Traveller

Drad was walking.
Being a Traveler, this was not an unusual state of affairs. If there was one thing that Travelers did more than anything else, it was walk. Travelers lived to walk and loved to walk, and being well practiced in the art of walking, they rarely tired of it.
“Fuck this, I’m tired”, thought Drad, “I fuckin’ hate walking”, and promptly plomped himself down on a nearby piece of roadside.
“I should’ve never gotten into this Traveler business”, he said to himself, for what must’ve been the hundred thousandth time.

The problem was that Drad had not gotten into ‘the Traveler business’, he’d pretty much been chosen for it from birth.
Born the second son of the 3rd family of the Historical Records District, or as it was more commonly known, (in the immediate areas surrounding at least), The Histrict, Drad had been destined to become a Traveler from day one.
Historically, since The Histrict’s first born children were too precious to be risked outside the confines of their own district, the second born children, ( or sometimes, if the subject in question proved to be something of a dumbass, the 3rd, 4th  or even 5th born), of the first six, (Or if necessary, 7th, 8th, 9th or 10th, as there seemed to be a preponderance of dumbassity in recent generations interpretations of Oldish Law had been getting kinda elastic), families of The Histrict, were traditionally charged with ‘going forth, into the world at large, in an effort to accurately observe and preserve a true and unbiased account of the cultures contained therein.’
The occupation of Traveler, although commanding much respect, (in the immediate surrounding areas of The Histrict at least), was an unenviable task. This was because the world as the Histricians knew it was broken up into a myriad of incredibly diverse cultures, contained within their own districts, all of which varied radically from one district to the next and with little or no interaction between any of them. Adepts were required to endure years of rigorous mental and physical training from a very early age and could only become fully qualified Travelers after successfully completing a three day examination, conducted by The Council of First-Borns, after which their true labours would begin as they left the security of The Histrict and made their way in the unpredictable and, more often than not dangerous, outside world.
Drad had been walking for almost a year and had been diligently writing his observations into one or other of the many notebooks he carried with him in his pack,      Even though most observations, made upon the areas which, from The Histrict, can be reached within a year, were ‘old news’ kind of things, Drad never failed to keep a detailed account of all that he experienced and few were the nights he didn’t spend, shivering in his sleep-wrap, scritching away the early hours of the next morning.

Drad attempted to settle his thoughts into the pit of his belly as he had been taught in the ‘Tracademy’. This proved, as usual, to be an exercise in futility, as Drad had never had any affinity for those practices officially known as ‘Hippy Bullshit’, one of the few preserved and revered ‘think-modes’ that remain today.
The reason for Drad’s restlessness was obvious; tomorrow he would enter The Nebulose, the area outside of the well-known and clearly recorded districts that could be reached within a year’s walk of The Histrict. Little was known of The Nebulose and of that which was known, was by most accounts, by and large contradictory and ultimately self canceling.
Expelling a deep sigh, Drad heaved his heavily muscled 2 & half metre frame to it’s feet, hooked his arms into his pack and continued on with his journey.

