Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

spectacular as always ! great story Petty !!!

The first thing to strike Figg when she stepped out from the narrow alleyway at the foot of the stairs and out onto the wooden dock was the noise. There was a wall of sound, a cacophony of yells, whistles, creaking of cranes and ships straining against their moorings, hammering and banging and the cries of fights which seemingly broke out at random and almost constantly.

The second thing to strike her were the smells. They drowned out the noise when they hit and demanded all attention. To say the docks smelled exotic was an understatement. To say they were an all out assault upon Figg's nasal capacity a mere footnote to the full explosive colourful array of heady aromas, scents, smells and general whiffs and undercurrents that swirled about her and battered her nose into submission.

Freshest among the smells were the fish which were being offloaded in huge nets from a row of bobbing fishing vessels that lay moored nearest to them.

Around the nets Scotshobbits yelled, haggled, and fought each other. Buckie clinked and gurgled as it changed hands. And above it all seagulls swooped and circled and wailed and crapped on everyone and everything below with friendly abandon.

Yet never far from the surface of the multi-faceted aromatic air, lurking beneath all the other smells in a constant wave of unease and sweet sickliness which crept up on you, was the smell of a river which was also the main depositary for a large town full of drunken steaming fluid expelling Glesgiewegan Scotshobbits.

“Cor it doesn't half pong!” Figg commented disapprovingly, wrinkling her nose and side-stepping two kilted Scotshobbits locked in a tussle, “Where are we going?”

As Norc led Figg further down the dock the aroma of fish was replaced with tar and the sweet smells of carpentry as all along the length of the docks here there were sheds and lean-to's pressed up against the town's outer wall, and in them people worked in the orange and yellow glow of fires and heat and curses.

“We need to find the right sort of vessel to steal,” Norc said weaving between two stout lads carrying a plank of wood between them and up a gangplank onto a large two masted ship berthed nearby, “these are all way too fucking big, we need something small enough to crew ourselves.”

Figg hesitated and wondered if now was a good time to tell Norc that not only did she not know the first thing about sailing any sort of vessel large or small, and in fact had never set foot off dry land unless you counted walking through puddles, but she also did not know how to swim either. The Little Sisters of Eru were not big on swimming and it had been removed from the school curriculum after a notorious incident where a girl had entered a public beach wearing only three of the four regulations layers of swimsuit. Figg had seen an old painting of a class of yester-year in their swimsuits and as far as she could tell the only difference between it and the regular multi-layered school uniform was the colour. And as it was too heavy to actually swim in without drowning you the swimming lesson had been in reality  paddling lessons. Figg did not feel she had missed out on much when it came to swimming, until now, right now it seemed like something which would be incredibly useful to know.

The prospect of taking to the sea had been bothering her since they emerged onto the docks and it now suddenly seemed like a real thing which might actually happen to her, rather than a fanciful sounding notion somewhere in the hazy future. And that was an increasingly discomforting thought.

As they hurried along the busy dock Figg' eye caught a forlorn sad figure, slumped against the base of a mooring bollard near the pointy end of the two-masted ship. He wore a threadbare patchwork kilt, was bare footed and before him sat a battered wooden bowl and a piece of wood with the words 'Will rant for buckie' scrawled almost illegibly upon it.

Figg stopped before the figure who peered up at her from beneath a large tartan bunnet made mainly of holes and through bleary sad eyes full of tears and said in choking, horrified tones, “Help me. I'm sober!”

“Don't fucking bother,” Norc said shaking her head dismissively, “that's a McTyrant, you can tell from the tartan, and the buckie stains. And the fat stains and the complexion that says I have never heard of a fucking vegetable before, you often find them begging for buckie, offering to rant for it.”

“Why?”

“The McTyrant's are the most crabbit Scotshobbits in Scotshobbitland, when they rant it can be crabbit gold for any onlookers.”

“So why doesn't anyone give him some buckie then?” Figg asked puzzled.

