Failure IS an option
Не так давно давно состоявшееся обсуждение серии Baldur's Gate навеяло на меня некоторые воспоминания касательно второй части. У меня промелькнула мысль, что, в моих закромах давно уже имеется интереснейшая подборка всех (ну или предположительно всех) внутрикомандных диалогов второй части, которой я все порывался поделиться с общественностью. Так что я решил возобновить попытки, но, поскольку подборка эта весьма и весьма объемная, я решил пока что ограничиться цитатами из диалогов участников команды с одним единственным персонажем - наверное, одним из моих любимых действующих лиц во всей саге. Речь идет об эксцентричном гномьем изобретателе, авантюристе и торговце репой Яне Янсене:
Именно посвященный ему фрагмент вышеупомянутой подборки я и приведу в этой записи для ознакомления всеми желающими - достаточно справедливо, учитывая, что Янсен, наверное, самый болтливый из всех сопартийцев. Увы, надеюсь читатели меня простят, если я проведу очень поверхностное бетирование текста на наличие опечаток и наверняка пропущу многие из них. Ну и разумеется, я не возьмусь все это переводить - язык у многих персонажей Baldur's Gate (особенно у Янсена...) весьма замысловатый. Помнится, когда я впервые прочитал данную подборку сидя со словарем, я сильно расширил свой словарный запас... Тем не менее, надеюсь, кому-нибудь это покажется достаточно интересным, чтобы преодолеть языковой барьер.
И последнее пояснение, если кто-то будет задаваться соответствующими вопросами: "CHARNAME" - это обозначение для имени главгероя; пометка *TOB* - указание на то, что диалог из "Трона Баала", то есть происходит уже ближе к финалу истории.
Собственно, сама подборка, разделенная на подсекции в соответствии с участвующими персонажамиAerie
Aerie
Jan: So you come from the winged folk, do you lass?
Aerie: Yes - Yes sir.
Jan: No need to be formal, lassie. Call me Jan. I was recently reminded of my ex-brother in law, Burt Wonderkind, fabulous griffin-baiter.
Aerie: A ... A griffin-baiter?
Jan: Yes, of course. It’s something of a cottage industry amongst Amnish gnomes. Quite simple, I’ve heard. You merely tame a couple of wyverns and WHOOSH, tear through the sky to fling insults at the hapless griffins.
Aerie: Oh, I didn’t think you could tame a wyverns.
Jan: Really? Everyone I know has a pet wyvern. Taming wyverns is child’s play, literally. As children, we’d tame wyverns. It’s easy since they have such an affinity for turtles. Back in the old days it used to rain turtles on even days and frogs on odd days.
Aerie: Why, that’s ridiculous!
Jan: That’s what I thought until the drought hit. There were ornery wyverns everywhere. After a rich diet of turtle mash, you couldn’t expect them to accept bacon without eating a few human nobles, now, could you? Of course, by then, Burt was such a successful griffin-baiter that the authorities just couldn’t find it in their hearts to make us leash the wyverns. The loss of the noble class is truly a small price to pay in return for the continuity of such a fine sport. There’s nothing like the look of incredulity on a griffin’s face to keep one’s spirit up.
Aerie: I ... I wish I could fly. I haven’t been able to since I was a ... since I was a kid.
Jan: Don’t you worry, lass. If Burt ever comes by, we’ll get you up in the air faster than a chicken with one of Jan Jansen’s Flasher Master Bruiser Mates tied to his rear. Trust me, that is fast!
* TOB *
Aerie: You seem to be limping, Jan. Have you been hurt recently?
Jan: No, lass, I’m not hurt and the limp is not new. I’ve had it as long as you’ve known me. ‘Tis a wooden leg you see. I was smuggling crackers into Waterdeep several years back (The Council had outlawed them due to near constant cracker-related debauchery, you see... I couldn’t let THAT pass. The Council had sealed off all ports and mobilized the army to stop all cracker entry. The city was shut down, martial law was declared and people huddled in their homes for fear and want of crackers. I could not stand idly by while such persecution was visited on the somewhat innocent peoples of Waterdeep. So I smuggled crackers. Salted, unsalted, and herb-riddled alike, it mattered not. All came in and all were consumed in secret orgies of cracker-related tomfoolery. Then came the unpleasant business with the hanging. I hadn’t seen Picklefeather’s eyes bulge like that since that Wyvern kicked him in the ba... (Oops! Innocent elvish lass, have to watch the tongue) uh... in the arm. (Yes, that will do.) The moral of the story is, you reap what you sow. I still own a warehouse full of saltines. I send a box each year to all my friends. Seem to have fewer friends each year as a result, but that’s to be expected.
Aerie: What does that have to do with your wooden leg?
Jan: What wooden leg? I have no wooden leg!
Aerie: Grrrr! You’re IMPOSSIBLE!
Jan: Why yes, I suppose I am, at that. (grin)
Anomen
Anomen
Anomen: ‘Tis truly an adventure for the weak-willed. I’ve fought campaigns against the Hillgnasher giants, and slew twenty of the foul beasts.
Jan: Did I ever tell you the tale of the Lobotimized Orc, my good knight Anomen?
Anomen: You have not and I’ve no wish to hear it?
Jan: Well anyway, as a child my mammy would give us kids a bowl of gravel, which was all we could afford, and tell us this parable. Now listen, knighty, lest you be eating gravel. Twas once a heavily brained damaged Orc named Ano. Ano was trudging though the forest one day, looking for bull droppings with which he could stuff his mattress, when he happened across a remarkable scene. A brave and noble knight, Jen the Brilliant by name, fought with an evil giant. Ano watched as Jan slew the giant. Then the knight had ridden off to save several small children from a wicked witch, also known as a nobleman, who was attempting to poison the poor dears. Regardless, Ano promptly cut the head off of the fallen giant and ran home to his home in the Dung Orc village and claimed that he had killed the monster.
Anomen: I warn you, gnome. Cease your prattling immediately!
Jan: Did I tell you that Ano had a nasty habit of interrupting folk? Anyway, the giant’s brother heard of his siblings demise and the subsequent display of his head in Dung Town. He caught up to Ano, who was stupidly stuffing his mattress with bull dung, and returned to his cave with the orc stuffed through his belt. As punishment for his brother’s supposed murderer, he tied a porcupine with the orcs head and proceeded to clean his latrine with the makeshift orc brush. Much to the giant’s dismay, Ano actually enjoyed it. Fascinating tale, that! I love to tell it!
Anomen: I’ll suffer no insults from you, runtish one!
Jan: Calm yourself, Ano. There was no insult to you. It was merely a parable told to me by my dear departed mother.
Anomen: I shall not forget this, gnome! Your blood shall stain my blade, yet!
Jan: Whenever you wish to try it, Ano.
*TOB*
Jan: Anomen, my friend, I realize that I’ve been less than polite with you in the past and I wish to apologize.
Anomen: Verily, you have played me most false.
Jan: Indeed! All know that you’re an unrepetant ass. ‘Tis not my place to bring it up.
Anomen: Shut up, gnome.
Jan: Your ugliness, both in body and soul, although true, is inappropriate for discussion and rankly impolite. You’re stupid, poorly educated, and always smell faintly of lilacs, but it was wrong of me to bring attention to it.
Anomen: Silence before I CRACK YOUR SKULL!
Jan: Arrogant, drunken, whiny, pompous are common adjectives used to describe you, but I was wrong to say so. You are completely incapable of independent thought and soil yourself with regularity seldom found outside of a nursery. I shall no longer bring these things up in front of others. Well I’m glad that, despite your idiocy, you managed to grasp the concept of my apology and mumble some poorly-worded forgiveness. Cheers!
*TOB*
Jan: Anomen, I’ve been having such a lovely time and have thought to share some reflections with you.
Anomen: Say no more, gnome. Your jibes are meaningless to me. I am a knight and, as such, above your pettiness.
Jan: ‘Tis exactly the subject I wish to discuss. Now, it’s common knowledge that knights are cleric initiates who are too stupid and ugly to be presentable in church.
Anomen: You are but the buzzing of a fly and affect me not at all.
Jan: So, being a failed cleric ...
Anomen: I have failed at nothing! I was chosen to squire for my courage and nobility.
Jan: Of course you didn’t ‘fail’! They have to tell failures something to keep up blind obedience, that is to say, morale.
Anomen: Just leave me be you icky little man!
Jan: “Icky”?? (ha ha) Did you think of that on your own? (ha ha ha ha)
Cernd
Cernd
*TOB*
Jan: If you don’t mind my saying so, Cernd, you seem a bit jumpy around me. Do I ... unnerve you somehow?
Cernd: It is not you personally, though I am concerned with the gadgets you are fiddling with.
Jan: Ah, my flashers and such? Concerned they may be unbalancing? Unnatural? Unnaturally balancing?
Cernd: They do seem to harness more energy than such a small package could contain.
Jan: Nothing to be concerned of, I assure you. Only the finest of fillings find foothold in a fatabulous Jansen family flasher firework. Find fault and finances refunded free.
Cernd: Well, that aside, I’m sure that they are just a clever mixture of natural elements, though you’ll understand if I prefer to be a respectable distance when they are set off.
Jan: Oh, I would recommend it. Normally sedate Uncle Flippy turned into quite the conversationalist after getting a little too close to one. “WHAT!”, he would say, “WHAT! WHAT!” Not as comical as you might think. Now he’s taking complaints in a Waterdeep fest hall. (sigh) What do they say down there? ‘You got troubles? That and a gold piece will get you as far as Flippy hears.’
Edwin
Edwin
Edwin: Jan, your stories are filled with discrepancies, half-truths, and bafflegab. A woeful weaver of yarns you are for one so self-professed with the talents to do so.
Jan: Is there an epic begging for verse rattling about in your head Edwin?
Edwin: Nothing that could compete heartily with your cock-eyed narrative gems.
Jan: So, mageling, how goes the battle against all that is right and good in this world?
Edwin: (It would surely go better without annoying gnomes asking questions) Question not my designs, else you, too, will become an unwilling part of them.
Jan: I sometimes believe it is my destiny to become a part of some incompetent mages fizzled schemes. Golodon the Unmanned being a case in point. You, too, I suppose.
Edwin: Am I to be continually plagued by fools. Conversation with you does not rate highly on my list of things to accomplish. Run along, now. (Yes, that will do.)
Jan: Truth be told, I feel a bit sorry for you. It must be frustrating to see your entire life’s goals amount to absolutely nothing.
Edwin: What do you know of my goals, gnome?
Jan: If you say so. Let me know when it’s time to bow. I might not notice it.
*TOB*
Edwin: Out with it, gnome! I see that you are fabricating another of your fanciful lies as you look at me!
Jan: Oh, don’t get all huffy. It’s just that, at this angle you look a lot like my Uncle Ager of the Tomes.
Edwin: Ah, and I suppose he had a comical disfigurement, or his mind fell a few coppers short of a silver, or that his tremendous odor kept the stars afloat, or some other thinly disguised failing told ONLY to demean me in the eyes of others!
Jan: Eh, no, he was a mage. Tell me, Edwin, are you having trouble at home?
Edwin: (sigh) Go away, gnome. Go away.
Haer'Dalis
Haer'Dalis
Jan: Haerry, I have an idea for a play.
HaerDalis’: Please, Jan, my name is HaerDalis’.
Jan: You see, Haerry, Angus the Giant Beaver is ousted from his house and home by the Bullywag bullies to embark on an epic quest that takes him to the next pond.
HaerDalis’: Yes, epic. Go on.
Jan: No, no, no, this is only the beginning. Along the way, he encounters Gurgen the Hormonal Moose and a friendship quickly develops between the two, seeing them through times of great trial and tribulation, though the friendship also caused a great deal of trial and tribulation, as you can well imagine.
HaerDalis’: What, if I may ask, is a moose?
Jan: Too late, I’m already on to great trials and tribulations - Think of it, Haerry, such broad and vital themes. Anyhow, the moose catches a curious and ultimately fatal disease and Angus, as a final testament to the friendship, enshrines him within a wooden tomb in the middle of the lake, before throwing himself in the lake to drown.
HaerDalis’: Jan, beavers can’t drown. They spend half their life underwater.
Jan: There’s no point in arguing, Haerry. It’s a true tale and if you have any doubt, you can ask my great-aunt Apo Pettiwick, who never married. It all happened in her back yard when she ran the farmer’s market that sold turnips in Thundertree, just upstream of Neverwinter.
HaerDalis’: Pray I never go there, Jan. Pray I never go there.
*TOB*
Jan: Haerry, could I draw upon your bardic prowess to help me with a little poem I’m working on? It’s a tribute to our fearless leader.
HaerDalis’: I truly wish you would call me by my proper name, Jan. But I shall be happy to collaborate with you on such an epic subject.
Jan: Great, Haerry. I knew I could count on you. I’m off to a pretty good start but I need rhymes for ‘purple’, ‘orange’, and ‘silver’.
HaerDalis’: Ah, well ... perhaps you are focusing too much on colors, Jan. Mayhaps we could take this ballad in a different direction.
Jan: Okay, I’ll work on that stanza myself. Maybe you can help me with the next verse. What’s a good rhyme for ‘bucket’?
