The Return of Bombaata Sulako

Posted: November 1, 1998 in Writing
Tags: , ,

He climbed out of the pit unrecognizable, mud caking his features and dripping from his clothes. His eyes, however, burned with green sparkles that almost burned the leaves from the great tree spread out in dangerous majesty above his crouched form. The flying halflings that harassed him on his way to his very-near death cowered in their cosy little aerial hobbit-holes and trembled. Nobody had spent that much time in the bowels of the Tree and came out sane; the Tree had been there much longer than Waterdeep and the surrounding counties. It had been rumoured to exist in many civilizations; even Halister had only used it to dispose of unfortunate creatures who played with too many knobs in his accursed macho trap dungeon Undermountain, which drew many weak and pitiful adventurers full of themselves and their future glory.
Looking around, he wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a grey-brown streak of mud on his arm. His limbs trembled from the exertion of successfully climbing the 100 foot shaft with a broken arm and several broken ribs. He drew a stiletto for its comforting presence in his hand and cautiously left the Tree. The Tree, awed, let him go.

* * * * *

“You need proper attire to enter this establishment, sir.” The burly doorman tried to say politely to the bedraggled person.
“Durnin is expecting me,” he said sarcastically.
“I don’t think so, punk.”
It was over in a flash of twin stilettos and two geysers of blood that fountained from the doorman’s neck. The mud covered man dragged the doorkeeper into a nearby alley, glaring at the few casual passers-by who dared to glance at him.
A few moments later, with a newer blouse and vest and the majority of the dirt wiped from his features, he threw open the door of the tavern and walked in.
A gasp of astonishment silenced the majority of the establishment’s patrons. The dagger-wielder walked to the bartop and asked for Durnin. While waiting he glowered at a group of half-orc barbarians who stared right back at him.
“I need an advance, Durnin,” spoke the stranger. Durnin looked at him questioningly for a moment and then walked down towards his cashbox. He returned with a small leather bag that clinked pleasently.
“500 is all I’ll give you, you bloody mutant.” snarled Durnin, “Now get out of my place before I throw you out myself!” They stared at each other for a long moment, then the muddy-booted one turned and strode towards the door. Durnin spat after him.
“Don’t come back, Bombatta Sulako.”

* * * * *

The half-orcs were waiting for him as he left.
“We’re going to ask nicely for your new purse, moron,” said the smallest of the five, stepping forwards and holding out one hand. The other was on a wicked scimitar loosely sheathed in his belt.
“And if I give it to you, I live,” said Bombatta tiredly, “Yes, yes I know. I’m part pig myself; I understand, I’ve even done it before. But you have no class, no style, no flair. No redeeming quality. Understand?” The half-orc shook his head and glanced at his comrades, who stood there waiting for a signal of some sort. Bombatta buried three thrown daggers into the chest of the first before he had a chance to turn back around to face him. The others gaped at their bleeding comrade, who had fallen on his rump and uttered a small sound of surprise before littering the street with his corpse. Bombatta walked forwards and gestured at the dead half-orc.
“Similar fates await you,” he said simply. They tried to run. He didn’t let them get too far. Bombatta paid a small child a platinum piece to remove their bodies from the middle of the street.

* * * * *

The ship’s sails were tattered and ripped as it worked its way slowly into the harbor of Nazbo on the eastern coast of Orcland. It was listing heavily to starboard and seemed to have a skeletal crew. Several of the lifeboats were missing. Bombatta was thrown into the bay a half mile out and forced at musketpoint to swim the remainder of the way to his homeland.
As he climed up the piling of the pier, a pair of goblins threw their makeshift fishingpoles into the water and ran as fast as they could into the town. A group of citizens had gathered in the town square as a wet and angry Bombatta Sulako strode towards them with a stiletto in each hand and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“I have returned! You cannot kill me!”

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