Misty’s roasted trout was delicious. Veppi ate the lion’s share, bullshitting his way to extra mouthfuls by declaring that each bite helped him recall memories of times spent with the gillyfolk.
“Mmm, delicious,” he’d say. “This taste takes me right back. To the banks of the river, you know, the long one. Watery one. Right back to that one. Hanging out with the fish people. Give us a bit more of that trout there. Mmm, that is truly delicious. Right, yeah. I remember now. The fisher folk were swimming and fishing, and we talked about my dad. Break me off a bit of the other one - head or tail is fine with me. Thanks. Mmmm. That is good Misty. You’re a culinary genius. Yeah, they’d say ‘honour to your father’, and I’d say ‘thanks, I’ll let him know’ and we were friends. Yeah.”
“You’re making that up,” said Andraya. “You don’t remember a damn thing, apsarion. What does that even mean, apsarion?”
“No idea. If I had to guess, I’d say ‘he who ate all the roasted trout’.”
----------------------------------------
I’m glad that our journey to the goblin village doesn’t take us into Grik Marsh. The road we’re on runs along its eastern edge, and it looks like the kind of place where dangerous things lurk, obscured by the low mist and stagnant water. There are sounds drifting across the mire, and they’re not the kind of sounds that pleasant creatures make.
“Not a nice place for a picnic,” I say, after a hungry howl rings out somewhere in the marsh fog.
“Not a nice place for anything,” says Misty. “Except maybe hiding bodies.”
“Or hunting river lizards,” says Andraya. “There are some big ones in there, so I’ve heard. There’s a quest posted on the job board in Brackwater to take down the biggest of them. Old Jaggit he’s called, if I remember correctly.”
“We could have picked that up,” says Misty. “Got ourselves a bit of XP on the way.”
Andraya shakes her head. “Level seven elite,” she says. “We’d need a bigger party than this to take on the likes of him.”
We continue on, and I try not to make too many nervous glances in the direction of the marsh every time we hear a cry or a roar from within.
After an another couple of hours of walking, we finally spy smoke rising over the next hill. It’s past the north edge of the swamp, where the ground becomes more solid and green. If I was looking for somewhere to start a town, I’d have probably left more of a comfortable distance between its boundaries and the edge of Grik Marsh, but what do I know? Maybe it’s the perfect spot because the sun sets behind the hill in a particularly gorgeous way.
“That is Orvar’s Cross over there?” I ask, checking my assumption.
“I reckon,” says Misty. “Pretty sure it’s the only dwelling hereabouts.”
“Great,” says Veppi. “It’s got a pub right? I could murder a beer. Plus I’m running out of tobacco.”
When we reach the town, I find it to be much more picturesque than I was expecting. The conventions of goblin architecture that you find in games like Warhammer and Warcraft aren’t followed here. There are no huts decorated with spikes and sails made of flayed skin. Instead, there are cute little brick houses with roofs made of black thatch, smoke rising from pleasantly crooked chimneys and ivy and moss greening up the walls. Even the town’s sign is pretty. It’s a brightly coloured wooden board showing a sheaf of arrows, with ‘Orvar’s Cross’ painted in a playful green font. It’s more smurf village than intimidating goblin camp.
“I’ll wait here until you guys are done,” says Andraya, putting her pack down next to the sign. “I don’t think I’ll be all that welcome in this town.”
“How come?” I ask.
“My patron, Androlphus, is sort of at war with the goblin’s patron, Boss Sucax.”
“Suck ass? That’s really his name?”
“No, listen Doon. Try to concentrate instead of just gleefully jumping on whatever obvious pun comes your way. I said Suc-ax. He’s a demonic marquis. He’s sometimes a she and sometimes a wolf, which is a sacred animal to the greenskins. Anyway, goblins don’t tend to like us brethren of the Shimmering Eye because of this divine feud. So I’ll wait here, like I said.”
“No probs. We’ll bring you back a pie and a bottle from the inn once we’re done.”
