07-07-2018, 10:27 PM
***
Kilgrot the Mighty stalks down a magical graffiti tunnel behind Danny and Dungbomb, the twin’s bright blue hair bobbing in front of him.
The tunnel is small and cramped, and Kilgrot has to duck his head. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of simple red brick. The only light comes from the glowing magic graffiti that covers the tunnel, their swirling colors and shapes bringing messages to and from the Westside. Some of the graffiti is quite beautiful; Kilgrot watches a sparkling silver Siamese fighting fish the size of his head swim past him on the ceiling, and spots a pulsing pink heart with a love note in it on the wall beside him.
The tunnel ends abruptly in a red brick wall. One of the twins, possibly Dungbomb, uses her wand to trace the outline of a door in glowing green light. She makes a handle, and opens the door to the Westside Hufflepunk Hideout.
Kilgrot follows the twitches, ducking to get through the door frame.He lands in a pile of discard beer bottles, beneath which a sleeping or dead Hufflepunk lay, and realizes he has just stepped out of a fireplace.
The Hideout reeks of stale cigarettes and old beer, and other narcotics too exotic for Kilgrot to place. All around him witch and wizard gangsters with brightly colored hair, tattoos, and facial piercing are rushing. Some of them are jumping into fireplaces and disappearing, and some are stepping out. A group of five witches are pouring over maps and battle plans in the corner, while next to them a wizard lays slumped in his seat with a tourniquet around his arm. All around the peeling wallpaper are pieces of moving graffiti, many of them the silvery animals that Kilgrot knows are called Patronesses. Some of the graffiti is appearing to send a message, some of it is being conjured from wands and sent off with orders, and some have discernible purpose at all to the Klingon.
“Over here,” Dungbomb, pushing open a rickety white door beneath a stairway.
The noise of the Hideout dims and then falls to silence as Kilgrot follows the witches through the door and down a creaky spiral staircase.
They walk much longer than Kilgrot thinks was possible, lit only by the light of the witches wands, down and down into the bowels of the house. They pass many doors of different shapes, sizes, and colors. They pass strange clocks and moving portraits and suits of armor and weirder things.
After nearly an hour Danny stops and knocks on a bright green door with a red handle.
“Occupied!” says a voice in a strange accent and deep voice.
Danny grins and opens the door, Dungbomb and Kilgrot following after her.
A shirtless African man in a loincloth sits cross legged in front of a bubbling cauldron. The smoke give off a foul chemical spell, and looks like thick black mud. The smoke fills the tiny windowless room and then floats gently out the window, something Kilgrot notes is impossible this deep underground. The only furniture in the room is an unmade bed, and each wall is taken up completely by book shelves stocked with potion bottles, books, ingredients, and strange tools Kilgrot could not hope to guess at. Above the bed, in the only free space available on the walls, is a mural.
A pretty girl with rainbow hair and psychedelic eyes is painted onto the wall, her hands drawn in front of her as though in prayer. The picture is not moving, but the eyes seem to follow Kilgrot as he shuffles forward.
“Hey Baq’aru,” says Danny as she saunters in and hops on his bed. She pronounces a hard click consonant in the middle of his name.
“Danny,” he replies in his strange accent, putting the emphasis on the last syllable. “I ‘ope you ‘ave been beezy. Dere is ‘till much wark do do. Is dis de son?”
Kilgrot crosses his arm churlishly.
“Yeah,” says Dungbomb as she plucks one of Kilgrot’s hair’s. “Nice and fresh. Kilgrot this is Baq’aru,” she says, again adding the click consonant. She hands the Klingon’s hair to the wizard. “He’s from Uagadou, a magic school in a different country than ours. He’s the best potions master this side of Camelot, and he makes a bloody fucking wicked polyjuice potion.”
The man chuckles strangely, holding up Kilgrot’s hair to the light. “I cannod take all dey credit,” he says, glancing up at the painting of the rainbow girl. “Luci ‘as ‘elped. She sboke do me in my drems, you know? Drems, when I am asleep.”
The trio nod politely.
The potion bubbles.
“What is that?” Kilgrot rumbles finally.
“Eed ees de polyjuice potion,” Bac’qua says, waving his wand over the cauldron in a gentle circular motion. “‘Ave you eva ‘ad a sip, yoong gangsta?”
Baq’ura scoops up a cup full of the bubbling brown liquid and drops Kilgrot’s hair into. He grins widely at the Klingon as the bubble turns a shade of deep crimson.
“I’m not a gangster. And I’m not fucking drinking that,” Kilgrot says flatly.
Baq’ura gives the same strange chuckle. “Do are righ', yoong gangsta.”
The African wizard smiles as he drains the cup.
He does not move nor cry out as the potion takes effects, only letting out a low guttural groan of pain. His bones start to pop, and his skin starts to stretch as the man grows larger. Thick cords of muscle bulge from his arms, chest, and back, and his forehead stretches to twice its length and grows several ridges. His skin color goes from a dark midnight black to a soft brown.
After a moment to catch his breath, Baq’ura stands up in his new form.
Kilgrot stares at a perfect copy of himself, down to every last detail, but still wearing Baq'ura's loincloth.
“All right gangsta,” the copy says without any hint of an accent. “Let’s go get your daddy.”
