Part 1.4:
Shein thought to himself. How did a hobbit lassie end up as the owner of this… roughhouse joint? Beside him, an orc garbed in a spiky suit of chain mail spit into his glass of ale, stirred the mixture with his cracked fingernail and proceeded to gulp it down.

“I’ve come with your… you sausage,” said Shein, reaching into his basket and plucking out a Knockwurst. The hobbit woman stared at him.

“It’s f-fresh!” continued Shein, pointing the sausage at her.

The whole bar proceeded to guffaw. Only the orcs, who would not know innuendo if it banged them on the head with an anvil, wondered what the laughing was about.

“W-What?” asked Shein.

The halfling lass slapped her head. “Tsk. Young hobbit. You have much to learn in terms of decorum. Pass me what we’ve ordered and sit down. Barvus, get him a pint and I’ll give him a receipt.”

“Yer got any bangers for me, halfie?” shouted a grey-bearded dwarf at the bar, his battlebow propped up on his chair.

Shein, red-faced, reached into his basket and extracted the dozen sausages he had been asked to deliver, shoving them on the bartop where Barvus, who eyed the others at the bar, plucked them away swiftly. He then shoved Shein a pint in an unclean, grimy mug.

Shein lifted the pint. It would be the first drop he had in a long time. He drunk it down greedily. Foam dripped down the sides of his mouth onto the floor. The dwarf and Barvus exchanged glances, realized what they were doing and turned away.

“Don’t drown yarself, halfie,” said the Dwarf, who gave Shein a hard slap on the back.

Shein didn’t care. He just continued to quaff down the beer. The brew reminded him of his days back at the Shire, where he had no worries and the best of times was spent with his mates downing mead after the Harvest Festival. Every drop and every swallow offered brief recompense from the current state of affairs – dead broke; forced into slavery in an unfeeling city; a long way from home, hot baths, cider snaps and warm bread and hedgehog footcombs.

“Yer not a bad drinker, halfie,” said the Dwarf. “I be Hargusha Boltshova, of the Iron Mountains.”

Dwarves. They took the name of their craft or their weapons. Family mattered, but spiky pointy things that tore holes into their enemies mattered much more.

“I be Shein… Shein McGee!” The halfling replied, trying to hold his voice steady. It was rare to find someone in the city who would exchange names with him. Most people called him twerp or runt, usually adding the prefix ‘Get-out-of-my-way!’

“And a long way from home, I warrant. Just like me,” said the dwarf, smiling. “Barvus, another mead for my friend here! Give him some Old Grap’s Rock Ale!”

There was gasps from the others at the bar. Above Shein, a creature that resembled a yellowish bat-winged lizard swooped down and landed on Shein’s shoulder. “Rock Ale uh? He won’t last half a puddle of that! Nyet!”

Shein shivered slightly but tried not to show any fear. The talons of the creature bit into his flesh. “W..W..”

“Never seen a fortune drake before have yee?” said the creature.

“Get out of the way Ogmar,” said Hargusha, “and let the halfling show us if he can drink.. like a dwarf.”

Hargusha shoved the mug of Rock Ale to Shein’s face. The froth seemed to bubble up incessantly as if the liquid within was boiling.

Shein took the mug in his hands. The sides felt like deep cold stone. He hoisted the mug up and threw back his head, pouring the liquid down his throat. Hargusha gasped.

The alcohol tasted like bland pieces of shale. It was truly drink only a dwarf would care for. Half the mug was empty when the alcohol hit Shein’s brain like a block of stone. He put the mug down. There was more than half left. The room was beginning to spin around him.

“Pace yourself laddie! I’ve seen Ogres drink less!” said the dwarf. Ogmar stared at the halfling rather concernedly. It did not want Shein to pass out before having the chance to read his fortune.