HaerDalis’: One does spring readily to mind ... Listen, my would be sparrow, I do not mean to give offense but perhaps you could let me work with the composition and add my own brand of subtle wit to the mix.
Jan: Ah, Haerry, let’s just forget about it. I was born a storyteller, and a storyteller I’ll remain until the day I die. I’m not poet, and I never will be.
HaerDalis’: Normally I would encourage an artist such as yourself to branch out, but in this case abandoning the genre may be for the best.
Imoen
Imoen
*TOB*
Imoen: You know, Jan ... I was listening to a story you were telling a little earlier. I thought it was quite fascinating.
Jan: Indeed? Well, I must say I’ve never quite looked at goat cheese quite the same way again. And neither did poor Gilbert. Or any of his cats.
Imoen: And neither will (CHARNAME), the way (HE or SHE) was groaning. Your story did remind me of a story I heard in Candlekeep, though.
Jan: Oh? A new story? My, my ... you’ve got the tiniest toes on my gnomish feet wiggling like Aunt Petunia trying to get into her Sunday dress. Let’s hear it.
Imoen: Well, it just reminded me of the bowl of goat’s milk that old Winthrop used to put outside his door every evening for the dust devils. He said that dust demons could never resist goat’s milk, and that they would always drink themselves into a stupor and then be tired to enter his room ... that way he would never have to spend any time dusting because his room was always be clean.
Jan: Ingenious! Go on.
Imoen: It turns out that dust devils gossip a lot, and tales of Winthrop’s nightly goat milk would spread. So along comes this three-armed Balor (There’s a longer story about why the Balor had only three arms, and besides the fact he was nicknamed ‘Smart Mouth’ by the greater powers of the Abyss I won’t go into it any more than that.) who flies into Candlekeep in the middle of the night and storms his way over the Winthrop’s cell and drinks the milk. The Balor, however, has mis-heard the gossip and thought he was drinking the milk of a pregnant Glabrezu. Don’t ask me why.
Jan: Well, he must have been disappointed. I know I would have been.
Imoen: Indeed, he was. He put up such a fuss and a racket, pounding on the door to Winthrop’s cell, that he woke up just about everyone in the keep. Including Gorion, who usually slept very soundly and didn’t wake up very well, anyway. Well, Gorion was all groggy and thought the keep was under attack and just about blew the roof off with a series of fireballs and lightning bolts. (CHARNAME) was so scared (HE or SHE) cried like a baby.
Jan: Hhmph. I don’t blame (HIM or HER). Uncle Scratchy once did something similar with a bad mixture of turnip stew and vinegar, but the smell was probably worse.
Imoen: Gorion was terribly angry. He was grumbling and (CHARNAME) was bawling, people were running around everywhere ... it was a terrible scene. They banned goat’s milk from the keep, which meant that Winthrop had to dust his own room after that point and taught him a lesson about trying to get out of work, as well.
Jan: Hmmmn. What happened to the Balor?
Imoen: Oh. The monks bought him off with a tome of jokes about baatezu. I hear he’s been touring the Abyss ever since. Gets heckled a lot, but what do you expect for a comedian in hell?
Jan: Hmmn. Hmn. Alright. Yes, very good job there, lass. At least one turnip reference might be called for in the future, but all-around well done.
Imoen: (giggle) I’ll keep that in mind.
Jaheira
Jaheira
Jaheira: You look quite interested in the local fauna, Jan.
Jan: Oh, yes indeed. It reminds me of my cousin, Tyllie Fleetknees, and the garden she had at the foot of a dryad tree in the Forest of Wyrms. I tell you, she went up expecting well-aerated soil and did she get a surprise? Oh yes indeed! Why, I remember it was burned into my memory like a flaming stick, which was very close to the truth actually ...
Jaheira: Jan.
Jan: Er ... yes?
Jaheira: Not now.
Jan: Ahh ... of course.
*TOB*
Jan: You know, Jaheira, in all our travels, your smile has eluded me.
Jaheira: Oh, come now. Certainly I reserve my emotions for matters of greater import but ...
Jan: That is the thing. Perhaps I have moved you on occasion, but any fleeting glimmer of a smile is gone before it properly lights the room.
Jaheira: Well, have you a relative that might remedy the situation?
Jan: Eh, perhaps illustrating the horror of unappreciated storytelling? Well ... I had an Uncle Richard that tried to bring nude theater to a festival in Waterdeep ... Exposure is usually good for an actor’s career, but even so, a cold reception for the play caused the cast to shrink steadily. Blackballed, my uncle tried to recruit from the thieves’ guild, but they wouldn’t let their nickers go. ‘Just bare with me.’, he would say, but they were afraid of being stripped of their dignity. He gave up the lead to attract new members, and eventually the production’s genius was uncovered, even with his part left out.
Jaheira: Ah ...
Jan: Verdict?
Jaheira: Not ... one of your best. (snicker)
Jan: They can’t all take the brass ring.
Jaheira: Keep trying?
Jan: I will if you will, my dear.
Keldorn
Keldorn
Keldorn: One must maintain constant disciple and remember the four principles of virtue ... that is my motto and everlasting burden.
Jan: Virtue, eh knighty?
Keldorn: Indeed, little one. ‘Tis not virtuous to refer to me as ‘knighty’.
Jan: Another human with his shorts in a knot. But I digress. Anyway, Keldy, my mother wrote a book on virtue.
Keldorn: Did she?
Jan: Oh yes, a book on the virtues of erotic love. “Sins of the Flesh Golem”, it was called. Excellent sales in the paladin’s spouse market.
Keldorn: A wholly inappropriate jest, Jan. You should be ashamed.
Jan: It is no jest. I’ll send you a copy, if your wife does not already have one.
Keldorn: Never speak of my wife, gnome. Your lack of respect is appalling.
Jan: Ah, now I see. One of THOSE.
Keldorn: It is not your place to judge my affairs. You must learn to respect your leaders.
Jan: I do respect my leaders. This has nothing to do with them. This reminds me of the chapter where the paladin first makes passionate love to the flesh golem. What a beautiful scene...
Keldorn: Begone, gnome, lest my honor demand that I perform which acts that you shall regret.
Jan: “Fleshy, honey,” the paladin said. “Yes, baby?” the golem said ...
(After Jan is resurrected)
Jan: Greetings, everyone. No gifts or souvenirs this time, but I’ll keep you all in mind the next time I’m gone. Oh, Keldorn: the gods say ‘hi’ and that you should wash your underwear more thoroughly. Everyone ready? Let’s go adventuring.
Keldorn: Master Jansen, are you so absolutely incapable of acknowledging the seriousness of our situation?!
Jan: Acknowledged and accounted for - as serious as a turnip blight in winter. Nasty rotten thing that is ... Keldorn, have you ever considered renting out your services as a turnip healer? You would be more than popular, I assure you.
Keldorn: The abilities granted to be by my faith are not for sale, especially not for something as foolish and as - as vegetal as a - a turnip!
Jan: You remind me of a top my great-uncle on my father’s side made for me as a child. You just wound it up and let it go - it was as if it had an ‘auto-wabble’ setting or some such thing. So, are we ready for adventuring, everybody?
Keldorn: Oh, never mind. I’ll stand elsewhere, gnome, lest your constant talk put me to sleep.
*TOB*
Jan: So Keldorn, while we’re on the subject of adult diapers, you’re getting on in years, aren’t you?
Keldorn: What in the blazes are you about, Jan? We were on no such topic!
Jan: Well, it’s just that as Uncle Stinky was nearing your age he was prone to a terrible diaper rash. I thought you, too, might be suffering in noble knightish silence. No man should face diaper rash alone.
Keldorn: ‘Uncle Stinky’? (sigh) He was called this because of the diapers, I suppose?
Jan: No, ‘twas the fish heads that earned him that moniker. Real name is Rooctal or Sloobal or something. I can’t recall. Why, as Pappy used to say, “If you can’t join ‘em, take your boot and -
Keldorn: Gods! (CHARNAME), do I strike you as a stupid man?
(CHARNAME): Why do you ask?
Keldorn: I continue to be conversationally pummeled by the gnome. He’s still talking isn’t he?
(CHARNAME): Yes.
Jan: - which is really the reason I had the donkey to begin with. Good luck with the rash.
Korgan
Korgan
*TOB*
Jan: Korgy old pal, have I ever told you how much you remind me of my uncle, Uriah Twin-Hammers?
Korgan: Watch yer step, gnome. If ye make me angry, I’ll bury the head of me axe so far up yer backside yer breath will smell like magic metal!
Jan: That’s exactly the kind of thing Twin-Hammers would say. He was a ruthless, savage, bloodthirsty outlaw who would kill anyone or anything that got in his way. He used to repeatedly terrorize a certain gnomish village he frequently wandered through in his neverending quest for profit and bloodshed.
Korgan: A man after me own black heart! Carry on, gnome ... ye got me blood stirrin’!
Jan: Of course, all good things come to an end. Fed up with Uriah’s antics, the village hired a hero to protect them and enforce the law - the legendary Clint Hackman (so named for his habit of chopping his foes to little bits). With the townsfolk peering from their windows the outlaw and the famous lawman stared each other down in the center of the dusty, deserted street. Cold as ice, Uriah said: ‘I’ve killed women and children. I’ve killed everything that walks or crawls on this earth. And now I’m here to kill you.’ Alas, Uriah met his end on that street. With his first blow he broke his hammer on Hackman’s shield, and that was it. Weaponless, he wasn’t much of a match for the mighty Clint. If my uncle had only been named Two-Hammer because he carried two weapons he still might be alive today. But Uriah got his nickname for the mighty hammer he carried in his belt and the even mightier ... uh, ‘hammer’ he had *beneath* his belt, if you get my drift. A fine instrument to have, but not much good in a fight.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! ‘Tis a good thing ye know yer audience, gnome ... me axe stays in my belt.
*TOB*
Korgan: ‘Tis been far too long since our last battle. Jan, ye runty windbag, tell me a story to ward off the boredom ... and if ye know what’s good for ye, it’ll be about dwarves!
Jan: Ah, finally someone who appreciates my tales! A tale about dwarves, eh? Let me see, of course - my cousin Kimble. Not a dwarf himself per say, but Kimble always was of peculiar tastes for a gnome. He fell in love with a dwarven lass. She was stout and stocky, with a gruff voice and a soft, supple beard ...
Korgan: Ah, gnome, ye know how to paint a lovely picture ... such a beauty she must ha’ been!
Jan: Oh yes, she was a fine looking woman ... to Kimble’s eyes at least. She cast a spell on him far stronger than any sorcerer could have. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with my cousin - she had dwarven princes and clan lords after her calloused hands, and she couldn’t be bothered with a dirt poor turning farming gnome. But Kimble’s heart wouldn’t be denied ... he left his own family to follow this bewitching character back to her clan home.
Korgan: Yer losin’ me gnome, I don’t want no weeping love story. I want killin’ and death! Give me blood!
Jan: You wanted a story about dwarves, and this is the only one I’ve got. I just can’t make up a life, you know ... that would be an affront to the grand tradition of storytelling in my family! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Kimble. My cousin followed the lovely dwarven lass to her clan home in the Alimir Mountains, and started a turnip farm there. He had a rough go of it at first, let me tell you ... taxes, levies, zoning restrictions. It was almost like the dwarves didn’t want him and his farm there. But they never had turnips, so they didn’t really know what they were missing. One of those turnips started to sprout things, changed in a hurry. Turns out the dwarves of that particular clan LOVED turnips. Fried, baked, boiled, pureed, mashed - you couldn’t find a meal of the day they didn’t have turnips with. Turnips became so fashionable they began to wear clothes made from turnips. Never did a dwarf look so snazzy (or smell so appetizing) as when he dressed up in a turnip top hat and turnip tails, with turnip skin shoes to complete the ensemble. And with his turnip business booming, Kimble had more wealth than he knew what to do with. Just walking around his house was an effort, what with all the mountains of gold spilling out of every door of every room.
Korgan: All that gold got me attention, gnome. But the happy ending isn’t doin’ much for me.
Jan: Happy ending? I never said any such thing. Kimble was rich, true enough - but it turns out his dwarven love didn’t share her clans’ fondness for turnips. In fact, she was deathly allergic. She did her best to avoid the lethal vegetables, but as popular as Kimble’s crops were it was only a matter of time before she accidentally ate one. It killed her, of course. Heartbroken, Kimble tried to return to his own people. But the dwarves just weren’t going to let him and his turnips leave. They threw him in prison and demanded he reveal the secrets of turnip farming, but that isn’t something you can just teach. You either have the gift or you don’t, and dwarves don’t. In the end Kimble’s frail body succumbed to the dwarves’ torture and interrogation and he left to join his beloved in the afterlife. And that particular dwarven clan discovered that turnip farmers were almost as tasty as turnips themselves. Or so I’ve heard.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! A great tale, gnome. Ye done yerself proud!
Mazzy
Mazzy
Mazzy: All of the evil in the world cannot keep one from admiring the beauty of the earth.
Jan: Very true, lassie. You must work with potatoes.
Mazzy: How might one make that assumption?
