Razzles and Fürgůïn gasped in awe from the shelter of the tree trunk, watching the strange turn of events.

“Get him, Grimmbros. Get him! Smash his teeth down his throat!” whimpered Razzles. Grimmbros looked sternly across at the knohm hiding behind the tree, in the disapproving manner of a school-master peering over his glasses, before glancing back across at the beest before him.

“The true spirit of noble competition is sullied by such injections of aggression, my little man,”

lectured the urgh-bane. “When one is confident of one’s skill in such arts, one does not need to resort to such base taunting,” he continued. Turning then to scowl more fully at Razzles he questioned: “What is it with you and teeth?”

The beest’s two orange eyes drilled into Grimmbros’ head whilst he rambled obliviously.

“Look out! He’s going to self-obstruct!” said Fürgůïn, “He’s getting too distracted...”

Before he finished expressing his concern, the beest shrieked out in a hideous, loud roar that made the ground shudder. The urgh-bane smiled back at it and flexed his bulging muscles. Opening his mouth he began, “Now, stop that snorting, it’s not good for you, you'll sniff a gnat up your nostril.” He did not appear phased by the fact that the beest just snorted louder, but continued sarcastically, “Ooh, there goes a bee…”*

*When circumstances demanded it Grimmbros could be quite the sarcast. Scratch match psychology had been a major part of his sports training; exploring the offensive use of irony and satire, aimed at mentally equipping a player ‘to tear (an unwitting opponent metaphorically) like wild dogs’. His tutors had told Grimm that he was the best student that they ever had - but then they would.

Yet as the beest charged the urgh-bane Grimmbros realised his error, it unexpectedly grabbed hold of him by his trousers and pulled them up towards his chest in a tight knot.

“I say old chap, that’s not proper - that’s just not crochet,” squeaked a bewildered Grimmbros suspended in the most extreme of wedgies. As tears formed in his eyes, Grimm tried to regain a tip-toe of balance by attempting to grab hold of the beest's wispy beard, but he was not quick enough. The fiend, still holding him by his bright yellow tweed trousers, with the hand-sown orange twill running through them, swung him around and around several times before throwing him to the floor. Grimmbros hadn't expected such an underhanded approach delivered with such sudden ferocity, his cherry-beret flew off into a tree and he hit the ground with a thump. Before he knew it the beest was horribly upon him again. This time it grabbed Grimmbros by the ankle, yanked him through some brambles and swung him upside down. The thing was incredibly strong and did not fight according to any usual brawling methods. With one final shriek it lunged and bit savagely into the urgh-bane’s posterior before throwing him to the ground a second time and running off into the distance.

Grimmbros, now on his feet, was bellowing about an infraction to the rules, and going on about something to do with drawing a fifteen yard penalty. He was breathing very heavily and was clearly astounded that this upstart gnu had somehow managed to unfairly best him. He scowled from knohm to renling and back again and then with a gruff puff of breath he turned and set off, in the direction of the old broken sheep wall, retrieving his beret on the way.

When Razzles and Fürgůïn scurried down to meet him, he was eventually found seated on the wall. The vanquished giant sat there without saying a word, his lower lip as far out as he could get it, his brows knitted into a steep 'v' shape. The device was gone - stolen by the triumphant beest and they needed to get after it as soon as possible, but Grimm didn’t look like he was about to go anywhere. Then Razzles started...

“What happened there?” squealed the knohm in a pitch approaching the realm of rodent communication. “What was that? Call yourself an urgh-bane? You let it take the device! You’re an embarrassment to your name, to the whole of urgh-bane kind… apart from being a big fat threatener. You’re no defender against beests! You’re just one of those that throw abuse and small animals among other unsociable habits. I have seen you do some very good work in that department, I must admit,” he trailed off sarcastically.

“What are you talking about, can’t you see that he’s in pain?” said a slightly concerned yet bemused Fürgůïn, watching Grimmbros passively absorb all of Razzles' torrent of abuse.

But the knohm went on. “He’s no urgh-bane,” squawked Razzles. “He’s all urgh and no bane. A real urgh-bane would never have let an overachieving cow give him a wedgie! I saw his underpants and everything! They’ve got flowers on them. That's what happens when you're always down that Pink Nymph Club. What’s that all about? I went once in my best sock-suspenders with my tight, shiny pants and I saw him, with a paper umbrella up his toad cocktail, he didn’t bring his club or give anyone a knuckle sandwich or anything! All that ponce food has made him a wimp. No more fruity swine port for you, you loopy koo wacker!”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Fürgůïn surprised at the urgh-bane's lack of response, wondering if the injured Grimmbros was struggling with more than he was letting on.