As Drad walked, the forest, which had been quite open and in no way threatening, slowly began to thicken and almost imperceptibly inch it’s way closer to either side of the rutted trail that had passed for a road since Drad had left the borders of the district of Newtopia some three days earlier. Newtopians of course were the only people who referred to their district by this name. The Newtopian ideal of a strictly closed society had led to their district being referred to, by all those who knew of it but were not fortunate enough to be a citizen, as Fookoff, as this was invariably the only response that could be obtained from it’s citizens, regardless of situation. Drad cast his mind back to the brief encounter he had had with a Newtopian guardsman earlier in the week and could not contain a chuckle. Drad had seen the guard-post from some distance and in the time it took for him to cover the necessary ground to reach it ran over the official Traveler greeting in his mind, just to be sure he hadn’t forgotten it.
“Hail, citizen of Urf, I, Drad the Traveler, come in peace and…….err….shit…umm,” he muttered under his breath as he neared the small hut-like structure. “….beg leave to…..ahhhh…..enter….your…uh….damnit!”
Unable to recall the exact words and with the guard-post growing ever closer no matter how much Drad slowed his walking, (this being more a necessity than intentional, as Drad found it all but impossible to concentrate on more than one thing at a time), contented himself with the simpler but more widely recognized ancient greeting of “Sup niggah?”
“Fookoff!” came a surprised response from somewhere deep inside the shallow structure.
Drad attempted to focus on the general direction of the voice and could barely discern a slight shifting of weight as the hut’s inhabitant apparently moved to make a better study of him.
“I’m, uh, Drad….. I’m a Traveler….and ahhh…” began Drad, trailing off as his mind failed to produce any further words of immediate relevance.
“Fookoff”, came the reply in a surprisingly jovial manner as the speaker stepped out of the shadows of the hut and stood before Drad in a decidedly unthreatening fashion.
The aged guardsman stood, or more accurately stooped, no higher than Drad’s armpit. His clothing consisted of only a ragged and grubby loincloth of indiscernible colour and alarming brevity from which his testicles dangled in full view. In his right hand he brandished a bamboo switch about a metre long which looked as if it could raise a nasty welt at best and only then if used by a master. This was in stark contrast to the helm adorning his shaggy, grey head which positively gleamed in the morning sun. Looking closely, Drad saw an intricate design of lavish curlicues and swoops that had been lovingly crafted into the helmet by a metal-worker of no little talent; the whole was crowned by a beautiful, but under the circumstances, ridiculous-looking plume of flaming red horse-hair which added to the height of the wearer by at least two hand-spans.
“Uh, hail fella”, Drad continued with renewed inspiration.
“Fookoff”, came the reply.
“I beg leave to enter your domain and…..”
“Fookoff”
“….offer great knowledge in exchange for….”
“Fookoff?”
“…..lodging and information….”
“Fookoff”
“…in order to accurately record and preserve…”
“Fookoff!”
“….ah, fuckit!”
As Drad pondered his predicament, the guardsman, whom on first sight he had mentally christened Dangleballs, took him gently by the elbow and gesturing beyond the guard-hut pronounced in a firm voice, “Fookoff”.
What followed was a rather amusing but completely fruitless afternoon in which Drad was led into a district where the strictly closed nature of a rather friendly and open society was preserved by the fact that the only relatively intelligible, (to Drad at least), vocalization seemed to be “Fookoff”. Dangleballs clearly took great delight in showing Drad around and introducing him to the various inhabitants they happened upon and after a late afternoon repast of nuts and berries, which unfortunately Dangleballs kept secreted in the inner folds of his loin-cloth, led him to the border of the district and quite plainly told him to fookoff.

Drad was jolted out of his reverie by a sudden and distinctive tingling just below his forehead, this was his eighth sense warning him of the presence of impending danger, but before his body could react, the sun was blotted out and Drad keeled over face-first, knocked out so fast he didn’t even hear the sharp thocking sound that accompanied the egg sized rock that hit him squarely between the eyes. 
 
