Heaven Scent

[Ranger]

Forgiving was the last word that Ranger thought he could use for humanity. He had described them as hateful, loathing, spiteful, and more often then not ridiculous. But to have the gratitude and love of the people, of society itself, was something that the drow was not accustomed to. Nobody disliked a miracle worker, or shunned a prophet, or even kicked a cleric in the butt as he walked by. The Alerar native was used to that behavior, but people kissing his hands, openly talking to him, or children hugging his legs was a more then a bit strange.

The only words that would come were those of thanks. Gratitude filled the platinum eyes of the elf and still praise filled his ears. Around him the town of Underwood seemed to be abuzz with his arrival. People remembered him where he had been before, people remembered miracles quite distinctly. Shops had signs on their windows, lumberjacks were talking in packs and pointing at the passing elf, children were giddily dancing with their bare feet packing with dirt. Ranger answered what little he could, attempted to answer all the questions but realized quickly that it would be frivolous to do so.

Overhead hung the sun and a sky randomly spotted by lofty, billowing white clouds. It was bright but the trees of the surrounding Concordia forest were quite adept at blocking out the unwanted rays of sunshine. Though Underwood was a small town, set in the middle of Concordia and no more then logging community it had thrived. Ranger had been through once, had blessed the hard grounds and restored much of the nutrients that had been torn out of them from the growth of the trees.

On the edge of town, opposite edge Ranger was walking in from, a fresh crop of corn was growing well. It was easily taller then the elf and looked almost ripe enough to harvest. A smile lit his face. That was what he was to them, a bringer of hope, a celebrated bringer of prosperity. At least they accepted him and sheltered him from his own self-loathing though, and that was what mattered.

“Prophet, why don’t ya come inta the tavern,” it was the voice of the tavern keeper, Mr. Milliopolis. He was a large man, and as the saying went ‘it’s the skinny inn keepers that you can’t trust’. Ranger greeted his suggestion with a smile and his attention. “The wife’s cookin’ up a small meal for ya, and a mug of quality dwarven ale would help it go d’wn well.”

“That would do me well,” Ranger replied, mimicking the country accent of Underwood’s population without meaning too. “That would be quite well indeed.”

[chumley]

Chumley emerged from the lush forest which he had traversed, like those coureur de bois of the forests primeval of the colonial infancy of the Republic, his eyes a-twinkle and his mouth in a genial smile. The woods were amenic in comparison with the baronial oak and chestnut of the aged Appalachians, but still gave the personable pachyderm a nostalgic twinge for the land of Jackson and the Tennessee Stud. A grand sight for his beady eyes those forested mounts would be, greater even then the snow-adorned Rockies or the dust-powdered Sierra Madre!

Chumley saw a band of fellows hefting double-headed axes and saws, hacking logs into splintery firewood with effortless swings of their muscled arms, their tendons stretched and their beards flowing. These rustic latter-day Titans, churning unhewn wood into the fuel of progress, could not hope but to inadvertantly hasten the beating of Chumley's heart. They were but the most vigorous vision of vitality, comparable to the farmers of the former Northwest Territory or the wagoneers of the Transmississippi. Chumley was drawn to them like longhorn steer to Tulsa, edged forward by the magnetic attraction of two manifestations of the American spirit. The elephant leapt a stream, dabbed his proboscus with a handy handkerchief, and extended an arm towards the lumberjacks.

"Dear gentlemen!" he cried jovially, "A thousand salutations to you fellows, who so deftly defended the Republic's honor in the Aroostook War! Your efforts were not in vain, for despite the calumny of Ashburton and Webster in denying our United States the true limits of Maine, you enflamed our spirits against the encroaching empire of the British and their savage allies in the far West!" The lumberjacks, caught off their guard by the appearance of such a hoary personage as the chummy Chumley, were speechless for a few seconds before turning and fleeing toward what appeared to be a small settlement, perhaps one such as would spring up around a minor stop along the Western rails. Chumley, abashed by their shockingly poor manners, stared at their retreating backs in the manner of a cavalry sargeant watching the fleeing Creek or Sioux.

