A hero's journey of a special kind

Of Rothamund the Greuthian and Otho the Senone
In the old days, when heroes were still strong and the land was permeated by blood and smoke, two men walked through the barren expanse, as different as night and day, and yet united in their pursuit of gold and glory – or rather, of what they imagined them to be.
There was Rothamund, a son of the crude Greuthians, huge of stature, so that even the mightiest oak trunk seemed to him like a weak willow. His limbs swelled, hard as stone, and his chest was as broad as two men put together would not be. His long, wild hair fell over his back, and his face was of such manly beauty that even the women of the cities paled when they saw him. But his eyes, deep and dark, were often as empty as the sky over the steppe, for the clever thought was foreign to him, and even more – he despised it. He took pleasure in dealing with things by violence, be it man or beast, enemy or friend. His huge battle-axe was his friend and confidant, for it was the only instrument that his mighty hands understood.
‘I Rothamund, mighty master of axe!’ he would roar, sounding like thunder in a storm when he worked himself up into a rage, which happened often and for no apparent reason. The world feared him not for his cunning, but for his unbridled outbursts of vandalism, which were as senseless as they were destructive. Once he had begun to swing the axe, it was as if fate lay in the hands of madness. Where he struck, no stone was left upon another and no head upon the shoulders.
At his side rode Otho, the Senone, so small and ugly that people often wondered how these two had become companions at all. Otho, whose hunched back and scrawny body would have elicited ridicule from any fine knight, was nonetheless a master at imposing his will on the sluggish and the stupid around him. His eyes sparkled sharply and warily, and where others saw only danger, he saw opportunity. Where Rothamund swung the axe, Otho preferred to sit in the shade, lurking and calculating. He might not have much education, but his mind was as sharp as a dagger blade, ready to betray anyone who was not useful to him, for the brave warrior's motto was: What you don't want happening, inflict that on anyone else. His mucous smile spoke volumes, and anyone who got too close had to watch out for their own sword in the back.
The two of them wandered the land, from village to village, always on the lookout for the next dirty job. They were paid for murders, for robbery and destruction. When Otho heard that a rich man was unfaithful to his wife, he immediately offered to spy on him with a sharp tongue and skillful cunning. The wives, blinded by mistrust, entrusted him with money, and often enough Otho disappeared as soon as the bag was full. When the work was too dangerous, he let Rothamund's axe do the talking. The Greuthian didn't understand much about honor or truth, but when he received an order, he struck blindly in the Teutonic manner.
‘Gimme gold!’ roared Rothamund like a very stupid and drunken lion when his wages were late, but Otho skillfully deceived him with false promises. ‘Tomorrow, my friend, tomorrow there will be more than you can carry!’ The barbarian, stupid and loyal like a good-natured ox, nodded and waited. He never questioned why Otho's bag grew ever heavier while his own became emptier. But alas, Senonen's purse remained full for only a short time, for he drank only the finest wine and loved the gold-devouring beauties of the night.
And so they went, the barbarian and the villain, through forests and valleys, in search of prey and blood. Two figures, as different as day and night, and yet inextricably linked – at least as long as the one did not understand what the other was withholding from him. And while Otho was cunningly hatching his plans, the stupid Rothamund dreamt of gold and glory, unaware that he would never hold either in his huge hands.

From the bacchanalia at the Golden Ox and the looting of brothels
Otho and Rothamund came to the city of Los Diabolos with hungry hearts and empty hands. A city of vice and riches, the serpent's lair of the coastal cities, where gold flowed as freely as blood. Here they hoped to find the fortune that had so far eluded them – or at least enough gold to indulge in wine and women for a few days.
Through narrow streets, whose walls whispered stories of treachery and violence, the two unlikely heroes strode to the tavern ‘The Golden Ox’, a seedy place whose name spoke of better days. All the lost and depraved of the city sat here, but none were as dark as Rothamund, the Greuthian, and Otho, the Senone. The tavern shook as the barbarian's massive body strode through the door, followed by the gaunt, hunched companion, whose warily eyes greedily scanned the scene for profitable opportunities.