“Yes, let’s play a game so the alcohol,” said the drake. The creature fell back on revered and traditional methods of fortune-telling. “Pick a card, any card!” Ogmar said, as it eagerly held up a bunch of cards that mystically appeared in it's hands to Shein’s face.  ¶ 9:15 PM

  Part 1.2:
The Dead ‘uns. Dooga the Gob had warned Shein about them. (Of course the Nekros had a name for them other than the Dead’Uns, but it had something like five syllables and fewer vowels.) They weren’t your common garden variety undead with body parts oozing pus and maggots, looking like creatures that were still trying to grasp the idea of being dead. Not so the Dead’Uns. They Dead’uns LIKED being dead, and enjoyed serving the Nekromancers who had given them another shot at life after death. Their insides had been replaced with a substance resembling embalming fluid, and their nails replaced with steel shards shoved into their fingers. (It was said so the Dead’Uns could pick their teeth for food scraps rather than the Nekros having to do it for them). These Dead’Uns served as guardians and bodyguards, and generally behaved properly, if fed properly. If not, they’d go wild and start attacking whatever was nearest them for food. Occasionally, after some Nekro was slain or immersed in some foul ritual, the unfed Dead’uns they left behind would turn rogue and go on a rampage…

… which was probably why the two Dead’Uns in front of Shein were feasting on the corpse of a merchant. Shein gulped. His feet were still going forward, and he suppressed a whimper coming up.

Look nonchalant. Don’t look surprised. Look as if it’s normal for two of the walking dead to be tugging intestines out of a corpse like it’s a tasty pie filling…

“Oh I think this isn’t the way to the.. bakery is it? I was trying to grab a baguette. Well I better head back now. No baguettes here! I’ll leave you to your.. meal,” said Shein, turning around and starting to walk quickly back to the main street.

Do not show any fear Shein. Do not show any fear even though sweat is trickling down your face and the hair on your feet is straightening and your teeth are chattering like a drunken gnome on a xylophone and you want to cry MOMMY at the top of your voice.

One of the Dead’uns growled and started to lope over. Shein walked faster, then decided that sprinting was a better idea.

The two Dead’uns abandoned their victim and gave chase. Shein ran, and the thought that came to his mind right then was PROTECT THE SAUSAGE!

He turned left, then right.

“HELP!” Shein screamed. The inhabitants of the Hive, in their usual civic consciousness, made sure their doors were latched tighter, or turned the gnomish Songweins faster to drown out the screaming.

I’ll get the watchmen! They can bloody stop the two of them! It’s their damned duty! If they save me one day in the future I can pay taxes and their wages!

The Dead’Uns gave chase, the blood from their nails dripping onto the puddles. The rain poured down, and Shein slipped on the wet cobblestones. The Dead’un was getting close, and the hobbit couldn’t see clearly, but he thought he saw it licking it’s lips. Shein wasn’t really interested to confirm whether it was; he got up and continued to run, still clinging onto the delivery basket and his wet cloak.

The hobbit turned right, expecting to find the watchmen, but there was no one there. Well, almost no one. The beggar was still lying on the street trying to hide underneath a filthy, holed blanket from the rain. Shein ran towards the beggar like a thirsty man to an oasis as the pair of undead followed behind.

“EAT HIM! EAT HIM!” shouted the hobbit to the Dead’Uns. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one that occurred to him at the time.

“What yei chattering about?” said the beggar.

“It’s.. it’s.. the dead’uns! They’re chasing me!” Shein said.

“Dead’Uns? What you blabbing about boy?” The beggar asked.

The two robed figures came into view, their nails glinting in the light, their robes heavy with rain.

“THEM! THEY’RE HERE!” Shein screamed, pointing.

“Did you know the hair on your feet curl when you scr—“, said the beggar.

“YES! EAT HIM!” shouted Shein, pointing at the vagrant. “He’s… he’s.. crunchier!”

“Well that might not be entirely true…” said the beggar, standing up and drawing his sword. Shein saw his body was actually fairly muscular, underneath the dirt and grime. “I didna live this long to die at the mouths of the undead without putting up a fight! So you going to fight with me or attempt to pass me off as an apertif?”

Shein felt guilty. He drew out Nail, his dagger, while still clutching onto his basket. “I’ll fight,” he said meekly.

