Charming Forest

AtelierGames

Salks thought it was such a charming day in the forest. So, not with the intent of tarrying, he took a seat upon the bank of a slow flowing rivulet, beside the empty path. Then casting back his head, he reveled at the sound of nature's aviary, gaily chattering away in the treetops. How he wished he could be one of them, and join with the cacophony so often heard at dawn.

It has to be said, the only thing keeping Salks from joining them would be his lack of wings; for his clothes were as bright as the feathers upon a bird.

For some reason - which he never explained - on both hands he wore red woolen mittens, dyed with the extract of some peculiar plant he'd picked on one of his infamous escapades. Upon his balding head sat a conical blue hat, with a spotted feather protruding from its peak; yet another of his curios.

His lower half was clad with golden breeches, and at their knees a pair of dapper poulaines were tied.

Salks was the hot topic at the local taverns - particularly with the wenches - yet there had been no sight of him within the villages for many years.

Andail

Some assumed that his absence was, somehow, related to the unnervingly cold winters the land had seen lately. Others asserted with confidence that he had been slain by brigands not far from the Karachti Lake, but Lauraline, the miller’s daughter, had heard someone say that Salks had been knighted by the King, and now resided at his court. This theory was reinforced by the rumours of an imminent war – but nobody knew for sure, since most of the villages in the Forested Dales were rather isolated and rarely reached by accurate tidings.

In fact, all of the suggested theories carried with them a spec of truth, as odd as it may seem. Not only had Salks been contacted by the King about a highly delicate matter, he had also narrowly escaped the formidable truncheons of a band of robbers (although not near the Karachti Lake, but closer to the Argarillah Creek) and everything was, in extension, linked to the increasingly colder climate.

Salks now opened his leather purse – which had not felt the metal of coins for years – and produced the object around which all the recent events revolved. “Get ready, my feathery friends!” he said in a voice full of anticipation.

Ultra Magnus

“Who goes there?” came a bellow from deep within the thicket.

Salks’ pulse quickened to a gallop as he twisted and contorted his body, his gaze leaping from bark to bark, desperate to identify the source of this sudden intrusion upon his privacy.

“Identify yeself!” shrieked a second voice. They were getting closer.

Salks hurriedly tied his purse and tucked it deep within his emerald green waistcoat. He took two deep breaths to steady his blood, then stood slowly, dusted off his garments, and turned to face the interlopers.

He was greeted by the suspicious glares of no less than three men, the first of which was small and thin, and visibly agitated. Salks contemplated that he could have been mistaken for but a moppet if it hadn’t been for Father Time marking up the years in the leather of his face. To his left was a wholly rotund character, crimson-faced and wheezing, no more a head taller than the man on his right, but still no less than twice his size. Looming behind them was an intimidating figure as tall and as still as the trees that surrounded them, but distinguishable by the stringy, greasy mop upon his head.

Babar

“I’d like to point out that it’s commonly the person on-guard who does the who-goes-thereing, and the people skulking about in thickets who are obligated to identify themselves”, said Salks in his most condescending tone.

“He’s one of ‘em wordy fellows” said the man-child worriedly. “Can I gut him?”

“Dibs on the hat!” added the fat one.

“Steady, fools!” rumbled their leader. “Only a wizard or madman would dress so, and neither is worth hassling!”

Salks could probably handle all three with a sunstone from his purse, but then he’d have less leftover for the birds. Better to make use of their misconception: “And when one is both, the hassle trebles. They call me Psittacidae. Who might you be?”

To Salks’ surprise, he responded openly: “We are hunters, wizard. And fortunate to meet you: We journey to Sathya’s Tombs, and wish to procure your services.”

Salks eyed the gold they showed him, but was more interested in information. “Hunters in a tomb? I suppose buried gold is as worthy of hunting as meat. No matter, consider me hired!”

Far too late, Salks noticed the curious tubes they carried. They were hunters alright, Soul Hunters…And they thought he was a wizard!

Wyz

This was a dire situation since Salk was not prepared for this. Well the presence of this happy bunch was expected, but the King neglected to tell him they were hunting for more than treasure. He felt the contents of his pouch burn in his chest but now was not the time. Actually, he was ordered by the King to strike as soon as he would see them however Salk liked to do things his own way; He first wanted to find out more about these men and their intentions. Salk was not an incredibly brave man, and most of the time he'd rather avoid confrontation. Though, he had his way of seeming very confident toward his foes.

Even now, he was pretending to be something he feared the most. It fact, it could be the reason why he was wearing the pointy hat in the first place. He wondered why the King was so determined to intercept a group of scroungers, or perhaps they were more than that… He had to know—there were rumors he heard about this region and why every winter seemed colder then the one before—he had to know the intentions of the King.

