After the long arduous battle in the Shadowed Forrest against the Grue, Bart the Fearless, a crimson haired warrior that didn't lack in guts, nor wits, finds himself in the treatcherous sands of Indigo Desert. It is one of the more peculiar corners of the Muzakian realm, where sands are grains of sapphire; the sky, either in day or night, takes shades of purple; and the sun and the moon are pink, engulfed in a neon aura.
As Bart crosses countless steps, he takes sight on some brown dots that stick out like a sore thumb. Getting closer , slowly, they come into shapes, then even closer, into old rackety looking wooden buildings. It is apparently a village built for lost travelers and insane hermits looking for rest and protection against something called fear and death. Things that can't be guaranteed, because of the inflation in prices that has happened over the years, due to the Llama War, where men suffered in defeat and wasted too much resources.
Bart approaches the only entrance to the village, an archway in the middle of walls made of cherry wood tree trunks that surrounds the buildings and on top has a banner written in bold black letters, seemingly worn out of time: "WELCOME TO DOOFINDLE, DEAR DWEEB". And then the dusty almost empty main street unravels with the houses on both sides. Bart wanders them in search of an inn to have some nice plum brandy after all the bloody walk he had. Deep in his train of thoughts, he is suddenly grabbed softly by his right shoulder of a wrinkly hand with a cloth sleeve attached to it. Then he readies his other hand on his sword's ivory handle protected by a leather scabbard around his belt
'Back off, beggar or I will turn you into kebab.' said Bart in a threatening tone.
'But the stranger didn't seem phased and was calm.
'I'm no seeker of food or wealth.'
Bart turns and sees a hunched elder, hairless on his scalp, with a face covered by a messy grey beard and an expression unable to tell if it's filled with sadness or exhaustion.
'Then what is your purpose of touching me?'
'I've came to foretell the near future of yours, brave warrior.'
After he heard those words, Bart had for a moment a grin, that could rival those of Torval, the legendary jester who also was the one chosen to lead men in the entire Llama War'.
'Tell me, it's about me making love to a Glamorzan woman?'
But suddenly he's bushy scarlet eyebrows deepened his eyes that gave a stare of doubt, with his lips vanished like after the first ever bitter taste of a lemon.
'I hope you are not tricking me or have to pay you?'
'Sadly no, and also no. I came to warn you. My advice is to be leaving this place.'
'Why? I need some plum brandy, after this tiring journey!' weeped our seemingly mature fighter and then turning his back from the elder.
'Alright, be reckless and have your drink, but I will be the one laughing when our souls will meet in Animatopia and say that I told you, Bart.'
His eyes got very round when he mentioned his name. But before he could turn and ask, the elder disappeared, only leaving small glittery particles. 'He must have been some wizard in disguise.', deducted to himself Bart. When the last word of the wizard was said, the streets got busier of people who were sighting at him, some with disgust, some with pity.
Bart did not take notice of them, his mind was only on the place called ''The Hard Rod'' from which sounds of noise , laughter and clinking glasses were heard. It was an inn that seemed better days, with white paint mostly by the harsh sandstorms being chipped and the roof in a position of bowing like the insane hermits to the only god of Muzakia, Bob. Though on the inside, opposed from outdoors, the inn had a big and uncomfortable difference in look. Furniture of the finest carving made of cherry wood, seats with soft white cushion and walls seemingly with new paint of beige. The only things that made this place feeling to be from the village are the people who are residing here getting far from their worries of work and life, drinking it away and an old portrait, which colors have been washed away by the sunlight throughout the years, of Torval the Jester on his noble donkey, Henry, ready for the Llama War. When Bart entered, the people stopped from their chatter and were eyeing on him. But he didn't care and went straight to the counter to order a drink. The shelf of neatly organized drinks from the Dramoklean Acid, the strongest beverage in all Muzakia, said to cause brains to melt and eyes to explode into fireworks, to orange juice was guarded by no soul. But at the right end side of the counter there was a bell. Bart rang it.
Somewhere in the back, a deep female voice with reverb shouted.
'Beat it, were closed!'
Dumbfounded, Bart turns his head around and takes a quick glance on the crowd.
'But there are so many people around here!'
'It's a...family...gathering...' said the woman with a bit of uncertainty.
'Really? Because I've been to family gatherings myself and they are usually not this many in numbers.'
'Listen, have you read the sign that I put on the door?'
'No? I was thinking of plum brandy and Glamorzan women.'
'It says: ''NO BART ALLOWED" '
'And so, if I happen to not be a Bart?
Out of the left side of the entrance to the back ,where the supplies might be held, erected a round head of a woman with blond pigtails and a face that made boars look pretty in comparison.
'You certainly look like one.'
Bart started to suddenly lose his temper and beat the counter hard.
'And if so, why do you have a prejudice against people named Bart?
'They are always bad omen. Every time one of them came in, my inn got almost destroyed by sandstorms, customers or real estate agents.
'That's an interesting story. Can I have my plum brandy, pretty please?
The barmaid then showed the rest of herself wearing a dress as beige as the walls, with the skirt area short enough to reveal her hairy legs. Then she gave the loudest war cry.
'FREE DRINKS IN THE EVENING FOR EVERYONE, IF YOU KILL THIS MAN CALLED BART AND THROW HIS CORPSE IN THE STREETS, SO THE RATS COULD FEAST ON HIM!
A sudden plethora of steps in unison came from the feet of people who would without a doubt sell their souls to the devil for eternal intoxication. Bart didn't seem to be shaking in his boots and just sat there. Even when he wants to rest and distance himself from the trouble, like an annoying ex-girlfriend, it comes back to him.
TO BE CONTINUED
