“Llampsi” I shout, with two ‘ll’s. Just my left arm is outstretched in front of me this time, with the other behind me, the hilt of my Ishkurian longsword gripped in my right hand. As I cast the spell and watch it land, I can’t help but feel like a total badass. I’m exactly the same as Geralt of Rivia I think delusionally, casually chucking out a sign to stagger my foe.

It turns out that flare works just as nicely on ghost eyes as it does on living ones. The whirling goblin is dazed by the flash. Its vortex subsides, dust falling around it, while it covers its face and shakes it head.

I step forward, readying my sword for a swinging attack, but Misty grabs my flare casting arm.

“Don’t!” she says. “Let’s try talking this time.”

Again, I’ve got that compulsion to strike, to go on the attack. It would feel as natural as anything to follow up my wyrd with a slash of my sword. Would sharpened metal do any damage to a ghost? It’s a fantasy trope that enchanted or magic blades can damage spectres, without anyone worrying too much about how that works. So I suspect that my elemental weapon would inflict a wound. But there’s some steel in Misty’s request for me to stand down. I suspect she’d be angry with me if I hit this creature, and so I lower my sword.

“No more,” she says to me. “No more,” she repeats to Andraya, who is readying a bolt. “Right? No more.”

The goblin looks up. It’s recovered from the flare’s effect, but it doesn’t advance any further towards us. Its dust whirlwind has petered out now and its sabre has vanished.

“No more,” it says. “You read those words?”

“We did,” says Misty. “And we saw the sorrow written on your back. What happened to you, spirit?”

“You want to hear my tale?” the goblin says hopefully.

“If it’s quick,” says Andraya. Misty shoots her an annoyed glance.

“Yes we do,” says Mistle.

“You smoke leaf mate?” Veppi asks. He’s holding out his pipe. “You look like you could do with a hit on this.”

“I did like the leaf,” says the goblin. “When I was alive. Back when I had lungs to breathe it.”

“Ah, good point,” says the otter, resuming his puffing. “Go on then. We’re all ears.”

“My name is Brimsker. Grik River Clan born and bred. My father is Drifandi, famed arrow maker of Orvar’s Cross. Finest fletcher in the Talwen. Duke of Ossford himself came to the Cross once to buy my da’s hunting arrows. Proud day for us all.”

“That’s nice,” says Andraya. “Can you speed it up a bit?”

“Ya. You’re rude Peahen. To be expected. I have eight sisters, and one brother. Not enough money in fletching to feed us all. Look at these fingers? Like blood puddings. Sausages. Not suited to tying feathers to sticks. So I go to Brackwater, get a job as a cook. I hate it. The smell is bad, the food is bad. I want air and birdsong, not smoke and grease.

People are suspicious of goblinkind, because of our roaming brothers and sisters out in the wilds, raiding and having their sport. People are rude, like you Peahen. Get in a fight with a kitchen boy, hurt him. It’s his fault, but I am the one who has to leave.

Get a job at Three Farms, this farm. The farmer is kind, but he is a weak man. Sickly when he was a child, sickly when grown. He gives me good food, fresh eggs and bread. I work out in the fields, tend his cows. I am up early and I work all the day long. It is good, this life.

Then the farmer’s sister comes. She ran out of money in the city. Ran up debts and ran away.”

“I’m guessing she’s the villain of the piece?” Misty says.

“Bad woman. Evil. Lion lover, branded by Marbas. She beats the farmer. She beats the animals. Tried to beat Scraf the dog, who was my friend. I let him go, out into the hills. She whipped me then. The farmer is very sorry. He gives me more money. Says stay, stay. Says I am a good worker and that he is most sorry.”

“You should have left then,” says Andraya.

“Ya Peahen. Not easy, when you need money. Can’t go home a disappointment. Can’t go back to town. The animals are my friends. I feel bad to leave them. I say to the farmer that I will stay but he must get rid of his sister. She’s useless and she’s mad.