“Because he's a McTyrant, you're as likely, more likely in-fact, to get a severe bout of senseless violence directed at you as you are the promised crabbit rant, most people won't take the fucking risk,” she paused and added reflectively, “still they always draw a good crowd either way when one does get going.”

Norc pulled Figg away from the poor sober McTyrant and led her towards the outer wall of the town where large crates were stacked one atop the other.

“Now that looks a bit more fucking promising,” Norc said pulling on Figg's hand to draw her into the dark shadow of cover behind the crates, but Figg wrenched her hand free and stood still. She was looking back towards the two masted ship.

“Who are they?” she asked staring in wonder at the last thing she had expected to see upon the dock.

At the foot of the gangplank leading up to the ship were a group of women, dressed in the height of bustle fuelled Parisian hobbit fashion. Bustles that put even Figg's own to shame in their determination to out-bustle the world; they had bows, they had lace, they had frills, they had extra padding on the padding.

The women themselves from top to toe were as equally impressive, as immaculately well turned out as their attire. Every hair seemed perfectly placed and held in place by sheer grace and when they moved it was if they floated over the wooden boards, gliding seamlessly and gently as down upon a warm summers breeze.

“Ah, them,” Norc said, “They are probably going to the Chief of the fucking McTyrants.”

“What for?” Figg said still staring in captured rapture.

“Well,” Norc began and hesitated, “they are, you know, specially trained.”

“At what?”

“Well, its not so fucking easy to just say,” and much to Figgs surprise Norc blushed.

“Hold on!” Figg exclaimed putting her hands on her hips, “this is one of those things again isn't it?”

“What fucking things?”

“What you were going to do that Prince, what no-one will tell me about, what I wasn't allowed to watch, the things adults do all the time and won't talk about, the thing that makes me get butterflies in my stomach when I think of handsome young men with stubble and long flowing hair rescuing maidens, that thing!” Figg said fiercely, “You are supposed to be a fearless Viking warrior and you can't even tell me what it is they are trained to do?”

“It's just,” Norc began with a sweating face, “there are some professions even a Viking doesn't fucking talk about to a youngster,” she caught the look of building fury on Figg's face as sure of an imminent explosion as a plume of black smoke from a volcano was, “OK. Well, they, they, wrangle.”

“They what?” Figg said taking aback and more so at the sheer embarrassment on Norc's face.

“They are apprentice Eel Wranglers, highly trained, specialists, very expensive, you get them, here and there, sometimes in courts, but usually, once they are more, mature, in discreet little specialist shops, out the way, but inside those shops...” Norc trailed off going red.

“Inside? What? What do they do inside?” Figg cried exasperated, “And what has wrangling eels got to do with what you were about to do with that Prince?”

“Some things you just have to learn yourself,” Norc said, “and now is not the fucking time for them. We have a boat to steal,” she pointed to the end of the dock where a small single sail boat bobbed gently, “that one right fucking there in fact.”

Figg followed Norc's outstretched finger, noting both that a rather swarthy fishermen was in the boat sorting through several baskets of snapping crabs and that there was a guard standing idly at the end of the dock. A glance upwards, where far above them the top of the town wall loomed she caught a glimpse of a haggis plumed head of another guard on patrol.

“And how are we going to steal it?” Figg asked innocently.

“Like fucking this!” Norc cried and drew her axe from her back and charged right out across the dock screaming and made to leap into the small boat and separate it from its current surprised owner with significantly more than extreme prejudice.

But before she reached it a bolt from a crossbow whizzed by her, grazing her cheek and leaving her with a sudden painful cut in an arching line that immediately oozed blood. The bolt thudded into a barrel stacked against the wall behind her. Norc drew to a halt and spun round axe raised.

“Which fucker fired that?” she cried furiously then saw what approached, “Ah shit!” she added.

Coming towards them in a line that was as wide as the dock and three deep, and casting poor souls aside who got in their way was Offo McBanks, his men and beside him Ringo McRotten, reloading his crossbow and several burly members of the Glesgae Constabulary with their heavy night-sticks topped with shards of buckie bottle swinging in their huge hands.