A goblin child has emerged from one of the nearby houses, and he approaches us now, enthusiastically picking his nose as he takes us in. He’s about three feet tall, with pointed ears and hooked nose. He has tufty red hair with a fringe that hangs down over one of his red eyes. He keeps brushing it away with his free hand, as if it’s irritating him. If I was his dad, I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to trim it.
“Look what I got,” he says, proudly displaying a massive bogey stuck on the end of his finger. “Real crusty whopper.”
“Well done,” I say.
“Wanna buy it? Just three bits.”
“I think we’re fine for goblin snot,” says Andraya.
“I’ll take it,” says Misty, holding out a small piece of cloth for the boy to wrap his bogey in.
“Really?” says Andraya. “Do you just buy everything that’s offered to you?’
“Yeah,” says Veppi. “I’m not sure that will roast as well as the trout did.”
“It has its uses,” says Misty. She takes the coins from her her purse and offers them to the boy. She hesitates before handing them over. “Which of these is Drifandi’s house?” she asks.
“Down the street, over on that side. Got a load of targets outside. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” says Misty, dropping the coins into the goblin boy’s open palm.
We leave Andraya and stroll down the street, drawing stares from the goblins we meet. They seem curious rather than wary, giving off vibes that are more ‘we don’t get many visitors’ than ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’ Someone tries to sell us a bag of bog peat, leaning out of their window as we pass by their house, but Misty miraculously resists.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A few paces along, an old goblin sitting on a low stone wall bids us to come over and talk to him. Not being in any particular rush, we oblige.
“No raiders here,” he says as we get close. “No bandits. No naughty naughties. No quest rewards to be had in Fletcher’s Cross.” He’s holding a large brass trumpet in one hand, which he holds up to his ear, gesturing us to deliver our response into it.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say, shouting into the trumpet.
“You adventurers?”
“Yes, we are,” I say proudly.
“That your hunting weasel?”
“I’m an otter,” Veppi replies. “And I’m his companion.”
“Oh, that so?” the old man says with a smile. “Very good then. You must take love whenever you find it. What I’ve always said. Got a lot of grandlings to prove it! Heh!”
We bid the confused old goblin a good afternoon and continue on until we reach a large house with a collection of targets on a patch of garden in front of it. Each target is a cross made of straw, like an ‘X’ rather than a crucifix, standing on the grass with arrows sticking out of it.
“This must be the place,” I declare pointlessly, as we walk up the path to the front door. A goblin woman opens it before we reach it. She’s short, even for a goblin, with a round face and dark blue eyes. She’s wearing a blue gingham dress, and has her orange hair tied up in a bun on top of her head.
“How many sheaves you need soldier?” she asks, producing a small notebook and a pencil. “Goose or crow?”
“Um. Are you Brimsker’s mother?” Misty asks. There’s a gentleness to her tone which the woman picks up on straight away.
“What you want dear one? You sound kind. You got bad news that you don’t want to deliver. I’m right aren’t I? It’s bad news isn’t it? Oh Lord Succy. It’s bad isn’t it? About Brimmy? Oh that boy. That unlucky lad. Come in, come in. I’ll fetch Drif.”
We follow the goblin woman to a room at the back of the house with an empty fire place and two rocking chairs. There’s a big ginger cat asleep by the hearth, curled up and content as if the fire was lit. It largely ignores us as we enter the room, though it keeps one sly eye on Veppi. The chairs are too small for us to sit in and so we stand about awkwardly as the woman goes off to find her husband.
A few moments later, a goblin comes in sucking his thumb, the woman following behind. “Blister just burst,” he says. “I'm Drifandi. And this is my wife Skomi. Sit, sit.” He’s doing his best to hide his worry as he appraises us with beady darting eyes. There’s more of his white hair in his wild eyebrows than on his head, but he doesn’t look as ancient as the old fellow outside with the ear trumpet.
After we briefly introduce ourselves, me and Misty do as we’re told and squeeze ourselves into the rocking chairs. It’s a tight fit but we manage. We might need body-sized shoe horns to get out of them though.
