Outlandish Dreams

I wake sometimes feeling as though I'm still there,
snaking through the ghostly scrub pines of Outlandish, their
spectral branches outlined starkly in the silver moonlight.
Swiftly, quietly, like a shadow in the night, I run reveling in
my new-found freedom.

Look. Over there! Pirates!! We would do well to avoid
them. I hear they be devious knaves who will stop at nothing
to spirit away a stalwart soldier's drinking mug, leaving the
beggardly lout with nothing to quaff his libations but his own
dirty hands. Aye, a sticky situation when honey mead is the
fare.

Do you see, up yonder hill, that banner snapping bravely
in the breeze? Red it is, emblazoned with a great wolf's head
which appears to snarl at the world outside. 'Tis the flag of
dreaded Crimson Company. Yes, that band of roving, mercenary
slavers. Listen, you can hear the rolling thunder of drums and
the bells of the dancing slave girls echoing down the steep
hill.

As we trudge up the eerily dark and treacherous path, we
hear a tremendous crashing in the brush. We draw back af-
frighted, only to see that it is but the Great Pumpkin. His
cherubic face is red from exertion; his eyes are full of
horror, and his breeches are halfway to his ankles. He runs
blindly past, heading to the comparative safety of Amtgard
Hill. He leaves in his wake a dark omen of things to come
should we gain entry to Crimson Castle.

When we stagger round the last turn of the purposely mis-
leading path, we see the stout walls and imposing moat of
fabled Crimson. We start across the drawbridge and are
challenged by an unseen voice:

"Halt! From whence do you come?!"

"We be from the far reaches of Amtgard, Kingdom of the
Burning Lands." I call back boldly.

"State your business here, Amtgard dog!"

"We be not curs, but brave souls seeking adventure."

"Well spoken, courageous one; but, before thy motley crew
enters our domain, thou shalt answer me one question."

"Ask me your question, gatekeeper; I am not afraid."

"What is your favorite color?"

Suspecting that my reply should indicate the color red, I
phrase accordingly: "The color of my enemy's blood dripping
from my sword!"

"Ho, ho! Yet another good answer, articulate one. Come
ye hither so that we may see from what stuff ye be made."

We proceed cautiously into the confines of the awesome
encampment. Our inquisitor steps from his enclosure and eyes
us appraisingly.

"Ye may enter, but first leave thy blades on our Tree of
Many Things."

We unbuckle our sword belts and hang them on the
impressive pine. The tree is a thing of great beauty,
brilliantly festooned with ornate pouches, blades, baubles and
myriad other forms of medieval paraphernalia; it glitters in
the bright torchlight.

The sentry turns to me and says, "By merit of thy glib
tongue, thou will be the one to earn entry for thy group. I
hope for thy sake that thy back is as strong as thy words."
Sensing that my words have somehow antagonized this guard,
I remain silent.

"Where are thy bold words now, adventurous mongrel. Come
along and I will show you to thy labors."

He leads me down a wide avenue which is lined with large,
red, 'A' frame tents, their protruding poles topped with
grimacing, golden dragon heads. The air is scented with pine
smoke and filled with the rhythmically chaotic drumbeats of
visiting Rolling Thunder.

We pass by a large, open area which is surrounded by a
teeming mob of boisterous revelers. Through gaps in the mob, I
catch glimpses of the dancing girls. Their firm, supple flesh
gyrates savagely with the total abandon that only sex slaves
can possess. I yearn in my very soul to be amongst them.
We turn and proceed down a dark alleyway which ends in a
fenced corral. The gate guard turns to one of the corral
guards and orders, "Make sure this vociferous lout cuts a full
cord of wood before he gains access to the revelry."

The other corral guard leads me to a huge pile of dead
trees and hands me a woodcutter's axe. He points to a large
crate and says, "Fill this box with logs and thou may celebrate
with Crimson for the entire duration of Grand Outlandish."
With this as my incentive, I attack the woodpile with much
vigor. However, the blade of the axe is blunt and the onerous
task becomes well nigh impossible. I turn to the guards and
jibe sarcastically, "Be there not any sharper steel than this
in all of illustrious Crimson?"

One of the guards regards me piteously and tosses me his
own mighty battleaxe. "Many thanks good sir." I say. He
merely looks at me and chuckles quietly.

