It's been a while...

---

Chapter 5

After hours of fierce and zesty negotiations with the role players, Horace finally managed to convince them that A) he had no idea where he was, B) given A, it would follow that he had no idea how to escape such place, and C) they were all nerds and cowards.

Surprisingly, the result of these negotiations was the role players' allowance of he and Harvey to travel as members of the band, which for some reason immediately began a journey to The Other Magic Forest, which was on the other side of a treacherous mountain range from the first magic forest.

“So... why are we going on a dangerous journey to the other magic forest when we're already at one?” Horace asked a half-man half-cat creature, who obviously had a fake tail and fake ears and who had obviously painted whiskers onto his face.

“Because Zorlock II, our Archmage, said so.”

“Isn't that the pale, skinny guy who talked to me before? Why do you take orders from him?”

The half-breed snorted. “You are obviously unfamiliar with the complex hierarchy of our clan, you noob. Zorlock II descends from a long line of rulers, dating back all the way to Pizrock the Great, the founder of the first Human-Orc-Elf triumvirate...”

The explanation went on for five hours as they walked, a period which proved to be full of great turmoil within Horace. It seemed to him that each and every organ and appendage of his body had threatened to kill itself during the horrendous story. Horace wondered whether the sword hanging from the man's belt was real, because the desire to stab it through the man-cat's trachea increased steadily throughout the tale. If one were to do a bit of research, one may find that the beastman was actually quoting the story directly from Volume 45 of the manual to Dungeons and Dragons.

Finally, the circuitous story ended. “...and at our last battle, which was fought at Elm's Rock, Zorlock II discovered the flaw in our strategy- if you fail to burn the carcasses of fallen trolls, they will regenerate to attack you anew, and he was unanimously elected as the celebrated leader of our party.”

“Your clan has a lot of history for having been here for a month,” Horace retorted.

“Oh... did he tell you that?”

“Yeah. He also said that you guys haven't really fought a battle yet, and that if you did you would all surely die.”

“Hmmm... well... nice talking to you...” the half-breed mumbled as he walked over to talk to a cleric wearing plastic elf ears.

Horace sighed and turned to Harvey. “These guys are pathetic.”

Harvey said nothing, staring fixedly at Horace.

“Arrggh! Stop looking at me like that!”

---

Meanwhile, in the brush a few miles up the road, something odd was happening. For the first time in any universe, a human was being reincarnated into something better. After 90 long years of doing nothing but sitting in the same place and eating whatever somehow managed to find its way to him, Aing-o-shierl was awaiting death openly and was eager to learn what his next life would bring him.

Suddenly, a lone figure appeared in front of him. Its blue tights definitely clashed with its black cloak.

“I am Death...” the apparition said somberly.

“Really, um...” Aing tried to reply, but the blue tights controlled his attention.

“I was at a dance lesson, okay? Now, erm...” the figure consulted a scroll in its cloak, “someone is about to die, and they want a special request of me?”

“That's me,” answered Aing. “I've been sitting in these bushes for the past ninety years meditating, and I'm pretty sure I've qualified for reincarnation.”

“Reincarnation, eh? Hmm... could you please describe this to me?”

“Oh, you... don't do this a lot?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, as far as I understand it involves me being reborn as something else.”

“Hmm... so you basically just want another life? I'm not quite sure if I can do that...”

“Oh...”

“What kind of thing did you have in mind? I mean, like, I could probably just give you a really short life... say, you're born really deformed and die in a week or something... that would probably be okay.”

“Really?” Aing said enthusiastically. “You'd do that?”

“I... guess... if that's what you want...” Death replied, backing away somewhat.

“I was thinking the best I could get would be some kind of animal or something.”

“Oh! In that case- what were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe a lizard.”

“A lizard.”

“Yes... what about it?”

“You wasted your whole life sitting in a bush so you could have another one as a lizard?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Alright, you can be a lizard,” Death sighed, shaking his head. He raised one of his arms and said some words that sounded impressive.

Suddenly, Aing's human body slumped over and disappeared. A confused-looking salamander with blue speckles was sitting in its place.

Death picked it up in one of his bony hands. “As you wished,” he said, and placed it next to the road.

“What will people think of next?” he asked himself as he poofed away.

---

Even further up the road, something much more threatening to the band was lying in wait. It was a small group of troll brigands, and they were obviously unhappy about something. Something that involved bread and cheese. Something that most closely related to their chef's forgetfulness in the area of how to make grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Growlsnarlwoopwoophowl,” one of them screeched, which closely translates to “I'm so angry that I wouldn't hesitate to kill a group of completely helpless people if they walked up the road.”

A chorus of “screechscreech” (same here) erupted from the others.

---

Horace had just finished listening to another roleplayer's banal musings about the nature of warfare when he felt something squish beneath his left foot.

“I believe you stepped in something,” the shaman pointed out.

“On something, actually,” Horace corrected as he peeled the thing off of the bottom of his shoe. He held the creature up.

“Looks like a lizard.”

“Salamander.”

“Gross,” Horace exclaimed, throwing it onto the ground. “I'll probably get salmonella now.”

All of the sudden, there was a scream from the front of the line, followed by a general brouhaha from the rest. Horace peered up the road to see what was going on.

“Snarlgrowlbarkhowlroar!” a voice screeched.

“Sounds like a troll,” observed Harvey.

Horace ran to the front of the line to see the scene unfold.

“They don't understand English!” someone had just yelled.

“We're doomed!” another wailed.

“Not a problem,” was the reply from a bespectacled man who was running to the front. “They're bound to know the universal language!”

Everyone looked at him anxiously, including the trolls, who had suddenly stopped jumping up and down and waving their swords.

“Well?” someone muttered. The man with glasses was looking around nonchalantly.

“Oh, sorry!” he exclaimed, then turned to the troll bandits. “Bonjorno!”

The troll bandits looked at each other. “La lingvo internacia!” one of them exclaimed.

All the roleplayers looked at each other in a confused manner as the man with glasses talked animatedly to the trolls.

“What language is this?” someone asked. The trolls and the man with glasses turned to him and answered. “Esperanto!”

After about five minutes, the man turned around and addressed the band, “Does anyone here know how to make grilled cheese sandwiches?”

A flood of excuses was the reply.

“I always used a toaster.”

“My mom used to make mine for me.”

“I'm lactose-intolerant.”

Horace spoke up. “I do.”

To Be Continued...