Misty leans forward and pulls out a small glass bottle from her pack. The bottle looks like it’s filled with clouds, whirling around as if stirred up by a storm inside it.
“That him then?” Drifandi asks, his voice cracking. His wife puts an arm around her husband. “That Brimsker?”
“I’m afraid so,” says Misty gently. “I promised I’d return his spirit to you.”
“A bad end then?” the man says. “The kind of end that leaves a spirit wanting peace at the family shrine?”
“It was,” says Misty, her voice full of sympathy. “We spoke to his spirit and we learned that he was brave and kind. He was murdered for protecting animals in his care.”
“He was brave and kind,” says the father, “that is true. But also stupid. Dying for the sake of animal? That boy.” He shakes his head, swiftly wiping away tears that he doesn’t want us to see.
“Thank you for bringing Brimsker back to us,” the woman says. “We accept delivery of your quest, on Brimmy’s behalf. You get your reward.”
“There was no quest,” says Misty. “We made the journey here for Brimsker, and for you. Because it seemed like the right thing to do.”
The man looks up. “No quest? And yet you came? Well that is generosity most uncommon. I must give you something.”
Misty begins to protest but Drifandi waves away her objections. We watch as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing white tattoos like chalk against his green skin.
“I will tell you the story of my pictures. This tattoo here, is my eldest daughter Kari leaving to join the Greks in Ossford. These three tears, are for each time I cried over her passing. This bird, is a nutfinch, for my love, my youngest. My little nutfinch Mari. This snake, remembers the time that my fourth son, Brekar, broke my jaw. I deserved it, and it was a lesson hard learned that he taught me. I have a jewel on my elbow, that is my gem, my love forever, Skomi here beside me. This here, this cut feather, tells of my prowess as a fletcher. I am the best in the county.”
I’m dying to quip that he’s the most modest too, but I manage to hold my tongue. “What’s this one?” I ask instead, pointing to a tattoo of a white torch.
“Ah, that one is nothing. A youthful decoration is all. A bit of folly. It means nothing.”
I feel like I’ve asked a question that I shouldn’t, as Drifandi is hastily rolling down his sleeves again, like he doesn’t want me to look at the white torch for too long. There’s more to that tattoo than he’s letting on. As he covers himself up, I get a tingle of XP and my thy vibrates.
“Check your band,” Misty says. “I didn’t get anything for that story. Other than the enjoyment of hearing it of course, Drifandi.”
I check my starting menu.
Update: Lore + 1, +50 XP
You have learned something of this land.
“My lore stat arrived,” I explain to Misty, who can’t see my menu. “It’s now the grand total of 1. Thank you for the story Drifandi, you’ve clearly expanded my knowledge.”
“You must stay for supper,” says Skomi. “We have eels.”
Veppi, who has been quiet until now, jumps up from his place by my rocker. “We’d love to madam,” he says.
I look at Misty, and it’s clear that neither of us wants to linger here too long. We don’t want to leave Andraya loitering suspiciously by the town sign. As we’re trying to think up excuses to leave, a bell starts ringing somewhere in the town.
“What’s that?” I ask. “A church bell?”
“No,” says Drifandi, a grave look on his face. “It is the warning bell.”
“Warning bell?”
“Something attacks. Could be adventurers, anti-heroes. Or could be some monster from the Marsh.”
Both mine and Misty’s thys vibrate, and we check our menus to reveal a quest.
Defend Orvar’s Cross
Things have come hunting to the goblin settlement of Orvar’s Cross. Is it hunger that drives them? Or something more sinister?
Kill all of the attackers.
Bonus condition: All the townfolk survive.
Reward 500 XP, Goblin river clan ceputation +2
Bonus reward: The Stone Arm of Tul Dek
Accept YES/NO
“We’ll help,” says Misty, as we both accept the quest. Then she turns to me. “At least Andraya will be happy about this turn of events. Looks like we’ll get XP from this excursion after all.”