“You and your son new in town?” --snicker--

“Haven’t seen you around – AH, the new stable wench, is it?” --snicker--

“Klum… you seen the arms on this one?”

“I’m seein’. Like maybe she could’a carried that lil’ pixie here all the way from his enchanted tree without poppin’ a sweat. That so, fairy fella? You got yourself a she-barian escort?”

The three workmen laugh derisively, poking and provoking one another the same as they had surrounding the Burning Brew. Now, however, they mock a pair of newly-arrived customers instead of each other’s courage. These hecklers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking the others’ path into the tavern as they continue their harassment.

Their quarry do contrast one another quite vividly. The taller of the pair, a hulking warrior who looks down even at the tallest of the three harassers, easily hefts the mangled war hammer across her back as if the weapon is no more intrusive than a flimsy twig. Her companion is, on his best days, less than half her height, slim, and of a usually cheery disposition. Now, however, he impassively abides the interlopers, absorbing their jibes, as he waits for an opportunity to respond. Like his ally’s hammer, the sling affixed to his belt has clearly seen better days.

“Aw, he ain’t no pixie, Klum – we mus’ finally be getting that visit from the circus ol’ Clareant been promisin’ us all these years,” one of the men suggests with a foul snigger. He bends down and thrusts his face toward the smaller of the strangers to scrutinize him disdainfully.“Is that it, little man? You a jester? This your strongman, eh?” His companions reward the quip with another burst of chiding laughter.

The small stranger sighs through a long-practiced, forced smile. “No, I’m afraid you gentlemen will need to wait a little longer for the Big Top, sadly.” He shifts uncomfortably and adds, “And, actually, I’m her bodyguard.”

“Her WHAT?” The man jerks back to his full height and laughs boisterously with his companions.

“Her…” another chokes out between ragged breaths, “BODYGUARD.”

The diminutive bodyguard sighs again, quietly noting, “Yes, that’s what I said : I’m Thump’s bodyguard; have been for five years now.”

Ignoring the hecklers, the bodyguarded, Thump, frowns down at her companion. “Four,” she corrects. “First year doesn’t count because I wasn’t paying you, Gereb.”

Gereb shrugs up at her, “True, but I was still filling the role to a lesser extent… Hmm. Guardian-in-training? Amateur Defender? Aspiring Muscle?”

Thump opens her mouth to respond but gets promptly cut off by a loud squeal from one of the ruffians. Both parties turn to him.

“Calben?” one of his associates queries concernedly.

Calben’s mouth quivers as he stares unblinkingly at Gereb. After a few nervous moments, he is finally able to wheeze, “It’s...it’s talking.”

“’Course it’s talking,” Klum scolds him. “Why wouldn’t it be talking? That’s what jester-pixies do, they talk.” He looks to their third party member who nods in affirmation. “Calben, you was JUS’ laughin’ at the little thing.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Gereb interrupts, growing increasingly irritated by the exchange. “I assure you, I am neither a jester,” he glares at Klum; “NOR a pixie,” and a scowl for the still-frightened Calben. Gereb straightens his back proudly as he explains, “I am a HALFLING. I realize that you probably don’t see a great many of my kind around these parts, but I can assure you--”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“’Halfling?’” Kalm scoffs, “You made that up.”

“Sir, I promise you, I did not.”

Calben backs up several steps, extending a shaking finger toward Gereb. “Don’t believe its lieesss,” he hisses. “It’s layin’ a spell on us. That’s just what happened to my gran’mammy; is how she ended up with my gran’pappy.”

Klum frowns at him. “Yer’ gran’mammy married yer gran’pappy cuz they was in looove.” He snickers and turns back to Gereb. “This little guy ain’t got no bewitchin’ powers; he’s just a jester-pixie. From the circus.” He crosses his arms confidently.

“Klummm,” Calben wheedles. “They don’t LETTT pixies join the circus. I’m tellin’ you, this is one of – maybe the very SAME – sprite that fooled my gran’mammy. Look at the EVIL growin’ in his beady, little eyes. He’s fixin’ to do the same to us, I wager!”

“Wait,” Gareb says narrowing those same eyes, “so now I’m a pixie AND a sprite? My parents must have been very open-minded.”