The beggar looked at the hobbit’s blade despondently. “We’re supposed to kill them laddie, not give them acupuncture. By the way name’s Kiljor.”

“My name’s… Shein!” shouted the hobbit, watching the pursuers close in.

The two braced themselves as the Dead’uns charged forward. Kiljor swung at one of them but it ducked the blow at the last moment. Shein stabbed and managed to poke through the creature’s wet and heavy robe, but didn’t seem to penetrate the creature’s skin.

The other Dead’Un leapt up in the air and tried to grab Kiljor’s head, but the warrior-beggar leaned to the right. His blade swung and smashed into the other clumsily, and shoved it to the ground. The two tumbled on the wet cobblestones. “One each,” said Kiljor. “Make sure you take care of yours hobbe!”

Shein turned to face his assigned foe. It loomed over him, fangs dripping with blood and remains. It tried to claw the hobbit but he dodged the blow. Shein stabbed forward and managed to send Nail piercing through the creature’s thigh. “I GOT HIM! I GOT HIM!” shouted Shein. The Dead’un then swung out it’s fist, catching Shein in the face and sending him to the ground where he skidded about five feet. His dagger remained lodged in the creature’s leg, and a black liquid seeped slowly out of the wound.

Kiljor was grappling with his Dead’un, and the beggar was thumping his sword on the undead’s head to little effect.

Shein’s foe howled and charged, and the hobbit turned away at the last moment before extending his right foot, tripping it. It sprawled to the ground. Shein climbed onto it’s back and tugged the hood of the robe over the face of the creature. It stood up and threw itself against a wall. Shein felt the impact in every bone in his body, but wouldn’t let go.

“THAT’S THE WAY! MY LITTLE HOBBE!” shouted Kiljor, who was punching his own opponent in the face again and again.

The Dead’un Shein was clutching to started to charge against a wall on the other side of the street. At the last moment, Shein let go and dropped to the floor, releasing the hood. The creature barged right into the wall with a painful cracking sound, and fell to the ground, still.

“I’ve killed it! I DID IT! I DID IT!” shouted Shein, elated, turning back to Kiljor, who was still preoccupied with keeping the Dead’un from ripping out his tongue.

However, the Dead’un, dazed, now stood up despite it’s headache and large lump on it’s head, and slouched towards the unsuspecting hobbit…  ¶ 9:14 PM

  Part 1.3:
Shein felt a pebble kicked towards him and turned around. The Dead’un loomed over him and swiped at the hobbit. He ducked at the last moment, nearly losing hold of his basket. Shein stabbed up blindly and his dagger pierced the creature’s ribcage. Dark black ochre flowed down the blade.

The creature folded and collapsed on top of Shein. He screamed as he was pinned y the weight of the dead-again corpse. Black goo flowed out of the creature’s open mouth and onto Shein’s face. Shein kicked and tried to roll away, but it was no use.

How did I get into this? Thought Shein. “HELP! KILJOR! HELP ME! YOU’LL… PLEASE!”

A moment later the corpse was dragged off him. It was Kiljor.

“You called?” asked the beggar swordsman, grinning. He had three long bloody scars on his shoulder, but the wound didn’t seem to concern

“You’re.. you’re… wounded!” Shein said. He felt woozy again.

“Yes, not a big deal, really. Nice to have a fight, you know… the blood rushing through your body. I see you didn’t do too badly yourself,” he said, kicking the Dead’Un Shein had killed.

Shein clutched onto his basket. “Thanks for helping me…”

“Oh it was nothing. Now then, you ought to buy me a pint!”

“I can’t afford much, but yes,” the hobbit thought swiftly. “At the Boar’s head it be!”

“Well.. it’s right behind us!” said Kiljor, rubbing his hands.

“It’s behind you? It was here all the while? And you didn’t tell me?” Shein said, unaware that his voice had raised a pitch.

“Well you didna want to part with your precious sausages laddie…” Kiljor dragged him up and slapped him hard on his back.