They argue. She cracks his head with a skillet. She says I killed him, the farmer. She lies. She says if I leave she’ll call the Watch, the Sigrifa. Who are they going to believe? A goblin from the marshes, or a city lady? I’ll be hung.

So I stay. And I’m whipped, and I’m beat. And one day, when I’m weak and broken, she does it. Knocks me down, and I crack my head on the wall. Dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Misty. “That’s so awful. No one should have to endure that.”

“I awake a ghost. Anger is all I know. A rage unquenchable. Ruin is my want. Death and ruin. I want to avenge my murder. I seek the sister but she flees to the neighbouring farm, west of here. And so I am a spirit unsatisfied. And my rage burns still. My anger darkens the skies around, and fills the scarecrows in the fields, twists them into grotesque things. I want to kill, but I cannot leave. I am bound to stay to the place where my blood was spilled.”

“We could find her,” I say, without really thinking it through.

“Kill her? Beat her to death, like she did to me? I do not want her tried. You would do that for me?”

“Er, I didn’t quite mean that,” I reply.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

My bracelet buzzes, like a vibrating phone and a menu appears.

Quest: Brimsker’s revenge

Level: 2-3

Travel to Bardley Farm. Find and kill Myra Gott.

Reward:

500 XP

Bonus reward for inflicting a slow and painful death:

250 XP and Brimsker’s Gratitude

Accept: YES / NO

“Jesus Christ, " I say, “That bonus condition.”

“Do this for me,” says Brimsker. “And I will leave this place. I will haunt this house no more. If you give me my revenge, I will move on.”

“I’ve accepted it,” says Misty. “If what the goblin says is true, that woman deserves it. We’re on a quest to exorcise the haunting here, so we could just defeat Brimsker and be done with it. But that wouldn’t be right. The sister is the cause of all this, not him. She must pay for what she did.”

“We’ve got the quests stacking up,” says Andraya. “Haven’t even talked to Misty about the main quest we shared in the Cackling Pig, back when me and Doon met. But this is easy XP. The same as we’re getting for Whispers in the Wheatfields, and all we have to do is kill some old woman next door, come back here. Done. There, I’ve taken the quest.”

I feel pressured into going along with it. The sister does sound like an evil fucker. I guess killing her is no different to killing any other bad guy in this world. I hit the accept button too.

“Might skip the bonus reward though, right?” I say to Misty.

“We’ll see,” she says.

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It turns out that the ‘farm next door’ is actually ‘the farm that’s a two mile hike across fields.’

The further we get from the haunted farm, the brighter the world appears. The morning sun is no longer obscured by unnatural gloom, the birds sing once more in the fields, and the bees buzz about the flowering weeds that grow in between the crops. But our mood is still sombre, brought down by Brimsker’s lament.

“That poor dude,” I say, as we walk along.

“Dude?” asks Veppi.

“Guy, chap. Fella. Person I guess.”

“Yes, poor goblin,” says Misty. “We will avenge him. This Myra Gott will pay for such cruelty.”

“She will,” says Andraya. “If the goblin was telling the truth.”

“You think that Brimsker was lying, Dray?” says Misty. “You saw the poor thing’s back. You think he did that to himself?”

“Not unless he’s a contortionist. But maybe he’s a bandit, and he’s been caught a few times. Or perhaps he ran with Skrut’s Raiders before becoming a farmhand, and the scars are just punishment for crimes he’s committed. What say you Doon? Did you believe his tale?”

“I did. Maybe I’m a sucker, but he sounded convincing to me. I didn’t even consider the possibility that he might be lying. Do any of you have like a truth potion, or a lie detecting spell? Anything like that?”

“I can choose to learn one later,” says Andraya. “The next time I level up. But I don’t have one now.”

“I can’t mix anything like that,” says Misty. “I suppose we’ll just have to look Gott in the eyes, as she’s begging for her life with her side of the story. Try and pull the truth from her.”

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The border of Bardley Farm is a well maintained wooden fence with an iron gate. There’s a meadow beyond with a flock of scraggly looking goats bleating to one another as if they’re having a blunt conversation. They’re all huddled around a trough made of the same pink granite as the haunted farmhouse, most likely getting stuck into their midday meal.