The innkeeper, a stooped man with a sweaty face, immediately realized that the guests who were now entering had not come with peaceful intentions. No sooner had they taken a seat than an innocent halfling dared to ask the giant Greuthian a simple question with a polite smile on his lips. ‘The time, sir, could you tell me?’ But Rothamund, whose thoughts were always wandering in the fog, only understood that he was being offended. Without saying a word, he grabbed his mighty battle axe, whose sharpness had not dulled since the last murders, and cut the halfling in half. The innkeeper and the guests froze as the blood of the cruelly murdered man spurted in fountains over the dirty floorboards.
Rothamund, in high spirits, laughed Homeric laughter at the peaceful halfling's cruel end, as if he had told a good joke. Otho, whose clever mind was always in motion, grimaced, but he knew what to do. ‘Excellent, my friend,’ he said flatteringly, patting the Greuthian on the broad back. ‘So you have punished the insolent for his impertinent words with the sharpness of the mighty axe. Now he is no longer a halfling, but a quarterling. A true warrior you are, like no other!’ At the same time, Otho secretly thought about how much mischief this unpredictable oaf might yet bring him. But he knew that one wrong word could get him a closer acquaintance with the fool's battle-axe, and so he put on a good face for the mad game.
The innkeeper, pale and trembling, stood in a corner and watched as the two of them drank themselves senseless. Every jug the unfortunate man brought them shook in his hands, for he knew that a wrong look or an innocent word could free him from the burden of earthly existence forever. Rothamund, now drunk on the golden mead, began to smash the inn's furniture in his frenzy. Tables flew, chairs splintered, and the few remaining guests were thrown across the room like bundles of straw by the mighty Greuthian. One scream followed another, while Otho, now drunk himself, with the sharp eyes of a vulture or rather a hungry rat, set his sights on the innkeeper.
‘Give me what you have,’ Otho hissed, grabbing the trembling man by the throat. With a practiced hand, he rummaged through his pockets, but found no gold. However, when his gaze fell on the innkeeper's horrified open mouth, a joyful thought came to him. Without hesitation, he pulled the defenseless wretch's gold teeth out of his mouth, while the innkeeper whimpered and endured the special dental procedure, unable to defend himself. The smell of blood and fear filled the air, but the Senone, unmoved, put the teeth in his bag as trophies.
Finally, completely intoxicated with mead and driven by their basest instincts, the brave heroes stumbled out of the devastated tavern and set out to storm the brothels of Los Diabolos. Doors splintered as the giant Greuthe broke them open with a single swing of his axe, and the screams of those who stood in their way echoed through the city streets. The madness only ended when they, exhausted and completely drunk, threw themselves onto the velvet pillows of the beds. A resting place adorned with empty wine jugs and smashed furniture. Not least, the left behind all sorts of distraught figures who were only too glad that the frenzy of the two illustrious companions had come to an end.
But Otho knew, before he succumbed to the drink, while the dull barbarian had no idea: the city of Los Diabolos, wild and wicked as it was, was enslaved by the iron fist of the elf king in his magnificent halls, and that tyrant did not forgive such acts lightly. And so they continued, the brave warriors, walking the fine line between madness and crime, never knowing what revenge fate had in store for them.

The Strange Mission of the Elf King Hrothgar and an Unexpected Journey
There lay Rothamund the Greuthian, his massive frame stretched out on the silken pillows of a brothel reduced to utter desolation. Beside him, Otho the Senone, eyes bleary and mind alert, but body heavy with the intoxication of last night's revels. They were roused not by the soft touch of the morning sun or the caress of a courtesan , but by the clangor of armor and the clash of unsheathed swords. The door burst open, and a throng of elven guards, armed and ready for battle, rushed in. The sight of their engraved armor and shining blades would have caused many others to panic – but Rothamund didn't care, and his hands were immediately bound with heavy shackles. The residual alcohol still hung over his mind like a veil, and so he let himself be led away by the guardsmen as will-less as the unsuspecting sheep to the slaughter, without wasting a thought on escape or resistance.
Otho, on the other hand, immediately sensed that something bad was about to happen. His keen mind recognized the danger, but at that moment he was powerless to shake off the hard grip of the elf guards. With a slimy smile, he nevertheless tried to extricate himself from his plight, but the guards did not respond to his feigned friendliness. However, instead of being taken to the depths of a dark dungeon or even to be executed, as the Senone feared, they were led through the streets of Los Diablos – up to the magnificent palace of the elf king Hrothgar.