“Yeah”, Klum agrees, “you’re confusing me now, too, Cal. And what’s this about your grandsires? What happened? Ain’t never heard about this before.”

Calben looks down, face shameful. “That’s cuz it’s a truly sad tale, it is.”

With the human barricades distracted, Thump and Gereb exchange a look and move to navigate around them, but Klum side-steps to remain in their path. His companions follow suit a moment later, Calben with visible reluctance. The duo’s attempted evasion has succeeded only in shifting the stalemate horizontally.

“Where do you think you’re going, jester-pixie and strongman-person?” Klum demands angrily. “Our business isn’t finished. In fact, I think you owe my friend here an apology.” His eyes harden as he stares at Gereb. “Because if you or one of your kind are responsible for addlin’ his poor ol’ Granny with that man a’ her’s -- and I met the fella; that’s a cruel bit of devilry.” He pauses, letting out a whooping, shivering breath, “Then I think there’s a question of monetary compensation here for damage done.”

Klum queries Calben, “Twenty, thirty gold be enough to salve the distress?”

Calben calms somewhat, his eyes widening. A devious grin invades his demeanor. “Well… when we was kids, my gran’pappy used to dress us up like ears a’ corn every harvest day ‘an – forty or fifty pieces oughtta clear that memory right outta’ my head, maybe.”

Klum spreads his arms toward the two travelers, “Well, there you go. Fifty – Sixty gold, say, and we’ll call it justice served.”

“Reparations!” Calben agrees exuberantly, shaking his fist at the pair.

Gereb narrows his eyes at Calben. “Amazing how quickly avarice can mend a broken heart.”

“Exactly,” the still-unnamed third member of Klum’s cohort agrees.

Gereb glances up at Thump, sighing, before attempting to reason with Klum’s gang one last time. “Look,” he says, aggravation increasing with each wasted word, “I’m NOT a pixie. I’m not a sprite. I’m not even a gnome or a dwarf. I’m a HALFLING. But that doesn’t even matter! Thump and I have done nothing to bother you lot, and all we ask is that you--”

“’THUMP?’” Klum scoffs, leering at the warrior disdainfully. “What in the hells kind of name is-- OH!”

Thump leans forward and smashes her forehead into the brute’s face.

Klum backsteps unsteadily, hands pressed against blood-blooming nostrils. He staggers for several paces, groaning loudly, until he promptly deposits his backside into the nearest chair – a seat currently occupied by one of the arguing children.

Meanwhile, Thump turns a suddenly steel-hardened glare upon the remaining roadblocks. Calben’s friend eeks before scurrying away to recover his battered companion.

Gereb sighs, regarding Thump with a sad shake of his head, “THAT would actually be why.” He lowers his voice, adding, “I really wish we could have avoided this. Not the best way to introduce ourselves to the locals, you know.”

Thump shrugs and considers the room. Having abruptly become the center of attention, she smiles pleasantly and offers the crowd a noble wave. “We don’t have twenty gold,” she reminds her companion.

“No,” Gereb admits, resignedly, “I suppose we don’t.”

Calben holds up his hands, offering a pleading smile as he backs away. “Yes, sir, you are ABSOLUTELY right, Mr. Not-Actually-a-Pixie. If anything, I owe you my gratitude. ‘Cause if Granny hadn’t been bewitched – or so near-sighted – she’d have never lain with my Gran’Pappy…” He pauses, both locomotively and rhetorically, ponders a moment, and begins retreating once more. He chuckles nervelessly, “Yes – then they’d never have had my Pappy, which means…” His voice trails off as he continues to puzzle out the complex mysteries of genealogy.

Behind him, aided by his consort, Klum staggers back to their table, streams of crimson still dribbling between his cupped knuckles. Calben reaches them a few moments later, sighing and pointing hopefully toward the liquor-laden thimble still waiting on the table top.

“Thump,” Gereb says, “if you’re finished regaling the audience, could we get a drink now, please? I’m suddenly VERY thirsty.”

“Absolutely,” she agrees, her smile expanded substantially as she notices a particular pair of adoring fans amongst the crowd. “I see a couple of folks who look like they could use a refill as well.”