At this point, the Live RP had been finished, but not yet posted. It contained a debuting player as well, but this new player's post got up.

So, basically we've got two debuts in a row! They're both very good debuts, but this one is worth special mention, as you'll see, for the high quality of writing here. It's just the character's first appearance, but you already get the feeling you know the character quite well, even though there's still many surprises left to be explored in the future.

Let's get to Ozzie's debut!

 
"WHEEEEEEEEEEELK!"

With a worried frown, Junior Executive Administrative Assistant of Numerological Synergy Ozymandias Whelk scooped up his papers and ran - waddling slightly - into the office of the Senior Executive Administrative Assistant of Numerological Synergy. He snapped into place before the desk just as the cry finished reverberating around the office.

"Yes sir?" asked Mr. Whelk, timidly.

The Senior Executive Administrative Assistant, a burly man named Hannibal Clunt, leaned forward brandishing a sheaf of papers.

"Would you care to explain to me, Whelk, the discrepancy on page thirteen of the report you submitted yesterday?" boomed the boss.

Ozymandias stammered, lost. "Dd-d-d-dis-d-discrepancy?" He was sure he'd tallied the numbers correctly. It gave him comfort, to march a gaggle of unruly figures into a smart column, and he made sure to take care over it.

"Yes, Whelk. A Duh duh duh duh discrepancy," mocked Clunt. He flicked the report open to page thirteen and jammed it forward, halting a couple of inches from Whelk's nose. "You see the total on the income taken from taverns across the Nearby Plains?"

"Seven hundred and ninety-four shanks of meat...?"

"Correct, Whelk. And the reported outgoings of stock HERE, on page fifteen?" he asked, flicking the papers forward a couple of pages.

Ozymandias blinked, leaning forwards. "...Eleven hundred and thirty-two shanks of meat?"

"Which is a discrepancy of..." asked Clunt as if he was talking to a goblin child, rather than one of the most talented enumerators in the Guild of Merchantry.

Ozymandias swallowed. "Three hundred and thirty-eight shanks of meat?"

"Very good, Whelk. Would you care to explain to me how over THREE HUNDRED MEAT worth of stock can go missing?" roared Clunt.

Ozymandias stammered again, grasping around for an answer. "Um... water damage?"

Clunt narrowed his eyes. "Don't try to be clever, Whelk."

"Yes sir," said Whelk meekly, although he didn't really understand. After all, they didn't pay him to be stupid, did they? "Perhaps it was stolen?"

Clunt cleared his throat in that peculiar 'hun-honk' way, which he'd been cursed with ever since a rogue gypsy turned his vocal chords to linguine during a raid. To his underlings, the sound was known as a cluntgrunt.

"It can't have been stolen. No businesses have filed a Theft Report, or paid a Theft Tax."

Nor, thought Ozymandias, but he suppressed the urge to correct his boss' grammar. "Ah. Yes. Of course."

"Which means, Whelk," continued Clunt, "You must have made a mistake." He flung the sheaf at his second-in-command so hard the paperclip broke and pages scattered all over the floor. Ozymandias dutifully knelt down to pick them up. Another cluntgrunt. "Go and do it again properly, you little worm."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir," mumbled Whelk as he hurried out of Clunt's office. He returned to his desk in the empty counting house - most of the other accountants had taken the day off to explore the newly refurbished Seaside Town. He took extra care to count up all the takings and outgoings exactly. He didn't touch his abacus - he'd never understood the need to represent numbers on a physical object where they could be bumped and changed. As long as the numbers stayed in his head, he could keep an eye on them and make sure they didn't get up to any shenanigans. Some of the other accountants marvelled at Ozzie's way with figures, but he simply couldn't understand the concept of not being good with figures. If you fixed them in your mind, they couldn't change, yes? Common sense.

After twenty minutes, he sighed, got up, and returned to Clunt's office. He knocked timidly, even the door was open. Clunt glowered and bellowed a "COME IN, damn you, Whelk!" and Ozymandias obediently scuttled forward with the sheaf clutched to his chest.

"So? All correct now, is it?"

Ozzie swallowed. "I'm afraid, um, Mr. Clunt sir, that my workings yesterday were correct. The totals given in the report are accurate."

Clunt narrowed one eye while simultaneously raising its eyebrow, a trick he'd learned many years ago for the express purpose of intimidating clerks. To Whelk, it was like a crossbow being pointed at his face. The man actually started trembling.