Jan: Hmm? Oh, I thought it was obvious. Never had you pegged for a slow one, but you never can tell. Allow me to spell it out ... you see, about 15 years ago I was employed by a mage of no small caliber. Golodon the unmanned was his name. Good teeth. Nice smell. Vicious streak a mile wide.
Mazzy: This is not making any sense, Jan.
Jan: He couldn’t have any children, course. Nasty cone of cold accident, you see. Regardless, his tower wasn’t far from Athkatla and I managed to gain employment with the old elf for a while. Mondays were particularly amusing. He would start the day off by summoning an imp. He’d usually spend 3 or 4 hours making it run around the room barking like a dog. But, as it was with Golodon, he soon tired of the sport. He had a beautiful mastiff named Buffy. Her diet consisted almost entirely of imps. Imp doesn’t taste half-bad when it’s fried with a bit of garlic and butter. Goes well with turnips, too.
Mazzy: What, pray tell, does this have to do with the presumption that I work with potatoes?
Jan: Oh, right. So anyway, Golodon’s ex-wife lived no more than 200 paces away from the mage’s tower. My primary job was poisoning her food, though occasionally I’d have to clean up Buffy’s excrement. She managed to build quite the resistance to mandrake. Golodon’s ex-wife that is, not the dog. It was truly a magical time in my life. I haven’t been as happy poisoning somebody since then. I was also, of course, poisoning Golodon on his ex-wife’s behalf. She did pay handsomely. Word has it that Golodon has finally kicked the bucket, if you get my drift. Died of malaria complicated by a fireball down his throat. Apparently, Golodon’s old nemesis returned. Dradu or Dradeen or some such name. The old bastard would occasionally mention this enemy when he was particularly drunk. The two of them had stolen some valuable artifacts from the gibbering twelve. Golodon blackjacked poor Dradunce and split with the magic. He later realized that he should have killed Dreedle and, cold-hearted fool that he was, sent assassins to finish the job. Drafeel disappeared, though his body was never found. It worried Golodon to no end.
Mazzy: Perhaps we should be concentrating on our journey, good gnome.
Jan: I can’t find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. He did fire me after all. Do you know why?
Mazzy: I neither know nor care.
Jan: That was a bit rude. I take my potato comment back, missy!
Mazzy: Where in the heavens did this potato remark arise in the first place?
Jan: I don’t know if I’m talking to you anymore.
Mazzy: Fine, fine! I’d rather not hear the story anyway.
Jan: If you must know, it was during my time as a mobile turnip vendor.
Mazzy: Jan, though I respect you, I must say that you are quite infuriating. Please desist, we have things to accomplish.
Jan: Twice a week I’d head out to the country to pick up my product. The turnip fields were owned by my Uncle Scratchy. Interesting fellow, by the way. Remind me to tell you about him some time.
Mazzy: Are you even listening to me?
Jan: Each trip I made, I would stop to talk to the hafling lass that worked in Uncle Scratchy’s potato operation. The girl had had a very difficult life. She lost her parents to an orc attack when she was just a girl. She’d been a slave for the foul beasts until Aunt Petunia freed her. The girl told me that, now matter how much evil she saw or had been inflicted upon her, the simple pleasure of honest work and the feel of the earth beneath her feet always reminded her of how lucky she really was. Her outlook was not unlike your own, dear Mazzy.
Mazzy: A noble tale in the end, Jan, though I’m continually puzzled by your need to inflict 20 minutes of inane yarns on your listeners before getting to the point.
Jan: And that, lassie, is why you are not a consummate tale-spinner. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you yet.
Mazzy: Jan, I find you to be quite the enigma. This adventure has yielded us a crop of useful magical items and yet you turn your considerable powers to the never-ending quest to create the perfect turnip peeler. How can someone who’s so clever be so shortsighted?
Jan: Well, Mazzy you’re really asking two questions there. My shortsightedness was passed on to me by my dear departed father. I was born with the condition and I’ll thank you not to stare! As to your other question, it takes me back to my days as a carefree deckhand on a turnip merchant galleon. We sailed for Waterdeep, we did, braving foul seas, foul tempers and a band of foul turnip pirates.
Mazzy: You are mentally incapable of answering a straight question, aren’t you gnome?
Jan: ‘Twas on a cold winter’s night near the beginning of the Great Underwear Shortage when we set sail. I danced naked on the poop deck, which was the custom at the time. Well, my nose and other extremities were getting frosty so I gathered up the tatters of my poor, abused, underwear and headed to the crow’s nest.
Mazzy: Shutup, shutup, shutup, shutup!!!
Jan: Well, I never! You did ask, after all.
Mazzy: SHUTUP!!!!
*TOB*
Jan: Mazzy, dear ... have I ever told you about my dear Aunt Petunia the ranger?
Mazzy: Yes, Jan. I have already heard that tale, thank you.
Jan: Really? Are you quite sure? This is the one where she ...
Mazzy: Yes, that’s the one. One of your best, but I have heard it before.
Jan: Well then, let me regale you with tales of my years as a ...
Mazzy: I have heard that one as well, Jan.
Jan: But I didn’t even say anything! Ah, here’s one I KNOW you haven’t heard. Back when I was ...
Mazzy: I am sorry to disappoint you, Jan, but I have already heard that one, too.
Jan: A-HA! I made up that one just to test you, Mazzy! There is no such story.
Mazzy: You mean to say that you have been telling us falsehoods this whole time, Jan? I am so very, very disappointed in you. Since you admit to your dishonesty, I can no longer in good conscience listen to your stories ever again.
Jan: Huh ... that really didn’t go the way I expected.
Minsc
Minsc
Jan: Minsc! Look out! Behind you!
Minsc: Where? He who sneaks on Minsc loses teeth!
Jan: C’mon Boo! Quickly, to Jan!
Minsc: Stop it! Boo is not for you, tiny! You’ll hurt him!
Jan: He likes me. Gnomes are far cuddlier than oafish humans.
Minsc: No, I know best when talking of Boo. If you could hear his wishes would agree, but you cannot. The words of Boo are for Minsc alone.
Jan: You can’t fault a fellow for trying.
Minsc: I can and will. And another thing; no more sneaking Boo crackers. He is getting rather portly, and the crumbs make for an itchy bedroll.
Jan: Ah, Minsc! ‘Tis truly a beautiful day, no?
Minsc: Weather is nice, maybe.
Jan: It is day to get out into the world, breathe the fresh air.
Minsc: (grunt)
Jan: Too bad, though ...
Minsc: What is too bad?
Jan: It’s too bad that I won’t live to enjoy it.
Minsc: What do you mean?
Jan: Haven’t you heard, old friend. I’ve got the Calimshan itch. Alas, poor Jan! (sob, sob)
Minsc: An itch? Can you not scratch it?
Jan: Only death will cure this itch. I shall not live out the day. Oh, terrible powers of the heavens! Why will you let me die without granting me a final wish? Cruel, cruel fates!
Minsc: What can Minsc do to help? A tragedy this is! I will slay those who need slaying!
Jan: I do have one final wish ... no, no. I do not wish to burden my companions with my death. My teensy-weensy wish is unimportant. Travel on, Minsc. Carry the torch and so forth.
Minsc: It is only fair, big-nosed little one. We will do all that we can to aid you.
Jan: Truly, it is a small thing. As a child I had a pet hamster, named Spanky. Those were the only pure days in my life. Every day was perfection. Oh, the pain! If I could just hold a hamster while I die, perhaps I could capture the innocence of my youth and die a happy gnome.
Minsc: You will not steal Boo from me! I know your tricks!
Jan: Tis no trick. (cough, cough) Nevertheless, you are correct about one thing, my oafish friend. I do not deserve happiness. Please, leave me to my excruciatingly painful death. I am close now ... Spanky, I miss you!
Minsc: Boo shall comfort the dying gnome for a moment. Only a moment!
Jan: Ah, thank you, Minsc. May I have a moment alone?
Minsc: Alone? No, I draw the line ... hey! Stand still! I warn you!
Jan: At last Boo is mine! I cannot believe this stupid trick worked. Come, noble hamster, a life of frivolity awaits.
Minsc: I’ll throttle with own arms if you do not return him this instant! This is no longer amusing! It was never amusing! I am not laughing!
Jan: Alright, alright. I was only a jest, Minscy. I meant no harm.
Minsc: That’s right, you apologize! It’s hard enough keeping Boo’s roaming in check without you stealing him. Bad Jan! There will be a booting if this happens again!
*TOB*
Jan: Oh my, my, my ... I had the strangest dream last night, Minscy. I dreamt a wizard snuck into our camp, and cast a spell that made you and I switch identities.
Minsc: Such a thing would be a nightmare indeed - Minsc could not even fit into your tiny clothes! I have no wish to walk naked through these strange lands ...
Jan: Just our minds were switched, Minscy. You were me and I was you. Oh my ... what if it wasn’t a dream? What if it was real? What if you’re really me, and I’m really you? Suddenly I feel sort of funny ... HAMSTERS AND RANGERS AND HEROES TOGETHER!
Minsc: What is this? The puny gnome speaks with the wrath and rage of a Rasheman warrior? Boo, I am confused ...
Jan: I AM FED UP WITH YOUR WILY TRICKS YOU uh ... uh ... PIPSQUEAK! GIVE ME BACK MY HAMSTER OR uh ... uh ... OR FEEL THE WRATH OF MY uh ... uh ...THE WRATH OF MY MIGHTY uh ... BOOT! (Yes, that will do).
Minsc: Can this be true? Am I but the sneaky little gnome inside Minsc’s great, big body? ... No! This is not right! Minsc is not Jan ... Minsc is Minsc! Minsc is Minsc, Boo is Boo, and you are a naughty, naughty gnome!
Jan: Okay Minscy, settle down. You win. Just a little existential prank is all - no hard feelings I hope. (Hmmm ... I really thought that would work ...)
Minsc: Your trick may have worked, tiny one, had Boo not saved me from confusion. Boo thinks, therefore I am. Remember that before you tempt my wrath by trying to steal my hamster again!
*TOB*
Minsc: Boo? Boo ... where are you?
Jan: What’s the matter, Minscy? Did you lose (snicker) ... lose (giggle) ... lose something?
Minsc: You! The tiny, tricky gnome! Minsc knows it was you who stole Boo! You cannot fool Minsc! What is that bulge moving about within your trousers?
Jan: This bulge here? Why that’s (ha-ha) that’s nothing. I’m just happy to see you, Minscy. (giggle) Oh, those tiny feet tickle so.
Minsc: I hear Boo’s tiny squeaking! Ho-ho! He is growing angry, little man. Release Boo from his little drawers lest his sharp teeth nibble on your naughty bits in his outrage!
Jan: Boo would never do such a thing ... uh, at least I hope he wouldn’t. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s a chance I’m not willing to take. Here you go, Minscy - Boo’s yours again, safe and sound.
Minsc: Ah, Minsc and Boo together again! Jan, you are not worthy of having a miniaturised giant space hamster scampering loose in your pants.
Jan: Ah, I suppose there are precious few of us indeed who are truly worthy of that particular honor.
Nalia
Nalia
Nalia: All this travelling is beginning to wear on me ... I can’t remember the last time I walked so much in a single day. Hah ... it’s something my Aunt should try, I think, instead of being hauled about in her gilded carriage.
Jan: Nalie, dearie, you remind me so much of Cletus Bifflelips, my second cousin, thrice removed.
Nalia: I don’t think that I could be very much like a person named Cletus.
Jan: You wouldn’t think so, yet here we are. You see, Cletus had a propensity for bouts of violent projectile vomiting. We’d call him, Cletus the Room Clearer Bifflelips.
Nalia: Please, Jan! This is too ridiculous, even for you!
Jan: Now just bear with me for a moment, Nali. You see, it was after one such bout that Cletus, feeling ill, took a painful stroll down to the local witch-woman, in the vague hope that she might have a cure for his problem. After paying the 1000 gold piece consulting fee and vomiting in the proffered bucket, the witch gave Cletus an herbal tea, which he was to drink twice per day for a score of days. Drinking it everyday on schedule, yet failing to notice any change in his condition, Cletus began to worry. Upon finishing his final cup of tea, Cletus vomited.
Nalia: This is disgusting, Jan.
Jan: No need to force your ridiculously high standards on poor, deceased Cletus.
Nalia: I’m sorry. His illness killed him, did it?
Jan: Actually, he’s not dead. I made that part up. Well, needless to say, Cletus was somewhat angry so he went back to confront the witch. She had, of course, taken the money and left town. But in her haste to escape the vomiting wrath of Cletus Bifflelips, the witch left behind her belongings. Cletus, at the height of his anger, swiped her entire collection of novels written by noted folklorist, Nalia de Bouche. I’ll be the first to admit that revenge was not Cletus’ forte.
Nalia: Honestly, Jan, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
Jan: Well, they can’t all be gems. ‘Tis one of my favorites, however.
*TOB*
Jan: Nalia, my dear, you’ve been positively morose of late. Probably from studying all those scrolls. You remind me of Gorion ... prior to his addiction to poppy seed muffins, of course.
Nalia: Jan, I’m really not in the mood for any silliness. W’ere here with a purpose.
Jan: Exactly! And I’ve been recording (CHARNAME)’s adventures in a suitably epic story. Ending’s not clear but the rest is dynamo. Maybe you can help me come up with a title?
