Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

10's good

It is. I wonder if it will stop there though! (and if Figg will want to kill me by the end- more than usual I mean)

Am I correct in assuming that this is the first of the three beds that will be figuring in the story? 
Either way, another fine installment (albeit a little rushing-feeling with the escape) and more please!

Yeah, 10 parts definitely. Like.. I've only appeared as a cameo so far.

Hey, what if I moved on to Scotshobbitland after loosing that town.

And then made another town.. which I also lost..

Am I correct in assuming that this is the first of the three beds that will be figuring in the story? - Forest

I will be perfectly honest Forest and say that thought had never crossed my mind- but I do like it- I may include a further two beds as a metaphorical three as well as three actual beds at the appropriate story point- if it ever gets there!


'I've only appeared as a cameo so far. ' _blue

Well I cant just write a story based on shoehoring as many folk in as possible - I do try to feature as many different people as a story will allow, but that only comes out in the telling. I don't know beforehand.
And there will be plenty crabbit tales and the like on the forum to feature all at some point I am quite sure.
I have no idea who is in a chapter till I write it usually- in the Three Little Ambassadors story I had no plans for you to be in it all, yet there you were, in this tale I needed a Forumshire name for the real Gretna Green, so I changed Gretna to the Scottish word for crying, Greeting, drop the g and added the apostrophe and then I needed a colour- making you the obvious choice- once that was done when I got to the town I needed an explanation and that's where the whole losing out to the McBanks, weeping statue, losing the town came from, the McBanks retaining the contracts and legal stuff from the Blue era for violent angry family members and everything else about the town, one thing leads to another- that's writing for you! (at least the way I do it for these tales it is)

Oh, I wasn't complaining. Just throwing ideas out there.

I appreciate the glimpse into the creative mind. Petty certainly seems to be following Tolkien's example of "the tale growing in the telling".

...but this better not take 17 years to finish.

Im hoping for less than 17 years Eldo, 16 at most.

15 if he's on a roll

Figg jerked uncomfortably awake. Her neck hurt and she raised a hand to massage it, opening bleary eyes onto a pale grey world as she did so.

The cart was still skipping along the rough road and a thin mist seemed to cling to the land either side obscuring it from her view. The air was heavy with cold moisture. She shivered and hugged her arms about herself.

“Have I slept all night?” she asked Norc who was staring steadfastly ahead into the morning mist from beneath the brim of her horned Viking helmet as the road began to rise and the horse slowed.

“Snored all fucking night you mean,” Norc grunted back.

“I do not snore!” Figg replied in offended tones. There was a loud, long groaning rumble of embarrassment as Figg's stomach protested its lack of food.

“Not to mention your fucking stomach.”

“Where are we?” Figg asked to change the subject and clutching one hand over her protesting gut as if to hold in any further sounds.

“We are near the town of Glesgae,” Norc replied, “The McBanks might follow us there, and they have agents there for sure, it all depends really on how much we have pissed them off. From Glesgae we will have to get on the Highway and go up the coast into McTyrant lands. They won't fucking dare follow us there.”

“I thought we were already on the highway?” Figg said and gestured at the road beneath, “I thought this was the highway?”

Just then the cart crested the top of the hill it had been climbing and broke free of the lingering morning mist and into a bright warming morning sun.

Before them the hill fell away and down to a wide flat low lying glen, and nestled in this glen, either side of a looping river was a large town of smoke and sandstone brick.

“That is Glesgae,” Norc said, and she pointed to the river where Figg saw that a myriad of boats, of all shapes and sizes were plying up and down its length and disappeared down the river and out to sea in a bright glint of horizon, streaming in bobbing lines as far as she could see, “that is the Highway. Only way to travel in Scotshobbitland, they aren't big on roads. What we need is a boat.”

“And how do we get a boat?”

“We fucking steal one!” Norc grinned and drove the cart down the slope towards Glesgae town.


Some way behind them, but gaining fast was a cloud of dust kicked up by a large contingency of very angry McBanks, whose reputation, such as it was, was now in tatters because of one Viking and a girl with ginger locks.

At the head of the horde of galloping horses and careering wagons and indignation rode Offo McBanks, Clan Chief of the Clan McBanks. This one he was going to deal with personally. This affair could cost them Greetin' Blue, finally drive them from Scotshobbitland altogether. His downturned mouth was set in grim determination. If he could not restore the McBanks reputation then he would make examples of these two. Such terrible examples that no one else would dare even mention their reputation ever again for fear of the same befalling them. He spurred his horse on ever harder.



Norc sold their cart just outside the town walls, much to Figg's annoyance as she felt somewhat sorry for, and responsible to, Forest Shepard. But on the other hand her stomach was grumbling ceaselessly and they needed the money. Or she assumed it would be money, but she was wrong.

