It was already night, the sky was dark and starless, and a campfire crackled on the small inner islet, illuminating the surrounding area with a dim orange light.
Balthazar sat between it and the bed of hay where Druma lay, still feverish and unquiet in his unconscious state. Bouldy remained behind the goblin, quietly watching over him with a sad frown on his stony face. Blue was curled up on her cushion next to the big tent, head resting over her wings, but eyes still open, alternating between staring at the fire and glancing at the twitching goblin.
Balthazar sighed as he threw a small twig into the flames. “I hate waiting.”
Even more so than waiting, the crab hated feeling powerless, and things being out of his control. Of all the countless pieces of junk he had ever traded with all those adventurers, and he somehow had nothing that could help him in that situation.
He wondered if the goblin would make it, if he would recover, and if he would have any permanent impairment from it all. Balthazar did not want to imagine the worst, to lose his loyal assistant.
Who would build him more wooden boxes?
Who would tie all those pieces of rope that required hands with multiple digits?
Who would wash all those used pieces of bloody armor before reselling them?
Balthazar sighed again.
Who would laugh with him while watching some overburdened adventurer zigzagging down the road from atop a boulder while eating pastries?
“I can’t keep sitting here,” the crab said as he stood up and headed to the bridge.
In the trading post, the larger fire pit roared with tall flames that lit up the entire platform.
By a corner, a burly figure stood with his back turned to the bridge, facing a shelf.
As Balthazar approached, Khargol turned. He was holding an open book in his hand and wearing his tiny glasses on his large nose.
“You have to buy them if you wanna read them,” the merchant said as he walked by.
“I was reading a volume on common sicknesses,” the calm orc responded. “If you’d like me to not help and instead sit idly staring at a fire, I can oblige, too.”
“Bah, sorry, force of habit,” Balthazar said, staring out into the dark plains.
The chieftain joined him while putting his glasses back in his pocket.
“How far away is your village?” asked the crab.
“A fair distance, but my brothers move fast,” the other responded.
“Do you think it will be much longer?”
“No, I do not.” Khargol smirked. “In fact, it won’t be any longer at all. They have returned.”
Balthazar turned quickly to the road but saw and heard nothing.
“They have? How can you tell?”
“I just can,” the orc responded, stepping forward.
Right as he said the words, three figures rapidly walked down the path and entered the trading post, where the chieftain greeted them.
Between the two warriors was a much smaller female orc, with a slight hump on her back, supporting herself on a tall wooden staff. She wore a dark robe that was covered in all manner of talismans, charms, and animal bones, making her rattle with every move she made.
The chieftain exchanged some hushed words with her before they turned and approached the crab.
“Merchant crab,” Khargol said, “this is our shaman, Shagazurglamdushell. She agrees to see your goblin friend.”
[Level 20 Orc Shaman]
“Hello,” the hesitant crab said. “Nice to meet you, shag… madame shaman.”
She leaned forward to look at the crab. Her eyes were mostly covered by the hood of her robe, and Balthazar wondered how she could see anything. What he could see of her face told him she appeared very old and wrinkly, and a strong scent of mixed herbs emanated from her.
“You’re the one? The crab who talks?” she said, with an old and trembling voice. “Take me to your goblin.”
They crossed the bridge and approached the still unconscious goblin.
“This is him,” Balthazar started. “His leg was bit by a wolf and—”
“Hush now,” she abruptly said. “I already know that. Let me see him now.”
She stepped forward, leaning on her staff. The crab did not know what kind of wood it was made of, but it looked even older and more rugged than her, its tip ending in a crooked coil, with several charms hanging from it.
She leaned over the goblin and took a loud sniff. Then, she unceremoniously pulled his left eyelid up in order to observe his eye, before forcibly pulling his tongue out and running her index finger on it, followed by rubbing it together with her thumb, as if getting a feeling for his saliva.
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Balthazar watched her examination methods with slight disgust.
The shaman proceeded to poke Druma’s right leg with her long fingernail.
“Uh, it’s… it’s the other leg that was bitten,” Balthazar said.
“I know that! I’m old, but not senile!” the woman orc yelled out, without turning to the crab. “Let me work.”
She continued her poking and prodding for what seemed like an eternity, always humming and mumbling unintelligible words to herself.
Finally, she flipped open the flap of her satchel and retrieved a tiny bottle of a black liquid.
Balthazar moved to ask what it was, but before he made a sound, Khargol’s huge hand gently held his shell back. As he looked up, the stern orc slowly shook his head before whispering. “Trust her.”
