the chronicles of Shorok, part the second

Our last Shorok adventure showed…well, you can just scroll down and read it. I’m not going to recap it. This one sort of follows the same thought process – horrific violence, sort of dumb punchline – but it’s a reference to Calvin Coolidge and the kids always love those, right?


Oh, and around the time this came out I was heavy into Soul Calibur IV and its relatively robust create-a-fighter mode. I made Shorok, naturally. The results of that are below:

For all his exploits and amazing feats, the mighty Shorok was not generous with words. He seldom spoke unless absolutely necessary, and had actually defeated the thousands-deep frost giant army of the northern vale without so much as a cough. Whether this silence was a tactical decision on the part of the great warrior or simply an indifferent omission is a matter of great debate among historians, but one thing was certain: he was a quiet man.

And so it came to pass one evening while partaking in his usual ritual of mead and barmaidens (generally, both at the same time) at a tavern in the town of Bucklehurst, Shorok was accosted by a face unknown to him but familiar to the people of the area – the oily, smarmy visage of Jib Dinkins.

Dinkins, arguably the greatest swindler and thief in the Southern Hills, had made a habit of making the impossible a reality, or at least convincing the easily tricked that he had. He claimed to have stolen the Sapphire Eye of Saramesh directly from the king’s crown as it sat upon his head, and once boasted he talked Ursula Laviscia, the most famed and expensive wench in all the lands, into doing some pro bono work. Of course, anyone that could verify his exploits was always conveniently out sick when one went to ask. Jib Dinkins was good at that.

And so, this night, the thief tapped Shorok on his massive shoulder and offered a proposition.

“You are the mighty Shorok, tamer of the Great Serpents of Gilgamar, right?”

Shorok said nothing, but grunted in a manner that suggested Jib was on the right track.

“My friend and I…we have a bet, you see.” He licked his chapped lips with a pale tongue. “The stories and legends we hear about you…well, they say you don’t like to talk much.”

Shorok drank another stein of mead and motioned for a particularly buxom young serving girl to refill it. She did.

“And well…I’m a bit of a gambler. I like to make the impossible happen. Did you know I once stole the Sapphire Eye of Saramesh right from the king’s head while he was bolt awake?”

Shorok said nothing, and thought about the very same Sapphire Eye of Saramesh that sat in his traveling pouch and had been a gift from the king for defeating an invading army of skeletons and rescuing his beloved cat Whiskers from a tree.

“Anyway, I’m not hear to talk about me. Let’s talk about you.” Jib grinned, his lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth. “This bet that my friend and I have…he bets me I can’t get you to say three words to me. I bet I can.”

Shorok paused, then slowly craned his sinewy, trunk-like neck to look at this interloper for the first time. He then began to speak.

“You lose,” he said.

Shorok then promptly separated the thief’s head from the rest of his body with a nearby butter knife and returned to his drink.


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