Rothamund plodded along like an ox on the way to market, apathetic and unaware that his life was hanging by a thread. The unfaithful companion, however, always on his guard, was impressed by the breathtaking magnificent buildings and shimmering towers. In his greedy heart, the thought flared up of how he could steal this vast wealth – but even he lacked a plan for how to rob palaces. Nevertheless, his eyes glistened as they passed through the magnificent halls of the palace, where shimmering gold and precious stones sparkled like the stars at night.
Finally, they found themselves in the throne room, a room so vast that even the dull barbarian seemed to pause, if only to take in its grandeur. On the golden throne sat Hrothgar, the elf-king, the tyrant of Los Diabolos, whose face was furrowed with worry and tears. His long hair fell like silver waves over his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled with pain. On either side stood advisors and courtiers, whose suspicious glances were directed at the unlikely pair.
Otho, full of treacherous cunning and sensing the reason for the audience, approached the grief-stricken king, whom he secretly despised, as humbly as possible, for the former, merciless warrior prince now seemed to him like a weak, old man. ‘Your Highness,’ he began, ‘we are ready to carry out any order, no matter how dangerous. We are... loyal servants.’ His smile was as false as the words he spoke, but the king didn't seem to notice.
Hrothgar rose with difficulty and looked down at the two of them, his voice choked with tears. ‘My brave heroes...’ he began, his gaze briefly lingering on Rothamund, who seemed to be feasting his mindless eyes on a jewel in the wall. ‘You must help me. My beloved daughter Dulcinea, the most precious jewel in my kingdom, has been kidnapped... by a terrible orc lord named Chao-Chao. This hideous fiend has taken her to his fortress, and I...’ Tears streamed down his face, ‘I have already sent many missions to free her, but all have failed.’
The king wiped away the bitter tears and looked at the two knights full of desperate sorrow. ‘Now I place my last hope in you. You are different... And I promise you riches beyond your wildest dreams if you bring my Dulcinea back to me.’
Otho, whose eyes immediately shone like shimmering gold in the sunlight, bowed deeply and accepted the offer of the, as he thought, simple-minded fool with a quick tongue, even before Rothamund was able to grasp the meaning of the words. The Greuthian just looked confused, but then nodded contentedly when the cunning Senone assured him that there would be ‘more delicious mead and more to smash’ if they completed the task.
But the royal client was not finished yet. ‘You will not go alone,’ he said, beckoning to another man whose gaunt, nervous body already spoke volumes. A pale elf with a face like wax stepped forward. The traveling heroes' new companion wore the robes of one of the mighty elf mages, but the experienced Senone immediately noticed the fear in his eyes and the slight trembling of his hands. ‘Gelimer, the fiancé of my innocent lambkin, will accompany you,’ the desperate father explained. ‘He is a wizard of great power and will support you in your liberation.’
The princess's fiancé, however, seemed anything but enthusiastic about this assignment. His reputation as a magician was based on clever deception, on tricks and illusions that deceived the common people, but he was powerless against an orc lord like Chao-Chao. Moreover, he had no affection for the princess, but was only betrothed to her at the king's behest. The reluctant gallant had successfully avoided every rescue mission so far, but this time he had no excuse; now he would have to go with these two fiends.
So Otho, Rothamund and the reluctant Gelimer were chosen for the mission to free Dulcinea from the hands of the hideous Chao-Chao, who had a certain reputation for his bizarre, erotic tendencies and whose penchant for unusual torture arts was notorious.
And so the companions set out on their unexpected journey: a greedy scoundrel with the prospect of riches at heart, a betrothed without love, and a brainless barbarian who understood neither the danger nor the destination!

From the hero's journey to the orc lord's fortress
And so the three unlikely companions, Otho, Rothamund and the depressed magician Gelimer, headed northwest. The air grew heavier, the forests darker and the swamps wetter and more foreboding, the closer they came to the fortress of the cruel orc lord Chao-Chao. The road was a trial for body and soul, but the greatest confusion arose not from the darkness of the landscape, but from the hearts of the travelers themselves.