Nalia: (sigh) Why not just call it, ‘adventures of (CHARNAME)’ or something like it? I’m no writer, Jan, I probably can’t help you.
Jan: Nonsense! You just need the proper inspiration. Hmm ... maybe, ‘The Bhaal Cabal’? How about ‘Fall of the Bhaal Cabal’?
Nalia: Yes, fine. Use that.
Jan: How about, ‘Fall of the Bhaal Cabal Hall’? Oo! I know! ‘Fall of All the Bhaal Cabal from the Tall Wall of the Hall.’ Yes! Yes, perfect!
Nalia: (giggle!) You’re incorrigible, Jan.
Jan: Now *there’s* a smile I like to see!
Sarevok
Sarevok
*TOB*
Jan: You know, Binky, I’ve been considering this plan of yours that you had with the Iron Throne and all that. Interesting ideas ... but flawed.
Sarevok: Binky? You had best not be addressing me, gnome.
Jan: For instance, whose idea was it to put impurities in the iron? Sounds like the lame idea of some yes-man underling who didn’t know when to quit. No doubt you had him flogged.
Sarevok: I will not have my past commented upon by the likes of you, churl. Quiet yourself, lest you experience worse than mere flogging.
Jan: Speaking of a good flog, I’m brought to mind of poor Aunt Sara. She, too, had a master plan to take over the Sword Coast, you know. Although hers was considerably less dramatic and involved the use of tasty recipes for turnip pie and some mind-altering herbs that Auntie Sara had bought from a rather disreputable Turmish mage.
Sarevok: Are you listening to *nothing* I say!? Desist or suffer the consequences!
Jan: Do you think she would listen to use. You can trust a Turmish mage as far as you can kick him ... and even then it’s not a bad idea to carry around a good thumping stick. But, alas, Auntie Sara just cackled on in her most villain-like way and was determined to carry on with her plan to hypnotize the whole Sword Coast. Alas, she was completely undone by an over-the-top exposition she gave to a spy that she had captured ... and who subsequently escaped, of course, before she could have him killed. It’s what villains do, I understand, when they’re not busy defiling iron.
Sarevok: I will not be mocked, gnome! This is your last warning!
Jan: Of course, they say that Duke Eltan had already had a bit of Auntie’s pie and enjoyed it immensely. Rather than become hypnotized, he just became rather pleasantly obsessed with silken undergarments. This, of course, led to the first Great Underwear Shortage. It’s also known as the Three-Year-Wedgie, but that’s another story completely.
Sarevok: AUUUUGHHH!! How maddening! How can you put up with such impudence, (CHARNAME)!!
*TOB*
Sarevok: I’ve been thinking, gnome ... about a certain trading deal my stepfather made several years ago.
Jan: Your stepfather, eh? Was he a megalomaniac as well? Must have been quite a merchant. Was he into crate building, perchance? Everywhere I look I see crates ... business must be lucrative.
Sarevok: My stepfather was with the Iron Throne. He once negotiated for a very lucrative land deal with a gnome named Count Turnipsome, as I recall.
Jan: Ah, yes. I know the fellow. Handsome young gnome, apple of his mother’s eye. Wealthy, debonaire, beloved by all. Your stepfather was a fortunate man to have met him.
Sarevok: I wouldn’t say the same. The land the Count sold him turned out to be useless swampland overrun by umber hulks and bugbears. My stepfather was almost ejected from the Iron Throne as a result.
Jan: Now that sounds like quite a tragedy. Tsk. There are some mighty crooked people out there. Gnomes, even. Just terrible.
Sarevok: I swore that I would take instant revenge on that gnome if I ever saw him.
Jan: Well, it’s ummm ... it’s a good thing for him you never have, hm?
Sarevok: No doubt. I’ve been saving some rather excruciating torture techniques for the occassion.
Jan: Uhh ... yes, yes. I see. (ahem!) I’ll just go stand by (CHARNAME) for a while. Nothing personal, I just felt the wind change.
Valygar
Valygar
Jan: So Valygar, how do you like being a ranger?
Valygar: You are going to tell me another of your insipid stories, aren’t you?
Jan: Well if you’re asking, then yes. It happens that my Aunt Petunia is a ranger, don’t you know?
Valygar: No, I wasn’t aware that your aunt is a ranger. (sigh)
Jan: She had the standard followers: a hydra, a shadow dragon, and a solar. She had the dragon trained to roll over, play dead and fetch dwarves. She called him Blackie I believe. Loved to run and play and lie in the sun.
Valygar: Of course.
Jan: Long and far she’d roam, with Larry the Solar always at her side, fighting evil, mocking druids and the like.
Valygar: Mmm hmm.
Jan: Anyway, my point is that Petunia and Larry were out for a stroll in the woods. She was wearing her fruit armor at the time, which was the style at the time, you understand. Aunt Petunia always kept up with style.
Valygar: It goes without saying.
Jan: Larry had a nasty case of the plague ...
Valygar: Oh, is it that time now? I’m afraid I have to take point now. You know how (CHARNAME) is about keeping on schedule.
Jan: Very well. We’ll continue this story at the next opportunity.
Valygar: I can’t wait.
Jan: Hmm. You know, all of this reminds me of my dear old mother. Did I ever tell you of my mother, Valygar?
Valygar: I’ve no interest in hearing of your mother, gnome. Or any mother, for that matter.
Jan: Oh, come now, surely it can’t all be that bad? Mothers are the most benevolent force in the world, caring for you and cradling you from birth until death. What could be wrong with a story about dear old mother?
(I could see Valygar’s outburst a mile away)
Valygar: Let me tell you a story, Jan, about MY mother. She fell to our family curse young, toying with magic, sinking half our family fortune into ancient texts and scrolls. She was obsessed with it. Even my father could barely drag her away from her studies. She practically ignored me from the day I was born.
Jan: Er ...
Valygar: She didn’t regret her neglect until after my father died. She became so anguished she reanimated him, and went insane trying to lavish attention on his zombie. Ultimately she entered undeath with him, and I was forced to destroy them both lest they do more harm. I was crying as I did so. So how is that, gnome? Is that the kind of story you were thinking of? Does it compare to the wonderful story of your mother?
Jan: Ah, no, no. I think that is quite sufficient, thank you.
*TOB*
Valygar: You look as though you have something to say to me, Jan. (sigh) You might as well say it ... the sooner we get this over with the better.
Jan: I was just thinking how much you remind me of my cousin Gabber. Ironic name his parents gave him, never said a word till the day he died. Caught a case of the Tethyr Tongue Gout from eating an unwashed turnip when he was a babe. Poor little Gabber’s tongue shrivelled up like an honest Amnian merchant’s purse. Turned him into the strong, silent type ... kind of like you, Valygar.
Valygar: There is nothing wrong with my tongue, gnome. I just choose not to tire it out with a constant stream of pointless stories.
Jan: My stories aren’t pointless! Now where was I? Oh, that’s right, Gabber. His tongue was nothing but a long, skinny piece of flesh by the time the disease was done with it. But Gabber was determined to learn to talk. He did tongue exercises and tongue stretches everyday, and his tongue kept getting longer and more nimble the more he worked with it. They say he was able to pick locks with his unusual appendage, though I have never had the privilege of witnessing that feat myself. By the time he was a young man he could flick that thing a full two feet in front of his face and make the tip twirl like a Calim veiled dancer. Too bad he came to such a tragic ending. Gabber wasn’t much of a looker, you know, and he couldn’t say a word with that freakishly long tongue of his. But for some inexplicable reason the ladies loved him. In the end, that was what did him in. Nomis Stormfingers, and extremely large and jealous village smith, found my cousin in a compromising position with Mrs. Stormfingers. Nomis reached inside Gabber’s tongue, yanked that long lingua out, looped it around his throat and strangled him with it. Lynched him with his own tongue, if you can believe it.
Valygar: I have no idea what you expect me to say after such a ridiculous story.
Jan: Of course not! That’s why you remind me so much of Gabber - you’re both tongue tied.
Valygar: *groan* Excuse me, Jan I have to ... uh, I need to ... I just have to go far away from you now.
Viconia
Viconia
Jan: So, Viconia, I suppose you must be a drow, eh?
Viconia: Speak not to your betters, surface slave.
Jan: My brother, Elgar Buttercup, had skin the shade of charcoal, too. Well, technically it WAS charcoal. He died in a nasty fire, you see.
Viconia: You do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you gnome?
Jan: My own voice? Heartless wench! Do you not know? I am deaf! I have never heard the sound of my own voice. I read lips ... (sob) ... only lips.
Viconia: Deaf? Truly? In the Underdark the deaf are killed or used in pain threshold experiments.
Jan: I heard that! In fact, it reminds me of the time I was eaten by an avatar of Lolth. I was stuck inside her stomach with a miserable drow called Biffle Chump for days. Of course, I was forced to eat him. A matter of survival, you understand. Nothing personal. He tasted a bit like chicken.
Viconia: (CHARNAME), how is it that you travel with such a wee buffoon?
(CHARNAME): Hey, don’t look at me! You got him started.
Jan: What I would have given for just a pinch of pepper!
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.
Or
(CHARNAME): Truthfully, it all goes back to the time that Jan’s cousin, Plooty paladin-piper, got caught in a nasty flesh golem eating contest ...
Jan: Aye, Plooty had a way of attracting golems. Brilliant, really. You start with a saucer of milk - golems are suckers for milk ...
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.
*TOB*
Viconia: Jan. While I would be tempted to let this situation play itself out, perhaps it is best if I warn you now.
Jan: Yeeeessss, my dusky little margarita? What warning would that be?
Viconia: You have a venomous spider on your neck. A lovely creature, known to cause an agonizing, blood-curdling death within moments of injecting its nerve poison.
Jan: You know, this reminds me of the time Uncle Scratchy laid me flat with the handle of a horseman’s flail. ‘Look behind you!’, he says. ‘Why? What’s behind me?’, I say. ‘A Tiberian Dung Beetle!’, he cries, looking frantic. So of course I scream in terror and look behind me ... and lost a bag of the most scrumptuous turnips to ever come out of Scornubel. Ma Jansen was furious and the lump was more painful than six weeks with the Calimshite Itch.
Viconia: Oh, look. There it goes down the back of your shirt.
Jan: And then there was that time I took a drow at his word. ‘Bifflechips’, says I, ‘you had better be telling the truth.’ And, of course, he swore up and down that he was. Needless to say, not four weeks later I was stewing in the lower intestines of a giant cave wyrm without even so much as a torch or a sense of irony. I would have been a goner if gnomes weren’t known for causing severe bouts of intestinal gas.
Viconia: I wouldn’t squirm about so much, you foolish jaluk. You’re likely to anger it, and I have no spells to counteract its particular poison.
Jan: Now, if I had a copper for every time - eh, wait a second. I feel something ... who’s behind me? What *is* that back there?
Viconia: Did I not try to tell you? No doubt it is sinking its fangs into your gamey flesh as we speak.
Jan: What? But I -ouch! AHHHH! AHHHH, NOOO! I’M TOO YOUNG A GNOME TO DIE!! HELP ME, SOMEONE! AN ANTIDOTE, AN ANTIDOTE!! PAIN GIVES ME GAS! AHHHH!! I DON’T WANT TO - eh? Wait a minute, that’s a fly. A dead fly. You mean I ripped off my own shirt for nothing?
Viconia: Ha ha! Sometimes life has its little rewards. Even for the drow.
Jan: You’re a cruel, cruel woman, Viconia. Garl help me, but I am so turned on right now.
Viconia: Alright, now I’m leaving.
Yoshimo
Yoshimo
Yoshimo: Excuse me, good gnome. I’ve a question that I’ve been meaning to ask for some time. These flash-bombs of yours ...
Jan: Yoshimo! Please! ‘Jan Jansen’s Flasher Master Bruiser Mates!’ They have a name!
Yoshimo: Of course. These ‘Bruiser Mates’ that you construct ... might I learn how to use them?
Jan: I won’t lie to you, Yoshimo. There’s an excellent chance that you’ll lose both your arms. Perhaps even your face.
Yoshimo: If one is not willing to take the risks than one is not much of an adventurer.
Jan: Well said! As Aunt Kylie use to say, ‘Yeah, it’s risky! But they’ve got gelatinous cubes!’ I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have you try your hand at a few. Here, give the dial a twist and throw it.
Yoshimo: Mmm ... perhaps I shall wait to perform such a feat. This ... bomb ... looks most unstable. I am surprised they do not explode in your pack, good gnome ...
Jan: Bite yer tongue! This is my best and most potent recipe I’ll have you know. Aunt Kadie, herself, helped me mix this batch up, and I’ll not have you disparaging her good name.
Yoshimo: I meant no disparagement, Jan ... but I think I’ll leave the bombing to you, for now.
Yoshimo: Jan, I have heard that you are an adventurer of sorts. Where do your interests lie in the field?
Jan: I’m open to all creative muses. Lately I’ve been working on a turnip peeler. A magical device, of course, designed to peel 100 turnips a minute. I’m really quite close to a breakthrough. Naturally, however, it does cost well over 100 pieces of gold per day to run. But think of the uses?
Yoshimo: Why, turnip peeling, for one.
