Go Forth, Young One! - A Text Adventure

> Go back in the shed and stay the night

Oh, well. There's nothing much to do now. Geoff'll probably be back in the morning; better get some sleep in the meantime. Nowhere better than here, you suppose.

> Dip a small portion of the red jelly onto the grass
> Observe what happens.

You are struck by a sudden morbid curiosity. You take the jar out of your pack and carefully open the lid. The smell of ammonia is overpowering, and the top of the lid is visibly corroded. This looks like it's pretty nasty stuff. You go to tip it out slowly, but pause. You set the jar on top of a rock, then hunt down a short stick. You dip the stick into the red ... jelly, so you can more carefully apply it to the grass.

The stick bursts into flames.

Haha, haha. Yep. That happened. Hahaha. You stick the burning stick in the ground, and close the lid to the jar... very, very carefully.

You decide to get some shut-eye. You blow out the stick (with some difficulty) and lay your rucksack down on the ground in the shed, and lie down on top of it.

Geoff'll be back in the morning. You're confident of that.

---

You are now Geoff.

The bath didn't help much to cool your spirits. You figured a little spirits would do the trick.

You sit at the bar, visibly (and nasally) intoxicated. You hiccup.

    "Another one, good shir, yesh, that'll do the tr-hic!-ic, hahaha!"

The bartender(s? You're not sure now, you're sure there was only one a minute ago) eyes you.

    "You sure you can handle another, pal?"

You eyeball the bartender (and nearly miss.)

    "Boy, I've handled thingsh you, you, wonbelieve. I once shmo, schmoe, killed an army, with thesh two hands."

Evidence indicates you actually have four, but you press on anyway.

    "Boy, there'sh a greater than even shanse that I'm your daddy! I wuz quite dashing in my - hic! - day, you know. Great! All the ladies liked me. There was this one --"

You feel two (four?) hands on your shoulder.

    "Sir, I think you're done for tonight. Yes? Would you like me to escort you to your room?"

The inn falls silent.

>Who does this guy think he is? Teach him a lesson.

You try to turn around, but seeing as your shoulders (shoulder?) are (is?) clamped firmly in place, you crane your neck around. The man standing behind you is built like a brick wall. His hands are the size of hams. His shoulders are so broad that you can't see both (all?) of them at the same time.

Shame he has nothing on you.

    "You think you can take me? Are you shure? Youth, it'sh a grand ol' thing, eh? Life, it's also, yea, a great thing. Love bein' alive. I'm shure you do too."

The man's grip gets tighter.

    "Let me just take you to your room, Sir. We would be much obliged."

> Take pity on the guy and let him escort you out of this pigsty.

    "Oh...oh yeah? Well, that'sh great! In fact, justh, throw me out! I never wanted to - hic! - be in thish wresshed rathole in the firsh plashe. Thanks! Thish is exactly what I wanted! Good boy! Great!"

Your wish has been granted. You crack your head on a flagstone.

You have left behind your knapsack. You are not yet sober enough to realize this.

The street spins around you. You are intoxicated! Your perception, mental acuity, and pleasantness to be around are significantly reduced. Keep this in mind (or don't. When you're intoxicated, you're unable to recognize it anyway.)

Something noisy is going on to the north-ish. Here the awful rathole stands, giving travelers solace after long journeys. A tall, point-y doodad stands in the street here.

> Show everyone your great juggling talents. If you're okay with two hands, than you must be amazing with four!

This is the best idea you've had in weeks.

You pick up four rocks with your four hands, and prepare to show the world your juggling prowess. And by world, you mean the painfully pitiful man who still stands in the doorway, waiting for you to leave.

    "Yeh, yesee, I'm perfecly able to go on my own. Look at thish! I can even do the hand-movey thing-throwey thing! Just wassh!"

You toss the rocks in the air, which immediately start moving in odd and unpredictable ways. You didn't know rocks were able to blow in the wind like that! Rocks are supposed to be heavy!

Rocks, in fact, are heavy, and are more than capable of smashing windows. Which two (one?) of them do.

The man in the door narrows his eyes at you.

> Wander north.

It seems like half the town's turned out tonight for...whatever's going on. Wooden platform, guy with backy-forthy-stick thing, big scaffolding sort of thing, rope, guy.

It's a... a...

...hanging! Yes! That was the word for it!

You remember watching your first hanging (though you'd probably remember most anything fondly right about now.) There was the...wooden platform thing, and the...guy with the backy-forthy-stick thing, and...

Well, you know the rest, but it was really exhilarating. "Traitor!" they all shouted. The doomed man with his steely face, then the crack of the platform dropping away, and the roar of the crowd!...

> Begin mumbling old songs you've known since you were a child.

An old memory manages to bubble up from the depths of your past. A song that all the kiddies used to sing, way back when...

    "Hingh, hangh, hung,
    shee what the traitersh' done,
    hungh, hangh, hingh,
    shee the traiter schwing..."

The crowd shifts, and you get a good look at the man standing on top of that flimsy platform for the first time.

Something seems familiar about him.

> Concentrate really deeply on his face.

Concentrate deeply!? You're drunk out of your mind, man! The whole reason you got drunk in the first place was so that you couldn't concentrate deeply!

You try staring into the doomed man's face(s?) There's definitely something familiar about him. Something blurry, and out of focus, but definitely...

...alarming? ...frightening?

...almost brotherly...

...

... that's your brother up there!

What the hell is he doing on the gibbet?! He shouldn't be up there! He should have been at the shed! He should have been keeping Boy safe! Goddamn it! What happened? Did they know? How could they have known?

Your brother stares at you, eyes wide with fear. The leverman's hand rests on the lever. The crowd presses in tighter - "Traitor! Traitor!"

(You are now sober.)

What do you do?

>Push through the crowd and try to rescue your brother

> Pretend to be drunk.

You've got your story, now you gotta stick to it! It's not like you'll be able to fight all these people.