Gelimer, the magically untalented wizard – albeit a fraud through and through – was not immune to beauty, despite his many moral weaknesses. And Rothamund, that hulking Greuthian who made the earth shake with every step, had something wild and untamed about him. The barbarian's muscles seemed to be hewn out of stone, and his body glistened with strength and raw masculinity even in the dim light of the forest. All of this awakened a passion in the man-loving magician that he had never felt before. And so an inexplicable affection grew in his heart – yes, a love that he hardly dared to admit to himself.
Alas, though Rothamund's brainpower was little more than that of a blunt axe, he did not understand these subtle signs. The little attentions, the careful glances, the tender songs, the playful strumming on the wizard's melodious harp, and even the loving stroking of Gelimer's hand over his muscular arm – all this bounced off Rothamund's impenetrable stupidity like an arrow off a rock face. It wasn't that the Greuthian rejected these homoerotic tokens of favor; he simply didn't understand any of it and only knew the game of love from the rough acts of animals in the stables. Finally, worn down by disappointment, the sensitive gallant gave up in frustration and decided to bury his passionate feelings deep within
himself.
Their journey finally led them through the dark forest of Arminius, in the heart of which they suddenly heard cheerful voices. There, in a small clearing, they found a group absorbed in happy singing and dancing. This small company, disguised as dwarves from ancient myths, was a traveling acting ensemble that suspected no evil and welcomed our heroes with hospitality. Otho, always driven by malice and deceit, was envious of the light-heartedness of the actors. ‘Dwarves,’ he whispered into the ear of the ignorant barbarian, who in his stupidity mistook those mimes for real dwarves, ‘are known for their gold treasures. This group must hide immense riches.’
Rothamund, whose dull thoughts knew only the shining gold, reacted in his usual manner. With an angry scream, he swung his mighty ax and brought it down on the little mimes. Blood and pain filled the air as the Greuthian mercilessly struck down the innocent travellers. But when the last signs of life left the bodies of the supposed dwarves, the stupid barbarian was bitterly disappointed. None of them possessed riches – no gold coins, no precious stones, nothing of what the greedy Greuthian had hoped for. The Senone, however, filled with satisfied bloodlust, smiled contentedly.
Gelimer, who had watched the barbaric act in silence, shook his head in horror. Even he, ruthless in many ways, felt a deep revulsion for this senseless killing.
No sooner had the dwarf-slaying heroes moved on than they heard the ominous howling of wolves in the distance – not just any wolves, but the legendary direwolves, beasts with claws like daggers and eyes that glowed like fire in the darkness. Otho, always careful and clever, sensed the impending danger and pulled Rothamund's arm. ‘These beasts are invincible, even for you,’ he warned the brainless warrior.
But before the beasts could strike, something unexpected happened. The direwolves, which had already been about to pounce on the heroes, suddenly stopped, sniffed the air and retreated whimpering, as if they had been touched by the very hand of Death. It was the demonic odor that emanated from Rothamund – an infernal stench, intensified by the sweat and lack of personal hygiene of the last few days. Thus the barbarian's body odor was stronger than any weapon and drove even the most ferocious beasts of prey to flee. Otho laughed as the beasts fled, while Gelimer, trapped in unhappy love, fought back tears as he found the masculine scent of the Greuthian arousing.
Finally, the heroes left the dark forest and reached the lovely Shire. There, in a wide meadow, where the grass grew in a lush green, stood the last unicorn in the middle. It was a creature of indescribable beauty, a radiant symbol of all that was pure, green and good in the world. The companions stared at it in awe; even the brutal Rothamund looked at the noble creature with a confused expression.
But when the barbarian had gazed at the unfamiliar sight long enough, his stomach growled. Hunger struck, and without wasting another thought, he reached for his axe. With a mighty swing, he hurled the weapon through the air – and the unicorn, the last of its kind, fell with a sad cry. It was dead, gone to the other realm of fantastic beasts, its sparkling horn breaking on impact with the ground.
Gelimer, unable to bear the sight of such barbarity, turned away in horror and retreated deep into the forest so as not to have to witness the cruelty any longer. Otho, however, always practical, clapped his hands and declared: ‘Well, if it's already dead, we'll make the best of it.’ And so he and the hungry Rothamund began to carve up the unicorn to prepare a magnificent meal.
