Old & Rusty

There weren't always dragons in the Valley…of the Dead…

In ages past they ruled the lands, or so the legend said.

From Morithway to Vykas to the frozen peaks of Kloam

these flocks of sky piranhas treated every inch as home.

The fields were ravaged, kingdoms fell, and all would dread the sight

of that dark mass–a storm, but worse, for even storms don’t bite.

But something happened suddenly, one evening in July,

across the lands the dragons started falling from the sky.

Nobody knew why but everybody had a punt;

perhaps it was a spell or plague or some freak weather front.

In any case, the few survivors gulped their pride and fled,

retreating everafter to the Valley of the Dead.

Maisie thought the whole of it was bollocks, truth be told.

She’d stopped believing when she was just barely 4 years old.

And now at 82 and seven moons she thought it best

to travel to the Valley and put all this rot to rest.

It happened over dinner with her husband and her son

(Well moreso at the table once the dinnering was done).

Her youngest, Brakken–troublesome, but with a heart of honey–

had just returned from months abroad with very little money.

But stubborn as he was he still insisted he would shout them,

and so they’d ventured to Old Rusty’s–home of beef and stout rum.

As Rusty cleared their plates and wiped the table with his sleeve,

she caught her husband’s eye and started signalling to leave.

Her husband, Grentz, with 50 years of marriage in his head,

tapped her gently on the hand and confidently said:

“Well, Brakken, thanks again for shouting such a hearty tea.

But now I think it’s time…I buy a round of pints for three!”

Grentz plucked a silver dime out from the lining of his vest;

his massive teal-grey fingers partly flattening the crest.

“Ah. Sorry,” said her husband when he noticed what he’d done.

“I’m still not good with human coins…I’ll get another one.”

“No trouble sirs,” said Rusty, pocketing the damaged dime.

“I’ve plenty patrons just like you, it happens all the time.”

“Really?” Brakken asked, intrigued. “So far away from Kloam?”

“I see more every week, sirs. More than I have ever known.

In fact, I hold an evening each new moon, you boys should come.

Three shillings for a brisket and a free half keg of rum.

You’re welcome missus too, of course,” Old Rusty added fast.

"Though I should warn you, it can be a rough and motley cast."

Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Dear, I’m not some helpless crone.

I'm rather good with trolls, be well assured I hold my own.

I tamed my husband, raised four halflings and I’m still not dead.”

“You heard her,” Grentz grinned. “Count us in!”

“That’s not quite what I said.”

“We could invite the others!” That was Brakken, piling on.

Oh for the love of…Maisie griped. If they had all just gone

when she had wanted to they’d likely never have returned.

But now Old Rusty’s and its–let’s be candid–badly burned

beef brisket, soggy carrots, dilute rum and dank decor

would soon be so familiar she’d know every inch of floor.

As Rusty and the others chatted on, she popped a candy,

wishing for her bed socks and a spot of milk and brandy.

At half nine she was well and truly finished with the day,

and mad that she had not insisted she and Grentz would pay.

They could’ve gone to Freidman’s, dined on delicate cuisine

all served with fresh ingredients on gold-rimmed porcelain.

But where was she instead? Old Rusty’s. On a crooked chair.

And growing moodier with every moment she was there.

And now the rums were here. Great. Maisie took a handkerchief

and pinched the tankard with a look of demonstrable grief.

No one paid her heed, her son was busy telling tales

about his latest exploits riding Piranbelly whales,

while Rusty and the patrons sitting at the tables close

listened in excitement to his latest thrilling boast.

Then her husband, who was having just the greatest night

–his broad grin and his ivory tusks near glowing in the light–

had just enough audacity to turn to her, all cheery

and say, “Doesn’t this place remind you so much of O’Leary’s?”

“What do you mean?” she glared. “This dump? This dingy old scrapheap?

Not exactly darling. Not sure how you made that leap.”

Grentz had the gall to chuckle at her. “Maisie, you’ve forgotten.

O’Leary’s was just like this, so was Wilk’s, they all were rotten.

You never used to care when you adventured round with me.

You always used to say: ‘Well just as long as drinks are free,

And there’s somewhere to sleep, we’ll make it work, we’ll make it home.

No matter where the two of us decide we wish to roam.’ ”

“Well that’s just…stupid.” Maisie muttered. “Home is what it is.

It’s bed socks and it’s brandy and it’s lemon drinks with fizz.”

“Alright then, dear, we’ll head off soon.”

