Friday, 7 March 2014

The Quest for Brumagem: The Eve of the Quest- Part I

This was taken on the way to the pub. I'm the rather dramatic, heroic pretty boy in the middle.
Alphonse, pass the mirror... 

It was the eve of Flaxen’s 18 summer. He sat with his two bestest and only friends in the local tavern, ‘The Frolicking Friesian.’ Leofric ‘The Larruper’ and Alphonse ‘The ArchItect’ (surely some mistake?) sat solemnly, soporifically, sighing sadly, sipping steadily, stoically supporting steadfast Saxon.

It was time for Flaxen to embark on his quest to discover the mystical, mythical, magical, magisterial, munificent, municipal (enough) Brumagem. They all quaffed mead mightily from their drinking horns.

Leofric spake.

Leofric (for it is he): “They say the streets of Brumagem are bestrewn with the tears of Valkyries. They say the tears are the size of groats and glisten in the noon day sun like silver."

Alphonse: "I hear tell of a more prosaic explanation for these mucilaginous artifacts. It is whispered on the wind that they be due to the local whores a clearing their throats after a particularly heavy night and are known locally as cock oysters."

Flaxen: “I prefer Leofric’s story, it has the tinge of romantic truth.”

Leofric: “Mayhap Flaxen you could test our respective theories? For surely Valkyries’ tears will taste as sweet as honey and be as intoxicating as the finest mead.”

Flaxen: "Some things are best left known only unto the gods and certain rock musicians.”

To be continued…


  1. ".......sat solemnly, soporifically, sighing sadly, sipping steadily, stoically supporting steadfast Saxon......."

    Hell! You could have incorporated syphilitic in that alliterative concatenate. I don't think you are trying any more.

    And why do you have a blood-red representation of the central element of this Moche ceremonial earspool imprinted on your forehead?
    You're a Viking, not a Moche Warrior King!

  2. A humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition! The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.