***
Kilgrot the Mighty stalks down a magical graffiti tunnel behind Danny and Dungbomb, the twin’s bright blue hair bobbing in front of him.
The tunnel is small and cramped, and Kilgrot has to duck his head. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of simple red brick. The only light comes from the glowing magic graffiti that covers the tunnel, their swirling colors and shapes bringing messages to and from the Westside. Some of the graffiti is quite beautiful; Kilgrot watches a sparkling silver Siamese fighting fish the size of his head swim past him on the ceiling, and spots a pulsing pink heart with a love note in it on the wall beside him.
The tunnel ends abruptly in a red brick wall. One of the twins, possibly Dungbomb, uses her wand to trace the outline of a door in glowing green light. She makes a handle, and opens the door to the Westside Hufflepunk Hideout.
Kilgrot follows the twitches, ducking to get through the door frame.He lands in a pile of discard beer bottles, beneath which a sleeping or dead Hufflepunk lay, and realizes he has just stepped out of a fireplace.
The Hideout reeks of stale cigarettes and old beer, and other narcotics too exotic for Kilgrot to place. All around him witch and wizard gangsters with brightly colored hair, tattoos, and facial piercing are rushing. Some of them are jumping into fireplaces and disappearing, and some are stepping out. A group of five witches are pouring over maps and battle plans in the corner, while next to them a wizard lays slumped in his seat with a tourniquet around his arm. All around the peeling wallpaper are pieces of moving graffiti, many of them the silvery animals that Kilgrot knows are called Patronesses. Some of the graffiti is appearing to send a message, some of it is being conjured from wands and sent off with orders, and some have discernible purpose at all to the Klingon.
“Over here,” Dungbomb, pushing open a rickety white door beneath a stairway.
The noise of the Hideout dims and then falls to silence as Kilgrot follows the witches through the door and down a creaky spiral staircase.
They walk much longer than Kilgrot thinks was possible, lit only by the light of the witches wands, down and down into the bowels of the house. They pass many doors of different shapes, sizes, and colors. They pass strange clocks and moving portraits and suits of armor and weirder things.
After nearly an hour Danny stops and knocks on a bright green door with a red handle.
“Occupied!” says a voice in a strange accent and deep voice.
Danny grins and opens the door, Dungbomb and Kilgrot following after her.
A shirtless African man in a loincloth sits cross legged in front of a bubbling cauldron. The smoke give off a foul chemical spell, and looks like thick black mud. The smoke fills the tiny windowless room and then floats gently out the window, something Kilgrot notes is impossible this deep underground. The only furniture in the room is an unmade bed, and each wall is taken up completely by book shelves stocked with potion bottles, books, ingredients, and strange tools Kilgrot could not hope to guess at. Above the bed, in the only free space available on the walls, is a mural.
A pretty girl with rainbow hair and psychedelic eyes is painted onto the wall, her hands drawn in front of her as though in prayer. The picture is not moving, but the eyes seem to follow Kilgrot as he shuffles forward.
“Hey Baq’aru,” says Danny as she saunters in and hops on his bed. She pronounces a hard click consonant in the middle of his name.
“Danny,” he replies in his strange accent, putting the emphasis on the last syllable. “I ‘ope you ‘ave been beezy. Dere is ‘till much wark do do. Is dis de son?”
Kilgrot crosses his arm churlishly.
“Yeah,” says Dungbomb as she plucks one of Kilgrot’s hair’s. “Nice and fresh. Kilgrot this is Baq’aru,” she says, again adding the click consonant. She hands the Klingon’s hair to the wizard. “He’s from Uagadou, a magic school in a different country than ours. He’s the best potions master this side of Camelot, and he makes a bloody fucking wicked polyjuice potion.”
The man chuckles strangely, holding up Kilgrot’s hair to the light. “I cannod take all dey credit,” he says, glancing up at the painting of the rainbow girl. “Luci ‘as ‘elped. She sboke do me in my drems, you know? Drems, when I am asleep.”
The trio nod politely.
The potion bubbles.
“What is that?” Kilgrot rumbles finally.
“Eed ees de polyjuice potion,” Bac’qua says, waving his wand over the cauldron in a gentle circular motion. “‘Ave you eva ‘ad a sip, yoong gangsta?”
Baq’ura scoops up a cup full of the bubbling brown liquid and drops Kilgrot’s hair into. He grins widely at the Klingon as the bubble turns a shade of deep crimson.
“I’m not a gangster. And I’m not fucking drinking that,” Kilgrot says flatly.
Baq’ura gives the same strange chuckle. “Do are righ', yoong gangsta.”
The African wizard smiles as he drains the cup.
He does not move nor cry out as the potion takes effects, only letting out a low guttural groan of pain. His bones start to pop, and his skin starts to stretch as the man grows larger. Thick cords of muscle bulge from his arms, chest, and back, and his forehead stretches to twice its length and grows several ridges. His skin color goes from a dark midnight black to a soft brown.
After a moment to catch his breath, Baq’ura stands up in his new form.
Kilgrot stares at a perfect copy of himself, down to every last detail, but still wearing Baq'ura's loincloth.
“All right gangsta,” the copy says without any hint of an accent. “Let’s go get your daddy.”
***