Razzles’ furiously bright red face went redder and furiouser. “What do I mean? What do I M-E-E een? I had it all sewn up but for the stupid gerbil! That‘s what!”

“Sewn up? Gerbil? What are you talking about?” Fürgůïn pleaded sounding intrigued and confused at the same time, whilst Grimmbros resignedly glowered into the mud at his feet.

“I had the thing, I was on to the herb, there was only one wretched little gerbil to go and we could have all gone home! But no… That big nancy! It’s all image with him, look how he dresses! That yellow and orange suit, that fancy mauve beret, flowery underwear! I’m all for pushing social boundaries, but this has gone too far.”

Razzles’ real eye was bulging rather dangerously and Fürgůïn began to worry that the urgh-bane might snap and... well… snap someone.

Razzles seemed oblivious. “They call him the urgh-bane’s urgh-bane but he’s a mockery to the Big Malodorous Recalcitrant’s Society for Retards or whatever it is his kind join. The truth is he’s more likely just a member of the All-Round Urgh-bane Wussy Crocheters Club. I’ll give that big galute a lambasting myself on his big blossomy lingerie butt of mockery! I will start my own club too, I will! Just see if I don’t. And it shall be called the ‘Nit-Plagued Malodorous Recalcitrant Urgh-bane Mockers Society’ and we shall sing ballads of how the great tweed-wearing, purple-blouse sporting, chicken-chasing urgh-bane called Grimmbrain got wedgied by a gangly-legged, big-eared cow that bit his tender parts with its pointy teeth and made him cry! I will, I will!”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

It was now all just pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent from the irate knohm. “A-N-D!” he ranted on, “I shall wax lyrical about how he did join the Pink Nymph Club and took up those silly classes with those puny nymphs! He’s a disgrace! That’s what I shall tell them… and I shall convince them that it’s all true… yes… ’cos I was there with him, taking those same silly classes… they can ask the nymphs if they won't believe me: I‘ve been taking those classes for years… I’m really good at it now. You just see if I don’t tell them.” He made a quick move or two at that point to demonstrate his education.

It had sounded pretty impressive to Razzles up to that point. But he began to get the feeling that he may have said too much, even incriminated himself somewhat. As the descending sun glinted upon his artificial eye, Razzles decided to change course hoping nobody was paying close attention. “If Arch Puke Fury-Hand were alive today he would have taken his Furious-hand and would have throttled him!” Fürgůïn and Grimmbros looked at each other. Neither was really keeping up, neither was sure if the Furious hand of the Arch-Puke would be throttling the beest or the urgh-bane - images of both flitted through their imaginations as well as images of pink nymphs and floral undergarments. But now Razzles was beginning to falter. He was wildly furious that the beest had taken the precious device away with it - just as he was getting to like it - but he was tired too.

Grimmbros got up quietly dusting off his battered beret. As he plodded away purposefully, disappearing into the distance with one hand on his battered posterior, Razzles screamed after him, “Where are you going? Where are you going? You can't just mooch off into the sunset. You can't just leave us here! It's the Nymph Club all over again! Just because you were beaten by a big bovine buttock biter! Gnawed by a gnormous gnu!” There was no reply and even Razzles began to wonder whether he had been a little too hard on poor Grimmbros. After all, words can truly inflict much pain and who knew what pain might reside deep inside the eloquent urgh-bane.

Fürgůïn and Razzles pondered for a moment in silence. Eventually Razzles turned to face the renling and asked, “So what do we do now?"

Fürgůïn sighed, "We can’t just let him go off like that. You saw how he reacted before; there's no knowing what he may do after such a humiliation. Probably find him with his head down some rabbit hole somewhere.”

"Should we go and get his trainer?" the knohm asked as a sense of guilt began to well up.

“No time for that now Razzles, we have more important business to attend to,” replied an unusually calm Fürgůïn.

“Time? No T-H-Y-M-E! What do you mean?"

"We are in enough mess as it is. We have No T-I-M-E for any other business now." Fürgůïn spelt out the important bit in knohmish fashion, "If the light-lady came back and saw what a mess we’ve made of this...” he stopped suddenly. Razzles was obviously feeling quite emotionally exhausted now and was struggling to work out what the renling was hinting at. He had been hoping that this had been the end of the whole sorry episode of quests, beests, people in the sky and stupid devices that kept appearing and then disappearing. He pictured his homely little hearth back in Tullgotha – the comfy chair was beckoning, an urge to address potential itches was growing. Secretly he felt he should just go home. Maybe Hob had found his way back by now. He’d need to be there to meet him.

