| Subject: Around the Town... |
Author:
Phir
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Date Posted: 22:40:57 05/31/07 Thu
The stench was misleading.
It was one of those things that just simply did not make any sense. Half the workings of this underworld city were just the same way.
From literally at least two miles away, you could smell the overbearing odour of garbage before you could even see the place. When you first smelled it, it was so disgusting that your stomach knotted and you couldn’t help but dry heave as you neared the wasteland of rot. It was so noxious that even his undead soldiers (his temporary escorts until they were close enough to the junkyard that the warlord felt satisfied he’d be well enough to venture further with Dork alone.) had swayed in the fumes.
Dork didn’t seem bothered by it in the least.
True, he was a troll, and if you were honest, the trolls stank worse than even the junkyard. You could smell the yard from two miles away; a troll, however, you could smell from two hundred times that distance.
The puzzling thing about the odour of junkyard (or at least, this one) is that as you neared it, the odour first grew sickeningly sweet like hot fruit left in the sun for a couple days. Then, the aroma changed; it became simply just sweet, like cake or a ladies perfume. Like lilacs in the spring time. Very distinctly for but a moment, before it changed into something else, equally as sweet.
By the time they stepped inside the yard, the smell simply ceased to exist.
That was Haristagan for you.
Phir stood behind Dork, alone with him and Skare only, now. He had stopped to watch the troll navigate the wreckage of the wasteland, scurrying like a twisted, blackened beetle among heaps of plastic and torn open cushions and pans and old food and all sorts of other things. After Dork had gone ahead by about fifteen feet, Phir followed once again, stepping where the troll had stepped and navigating through the junkpiles. He moved fine enough, but he did have to lift up his cloak while he did it. He looked like a maid lifting her skirts to scale a set of stairs. Had he been in better spirits he would have probably made the comparison himself and been delighted by it. But not today.
He was keeping careful watch of his cloak for more practical reasons anyway. Not because it would get dirty, because if he didn’t carry it in such a way, it would probably get stuck on something and that was time he couldn’t afford to waste. Who cared how it looked while he did it?
Behind his mask, his face was taut. His lips were a hard, angry line. Sometimes Dork would meander a bit, and that only served make the warlord’s face tighter looking, his lips more thinner of a line as he bit down on them. By the time they’d only gone about a block’s distance into the yard, Dork stopped again and looked around. Whether it was to get his bearings or not, Phir could not say, but it did make him angry. He clenched and unclenched his fingers impatiently; something that had only become part of his personality only recently, it seemed.
He spoke. His voice was calm like a smoothed over lake, but he spoke through clenched teeth.
“How much further? Can we go faster?”
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