Norc returned with a sack full of bottles.

“What's that?”

“Our payment, ten bottles of buckie for one fucking cart and horse. Its a buyers fucking market.”

“Not money?”

“This is money here,” Norc explained, pulling a bottle out from the sack, “hard currency, surprisingly valuable, it has its own anti-inflation system built it. It never loses its price.”

“How?”

“They keep fucking drinking it. No matter how much they make there is never enough, so it always keeps its value. In Scotshobbitland this stuff is better than any fucking coin.”

Norc took off her helmet and stashed it out of sight, “Say as little as fucking possible while we are in here,” she warned as they approached the town gate through which an eye-watering parade of Scotshobbits in a varied collection of tartans and states of cleanliness, ranging from 'not very' to 'oh my god!' were entering or exiting or fighting one another, “some of them they don't like Englishhobbits here, not even ones from the North. And remember, there might be McBanks after us, so keep a low profile, don't attract any attention to ourselves. Got it?”.

“Of course I've got it,” Fig replied with an annoyed shake of her head, “I'm not a little kid.”

She eyed up the thick walls as they passed through them, bedecked with tartan and along whose tops guards seemed to patrol ceaselessly.

“Is all this to keep you Vikings out?” Figg asked wide eyed.

“No, Scotshobbits,” Norc replied, “there's no one a Scotshobbit likes to fight more than another  Scotshobbit. That's why they have clans, its just teams really so they can keep a fucking score.”

They passed through the gate and emerged on a wide cobbled street with tall imposing sandstone buildings lining either side, their windows were narrowed and dark as if the town were frowning down upon its visitors as they entered in crabbit disdain.

The street was a bustle of people, carts, wagons and the air a haze of dust and dirt. A sign hung on the sandstone wall nearby, Figg read, 'Hope Street'.

Norc caught the direction of Figg's eye, “As in, you're going to fucking need it,” she explained with a devilish grin and they plunged into the often drunken chaos of the street.

“We have to get down to the docks,” Norc explained leading Figg between the plaid and smells, “stay out of trouble and follow close to me..

“Can we get something to eat first?” Figg pleaded holding her hands to her stomach, “I haven't eaten in a day.”

Norc glanced impatiently about, “This way then,” she said and led Figg down a side street which emerged in a large Square. An Arch hung over the entrance to the square reading 'Barra's Market'.

Within the Square itself were hundreds of barras of all shapes and sizes, wheel barras, hand barras, barras small enough for a child to pull and ones large enough for an oxen. And all filled to the brim with a variety of highly suspicious wares.

The Square was thronged with people, colour and smells. And most importantly to Figg's stomach woven in among the less pleasant odours was the strong whiff of food, seafood to be more precise. And above the noise of buyers and sellers came the sound of the Market, the sellers pitch as they drew crowds to their barra to partake of their wares.

As Figg wandered mesmerized and jostled among the crowds following Norc and her nose towards the food barras a hand grabbed her shoulder as she passed and another hand thrust a metal box in her face, “Yi ken whit yi want doll?” the holder of the box asked, pulling off the lid, “Ten tinder fir the price o' wan!” he declared and proceeded to pull some cotton like substance from the box and what looked like two pieces of metal, “guaranteed tae light first time!”

The metal was struck together and one scrapped down the other producing a dazzling spray of bright yellow sparks which fell on the fluffy tinder and to the street where they fizzed and went out and failed to light anything, “ur second time!” the voice said without losing a beat as Norc hauled Figg away.

Figg was again grabbed and spun round, “Little Lass, yi ken whit yi need?”

“Yes, something to eat thank you very much,” Figg replied politely but pointedly as Norc again dragged her away until finally they had squeezed between the crowd and reached the food barra's.

These were made of metal, and each had  a fire beneath them and the barra itself, no matter the size, was filled with fat which bubbled and steamed and spat at passers-by.

Each barra had a sign above it proclaiming its wares, which varied from haggis to seafood, none of the Scotshobbits names for which Figg recognised. Not feeling up to braving haggis she made her way to the seafood barras, but as all the barras produced food which looked exactly the same: large roundish balls of inch thick batter soaked in fat, inside which presumably, was fish of some sort, it did not really seem to matter which one she picked.

Figg pushed down the instinctive repulsion she felt at the choice before her and addressed the fat women stained in fat who ran the barra, “Are these fresh fish?” she asked, stalling on actually trying one.

“Aye, fresh  noo an hoor ago frae the river itsel” the women grinned back at her, “shall A pop yi up a bag?”