The Senone, who had experience as an aid in the kitchen of Ronald MacDulland, prepared a delicious unicorn stew according to a recipe by Jamie Oliver, which otherwise only the druid of Tingeltangel was able to make. They enjoyed the unique meal by a crackling fire that flickered merrily. Rothamund smacked his lips contentedly, while Otho rubbed his belly and laughed softly in memory of the successful exploit. Gelimer, who was sitting at the edge of the forest, looked into the distance and wondered how low he had sunk that he had to endure such unholy company, and played sad tunes on his harp.
Finally, after many more miles through bleak landscapes and dark forests, the mighty bulwark of the orc fortress ‘Tombstone’ rose before them. The walls, built of black rock and blood marble, rose high into the sky, and the dark banners of the Orc Lord Chao-Chao fluttered above the towers. A gloomy mist surrounded the stronghold, and from afar came the howling of trapped souls suffering in the dungeons of the fortress.
Otho, Rothamund and the reluctant Gelimer now faced their greatest adventure. The sight of the fortress made the air stand still, as if they had arrived at the end of the world. The journey might have been hard, but what awaited them in the dark halls of Tombstone would shake even the hardest of minds.

The Liberation of the Elf Princess
Under the gloomy walls of the orc fortress, which loomed menacingly over the group, Otho, the cunning Senone, planned his next move. They had long considered how to outwit the orc lord Chao-Chao in order to free the kidnapped Princess Dulcinea. But Otho, always looking for the easiest way out, came up with a perfidious plan. He suggested selling Gelimer, the reluctant and desperate elf wizard without magical abilities, to the orcs as a ‘captured spy’. ‘If you don't go for it,’ he threatened the trembling magician, ‘I'll just tell Rothamund that you insulted his battle axe. You know how quickly you'll end up in another world.’
The talentless magician, convinced by Otho's powerful argument, reluctantly agreed. He submitted to the plan and allowed the brave warriors to put him in chains. The cunning Senone then gagged him so that the voice of the elven mage would not disturb their dark plans. Finally, they marched, let in by friendly orc guards as a special kind of merchant, to the great hall of the Orc Lord. The fortress was filled with eerie sounds and the voices of creatures that seemed to have been born of fevered dreams of mad gods. When the triad arrived at the gates of their destination, Gelimer said a silent prayer to the merciful gods of the sacred grove and hoped that he would see daylight again.
Chao-Chao's hall was a dark, massive room whose walls were decorated with trophies from previous battles and hunts. The Orc Lord, a dark figure with a surprisingly youthful nature, sat on a throne made of bone and looked at them with flashing eyes. At his side stood – and this was the biggest surprise of all – Dulcinea, the princess they were supposed to rescue.
‘Behold, my fiancé, the great magician. The one who doesn't like women honors me with his presence. You brought him before me gagged, thanks to you minions. I can't stand the whining voice of the dullard, let him just remain silent!’ Thus spoke the unearthly beautiful elf princess mockingly with her melodious voice.
Instead of being the bound and oppressed hostage that Otho had imagined, Dulcinea stood confidently beside Chao-Chao, arms folded, and surveyed the newcomers with a mocking look. She was no captive, but the orc's demanding lover. Bored with the elven kind, Dulcinea had voluntarily followed the coarse brute, she proudly confessed. The beautiful elven princess explained with a delicate smile that she shared many of his idiosyncratic, not to mention disturbing, preferences. Chao-Chao himself, otherwise feared as a cruel warlord, behaved like an immature boy in the first throes of love when he looked at her and tried, awkwardly like a drunken jester practicing the high art of courtly love, to impress her with feeble compliments.
Otho, who always had a pragmatic mind that offered him a way out, quickly changed tack. He no longer saw any point in freeing Dulcinea. Instead, he decided to change the plan and actually sell the unfortunate – which elicited a bitter groan from the gagged magician. The orc lord, amazed by the offer, was delighted. ‘An elf mage and the fiancé of my beloved!’ he said, grinning as he tugged at his beard. ‘That could be useful. I will offer a good price for him. But of course he will be sold according to the usual customs of our society – to the highest bidder.’
