[RPG][ATA][Eston] Lunatic Morale Squad

[Vincent Plouffe]

The Raving Lunatics, so dubbed by their semi-lucid knight commander, were a 
sad band indeed.  There was Sarigan himself, dressed in fashionable, if 
rather smelly, cod-scale armor.  Quincy's assortment of duties had been 
expanded to include navigator.  Captain Eomund was a narcoleptic thug most 
at home in the dark alleys of Hawthorne, whose only redeeming quality was a 
lovely singing voice only available while he was sleeping.  After having 
slaughtered three full complements of troops, the only soldiers they found 
foolish enough to sign on for this doomed expedition were a band of triplets 
collectively called 'the three Bobs'.

In a deluded effort to restore some modicum of glory to his name, Sarigan 
had decided to devote himself to administrative work, hoping to lift the 
spirits of Eston's populace along with those of his men.  Things started 
badly when Quincy realized that heading south to Slantrax was going to take 
considerably longer than he first believed.  Their travels had taken them 
along the roads and villages of Melias and Menerial, before the error was 
detected.

"What do you mean?!" raged Sarigan.  "We can't just turn around!  All the 
lands behind us have already been restored to perfect bliss and happiness! 
Turn left or something.  We're bound to get somewhere important eventually."

Eomund raised an eyebrow, peeking out from behind a near-empty mug of ale 
and remembering the hail of tomatoes they'd received during a recent attempt 
to harmonize the local populace.

"I think we might also need to reconsider our methods, milord," murmured a 
dejected Quincy.

"Eh?  What's wrong with the current approach!?  It's BRILLIANT!"

The entire unit - all five men - wore bright yellow tabards, each with a 
large green letter painted upon it.  In proper order, they spelled 'ESTON' 
though a recent coordination mishaps had produced 'STONE', 'NOTES' and 
'3SNOT'.  The latter occured when one of the Bobs got confused and ended up 
facing the wrong way.  Each man also wore the same letter on his back, 
resulting in greater confusion whenever they were looked upon from behind.  
Helmets had been painted to look like small citadels, and everyone had a 
necklace of skewered fish-eyes strung about their necks in an attempt to 
promote some of the local orders.  Quincy and Eomund carried a large banner 
between them that read 'work harder or we'll draft you!'  Sarigan himself 
sat mounted upon a hastily constructed wooden horse that more closely 
resembled a giant rabid sloth, which a drunken Eomund had inexplicably 
decided to paint flamboyant orange.

Quincy's stomach grumbled angrily.

"Perhaps you're right, milord."

Approaching a fork in the road, Quincy reached into his satchel, wheeled 
left, stuffed the map into his mouth and started chewing.

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