Froggacuda's Weblog

Episode I

(part 1)…The Frogg Prince has traipsed through the South West end of the Firnistan Forest after escaping the catacombs through a magical Tree…

The Froggacuda had left the cover of the Forest for the plains at evening. He was making a direct beeline for the Manor, assuming that Abu would have dispatched somebody — anybody — to pick him up. After walking for an hour and cursing the lack of ponds and lilypads on the plains, he found a high hill and sat down to wait. “Damned if I’m walking all the way back to the Manor tonight,” sighed the Baron. He soon fell asleep from exhaustion, the wind from the South bringing him dreams of torchlit pavilions and veiled belly dancers.

* * * * *

“Enough talk; let’s start riding,” said Acroyear from his saddle. Paulo nodded agreement and whistled through his teeth to his Scouts.

Galloping from the gates of the Manor, the Marquis and the Count of Mythril left the fair capital behind, crossing the gently rolling plains of Valacorn at a fast pace. Acroyear, Paulo and their ten handpicked Scouts soon disappeared from even the sentries on the tower battlements. Night fell in a hush of stars winking in the purpled sky.

After several hours of hard riding, the Company stopped to rest the mounts. A shriek of dismay from none other than the newly appointed Count alerted Acroyear to the arrival of the PseudoDragon. Paulo was firing crossbow bolts out into the twilight as fast as he could load them into the carriage, and the peals of laughter coming from the darkness only taunted him to greater and more obscene piratical curses. Acroyear frowned in his die-cast mithral helm and strode over to Paulo.

“Alright, that’s enough, sailor,” said Acroyear tersely. “I can’t believe ye asked to have that nincompoop Merikus send that flying wharf rat along wid us,” Paulo started, and was cut off by an impatient wave of Acroyear’s mailed fist. “Go get your bolts and stop acting like you were only 200 years old,” Acroyear reprimanded his fellow Elf. Paulo spat in the general direction of Magaña and stomped off into the evening. “Magaña, come here,” Acroyear lifted a gauntlet into the air, and the PseudoDragon landed with an ashamed expression. “Yes, milord,” she replied as she alighted. Acroyear brought her up to face his expressionless helm, “Stop provoking the Count. Need I say this again?” “No, milord,” she humbly replied, and curtseyed gracefully. “Good,” said the Marquis, glaring at Paulo, who ceased his grumbling about flying rodents and rabies. Magaña flashed a brilliant smile at him and blew him a kiss. “Yech!” retorted Paulo, wrinkling his nose and wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“Magaña, circle about the group as we ride at 100 metres,” Acroyear instructed her, “Look for the Baron Froggacuda, and report to me anything else unusual.” “Of course, milord,” replied Magaña deferentially, casting a sparkling wink at Paulo. She rose from his wrist and shot into the air. “Saddle up!” shouted Acroyear. The Company continued East, across the flowered prarieland.

They found the Frogg Prince fast asleep, curled up in a nest of grass like a big dog. Paulo was in favor of shooting him awake with his crossbow, a sentiment that Magaña echoed, since the Frogg Prince had a huge smile gracing his face, and his huge tongue would occasionally moisten his lips. “Ahh, my dear, a little lower…yes right there! That’s where it itches!” mumbled the Baron in his sleep, his right leg kicking slightly, “Oh yes, I would enjoy another peeled grape!” Acroyear looked a little uncomfortable. Several of the Scouts snickered. “Ahem,” the Marquis cleared his throat, “Baron Froggacuda…” “Mmmmm!” continued the Frogg Prince, “Oh please rub my feet — I know they’re wrinkled from the Jacuzzi…” “Baron Froggacuda,” tried Acroyear again, a little louder. This time, Magaña burst out laughing as the Frogg smacked his lips and held out his hand with an imaginary glass and gestured for a refill of, undoubtedly, whiskey. “FROGG!!” yelled the exasperated Marquis of Mythril, kicking the Baron in the stomach. The Froggacuda leapt to his feet and assumed some strange martial arts defensive posture, then relaxed as he saw the familiar form of Acroyear in his gold and scarlet armour. “It’s about time!” shouted the Froggacuda, rubbing his eyes with the back of one great hand, “I thought that I was going to have to hitchike.”

