Crackfic - The Poopsmith, or, Human Commoner Revisited
Oh, IRC. Lover of insanity, spawner of crack.
Jacques wiped his sweaty brow as he surveyed the pens. They contained the finest Mabari army in the world, and yet that didn't make Jacques any happier to be their appointed stall mucker. Some of the other servant boys taunted him, calling him a poopsmith. Like a blacksmith, they said, only for poop.
Still, Jacques knew this was a very important job. The Mabari were critical to King Cailan's strategy here at Ostagar, and keeping them healthy and clean ensured that they would be at their best on the battlefield.
"Evening! Ser Duncan, isn't it?" Jacques piped up as the leader of the Grey Wardens passed by the Mabari pens. He knew the man only by reputation, which is to say, he had heard one of the other Grey Wardens talking about him. So much so that Jacques felt that the man's jaw should have since fallen off from the effort. And the King. Maker preserve him, but the king spoke of Duncan like he was some kind of old Tevinter god.
"Good evening to you, lad." Duncan smiled amicably at him. He sure looked like any other grizzled old man to Jacques's eyes.
"Did you just arrive then?" Jacques asked. "The talk is that you were searching out promising recruits."
"That is true, but sadly, my trip was a complete and total waste of time. Everywhere I went, it seems that I arrived just a moment too late to be of any use to anyone. Highever had already fallen to Arl Howe's forces, the elf in Denerim I'd had my eyes on was executed for killing Arl Urien's son, and the dwarves killed not just one but two of the greatest dwarven fighters I'd ever seen. The mages refused to even let me in the Tower, something about blood mages running lose. I don't think they trust me very much around there... I can't imagine why. And even the Dalish I ran into were tainted beyond hope.”
Duncan looked at Jacques. Jacques squirmed under the scrutiny. “Say. You must have some strong arms, with all the...” Duncan coughed politely. “...heavy lifting you do.”
“Aye, I suppose I do at that.”
“Would you like to become a Grey Warden?”
“Me, ser? But I'm only a lowly dog boy. They call me “poopsmith”. Not exactly a stellar title for an illustrious Grey Warden.”
“The Grey Wardens give up their titles, whatever they may be, after their Joining,” Duncan said, smiling wryly.
“Well then by Andraste's faithful Mabari, sign me up!” Jacques proclaimed.
Duncan nodded. “Come with me, then. I'll introduce you to the other new recruits...”
Jacques wiped his sweaty brow as he surveyed the pens. They contained the finest Mabari army in the world, and yet that didn't make Jacques any happier to be their appointed stall mucker. Some of the other servant boys taunted him, calling him a poopsmith. Like a blacksmith, they said, only for poop.
Still, Jacques knew this was a very important job. The Mabari were critical to King Cailan's strategy here at Ostagar, and keeping them healthy and clean ensured that they would be at their best on the battlefield.
"Evening! Ser Duncan, isn't it?" Jacques piped up as the leader of the Grey Wardens passed by the Mabari pens. He knew the man only by reputation, which is to say, he had heard one of the other Grey Wardens talking about him. So much so that Jacques felt that the man's jaw should have since fallen off from the effort. And the King. Maker preserve him, but the king spoke of Duncan like he was some kind of old Tevinter god.
"Good evening to you, lad." Duncan smiled amicably at him. He sure looked like any other grizzled old man to Jacques's eyes.
"Did you just arrive then?" Jacques asked. "The talk is that you were searching out promising recruits."
"That is true, but sadly, my trip was a complete and total waste of time. Everywhere I went, it seems that I arrived just a moment too late to be of any use to anyone. Highever had already fallen to Arl Howe's forces, the elf in Denerim I'd had my eyes on was executed for killing Arl Urien's son, and the dwarves killed not just one but two of the greatest dwarven fighters I'd ever seen. The mages refused to even let me in the Tower, something about blood mages running lose. I don't think they trust me very much around there... I can't imagine why. And even the Dalish I ran into were tainted beyond hope.”
Duncan looked at Jacques. Jacques squirmed under the scrutiny. “Say. You must have some strong arms, with all the...” Duncan coughed politely. “...heavy lifting you do.”
“Aye, I suppose I do at that.”
“Would you like to become a Grey Warden?”
“Me, ser? But I'm only a lowly dog boy. They call me “poopsmith”. Not exactly a stellar title for an illustrious Grey Warden.”
“The Grey Wardens give up their titles, whatever they may be, after their Joining,” Duncan said, smiling wryly.
“Well then by Andraste's faithful Mabari, sign me up!” Jacques proclaimed.
Duncan nodded. “Come with me, then. I'll introduce you to the other new recruits...”