Monday 12 September 2011 photo 7/9
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“The apparatus?" Sareb smiled knowingly and added, “You mean Mr. Sparkles?"
In a moment of weakness, Flummox had let the sylvari name his latest invention, and was now unsure if the sylvari had chosen the name out of innocence or amusement. “Yeah," he said through gritted teeth, “I mean…Mr. Sparkles."
Sareb began checking with the other wagon drivers while Flummox stomped forward in his fur-lined boots. He met the caravan leader about halfway to the front, flanked by the train’s only two guards—suspicious, nervous humans from Kryta.
The caravan leader was human as well. He had warm buttery skin and was sweating the way humans do when they are nervous, regardless of the temperature.
The human began, “We have a problem—"
“We have jotun," answered Flummox, “I know. Since when is that a problem?"
“They are making demands," burbled the human, “and we are not in any real position to refuse them."
Flummox made a mental census of the caravan: his own wagon being driven by Sareb, two wagonloads of shoes from Ascalon with disinterested drivers, a furtive rare-commodities trader with what looked like a stone coffin in the bed of his wagon, a refugee family fleeing the charr about two centuries too late, and the caravan master’s own wagon, complete with his accountant and two guards.
Flummox weighed the relative intelligence of the various members of his involuntary company and sighed. This group would feel threatened by a band of voracious rabbits, so the lesser giants of the Shiverpeaks would definitely be a bad thing. “Is your accountant around?" he asked.
“He’s being bandaged up," said the human. “The jotun leader tried to eat him."
“Which is why you’re not talking to the jotun yourself, I suppose," said Flummox.
The human made soft, bubbly noises and Flummox sighed, then stomped around him and headed for the jotun.
The jotun was a huge, corpulent beast, its heavy belt hanging over a woven belt, holding up a leather kilt of unknown provenance. It was lesser kin to the giants, and it towered over its surroundings, the muscles beneath its ruddy flesh bunching and spasming in the cold. It was generally humanoid, but its face was an abomination, a twisting of facial features dominated by a sharp-toothed, drooling, underslung jaw.
Flummox stomped up to the beast. Behind the jotun, in the swirling snow beyond the end of the steep valley, he could see large shadowy shapes, hunched over. Other jotun, kin or merely minions, trying to be sneaky.
“Who you?" said the jotun, its voice reminding Flummox of slush at the bottom of a mixer.
“The new negotiator," said Flummox. “I understand you ate the last one."
The jotun blinked at him and sounded almost hurt, “Only a little. We want toll."
“I’ll stay out of arm’s reach, if you don’t mind," said Flummox. “What do you want? Food? Gold? Paper lanterns?"
“Wagons," slurred the giantkin.
“Everything?" said Flummox, his revulsion only partly theatrical. “You don’t understand how highway robbery works. If you take everything, there isn’t anything for the next band of sentient-eating jotun to demand."
The jotun stood there, his lower jaw opening and closing in what passed for jotun thought. “Toll. Leave wagons. You can go."
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Annons
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