Hagrid Quest

This is going to be Glorious!!!!

Hagrid, Agent of France! The ladies love him and the guys envy him. But his heart still aches for the land of his home and there are rumors that he once did something unforgivable going among the army. Some say he murdered another man, another says that he let someone die that he was supposed to defend, the last says that he had an affair with a member of English royalty. No one is sure.

[X] Run away to join the muggles.
-[X]We should go and join the french foreign legion.

 

Just thought of something. Isn't Hagrid only 14, right now? Even if he is half-giant, would he be accepted?

 

You're still not getting the whole 'False Identity' thing.

Hagrid's alias will be whatever age he wants it to be. And people have lied about their ages to join the military before, you know.

 

Changing my allegiance to:
[X] Run away to join the muggles.
[X]We should go and join the French foreign legion.

As this idea is made of awesome.

Also:

[X] Try and get it fixed, in all defiance of *British* Wizard law.
[X] With my new French Brothers see about a French wizard repairing it.

As we know it is possible in at least one instance to fix a wand, yes that was Death Stick Hax, but it shows it is possible. And so a proper wand maker might be able to do it with the right tools.

 

[X] Run away to join the muggles.
[X]We should go and join the French foreign legion.

Man, I can't breath.

 

Given how he's a hell of a lot stronger than a human, I imagine he could wear body armor a lot heavier than standard issue and still be pretty damn mobile.

 

The way I see it, a wizard's unnatural toughness plus giant heritage does make Hagrid a scary man among muggles, even at 14. He's built like a brick shithouse and he's even tougher than he looks.

So yes, if he catches a mortar or a tank shell he's dead, but gas attacks? Bullets? That just makes him ANGRY.

 

We need to incorporate our wand into our rifle's bayonet.

 

not a good idea, what if we lose our rifle? keep the wand in a hidden holster and enchant the shit out of our gear.

 

Maybe. I still like the idea of sending out the death curse from the barrel of our rifle.

 

The Death Curse is Kind of shitty. Sure, it kills and cannot be blocked by Magic, but pretty much anything else can stop it, from Stone over Wood to random objects thrown in its way.

 

No.
Everyone he stabs with his bayonet turns into a pig.

"LOOKS LIKE MEAT'S BACK ON THE MENU BOYS!"

 

ya keeping the wand as a surprise and enchanting our mundane gear out the wazoo is more efficient anyway.

 

Wait, why would you put it in the bayonet?
If anything you'd put it in the stock.

 

[X] Put things off until tomorrow. Things will probably seem better in the morning, after a few pints.

I'm enjoying the discussion about wandguns quite a bit.

What do guns do? Kill things you point them at.

What do wands do? Kill things you point them at.

Clearly, they balance each other's weaknesses so well. How could we ever think of even trying to use one without the other?

 

Hagrid is also capable of nonverbal spellcasting, so I like to assume he shouts BANG BANG BANG when he uses the wand part of his wandgun.

 

Anyway, decided to kludge some votes together.

---

You stick your wand splinters in a pocket of your coat. Well, you’ll have to do something, now that ‘become a powerful, well-respected wizard and make da’ proud’ is off the table.

You could go to Dumbledore – great man, Dumbledore – and he always seemed to like you. But he is in the end only the Transfiguration teacher. Headmaster Dippet never liked you much, and wouldn’t want you around.

Though this did remind you of the other Dumbledore, Mister Aberforth, a source of comfort to you during your school years in a different way. You have the very modest money you receive each year from Hogwarts’ Dickensian Orphan Fund in your pocket and a deep, unhappy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You could use a drink to quell both.

Put off thinking until tomorrow, that sounds like a plan. You’d always been told you had no head for it. And the Ministry does grant one Floo travel, even to sort-of convicted murderers. It’s generally suggested people like you use it to take yourselves as far away from the Ministry as possible.

You take the Floo to Hogsmeade.

You hurry on through the cold highland wind, tugging your coat tighter around you. The Hog’s Head is a quaint little place on the edge of Hogsmeade, made of mortared stone with a large bay window very pointedly not looking out on the adjacent castle of Hogwarts. You carefully navigate the lintel of the door; you’re not quite too tall to bang your head, but you suspect you will be before too long. You’re only seven feet tall, after all; you haven’t quite hit your full adult growth yet.

The interior of the bar is a bit smoky, and some might call it dingy, but the rough wooden furniture and stone floor feel homier than the well-lit and more fancily-furnished Three Broomsticks. There’s a smattering of people even this early in the evening, including a raucous card game going on between a pale chap in an opera cloak, a goblin, and two hooded fellows on towards the back.