Figg hesitated, glanced at Norc's impatient face and then nodded as the women deftly scooped up half a dozen of the battered balls and placed them into a bag and handed it to Figg, “That'll be twa hoff measures,” the women said and Norc uncorked a bottle of buckie and began pouring it into the woman's measuring glass until it reached the line marked 'twa'. The barra women immediately poured the contents into a larger bottle she kept behind the barra and tucked between her legs.

“Come on,” Norc said grabbing Figg by the arm and not giving her time to try one of the suspicious fish balls, “we've wasted enough fucking time already. I wan tot get away from here. I've had run ins with local law enforcement before and I'd rather we didn't bump into the fuckers again.”

Norc led Figg by the arm out of the side of the Square and down an alleyway that in turn led to a steep sloping road crossed at the far end by busy second road. Ahead and below them Figg could see the tops of the tallest masts in the dock rising and swaying on the swell above the roofs of the deep orange buildings.

At the bottom of the hill beyond the junction there was a broad wide side of steps that narrowed as they descended to the docks. The air was pierced by the crying of gulls, but as they stooped to cross the street to reach the stairs a figure staggered out before them onto the road arms raised.

“Haud a meenite!” the man cried in a drunken shout and waved a bottle of buckie about.

A cart which had been coming up the road was reigned to a halt by its driver and the drunk man approached it, “Ah said, 'Haud a meenite! Ah wis fucking walkin' here!” the man said waving a drunken waggling finger in the horses face. The horse responded by looking both bored and resigned to this. More carts backed up behind it.

Norc held Figg back with an arm and they stopped, “Fuck it!” she exclaimed, “We have to wait. Drunks have right of obstruction and ranting.”

“What?” Figg said, but taking the opportunity of the pause to finally free her arm of Norc and delve into the bag of food. Her stomach, despite her brains misgiving on the matter, was grumbling in anticipation.

“Nooo, let me tell yi somit!” the drunk was proclaiming to the street in general and the horses nose in particular. A crowd was beginning to form.

“They say the best crabbit can come from a drunk,” Norc explained as Figg selected a ball from the bag, “so when a drunk goes on a rant, you aren't by law allowed to fucking stop them, and everyone crowds round in the hope of hearing some drunken snippet of crabbit wisdom among the ramblings that they can steal and make some buckie off.”

Figg closed her eyes and placed the ball in her mouth and bit down on it.

“They also have the right to piss anywhere in the street they like,” Norc added, “it goes into those gutters that are everywhere and then drains straight into the river. Strange but true.”

Figg paused mid-chew of her freshly caught river fish in batter. Her wide blue eyes turned, drawn inexorably with a sort of horrified fixation downwards to where, at the edges of the street, the gutter ran filled with a consent trickle of faintly steaming yellow liquid.  

She coughed.

She choked.

She launched the ball of batter from her mouth so hard and fast it flew across the street and hit the horse right between the eyes. The crowd gasped.

“Wan mair thing yi shud ken,” the drunk was saying with the deepest sincerity when the fish ball struck the horse.

The horse, which had gone into a sort of stupefied trance – drunk ranters happened several a times a day to it on the streets of Glesgae- and it was in general prepared to put up with the ranting and finger waving but was not however in any mood to put up with being struck squarely between the eyes.

It came out its near catatonic state straight to fury, saw the drunk waving his arms about before it and reared up and kicked him square in the face. This got a cheer from the crowd who in the the place of crabbit revelations were quite prepared to accept random acts of violence as their entertainment instead.

The cart to which the horse was attached tipped over backwards, spilling its cargo of haggis skins, and more importantly the owners buckie, which rolled out its smashed chest clanking down the street, pursued by a large part of the crowd.

A brawl ensued behind the cart which in turn quickly involved all the other carts backed up down the street.

The drunk went over backwards rolled and stumbled straight back up again onto his feet seemingly oblivious to how he had achieved this, spun round on the spot, too far, and had to spin back again, and swung one huge drunken hairy arm in a long arcing loop- punching the horse in the face. The horse staggered and fell over on its side.

The remaining crowd members not yet embroiled in a fight cheered again.

The drunk staggered around on the spot for a moment before his eye alighted on the ball of fish batter, flattened now on one side from where it had hit the horse. He swept down an arm to pick it up, managing to do so on only the fourth attempt, stared at it in puzzled bafflement for a moment before a light, which only a drunk could have seen, came on in his head.

He turned slowly but determinedly to the crowd until his red, bleary, angry eyes alighted on Figg, still clutching in her shock her bag of battered fish balls.

“Ah fuck!” Norc said taking in the chaos at one end of the street and the drunk whose eyes were widening as he connected the dots.

“Um gonna kill yi!” the drunk concluded and the crowd parted either side of Norc and Figg to allow room for him to do just that to them for their entertainment.