Jan: Exactly! You’ve got a knack for logical thinking, Yoshi. You could go far in the service of Gond.
Может быть в будущем размещу аналогичную вырезку по другим любимым мною персонажам второй части: вроде Эдвина, Йошимо или, может, Маззи.
Именно посвященный ему фрагмент вышеупомянутой подборки я и приведу в этой записи для ознакомления всеми желающими - достаточно справедливо, учитывая, что Янсен, наверное, самый болтливый из всех сопартийцев. Увы, надеюсь читатели меня простят, если я проведу очень поверхностное бетирование текста на наличие опечаток и наверняка пропущу многие из них. Ну и разумеется, я не возьмусь все это переводить - язык у многих персонажей Baldur's Gate (особенно у Янсена...) весьма замысловатый. Помнится, когда я впервые прочитал данную подборку сидя со словарем, я сильно расширил свой словарный запас... Тем не менее, надеюсь, кому-нибудь это покажется достаточно интересным, чтобы преодолеть языковой барьер.
И последнее пояснение, если кто-то будет задаваться соответствующими вопросами: "CHARNAME" - это обозначение для имени главгероя; пометка *TOB* - указание на то, что диалог из "Трона Баала", то есть происходит уже ближе к финалу истории.
Собственно, сама подборка, разделенная на подсекции в соответствии с участвующими персонажамиAerie
AerieJan: So you come from the winged folk, do you lass?
Aerie: Yes - Yes sir.
Jan: No need to be formal, lassie. Call me Jan. I was recently reminded of my ex-brother in law, Burt Wonderkind, fabulous griffin-baiter.
Aerie: A ... A griffin-baiter?
Jan: Yes, of course. It’s something of a cottage industry amongst Amnish gnomes. Quite simple, I’ve heard. You merely tame a couple of wyverns and WHOOSH, tear through the sky to fling insults at the hapless griffins.
Aerie: Oh, I didn’t think you could tame a wyverns.
Jan: Really? Everyone I know has a pet wyvern. Taming wyverns is child’s play, literally. As children, we’d tame wyverns. It’s easy since they have such an affinity for turtles. Back in the old days it used to rain turtles on even days and frogs on odd days.
Aerie: Why, that’s ridiculous!
Jan: That’s what I thought until the drought hit. There were ornery wyverns everywhere. After a rich diet of turtle mash, you couldn’t expect them to accept bacon without eating a few human nobles, now, could you? Of course, by then, Burt was such a successful griffin-baiter that the authorities just couldn’t find it in their hearts to make us leash the wyverns. The loss of the noble class is truly a small price to pay in return for the continuity of such a fine sport. There’s nothing like the look of incredulity on a griffin’s face to keep one’s spirit up.
Aerie: I ... I wish I could fly. I haven’t been able to since I was a ... since I was a kid.
Jan: Don’t you worry, lass. If Burt ever comes by, we’ll get you up in the air faster than a chicken with one of Jan Jansen’s Flasher Master Bruiser Mates tied to his rear. Trust me, that is fast!
* TOB *
Aerie: You seem to be limping, Jan. Have you been hurt recently?
Jan: No, lass, I’m not hurt and the limp is not new. I’ve had it as long as you’ve known me. ‘Tis a wooden leg you see. I was smuggling crackers into Waterdeep several years back (The Council had outlawed them due to near constant cracker-related debauchery, you see... I couldn’t let THAT pass. The Council had sealed off all ports and mobilized the army to stop all cracker entry. The city was shut down, martial law was declared and people huddled in their homes for fear and want of crackers. I could not stand idly by while such persecution was visited on the somewhat innocent peoples of Waterdeep. So I smuggled crackers. Salted, unsalted, and herb-riddled alike, it mattered not. All came in and all were consumed in secret orgies of cracker-related tomfoolery. Then came the unpleasant business with the hanging. I hadn’t seen Picklefeather’s eyes bulge like that since that Wyvern kicked him in the ba... (Oops! Innocent elvish lass, have to watch the tongue) uh... in the arm. (Yes, that will do.) The moral of the story is, you reap what you sow. I still own a warehouse full of saltines. I send a box each year to all my friends. Seem to have fewer friends each year as a result, but that’s to be expected.
Aerie: What does that have to do with your wooden leg?
Jan: What wooden leg? I have no wooden leg!
Aerie: Grrrr! You’re IMPOSSIBLE!
Jan: Why yes, I suppose I am, at that. (grin)
Anomen
AnomenAnomen: ‘Tis truly an adventure for the weak-willed. I’ve fought campaigns against the Hillgnasher giants, and slew twenty of the foul beasts.
Jan: Did I ever tell you the tale of the Lobotimized Orc, my good knight Anomen?
Anomen: You have not and I’ve no wish to hear it?
Jan: Well anyway, as a child my mammy would give us kids a bowl of gravel, which was all we could afford, and tell us this parable. Now listen, knighty, lest you be eating gravel. Twas once a heavily brained damaged Orc named Ano. Ano was trudging though the forest one day, looking for bull droppings with which he could stuff his mattress, when he happened across a remarkable scene. A brave and noble knight, Jen the Brilliant by name, fought with an evil giant. Ano watched as Jan slew the giant. Then the knight had ridden off to save several small children from a wicked witch, also known as a nobleman, who was attempting to poison the poor dears. Regardless, Ano promptly cut the head off of the fallen giant and ran home to his home in the Dung Orc village and claimed that he had killed the monster.
Anomen: I warn you, gnome. Cease your prattling immediately!
Jan: Did I tell you that Ano had a nasty habit of interrupting folk? Anyway, the giant’s brother heard of his siblings demise and the subsequent display of his head in Dung Town. He caught up to Ano, who was stupidly stuffing his mattress with bull dung, and returned to his cave with the orc stuffed through his belt. As punishment for his brother’s supposed murderer, he tied a porcupine with the orcs head and proceeded to clean his latrine with the makeshift orc brush. Much to the giant’s dismay, Ano actually enjoyed it. Fascinating tale, that! I love to tell it!
Anomen: I’ll suffer no insults from you, runtish one!
Jan: Calm yourself, Ano. There was no insult to you. It was merely a parable told to me by my dear departed mother.
Anomen: I shall not forget this, gnome! Your blood shall stain my blade, yet!
Jan: Whenever you wish to try it, Ano.
*TOB*
Jan: Anomen, my friend, I realize that I’ve been less than polite with you in the past and I wish to apologize.
Anomen: Verily, you have played me most false.
Jan: Indeed! All know that you’re an unrepetant ass. ‘Tis not my place to bring it up.
Anomen: Shut up, gnome.
Jan: Your ugliness, both in body and soul, although true, is inappropriate for discussion and rankly impolite. You’re stupid, poorly educated, and always smell faintly of lilacs, but it was wrong of me to bring attention to it.
Anomen: Silence before I CRACK YOUR SKULL!
Jan: Arrogant, drunken, whiny, pompous are common adjectives used to describe you, but I was wrong to say so. You are completely incapable of independent thought and soil yourself with regularity seldom found outside of a nursery. I shall no longer bring these things up in front of others. Well I’m glad that, despite your idiocy, you managed to grasp the concept of my apology and mumble some poorly-worded forgiveness. Cheers!
*TOB*
Jan: Anomen, I’ve been having such a lovely time and have thought to share some reflections with you.
Anomen: Say no more, gnome. Your jibes are meaningless to me. I am a knight and, as such, above your pettiness.
Jan: ‘Tis exactly the subject I wish to discuss. Now, it’s common knowledge that knights are cleric initiates who are too stupid and ugly to be presentable in church.
Anomen: You are but the buzzing of a fly and affect me not at all.
Jan: So, being a failed cleric ...
Anomen: I have failed at nothing! I was chosen to squire for my courage and nobility.
Jan: Of course you didn’t ‘fail’! They have to tell failures something to keep up blind obedience, that is to say, morale.
Anomen: Just leave me be you icky little man!
Jan: “Icky”?? (ha ha) Did you think of that on your own? (ha ha ha ha)
Cernd
Cernd*TOB*
Jan: If you don’t mind my saying so, Cernd, you seem a bit jumpy around me. Do I ... unnerve you somehow?
Cernd: It is not you personally, though I am concerned with the gadgets you are fiddling with.
Jan: Ah, my flashers and such? Concerned they may be unbalancing? Unnatural? Unnaturally balancing?
Cernd: They do seem to harness more energy than such a small package could contain.
Jan: Nothing to be concerned of, I assure you. Only the finest of fillings find foothold in a fatabulous Jansen family flasher firework. Find fault and finances refunded free.
Cernd: Well, that aside, I’m sure that they are just a clever mixture of natural elements, though you’ll understand if I prefer to be a respectable distance when they are set off.
Jan: Oh, I would recommend it. Normally sedate Uncle Flippy turned into quite the conversationalist after getting a little too close to one. “WHAT!”, he would say, “WHAT! WHAT!” Not as comical as you might think. Now he’s taking complaints in a Waterdeep fest hall. (sigh) What do they say down there? ‘You got troubles? That and a gold piece will get you as far as Flippy hears.’
Edwin
EdwinEdwin: Jan, your stories are filled with discrepancies, half-truths, and bafflegab. A woeful weaver of yarns you are for one so self-professed with the talents to do so.
Jan: Is there an epic begging for verse rattling about in your head Edwin?
Edwin: Nothing that could compete heartily with your cock-eyed narrative gems.
Jan: So, mageling, how goes the battle against all that is right and good in this world?
Edwin: (It would surely go better without annoying gnomes asking questions) Question not my designs, else you, too, will become an unwilling part of them.
Jan: I sometimes believe it is my destiny to become a part of some incompetent mages fizzled schemes. Golodon the Unmanned being a case in point. You, too, I suppose.
Edwin: Am I to be continually plagued by fools. Conversation with you does not rate highly on my list of things to accomplish. Run along, now. (Yes, that will do.)
Jan: Truth be told, I feel a bit sorry for you. It must be frustrating to see your entire life’s goals amount to absolutely nothing.
Edwin: What do you know of my goals, gnome?
Jan: If you say so. Let me know when it’s time to bow. I might not notice it.
*TOB*
Edwin: Out with it, gnome! I see that you are fabricating another of your fanciful lies as you look at me!
Jan: Oh, don’t get all huffy. It’s just that, at this angle you look a lot like my Uncle Ager of the Tomes.
Edwin: Ah, and I suppose he had a comical disfigurement, or his mind fell a few coppers short of a silver, or that his tremendous odor kept the stars afloat, or some other thinly disguised failing told ONLY to demean me in the eyes of others!
Jan: Eh, no, he was a mage. Tell me, Edwin, are you having trouble at home?
Edwin: (sigh) Go away, gnome. Go away.
Haer'Dalis
Haer'DalisJan: Haerry, I have an idea for a play.
HaerDalis’: Please, Jan, my name is HaerDalis’.
Jan: You see, Haerry, Angus the Giant Beaver is ousted from his house and home by the Bullywag bullies to embark on an epic quest that takes him to the next pond.
HaerDalis’: Yes, epic. Go on.
Jan: No, no, no, this is only the beginning. Along the way, he encounters Gurgen the Hormonal Moose and a friendship quickly develops between the two, seeing them through times of great trial and tribulation, though the friendship also caused a great deal of trial and tribulation, as you can well imagine.
HaerDalis’: What, if I may ask, is a moose?
Jan: Too late, I’m already on to great trials and tribulations - Think of it, Haerry, such broad and vital themes. Anyhow, the moose catches a curious and ultimately fatal disease and Angus, as a final testament to the friendship, enshrines him within a wooden tomb in the middle of the lake, before throwing himself in the lake to drown.
HaerDalis’: Jan, beavers can’t drown. They spend half their life underwater.
Jan: There’s no point in arguing, Haerry. It’s a true tale and if you have any doubt, you can ask my great-aunt Apo Pettiwick, who never married. It all happened in her back yard when she ran the farmer’s market that sold turnips in Thundertree, just upstream of Neverwinter.
HaerDalis’: Pray I never go there, Jan. Pray I never go there.
*TOB*
Jan: Haerry, could I draw upon your bardic prowess to help me with a little poem I’m working on? It’s a tribute to our fearless leader.
HaerDalis’: I truly wish you would call me by my proper name, Jan. But I shall be happy to collaborate with you on such an epic subject.
Jan: Great, Haerry. I knew I could count on you. I’m off to a pretty good start but I need rhymes for ‘purple’, ‘orange’, and ‘silver’.
HaerDalis’: Ah, well ... perhaps you are focusing too much on colors, Jan. Mayhaps we could take this ballad in a different direction.
Jan: Okay, I’ll work on that stanza myself. Maybe you can help me with the next verse. What’s a good rhyme for ‘bucket’?
HaerDalis’: One does spring readily to mind ... Listen, my would be sparrow, I do not mean to give offense but perhaps you could let me work with the composition and add my own brand of subtle wit to the mix.
Jan: Ah, Haerry, let’s just forget about it. I was born a storyteller, and a storyteller I’ll remain until the day I die. I’m not poet, and I never will be.
HaerDalis’: Normally I would encourage an artist such as yourself to branch out, but in this case abandoning the genre may be for the best.