"Do you take me for a fool, Whelk?"

"Um, no Mr. Clunt, sir."

"Do you persist in mocking me, Whelk?"

"No, Mr. Clunt, sir."

"Are the figures in the report truly correct?"

"No, Mr. Clunt, sir. Um. I mean, yes Mr. Clunt, sir. I'm positive of it, Mr. Clunt, sir."

Clunt breathed in with a clear air of annoyance. Ozymandias could smell the tang on said air - cigars soaked in scrumpy, Mr. Clunt's favourite lunchtime aperitif. Why couldn't he have checked the reports in the morning? moaned part of Ozzie's mind. At least then he's slightly~

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, WHELK! roared Clunt. Ozzie was already halfway down the corridor and accelerating when Clunt added the addendum: "And don't come back tomorrow!"

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Ozymandias hadn't returned to the office that day. He wasn't particularly concerned about his job - Mr. Clunt had fired him, on average, eight point seven four times per week since he'd started working there, although admittedly that total was buoyed up somewhat by the time he'd fired him fifty-three times in one day - but he didn't like being shouted at in case it made him cry, and the likelihood of Mr. Clunt calming down was slim. Only when he'd gotten home did Ozzie realise that he still had the report in his hands. He briefly considered returning it to the office, but given the choice between an act of temporary theft or facing Clunt's wrath another time, the lesser of two evils won out. And with nothing much to do for the rest of the afternoon, Ozymandias found himself reading the report again.

"Those figures add up, George," he muttered. "Which means the discrepancy must be in the world, not in the report."

"Hmbrump," cooed George by way of response.

"Yes, yes. I know. Why would the businesses not notice a theft? Unless... hang on a moment..." He flicked back through some pages. "I see. Very clever. But that would mean that... it just might... yes! George, I think I'm onto something here!"

George the cuddlefish watched his master diligently, from the comfort of his tank, as Ozymandias scribbled away and made calculations. It took him the best part of the evening.

The following morning, while Clunt was nursing his hangover, Ozymandias plonked the report on his desk. "Ugh," moaned Clunt, "Do you have to be so loud, Whelk?"

"Sorry sir."

"WHAT IS IT, Whelk? Why are you bothering me?"

"Well sir," ventured Whelk, "I believe I have caught the source of the problem we uncovered yesterday."

"Oh?" asked Clunt without a hint of enthusiasm.

"Indeed," continued an oblivious Ozymandias. "You see, very small amounts have been taken from almost every establishment in the Nearby Plains. A few potatoes here, a bottle of vodka there. I don't believe it would be enough to pick up on during a daily till check, at least for most people," he said, "But it adds up."

"So we have an organised group of thieves? Do we need to alert the Department of Shadowy Arts and Crafts?" murmured Clunt.

"If you please, Mr. Clunt, sir, I took the liberty of plotting the likely dates of the thefts."

"How in Hey Deze did you figure that out?" asked Clunt, bewildered. Whelk shrugged, not understanding the question. The information was there, wasn't it? You just had to look! He produced a map of the Nearby Plains.

"I think it's rather likely, sir, that our thieves are on the move. Observe the general sweep of the thefts, from the outskirts of Seaside Town towards the Distant Woods. I have also correlated these dates and times to receipts from the businesses along that route. A small group, four people it would seem - mixture of humans and orcs - are a recurrent group of clientele. From their accents, dress and general manner, it would seem they are rather bluff tourists or adventurers. Paid in a mixture of currency too, including goblin money."

"Well then, we'll have a call put out-" began Clunt, but Ozymandias cut him off, as he was wont to do when in the middle of an explanation.

"I believe their party may in fact be rather larger. I believe that everything stolen was comestible. It seems they are supporting a larger number. Mercenaries, maybe. But I think it's more likely that they're transporting people cross-country and don't want to be found out."

Clunt nodded thoughtfully. He was, thankfully, a little more reasonable during his hangovers, if only because he lacked the willpower to argue so vehemently. He sucked his cheeks in, a thought having occured.

"How many people?"

Whelk gave it some consideration. "Maybe eight if they're eating well. Perhaps as many as fifteen if they're not."

"Hmm. Slavery?"

"Could be, sir. Lives may be in danger if we let them know we're onto us."

Clunt grinned an evil grin. "Perhaps someone should go on a little reconnaissance mission?"

Ozzie nodded again. "That might be an excellent idea, sir. Very well done, sir."

