Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Sheep!

Part 2 - "The Realization"

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Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Sheep!

Part 2 - “The Realization”

The duo walked forward, weaving through throngs of glassy-eyed concertgoers flailing around to neither melody nor rhythm. Burt kept his hands in the air, a disgusted look on his face, hoping none of the stench attached to him. A mangy, excrement-covered sheep bit at his ankle as he kicked it away.

"Nefarious," said Durok.

Burt shook his head, taking in the insanity surrounding him. "This is not the sheep farm I wished for. What is this jam bard nonsense?"

Durok pointed to the stage. "Bards, my friend. Far more insufferable and egotistical than your average court jester, but with less musical talent. Jam bards are even worse. They fondle their instruments for far too long, wailing away with nonsensical notes and melody while everyone cheers as if it is some kind of momentous musical revelation. And festivals? An environment so unforgiving as to make one wish for the sun to crash down upon them. If this is like every other outdoor festival, there will be no place to relieve yourself in private. It will always be too hot, there will be nothing to drink, and it won’t end. Worse still, everyone around you will be so enthusiastic that they will view you as some kind of mutant if you do not play along and pretend every moment is a religious experience."

"Why?" Asked Burt. "Why would someone subject themselves to oppressive heat, noise, and inconvenience?"

Durok stopped and turned to face him. "Stupidity. Either way, we have to get out of here. This isn’t really hell, it’s a projection we are locked in. Remember, we are not dead. More like transported."

Burt’s body lurched forward as a dreadlocked festival-goer bumped into him by accident. The greasy sweat of dreads lashed across his back, and the massive barbarian groaned in disgust.

"Sincerest apologies, my wandering mate," the stranger chirped. "Name’s Rax. Concert’s incredible, right brothers?" He started gyrating while talking to Burt. A cacophony of dissonant bagpipe-induced screeching provided the soundtrack to his bizarre movement.

"What is this sound?" Burt shouted.

"Solo, my good fellow. Dave Methuselah! Even the sheep love it." He waved his hands in a bizarre dance in front of Burt’s confused face.

"Solo?"

"Aye, fella. He’s been doing solos for 837 years straight! As soon as he’s done, we get Ficsh on the harpsichord. It’s gonna be fire-like. I’m here for Grateful Death, but, good humors only, am I right?"

Burt turned to Durok. "If I am subjected to a fish on a harpsichord, I will indeed be grateful for death."

Durok waved away Burt’s protest and asked the undulating, dreadlocked dancer, "Is there any place for refreshment on these grounds, friend?"

Rax pointed toward a ramshackle wooden booth in the distance. "Of course. There’s a bottle of sheep’s milk over there. It’s been sitting in the sun for like a millennia, and they only take exact coin. Alas, nobody here has any money. You could probably just pick up one of the sheep and drink straight from it, just try not to get the dung bits in your mouth. Jam bard festivals are the greatest, right?"

"Durok," said Burt through gritted teeth, "I am going to murder everything here."

Rax fell to the ground and rolled around before popping up and throwing his arms in the air in yet another expression of modern dance technique. "You guys need something to get in the mood, right? I smoked this monstrous pile of glistening purple dread-weed and then ate a bag of those fey-touched berries and I’m literally seeing steam-powered dwarves, like, everywhere. Madness, brother! You glow. Your aura is love and mercy. I can hook you up with a bag."

"Uh, no. No, thank you," replied Durok. He felt Burt’s rage radiating and ushered his friend a few steps away from Rax. The sorcerer directed his attention to the stage in the far distance. Tall, black-scaled figures with wings of ethereal shadow and smoke flanked the bard band, stoic and still among the throngs of fans. "The beasts," he said, pointing toward the stage. "What are they?"

Rax waved a hand toward the stage. "Security demons, of course! Watched them fly off with some poor sod who was trying to crawl into one of those volcano pits. Wild, brother. Can’t have anyone getting backstage or causing trouble, you know? Nobody here wants Dave Methuselah to end. That would totally harsh the humors. Gotta keep this solo going for another 837 years! Oh, and look out for those fire-spewing pits. Burned a few of us to dust."