Imoen
Imoen*TOB*
Imoen: You know, Jan ... I was listening to a story you were telling a little earlier. I thought it was quite fascinating.
Jan: Indeed? Well, I must say I’ve never quite looked at goat cheese quite the same way again. And neither did poor Gilbert. Or any of his cats.
Imoen: And neither will (CHARNAME), the way (HE or SHE) was groaning. Your story did remind me of a story I heard in Candlekeep, though.
Jan: Oh? A new story? My, my ... you’ve got the tiniest toes on my gnomish feet wiggling like Aunt Petunia trying to get into her Sunday dress. Let’s hear it.
Imoen: Well, it just reminded me of the bowl of goat’s milk that old Winthrop used to put outside his door every evening for the dust devils. He said that dust demons could never resist goat’s milk, and that they would always drink themselves into a stupor and then be tired to enter his room ... that way he would never have to spend any time dusting because his room was always be clean.
Jan: Ingenious! Go on.
Imoen: It turns out that dust devils gossip a lot, and tales of Winthrop’s nightly goat milk would spread. So along comes this three-armed Balor (There’s a longer story about why the Balor had only three arms, and besides the fact he was nicknamed ‘Smart Mouth’ by the greater powers of the Abyss I won’t go into it any more than that.) who flies into Candlekeep in the middle of the night and storms his way over the Winthrop’s cell and drinks the milk. The Balor, however, has mis-heard the gossip and thought he was drinking the milk of a pregnant Glabrezu. Don’t ask me why.
Jan: Well, he must have been disappointed. I know I would have been.
Imoen: Indeed, he was. He put up such a fuss and a racket, pounding on the door to Winthrop’s cell, that he woke up just about everyone in the keep. Including Gorion, who usually slept very soundly and didn’t wake up very well, anyway. Well, Gorion was all groggy and thought the keep was under attack and just about blew the roof off with a series of fireballs and lightning bolts. (CHARNAME) was so scared (HE or SHE) cried like a baby.
Jan: Hhmph. I don’t blame (HIM or HER). Uncle Scratchy once did something similar with a bad mixture of turnip stew and vinegar, but the smell was probably worse.
Imoen: Gorion was terribly angry. He was grumbling and (CHARNAME) was bawling, people were running around everywhere ... it was a terrible scene. They banned goat’s milk from the keep, which meant that Winthrop had to dust his own room after that point and taught him a lesson about trying to get out of work, as well.
Jan: Hmmmn. What happened to the Balor?
Imoen: Oh. The monks bought him off with a tome of jokes about baatezu. I hear he’s been touring the Abyss ever since. Gets heckled a lot, but what do you expect for a comedian in hell?
Jan: Hmmn. Hmn. Alright. Yes, very good job there, lass. At least one turnip reference might be called for in the future, but all-around well done.
Imoen: (giggle) I’ll keep that in mind.
Jaheira
JaheiraJaheira: You look quite interested in the local fauna, Jan.
Jan: Oh, yes indeed. It reminds me of my cousin, Tyllie Fleetknees, and the garden she had at the foot of a dryad tree in the Forest of Wyrms. I tell you, she went up expecting well-aerated soil and did she get a surprise? Oh yes indeed! Why, I remember it was burned into my memory like a flaming stick, which was very close to the truth actually ...
Jaheira: Jan.
Jan: Er ... yes?
Jaheira: Not now.
Jan: Ahh ... of course.
*TOB*
Jan: You know, Jaheira, in all our travels, your smile has eluded me.
Jaheira: Oh, come now. Certainly I reserve my emotions for matters of greater import but ...
Jan: That is the thing. Perhaps I have moved you on occasion, but any fleeting glimmer of a smile is gone before it properly lights the room.
Jaheira: Well, have you a relative that might remedy the situation?
Jan: Eh, perhaps illustrating the horror of unappreciated storytelling? Well ... I had an Uncle Richard that tried to bring nude theater to a festival in Waterdeep ... Exposure is usually good for an actor’s career, but even so, a cold reception for the play caused the cast to shrink steadily. Blackballed, my uncle tried to recruit from the thieves’ guild, but they wouldn’t let their nickers go. ‘Just bare with me.’, he would say, but they were afraid of being stripped of their dignity. He gave up the lead to attract new members, and eventually the production’s genius was uncovered, even with his part left out.
Jaheira: Ah ...
Jan: Verdict?
Jaheira: Not ... one of your best. (snicker)
Jan: They can’t all take the brass ring.
Jaheira: Keep trying?
Jan: I will if you will, my dear.
Keldorn
KeldornKeldorn: One must maintain constant disciple and remember the four principles of virtue ... that is my motto and everlasting burden.
Jan: Virtue, eh knighty?
Keldorn: Indeed, little one. ‘Tis not virtuous to refer to me as ‘knighty’.
Jan: Another human with his shorts in a knot. But I digress. Anyway, Keldy, my mother wrote a book on virtue.
Keldorn: Did she?
Jan: Oh yes, a book on the virtues of erotic love. “Sins of the Flesh Golem”, it was called. Excellent sales in the paladin’s spouse market.
Keldorn: A wholly inappropriate jest, Jan. You should be ashamed.
Jan: It is no jest. I’ll send you a copy, if your wife does not already have one.
Keldorn: Never speak of my wife, gnome. Your lack of respect is appalling.
Jan: Ah, now I see. One of THOSE.
Keldorn: It is not your place to judge my affairs. You must learn to respect your leaders.
Jan: I do respect my leaders. This has nothing to do with them. This reminds me of the chapter where the paladin first makes passionate love to the flesh golem. What a beautiful scene...
Keldorn: Begone, gnome, lest my honor demand that I perform which acts that you shall regret.
Jan: “Fleshy, honey,” the paladin said. “Yes, baby?” the golem said ...
(After Jan is resurrected)
Jan: Greetings, everyone. No gifts or souvenirs this time, but I’ll keep you all in mind the next time I’m gone. Oh, Keldorn: the gods say ‘hi’ and that you should wash your underwear more thoroughly. Everyone ready? Let’s go adventuring.
Keldorn: Master Jansen, are you so absolutely incapable of acknowledging the seriousness of our situation?!
Jan: Acknowledged and accounted for - as serious as a turnip blight in winter. Nasty rotten thing that is ... Keldorn, have you ever considered renting out your services as a turnip healer? You would be more than popular, I assure you.
Keldorn: The abilities granted to be by my faith are not for sale, especially not for something as foolish and as - as vegetal as a - a turnip!
Jan: You remind me of a top my great-uncle on my father’s side made for me as a child. You just wound it up and let it go - it was as if it had an ‘auto-wabble’ setting or some such thing. So, are we ready for adventuring, everybody?
Keldorn: Oh, never mind. I’ll stand elsewhere, gnome, lest your constant talk put me to sleep.
*TOB*
Jan: So Keldorn, while we’re on the subject of adult diapers, you’re getting on in years, aren’t you?
Keldorn: What in the blazes are you about, Jan? We were on no such topic!
Jan: Well, it’s just that as Uncle Stinky was nearing your age he was prone to a terrible diaper rash. I thought you, too, might be suffering in noble knightish silence. No man should face diaper rash alone.
Keldorn: ‘Uncle Stinky’? (sigh) He was called this because of the diapers, I suppose?
Jan: No, ‘twas the fish heads that earned him that moniker. Real name is Rooctal or Sloobal or something. I can’t recall. Why, as Pappy used to say, “If you can’t join ‘em, take your boot and -
Keldorn: Gods! (CHARNAME), do I strike you as a stupid man?
(CHARNAME): Why do you ask?
Keldorn: I continue to be conversationally pummeled by the gnome. He’s still talking isn’t he?
(CHARNAME): Yes.
Jan: - which is really the reason I had the donkey to begin with. Good luck with the rash.
Korgan
Korgan*TOB*
Jan: Korgy old pal, have I ever told you how much you remind me of my uncle, Uriah Twin-Hammers?
Korgan: Watch yer step, gnome. If ye make me angry, I’ll bury the head of me axe so far up yer backside yer breath will smell like magic metal!
Jan: That’s exactly the kind of thing Twin-Hammers would say. He was a ruthless, savage, bloodthirsty outlaw who would kill anyone or anything that got in his way. He used to repeatedly terrorize a certain gnomish village he frequently wandered through in his neverending quest for profit and bloodshed.
Korgan: A man after me own black heart! Carry on, gnome ... ye got me blood stirrin’!
Jan: Of course, all good things come to an end. Fed up with Uriah’s antics, the village hired a hero to protect them and enforce the law - the legendary Clint Hackman (so named for his habit of chopping his foes to little bits). With the townsfolk peering from their windows the outlaw and the famous lawman stared each other down in the center of the dusty, deserted street. Cold as ice, Uriah said: ‘I’ve killed women and children. I’ve killed everything that walks or crawls on this earth. And now I’m here to kill you.’ Alas, Uriah met his end on that street. With his first blow he broke his hammer on Hackman’s shield, and that was it. Weaponless, he wasn’t much of a match for the mighty Clint. If my uncle had only been named Two-Hammer because he carried two weapons he still might be alive today. But Uriah got his nickname for the mighty hammer he carried in his belt and the even mightier ... uh, ‘hammer’ he had *beneath* his belt, if you get my drift. A fine instrument to have, but not much good in a fight.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! ‘Tis a good thing ye know yer audience, gnome ... me axe stays in my belt.
*TOB*
Korgan: ‘Tis been far too long since our last battle. Jan, ye runty windbag, tell me a story to ward off the boredom ... and if ye know what’s good for ye, it’ll be about dwarves!
Jan: Ah, finally someone who appreciates my tales! A tale about dwarves, eh? Let me see, of course - my cousin Kimble. Not a dwarf himself per say, but Kimble always was of peculiar tastes for a gnome. He fell in love with a dwarven lass. She was stout and stocky, with a gruff voice and a soft, supple beard ...
Korgan: Ah, gnome, ye know how to paint a lovely picture ... such a beauty she must ha’ been!
Jan: Oh yes, she was a fine looking woman ... to Kimble’s eyes at least. She cast a spell on him far stronger than any sorcerer could have. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with my cousin - she had dwarven princes and clan lords after her calloused hands, and she couldn’t be bothered with a dirt poor turning farming gnome. But Kimble’s heart wouldn’t be denied ... he left his own family to follow this bewitching character back to her clan home.
Korgan: Yer losin’ me gnome, I don’t want no weeping love story. I want killin’ and death! Give me blood!
Jan: You wanted a story about dwarves, and this is the only one I’ve got. I just can’t make up a life, you know ... that would be an affront to the grand tradition of storytelling in my family! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Kimble. My cousin followed the lovely dwarven lass to her clan home in the Alimir Mountains, and started a turnip farm there. He had a rough go of it at first, let me tell you ... taxes, levies, zoning restrictions. It was almost like the dwarves didn’t want him and his farm there. But they never had turnips, so they didn’t really know what they were missing. One of those turnips started to sprout things, changed in a hurry. Turns out the dwarves of that particular clan LOVED turnips. Fried, baked, boiled, pureed, mashed - you couldn’t find a meal of the day they didn’t have turnips with. Turnips became so fashionable they began to wear clothes made from turnips. Never did a dwarf look so snazzy (or smell so appetizing) as when he dressed up in a turnip top hat and turnip tails, with turnip skin shoes to complete the ensemble. And with his turnip business booming, Kimble had more wealth than he knew what to do with. Just walking around his house was an effort, what with all the mountains of gold spilling out of every door of every room.
Korgan: All that gold got me attention, gnome. But the happy ending isn’t doin’ much for me.
Jan: Happy ending? I never said any such thing. Kimble was rich, true enough - but it turns out his dwarven love didn’t share her clans’ fondness for turnips. In fact, she was deathly allergic. She did her best to avoid the lethal vegetables, but as popular as Kimble’s crops were it was only a matter of time before she accidentally ate one. It killed her, of course. Heartbroken, Kimble tried to return to his own people. But the dwarves just weren’t going to let him and his turnips leave. They threw him in prison and demanded he reveal the secrets of turnip farming, but that isn’t something you can just teach. You either have the gift or you don’t, and dwarves don’t. In the end Kimble’s frail body succumbed to the dwarves’ torture and interrogation and he left to join his beloved in the afterlife. And that particular dwarven clan discovered that turnip farmers were almost as tasty as turnips themselves. Or so I’ve heard.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! A great tale, gnome. Ye done yerself proud!
Mazzy
MazzyMazzy: All of the evil in the world cannot keep one from admiring the beauty of the earth.
Jan: Very true, lassie. You must work with potatoes.
Mazzy: How might one make that assumption?
Jan: Hmm? Oh, I thought it was obvious. Never had you pegged for a slow one, but you never can tell. Allow me to spell it out ... you see, about 15 years ago I was employed by a mage of no small caliber. Golodon the unmanned was his name. Good teeth. Nice smell. Vicious streak a mile wide.
Mazzy: This is not making any sense, Jan.
