A Day in the Life of a Hero
I ache.
Between the rock-hard ground and the unceasing flatulence of the Companionship’s pack pony, not to mention the explosive snoring coming from Grimble’s bunged up nasal passages, I think I got no more than an hour’s sleep last night.
Oh how I long for my soft feather bed, just a few short miles away. I seriously considered sneaking off this morning—I could have been home in time for supper–but I knew it would have been pointless. My father would have sent me right back out again, this time in the company of an armed escort. Once his mind is made up…
Far too early this morning, a sharp poke in the ribs from Stringfold’s staff roused me from my fitful sleep. When I had finally gathered my wits, I found that breakfast was waiting for me.
Hah! Breakfast—a tasteless gooey lukewarm gruel more like. Dowdi, the halfling, was responsible for the almost food-like substance. When I asked him for some bread to mop up the thin paste all I got was a faceful of expletives for my trouble. Apparently the Companionship’s cook is not in the best of moods first thing in the morning.
For the rest of the day I was given the silent treatment. Nobody told me what to do or where to go, so I trudged along at the back (not too close to the pony) silently seething at my lot. It’s obvious that the Companionship resents me as much as I resent being here, but there is nothing any of us can do about it. Once Stringfold the Wizard has given his word–no matter how reluctantly–it stays given.
And what heroic deed did we accomplish today? Well, it turned out that Grimble’s mother lives in Middleton, just up the road from where we had camped for the night. After breakfast, the dwarf told us to wait a little distance down the road while he paid his mother a short visit. Apparently, only Grimble is welcome in his mother’s home, for some reason.
An hour later the dwarf reappeared round the corner, pulling a lame, bedraggled looking donkey behind him. He looked a little sheepish as he explained to Stringfold that his mother had told him to deliver the donkey to Barefoot Broomshaw who lived in Cornstalk, a day’s walk down the valley. The wizard almost choked on his pipe and muttered something about not being a donkey delivery service. Grimble just held out the rope to Stringfold and said, “All right, you take it back.” After an awkward silence, Stringfold harrumphed and we set off down-valley in silence.
One not-quite-so-heroic deed later, I was back between the rear end of a pony and a grumbling halfling in breathless anticipation of the next wild and exciting adventure to await Innervale’s greatest troupe of heroes.