Scuttlebutt Brightly and the Creeper's Fuse Book 1: The Adventurer from Bilgewater

By Mark Mulle

Scuttlebutt has always fancied himself as a Minecraft hero. But truth to be told he is a COWARD. So he spends his days using his over-developed story-teller's tongue to pretend to be an adventurer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Mulle
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869389008

Book preview

Scuttlebutt Brightly and the Creeper’s Fuse

Book 1: The Adventurer from Bilgewater

Mark Mulle

PUBLISHED BY:

Mark Mulle

Copyright © 2016

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Well done. You’ve started to read this book. That’s a good sign, reader. Settle down. I’m sure we’re going to become firm friends by the end of this.

Perhaps introductions are in order. My name is Scuttlebutt Brightly. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? No? Well, you have now. I’m known throughout Minecraftia as the most cunning, courageous, and charming renegade ever to call himself an adventurer. However, dear reader, I’ll let you in on a secret. I am none of these. I am, quite frankly, as cowardly as a skeleton at sunrise and as weasly as the greasiest slime. However, I’m also as sneaky as a Creeper in slippers.

So settle in, reader, and I’ll tell you the story of my adventure to Creeper’s Fuse. The time I met with quite a colorful bunch of adventurers, went on a perilous quest to the far reaches of the earth, and faced dangers – the likes of which you can’t imagine. I know that doesn’t sound like the cowardly, fraidy-cat I just described, does it? Well, let me tell you the story, friend. And I promise that every word I say is the truth. No lies or tricks with you, dear reader, only the honest facts.

The story of Creeper’s Fuse began, rather curiously, with a chicken. I’d been spending some time around the town of Bilgewater, a busy seaside port where all manners of unsavory folks gather to trade stories, and goods, and (more often than not) lie through their teeth about the brave adventures they’ve had. My kind of place.

I got friendly with an innkeeper there, a fellow by the name of Steerpike. Steerpike ran The Mossy Cobble Inn with a kind face and a warm smile. All the warmer, once you’d paid him for a room. Only he was having some trouble. His prized chicken, Betsy, had gone missing. Chased off by wolves, he said. I, being the upright noble hero that I am, volunteered to track the chicken down. And, naturally, claim a handsome reward for my trouble.

So it was there I found myself wandering over the hills north of Bilgewater. Crying out Betsy! or Where are you? You miserable sack of feathers! and other such things. I was so busy searching for the chicken, that I didn’t notice that the sun was going down.

I was standing by some beech trees, wondering how a chicken could be worth all this trouble, when it happened. Somebody hidden behind the trees yelled Duck!

I’m not looking for a duck, I said, irritated, I’m looking for a chicken.

No! Get down!

A figure came charging out of the woods towards me. My stomach somersaulted. A creeper. Those explosive devils haunt every Minecraftian’s nightmares. His eyes were black as obsidian, and his face a hideous snarl.

The creeper crashed into me, sending me toppling backward. Seconds later, an arrow flew through the air. Had the creeper not pushed me, it would have hit me square in the head. Instead, it slammed harmlessly into a tree with an ominous twang.

The creeper turned towards the source of the arrow. A pair of skeleton archers, hiding in the shadows. It stared at them with those fearsome eyes, sizzling quietly. Then (and I promise you, reader, every word of this is true) the creeper began to speak! A soft, calm voice that sounded like rustling leaves.

Get out of here, hissed the creeper, Or I’ll blast you into pieces and make a xylophone out of your ribs.

Skeletons are not the smartest of creatures (they have no