However, Fürgůïn's interest in the quest was not as easily abandoned. He turned away from Razzles and slowly, pointedly remarked “We have to go to the Forbidden Forest.”

“Forbidden Forest… Did you say F-O-R... bidden Forest? Are you mad? We could never make it out alive. Why? Why would we ever want to go there?” Razzles was beginning to dance around again in a newly arising frenzy.

“We have to find a way to get the device back. If the light-lady came back now and realised we’d lost the device...” Fürgůïn paused dramatically before continuing, “Well, I guess she would blame you. After all, you’re the one who dropped it and let that monster take it.”

“Me? M-E? It was Grimmbrute! He was the one that let that hairy beest take it,” screamed a now extremely defensive Razzles.

“Ah yes but it was you who had it safe in his hand last and if we’re honest about it, poor Grimmbros cannot be blamed for your carelessness. After all, he did his best... What did you do? How do you think it will look if the light-lady found out that you were given the device and you lost it? Remember, you were the one sent on a quest - Grimm just tried to help,” replied a composed yet forceful Fürgůïn.

Razzles was for once completely lost for words and paused for a moment, his mouth open, before gibbering, “What do I do? What do I do? Do? Wah do? Did he? Tell me?”

“Like I said my little beardy friend,” continued Fürgůïn, “We have to go to the forest. I know a place where we can find some answers and hopefully get the device back before 'she' even knows we’ve gone. It’s only a few days journey and we can find Grimmbros on the way... he seems to be heading generally in the right direction - north.”

The renling smiled and pointed to the north (actually he pointed west, but no-one knew any better, besides, Grimmbros had gone east). Razzles watched admiringly, wondering if he might one day also become a fine tracker and ranger like his friend. He found himself also wondering what else he could do other than go along with the renling. Reluctantly Razzles began to follow, unsure and unhappy. Nevertheless he was a knohm and so despite his concerns soon he began to skip and caught up to his renling friend.

Meanwhile, Grimmbros had eventually settled down by a quiet shady copse and had decided to rest up for a short while. His eyes had grown heavy and he began to feel a familiar deep post-game slumber* taking hold of him. As he rested his bruised and somewhat inflamed torso, tears slowly began to stream down his face. He was ready for some much needed sleep...

*This phenomenon known among the urgh-bane as "Post Game Torpor" is a state of exhaustion and existential contemplation that typically follows a particularly gruelling game. If one stumbles upon an urgh-bane in this state, it is advisable to approach quietly, as waking them could lead to a bout of pontificating and soul-searching that could last for hours.

Twilight was failing now, thickening into night. Grimm hadn't spent a whole night outdoors for quite some time, but now he sat alone in the gathering gloom deep in contemplation. He knew that he would not return to Tullgotha that night. The surrounding darkness seemed to be drawing his mind back to the more primal darkness that had engulfed him when he inadvertently activated the device ... a strange absence ... strange places ... strange people ... and he had seen ‘her’. Not at first - first it had been just the breath-taking emptiness. Then he had been flushed from enshrouding shadow into a small, simple room. There had been a small man there, he had been most surprised by Grimm’s arrival, but that experience had been fleeting, strange, as if into someone else's dream; a place of blurred edges and indefinite existence. 'She' had been there, the mysterious woman and she had called him by name. Not 'Grimmbros', another name, one that he could not now recall, but he knew deep within that the name was somehow his. The beest had been there also - a haunting, lowing presence only partially defined. He had dropped then the device that had transported him to these places of peculiar glamour and had been dragged forcibly back to reality before he could truly absorb his experience. Now his thoughts clustered round those moments like gossamer moths around a white hot flame, unable to focus anywhere else. His device was presumably hers now... maybe it had been hers before? But there was another... The knohm and renling had somehow obtained one... Grimm's expression darkened with the night as he thought of that scraggy, horned beest wresting it from him with such unethical, knavish tactics. It wouldn't get to keep it though - if chicken scratching had taught this urgh-bane one thing it was how to chase dreams and catch them. Tired now... The bats swirling in the air above were becoming lazy blurs... in the air...? But that device, where has it come from? Empty air? How was that possible…

Yes it fell from the air as if…

Come to think of it where had the other one come from?

The one that that renling and knohm had been trying to hide - they never had told him...

Never said... Never...

Grimm’s head nodded abruptly - where from?

Bats? No, not bats - device.

Beest was there...

Beest - chase dreams...

Chase...

Dreams...