With renewed strength, albeit puzzled, I return to my
labors. One stroke, two strokes, CRACK! The haft of ornate
weapon snaps cleanly. The guards rush at me with drawn weapons
and furious expressions. "Thou wilt pay for that, progeny of
scum!" exclaims the axe's owner as he slips a slave collar
around my neck. He jerks on my chain and half drags me back
down the alleyway with the other guard bringing up the rear.

We re-enter the brightly-lit dancing area and widely skirt
the crowd. It appears that the guards are taking me to...THE
PILLORY! This arcane torture device stands about eight hands
high and is constructed to hold the victim's head and hands
securely whilst leaving them vulnerable to the depredations of
malevolent passersby. The guards open the obscene contraption
and force my head and hands into the deep grooves, then
brusquely slam it shut. They then leave me to my brooding.
The crowd, much to my chagrin, is mightily bemused by my
plight and begins pelting me with half-eaten food and rotten
fruit...along with the occasional rock. I watch, shocked, as
members of mine own group join in the fun.

Suddenly, the drums stop on a single beat and a man
dressed in the garish uniform of the Crimson Company Captain
steps up on a dais and addresses the crowd, "My Lords and
Ladies, I direct thy attention to the pillory, where we have on
display a healthy male slave. Please examine him at your
leisure and consult me about possible purchase." Hearing this,
the jolly mob subjects me to poking, prodding and pinching.
One pair of Amazon beauties seems particularly interested in
the region beneath my breechcloth; their hot breath and
ungracious touch excites my loins.

"A good find for Brunhilde's harem, don't ye think
sister?" says one of them.

"Aye!" exclaims the other. They leave and, once again, I
am the recipient of a fusillade of refuse.

I am beyond caring, however. I have been chosen as a sex
slave for the Amazons of Castle Anthrax! My heart races in
anticipation. The Amazons reappear accompanied by the Crimson
Captain and two guards. The guards release me from the pillory
and hand the end of my leash to the woman warriors. One of the
fuzzy girls turns, winks at the Captain, tugs sharply on my
lead and shouts, "Come with us, putrescent meat! Ye be
property of Anthrax now!"

Dragged stumbling from Crimson Castle, I reflect lustfully
upon ribald fables told me by escaped harem slaves of legendary
Anthrax.

I quickly lose all sense of direction in the almost total
darkness of the heavily-wooded trail. When we finally emerge
from the trees, we are stopped by a huge, hairy beast of a
woman. She glares at us menacingly and bellows, "Halt! Who
dares approach Castle Anthrax!"

One of my captors says, "It is but we, thy slave buyers,
mighty Brunhilde. Come and inspect thy most recent purchase."
Brunhilde seizes me and rips off my clothing as if it were
but tissue. She holds me upside down, peering intently between
my legs stating, "Ye have done well sisters. Come with me and
I'll reward ye richly."

Brunhilde then heaves me bodily into a nearby tent and
growls, "Leave here without my permission and ye will die a
most exquisitely painful death."

Left alone, I quickly decide that I would rather die by
slow torture than suffer the feral passions of hirsute
Brunhilde. Peeking from the tent, I notice no one in sight.
Seizing this golden opportunity, I run like the wind. As I
flee, with nothing to cover my nakedness but my own dirty
hands, I hear the malicious laughter of the Amazons following
me through the woods.

Damn! Tricked twice in one night. I reflect upon the
lesson learned by this night's activities, "Write not a check
with thy mouth that thine ass cannot cover."
I run on breathlessly, through the ghostly scrub pines of
Outlandish...quickly, quietly, like a shadow in the night...
Wait...what's that noise? BEEP...BEEP...BEEP...BEEP. Aw
shit! The ALARM CLOCK! No longer am I surrounded by the
magical ambience of my beloved Outlandish. I have returned to
dismal Mundania, that pointless realm where a man's worth is
judged solely by bank balances and credit ratings.
My mind echoes the words I spoke to my brother, Delphos
Darkheart, on the last night of my first Grand Outlandish:
"Brother, when this all be over, bind me in my body-bag tent
and bury me at the foot of Amtgard Hill. I wouldst rather die
than return to Mundania...