“Well, well,” Ringo cried, “if it isnae Norc the Impatient.”

The line of police armour, dishonoured McBanks,bristling weapons and pent up violence waiting to explode halted beside the two masted ship.

“Yer time is up Norc, we ur gonna maek an example oot o' yi and yer wee pal,” Offo said with a sneer, “Wur is she? Gingerlocks?”

“I'm here,” Figg aid defiantly, stepping out from the shadow of the crates and standing by Norc's side, “what do you want with me?”

“Whit dae I want wi yi?” Offo cried incredulously his jaw dropping in mock incredulity, making for a very long face, “Whit dae I want wi the lassie who hus ruined the McBanks last shred of reputation? Whit dae I want wi the lassie who hus had our Priests of Eru thrown frae their Chapel fir desecration?”

“Oh, that,” Figg said flatly and put her hands on her hips, “Well all I wanted to know was what everyone was doing in there, I don't see what is so wrong with that? Why won't anyone tell me?”

“I am sure lass, “Offo said with an odd grin Figg did not like much growing on his face as he spoke, which meant it took a while for the tips of the upward curves to reach their final destinations, “that many folk afore me huv telt yi, 'yi will find oot when yi are older',” he paused smiling in relish, “but I'm sorry tae tell yi lass, yer no goona get a chance tae git oany older tae find oot oanything.”

“Give yersel up Norc,” Ringo yelled, “come quiet like and we'll only gie yi a light kicking in the cells.”

“What do we do?” Figg asked Norc fearfully, eyeing up the array of blunt to sharp objects arrayed against them.

“What do you think the fucking chances are of you dodging crossbow bolts?” Norc asked.

“Very little I should think,” Figg replied mournfully, “not in this bustle.”

“Then I think this is it, “Norc said, “we are well and truly fucked. ”

Figg looked desperately around for inspiration and surprisingly found it, her heart leapt in excitement at the notion, “Buckie!” she said sharply.

“What?”

“Give me a buckie now, I've got an idea.”

“Now's not the time to start a fucking drinking habit,” Norc said handing her the buckie.

“Well?” Ringo yelled watching their every move with suspicion, but relaxing when he saw they were just stealing themselves for the inevitable with a buckie, which was perfectly normal in the circumstances, “Are yi gonna come quietly or no.”

Figg took the bottle and  rolled it hard along the wooden dock. It clinked and spun and bobbled over the joins of the planks and sped towards its destination. Towards the prow of the two masted ship, where, still slumped against the bollard was the sober, distraught, and Figg hoped, very, very angry McTyrant.

“McTyrant! Buckie!” Figg cried.

“You know,” Norc yelled towards Ringo as the McTyrant shot out an arm, caught the buckie smashed the neck off and guzzled it down like a lamb at the teet, “I don't think we are going to come very fucking quietly after all.”

The McTyrant leapt to his feet in a buckie fuelled explosion and strode out as if he owned the space of the dock, which at the moment he did.

He spun round to face Offo and Ringo, “Right then, A wants a wee word in yer shell-like lads,” he circled in a booming voice then seemed to catch the eye of one of the McBanks flanking Offo, “whit yi looking at pal??” he demanded then quick as a rattle snake he headbutted the McBank with a loud crack that echoed off the wall and the man crumpled up with a gurgling sound, “gie me the eye!”

There was a cheer from along the decks of the ships, people were coming out to watch and hope to catch either some exceptional violence or crabbit gold, or ideally both, more folk were streaming out behind Offo and Ringo.

“Get this McTyrant cretin oot our way!” Offo cried.

“Yi ken the law Offo, drunks huv right o' way an' crabbit,” Ringo said lowering his crossbow, “we cannae uphold the law if wi are no seen tae obey it. An incase yi huv nay noticed the eyes o' the public are oon us.”