“Hagrid,” the tall, thick-bearded, sort of pinched man behind the bar greets you reasonably warmly. He sounds perfectly happy to take your money and is willing to let you into his establishment for that purpose, which is more than some would do.

“Hello, Mister Aberforth.” You like Mister Aberforth quite a lot, though Professor Dumbledore will forever have a hold on the name ‘Dumbledore’ to you. “Could I get summat ter drink?”

He pours a generous shot of firewhiskey into a larger-than-usual shotglass for you without protest and without asking for payment up front. He knows you’re good for it.

You throw it back, feeling the fiery burn head down your throat to pool threateningly in your gut. You give it a moment, then release a thunderous belch that releases a tiny fireball safely, not scorching anything or letting it engulf your head and singe your beard like a novice. “ ‘Scuse me. Thanks Mister Aberforth.”

“No problem, lad. Always glad to corrupt one of my brother’s students.”
“No’ a student no more,” you admit unhappily.
He shrugs. “Then you probably needed that drink, didn’t you?”

You nod sadly. You don’t know if Mr. Aberforth knows about the goings on up at the school and is being polite about it, or if word hasn’t got out yet. Either way you don’t think you could bear to live so close to Hogwarts, not with the shame of your not-murder so soon. Well, it was a murder, probably, but it wasn’t yours! Or Aragog’s, you were watching him, honest! Not that Aragog would kill someone even if you weren’t, he’s a very nice acromantula, and surprisingly well-read.

Poor Aragog. Not many people bother to hold serious conversations with spider monsters, and that’s a real shame.

After a few moments, you order another whiskey and head towards the back.

“So, wha’re we playin’, lads?”

The goblin shuffles the deck expertly between his clawed little hands. “Poker. Five card draw. None of your fancy wizard crap.”

You shuffle the coins in your pocket thoughtfully. “Stakes?”

“That depends entirely on what you are willing to wager?” The pale man grins darkly.

The goblin sneers. His curled lip of disdain reveals a face more intimidating than the other bloke’s, intentional or not – it’s the pointed teeth like an attacking shark, you reckon. The pint-sized dealer says, “Money only tonight, I don’t want to bother appraising whatever you lot try to pass off as priceless treasures and family heirlooms. You two want to put in some side bets, that’s your business. Buy-in starts at five knuts.”

“Deal me in.”

It’s one thing your da’ taught you some of, card playing. You think you’ll do quite well, if you can brag for a moment. You toss back your second firewhiskey.
---
The goblin is clearly a cardsharp, and he plays to win. And you haven’t played against goblins enough to realize his tells. He’s your real competition.

The pale man – Mister Vlad – is too eager, trying to cover for his repeated bluffs with a steady patter of talk. You like a chat as much as the next bloke, but you don’t really care much about Ministry decrees and the rights of the disenfranchised ‘Dark Creatures’ even if maybe you should. What else can they do to you, after all? He also stares at you with unsettling intensity when he’s not studying his cards.

The leftmost cloaked fellow, sitting with his back to the wall, plays conservatively and well. He doesn’t commit unless he has a good hand, though- if he’s betting strong, that’s usually a good sign for you to drop out. He occasionally engages Mr. Vlad in conversation, but doesn’t volunteer anything personal. That’s not suspicious or anything; it’s actually really common at the Hog’s Head pub.

The other hooded mystery person doesn’t say a word, and his(?) oilskin covering is even more complete than the other guy’s. To the point where he’s just a sort of burly, vaguely humanoid shape under all the covering. You think you hear the click of claws on the tabletop when he indicates he’s folding.

It’s a nice bit of normality after all the excitement of the last few days.

You settle in for some serious card playing. You could use the spending money. And not just because you spent more of your limited funds on a third shot of Ogden’s finest. Well, Ogden’s pretty good, anyway
---
The lady on your knee turns round to smile at you when you manage to rake in a big pot, taking Mr. Vlad for all he’s got. You keep an arm around her, to make sure she won’t fall off or anything. Through her gauzy veil, you see the flash of teeth that come to needle-sharp points. The eyeteeth in particular look like they’re designed for the ripping and tearing of meat. It’s actually sorta charming.

That’d make her a hag, you reckon. Fine people, hags. As long as you recognize that they might occasionally go for your liver, then you have to be very firm with them. Just like with Aragog, when his poison was first coming in.

You have to hide your face against her back and swallow down the pain as you remember your spider friend again. Maybe you should go back for him? But Headmaster Dippet wouldn’t want you on school grounds again, he was very firm on that…

[X] Acquire giant spider
[X] He’ll be fine. He was getting too big for his wardrobe when all this happened, where would you keep him?