Jan: He couldn’t have any children, course. Nasty cone of cold accident, you see. Regardless, his tower wasn’t far from Athkatla and I managed to gain employment with the old elf for a while. Mondays were particularly amusing. He would start the day off by summoning an imp. He’d usually spend 3 or 4 hours making it run around the room barking like a dog. But, as it was with Golodon, he soon tired of the sport. He had a beautiful mastiff named Buffy. Her diet consisted almost entirely of imps. Imp doesn’t taste half-bad when it’s fried with a bit of garlic and butter. Goes well with turnips, too.
Mazzy: What, pray tell, does this have to do with the presumption that I work with potatoes?
Jan: Oh, right. So anyway, Golodon’s ex-wife lived no more than 200 paces away from the mage’s tower. My primary job was poisoning her food, though occasionally I’d have to clean up Buffy’s excrement. She managed to build quite the resistance to mandrake. Golodon’s ex-wife that is, not the dog. It was truly a magical time in my life. I haven’t been as happy poisoning somebody since then. I was also, of course, poisoning Golodon on his ex-wife’s behalf. She did pay handsomely. Word has it that Golodon has finally kicked the bucket, if you get my drift. Died of malaria complicated by a fireball down his throat. Apparently, Golodon’s old nemesis returned. Dradu or Dradeen or some such name. The old bastard would occasionally mention this enemy when he was particularly drunk. The two of them had stolen some valuable artifacts from the gibbering twelve. Golodon blackjacked poor Dradunce and split with the magic. He later realized that he should have killed Dreedle and, cold-hearted fool that he was, sent assassins to finish the job. Drafeel disappeared, though his body was never found. It worried Golodon to no end.
Mazzy: Perhaps we should be concentrating on our journey, good gnome.
Jan: I can’t find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. He did fire me after all. Do you know why?
Mazzy: I neither know nor care.
Jan: That was a bit rude. I take my potato comment back, missy!
Mazzy: Where in the heavens did this potato remark arise in the first place?
Jan: I don’t know if I’m talking to you anymore.
Mazzy: Fine, fine! I’d rather not hear the story anyway.
Jan: If you must know, it was during my time as a mobile turnip vendor.
Mazzy: Jan, though I respect you, I must say that you are quite infuriating. Please desist, we have things to accomplish.
Jan: Twice a week I’d head out to the country to pick up my product. The turnip fields were owned by my Uncle Scratchy. Interesting fellow, by the way. Remind me to tell you about him some time.
Mazzy: Are you even listening to me?
Jan: Each trip I made, I would stop to talk to the hafling lass that worked in Uncle Scratchy’s potato operation. The girl had had a very difficult life. She lost her parents to an orc attack when she was just a girl. She’d been a slave for the foul beasts until Aunt Petunia freed her. The girl told me that, now matter how much evil she saw or had been inflicted upon her, the simple pleasure of honest work and the feel of the earth beneath her feet always reminded her of how lucky she really was. Her outlook was not unlike your own, dear Mazzy.
Mazzy: A noble tale in the end, Jan, though I’m continually puzzled by your need to inflict 20 minutes of inane yarns on your listeners before getting to the point.
Jan: And that, lassie, is why you are not a consummate tale-spinner. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you yet.
Mazzy: Jan, I find you to be quite the enigma. This adventure has yielded us a crop of useful magical items and yet you turn your considerable powers to the never-ending quest to create the perfect turnip peeler. How can someone who’s so clever be so shortsighted?
Jan: Well, Mazzy you’re really asking two questions there. My shortsightedness was passed on to me by my dear departed father. I was born with the condition and I’ll thank you not to stare! As to your other question, it takes me back to my days as a carefree deckhand on a turnip merchant galleon. We sailed for Waterdeep, we did, braving foul seas, foul tempers and a band of foul turnip pirates.
Mazzy: You are mentally incapable of answering a straight question, aren’t you gnome?
Jan: ‘Twas on a cold winter’s night near the beginning of the Great Underwear Shortage when we set sail. I danced naked on the poop deck, which was the custom at the time. Well, my nose and other extremities were getting frosty so I gathered up the tatters of my poor, abused, underwear and headed to the crow’s nest.
Mazzy: Shutup, shutup, shutup, shutup!!!
Jan: Well, I never! You did ask, after all.
Mazzy: SHUTUP!!!!
*TOB*
Jan: Mazzy, dear ... have I ever told you about my dear Aunt Petunia the ranger?
Mazzy: Yes, Jan. I have already heard that tale, thank you.
Jan: Really? Are you quite sure? This is the one where she ...
Mazzy: Yes, that’s the one. One of your best, but I have heard it before.
Jan: Well then, let me regale you with tales of my years as a ...
Mazzy: I have heard that one as well, Jan.
Jan: But I didn’t even say anything! Ah, here’s one I KNOW you haven’t heard. Back when I was ...
Mazzy: I am sorry to disappoint you, Jan, but I have already heard that one, too.
Jan: A-HA! I made up that one just to test you, Mazzy! There is no such story.
Mazzy: You mean to say that you have been telling us falsehoods this whole time, Jan? I am so very, very disappointed in you. Since you admit to your dishonesty, I can no longer in good conscience listen to your stories ever again.
Jan: Huh ... that really didn’t go the way I expected.
Minsc
MinscJan: Minsc! Look out! Behind you!
Minsc: Where? He who sneaks on Minsc loses teeth!
Jan: C’mon Boo! Quickly, to Jan!
Minsc: Stop it! Boo is not for you, tiny! You’ll hurt him!
Jan: He likes me. Gnomes are far cuddlier than oafish humans.
Minsc: No, I know best when talking of Boo. If you could hear his wishes would agree, but you cannot. The words of Boo are for Minsc alone.
Jan: You can’t fault a fellow for trying.
Minsc: I can and will. And another thing; no more sneaking Boo crackers. He is getting rather portly, and the crumbs make for an itchy bedroll.
Jan: Ah, Minsc! ‘Tis truly a beautiful day, no?
Minsc: Weather is nice, maybe.
Jan: It is day to get out into the world, breathe the fresh air.
Minsc: (grunt)
Jan: Too bad, though ...
Minsc: What is too bad?
Jan: It’s too bad that I won’t live to enjoy it.
Minsc: What do you mean?
Jan: Haven’t you heard, old friend. I’ve got the Calimshan itch. Alas, poor Jan! (sob, sob)
Minsc: An itch? Can you not scratch it?
Jan: Only death will cure this itch. I shall not live out the day. Oh, terrible powers of the heavens! Why will you let me die without granting me a final wish? Cruel, cruel fates!
Minsc: What can Minsc do to help? A tragedy this is! I will slay those who need slaying!
Jan: I do have one final wish ... no, no. I do not wish to burden my companions with my death. My teensy-weensy wish is unimportant. Travel on, Minsc. Carry the torch and so forth.
Minsc: It is only fair, big-nosed little one. We will do all that we can to aid you.
Jan: Truly, it is a small thing. As a child I had a pet hamster, named Spanky. Those were the only pure days in my life. Every day was perfection. Oh, the pain! If I could just hold a hamster while I die, perhaps I could capture the innocence of my youth and die a happy gnome.
Minsc: You will not steal Boo from me! I know your tricks!
Jan: Tis no trick. (cough, cough) Nevertheless, you are correct about one thing, my oafish friend. I do not deserve happiness. Please, leave me to my excruciatingly painful death. I am close now ... Spanky, I miss you!
Minsc: Boo shall comfort the dying gnome for a moment. Only a moment!
Jan: Ah, thank you, Minsc. May I have a moment alone?
Minsc: Alone? No, I draw the line ... hey! Stand still! I warn you!
Jan: At last Boo is mine! I cannot believe this stupid trick worked. Come, noble hamster, a life of frivolity awaits.
Minsc: I’ll throttle with own arms if you do not return him this instant! This is no longer amusing! It was never amusing! I am not laughing!
Jan: Alright, alright. I was only a jest, Minscy. I meant no harm.
Minsc: That’s right, you apologize! It’s hard enough keeping Boo’s roaming in check without you stealing him. Bad Jan! There will be a booting if this happens again!
*TOB*
Jan: Oh my, my, my ... I had the strangest dream last night, Minscy. I dreamt a wizard snuck into our camp, and cast a spell that made you and I switch identities.
Minsc: Such a thing would be a nightmare indeed - Minsc could not even fit into your tiny clothes! I have no wish to walk naked through these strange lands ...
Jan: Just our minds were switched, Minscy. You were me and I was you. Oh my ... what if it wasn’t a dream? What if it was real? What if you’re really me, and I’m really you? Suddenly I feel sort of funny ... HAMSTERS AND RANGERS AND HEROES TOGETHER!
Minsc: What is this? The puny gnome speaks with the wrath and rage of a Rasheman warrior? Boo, I am confused ...
Jan: I AM FED UP WITH YOUR WILY TRICKS YOU uh ... uh ... PIPSQUEAK! GIVE ME BACK MY HAMSTER OR uh ... uh ... OR FEEL THE WRATH OF MY uh ... uh ...THE WRATH OF MY MIGHTY uh ... BOOT! (Yes, that will do).
Minsc: Can this be true? Am I but the sneaky little gnome inside Minsc’s great, big body? ... No! This is not right! Minsc is not Jan ... Minsc is Minsc! Minsc is Minsc, Boo is Boo, and you are a naughty, naughty gnome!
Jan: Okay Minscy, settle down. You win. Just a little existential prank is all - no hard feelings I hope. (Hmmm ... I really thought that would work ...)
Minsc: Your trick may have worked, tiny one, had Boo not saved me from confusion. Boo thinks, therefore I am. Remember that before you tempt my wrath by trying to steal my hamster again!
*TOB*
Minsc: Boo? Boo ... where are you?
Jan: What’s the matter, Minscy? Did you lose (snicker) ... lose (giggle) ... lose something?
Minsc: You! The tiny, tricky gnome! Minsc knows it was you who stole Boo! You cannot fool Minsc! What is that bulge moving about within your trousers?
Jan: This bulge here? Why that’s (ha-ha) that’s nothing. I’m just happy to see you, Minscy. (giggle) Oh, those tiny feet tickle so.
Minsc: I hear Boo’s tiny squeaking! Ho-ho! He is growing angry, little man. Release Boo from his little drawers lest his sharp teeth nibble on your naughty bits in his outrage!
Jan: Boo would never do such a thing ... uh, at least I hope he wouldn’t. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s a chance I’m not willing to take. Here you go, Minscy - Boo’s yours again, safe and sound.
Minsc: Ah, Minsc and Boo together again! Jan, you are not worthy of having a miniaturised giant space hamster scampering loose in your pants.
Jan: Ah, I suppose there are precious few of us indeed who are truly worthy of that particular honor.
Nalia
NaliaNalia: All this travelling is beginning to wear on me ... I can’t remember the last time I walked so much in a single day. Hah ... it’s something my Aunt should try, I think, instead of being hauled about in her gilded carriage.
Jan: Nalie, dearie, you remind me so much of Cletus Bifflelips, my second cousin, thrice removed.
Nalia: I don’t think that I could be very much like a person named Cletus.
Jan: You wouldn’t think so, yet here we are. You see, Cletus had a propensity for bouts of violent projectile vomiting. We’d call him, Cletus the Room Clearer Bifflelips.
Nalia: Please, Jan! This is too ridiculous, even for you!
Jan: Now just bear with me for a moment, Nali. You see, it was after one such bout that Cletus, feeling ill, took a painful stroll down to the local witch-woman, in the vague hope that she might have a cure for his problem. After paying the 1000 gold piece consulting fee and vomiting in the proffered bucket, the witch gave Cletus an herbal tea, which he was to drink twice per day for a score of days. Drinking it everyday on schedule, yet failing to notice any change in his condition, Cletus began to worry. Upon finishing his final cup of tea, Cletus vomited.
Nalia: This is disgusting, Jan.
Jan: No need to force your ridiculously high standards on poor, deceased Cletus.
Nalia: I’m sorry. His illness killed him, did it?
Jan: Actually, he’s not dead. I made that part up. Well, needless to say, Cletus was somewhat angry so he went back to confront the witch. She had, of course, taken the money and left town. But in her haste to escape the vomiting wrath of Cletus Bifflelips, the witch left behind her belongings. Cletus, at the height of his anger, swiped her entire collection of novels written by noted folklorist, Nalia de Bouche. I’ll be the first to admit that revenge was not Cletus’ forte.
Nalia: Honestly, Jan, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
Jan: Well, they can’t all be gems. ‘Tis one of my favorites, however.
*TOB*
Jan: Nalia, my dear, you’ve been positively morose of late. Probably from studying all those scrolls. You remind me of Gorion ... prior to his addiction to poppy seed muffins, of course.
Nalia: Jan, I’m really not in the mood for any silliness. W’ere here with a purpose.
Jan: Exactly! And I’ve been recording (CHARNAME)’s adventures in a suitably epic story. Ending’s not clear but the rest is dynamo. Maybe you can help me come up with a title?
Nalia: (sigh) Why not just call it, ‘adventures of (CHARNAME)’ or something like it? I’m no writer, Jan, I probably can’t help you.
Jan: Nonsense! You just need the proper inspiration. Hmm ... maybe, ‘The Bhaal Cabal’? How about ‘Fall of the Bhaal Cabal’?
Nalia: Yes, fine. Use that.