Durok’s brow lifted as he looked at the dirt mounds scattered around. "Those little volcanoes? Why?"

"At night they light up the sky with molten fire!" Rax held his arms up high as he pretended to be an erupting volcano. "They don’t explode often, but when they do, boom! All at the same time, even. We get covered in dirt raining from the sky. It’s like being defecated on by Gaia herself. Intense."

Burt gripped Durok’s shoulder and leaned to his ear. "I need a bath. I can withstand hell, but I can’t withstand the unwashed. This filth. Durok. No."

Durok grabbed Burt’s arm and pulled him forward to an open spot among the crowd. "I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with the filth. It’s the least important of our obstacles. I’m starting to piece together what’s going on here. Do you remember the Warlock’s incantation?"

"I recall him stating my father betrayed me, and I am trying to understand ‘proclivities.’"

Durok shook his head. "Aye. I’m sorry, my friend, but he was being honest. The Baron has betrayed you."

Burt’s expression softened. "My own father? But why? I — Have I disappointed him? Am I no longer his son?"

"I’m afraid not." Durok placed his hands on Burt’s shoulders. "You are a good man, Burt. At times lacking intelligence, but your nature is not evil. And you and I have had some adventures together. The Baron? He is only concerned with himself. Like the story of Narcissus and the mirror. His needs are self-serving. He lied to you about the wedding. The moment he saw your red-tressed maiden, he considered you an obstacle. A large one, to be sure, which is why he went through such trouble to send us both here."

"Why you?"

Durok shrugged and surveyed the scene. "Perplexing. I believe he sensed my allegiance was stronger to you than it was to his own ends. A mercenary’s leanings change with the wind, but a sorcerer never forgets their friends. The last thing he’d want is a rogue mage asking questions and poking around. We’ll figure this out, but first, we need to break down the incantation. Do you remember any of it?"

Burt nodded, scratching the long nest of brown hair on his head. "Ash and heat."

Durok held up a finger. "Right! Ash and heat. Bards of gloom. Demonic cannons. Yes."

"And something about sheep."

The sorcerer raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, which would explain the rancid milk and all of these aggressive, dirt-covered creatures wandering around. His incantation set this entire scene. The milk. Demonic security. Bards. Tormenting in hellish song. He spoke all of it. But the last part? What was the last part?"

"Death-nettle. I remember when he said that, because I had an itch on my backside, and my bound hands were unable to scratch it."

Durok put his head in his hands. "I’ll take it. The other part though. Consecrated?"

Burt nodded, placing his hands on his ears to drown out the screeching bagpipes and stringed instruments blaring from the stage.

Durok’s face lit up. "I have it! When the Warlock was mumbling to himself, he mentioned the Isle. He must have forgotten."

"Forgot what?" Burt shouted.

Durok smiled. "I was on a raid. The Baron sent me with a group of hired mercenaries to the Isle of Lichtendix. Come." He grabbed Burt by the wrist and pressed forward through crowds of zoned-out festival fans smacking their hands together to the frantic music. "Ugh, this is maddening!"

"Agreed. Too many dirty sheep."

"No, not that. They are clasping their hands together on beats one and three. Nobody clasps their hands on one and three. You must do it on two and four! This is getting worse with each passing beat!"

A rumble echoed underfoot, and Burt and Durok ducked into the nearest unoccupied tent. They crouched low just as the miniature volcano mounds spewed columns of ash and molten rock into the air. Horrified screams and enthusiastic cheers echoed throughout the fairgrounds, while the 837-year Dave Methuselah solo raged on in the distance, piercing through the random noise of earthen explosions and bleating sheep.

Durok continued, "Years ago, I was on a raid, the only sorcerer amongst a group of hired thugs. They did not trust me. We were tasked with emptying the treasures of the Isle of Lichtendix. We entered through the sewers."

