FED UP!

FED UP!



The summer weather slowly took on the accustomed heat, as Bargyle the Bold and Brave – “hero” to his village, plowed his garden. There would be beans and corn, squash and pumpkins, several kinds of each, and much more beside. The chickens were clucking and scratching in their newly moved pen. Life was good; except that he’d been called – yet again – to defend some women, and half grown boys, yet again, from the slings and insults of the youths and men of the neighboring village of Barbarians. When would these silly- heads ever learn to just keep their big fat mouths shut, gather their herbs and stuff, and go about their business? No – they had to quarrel and fight with anyone and everyone. Some of their spats were generations long, and had spawned some ugly vendettas. All over a bunch of nothing. Try telling that to the ones involved though.





It hadn't been so bad, or so it seemed, in the times when he was growing up; true there had been and almost always were barbarians, around, and even the occasional band of outright savages, proudly wearing their paints and feathers; not to even speak of the bandits and thieves out yonder and in the big villages and cities. He hadn't lived all his life in this village, in this remote valley, nope, he’d been enough of the world in the Army – and had the scars to prove it. With his army experience and some luck and loans he’d formed the local constable force, and had trained it to be an effective force for the betterment of one and all.

He’d been a force by himself before the army as well – as had his father and grandfather before him.



Great Grandpa had helped found this place after all. So many people looked up to him to solve their problems with neighbors and neighboring villagers when he came back. That was why he’d formed the Posse in the first place; to take over some of that burden. You couldn't convince some otherwise however, old habits die hard, and some few still acted as if he was still the young buck he once was, fighting and scraping with one and all, keeping the village together and peaceful. Some of them were coming right now, gabbling among themselves like a bunch of geese; except that he thought (to himself wisely) that geese might have more sense.

The usual complaints were aired, the barbarian women were rude; (well what would you expect from barbs anyway?) – And horrors! One of the young men was actually seeing one of the lusty looking barb girls! What would come of it? Privately he thought that might be a good thing – bring some fresh blood into the place, and help smooth out the roughest edges on a few Barbs. He never had voiced that opinion though; the chorus of naysayers was long and loud. This time however he simply snapped “I’m going on vacation today! Look after things yourselves! You have the constable Posse to keep the peace! Good day to ye!” and stomped into the shed built onto his house. There was a fishing pole in the corner that had been calling his name



.

It felt good, very good indeed, to get away from the noise and fuss, feathers and flap-doodle of the constant complains of the place. This was what he’d needed for a long while, some time alone. They were almost enough to drive a god insane with all that bickering over trifles.





The fish weren't biting much, but he didn’t truly mind, it was the peace and quiet he craved. Presently however, he unpacked the lunch he’d made, some hard cheese, a half loaf of homemade bread, a bite of sausage, (spicy like he preferred) and had a sip or two of water from the brook; well treated with as much of fire water as stream water. Pappy’s old still made good stuff yet, and would as long as he followed directions.





It seemed too nice to waste going back to town for dinner, but there was a new inn he’d heard of somewhere about – ah – there it was; the Clover.

Inns and other places had names which meant certain things if one knew what to look for, and he never knew anyone who didn't. Names like Dirty Dicks meant a hardcore drinking establishment – one that catered to a rough crowd, even Orks and others; a place with a name like the Drunken Cow would be for farmers and trades-people, and mostly quiet. Silver Leaf would be an Elvish place, full of lute and flute music, and serving the wines that that type preferred. He’d seen a lot in his time away from home, and this name told him it would be a neutral place, where a man (or woman or a whatever) could have a friendly drink, a bite, and some polite talk with folks who might not see eye to eye with one outside the walls of that place.





Such was indeed the story there, the boards creaked, it was a newish place after all; and after trading the few fish he’d managed to catch for a meal and tankard of not that bad ale, had turned to his neighbor, a Barb Hero himself from the looks of it. The bow on his back and a tuft of rabbit fur told readily enough how he’s paid for his supper as well; though it seemed the rabbits had been as scarce as the fish!

After some polite (for themselves) chat, they compared notes. The stories were much the same thing. Inter – village dating? How odd. Except that both men had the same thoughts.



He’d seen this guys face someplace or other though. Then it hit him – “Say” he asked “Was you in the 99th Boomers in the army?” “Yeah, was, you?” “43rd here. Them was some kind a’ times wasn't they?” “Yeah, they was, an the Sergeants was mean as hell too.” “Give us some ideas though didn't they?” “Yup, sure did”

One thing led to another, and after comparing notes, they discovered that the Barb folks, at least some, had much the same objections as the Villagers. But neither ‘Hero’ actually minded much the match, if such it was. Having seen more of the outer world Strong Arm was weary of the harsh Barb life, and had indeed formed his own version of a Posse. They even shared some common traits, having sprung from the same basic thought processes; build a small strong force, and let the younger guys take the load when it came to actual fighting. Not that there was much of that going on in these parts, but joint maneuvers could be possibly arranged.



There was more going on than just the usual inter – village squabbles, there was a real threat from organized banditry, and the valley wasn't that far off the main roads that it would escape if real fighting came into the region.

Plans were quietly made, and hands shaken. He still wasn't ready to take up the burden of single handed hero- work though, but the staff of leadership was certainly still his. He’d heard of a place once or twice though, and had scanned a few references to it, (literacy was one of the things learned in the army) that told of a place, a strange place where a Hero – Leader could go for a day, a week, a month or a year. It was reputed to be solely for their use and enjoyment; a place to meet and greet others of their caliber, and not all from their home plane of existence either. Oral tales, told from one to another, and a few lines in an otherwise bland narrative were all one had to go on, but the fabled City of FED-UP had to be real. If the Bandit King of Low-Ra could found a city of thieves and outlaws, certainly a few well meaning Heroes could do the same. Not all the Bandits in Low-Ra were evil, and not all the Heroes in the Unnamed City were good, or evil, or even neutral, though he never could quite figure out how that would work though. it was enough that it truly existed. Some day he’d take a whole year off, but for now, a day or two a month was about enough.





The picture formed in his mind, an island in the midst of a weedy sea, or a lake of some kind. A city of sorts out there and no way to get to it, not quite yet; he still had work to do, and so did Strong Arm. When they were ready for the Island, if they ever were, then the way would occur. But for now, it was a good thing to think of how to make the valley with all its various folk more secure, and to pass along some thoughts to his sons and their sons. Perhaps a couple of nieces as well; those scrapping redheads would fit right into another Posse he’d been planning on forming. People were coming in from the last wave of refugees; and some had some odd ideas of civilized behavior – if they had them at all.





Strong Arm waved at him from the place where the paths split, each going to their respective village. Plans would be made, and change was coming to the Valley – whether the oldsters liked it or not.