“Oh, don’t you patronise me!

We’re here now. Too late. Let’s drink. Maybe this place will surprise me.”

She grabbed her rum and downed a half a tankard in a blink

(and then a quarter more before she even stopped to think)

while Grentz was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin,

as if he’d known just what a tizz his words would put her in.

She drained the rest and let the tankard clatter to the floor,

just as a roughened trio sauntered through Old Rusty’s door.

One faun, one elf and one man, all with matching troubled scowls,

shook the weather off their tunics and drew back their cowls.

They were a sight–their clothes ill-fitting, weapons at their belt

The elf was lugging bows and arrows and a fresh-skinned pelt.

Surely she had never looked so common and uncouth…

The party ordered three drinks then retired to a booth.

“Those were the days,” sighed Grentz. “I miss it sometimes, dear. Do you?

Living by the elements and waking with the dew…

Remember feeding off the lands and sleeping by the shore?

I never get the chance to live in nature anymore.”

Perhaps the rum was stronger than she’d thought it because Grentz

with all his wistfulness was almost starting to make sense.

But all she said was “What about last summer, hunting game?”

“I know,” he said. “You’re right. But still. It isn’t quite the same.”

She went to say, well something nice, or rather, near enough,

but at that moment all the rum mixed with that brisket stuff

and started churning round in ways she really didn’t like,

which after everything tonight was just the final strike.

She bounded up and left without the slightest explanation,

racing for a washroom or some other prompt salvation.

She found one, just in time, and certain things transpired there

that although irreligious, made her raise a humble prayer.

She emerged reborn, and with a hankering for strudel;

maybe apple nutmeg with squashed plum, the whole caboodle.

On her way back she saw the booth where sat that motley trio

whose names she didn’t know but she dubbed Morey, Lutz and Cleo.

Cleo is the elf, she thought. And Morey is the man.

And Lutz is clearly doing nearabouts the best he can.

The elf had dark skin, amber eyes and glowing platinum hair,

And talked as if his very voice was married to the air.

The faun was rather flighty–she could tell that at a glance–

Forever moving, fingers tapping out an endless dance.

And the man looked younger than she thought that he would be.

Younger than her granddaughter, who’d just turned 23.

They were a curiosity to her, she would admit,

so as she passed their table, Maisie slowed her pace a bit.

Lutz was white-faced like a ghost, his voice fast losing power.

“But I don’t see why I’m the one who has to get the flower.

We needn’t go at all, I think, now that we’re down a member

Surely that whole taxation issue won’t be long remembered.

We could just wait it out and then return home in a year,

no need to take this quest on when another path is clear.”

“We have to do this,” said Morey. “My friend, you have to rally.

We’ll have your back, defend, while you descend into the Valley.”

“I can’t!” cried Lutz. “I cannot face the dragons, I’ll be dead!”

Maisie scoffed, she couldn’t help it after what he’d said.

Unfortunately it was loud and turned the heads of three

adventurers who now knew that they had a listenee.

“Dragons?” Maisie chuckled. “Dragons don’t exist, my dears.

They’re an invention meant to trigger all your deepest fears.

Walk in the Valley, pluck that…flower? Is that what you said?

Let me guess, it’s one that somehow can revive the dead.

That’s also bollocks by the way, but if you’re getting paid

it’s not your problem, you just carry on the old charade.

My word this is the simplest, fastest cash you’ll ever make!

Forget about those pesky dragon stories, they’re all fake.

You needn’t get your pickles in a bunch my little faun,

this has the smell of danger but needs neither wits nor brawn.”

“And who are you?” asked Morey.

“To a youth like you? I’m ma’am.”

“Alright then, ma’am, how did you come to learn about our plans?

This quest is of the utmost secrecy, or so we thought…”

She smirked. “Dear, every quest is just like all the other lot.

Except for this one. Piece of cake this is, my Lord in heaven!

I could’ve done this blindfolded when I was only seven.”

“Okay then,” said Morey. “I’m down. And you?” He turned to Cleo.

“How would you feel about restructuring our little trio?”

Cleo shrugged, and rather than be mad, Lutz seemed relieved;

he dashed off faster than she might have otherwise believed.

It was at this point Maisie realised just what she had done.

She should tell them right this second she was not the one.

She had no interest anymore adventuring and such.

She had no interest whatsoever…or at least, not much.

But when she spoke, instead of ‘No thanks, that’s not what I do’,

somehow the words she uttered were: “My husband’s coming too.”