Burt's face contorted. "Disgusting."

"Indeed," replied Durok. "Your distaste for all things filthy is well noted. How you were able to raid so many villages in the Verdant Vale with grime on your axe is truly a wonder."

"I always keep a cleaning cloth," Burt remarked. "Foul grime makes for a fouler spirit. And unbalanced cleaving. Also, it is gross. Germs and disease. Nobody wants to spend hours in the outhouse. Too many spiders."

"Anyway," continued Durok, "the mercenaries on that raid were underfed and starving. So to placate their insatiable hunger and avoid a cannibalistic end, I cast a quick spell to turn rat meat into the most delectable, softened mutton you’d ever tasted."

"Mutton rats?" asked Burt, thoughtful at the idea.

"Aye, but that’s not the point. The point is, one of the objects in that raid was the Consecrated Hurdy-Gurdy of the Isle of Lichtendix. A miraculous instrument, inlaid of pearl and gold. Now it is my belief, since the Warlock mentioned ‘consecrated’ and ‘isle,’ that he used the instrument as a sort of spiritual anchor for the incantation."

Burt raised an eyebrow.

"Okay," continued Durok, a calm in his voice despite the sonic mayhem outside the small tent. "I’ve had my experience with the witches of the Crimson Veil. Reality magic requires a spiritual anchor. The Warlock, in his laziness, found the first object he came across and used that for the incantation. That incessant mumbler gave it away without realizing I was on the raid to acquire the object."

"A noisy instrument?"

"That means," Durok continued, holding up a finger, "that if we find the Consecrated Hurdy-Gurdy of the Isle of Lichtendix here in this realm, and destroy it, we should snap back to our home in Schlongarden. Destroying that instrument is the key to breaking this accursed torment."

Burt stood, his head rubbing against the upper folds of the tent. His rippling muscles flexed. "Finally! Destruction. I admit, Durok, I may have to begin launching sheep at the stage if I do not get to fight something."

Durok stood, peering out of the tent to ensure the molten ash had settled. "Yes, but there is demonic security. I doubt they will simply allow us to hurl farm animals at the performers. We’ll have to get closer, survey, and find a way. Come, our way is clear."

Climbing out of the makeshift tent, Burt and Durok felt the sudden heat of dispersed hot ash and rock coating the festival grounds. The music was as loud and ear-piercing as ever, and there were numerous singed and burnt bodies littering the ground. They wound their way through a large congregation of dancing, sweat-drenched, patchouli-smelling weirdos and ended up at a decrepit booth, emblazoned with a cartoonish painting of a sheep’s head.

"Brothers!" shouted the filth-covered attendant. "Can I interest you in some fresh sheep milk?" He waved his arms with a flourish of theatrics and pointed to a solitary bottle of clumpy yellow liquid sitting front and center in the blazing sun. "Five gold pieces. Exact change. I only have one left. It’s probably not for sale."

Burt held his hand against his mouth as his stomach convulsed.

Durok leaned close and marveled at the yellowish, floating chunks. "I … do not think this is safe to drink."

The stall-worker laughed. "Not really. But if you dump some of those big slimy hunks into your mouth, you might be able to chew them up and choke them down, kinda like a warm snail! Don’t forget to pick out the shite bits stuck on those floating sheep hairs. Refreshing!"

Burt leaned over and wretched, the noises matching the orchestra of dissonant instruments and random percussion.

Durok pulled his barbarian friend forward. Burt looked back at the stall-worker and slid his finger across his neck, mouthing the words, "You’re first." The pair moved forward through the festival, finally reaching a point close enough to experience the full jam bard show.

The expansive stage of the Hellacious Amphitheater stretched from horizon to horizon. The entire scene was ablaze with all manner of bouncing bards. Horns hooted, harpsichords howled and drums and bleats boomed in a meandering cacophony of mismatched melody. The wall of frantic sound and syncopated insanity assaulted everything. Among the crowd of malodorous, zoned-out concertgoers were the miniature volcanoes that pockmarked the grounds. Magma-singed bodies, glowing embers of molten stone, and stains of ash and soot covered everything in sight as a haze of burning hair, singed flesh, and purple dread-weed wafted past. In the distance, some of the chaotic crowd was cheering on a flaming sheep that scurried by in a fiery panic.