Norc reached round to her back and drew out her axe but before she could act the horse, who had taken more than enough of this, staggered back to its feet, took careful aim and charged the drunk in the back with a tremendous head butt, sending him flying across the street and into the crowd where he immediately started fighting on impact, and so then did everyone else.

Norc sheathed her axe and grabbed Figg who was standing gob-smacked and staring at the complete chaos and carnage around them and dragged her towards the stairs leading down to the docks, “I told you to keep a low fucking profile! We are supposed to be trying not to attract any fucking attention. Remember?. You never know who is watching or who is listening.”


'No that you don't' thought a figure skulking in the shadows beside the foot of the steps as Norc and Figg swept by onto the docks.

The figure produced a small quill and ink bottle from his sporran and unrolled a thin length of parchment, wrote upon it, rolled the parchment back up and whistled.

Amid a flurry of feathers a raven landed on the wall nearby and the figure attached the parchment to its leg. The raven pecked his thumb drawing blood and making the figure curse before it cawed once and took to the air.



In another, altogether nicer part of town, there stood a long low building of sandstone. The headquarters of the Glesgae Constabulary. And in one of its larger and finer offices the head of the Glesgae Constabulary Ringo McRotten sat at his desk and stared at the large bag of gems sitting upon it.

He stared for some time, both because he knew it was making the person who had placed the bag there sweat, and he like to do that to people, and because he was waiting on the piece of information he needed to turn the screw, which was something else he liked doing to people.

A junior officer sucking a bleeding thumb entered the office and handed a rolled up length of thin parchment to Ringo. Slowly, methodically Ringo unrolled it. It said on it- 'Gingerlocks. Docks. Riot. Breach 42'.

Ringo stood and slowly walked round the side of his desk, never taking his eyes off the bag of gems as if he were studying it.

When he reached the other side of the desk he lifted his dark eyes up to meet those of Offo McBanks, whose bag it was.

“Yi may huv heard,” Ringo said, “that I am the maest Respected in o' Glesgae,” he paused to let this sink in, then turned his attention back to the bag,  “Now I huv tae ask yi Offo,” he said softly, “wid yi caw that” he pointed at the bag, “showing me ma due respect?”

A bead of sweat formed on Offo's brow and began its long journey down his face.

“Control o' this toon is aw aboot respect,” Ringo went on, “an' if yi dinae gie due respect tae the Law in Glesgae, the Law will noo respect yi right back, only harder.”

Offo gulped and turned to one of the two McBanks who flanked him and nodded at them. They produced a second bag and sat it down beside the first.

Ringo smiled, “They ur at the docks. We huv them un'er oor eyes.”

“Then they ur trying tae escape us.”

“Well, wi just a little maer show of yir respect I cun ensure that ne'er happens.”

Offo hesitated a moment then nodded again and a third bag of gems appeared.

Ringo smiled, went back behind his desk,”According tae ma reports they huv started a riot an', maist serious o' aw, interrupted a drunk in his lawful act o' crabbit ranting, oh dear, oh dearie me!” he opened the desk and took from inside it a black crossbow, “So I think it's time wi gae an' enforce some Law lads,” he said grinning and cocking his crossbow.

Incredible. The detail, the humor, the characters, everything. You're on a roll here, Petty.

Glad you are enjoying it Eldo. Got a bit away from me this one in terms of length, the entire time in Glesgae was intended to be only 1 chapter but I was having too much fun!

It's a blast to read, and I always love delving deeper into the "world" of Forumshire.

Um I have more of this, but as the chapters are currently turning out quite long by Forumshire standards, about 6 pages, I dont want to get too far ahead of folks. So, basically get reading so I can put up more!

Yeah come on people.

I'm ready to go. Bring on more chapters!

(I'm curious, why is this crabbit tale so expanded compared to the earlier ones? Inspiration striking and all that, or is this the finale?)

Just how it has turned out Forest (I just write 'em down, I make no claim to know where they come from- that's the power of the buckie )

Took me ten minutes to read this, Petty. Do you think I have all day to be so thoroughly entertained, forsooth!!!

Sorry Orwell but you aint ever getting those ten minutes back!

Well, when the Dark Mistress comes, you'll get yours. I plan to put in a complaint immediately. How dare you make one laugh and giggle endlessly like that!!!  

(((I heard the Dark Mistress makes slaves of some. Not that I'd volunteer fo such enslavery, mind. )))

not sure I like the idea of battered balls. but someone is going to get them.

Of course, while a little squeamish on certain punishments myself, I still approve of corporal punishment when it comes to Scotshobbits.

So where's that next installment Mr Write-ahead?