“Let’s get you back to the Manor,” said Acroyear with a little concern. Perhaps the Froggacuda’s sanity had been adversely affected. He had seen many warriors go insane under the pressures of combat and capture, “We brought you a mount.” “Oh good!” yawned the Frogg, “I’ve had enough hiking to earn me a merit badge.” He clambered wearily into the saddle, and seemed to notice the buccaneer for the first time. “Oh, Paulo! How are you?” “Just fine, Frogg Leggs,” said Paulo out of the corner of his mouth, glaring at the PseudoDragon, who was juggling some blue semi-precious stones. “Got anything to drink, you rascal?” asked the Baron with a raised eyebrow.

“No drinking or carousing on duty!” barked Acroyear as he led the way back across the plains, “That’s an order!” The Froggacuda looked sideways at Paulo, who held up a bulging wineskin. “Glenfiddich, milord!” Paulo confided. Several Scouts eyed the two as they faded to the rear of the Company. Magaña gracefully swooped back to perch on the Froggacuda’s Clydesdale’s bridle. In a few minutes, Acroyear noticed that he was outdistancing the rest of the party.

Wheeling his horse around, he stopped and restrained himself. The Company was bunched together, and something, he couldn’t tell what, was being swapped back and forth between the Scouts, the Count, and the Baron. “Dammit!” he roared, “Give me that wineskin!” The scarelt color of his cloak and armour deepened to match his ire. “This is not some sort of holiday!”

The Froggacuda hiccupped and reined his horse to a stop in front of Acroyear. “It sshure iss, Marquee,” he slurred happily. A Scout fell off of her horse. Acroyear noted that there were actually three or four wineskins being lamely covered up as his sharp eyes roved over his troops. “I proclaim thisss day [hic],” said the Baron loudly, gesturing with a wineskin and slopping moonshine over several Scouts, “A Holiday in honor of the bravery of Acroyear in coming to get me!” A cheer went up from the intoxicated Scouts. The one who had fallen off of her horse was having difficulty getting back in the saddle. Magaña was pushing on her rump and flapping her wings furiously. Acroyear launched into a tirade about the security of the mission, attempting to talk some sense into his Company, but to no avail. Paulo winked unsteadily at several Scouts and launched into a loud and off-key rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”, in which he was joined by the rest of the Scouts as the Froggacuda sat in his saddle and beamed. Magaña was the only one who could carry a tune. Acroyear, seeing his logic being ignored, and overruled by the Baron himself, swore that he’d never come rescue the Frogg Prince again, and wheeled his mount once again towards the Manor. They made it to the walls of the city by daybreak.

Episode II

(part 2)…the Marquis, the Count and the Baron triumphantly return to Mythril Manor, to the joy of the Council and the people on the street…

Paulo Hasselhoff led the Company a little after dawn through the streets of of the city towards the Manor as the people of Mystra cheered the arrival of the one and only Froggacuda. Paulo himself was gaining some notoriety, especially now that he was a Count, and he took the opportunity to blow kisses at all of the pretty girls hanging out of the second-story windows. He even waved at some of the ugly ones.

The Marquis Acroyear was bringing up the rear in a sullen mood. He was failing his duty as the Marquis and as a Captain of the Mythril Knights. He hoped the Lady ALLYAZZA, the new incarnation of the Princess Alliah, would understand the intractability of the Froggacuda, and the reasons behind his failure to control him. That impudent Hasselhoff wasn’t any help either. He would have relished the opportunity to bind the two of them in chains and drag them through the city to the Manor.

Reining to a stop in the courtyard of the Manor, the Company was greeted by a crowd of people from the interior. The Froggacuda, in the midst of waving to the assemblage, passed out and fell to the ground senseless. Acroyear rolled his eyes in his helm and ordered several men-at-arms to bear him to his suite and dunk him in a cold bath. He gave his mount to a groom, and stormed off in search of of medic; he had noticed the Froggacuda’s extensive wounds, and wanted the story out of him immediately, in case he died, or worse, went on another celebratory drinking binge.

Paulo was busy being the center of attention, fabricating a wild story of rescue and adventure, centering around his supposed prowess at arms and his carrying the weight of the Frogg Prince on his back for “twenty miles while fighting rabid Hobgoblins and an horde of evil priests of Xyloplex the merciless Death God”. He was occasionally interrupted by the PseudoDragon Magaña, who would ask for clarification of a particularly unbelievable point.

