THE BEGUILED BRONZE

[herculean_wud 3662]

THE BEGUILED BRONZE

 

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The attentives watchers and wanderers of the Goi would have perhaps spotted an urn where it had previously not belonged. There, within the Grubgoth’s kitchen, on a middling shelf it shone -- an item out of place in a kitchen, especially. To those with a keener eye and knowledge of orkish cultures, it would become apparent that the strange glyphs painted on its front were of Spluttertongue -- a sociolect of the Old Blah spoken and written by the Clan Raguk’s higher caste. Black paint along its brazen body showed orks locked in the ire of battle, their tusks depicted starkly as splotches of white.

 

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This was no ordinary urn. Indeed, it kept the ashes of an orkish warrior deep within like any other, but it also carried peculiar baggage -- a litany of tall tales, rumours and legends; accusations of it having brought bad fortune, as well as good, of it having been cursed by an orkish warlock and deliberately planted within polite society to wreak havoc and bring bad omens. The truth was far less conspiratorial, however.

 

It had washed up on the shore of Almaris and was found by a fisherman, who sold it to a tavern-keeper for a keg of good ale. It did not remain among the tavernkeepr’s possessions for long -- he swore that gnomes lived within it, for whenever he left his kitchen, he’d return to find his ingredients had been wasted on the creation of magnificent feasts, instead of sawdust fortified pies that were cheap to make and doubled his profits. He sold it quickly to a Haenestian gentryman -- a regular of his -- who had an interest in exotic artefacts. This one was not among his greatest, and remained in his cellar for decades until his timely passing At this point it was hastily auctioned off to a Hulphonite tradesman -- hastily being the operative word, since the auctioneer swore that it whispered to him as he slept not-so-soundly in his bed.

 

This Hulphonite’s curiosity took him far beyond the others. One night, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery -- believing it to be a sleight of science, or a charlatans trick -- he attempted to pry open the lid. But despite how hard he tried he could not get it to open more than a crack. This crack, too small for even an ant to crawl through, unleashed upon the trader and his family a curse of proportions spoken of only in the epics of old. It came slowly at first -- business seemed to slow and new customers no longer came by. It was the season he said, by the summer -- he said -- people would be flocking to buy his goods from near and far. But soon so too did his regulars fail to bring their patronage. No longer able to fulfill his debts, the collectors came and stripped his shop bare -- all apart from that urn -- and he was left destitute.

 

Now with scarcely a coin to rub together his wife abandoned him and his family made a pariah out of him. He was forced to collect scrap and sell it to seedy dealers, who were quick to exploit him. It was a living no one was worthy of. His luck took a final turn for the worst when he was set upon by orkish bandits, who relieved him of his life. And thus the urn. Here it passed from hand to hand -- as currency in a wager; as a weapon in a drunken brawl; as an item of interest with which to barter for a new leather coif, until eventually there upon that middling shelf in the Grubgoth’s kitchen it assumed its final place of rest. It was finally where it belonged, and perhaps it had one final boon… if an uruk would care to seek it out.

 

 

 

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