Unforeseen Circumstances
My name is Percival Reginald Fotheringham-Hey, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Spout, nestled deep in the fair lands of Innervale, and this is my journal.
I can hardly believe it myself but, as I write, I am sitting on a damp patch of ground between a dwarf and the backside of a pony, and it’s a close call as to which smells worse. We’re camped just outside the hamlet of Middleton, only a few miles from the palace, and I can’t for the life of me understand why we aren’t staying at the inn just up the road. But when I suggested we stay at The Duck’s Foot for the night, all Stringfold the Wizard would say was that “the Companionship eschews all earthly comforts.” Ugh! There is nothing I hate more than eschewing comfort of any kind.
And I’m not the only one in a foul mood. Dowdi the halfling is standing over a pot of rabbit stew muttering darkly about having an extra mouth to feed, while Torinfel the elf, and Grimble the dwarf are busy arguing about whose battle cries are more terrifying to the enemy and—it seems, given the horrendous noise—whose are more headache-inducing. Bron the hero appears to be in a sulk, just staring vacantly into the distance, and Stringfold keeps grumbling to himself about the quality of the baccoroot in his pipe.
But you may be wondering what the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Spout is doing slumming it with Innervale’s most storied troupe of adventurers. You’re not the only one. Only six hours ago I was sitting in my chambers preparing for a seminar on the migration patterns of the giant flitterbug when my father, King Percival XXVII (may Hortense and all her handmaidens protect his soul) swept in and announced that he had a wonderful surprise waiting for me.
I accompanied him back to the throne room where the Companionship was waiting, just as much in the dark as I was. Despite the almost mythic reputation this band of heroes enjoys, I have never been impressed with them up close. They are a scruffy, argumentative lot and are, frankly, not my sort of people.
After formal introductions, my father asked us to gather round and listen to his proposal. First, he talked glowingly about my intelligence and scholarliness, and how it would stand me in good stead for when I (eventually) inherit the throne. But then he expressed concerned over the years I have spent cooped up in the palace in pursuit of my studies—by my “lack of life experience,” as he put it. And so to rectify this problem, he declared that he was going to hand me over to the Companionship as an apprentice for the next twelve months.
When Father had finished speaking, he just stood there looking pleased with himself, but the stunned silence from me and my prospective employers was obviously not what he was expecting. The silence finally broke as we all raised our voices in protest. The thought of having to abandon my books and go tramping around the countryside with a band of benighted breakjaws was too much for me to bear and, judging by the colourful language that echoed around the throne room, the Companionship was likewise unimpressed. But I was too caught up in the moment to be insulted by the lack of respect they were showing me. My father was the target of my fury.
The king, startled by the outcry, backed up to the top step by the throne, thrust out his arms, and commanded us all to be silent. We obeyed, apart from old Stringfold the Wizard who was bent double, coughing up a lung from the effort of his protest. Father waited for him to recover then rebuked us sternly for our outrageous behaviour. He reminded the Companionship of his long-standing patronage and told them that he expected his request to be treated with respect it deserved.
I stood to one side as another round of protests ensued. Apparently every aspect of my underwhelming physique made me quite unsuitable as an apprentice adventurer. Surely I would not survive more than a week in the wilds beyond Innervale’s heartland. They had my wholehearted agreement on that point.
But Father would have none of it, telling them that there was no place safer than under the protection of the Companionship. In response, Stringfold started listing a disturbingly large number of people who had, in fact, died while in their care. Father quickly pointed out that all those unfortunate victims were women and, as a man, his son (i.e. me) would be fine. But the protests continued until my father, barely containing his fury, called over the captain of the Palace Guard.
The tension grew as several hands moved weaponwards, but my father merely ordered the captain to “bring in the box.” Moments later the captain presented the king with a long wooden box covered in scorch marks and a number of crudely drawn runes. Father eyed Stringfold warily before opening the box and pulling out a staff so dark, gnarled and twisted that I had trouble keeping my eyes fixed on it. For some reason, I kept wanting to look somewhere else—anywhere else. A chill ran through the room, as though a dark cloud had covered the suns—except that sunlight was still streaming in through the windows.
While the rest of the Companionship seemed more puzzled than perturbed, Stringfold looked visibly shaken. My father planted the hideous thing on the marble floor with a deep thump that echoed sonorously around the throne room. It was clear that the staff’s appearance had given him the upper hand. Stringfold’s eyes flashed with anger, but his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Get that thing out of my sight,” he said. “I consent to your request.” When Torinfel and Grimble began to protest, the wizard told them to be silent and added, “It is decided.”
The king hastily stuffed the staff back into the box, obviously relieved to be no longer touching the thing. I wanted to know what had just transpired, but when I demanded an explanation, Father just glowered at me, his face as dark as a thundercloud, and told me to be ready to leave in one hour. My heart sank but I knew that he would brook no further objection, so I rushed off to my chambers and commanded the servants to prepare for my trip, post haste.
When I returned to the throne room just over an hour later, my half-dozen over-stuffed travel chests were greeted with hearty guffaws from my new travelling companions. They told me that I would have to leave behind anything I could not carry myself. Shocked and a little chastened, I picked through my belongings until I’d gathered up a sad little pile of clothing which was unceremoniously stuffed into a burlap shoulder bag for me by Grimble, the dwarf.
By good fortune, at the last moment I remembered to throw in a blank journal and a supply of ink. And so as I set out on this unsought, unwanted adventure I have vowed to record the events as they unfold in the hope that future generations may at least learn something from my misfortune.