NoelW: Into the Hall of Traps - Dun dun dah! (54 points?)

Health warning: For those who don’t want to read interminable posts of fanciful narrative, please skip to the row of asterisks below. I won’t mind. I’ll never know.

T’rap

Recently a medieval manuscript was discovered in Oxford’s Bodleian Library.

Or, more accurately, stuffed in a mattress under a pile of broken chamber pots at the bottom of a midden under a concrete slab beneath a heap of rubble in the overgrown back garden hidden behind the Bodleian Library, a tattered scholar discovered a tattered fragment which instantly caused bickering and backbiting throughout academia. (Nothing new there, of course).

Initially its weird language was thought to be Middle English, perhaps a hitherto unknown copy of the Morte D’Arthur. But academia was rocked to to the soles of its Doc Martens by Prof Bert de Bigginbottom’s forensic analysis. These unique scraps of rather too used manuscript, claims Bigginbottom, are our first clear evidence that rap music perhaps originated in Medieval Yorkshire. Here’s the opening:

T’rap: T’adventure of Titchybritches and his crew

Yo! I got me ale and I got me snap.
Goin’ down the gennel tappin’ out t’rap.
Got t’map in t’pocket and I’m armed to the dentures
I’m off dahn pit, goin’ on t’ adventure.

Ya! T’name’s Titchybritches and I’m apprentice rappist.
Me homies are an ugly elf and Clerihew the Trappist.
Me bite’s worse than me bark. I’m a Yarkshire terrier.⁽¹⁾
Bring on t’monsters. Yo! the more the merrier.

There’s a great deal more of this, which the more sensitive have called “ill-advised cultural misappropriation” and which all reasonable readers will assume is drunken nonsense. But luckily for us Oxford is full of scholars who, unable to get a proper job, have more than enough time to translate meaningless doggerel no matter how appalling it is. 

What follows is the first Fit⁽²⁾ of Bigginbottom’s expurgated prose version:

I, TitchyBritches, Quarterling⁽³⁾ of Rabbiton, with my trusty companions Elfbow the Elf, Clerihew the Monk, Getrude von Wressletine, Scruff the Approximate Chihuahua and Gnawbone of Indeterminate Origin have set out in glorious quest of that fabled prize, the Greatest Treasure the World has Ever Known. No idea what it is, but it's bound to be worth ten or twenty oodles of cash, and is most definitely stashed somewhere deep in the Challenging Chambers of the Abominable Snowlord.

With heroic fervour, we nudge each other down the Interminable Stairwell and through the first doorway. Before us stretches a long, dim, dusty chamber, looking entirely innocent and absolutely safe.

“Quick quiz, Elbow,” says Titchy.

“That’s 'Elfbow',” hisses the elf.

“Sorry, I though the ‘f’ was silent. Anyway, what’s long, dim and could do with a decent clean?”

“Er – this chamber?”

“No. You. You'll be perfectly at home. Off you go!”

With a giggle, Titchy gives the elf a shove, and he totters into the room.

“Turn back!" screams the room. "Flee! This is not the dungeon you’re looking for!”

“Hah!” exclaims Titchy. “That’s a good sign.”

“A talking room?” queries Elfbow. “Walls, I know, have ears, but since when do floors have mouths?”

“Woof!” says Scruff.

“Who asked your opinion, carpet-fluff?”

With a bold stride of almost six inches, Titchy heads into the room.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” says the room. “No, really, you should turn back before it’s too late.”

“What’s that shape at the far end of the room in the shadows?”

“That demon-shaped shape looming out of the demonic-looking gloom?”

“I can’t quite see. Let’s recklessly get closer.”

With an ominous squeak the door slams shut behind them, plunging the room into darkness.

“Now look!” shouts Elfbow. “I told you to spike the doors!”

“Woof!”

“Don’t blame Scruff. He finds it hard to hold the hammer.”

“Well that settles it,” says Getrude, waving her staff dramatically. “There is but one way for the valiant. We follow where Gerald points. And that way is forward.”

“Towards that demonic shadow?”

“In that general direction, yes.”

Click!

“What was that? Sounded like a spring winding up. Has anyone concealed a cuckoo clock around their person?”

Creak!

“What’s that sudden draft around my ankles? Have my socks fallen down?”

Groan!

“Do I smell boiling oil, or is that just elven aftershave?”

Scrape!

“This flagstone feels surprisingly loose.”

Lighting his torch against the shadows, Clerihew the Monk begins a hasty mime.

“Two words,” says Getrude. “First word. Sounds like ‘tear’. Near? Beer? Fear? Yep. Fear. Second word?”

“He’s tying something. Sheepshank? Half hitch?”