The motley two walked into the tavern. The picture of the Boar Head was well-worn, and the interior was likewise rundown. Merchants, mercenaries and visiting farmers sat around with flagons of ale and mead on their table, and a dwarven bard sang off-key ribald verses on his double-gong. An orc and a human were wrestling at a far-corner, as coins changed hands to bet on the outcome, while at another end Enty-Arcanists were pitting their battle-scorpions against each other. A Gnome Bubble Wizard sat near the fire, sending wildly-coloured bubbles floating up to the ceiling where they popped in spectacular mini-fireworks of dripping gauzes of light.

“I’ll get right to business and ask them to send you an ale,” said Shein, knowing it meant most of his day’s earnings. However, as he had conversed with Kiljor, his heart felt lighter. The beggar was much more than he seemed, despite his tardy appearance, and had fought in many battles.

Shein went up to the bar and the bartender, an Orc with an eye-patch over his right-eye, snarled at him. “What do you want? We don’t serve no goat’s milk here!”

Shein breathed in. He had never spoken to an Orc before. He tried not to shudder. “I’m.. I’m delivering sausages!”

“You are uh? You are bleedin’ late!” said the Orc, his rancid breath, resembling rotting strawberries, washed over the hobbit. The orc smashed his hands against the bar. “I’ve lost two.. no three customers coz of ya!”

“Well, it isn’t my fault! Your sign is worn-out! It looks like a sheep’s head!” shouted Shein, indignantly. The melee had give him courage, though probably not wisdom.

“You dare speak to Barvus tha’ way?” said the Orc, who reached for a heavy, wooden club behind him.

“What appears to be the problem?” said a female voice. Shein turned to the speaker, and saw a female halfling with braided hair, looking sternly at Barvus. She was dressed in a simple smock with a bloody apron, and her gaze was fiercely stern. “You threatening the customers again, Barvus?”

It was then that Shein realised she was the proprietor of this tavern.

  ¶ 9:14 PM

  The Adventures of Shein McGee, Halfling Sausage Deliveryboy
Part 1.1:
Shein McGee had always wanted to be a hero. After all, he had left the Shire of Hobin for the City (before he learnt that there were many other cities besides the City), despite the protests of his family who had wanted him to take over the bakery business. In the City, he had expected to learn swordcraft, bowcraft, stealthiness, and all those other things that heroes learnt that would lead them to do great deeds, such as saving damsels in distress , slaying dragons and thwarting the plans of ancient evils.

Soon I will learn to be a hero. Wear armour, wield a sword, drink with kings, have my exploits sung by minstrels to little hobbits as they have their second tea…

But for now, Shein McGee made his way through the dark, dingy alleys of the City with a basket in hand, looking for the Boar’s Head Tavern.

“It has to be here SOMEWHERE,” said Shein to himself. And three more deliveries to be made!

Shein looked at the basket he was carrying and at his worn, moth-eaten cloak that his mother had sewn for him. Had it been such a long time ago? The Shire so distant as he sat at the back of the yearly harvest wagon with Uncle Tim as he came to sell his multiple-spout teapots, along with the other hobbit crafts?

A beggar didn’t even acknowledge him as he passed by. Even they knew he didn’t have enough alms for the cracked cup. This particular one had a chipped sword next to him that had seen better days.

“Excu..cuse me… I’m looking for the Boar’s Head,” said Shein to the beggar.

“What fer??” the beggar demanded, as if he had better things to do other than lie down on the street and obstruct traffic.

“I have a delivery to make,” replied Shein defensively. “I… I have a job you know! Unlike.. you!”

“Are ye making a comment about me ya… boy?” asked the beggar threateningly. His breath stank heavily of alcohol, like an empty barrel of beer, and his teeth resembled a broken fence.

Shein shivered slightly. “No… I am not. I’m just asking for directions.” His hands went to his dagger, Nail.

“Well… I smell…” the beggar sniffed the air. “Sausage. That be sausage you’re carrying? Well half a sausage and I’ll tell yer the directions.”

“No! Harestur would not be happy. I have only enough sausages to make deliveries for today. Exactly!”

