The Adventures of Sype: Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Sype: Rockin' the Three Wolf Moon since 2010

Our agent caught up with Sype on the fields of Fornost, where he was fashioning a throne of bear skulls.

“Oh, hullo,” he said in a suspiciously cheerful voice.  “Do you like it?”

The agent kept a twenty-step distance from the skull throne and the hundred or so ghost bears roaming behind it.  “It’s… fitting for the place.”

Sype grinned.  “Isn’t it?  I mean, I thought there was nothing to like about the North Downs, but here we are — a lovely patch of forsaken land without hapless hobbits, dull dwarves and exasperating elves.  Instead, the only annoying person around here is that crazy lady over there with the knife and the growly rants.”

A raspy voice floated with the mist.  “Blood blood blood, how I love blood!”

Sype waved with something that looked like fondness in her direction.  “Me too!”  He turned to the agent.  “So what’s up?”

“There’s a dire threat that’s come up that’s threatening this whole zone,” the agent said urgently.  “And only you can help?”

The Lore-master groaned.  “What threat?”

“I’m, um… not sure,” the agent admitted.  “I just skimmed the quest text.”

“The what?”

The agent thrust a scroll into his hands.  “Quest text.  Enjoy.  Anyway, you’re going to have to rally the elves, men and dwarves to fight it.  They’re all suspicious of each other, even though they’re practically neighbors, so get to it!”

“Or,” Sype jerked his head toward the throne.  “Or we could ignore it and rule over Death Kingdom together.  What  do you say?  I could use a lackey!”

“Sorry sir,” the agent said, waving a comically giant magnifying glass over a piece of paper.  “I’m out of here.”

*bampf!*

* * * * *

"BOO! ...did I scare you? No? Let me try again. YOUR WORLD OF WARCRAFT ACCOUNT HAS BEEN HACKED WOOOO! ...was that better?"

“WHAT?”

The dwarf miner grimaced as he shouted, then wriggled a finger into his ear until he dislodged a chunk of wax.  “I’m sorry, I meant, WHAT?”

Sype kept his eye on the local tavern, wishing to every one of his fairy godmothers that he could be in there, drinking himself into oblivion.  “There’s a… great evil encroaching on this land.  We need you to come help fight it,” he said in his least convincing tone ever.

“Why don’t you get those Dudley Do-Right rangers to do it?” the dwarf said.

“I tried, but they’re all talk and no action.”  Sype sighed.  “That seems to be a running theme around here.”

“Those blasted elves?”

“They’re coming.  They made me trek all the way to hell, kill a guy I think was either the devil or an angry orc chief, and then bring his head back in order for their pledge to come.”

The dwarf furrowed his brow.  “The head?”

Sype shrugged.  “I know, right?  I think they made it into a planter.  Anyway, they’re coming once they finish polishing their harps and adorning their perfectly-coifed hair with lavender scents.”

“Huh.”  The dwarf crossed his arms.  “What about the Men in Trestlebridge?  They down with this shindig?”

A nasty flashback floated across Sype’s vision — screams, the smell of burning pitch, endless waves of green-skinned foes sprinting down the bridge, a small band of cowards that pushed him to the front with yells of, “Kill it!  Kill it!”

Sype shuddered.  “Yeah, they’re coming.  Fat lot of good it’ll do us, anyway.”

The dwarf sucked on his moustache for a moment.  “Very well.  We’ll come.”

The Lore-master’s eyes widened in shock.  “You will?  Just like that?  No pointless errand or you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch–”

“…Once you rescue our fool cousin who got himself thrown into a cart.  He’s about 1000 yards thataway.  Best get moving now!”

“I have a counter-offer,” Sype said.  “How about you get off your chunky backsides before I call upon the forces of nature to rain destruction and hellfire upon this town, and — more importantly — overflow your sewage system so that your streets run with offal.”

The old man held out his hand and caught a raindrop.

“Look at that,” he said.  “Chances of poo, 100%.”

* * * * *

“And that, schoolchildren, is how three very noble races came together under a banner of truce to wage a brief but memorable war against a single mad wizard and drove him from the land.”

“Miss Quartz, will this be on the test?”

New Page: The Adventures of Sype

For the three of you who seem to enjoy the adventures of Sype, the cranky LOTRO Lore-master, I’m going to try to get at least two of his stories a week out from now on.  Because, hey, it’s creative writing!

Also, I’ve created a new page on Bio Break dedicated to this series, which you can check out here: The Adventures of Sype.

Don’t ignore it.  Sype… Sype would be displeased.  And you REALLY don’t want to know what he can do with that staff when he’s displeased.

The Adventures of Sype: Double-downing in the North Downs

Your typical North Downer: Sitting on his butt, wasting the day with writing... HEY!

“Oi, lollygagger!  What do you call this dump?”

“Er… Trestlebridge, sir.  On account of the big bridge and all.”

Sype squinted at the rickety span and spat into the dirt, which greedily absorbed the moisture and begged for more.  “Trestlebridge, eh?  Had me a bad case of trestlebridges a while back, took six different kind of salves to get rid of it.”

The dour Lore-master trudged through the town, hoping against hope that this land would be different.  That, unlike all of the other places with their petty problems and general laziness, the famed North Downs would be a place of true adventure, of honest…

“Wahhhh!  A nasty goblin poisoned my lunchbox!  Go kill him, complete and total stranger!”

Ah, crap.

* * * * *

A week later, and Sype dearly wished he’d never heard of the North Downs.  To tell the truth, he was starting to be convinced that he was in the suburbs of hell and being punished with menial chores that all the fat soccer moms and beer-swilling dads couldn’t be bothered with.

Sype drove the butt of his staff through a raven’s beak with a solid crunch.  “Kill these birds, he says.  Wakes him up too early, he says.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye prompted him to spin and fling a fistful of embers at a passing lynx.  The cat howled as the smell of burnt hair wafted over the land.  “Go slaughter sixteen of these cats and haul their carcasses back here so I can make a coat from their ragged fur and be the BELLE of the BALL.  Bah!”

He paused and wiped away a forehead of sweat with the back of his hand.  The Committee told him that his services were desperately needed in the region, but as far as he could tell, the real problem was the severe lack of motivation for everyone to waddle out of town and get on with their lives.

“It’s almost like…”  Sype began to talk to himself out loud, then shook his head.  It was a silly thought, anyway, but it kept coming to him.  His life started to remind him of a story he once read, where a naive dwarf spent his whole life in a village where everyone else was an actor, and an invisible audience watched him go about the business of living without realizing that all of his trappings — even his relationships — was a sham.

No… the Committee wouldn’t do that to him, would they?

He whirled around, half-expecting to see faces peeking out behind a rock and laughing at his pointless endeavors.

Nobody.

Sype squinted.

Still nobody.

Another lynx moseyed on by, stoically ignoring the smoldering remains of his third cousin.  Sype stared at the cat, and then a light went on over his head.

He threw a lasso and caught the cat, who put up far less of a fight than expected.  Almost as if it knew what was coming.

* * * * *

“You got my pelts?” the woman wheezed, as she struggled to her feet.  “All sixteen?”

Sype doffed his hat.  “Yes ma’am.  They’re in excellent condition, too.  I took the liberty of dropping them off at your home.”

With that, he sauntered out of town at a steady pace — fast enough to get out before trouble began, but not too quickly as to miss the screams of the owner of sixteen angry wildcats nesting in her foyer.

NEXT TIME ON THE ADVENTURES OF SYPE: Sype forms the first U.N. of Middle-earth — and does anyone think to thank him?  No, of course not.