Bulbapuck

“Well Psitta-what-now, yer turn” said the leader of the bunch. Salks corrected him “Psittacidae is my name.” And then looked over at the corpse and suddenly realized: He had seen this man before. He walked up to the body for a closer look, waving his hands and mumbling nonsense to keep his appearance.

After a while Salks knew who the man was, and he couldn’t believe it. The dead man lying before him was the king himself!

Thoughts started racing through Salks’ head: “How did he die? He had no son, who will take the throne now?” And the most important thought of all: “Was it really the king himself that sent him here?”

“Are ye going to be done soon?” The fat one had grown impatient.

“I’m already done” replied Salks, “didn’t you notice?”

“Well then, let’s get ready to head back” the leader of the group said and so they did. Meanwhile, Salks was thinking about his next step. Should he strike these men down and follow the original plan, or try to think of something more constructive? His discovery of the King’s current predicament had made Salks curious; he needed to figure out what was going on.

The Ivy

Wait a minute, thought Salks. This doesn’t make any sense. He stared intently at the backs of the brigands, and at the crumpled body of the king that he had spotted behind a nearby hedge. Suddenly, it all became crystal clear, and a wry smile spread across his face.

“I’ve changed my mind!” Salks called after the thugs. “I’m coming with you.”

“Good man,” said the tall one, glancing back over his shoulder. “We’re off to the tomb of someone very important, and we’ll need to dispel the evil things that congregate in such places.”

Salks mutely fell into step behind them, palming his sunstone. It was a clever trick they had pulled: releasing hypno-gas from the tubes they carried, and it had almost worked. But…

Salks surreptitiously poked the King’s body with a stick as he passed. The stick passed through as though there was nothing but air.

So distracted was he by his clever reasoning that he didn’t hear his invented name being called until the fourth attempt. He looked up to see a glittering marble spire piercing the canopy of the forest.

The fat one stabbed a porky finger at the base of the spire. “You go first, Pitstains.”

Phemar

"The name's Psittacidae, Pork Chop," Salks replied sarcastically, "Now careful before I cast a curse on you."

"Eh, just open for us," the fat one replied as he pushed Salks forward.

Salks wondered how he was going to open this thing, when he heard a strange voice echo in his head.

"Salks..." It whispered.

He looked around, looking for the voice and was amazed to notice that neither of the thugs had heard it.

"You are the one, Salks," it continued, "You are the rightful heir to the throne, the king's one and only lost son!"

"What?" Salks mouthed, confused.

"Inside this tomb lies the Sceptre of Utaritos. Whomever holds it will be able to hold the throne, do not let those thugs retrieve it! It belongs to you..." The voice was fading slowly.

"Wait! Who are you?"

"I am ..." The voice was barely audible, "Your father's ... father ... this ... is ... my tomb."

And with that, the voice was gone.

monkey_05_06

The king's son? Him? What was going on here? This was all getting to be a bit much and Salks could feel his normally light-hearted spirit slowly sinking under the weight of recent events.

Questions raced through Salks' mind as he tried to sort this out in his head. The king himself had sent Salks on this mission; did he know of their shared lineage? And what were these Soul Hunters doing coming to the king's father's tomb? Did they seek the sceptre that the ethereal voice had told him of? And who was going to tend to the birds back home in his absence?

Taking a deep breath Salks cleared his head. Though he did not hear the voice again it was as if he was prompted by the extraplanar being. With the slightest touch the doors of the tomb swung open. He stepped nervously inside the sepulcher.

"What would ye that I should do now?" Salks asked of his assumed employers.

"Patience young one," spoke the tallest of the group for the first time, "All shall be made clear to you." His voice was shrill as a steaming kettle.

Suddenly a light shone out: the Sceptre of Utaritos!

[Cameron]

Salks lurched towards the Sceptre, as if pulled by some unkown force. Clasping in his red mittens around it, he turned to face his unlikely companions.

“Oi Psitta-bread-whatsits! What’s that?” asked the fat one.

“Oh! The Sceptre of Utaritos, it clears ones mind of all obfuscation and general cloudiness of the mind” Salks beamed at this knowledge. Where had he learnt it?

“Er… youse alright there? You look a tad pale.”

Salks attempted a response, but instead fell over, recalling all the knowledge he had lost. My companions will be worried, Salks pondered, not only am I actually a wizard. But a madman as well. He recalled working one evening on a confusion spell for the King, and it exploding in his face leading to this irrecoverable madness, save for the Sceptre of course.

The final sounds to ever escape the tomb were a shout of surprised men, a very bird like noise of a spell being cast, and the moo of three rather interesting looking cows.

Salks stepped out of the opening, “Well, I suppose I should see the King, he should be expecting a confusion spell any moment now.”

Salks began his long walk and paused, ”My my, what a charming forest.”