Jan: How about, ‘Fall of the Bhaal Cabal Hall’? Oo! I know! ‘Fall of All the Bhaal Cabal from the Tall Wall of the Hall.’ Yes! Yes, perfect!
Nalia: (giggle!) You’re incorrigible, Jan.
Jan: Now *there’s* a smile I like to see!
Sarevok
Sarevok*TOB*
Jan: You know, Binky, I’ve been considering this plan of yours that you had with the Iron Throne and all that. Interesting ideas ... but flawed.
Sarevok: Binky? You had best not be addressing me, gnome.
Jan: For instance, whose idea was it to put impurities in the iron? Sounds like the lame idea of some yes-man underling who didn’t know when to quit. No doubt you had him flogged.
Sarevok: I will not have my past commented upon by the likes of you, churl. Quiet yourself, lest you experience worse than mere flogging.
Jan: Speaking of a good flog, I’m brought to mind of poor Aunt Sara. She, too, had a master plan to take over the Sword Coast, you know. Although hers was considerably less dramatic and involved the use of tasty recipes for turnip pie and some mind-altering herbs that Auntie Sara had bought from a rather disreputable Turmish mage.
Sarevok: Are you listening to *nothing* I say!? Desist or suffer the consequences!
Jan: Do you think she would listen to use. You can trust a Turmish mage as far as you can kick him ... and even then it’s not a bad idea to carry around a good thumping stick. But, alas, Auntie Sara just cackled on in her most villain-like way and was determined to carry on with her plan to hypnotize the whole Sword Coast. Alas, she was completely undone by an over-the-top exposition she gave to a spy that she had captured ... and who subsequently escaped, of course, before she could have him killed. It’s what villains do, I understand, when they’re not busy defiling iron.
Sarevok: I will not be mocked, gnome! This is your last warning!
Jan: Of course, they say that Duke Eltan had already had a bit of Auntie’s pie and enjoyed it immensely. Rather than become hypnotized, he just became rather pleasantly obsessed with silken undergarments. This, of course, led to the first Great Underwear Shortage. It’s also known as the Three-Year-Wedgie, but that’s another story completely.
Sarevok: AUUUUGHHH!! How maddening! How can you put up with such impudence, (CHARNAME)!!
*TOB*
Sarevok: I’ve been thinking, gnome ... about a certain trading deal my stepfather made several years ago.
Jan: Your stepfather, eh? Was he a megalomaniac as well? Must have been quite a merchant. Was he into crate building, perchance? Everywhere I look I see crates ... business must be lucrative.
Sarevok: My stepfather was with the Iron Throne. He once negotiated for a very lucrative land deal with a gnome named Count Turnipsome, as I recall.
Jan: Ah, yes. I know the fellow. Handsome young gnome, apple of his mother’s eye. Wealthy, debonaire, beloved by all. Your stepfather was a fortunate man to have met him.
Sarevok: I wouldn’t say the same. The land the Count sold him turned out to be useless swampland overrun by umber hulks and bugbears. My stepfather was almost ejected from the Iron Throne as a result.
Jan: Now that sounds like quite a tragedy. Tsk. There are some mighty crooked people out there. Gnomes, even. Just terrible.
Sarevok: I swore that I would take instant revenge on that gnome if I ever saw him.
Jan: Well, it’s ummm ... it’s a good thing for him you never have, hm?
Sarevok: No doubt. I’ve been saving some rather excruciating torture techniques for the occassion.
Jan: Uhh ... yes, yes. I see. (ahem!) I’ll just go stand by (CHARNAME) for a while. Nothing personal, I just felt the wind change.
Valygar
ValygarJan: So Valygar, how do you like being a ranger?
Valygar: You are going to tell me another of your insipid stories, aren’t you?
Jan: Well if you’re asking, then yes. It happens that my Aunt Petunia is a ranger, don’t you know?
Valygar: No, I wasn’t aware that your aunt is a ranger. (sigh)
Jan: She had the standard followers: a hydra, a shadow dragon, and a solar. She had the dragon trained to roll over, play dead and fetch dwarves. She called him Blackie I believe. Loved to run and play and lie in the sun.
Valygar: Of course.
Jan: Long and far she’d roam, with Larry the Solar always at her side, fighting evil, mocking druids and the like.
Valygar: Mmm hmm.
Jan: Anyway, my point is that Petunia and Larry were out for a stroll in the woods. She was wearing her fruit armor at the time, which was the style at the time, you understand. Aunt Petunia always kept up with style.
Valygar: It goes without saying.
Jan: Larry had a nasty case of the plague ...
Valygar: Oh, is it that time now? I’m afraid I have to take point now. You know how (CHARNAME) is about keeping on schedule.
Jan: Very well. We’ll continue this story at the next opportunity.
Valygar: I can’t wait.
Jan: Hmm. You know, all of this reminds me of my dear old mother. Did I ever tell you of my mother, Valygar?
Valygar: I’ve no interest in hearing of your mother, gnome. Or any mother, for that matter.
Jan: Oh, come now, surely it can’t all be that bad? Mothers are the most benevolent force in the world, caring for you and cradling you from birth until death. What could be wrong with a story about dear old mother?
(I could see Valygar’s outburst a mile away)
Valygar: Let me tell you a story, Jan, about MY mother. She fell to our family curse young, toying with magic, sinking half our family fortune into ancient texts and scrolls. She was obsessed with it. Even my father could barely drag her away from her studies. She practically ignored me from the day I was born.
Jan: Er ...
Valygar: She didn’t regret her neglect until after my father died. She became so anguished she reanimated him, and went insane trying to lavish attention on his zombie. Ultimately she entered undeath with him, and I was forced to destroy them both lest they do more harm. I was crying as I did so. So how is that, gnome? Is that the kind of story you were thinking of? Does it compare to the wonderful story of your mother?
Jan: Ah, no, no. I think that is quite sufficient, thank you.
*TOB*
Valygar: You look as though you have something to say to me, Jan. (sigh) You might as well say it ... the sooner we get this over with the better.
Jan: I was just thinking how much you remind me of my cousin Gabber. Ironic name his parents gave him, never said a word till the day he died. Caught a case of the Tethyr Tongue Gout from eating an unwashed turnip when he was a babe. Poor little Gabber’s tongue shrivelled up like an honest Amnian merchant’s purse. Turned him into the strong, silent type ... kind of like you, Valygar.
Valygar: There is nothing wrong with my tongue, gnome. I just choose not to tire it out with a constant stream of pointless stories.
Jan: My stories aren’t pointless! Now where was I? Oh, that’s right, Gabber. His tongue was nothing but a long, skinny piece of flesh by the time the disease was done with it. But Gabber was determined to learn to talk. He did tongue exercises and tongue stretches everyday, and his tongue kept getting longer and more nimble the more he worked with it. They say he was able to pick locks with his unusual appendage, though I have never had the privilege of witnessing that feat myself. By the time he was a young man he could flick that thing a full two feet in front of his face and make the tip twirl like a Calim veiled dancer. Too bad he came to such a tragic ending. Gabber wasn’t much of a looker, you know, and he couldn’t say a word with that freakishly long tongue of his. But for some inexplicable reason the ladies loved him. In the end, that was what did him in. Nomis Stormfingers, and extremely large and jealous village smith, found my cousin in a compromising position with Mrs. Stormfingers. Nomis reached inside Gabber’s tongue, yanked that long lingua out, looped it around his throat and strangled him with it. Lynched him with his own tongue, if you can believe it.
Valygar: I have no idea what you expect me to say after such a ridiculous story.
Jan: Of course not! That’s why you remind me so much of Gabber - you’re both tongue tied.
Valygar: *groan* Excuse me, Jan I have to ... uh, I need to ... I just have to go far away from you now.
Viconia
ViconiaJan: So, Viconia, I suppose you must be a drow, eh?
Viconia: Speak not to your betters, surface slave.
Jan: My brother, Elgar Buttercup, had skin the shade of charcoal, too. Well, technically it WAS charcoal. He died in a nasty fire, you see.
Viconia: You do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you gnome?
Jan: My own voice? Heartless wench! Do you not know? I am deaf! I have never heard the sound of my own voice. I read lips ... (sob) ... only lips.
Viconia: Deaf? Truly? In the Underdark the deaf are killed or used in pain threshold experiments.
Jan: I heard that! In fact, it reminds me of the time I was eaten by an avatar of Lolth. I was stuck inside her stomach with a miserable drow called Biffle Chump for days. Of course, I was forced to eat him. A matter of survival, you understand. Nothing personal. He tasted a bit like chicken.
Viconia: (CHARNAME), how is it that you travel with such a wee buffoon?
(CHARNAME): Hey, don’t look at me! You got him started.
Jan: What I would have given for just a pinch of pepper!
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.
Or
(CHARNAME): Truthfully, it all goes back to the time that Jan’s cousin, Plooty paladin-piper, got caught in a nasty flesh golem eating contest ...
Jan: Aye, Plooty had a way of attracting golems. Brilliant, really. You start with a saucer of milk - golems are suckers for milk ...
Viconia: I refuse to listen to this.
*TOB*
Viconia: Jan. While I would be tempted to let this situation play itself out, perhaps it is best if I warn you now.
Jan: Yeeeessss, my dusky little margarita? What warning would that be?
Viconia: You have a venomous spider on your neck. A lovely creature, known to cause an agonizing, blood-curdling death within moments of injecting its nerve poison.
Jan: You know, this reminds me of the time Uncle Scratchy laid me flat with the handle of a horseman’s flail. ‘Look behind you!’, he says. ‘Why? What’s behind me?’, I say. ‘A Tiberian Dung Beetle!’, he cries, looking frantic. So of course I scream in terror and look behind me ... and lost a bag of the most scrumptuous turnips to ever come out of Scornubel. Ma Jansen was furious and the lump was more painful than six weeks with the Calimshite Itch.
Viconia: Oh, look. There it goes down the back of your shirt.
Jan: And then there was that time I took a drow at his word. ‘Bifflechips’, says I, ‘you had better be telling the truth.’ And, of course, he swore up and down that he was. Needless to say, not four weeks later I was stewing in the lower intestines of a giant cave wyrm without even so much as a torch or a sense of irony. I would have been a goner if gnomes weren’t known for causing severe bouts of intestinal gas.
Viconia: I wouldn’t squirm about so much, you foolish jaluk. You’re likely to anger it, and I have no spells to counteract its particular poison.
Jan: Now, if I had a copper for every time - eh, wait a second. I feel something ... who’s behind me? What *is* that back there?
Viconia: Did I not try to tell you? No doubt it is sinking its fangs into your gamey flesh as we speak.
Jan: What? But I -ouch! AHHHH! AHHHH, NOOO! I’M TOO YOUNG A GNOME TO DIE!! HELP ME, SOMEONE! AN ANTIDOTE, AN ANTIDOTE!! PAIN GIVES ME GAS! AHHHH!! I DON’T WANT TO - eh? Wait a minute, that’s a fly. A dead fly. You mean I ripped off my own shirt for nothing?
Viconia: Ha ha! Sometimes life has its little rewards. Even for the drow.
Jan: You’re a cruel, cruel woman, Viconia. Garl help me, but I am so turned on right now.
Viconia: Alright, now I’m leaving.
Yoshimo
YoshimoYoshimo: Excuse me, good gnome. I’ve a question that I’ve been meaning to ask for some time. These flash-bombs of yours ...
Jan: Yoshimo! Please! ‘Jan Jansen’s Flasher Master Bruiser Mates!’ They have a name!
Yoshimo: Of course. These ‘Bruiser Mates’ that you construct ... might I learn how to use them?
Jan: I won’t lie to you, Yoshimo. There’s an excellent chance that you’ll lose both your arms. Perhaps even your face.
Yoshimo: If one is not willing to take the risks than one is not much of an adventurer.
Jan: Well said! As Aunt Kylie use to say, ‘Yeah, it’s risky! But they’ve got gelatinous cubes!’ I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have you try your hand at a few. Here, give the dial a twist and throw it.
Yoshimo: Mmm ... perhaps I shall wait to perform such a feat. This ... bomb ... looks most unstable. I am surprised they do not explode in your pack, good gnome ...
Jan: Bite yer tongue! This is my best and most potent recipe I’ll have you know. Aunt Kadie, herself, helped me mix this batch up, and I’ll not have you disparaging her good name.
Yoshimo: I meant no disparagement, Jan ... but I think I’ll leave the bombing to you, for now.
Yoshimo: Jan, I have heard that you are an adventurer of sorts. Where do your interests lie in the field?
Jan: I’m open to all creative muses. Lately I’ve been working on a turnip peeler. A magical device, of course, designed to peel 100 turnips a minute. I’m really quite close to a breakthrough. Naturally, however, it does cost well over 100 pieces of gold per day to run. But think of the uses?
Yoshimo: Why, turnip peeling, for one.
Jan: Exactly! You’ve got a knack for logical thinking, Yoshi. You could go far in the service of Gond.
Может быть в будущем размещу аналогичную вырезку по другим любимым мною персонажам второй части: вроде Эдвина, Йошимо или, может, Маззи.
@темы: Baldur's Gate, Бредогенератор, Шпиллево, we are all doomed, Цитаты
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07.07.2013 в 21:04-
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08.07.2013 в 16:33