The Princess ALLYAZZA, hearing of the return of the Company, set down her quill and parchment and walked to a window. Pushing it open, she looked down upon the crowd, unnoticed. She smiled at the loud and obvious embellishments of Count Hasselhoff, which were punctuated with his typical “Arrrs!” and “Avasts!”, and then she caught sight of Acroyear supervising the loading of the prostrate form of her favorite Amphibian onto a makeshift stretcher. Her brow wrinkling slightly with concern, but her keen eyes noticed that the Frogg Prince still clutched a leather wineskin, and his loveable face had a dreamy smile on it, his long tongue lolling out of his mouth and dragging on the ground. Grinning wryly to herself, she telepathically notified her friend Lady Silvar of the return of the Baron, and grasped a velvet bell-pull to send a message to the Marquis of a job well done, and a message to Paulo to go clean the Royal Stables before he set foot in her presence again.

* * * * *

“Owwwch!” yelled the Baron of Mythril as Abu Dabu Dabu Day yanked a quarrel out of his back with a pair of Vice-Grips. “By the Five Elements, I’ll cast ANOTHER sobriety charm on you if you don’t hold still!” raged the slight Oriental man, “You had me worried, my lord.” Abu abruptly sniffled and looked like he had been grossly mistreated. “Well, you didn’t have to wake me, sober me up with that vile concoction you forced down my throat AND perform surgery with tools that you borrowed from that Ogre of a Blacksmith, Joffrey Marcus,” rumbled the Froggacuda as he gingerly rubbed his back, “Where the Manor dug up that oaf, I’ll never know.” He laid his head back down on his arms as Abu clucked over his wounds. The Frogg had all but chased the Healers that had been trying to assist him with his injuries out of the room; only the arrival of Abu with a flagon of Otyugh Vomit had sobered the Frogg Prince up enough to calm down and receive some medical attention. There was a knock on the door. Abu gave the Baron a warning look, waggling his finger at him in a request for good behavior. The Frogg rolled his green eyes and yelled for the guest to enter.

“I see that you’re not quite done with my tools, Abu,” said Joffrey Marcus after he had stuck his shaggy head in the door, “Do you want me to hold him down?” “Hold ME down?” retorted the Froggacuda, “You’ve got enough trouble holding your bladder, you ape!” Marcus stepped all the way into the room, “Oho!” he roared with laughter, “I’m not the one with a bunch of bolts stuck in my arse, eh, Toad Prince?” The Froggacuda struggled to get out of the bed while Abu Dabu Dabu Day nigh sat on him. “Gentlemen!” shrieked the Wu Jen, “I am TRYING to perform a delicate operation here!” “Alright, alright,” said Marcus, trying to calm the little fellow down, “I’m leaving.” He looked over at the Froggacuda, “Hope that he wiggles them as he pulls them out, you crybaby.” He ducked the flagon that the Frogg hurled as it flew into the corridor, narrowly missing him, and quietly shut the door.

“How’s the Baron?” asked Sean Murdoch with a Gælic lilt in his voice, “The Marquis is a’chafin ta ask him a wee list o’ questions.” “He’s doing fine, just fine!” replied Marcus ruefully, running his hand through his wild hair, “I think by the time we find Acroyear and calm HIM down, Abu will have done the best he can with the Baron.” The two friends exchanged a knowling look and went in search of the Marquis of Mythril.

Episode III

(part 3)…Acroyear is in a tizzy, due to the import of the information that the Frogg transcripts contained: Drow, the Great Mother of Spiders, the Lord of Amorphousness, and the Black Earth Mother Herself. This was sizing up to be a rather delicate party for Mythril to entertain…

“Marquis Acroyear…” started Sean Murdoch as he cautiously entered the room. “It’s Prime Minister Acroyear!” yelled the Prime Minister, clenching a piece of parchment in a mailed fist, “That big green monstrosity downstairs is the Marquis. They’ve reshuffled the titles again.” Acroyear turned back to the wall map he was studying. “Aye,” shrugged Murdoch, “The Froggacuda is conscious, but inna mood…” “I don’t care what type of mood he’s in,” Acroyear belted on his die-cast mithril shortsword and strode from the room, Murdoch following him at a safe distance.