Carefully lining the vial above the now uncovered wound, she let two drops of the black liquid land on it. They caused a sizzling sound and a line of black smoke to come from the gash. Druma recoiled and let out a whimper before falling back unconscious, but motionless this time.
“What the hell are you doing to him?!” Balthazar blurted out, no longer willing to be patient.
“Very bad, very bad,” the shaman mumbled, ignoring the crab’s question.
She put the vial back in her satchel and unhooked a tome from the other side of her belt. She quickly searched through the old, yellowed pages until she found what she was seeking.
“What your friend has,” she began, finally turning her attention back to Balthazar, “is a very old, very dangerous disease. It is called brain bumbles to our people.”
“Brain bumbles?” the skeptical crab repeated. “And what is that supposed to be?”
“It is very dangerous,” the shaman said in a dramatic tone. “If not treated, it will sap the energy out of its victim, give it a burning fever, and worst of all… make them very, very dumb.”
Balthazar pulled his eye stalks back in suspicion.
He wondered what the last part was supposed to mean. With a hunch, he brought up his party status and focused on the goblin’s section.
[Party Members]
[Name: Druma] [Race: Goblin] [Class: None] [Level: 3]
[Health: 6/60]
[Attributes]
[Strength: 2] [Agility: 4] [Intelligence: -1(-3)]
It was an Intelligence debuff. Or so it seemed.
“Excuse me,” the crab said, as he stepped around the shaman and next to the goblin.
Picking up his wizard hat that rested on the ground next to him, he gently placed it on his friend’s head, who remained asleep, breathing heavy.
Balthazar looked at the party status once more.
[Party Members]
[Name: Druma] [Race: Goblin] [Class: None] [Level: 3]
[Health: 6/60]
[Attributes]
[Strength: 2] [Agility: 4] [Intelligence: 1(-3 +2)]
“That’s it?” he said to himself.
The goblin was not very intelligent to begin with, but perhaps having his Intelligence go into the negatives would lead to disastrous consequences. Consequences Balthazar decided he did not want to find out.
“Will the fever pass?” he asked the shaman.
“No,” she responded, shaking her head. “He will stay as he is until he is cured. All we can do is minimize his suffering.”
“Wait,” the suddenly excited crab said. “So, there is a cure? Can you make it?”
The old orc lowered her head.
“There is, but it requires petals of frostshade, a very rare and delicate flower that only blossoms for one day a year, between the end of winter and the beginning of spring.”
“Do you… have any?” Balthazar hesitated to ask, already suspecting what the answer would be.
“No,” she rapidly said. “We do not even know where it grows.”
“There has to be something else we can do for him, damn it. We can’t just leave him suffering like this!”
“All we can do,” the orc woman said, “is ease his pain with tonics, but the only solution is for you to find the petals. I can easily prepare the mixture for the cure, but adding that last ingredient will be on you, talking crab.”
Balthazar considered all his options. He couldn’t very well go look for the petals, not only because of his apparent issues with stepping away from the pond, but also because even if he could, he wouldn’t know where to go to find them. Not to mention the fact that the flower only blooms between winter and spring, and they were on the tail end of summer. Druma could not wait until next year. He needed the petals now.
He would have to find someone willing to get him the missing ingredient. Somehow.
“Give him three drops of this every six hours,” the old shaman said, producing three bottles of a clear liquid from her satchel. “It will help him with his pain, but not much else.”
“Thank you,” Balthazar said, with little will to it.
The wise woman stepped closer to him and spoke in a hushed voice.
“I know you are different. Marked. I can see it in you. But it’s all… wrong. Beware, talking crab, there are old forces you should not interfere with, for they interfere back.”
She lifted her gaze to look into the crab’s eyes, but as the top of her face was revealed from underneath the hood, all he saw were two milky white eyes staring emptily at him.
Balthazar took a stumbling step back.
“I, uh… thanks. For the advice. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it, but sure, appreciated.”
He could not decide whether he found the old woman to be wise, dangerous, or a complete loon. Settling for all three for the time being, Balthazar began planning how he would get his pincers on those petals. His best bet would be to ask adventurers, as they do nothing all day but walk back and forth around the whole continent, pillaging everything they carry. Surely, at least one of them will have looted those flowers before, and hopefully still had the dried out petals somewhere at the bottom of their pack.
As he considered his approach, the realization reached him.
“Oh, hell no! I will have to be like one of those quest giver suckers now?!”