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The chronicles of Henry Archer:The secret of Death Isle


Harakiri

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The smell of burning flesh, quite pungent as anything, infiltrated my stuffed up nostrils, the smell like sticking your face into an ogres armpit. I looked at the bloody and convulsed corpse and yelled at my partner, "Bucket please." To late for at the time the bucket had been placed before my feet, I had thrown up all over the blue carpet of the bedroom.

 

"Good job...puke on the crime scene." My partner rolled her eyes and I just laughed.

 

"Well its better than puking on you right?"

 

"You are a pathetic excuse for an investigator."

 

"And you are a pathetic excuse of a woman."

 

"EXCUSE ME?" She slapped me. I had a searing pain on my cheek now, and rubbed it lightly.

 

"Please excuse my remark...its only the truth. You are a man in a woman's body."

 

I dodged the next slap and grabbed her arm, lightly twisting it.

 

"Please don't screw with me anymore."

 

"Why not Henry?"

 

"Because I just figured out where I am and who that is." I pointed a scratched up finger at the burnt body. "That's John, he was the local occult book seller."

 

"Oh dear lord...get off this obsession you have with the occult."

 

"Its not my fault I was born into a family of magicians obsessed with the paranormal and demons and monsters."

 

__________________________

 

My name is Henry Archer. I was born in a small village south of Falador. It used to be called small and desolate by everyone living there, now its called extremely small and unlivable. Remington is the technical name,but technical names are only for scientists and rich jerkoffs. How's that old poem go?

 

Born in a small town

 

with no name

 

and then the city folks come

 

and start to play their little game

 

name the town a village instead,

 

and say how inhumane it is to walk around with heads.

 

It only makes sense if your from a small town, or, as the poem implies, what city folks call a village. Of course, then the city folks shun us because we live in the "burbs". They mean suburbs in their crazy and pathetic language. Too much slang. They are quite a lazy bunch, not even able to say the word will not, instead saying "won't". Now that I am a city folk I guess I get why. There is to much to do and to much to say so you just want to get right to the point.

 

So when I became a teenager, I got a job in Falador with a local blacksmith, at first running coal and such from the mine to the furnace, and then to the blacksmith, and then mining, and then using the furnace, until finally I was making swords and daggers for adventurers who would come by. I envied them, their carefree life where they could go anywhere, slept out in the wild and scared all the beasts away just by staring at them. I learned soon enough that that was BS...

 

My parents being the magicians they were (not technically wizards since my parents "Magic" appealed only to children) they were obsessed with the occult. Our local witch, who was also ironically a [bleep], told me I would be able to work for her. Old Hetty. I always hoped she'd keel over dead while I was stirring her potions. But of course, that never happened. I was practically doing this for my parents so they would be able to read some of her occult books. Soon, I got sick of it and quit, which led to my first adventure.

 

Hetty was a nut. Maybe it was that large wart on her nose, or perhaps it was just having lived for quite some time. I did not know. But what I did know was that I totally screwed up.

 

She screamed at me. She yelled, "You are mine forever." I just plainly said, "Nope." She became an enraged old woman. I was hoping she would have a heart attack by then, but she stayed standing. Its weird, because then I decided to run to Falador and ask one of those adventurers I so envied to help me, and the man simply replied, "A witch? Are you crazy? Those are tough..." I cannot remember what obscenity he used, but I remember that it was quite a chain of them.

 

Soon, I was all over Falador, asking everyone to help me, and they would always laugh at me like I were a jester. So, I decided I would face the mean old biddy myself. I made my own sword at the blacksmiths, and walked back to Remington with it. I bombarded her house and began cutting everything up. Her pot fell before me, some type of green liquid suddenly touching her shoes. She just screamed as she turned into a frog. Typical witch type stuff.

 

So, I decided to take her books and sell them at the wizards tower, a nearby complex full of old guys saying that they could control the elements. Soon enough, I learned that it was nothing to laugh about. They had power beyond my imagination and as I began giving them some of the books, they told me I had untapped power in me and that if I trained with them, I would be powerful.

 

Yeah, right...

 

_______________________________

 

And here I am, so powerful, I am literally able to go to the bathroom in my pants and leave no trace...

 

Well, that was not the best example I could have given you but I guess its the only one that comes to mind. I guess its because here I am in the goblin and elf warzone, with no ditch to go in. God I hate these modern warzones, don't even have the decency to add in someplace to go to the bathroom.

 

Well, I was here in the wonderful world of pathetic people fighting with oversized turtles because of one of the goblins, Wartface I believe is his name. I go over to the amazingly complex barracks of the goblins, where I find some guards. I just wave them off and they walk away in a drunken state. The large wooden building provided much cover from the pounding rain outside. So much in fact, that I was dodging waterfalls coming from the broken ceiling.

 

Once I found the small and lumpy bed of Wartface, I kicked it. I heard a grunt and saw a large and ugly face peek out from beneath the bed.

 

"War over yet?" He asked.

 

"Not yet." I said and sat down on the bad. My [wagon] suddenly felt a sharp pain. I pulled the covers away, and noticed a large ant that's abdomen was crushed beneath my butt.

 

"Sorry." I said and sat up.

 

The ant rushed away and I began to rub my butt. Thankfully, no one came in during this time and noticed this. Wartface paid no attention in his masterful hiding spot below the bed.

 

"So Wartface, know anything of an occult bookseller in Ardoungue?"

 

"Um, no...I am just goblin. Not big bad magician like you."

 

"Not magician, wizard. There is a difference."

 

"Oh yeah, such a huge difference. One pulls bird from sleeve and other pulls bird from nowhere."

 

"Yes. And I might pull a terrorbird from nowhere if you do not answer my question."

 

"NO!" Wartface suddenly pulled out from under the bed and stood, his face now showing a bit of emotion. "Nothing but elven monstrosities."

 

"Then answer my question."

 

"The only occult man we know was dead the other day...burnt alive."

 

"Yes, but do you know the person who killed him? Does he have any...somewhat odder than usual connections you know of?"

 

"One...a dark wizard from large tower on island way west...past the land of elves even."

 

"And this island is called?"

 

"I do not know anything but that. Please no terrorbird."

 

"Are you sure? I really need to work on my summoning..."

 

"It is called Death Isle! There I tell you! You happy?" Suddenly, the goblins eyes rolled back in his head.

 

"What the..." The goblin blew up. I groaned as I found myself covered in blood and guts. I threw my cloak to the ground and stomped off.

 

"Always the friggin' cloak...always my favorite cloak...the one that costs a whole paycheck..." I continued my somewhat incoherent muttering all the way back to Ardoungue.

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