“Are youse polis?” the drunk McTyrant demanded, “Bastards! And youse lot,” he cried spinning round on his heels and indicating everyone in sight, “youse lot widnaae gie me oany buckie, yi bastards!” he caught sight of Figg, “But yon wee lassie, yon Golden Haired Princess o' the buckie,” and his voice almost cracked with raw emotion, “yir awright by me doll,” he spun again once more using the sweep of his arm to indicate not just Ringo, the coppers, Offo and his McBanks, but the growing crowds that was gathering behind them and along the decks of the ships- keen now a McTyrant had been given a drink to see if it was to be crabbit wisdom born of the bottle, or the extreme violence born of being a McTyrant, “Youse lot! He cried, “Youse are fucking claimed! The lot o' yi!” he turned once more to face Ringo who was careful but slowly moving himself away from Offo.

A second bottle of buckie rolled along the planking and thudded up against the McTyrant's feet and turning he saw Figg giving a cheery grin and a wave. He cracked open the bottle at the neck and guzzled it down, by which time Ringo and his officers were taking the opportunity to slip quietly back into the crowd.

The McTyrant grabbed the bottle by its neck, yelled a sudden joyous yell and charged right into the McBanks swinging it with gleeful abandon. The crowd cheered and egged him on with cries of "Oan yersel' Big Man!" and the like.

“Now's our fucking chance!” Norc cried and leapt into the small boat, whose owner in a fit of sudden wisdom had abandoned, “Come on!”

But just then a crossbow bolt whizzed by between them, “Ah fuck they've got a patrol boat!” Norc cried, “Oh well, good a way as any to fucking go down!” she began untying the moorings, “sorry Gingerlocks, you're on your own. Good luck with finding out about you know what!”

“I don't understand” Figg cried from the dockside as behind her the McTyrant had extended his brawl to everyone along the docks length.

“I'm a fucking Viking. I'm in a small boat, they are in a bigger boat. What the fuck do you think I'm going to do?” she asked as she set the small boat assail and deftly and skilfully set about nosing it out from the dock, “I'm going to board the fucker!”

More bolts flew through the air, splashing into the the water and clinking off the walls or sticking black shafted up from the wooden planking as Norc set her course right for the patrol boat, both manning the vessel and managing to threateningly swing her axe about the entire time.

Figg realised she could not remain here in the open, she hurried back along the dock but the brawl was ongoing and took up the entire dock from the two masted ship onwards. And worse she saw that Offo McBanks was been extradited from the fray by his clansmen.

She spun around in desperation, feeling incredibly exposed on the open dock and seeing nowhere else to go she ran back into the cover of the crates.

She peered round the edge only to see that Offo and his men were advancing down the dock, battered, bruised, cut and furious.

Panic flared in Figg and she looked around desperately for somewhere to hide, selected the largest of the crates and prising it open she crawled inside and pulled down the lid onto utter blackness.

For a long time she was sure the loudness of her breathing, which seemed to her loud enough to be being made by two people in the confined space of the crate, would get her caught.

But eventually the hubbub outside seemed to die down. The McTyrant had finally lost the fight, or become sober again. But soon it seemed the more normal sounds of the port began to dominate once more. Her breathing was just about returning to normal and she was contemplating if it was too soon to get out the crate or not when suddenly the crate shook and she was back in full breathless panic mode.

The entire crate rocked then she felt her stomach plunge- the crate was being lifted!

Everything swung violently first one way then another, then slowed like a pendulum to a halt as Figg panted deep shallow breaths wondering what was happening to her now and not sure how much more she could take today. And then with a thud that knocked the wind from her the crate came to a rest. There was a clinking sound, some muffled shouting and then a deep hollow thud as off a heavy door being swung shut.

Figg tried to calm herself, tried to quieten her breathing and felt like she was succeeding right up to the point where she noticed the reason it sounded like she was breathing loud enough for two people was because there were two people in the crate.

Someone else was in the crate with her.