Dulcinea, who was visibly bored by the whole situation, intervened. ‘Pay the two, and quickly dispatch the annoying elf. But, by all your primitive gods, leave him gagged. It would be nice to be able to use him in the hunt – and I insist on a bonus for the two minions.’
Chao-Chao, who rarely got his way against his great love, nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well,’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘He will be the main prey of our hunt tomorrow.’ Gelimer was thrown into a dark dungeon, while Otho and Rothamund, who considered themselves the heroes of this grotesque farce, were put up in a luxurious room, where they feasted and drank heartily as if they had performed the greatest feat of valor of their lives.
The next day dawned, and Gelimer, with tears in his eyes, knew that his last hour had come. He was dragged from the cell by the guards, his hands shaking, his heart pounding with fear. Dulcinea, Chao-Chao and his closest friends gathered in the Glade of Torment, their weapons sharpened and ready, to chase the unfortunate as if he were a wild beast. Not least, Otho and Rothamund were also allowed to participate in the hunt for the elf as guests of honor. Finally, the delicious prey arrived in the form of a trembling Gelimer, escorted by two brutal guards.
But just as the hounding was about to begin, the Senone, full of malice, decided to taunt the doomed elf one last time and savor his triumph.
‘You arrogant elf, you couldn't have imagined this when the elf king sent us on our heroic quest! Now you will die a painful death, you fool!’
The words escaped Otho like a poisonous fog, and instantly the orc lord's cheerfulness vanished.
‘On behalf of the Elf King?’ Chao-Chao asked with an angry growl. ‘You dirty traitor!’
‘How do you think they managed to catch the fool, my mentally poor lover? Of course, my weak-willed father sent the effeminate elf and his companions to free me!’
Dulcinea's sparkling laughter now drove her beloved fiend completely into a wild rage.
‘Kill them all, the wretched dogs!’
In the blink of an eye, swords were drawn, spears raised, and what should have been a simple hunt turned into a bloody combat.
The fighting was fierce and relentless. Rothamund, who finally felt in his element, swung his mighty axe and sent the orcs tumbling to the ground by the score. But oh dear, inadvertently, the Greuthian's mighty weapon also struck down the whimpering Gelimer. Otho, less battle-hardened, hid behind columns and distracted his opponents with clever but cowardly blows. Chao-Chao himself fought like a berserker and full of blind, unbridled rage that robbed him of his mind, he no longer distinguished between friend and foe.
But the barbarian, driven by his animal strength, managed to kill most of his enemies. Otho, on the other hand, who usually relied on his wits to find a way out, panicked as the battle heated up. Eventually, most of those present fell, but the deceitful Senone lost his life when an orc sword from behind put an end to his miserable existence. Thus, he paid the highest possible price for one of the few stupid acts in his otherwise clever life.
Amidst the chaos stood Dulcinea, unscathed and without a scratch, laughing heartily and clapping her hands joyfully as the barbarian's cruel axe amputated limbs, for the agonies of mortals, be they orc or man, gave the supernaturally beautiful elf princess particular pleasure.
Finally, only the Greuthian and Chao-Chao remained. Like wolf and bear, they pounced on each other. But the bear succumbed, bleeding from countless wounds, but the orc lord also sank to the ground, severely wounded.
The fair elf maiden looked down at the badly wounded Chao-Chao, who was lying on the ground and gasping for air.
‘How exciting!’ she said mockingly as she leaned over the fallen Orc Lord. ‘The show was quite amusing! But unfortunately, my love, you bore me now.’ With a quick, decisive jerk, she cut Chao-Chaos' throat with a perfectly formed dagger, putting an end to his simple-minded existence.
Thus ended the story of the journey of the three extraordinary heroes. Dulcinea, however, decided to return to her father.
‘Maybe it's better to live with the weak old elf king than with a stupid orc lord,’ she murmured as she stepped over the corpses. ‘But one thing's for sure: men will be men – elves, humans or orcs. And they're all equally stupid and endlessly boring.’
So she strode forth, free from the shackles of all conventions and ready for a new, man-murdering adventure, while behind her the bloody place shrouded itself in the silence of death.

© 2024 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju

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