"Well. Thank you for volunteering, Whelk."

Ozzie smiled sheepishly. "You're most welcome, sir, I - wait, what?"

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And so it was that Mr. Ozymandias Whelk, Junior Executive Administrative Assistant of Numerological Synergy, Seaside Town Guild of Merchantry, found himself sat behind a half-pint of shandy in the Pheasant Plucker's Scrotum, in the small hamlet of Plotpoint Village, on the borders of the Distant Woods. He didn't usually drink much, but he'd been instructed by Hannibal Clunt to play the part of a regular bar patron, so he'd dressed in his best formal brown slacks, Hawai'ian shirt and loafers, and was enjoying the high life.

He scanned the rest of the patrons in what he thought was a surreptitious way. They seemed to be the usual assortment of vagabonds, scoundrels and ne're-do-wells whom, he understood, frequented this sort of place, but none of them bore any signs of being travellers - no packs, no stubble, no worn boots. He sighed and pushed himself further into his dark corner as eyes settled on him, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Blessed mercy, the door flew open. Ozzie immediately bolted upright at the noise, then shrank back down as four individuals clomped in, kicking mud from their boots. Two human men, one human woman, and a male orc. The larger of the human men swaggered up to the bar. "Four sex on the beach, love," he said to the maid, slamming a load of meat onto the counter.

Ozzie lost concentration for a moment as he tried to work out the correct plural of sex on the beach. Sexes on the beach? Sex on the beaches? You couldn't have plural sex, that would be silly. Unless threesomes counted. He'd heard of those, although he'd never been lucky enough to try one. Even regular sex he'd only been lucky to try a handful of times. Anyway, what was the clause structure? Was the whole thing a noun, or just the sex?

He was shaken from his reverie by the sound of banging. He looked up at the four newcomers, who had all sat down and put their boots on the table. They were discussing a fight they'd seen lately, rather loudly, and clearly disturbing other patrons' conversations. The orc turned and glanced at Ozymandias.

"What's your problem, pal?"

"Nothing sir, sorry sir," stammered Ozzie.

"Nuffin sir, sowwy sir," mocked the orc. His companions gave him a stern look.

"Watch it, Klonk," said the woman. "We don't want any trouble here."

"I'll stop givin' trouble when that little runt stops lookin' at us," grunted Klonk.

Ozymandias instinctively flicked his gaze away. He was pretty sure they were his men, except for the one who was his woman, and he had their visual descriptions. No sign of thievery yet, but he could wait. He didn't want to draw further attention to himself. Everything was quiet once more...

...until a CRASH! made everyone turn around and face the cellar door. The barmaid frowned and pulled a crossbow from behind the counter. The four travellers all exchanged uneasy glances.

"Whoever's there," yelled the barmaid, "Come out with your hands up!"

The four were whispering to each other urgently. Perhaps the source of the crash was our thief? thought Ozzie. However, he didn't get time to pursue it, as the orc stood up and fired a crossbow bolt into the ceiling.

"EVERYBODY BE COOL, THIS IS A ROBBERY!" he yelled, kicking over a table, sending glasses and plates smashing everywhere.

"Any of you frelling pigs MOVE! And we'll execute every motherfrelling last one of you!" screamed the woman, drawing her sword.

The patrons all went silent, and the barmaid lowered the crossbow, possibly because she was trying to work out how one would go about frelling a mother.

They all looked at each other... and none of them would forget what happened next. None of them would ever forget this day, and certainly not the strange man in the loud shirt with the stupid moustache who piped up and said, "Excuse me, sir, you appear to have knocked over the table."

The orc rounded on him, and pointed the crossbow in his face. "What did you say?"

Ozymandias stuttered slightly. "The table... I'm afraid the barmaid is going to have to clean up your mess, sir. That was quite inconsiderate of you, I must say."

"Listen sunshine," snarled Klonk, "That's gonna be the least of her worries. We've come too far and we're too close to-"

"KLONK! Ix-nay on the incess-pray an-play!" growled one of the men. Klonk frowned, then sneered in Ozymandias' face, and swept another load of plates onto the floor.

Of the many things the patrons would never forget from that day, prime among them was - as the change overtook the quiet man in the loud shirt - his most heinous and bloodcurdling of battle cries:

"Oh dear."

See? Told you it was good!

We'll be seeing Ozzie a bit later, after the mysterious fight. But first, we've got a Live RP, plus Cattaras, Becky, and Sir Fumblies to get to.