“Knot! Fear knot.”

The monk taps his nose excitedly.

“He’s poking himself in the eye.”

“He’s making a sandwich. Cheese? Or some kind of preserved meat? No, he’s knocking a nail in –“

“Two syllables – second one. Drunk? Inebriated? Intoxicated?”

“There’s a lever here,” observes Gnawbone, ever inquisitive and generally untimely. “What happens if I pull it?”

“First syllable. Aaagh!”

“First syllable, ‘Aaagh’?”

“No! Where did that chain come from? It’s grabbed him. He’s dangling from the ceiling.”

“By the Awesome Altar of Ackbar! It’s a trap!”

Suddenly there’s a twang of crossbow string, a bubble of oil, a creak of sliding stone…

“Fear knot?” Elfbow scratches his head. “Eye hammer Trappist? Aha, got it! 'I am a Trappist.' He’s a Trappist monk. He can disarm traps!”

Swinging upside down as he hangs from the ceiling, Clerihew taps his nose like Tarzan with a sniffle. Instantly, the chain rusts to nothingness. In a flurry of robes and tonsures, he plunges to the floor. There’s the sproing of a hidden crossbow string snapping, a disappointed creak of iron spikes retreating and a pit of boiling oil makes that particular sort of sound oil makes when it’s pretending that it’s tar, bubbling nonchalantly.

“Perhaps I should unpull this lever,” mutters Gnawbone, hauling it back into place.

“Look,” says Titchy, “there’s a crack in the wall. Behind that vaguely demonlike statue.”

“It’s a door. Undoubtedly leading into dark peril and almost certain depths. Come, Gerald, we’re saved!”

“Woof?”

(1)   With apologies to Ken.

(2)   “Fit”, of course, here is an ancient word meaning “verse” or “section”, and should not be read as a judgement on Bigginbottom’s suitability for the task, nor what he might have been experiencing at the time.

(3)   It seems that the author and protagonist of this fragment was too abbreviated to be regarded by his peers as a full halfling. Hence, “quarterling”. As evidence, it’s clear that his armoury was short-staffed. Not able to find him a suitable quarterstaff, he seems he was just about tall enough to manage an eighthstaff.

***

In case you haven’t guessed, or have been lucky enough to wipe all memory of my posts from last year, this is Post 1 of what will certainly not turn out to be a meandering and episodic narrative. Oh dear me, no. How could you even think such a thing?

In this rendition of what is soon to become known as the South Riding Christmas Rap, we’re introduced to our six adventurers who will progress fearlessly and logically through every challenging chamber of the Chambers of Challenge. Or die trying. (Place your bets...):

Miniadoc Titchlybritchington the Quarterling: Generally known as “Titchybritches” to his temporary acquaintances, who frequently find unexplained bitemarks in their knees; or simply as “Titch” to those keen on abbreviation, especially of their mortal existence.

The figure is Frodo from the 1985 original Citadel LOTR figures. I’ve a handful of these heritage models still awaiting paint, so maybe a couple more will surface during the Challenge.

Getrude von Wressletine: she’s a Northstar thaumaturge for Frostgrave. A really nice figure this one, but something of a mystery. Is she a cleric? Is she a mage? Why does she call her staff Gerald? What’s she doing in the Chambers of Challenge? Will she get anything out of it, including herself?

Scruff: a chihuahua thief who has the soul of a Rottweiler and the ripped trousers of a postman. One of the very characterful Steamforged Dungeons and Doggies first boxed set.

Gnawbone the Unclassified: of uncertain parentage (in fact, it’s uncertain if he ever had parents).  Another figure I’ve had for a very long time, but I’ve no idea who manufactured him.

Clerihew the Cleric: a Perrys’ figure, from their Crusades range. Being a Trappist, he is bound by a vow of silence, so I can’t tell you anything about him.

Lord Elfbow the Bowless: Properly speaking, he wouldn’t be muddying his shoes with a single moment of dungeoneering were it not for the palpable injustice that an elf of his station has yet to be rewarded with the infinite riches he’s so clearly entitled to. The 7^th son of a 7^th father (his mother was generous) at his birth several planets collided so he’s clearly marked for great and important things, if only lesser mortals (which is just about everybody) would recognise it.

This is a Mithril figure. I think it’s Glorfindel, but we’re keeping quiet about that.

The four traps are from Mantic Games Terrain Crates. These boxes of dungeon dressing are generally of excellent value, if sometimes a bit bendy, a timely Christmas present from my dear wife.

Possible Score: 6 x 28mm characters: 30 points, Hall of Traps: 20 points, 4 Traps: 1 point each, maybe?

Total: 54 points

And I think I can count this as my first Squirrel point.