[Ranger]

“Prophet,” Mr. Milliopolis was hoisting a large tray. Piled upon it was a mingling of aromas that brought the report of steamed vegetables, fresh wheat bread, and the slow roast. Before the man’s tray had even come eye level the drow’s mouth had begun watering. Around the elven prophet there were gales of laughter and titters of joyous conversation. Ranger was as close to comfort as he would ever be. People like those of Underwood were the kind that he had longed for, the kind that would flock to him as he became the tool of the Thayne. “The wif’ took special tim’ on the sauss… we hope its good ‘nough for ya.”

Without even having to take a bite out of any of the food the drow knew it would be well enough for him. The sweet smells were enough to remind Ranger of all the harsh trials he had been through in the past years. Food was almost as precious a commodity as a nights sleep in a soft bed. “It’ll be wonderful.”

That was an understatement.

The food was close to heavenly. Every bite seemed to make the mouth of the drow tingle. A genuine smile graced his noble face and a glint caught his eyes that had been all but absent in years past. The people were blissful and festive and Ranger was all too willing to let it continue on. “Have you heard about the upcoming event? Are you going to be going to the tournament?”

The thought had crossed his mind, to tell the truth, but a partner was going to be near impossible to find. It would be starting in two weeks. The drow had abandoned his friends of the cloth, he had left behind the friends of the Red Hand, and in the past he had made very few true friends. If he was to enter the tournament it would have to be with someone completely new, someone that had never met Ranger and had not known of his past occupation.

“Perhaps dear boy,” the drow finally responded, “perhaps.”

Before the drow could continue any longer three men busted through the inn door. They were hardy men, thick beards that could rival a dwarf’s. Their hair was just as thick, their bodies were unyielding, but it was their eyes that caught the elf. Despite the color they were wide with terror, as if a ghost had walked over their graves. Instantly an unsteady quiet descended over the festivities.

“Prophet! The Thayne have sent a beast to terrorize Underwood! It is huge, black, has a long… nose thing…” They continued stumbling over their words. Ranger listened diligently, listening past the ramblings and more at piecing the puzzle of the men’s words together. “It looks strong, like a creature of Hromagh… but it… it smells odd.”

Smells strange? Creature of Hromagh? From what the drow had caught it was at, if not over, six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds. Its skin was thick and wrinkly at places, and an extended snout reached away from its face. It sounded close enough to be a monster to the drow, and it was impossible to resist the pleas of the denizens of Underwood.

“I will check into it, I request that only the lumberjacks follow me however. If we need more then one will be sent back,” Ranger was already on his feet and carrying behind him the monk’s spade he had become known for. Already promises of better woods for the shaft and a sharpening of the blade were given to him, if he was planning on competing in the Lornius Corporate Challenge. Underwood was good to him; he felt a deep obligation to be good to them. “To the woods with us then, and may the Thayne watch us closely.”

((Chumley has my permission to bunny my character to 'em))

[chumley]

Chumley was humming a tune to himself as he walked by several rows of corn, the golden maize rippling in the light breeze of the afternoon. It was not nearly as hearty as the stalks of Nebraska, but pushed upon the elephant a wave of nostalgia. Chumley sighed, and plucked one of the ears with his truck. Peeling away the husk like a banana peel, he began munching it, chewing the cob along with the kernels. "An unusual way of eating," he thought to himself, "But only because of the deficiencies of the ways the savages showed us to prepare corn. A cob in the mouth is worth two on the stalk!" Swallowing the last of the corn, Chumley paused at the end of the row. The town he had sighted earlier, like Lewis and Clark espying the far Pacific, was now upon him. It was little more than a hamlet, arranged in the shadows of the towering trees above, the buildings squatting in the dirt. No one seemed to be around. "A ghost town?" Chumley thought aloud, scratching his chin with his trunk.

"NO SIR!" a voice hollered out. Chumley was startled as one of the lumberjacks he had met earlier, but who had so rudely run away, leapt out from the cornfield, swinging a hatchet, the flame of battle in his eyes.

