old friend john to show me that elusive heartwood runic fletcher's tools to smile back at me.
Hundreds of packs and a few days later...
"Heads, suicide. Tails, homocide." is all I can think about.
Despite logic, despite mercy, and despite all the other treasures that I could be missing out on, I drink heavily and return the next day.(It wasn't me!)
A murderer was on the loose! All that was left of my good friend john's body were his decomposing remains.
...
*looks around*
*performs CPR*
...
*squints eyes*
(Don't question my motives.)His tools, his kits, and his baggies... right where I left them. I snoop around.
But it looks like someone's already pilfered through his things.
Aside from some shoddy CPR that's recently been applied to his bones... the trail was cold. Much time has passed.
I dig deeper to search for clues......and find a prime suspect!
w'o'w, we meet again.
I wait around to get into position and find the ghost of john walking about.He says something about me "Looking like I was enjoying applying CPR a little too much. And the necrophelic fondling of his dead body was offensive and inappropriate."
(Or something like that.)
(I'm sure it was unimportant.)
...
john runs back north and leaves the two of us alone. (Now where was I?)Ah-ha!
(Now I remember.)
It wasn't the heartwood runic I was hoping for, but at this point I wasn't going to be picky. I wait for the quest giver elves to stray away to increase my chances of walking away from this endeavor without a halberd to the face... and make my move.(Success.)
(What's with w'o'w and Bird Slayers anyway?)
*shrugs*w'o'w goes to restock more boards and to find other fletchers to slaughter. I think about staying, but decide to take my earnings and be thankful for his contribution. To this day, he swears it wasn't him. But if not him, then who?
And from that day forward, the villagers of the world could no longer fletch in peace. 'Fear' was his weapon. And he wielded his weapon readily and often. For years upon years they dare not fletch alone. "Only fletch in public places." concerned fletchers' mothers would warn their children. "You're not a pussy if you run." pussified fletchers' fathers continue the pussification of their sons...
...and me?
I apply my "special CPR" to those in need, but I find more bodies than I care to remember... More bodies than one lone bird-slaying-talisman-loving fletcher could ever produce...?
*ponders*
(This will require further investigation.)
'Til next time!