Two figures lean on the gate and watch our approach with languid interest. As we get closer, I see that there’s a green tint to their skin. They’re broad shouldered and taller than the average human. I’d say that they’re half orcs.

One of them is chewing on a blade of grass, bumpkin style. The other is holding a loaded crossbow that’s resting on the top of the gate. Neither of them are wearing armour, so it’s unlikely that they’re soldiers or adventurers. Their simple linen shirts, woolen trousers and stout boots lead me to surmise that they’re farm labourers.

“Stop there,” one of them shouts out to us. It’s a friendly call rather than a challenge. “You poachers?”

“Do we look like poachers?” Andraya calls out in reply.

“Nah. I have to ask though. Lot of them about.”

“We’re on a quest,” Mistle shouts. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

“Not strictly true,” says Veppi.

“Did the ferret say something?” shouts one of the labourers. “Couldn’t quite hear it.”

“I said good to meet you,” Veppi shouts back.

“Aye, that remains to be seen. I’m Gurdo and this is Rem.”

We introduce ourselves in reply and approach the gate. The two labourers are giving off lazy vibes rather than uptight ones, and even though there’s a loaded crossbow still pointed at us, I don’t feel threatened.

“So what’s your business then adventurers?” Gurdo asks. He’s the one with the blade of grass between his teeth.

“We’re looking for Myra Gott,” says Andraya. “From the farm over yonder.”

“She’s here. Was the one that told us about the poachers.”

“Aye,” says Rem. “Little fuckers drove her from her home. Killed her brother. Nasty bunch of gobs by all accounts. So what do you want with Madam Gott?”

“She put a quest on the job board in Brackwater,” says Andraya. “To rid her brother’s farm of the poachers. We’ve done that, so we’re here to turn the quest in.”

“Put out a quest did she?” Says Rem. “Didn’t say owt about that to us.”

“To be fair brother,” says Gurdo “She don’t really tell us nothing about nothing.”

“Well, there is that.” Rem lowers his crossbow and opens the gate. “You best come in then. We’ll take you to her. She’ll be pleased you’ve cleared out her farm. And we’ll be pleased to see the back of her.”

“Not fans of the Gott woman I take it?” Mistle asks as we walk through the gate.

“We try not to speak ill of anyone,” says Rem. “So we’ll let you make up your own mind about her. I will say this. Old Farmer Bradley is quite smitten with the fat sot. So you’d do well not to upset her, otherwise we’ll be throwing you out on your ears.”

The goats take a look at us as we pass by, lifting their necks one by one to make a quick assessment before returning to their trough. A large black one with long curled horns bleats out something that sounds like a goat insult. “What are you fucking looking at?” is what he’s probably saying, judging by his tone.

The farmhouse is just past the meadow, so we’re soon at the front door, with Rem and Gurdo accompanying us like friends rather than bouncers. The building is inevitably made of the same pink granite blocks as the trough and the Gott farm, but instead of being a near ruin, is inviting and well maintained. There are apple trees in blossom and beds filled with brightly coloured flowers. Chickens are busy grubbing about in the front yard, and in a little garden to the side of the house, a contented looking milk cow chews on some grass. It’s welcoming instead of terrifying, and I feel a twinge of anxiety at the thought of bringing violence to such a tranquil place.

“Shall we wait out here?” Andraya asks. “While you go fetch her?”

“No, no. You come on in to the kitchen,” says Gurdo. “Bardley’s a hospitable sort. He’ll want us to brew you some tea. You’ll need to put out your pipe though ferret. The farmer’s lungs are clogged. He won’t like your smoke in the house.”

“Of course,” says Veppi, knocking out his leaf tobacco on the frame of the open door.

It’s clear that myself and my fellow adventurers want to talk tactics. We’re all trying to read each other’s glances, trying to figure out what the plan is here. But it would be suspicious for us to huddle, so we’ll just have to wing it.