On the stage, Dave Methuselah, a bony, freakish bard with ghost-like skin, stood front and center. His legs flailed as he hunched over and cranked the object Burt and Durok sought. The pearl-inlaid instrument shimmered with a golden light as the screeching strings screamed louder with each crank of the handle. It was their first clear view of the instrument, anchoring them to their torment.

The Consecrated Hurdy Gurdy of the Isle of Lichtendix.

Durok leaned toward Burt’s ear and extended his pointed finger to the stage. "There it is. You see it? We must obtain and destroy it."

Burt spread his arms out, surveying the crowd. "We have no weapons, there are demonic sentries everywhere, and everything is scented of filth. I can dispatch many with my bare hands, sorcerer, but not this many, not here."

"Then we need to get behind the stage."

Burt turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "If I cannot get onto the stage, I cannot get behind the stage."

Durok smiled.

"What?" asked Burt. "Why must you be so cryptic?"

"I am a sorcerer, my friend. It is our way." Durok pointed toward one of the small volcanic mounds close to the stage, but off toward the right side of the crowd before them. "There," he said. "That opening in the earth. You’re going to crawl into it, gain access to the stage, and I will create a diversion. That Rax fellow mentioned not allowing someone backstage as he was trying to crawl into one of those pits."

Burt shook his head and looked at the mound, confused. "They explode!"

"Yes, and all at the same time. They are tunnels. Connected. The soot spews forth, even backstage. You’ll crawl in, quickly make your way toward the stage, and crawl out once you’ve made it past the security demons."

Burt’s arms fell to his side, and he turned to face Durok.

The sorcerer shrugged. "Burt, I know you dislike grime. It is the only way."

"I am not climbing into an ash hole."

Durok shook his head. "You are going to have to climb into that ash hole. Your aversion to filth is going to have to deal. You’re getting in there. Head first."

"I will be covered in ash," roared Burt. "Do you realize how hard it is to get the scent of ash hole off of you? I accidentally plunged myself into an ash hole when I went to Mount Annabelle, and it took weeks for the stink to wear off!"

Durok grabbed Burt’s shoulder and shoved him toward the hole. As the two walked, Durok pointed toward the tiny volcano. "We haven’t a choice. I know you don’t wish to use the dirty backdoor, but it is the only hole available. You’re going to hold your breath, stick your head in that ash hole, and jam yourself into it as if your life depended on it, because it does."

Burt gagged as he stared at the gaping, filth-covered hole in front of him. "Will you at least allow me to start with just the tip of my head? Just to see how it feels? Maybe use some kind of lubricant? I cannot just jam myself in there. It is too tight!"

The screeching noise from the stage grew louder, and the crowd began working itself into a fervor as Dave Methuselah stepped forward, front and center. His hand frantically cranked the Consecrated Hurdy Gurdy of Lichtendix as he bounced up and down, the audio assault piercing through the air among the bleating sheep.

Durok looked to the stage, pointing at it as he turned back to his companion. "We don’t have the luxury of lubrication, Burt. That Balthrog Cannondong creature could show up at any moment. I can find enough natural materials around here to craft a diversion, but I can’t do it for long. Now, cram yourself into that ash hole and push yourself all the way in as fast as you can!"

Burt faced the opening, turned to Durok and wagged a finger at him. "This will be the first and last time you force me into a dirty ash hole, sorcerer!"

Durok waved him off, and began to snake his way to the opposite side of the stage, preparing himself to set a diversion that would send the festival into unhinged mayhem.

The disgusted barbarian took a deep breath, choked back a wet burp, and crammed himself into the filthy hole as the festival roared on behind him.

Part 3 - “The Culmination” drops in two days! Until then …

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