"Great Mary of Modena!" Chumley ejaculated, and tipped his hat in a polite sort of way, trying to clam the angry fellow down. "Chumley de Rochfeltingham, at your service! 'Twas not a jest when I congratulated the fraternity of lumberjacks on their bravery against the Canadian wood-choppers. Perhaps that is the source of your Texas-sized anger, my good man?" The lumberjack, fear as well as anger obvious on his face, responded by way of a leaping, howling attack, swinging his hatchet, like a Fury assaulting a guilty murderer. Chumely, knowing not what to do, grasped out with his trunk, gathering several corn stalks in it. Yanking them from the ground - "Forgive me for this theft, but the exigencies demand it!" he howled, hoping the farmer was not only in earshot, but also especially understanding - he thrashed them at the lumberjack. The corny cat-'o-ninetails smacked the not-so-gentle man across his face, knocking him unsteady, and forcing him to rush forward blind. He stumbled on a rock in his way, and his face smashed against one of Chumley's blunted trunks.

"Great dental disaster!" Chumley bellowed, and pushed the lumberjack, now nursing a quickly blackening eye, away. "As dirty a trick as U. S. Grant pulled when he dared to wave the bloody shirt about the Republican nominating convention! Back with you, you churlish coachman!" Chumley waved his cornstalks threateningly, and the lumberjack, now apparently sobbing into his beard, ran back the way he had come, dropping his hatchet and plowing through the corn. "I apologize profusely," Chumley said, his anger quickly dying down, "The Grant simile was a bit much! You're really more of a George McClellan!" But Chumley realized, a blanket of fear falling over him, that the logger was rushing back to reinforcements, who were traipsing up, like the Prussians at Waterloo, to enact a hastly counterattack.

[Ranger]

Acting as a scout one of the lumberjacks had assumed the forward position, finding and reporting back was all he was supposed to have done. Instead Ranger found himself faced with not only a man covered in dirt, a bloody wound running down the side of his face, and a missing weapon… but pure terror in his tone. The man was half-crazed as he reported what he had done, not so much ashamed as he was surprised. He spoke of such strength as only a creature of Hromagh could assume, such quick wit of Khal’jaren, and skin as thick as could only be from Draconus.

From what the lumberjack was saying it sounded as if the beast was sent by the Thayne themselves. Ranger gently took the man’s head between his hands. Frantic eyes were jerking side to side, his mouth was still moving a mile a minute, and his skin was being soaked with sweat. But as soon as the calloused hands of the prophet lit to a pastel green-blue hue the man went silent, the blood stopped running and the wound closed almost instantly. Healing had quickly become a favorite of the drow, giving to others instead of taking was encouraging to his new revere for life.

“You were not supposed to approach it,” the drow said finally. His tone was cold and calculating as if he was lost in some other thought then what he was speaking of. In truth he was. His mind was abuzz with ways to dispatch the creature if necessary, how to keep the people of Underwood from harm, and how to go about talking to an animal. “I can only hope that you did not infuriate the beast anymore then it may have already been, and that we can keep it in peace long enough to talk to it.”

The lumberjack gave a grunt of a response and shuffled to the mob of people that were following at a very safe distance. They knew not to follow any further then the edge of town and that was very well for them. If the thing was of a malicious nature and happened to attack either the drow or his companions he wanted to give the Underwood people plenty of time to seek refuge and form a counter attack.

“By the Thayne,” Ranger mumbled as he strode over the low rise at the edge of town. Plants had been tossed into the road, a lone axe rested on it side covered by a small heap of dirt, but before all was the creature. It stood on two feet, like a humanoid, worse wore a hat. The prophet did not know what to make of the beast, but could only gape at the awesome creation of the gods.

Surely its skin was as thick and gray as the lumberjacks had told. From its mouth protruded large ivory tusks. Before everything however, was a long, thick trunk that resembled what would happen if someone’s nose was stretched. Ranger’s initial reaction was only to allow his platinum eye to meet the large round black counterparts of the animal. Across his back was strapped his spade, a sign of peace hopefully.

“Umm…” he began rather cautiously, not sure how to address a talking animal of all things. “I am Ranger, prophet of the Thayne. The town before you is Underwood, and the people of the town have elected myself to represent them and come before you to speak. They, and myself actually, wish to know what you are? Where you came from? If you have a name, and what your ambitions are in the town of Underwood?”