“Uh… Harestur the Gnome uh? Well at least he moved on to better things after his sauerkraut delivery business closed down. I couldna imagine why… Ye shouldna work for him boyo! He be stingy as temple mice!”

“I know… this is only temporary. Until I get enough to get on my feet,” said Shein, wondering why he was taking career advice from a person who looked like he had a job about five summers ago.

“Come on… just a lick?” continued the beggar.

“No! That’d be even worse! Harestur’s sausages are the best in The City and they WILL not be tainted with the saliva of such as you!” said Shein, indignant. He was becoming braver, realizing the old beggar was not much of a threat, even with that sword of his.

“Pah.. suit yourself,” said the beggar, as he waved his cup at other passerbys. Shein sighed and continued to look. The tavern owners didn’t like it if their deliveries were late, and he had already spent too much time looking for The Boar.

A wagon wheeled by, it’s wheels bouncing along the cobblestones and dislodging some pebbles that pounced at Shein. A pair of nightwatchmen passed by, dressed in leather armor and with fine swords strapped at their sides. Shein felt a pang of jealousy. They should not have a height limit for enlistment, thought the hobbit. ‘Tis most unfair. We hobbits can defend and fight as well as any others! And keep our equipment clean too!

“Excuse me!” Shein shouted to them. “Fine watchmen, could you… show me the way to the Boar’s Head?”

The watchmen turned to him. One was a thin, moustached fellow, probably quite young. The other was bulkier and more muscular, but had a blank look on his face.

Probably never even seen a battle before, thought Shein. He was proud of the fact he had helped the caravan fight off a bunch of goblins, and Needle, his dagger, had even drawn goblin blood, even though it was just a tiny scar before his Uncle’s bow had put an arrow right through the goblin’s neck a moment after.

“It’s the next right, and then left, walk twenty paces, and then straight down first lane on your left,” replied the moustached fellow, contemptuously, as if he could not be bothered with the small man’s question.

“Thank you! Thank you!” said Shein.

“Halflings… like rats they are,” whispered the younger guard to the other as the duo walked off, but Shein’s sharp ears picked that up. He wanted to turn back in protest but stopped himself. Keep a lid on that temper, young Shein, he told himself. Deliveryboy.. not hero! Deliveryboy.. not hero! But one day… I’ll show them!

Shein followed their directions, and seemed to be getting deeper into the heart of the Hive, the overgrown ghetto of the city where the scum of the town lived… including him. Though his part was generally less scummier.

Lost, Shein took a right turn, and found himself in yet another dingy alley. “Walk twenty paces? But was it twenty man-sized paces? Or was it twenty hobbit-sized paces? I mean our foot stride is much shorter…” thought Shein.

He continued to go forward. He was wishing for the comfort of home now. A drizzle started to come down on the streets and upon him, and the sounds of windows closing filled the air.

You must always protect the sausage! He could hear Harestur’s voice in his head. He shielded the basket under his cloak. The sky was now dark and cloudy, obscuring every one of the Land’s five moons, and the cloak provided much less protection. The smell of camphor pierced the air; burnt to keep the spirits out of homes. On a night like these, who could blame the ignorant inhabitants of the Hive for their superstition?

Shein turned as instructed and found himself in a dark alley. There were no lights in it. He took a step in. He heard a growl coming from further down. Surely a tavern wouldna be in this… alley? He thought, but took a few more steps forward. The rain was drumming a tattoo in his head, like the irritating beat the goblin deliveryboys loved to do when the Hobs wanted to sleep.

Just as the thought of turning back came to him, thunder flashed across the sky, illuminating the street in front of him. Two robed figures stood over a slumped figure, and before the lightning disappeared, Shein discerned their steel nails and the bloody, fanged mouths. Shein knew them from the tales the Goblins told around the warmstones that these were the Dead’uns, who didn’t know how to stay dead. Shein had always thought the Gobs had told those tales to put the fear of the city into the Hobs and thus make them run home to their Shire. The Dead’uns he had seen looked hungry, as he heard them being to approach him, and Shein doubted that they were keen on sausages…

  ¶ 9:12 PM