Excerpt: One Last Quest

Heroine Rosalind and Francis, her squire, are in Crossroads Village, in search of guidance from the Great Ook, wisest of the wise in the tri-realm area. Crossroads is unusually busy today, and the line for an audience with the Ook is long. Rosalind offers her service to one of the Ook's attendants, leaving Francis alone to the mercy of the cutthroat business climate of Crossroads.

Francis watched Rosalind ride through the press of the crowd, and past the barriers being set up along the center of the road. He was carried back with the surge, and found himself pushed into a narrow alleyway.

“Grog!” came a voice from the back of the alley. An old peddler in a brightly-colored costume was wheeling a ribboned and festooned cart. “Grog! Finest in all the Crossroads. Grog!”

”Good day to you, my fine clown" said the man, tipping it his broad feathered cap. “Try a sample from Crossroad Village's finest microgroggery?”

“Micro-what-ery?” said Francis.

”Microgroggery" said the man. “Falstaff is the name: owner, proprietor, and brew-master of Crossroad Village's foremost microgroggery. Here you go lad, tell old Uncle Falstaff which one you'd like to sample first” and handed Francis a small wooden cup.

“How many of these micro-whatevers are there in this village?” said Francis.

“Just the one, sir, but we're looking to expand. That'll be one copper for the cup, by the way.” Francis dug a coin out of the bottom of his bag. “Much obliged, good sir” said Falstaff with a bow, dropping the coin into a bulging purse at his side. “Now then, choose your poison. A joke! An unfortunate turn of phrase!” he added hastily.

“Um...” said Francis. “What do you recommend?”

“Well sir, seeing as how you appear to be new to the microgrog phenomenon, I'd recommend this little beauty over here. Full bodied, with a good foam.” He filled the cup from the cask on the end of his cart. “Brace yourself, good sir, for a wave of that famous Falstaff Flavor.”

Francis took a deep drink. “What... ugh... what's in this?”

“Only the finest ingredients, sourced locally and added with care by yours truly” said Falstaff with another curt bow.

Francis took another drink. “Fruity, sort of mead-y, but, there's a note of something...”

Falstaff was beaming and rocking back on his ankles. “Surprises you, don't it? That's the secret ingredient! I hate to divulge my secrets of course” he said, looking around and whispering conspiratorially, “but it's lye.”

“Lye? Lye! You've given me... soap? I'm drinking soap?!”

“Shhh, shhh, quiet now! Don't want to start a rush. Here, your tastes seem a touch more refined, that's strictly the cheap stuff, you know, for the hooligans and what not. The 'Falstaff Wallbanger' is perhaps not the best blend for you after all. Here now, cleanse your palate with a swig of this.”

Francis accepted the cup warily, and smelled it carefully before taking a sip. “Mmm... not bad, actually. Kind of musky. But there's a... wait a minute. Got something caught in my... ugh, aww. Is this a hair?”

Falstaff leaned in for a look. “Ah, good luck and fortune sir! That there's a whisker! Not everyone gets one of those, you know. I am authorized to grant you full and additional use of that fine mug at no additional charge.”

“A... whisker? Augh... ptoo! You mean that was... ptoo! … in there on … ptoo! … purpose?”

“I regret that I am not able to reveal to you the exact process of creating the 'Fuzzy Falstaff' but I guarantee you sir, that it would astound and amaze you.”

“Oh yes... ptoo! ...and probably disgust me as well... ptoo!” said Francis.

“Right then, sir, third and final. When you drink this, I want you to think 'tropical sunset.'”

Francis eyed the mug suspiciously. “Nothing nasty in this one, is there?”

“Of course not, sir. Only the finest exotic ingredients. All natural.”

Francis took a hesitant mouthful of the drink before spraying it into the air.

“Sunset and shore, am I right, sir?” said Falstaff. “Dreaming of the sun-kissed waves, are we? The 'Falstaff on the Beach' is a sure favorite.”

“It'th thand! And... thalt! And... wotten fith!” said Francis, trying to wipe off his tongue. “You giving me a cup of wotten fith! Wader! I need wader!”

"An acquired taste, I am sure" said Falstaff, handing him a cup. Francis gulped it down with relief.

“Right then,” said Falstaff, “as to the matter of your bill.”

“My... what?” said Francis.

“Purely administrative,” said Falstaff, counting up on his fingers. “Corkage fee, times three, mug rental, water: I think four coppers ought to settle it nicely.”

“Four cop... for this swill?” said Francis. “Robbery!”

“You cut me to the quick, sir” said Falstaff, staggering backwards. “An honest businessman, I, trying to scrape out the merest of existences for myself, and here this young clown refuses to pay for service!" He was getting quite loud now, and a few of the crowd turned and scowled at Francis.

“Always the small businessman that suffers,” said Falstaff, “always the clever city folk trying to trick poor old simple Falstaff, stealing bread from his very lips.” He began to sob loudly.

“All right, all right, here" said Francis, pressing the coins into his hands, ”Just don't ever, ever give me any of that again.”

Falstaff gazed at the coins in his hand. “Beg pardon, sir, but I only see four coppers here.”

“Yes,” said Francis, turning to leave. “Four, like you said.”

“I think I deserve at least one more,” said Falstaff, “for emotional distress.” He began to sob again.

“All right! All right! Just... stop” said Francis, handing him the additional coin.

“A pleasure serving you this fine day, good sir” said Falstaff, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “Oh, and sir, mind that you leave the mug as well, last of my stock, you understand.”

Falstaff caught it expertly as Francis turned and stormed off back through the crowds.

“Grog!” called Falstaff. “Finest grog in all Crossroads Village! All-natural ingredients! Three unique flavors! Come try a free sample today!”