She felt panic anew and horror and fear all rise at once towards to her mouth but then a calm, suave, sophisticated voice, with just a hint of Essex said, “Please do not scream or cry out for I will do you no harm, I swear upon my loyalty to the Crown. But it is rather rummy of you to stowaway in an other chaps stowaway crate don't you know,” there was a clinking sound as of glasses being lifted, “My name is Lance and I am on a secret mission deep into McTyrant clan territory on Her Majesty Queen Tinuviel's Very Secret Service, and you just might be able to help me as it turns out,” there was a gurgling sound and the clink of glasses again, “Martini? Bashed and bobbed about a bit, not stirred.”

Figg lay in the dark listening to all this and feeling the events of the last two days all wash up to her and overtake her, this latest situation was frankly more than she could bear on an empty stomach and she felt that now was probably a very good time to get some rest. So she fainted and did just that.

“Rather rude,” Lance said and sipped his Martini in the dark, “must be from the North.”

“Rather rude,” Lance said and sipped his Martini in the dark, “must be from the North.”

azriel wrote: “Rather rude,” Lance said and sipped his Martini in the dark, “must be from the North.”

Lance? Martinis? How incongruous!

(Good to see you shamed into action, Petty. And they say Scotshobbits have none... Mind, this tale is horrifically shameless - irrespective of it's hilarity. Just saying).

I wear a kilt and no underwear and you suspect me of possessing shame?

I did not mean to cast nasturtiums! Naewae, laddie.

I took another read, Petty, just to make sure I wasn't going to make rash statements. You know, I really think you've settled your writing style and truly found your writing voice. You've always been good, but you now write with a certain ease that fairly shines out. Now, about time you got back to Home. Crabbit Faery Tales and Home. Why not flit back and forth between them? Comprehendi?

Odo tells me  he is forever glad that the McBankses went to make their fortune in Ozhobbitstan - and dropped the Mc - which they now see as disrespectable.

I love it. I hope we'll continue to get more forum cameos, but I also hope that's not the last we've seen of Norc the Impatient, since she's the best.

You're doing phenomenal here Petty. The blending of comedy with an increasingly developed story ... I'm a little jealous. Great stuff.

Family Lore suggests old Offo was a milksop when dealing with McTyrants and their even more degenerate branch, the McCrackens. Our Clan Patriarch, Offal the Prosy, ruled that blasted sub-hobbit Clan with an iron sporran, it's said!

Thanks everyone. Its a joy when folk stay with the longer stories and seem to be enjoying them. Thanks to everyone for reading.

Orwell- I have been giving some thought to Home of late and perhaps part of the problem has been having the right voice for it but not quite the right tone.
I may rewrite it with more emphasis on the comedy to balance the tragic.

Much as I love your Forumshire fanfics I would never say no to more Home (or NotP ). I understand what you mean about tone though, I've struggled with that in my attempts at writing stories with more psychological depth that tended to get out of hand in terms of being very dreary.

I have two essential problems with Home, well three really but the last two are related.

The first is the tone thing, finding the right pitch for it. It can be a very funny job in a black humour sort of a way, and often just laugh out loud funny, stuff said or done I would never think of to write. But getting the combination right of the serious and the ridiculous is proving a tricky balance at times.

The second issue is structure- is it a straight A to B narrative/ Is it a series of interrelated stories (think James Herriot books).

Thirdly plot, as in does it have one or is just a series of events, of tales, or does it need a structured plot involving a journey of some sort from A to B?

Every time I try to work on it, one of these, or a combination of them, or all three remain a problem yet to be resolved.

I have plenty of material, easily enough for a book, its how to present it that's playing silly buggers with me

I think I can relate to that, Petty. I have a great volume of ideas and material (not all of it written down, but much of it fairly fleshed out) that I have tried numerous times to organize but my attempts at writing short stories pulled from it inevitably seem to devolve into attempts at something much longer, novel-length or more, which is a bit too intimidating for me right now.

probably not what i shold be doing right now, but reading the story about figg smoking pipe and running away from some banks-school-of-good-etiquette, and i am loving it so far

omg.. the viking part

I thought you might like it.

