Larf J. Stockins

Larf J. Stockins is a baron of the Union of Plort. He arrived on Konti-Nyuum from lands unknown and soon found his home in the wild North-east of the island. In his own words:

Diskord is where I belong!
Yes, Diskord – with its rolling hills, and misty mornings, and the long fields of rustling grass, and all the wolves and buzzards that are constantly following me around waiting for me to be weakened enough by the elements to that they can eat me.

Ah, but the Riding of Sittories! How can I forget her gulleys, her dramatic crags, her majestic pine trees, like pillars to hold up Heaven itself, and the wild dogs and crows that replace the wolves and buzzards and also follow me around waiting to eat me.

But worry not for me! Call me not 'vagrant' or 'homeless'; for I am an eternal wanderer, and my castle is the land, itself - yes, all its high, cold places, to the damp, dark ones, with their roots and secrets.

But, y'know, I think a shack would be nice. Or at least some sort of umbrella. And perhaps something to scare all the hungry wild animals off me.

I probably ought to get a proper flag, too, given that my current one, made out of a potato sack drawn on with charcoal, has been torn terribly over the years, partially on account of all those wolves and buzzards and such.

'And away, sir, away!'
'I can smell the blood on ye, hound! Ye blasphemous wolf, dripping in the blood of the innocent and the wretched! Away, away, I say!' Larf J. Stockins waved his crossbow, his trusty Finch, in the air. It groaned and whined and was a single knock away from exploding into woody shards. This was fine for Larf J. Stockins, who tended to have more various injuries on his body than he did clean water. But it certainly wasn't for the courier.

'Errrrrrr,' said the courier, clutching the message, hunching down. It had actually not been particularly difficult to track down Larf J. Stockins, on account of the small battalion of carnivores that always seemed to follow him everywhere. You had a lot of things to follow – tracks, signs of destruction and struggle, blood, horrified villagers. It was these signs that he had followed, to here – a desolate coastal field, the wind battering the thin grass, sea mist swirling around the knifelike grey stones at the bottom of those warped layered cliffs. His hair was flowing, and his tunic, and the message flapped in his hands, trying to escape. It didn't seem very baronial. It might have made a good spot to dump the body of a baron you didn't like very much, but that was it.

'Don't make me shoot! I will do it, sir! And even though I am entirely unable to restock my supply of bolts, for sheer lack of resources, shoot I will, if I find it necessary!'

The messenger was trying to sweat, but the wind kept pulling it off his face. 'Sire, uh, Larf, I have a message for you.'

'And I to you!' he, again, waved the crossbow at him. It groaned like a dying man.

'You have become a baron, sire.'

'Er?' Larf J. Stockins tilted his head.

'It says so right here,' said the messenger. The note spasmed in the wind, but it could be clearly seen that it included the word 'Baron', the name 'Larf J. Stockins' and the seal on it. It was a collection of things Larf J. Stockins was certain he would never see together. It looked unjust, somehow.

'Really? Why?'

'I don't know!'

'But – why?'