The first MWM Live was for someone who we honestly didn’t press-gang long in advance of the event. Probably the one person to play our “name a place, name a thing, name a person” game to get their story started too!
“OK”, said the landlord, “Here’s your uniform.” Carl looked sceptically at the bear skin hat and rusty old gas mask. The job hefting barrels at the Queen’s Head was supposed to be easy money, beer funds for his summer vacation. Gas masks and furry hats were not part of the plan.
“This.. is my uniform?”
“You’ll understand once you’re down there,” said the landlord, and opened up the trapdoor to the cellar. “Best get down there and get the lay of the land, son”
Tucking the hat and the gas mask under his arm, Carl climbed slowly down into the cellar. It was freezing cold, his breath clouding into vapour as his feet touched the stone floor. He felt the crunch of ice, and shivered.
“Put on the hat before you freeze to death,” shouted the landlord from the top of the ladder.
Carl did as he was told, and pressed on into the gloom of the cellar. With every step he took it got colder, and the air thickened with a smell that swiftly escalated into a stench that was almost unbearable. Carl strapped on the gas mask, grateful for the clean air.
He heard the trapdoor close behind him, extinguishing the light from above. In the distance, far further away than he thought the cellar should reach, he could see another tiny light.
A tiny light that was getting closer.
“Don’t run,” came a voice from the dark. “You’ll fall on the ice and break your neck.”
Out of the darkness, came the barrel-man. The legend of the Queen’s Head, the brewer of the infamous home brew. No more than three feet tall, wizened, and dressed in strips of leather and rags, the light that came closer came from a small lantern attached to his belt.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a rotting, dismembered human forearm at Carl. In the arm’s rotting hand was a key.
“Keep walking for about another hour, you’ll come to a door. Open it with this key, and bring out the barrels. The home brew should be ready.”
Carl felt the cold, dead flesh of the arm in his own hands.
“Why do I need the arm? Can’t I just take the key?” he asked.
“You see when you get there,” replied the barrel man. “New boy”