View source for Picaro's Alacrity: Coins of the Dead

- Daniel Picaro's Alacrity: Coins of the Dead -
by Daniel


As a Knight of the Scepter, I have pledged to maintain balance within the Realm. To that end, one of my duties is to combat the forces that terrorize areas surrounding our communities. While at home in Asgard, word reached me of a dangerous mad man raving and shrieking in the Barrens, the vast desert that stretches past the elven village of Drune. I sheathed my long sword - an elegant weapon, the mighty Save the Queen - adorned my armor, and set out on the long trek across the forests and fields, from west to east, to both subdue this lunatic and restore the peace.

In truth, our fight was short and uneventful. While the man's rage was formidable and stoked by the blistering sun, his manic energy was no match for my fabled steel. Following our battle, I trudged southwest to the hamlet of Silverbrook for an evening meal - and to clean the sand from my gear. Upon entering the White Rabbit Tavern (also known as the Cock's Crow), the pub's proprietor, Meego, gave me a hearty smile and nod. The bar was nearly empty, save for a group of four elves clustered around the hearth.

Suddenly, one of the elder sprites belched violently and stammered at his compatriots.

"Have- have I, ever regaled you fools, with the limerick of Picaro's Alacrity?" the white elf yelled, ale dribbling down his chin.

Meego rolled his eyes. "Only every darn night Artemaus, you old goat!"

My ears perked at the name, 'Picaro.' That notorious vagabond, a diminutive blue elf, had been my oldest and dearest friend. We were once childhood comrades in Leinster, collecting pebbles and hunting Artic Ratlings in West Havenwood before the Great Smiting. In our cosmopolitan capital, friendships between elves and humans were not uncommon and despite his small stature, Picaro was a cunning lad and deft with a throwing dagger. As we passed into adulthood, my knightly orders took me away to Asgard, and Picaro and I gradually lost touch. However, I continued to hear tales of his exploits, from Murias to Usk, as he had become renowned as one of the Realm's most skilled pickpockets. I half-expected to encounter his blade and banditry during my many journeys between towns.

"I have not heard it, elder white elf," I shouted. "Could you perform it?"

The old elf's light eyes brightened and he seemed to possess a moment of sobriety. "Very well, traveler!" he announced, before another loud burp erupted from his lips.

Behind him, the visibly-annoyed Meego sighed loudly and dismissively, while continuing to wash jugs from behind the bar. Artemaus rose from his chair, stood on the table in front of him, and recited the following:

"There are many who wonder,
how that azure absconder,
developed his dexterity.
While born quick and nimble
and short as thimble,
from magic came alacrity.

One day the young rogue,
his tongue thick with brogue,
was whistling on Leinster/Kurz Road,
when a grey ghost appeared
from mists which had cleared
over a brook that bubbled and flowed.
The quick-witted thief
(to avoid any grief
that comes with crossing a specter)
jumped in the blue stream,
and thought up a scheme,
while lurking below the ghost's vector.
'If phantoms have pockets,
holding diamonds or lockets,
could I steal while stealthily below?'
And just as he guessed,
he was able to wrest
gold lest the ghoul could know.

Once the wraith floated on,
he admired his con
while clutching the coins in his fingers.
But that purse of the soul
the cerulean stole,
had witchcraft that stains and lingers.

Those bits gave him quickness -
new, unrivaled slickness! -
and other abilities untold.
And now we all suffer
Picaro the mugger
from the Shire to the cold Winter Wold."

His poem complete, Artemaus proudly swayed and performed a deep bow, receiving half-hearted applause from the other elves in his company.

"Beyond agility, what other gifts did Picaro receive from the stolen coins of the dead?" I inquired.

"Nobody - [hiccup] - knows," Artemaus slurred, clearly on the verge of slumber.

"I have one final question, master elf: what does Picaro do with all the loot he plunders?" I asked. "I have heard tales of his thievery, but not his opulence."

"That is . . . that is also a my-mystery," the drunken elf replied, before collapsing on the sticky, barroom floor in a stupor.

"Ugh, not again!" Meego groaned. "Alright, I'm closing up-my apologies, but you'll need to find food and accommodations elsewhere, adventurer."

It took me many moons to return to Asgard, as I became sidetracked by quests to defeat a bloody banshee haunting the Wild Beyond and conquer a strange lich lurking within the Killing Fields. However, as I approached my once-humble cottage, I was shocked to find my front yard decorated with an incredible shrine. Fountains and flowers staged a beautiful garden, adorned with statues of the gods, Despothes and Finvarra. I found a simple note pinned to my front door, affixed with a Fury Point dagger. It read:

"Daniel: I took the liberty of adding a bit of color to your home. I hope you do not mind. To answer the question you posed to that old cogger in Silverbrook - I share my bounties with my band of brothers. (You, of all people, should know I have eyes and ears across the Realm.) As for my other powers bestowed by the coins of the dead . . . you'll see for yourself when I happen upon you on the trails. And when I do, guard your wallet.

Picaro"

I set the parchment down and I smiled to myself. On one hand, given my sacred oath to Despothes, I would be tasked with restoring order and returning all the loot pilfered by my mate.

On the other hand . . . I was touched by the generosity of my friend (however ill-begotten), and I thoroughly enjoyed his landscaping!



~Summer 2019 Writing Contest~