“Oh for the love of Odin's Third fucking Testicle!” Norc exclaimed in exasperation and began violently shaking the man until he was jolted into semi-consciousness, “say your fucking name!” Norc shouted into his face.

hahahaha omg !! this whole instalment is dangerously accurate...




((no not really.. i wish))

Princess of the Kedelige Flade Landområder

Figg reached down as Norc continued to kick and now punch her way through the wall. And just as Norc exploded through with a triumphant ”Fuck yeah!” Figg felt the thing pressing into her was a clasp, she flicked it and a door in the wall swung open, it had a Norc shaped hole in it.

gold.

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

loving that part

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.

gold


also liking this dark-eyed scottish Ringo.

seem to devolve into attempts at something much longer- Eldo

Well given the purpose of this thread was to have an excuse to write short folk and fairy tales based stories of no more than a page or two in length, you can see how that has worked out for me too!



Norc- So pleased you are reading this one! And even happier you are enjoying it. Just need to get Ringdrotten to read it now (though he is more of a cameo, well for now...!- and I wonder if Huffjuff knows he finally made it into a tale.)

“Rather rude,” Lance said and sipped his Martini in the dark, “must be from the North.”



(((((( ))))))

YOU ARE AN EFFING GENIUS!! THE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH THE BOAT I LOVE YOU!§!!!ÒBTG,NJ

But before she reached it a bolt from a crossbow whizzed by her, grazing her cheek and leaving her with a sudden painful cut in an arching line that immediately oozed blood. The bolt thudded into a barrel stacked against the wall behind her. Norc drew to a halt and spun round axe raised.

“Which fucker fired that?” she cried furiously then saw what approached, “Ah shit!” she added.

Coming towards them in a line that was as wide as the dock and three deep, and casting poor souls aside who got in their way was Offo McBanks, his men and beside him Ringo McRotten, reloading his crossbow and several burly members of the Glesgae Constabulary with their heavy night-sticks topped with shards of buckie bottle swinging in their huge hands.

“Well, well,” Ringo cried, “if it isnae Norc the Impatient.”

[...]

“Give yersel up Norc,” Ringo yelled, “come quiet like and we'll only gie yi a light kicking in the cells.”

i ship it.

Thanks Norc.

Pettytyrant101 wrote:I have two essential problems with Home, well three really but the last two are related.

The first is the tone thing, finding the right pitch for it. It can be a very funny job in a black humour sort of a way, and often just laugh out loud funny, stuff said or done I would never think of to write. But getting the combination right of the serious and the ridiculous is proving a tricky balance at times.

The second issue is structure- is it a straight A to B narrative/ Is it a series of interrelated stories (think James Herriot books).

Thirdly plot, as in does it have one or is just a series of events, of tales, or does it need a structured plot involving a journey of some sort from A to B?

Every time I try to work on it, one of these, or a combination of them, or all three remain a problem yet to be resolved.

I have plenty of  material, easily enough for a book, its how to present it that's playing silly buggers with me

I like the idea of you writing a series of stories set in the same place, Petty. In my view, each tale could have it's own rhyme and rhythm. I think the humour can come and go as it occurs to you, forcing it any way probably won't work. It comes out in your cynicism or just in the situations themselves that have thus far been sad, funny, ridiculous, ironic and horrifying. I think you began to lose your way in the later bits you wrote by attempting to make it have some kind of over arching theme and plot line and maybe trying to turn your protagonist into a character. (I always thought of him as the Author, slightly creatified and imaginified to suit a fictionalised setting, however reality based - this to allow especially for a hot sex scene in a closet, but not, I hope, with a Resident!!!) To me he was better as an Evelyn Waugh character (to a degree), someone going to work and having experiences and us being there with him observing things and interacting with the other humans and knowing his thoughts as he has said experiences. I hope that makes sense. I liked the idea of going to work with your protagonist and just being there with him. (I must go back and read again as I've forgotten protagonist's name. Shows you how long since you've written anything new on Home!!!!! If you were to take the individual story tack, you could then sort them into some kind of chronology at a later date. Hope this has made sense.