It was the best Ranger could think of standing with a beast almost over a foot taller and weighing almost a hundred pounds more. To say the beast was intimidating would be an understatement. Even with the protection and love of the Thayne hanging on the shoulders of the elven prophet his heart was pounding heavily. In the thin ears of the elf the heart sounded like a war drum, he could only hope that the people of Underwood could not hear it as well or they may lose hope in him.

[chumley]

Chumley dropped the cornstalks, which had become as flimsy and useless as an Austrian's spine, as another man approached. Instead of attacking the elephant, as the other cowardly fellow had done, this one called out to him, identifying himself and obviously forsaking armed conflict. Chumley nodded approvingly at the man's bearing. Obviously this prophet, as he called himself, was a civilized gentleman, unlike the loggers with whom he associated.

"So it's a democracy, eh?" Chumley retorted to news that the village had elected a representative to parley. "This town is even more like my homeland than I ascertained at first blush. Truly, it is a crucible of the new civilization of republicanism." The elephant rubbed his hands together like the scheming Shylock, a gentler plan running through his head. "My name, sir, is Chumley de Rochfeltingham, late of California by way of Nevada, Dakota and the rest of the Transmississippi." Chumley looked over the approaching prophet's shoulder, seeing a small mob of people gathered in anxious silence: The good people of the town. Chumley chortled and took a step forward. The crowd jumped, but was too transfixed to flee.

"My aspirations, padre," The elephant continued, "Are merely those of any traveler in a foreign land. Grub! I wish to eat!" Chumley gave a quaking belly-laugh, showing the quick geniality and humor of the American spirit, imbued in him since childhood. "Show me the cornucopia of your land, and like the docile Pilgrims upon landing at Plymouth, I shall share the bounty with you in a reposed meal!"

[Ranger]

Democracy? The word was foreign to say the least. Ranger had heard of it, had even heard that some places used such confusing ways of government. But the comparison between the rare type of government and the way the drow approached the large animal passed by. Instead of taking heed to it the prophet continued listening, trying to figure out what the animal was saying.

Saying!

The mere fact that it was speaking at all was odd enough, but what Ranger caught was that he was listening with analytical and passive patience. The male animal continued its explanation, though one in ever three words was actually understood. ‘California’, ‘Nevada’, ‘Dakota’, ‘Transmississippi’; the words meant nothing to the drow prophet. He had traveled the lands of Althanas. He had lived in the depths of Alerar, worked throughout Corone, and had even ventured into the depths of Haidia, but none of those places had towns with names as such.

“He wants to eat?” The question was posed at little more then a whisper. Behind the drow were two lumberjacks, he had almost forgotten about them. He took a step to the side, turned his head, and looked at the men. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see Chumley de Rochfeltingham but his face, most especially his lips, were towards his companions. “Dear prophet, are we going to allow him to enter our town? The Promenade had plenty of food, though we could only assume what type of food this beast would consume.”

“It is apparent that he eats vegetables, as we came upon him while he was eating of the corn fields,” Ranger replied. His voice was quick, sharp. It was not a tone of anger, but quickly communicated what he needed to and left no room for questions. “I will repay the town in any way if this… thing destroys anything. I will also pay for, or travel to Radasanth in order to replenish the food supply if it runs too low. Fear not, this Chumley could be a great blessing from the Thayne, though it does smell quite odd.”

The drow turned once again to the elephant. His platinum eyes looked over the wrinkly, thick gray skin of Chumley. Weapons would have quite a time trying to pierce that and as big as the beast was Ranger doubted it would even feel any bludgeoning weapons against its thick bones. If anything was going to happen it would take plenty of men to bring the animal down. But good relations had been started. All it wanted was food; it harbored no outward malice towards the people or towards the town.

“Chumley de Rochfeltingham, you are welcome to the town of Underwood. I, on behalf of the people of the town welcome you and hope that your stay is not only enjoyable here but on all of Althanas.” Ranger gave a deep bow. As he rose a light sat behind his eyes and genuine smile across his face. “If you will follow these people they will show you to the local tavern, The Promenade.”

[Letho]

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