You’re not entirely sure why she decided to come over, or why she didn’t pull up a chair of her own. She’s still young if you’re any judge of hags – her first warts still haven’t come in –so maybe she’s not familiar enough with the game to play.

It’s not a bad thing at all, but it is a little distracting, and you need all your skills to keep up with this goblin fellow – Riphook, he eventually mentioned was his name.

Still, Mr. Vlad is out now, going by the way he’s mournfully shaking his wallet. And you’ve done pretty well against the two cloaked lads. You think you’ve made a very respectable showing, even if Riphook might be just a little ahead of you going by the perfectly even stacks of copper and silver coins in front of him.

You order another round, and just to be nice you order Mr. Vlad one of those foofy tomato cocktails he likes while you’re at it.

After all, you’re paying with his money, it seems only fair.
---
The hag leads you by the hand deeper into the woods. You can’t particularly remember why, but then you have no pressing business elsewhere, so you might as well.

“Say, this’s the Forbidden Fores’, innit?” you muse as you stroll along. “I didn’ know people actually lived in here! Well, ‘sides the centaurs,” you add guiltily. They were people, mostly, even if the Ministry classified them as Beasts instead of Beings. Might not care for anything closer than Mars, but polite enough for all that.

“It is, it is,” she hums as she pulls at your hand. “Needed somewhere away from other eyes, and you said you wanted to go, didn’t you?”

Suddenly remembering why they had that classification – a long-standing feud with both vampires and hags, to the point they didn’t want to share the same Ministry classification with either registered Being – he asked, “Will you be all righ’? The centaurs ‘n all…”

“Don’t worry so much, Rubeus, love,” the hag giggles through her mouth full of fangs, producing a ‘shi shi shi’ sound rather than a proper cackle. Maybe that was one of the things that came with age, like the wrinkles and warts.

“All righ’,” you accept agreeably. She probably knows what she’s doing, after all.

You think maybe there was some reason why you weren’t supposed to be on school grounds, but you can’t for the life of you remember…

Your train of thought is distracted when you recognize a splendid old oak tree with a branch just right for walking with. Always had a fondness for oak, it’s in your wand and everything.

You snag the branch, tapping it along the ground contentedly as your companion leads you deeper into the trees.
---
You wake up with an unpleasant headache, made worse by the way someone is shouting something at you in some language you don’t know. And the taste in your mouth is mildly horrible, like you’d eaten something not fit for even giant consumption. Giant heritage apparently doesn’t save you from firewhiskey. Why did you think that was a good idea, again?

Oh, right. Because you’re a coward. Didn’t want to think about the future that suddenly didn’t include Hogwarts in it…

With a groan you manage to get mostly upright with only a minimum of wobbling. It helps that you still have your stick. And your nice moleskin greatcoat, too. You do notice you seem to be missing your other clothes, though.

The man in the green jacket shouting at you appears to have noticed this fact, too. You’re not going to lie, this might be why he’s shouting. You wish he’d stop.

You wrap your coat more closely around yourself.

[X] What do?

Also, the French Foreign Legion is a lock, of course. If anyone has any strong opinions on where you’d like Hagrid to set down roots, speak now. The Foreign Legion under the eye of the Armistice Commission, Hogan’s Heroes-style? Joining with de Gaulle on the African coast, sailing around the Cape of Good Hope to hit the Italians? The basecamp/staging area in Syria just in time for the North African campaign to take Damascus? With the 13th just in time for Rommel’s push on Bir Hakein?

 

[X] He’ll be fine. He was getting too big for his wardrobe when all this happened, where would you keep him?
[X] Tell him to "Shut the ruddy hell up. Can't understand what you're saying."
[X] The basecamp/staging area in Syria just in time for the North African campaign to take Damascus.

Because we want a Nundu.

 

They won't like him when he's angry.

 

What kind of combat was going on in Damascus & in Bir Hakein?

What kind of raid did De Gaulle conduct?

 

[X] He’ll be fine. He was getting too big for his wardrobe when all this happened, where would you keep him?
[X] The basecamp/staging area in Syria just in time for the North African campaign to take Damascus.

 

[X] He’ll be fine. He was getting too big for his wardrobe when all this happened, where would you keep him?
[X] Tell him to "Shut the ruddy hell up. Can't understand what you're saying."
[X] The basecamp/staging area in Syria just in time for the North African campaign to take Damascus?

 

[X] Plan Vanathor

 

[JK] Your clothes. Give them to me, now.

 

[X] Plan Vanathor

 

The most important bit is the 'What do?' rather than the spider or where you've been set down in, and it's the one nobody's tried answering, except Selias.

My fault for making the waking up vague, I guess.

 

[x] Tell him you don't understand what he's saying. Use exaggerated gestures to get across your meaning if need be.