Sound returned before sight and as the shadows swam back to the edges of his vision Drad heard voices,
“Ye’ve fookin’ killed im ye great twatt”, proclaimed the first.
The second voice was deep and gravelly, an extreme counterpoint to the first high-pitched and somehow liquid utterance,
“Ah dinna mean tae, oooh, Ah’m sorry Tinky, it’s just e’s so big Ah taut Ah….”
“Oo the fook tole ye ye could tink? Ye know ye’re about as smart as a retard with learnin’ disabilities, now mek yeself useful and help me go troo is pockets.”
Before the situation could deteriorate further Drad rammed his powerful arms straight out intending to grab his attackers round the throat and squeeze the living shit out of them. Unfortunately the disorientating effects of the rock meeting the bridge of his nose with great force had left Drad unaware that he was lying face down and he succeeded only in crushing his splayed fingers into the earth, breaking his left pinky and producing a ripple effect through his body which left him flopping on the ground like a beached salmon.
“Stand clear Blonk”, said the high-pitched voice, “E’s still kickin’, and Ah tink e’s epileptic”
With his senses quickly returning Drad let his body react. In a flash he had achieved maximum levitation, (which is only about half a metre off the ground but was sufficient for the task at hand), and flipped his body over in mid-air. Lifting his upper body and tucking his legs beneath him he slammed his feet onto the ground and with a nerve-shattering roar was on his feet in the blink of an eye, looking around wildly for retribution…….. Only, there was no one to be seen. Hearing a tiny scuffling sound behind him Drad spun around already moving towards his would be robbers only stopping short when he encountered…….nothing. Drad shook his head in an effort to further clear it and as he did so he thought he perceived a slight movement out of the corner of his right eye, holding himself very still, Drad edged his head slightly to the right and, squinting his eyes almost to the point of closure, let go of all unnecessary thought. The technique worked, Drad could barely make out the hazy form of what appeared to be a small man, standing perfectly still, not two metres away. Having marked his target Drad relaxed, letting his body slump slightly before tensing once more and launching himself at his indistinct quarry. The air around the thief wavered as, in an attempt to escape, he flickered into full visibility, but Drad had aimed his leap perfectly and all 160 kilograms of his not insubstantial bulk came crashing down on the little man, pinning him helplessly to the ground. Taking no chances, Drad snaked his right arm under his chest and with his massive hand, completely enveloped the throat of the now inert chameleon. Pushing himself up gingerly with his injured left hand, Drad lifted the gnomish form off the ground and took his first good look at his protagonist.
The diminutive figure hung limply from Drad’s fist, he was perhaps 80cms tall, very slim and of a rather youthful appearance. His clothing consisted of a tough looking, sleeveless jerkin belted at the waist with, Drad noticed, a relatively large knife sheath hanging over each hip, this was worn over a pair of jeans-like pants which were in turn tucked into a pair of solid calf-length boots, all topped off with a long, hooded coat that reached almost to his heels. The entire ensemble was of the same slatey grey colour which was so dull it almost seemed to repel the sunlight except, Drad noticed as he turned the midget, when hit by the light at certain angles; it would flash momentarily with a brilliant iridescence.
Recalling suddenly the second voice and fearful of further missiles, Drad dropped down onto all fours releasing the lifeless dwarf in the process, at which point the little man jumped promptly to his feet and disappeared, into the undergrowth cackling like a lunatic.
  “Shit! Come back here you little fucker!” Drad screamed and quite beyond any thoughts of danger, leapt to his feet and smashed his way into the trees. Drad’s pursuit was halted abruptly by the sheer density of the forest and in order to keep from running headlong into tree trunks or their potentially more hazardous branches, he was forced to pick his way through at a pace he soon realized was futile. Stopping where he was Drad dropped into a crouch and forced his body into perfect stillness in an attempt to pick up any sounds of escape his enemy might make. He did not have to wait long, the high-pitched voice came drifting out from behind a tree some four metres to Drad’s left.
“Oh, la de da and tee hee hee, a merry chase ‘tween ye ‘n’ me, but Ah don’t tink ye’ll find it funny, cause Ah tink ye’ll find…… ye’re fooked now sonny!”
Drad jerked his body to the left as a jagged rock narrowly missed taking off his right ear and immediately moved toward the tree that concealed his tormentor. As he rounded the trunk he heard a deep voice break into laughter from somewhere off to his right. Drad was now letting his body move without conscious thought and had already changed direction and reached the point from which the laughter emanated when again the high-pitched voice rang out from six metres behind him.
“C’mon now son….. give it up before ye really git hurt.”
Drad felt a moment of elation when he heard the heavy breathing behind the threat but paid the price as the intruding thought slowed his reactions just enough for another rock to find it’s target, striking him just below the left hip and rendering his leg numb to the knee. The deep voice again, off to the left, closer now, also sounding out of breath, but chuckling oafishly.
“The… next…. one’ll….. be…. on… ye’re… temple…. laddie.” The high voice again, sounding completely blown out now, coming from much the same location.
  Drad dropped to all fours and crawled backwards, angling behind a nearby tree. There he froze and focused all of his attention on his surroundings, picking apart the different sounds of the forest, searching for just one and though it was as faint as an ant trying to sneak into the nest late he heard it……..breathing. Very, very quietly, but undoubtedly struggling to recover, Drad could hear his assailant breathing. Widening his perceptions, Drad searched in vain for the second, deep-voiced aggressor.
“Bailed at the first sign of trouble, cowardly but smart” thought Drad.
Moving swiftly and all but soundlessly, Drad closed in. Calculating that his prey was too tired to run and would rely on his uncanny camouflaging ability, Drad pushed his auditory faculties to the forefront, replacing vision as his primary sense. Slowing down now in order to reduce what little sound he was making, Drad homed in on the now distinctive sound of breathing and, strolling casually around an enormous Oak, shot out his uninjured hand and seized the scruff of the neck of the dim form before him.
In a stark contrast to their first encounter the little man fought with a fury that belied his stature, forcing Drad to hold him at arms length. Now the endurance of Travelers is legendary and after a few minutes of futile struggle in which Drad showed absolutely no sign of wavering, the gnomish creature ceased his struggle and exclaimed tearfully in a deep and choking voice,
“Dinna hurt me sirrah, it wasnae meself that did ye’re honorable self damage, it were me brother, Tinky”
As he came to the end of his proclamation the creature’s voice slid smoothly up in register like a note sliding up the neck of a guitar and continued seven octaves higher without missing a beat.
“Shut ye damn fool mout ye great arse, done tell this colossal fookwit a ting”