The Barbarians were coming!
Constidius’ tunic felt wet and warm around the nether regions. Fear of the Barbarians had caused him to loose his bowels. Mirror neurons fired. Gareth, a Merovingian parrot perched upon Constidius’s shoulder, emulated the mouldy monk by letting forth a stream of faeces that streaked the front of Constidius’ tunic like the remains of a particularly vile orgy.
The Barbarians were coming!
In a nearby and none too salubrious watering Hole — the Grandmother’s Armpit — was a slippery looking weasel in a grimy coat and a velvet bow-tie speckled with snot: a Mountebank and a booze-sodden smarmy one at that. Pausing only to pour ale down his throat, the Mountebank was loudly regaling an audience of assorted losers with tales of the Barbarians, thusly:“‘Tis whispered their balls are so big and heavy their inner thighs are always mottled with bruises and abrasions!”
No reaction from the baffled barflies. The Mountebank lifted a long and dirty finger and pointed it in the air as if admonishing a recalcitrant schoolboy, and declaimed:
“‘Tis said their leader, Ulrig Hausmarten, gnaws upon the forelegs of live children for breakfast.
“‘Tis rumoured they drink so much ale their kidneys are the size of watermelons and their livers the size of giant watermelons and their watermelons the size of giant kidneys.
“‘Tis murmured that their moustaches are so greasy and lousy that their womenfolk weave white linen nose-aprons — schnott gardeze — for the men to wear in polite company.
“‘Tis muttered their Leaderchief, the despicable cannibal Hausmarten, is twelventeen feats tall, has wobbly pectorals, likes a herring, and feeds his wardogs with the fustigated remains of pulchritudinous priests.”
The Mountebank shuddered as he recalled the events that had brought him to the Capital. Intending to swear a plaint in the Great Hall of our Fourmothers, he had been passing through Rind just as the Barbarians attacked.
Leading the charge, Ulrig Hausmarten’s shaggy war-skirts flapped in the battle-breeze as he hurdled the rows of trench-burnt babies, pectorals wobbling fearsomely with each barbaric leap. It was a favourite battle-tactic of the Barbarians for the Leaderchief’s war-skirts to be in the forefront of the attack.
Behind Hausmarten cantered his motley crew of herring-fat-smeared janissaries on their desert-donkeys, wailing in that peculiar way they have, designed they say to strike fear in the hearts of ones enemies (more like give ones enemies a splitting headache, truth be told). ...
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