The overhead sun bore down on the splintered redwood of the cart as the lopsided wheels ricketed against their axles. The dirt-beaten path was dotted with large, half-buried stones that caused the cubic crates and cylindrical barrels to rattle. Tall trees with large green leaves lined the road, offering convenient shade to seemingly the entire forest - except for where the cart was riding. Two donkeys, one much larger than the other, pulled against frayed ropes, dragging the vehicle's heft behind them. The beasts were branded with a sigil resembling a gavel inside a castle tower.
In the front of the cart sat two elven men, one significantly older than the other. The older of the two was Acadian Finch. His once chestnut-colored hair was tied back in a short ponytail that stretched the silver at his temples far back around his head. Thick wires of hair covered his chin and jaw, hiding any hint of a mouth he might have had. A worn grey tunic hid beneath a green cloak that covered a set of copper and leather shoulder pauldrons. His armored boots added to the well-armored hunter visage he maintained.
The younger of the two was a boy called Arsa. His pointed ears poked through the tangle of black-brown hair that lay untamed atop his head. A wardrobe made of tan leather and cream-colored cloth was shrouded by a fur-lined purple cape. An elegantly crafted bow hung off his back, a quiver of arrows crossing it in the opposite direction. The bow looked to be made of some sort of scaly hide with gold-encrusted tips at the ends. He kept his lavender-colored eyes fixed on the donkey before him, a soft apathy tugging at the corners of his mouth.
In the back of the cart sat two other men whose appearances clashed against the dim woody colors of the cargo. On one side, a tan young man with shoulder-length black hair lay lounging bare-chested against the sun. An open vest made of rags slid open to display an athletic torso covered in tribal, almost runic, black tattoos. A necklace of shark’s teeth dangled lazily around his throat as a set of thick metal wristbands beat against the wood. This was François deStuer, but he insisted his comrades call him Frank.
Opposite Frank was an even younger man who was not quite an elf, but not quite a human either. The half-elf, as he was known, was clad in shining metallic armor trimmed in a bright blue. A long and pointed sword was latched away at his side while a broad shield, the same shining metal as his armor, lay by his feet, etched with a symbol that looked like a trident surrounded by globes. Despite the sweat sliding down his temples and the monotonous journey he had spent the former three hours enduring, a broad smile never left his face. This was Flynn Willheim.
They had been given the cart and the donkeys the previous night after taking on a job. They were told the cargo they carried would supply a storefront in the village of Krandaelyn, a short journey south of the trade city, Evercold. No questions asked; all gold received.
Before long, Flynn had begun singing a song. Arsa took a deep inhale as his ears twitched at the pitchy tune. His neck popped as he turned round to face the half-elf, “Talking was not included in the job description.” His lavender eyes remained fixed on Flynn’s freckled complexion.
“I’m not talking. I’m singing!” he said with a smile you could hear.
Frank sighed, “It’s getting old, all the same. We should be getting close now. Right, Acorn?”
The oldest among them grumbled a cough, “If yer meanin’ Acadian, then yes. Arsa’s right, though, Flynn. Shuddup.”
Flynn snorted a high humph before the group fell silent once more. The quiet fell on the restless knight, who couldn’t resist tapping his metal-plated legs with a rhythmic ting ting ting. Arsa’s pointed ears twitched once more, but he refrained from saying anything. The tapping turned into a whistle, and the whistle into a hum. The hum grew into a whisper, which before long became singing once again. Frank, who was still laid back with his hands now behind his head, squinted open one eye to see the agitated Arsa struggling to hold in a reaction. He smirked, eagerly awaiting what would happen next.
Arsa exploded to his feet, pulling a sheathed dagger from the strap around his thigh and pointing it at Flynn. The boy tilted his head toward the elf, grinning even wider than he had before. The sudden commotion startled the smaller donkey, forcing the cart into an awkward jostle. One of the barrels fell off the back end of the wagon as Acadian halted the cart’s movement.
“Boys, cool it or I will take us back to Evercold and y’all can find yer own way to get yer money,” the man said, grabbing Arsa by the cape and pulling him back to the seat. Frank, laughing to himself, had hopped off the cart to fetch the cargo that had fallen off. As he lifted the not-so-heavy barrel back onto the platform, the glimmer of something silver yonder in the thicket caught his eye. While Arsa and Flynn bickered, he stepped closer to investigate.
He knelt to the brush, his bare knees steeping into the dry dirt. With a wave of his hand, his tattoos began to glow a dim blue as the shrubbery parted at his command. Inside the vines was a silver-tipped arrow stuck in the root. He pulled it free, careful not to pull the arrowhead from the shaft. He examined it for a moment before looking off into the direction from which it must have flown.
A wall of trees stood like a gate, obscuring the dark woods beyond. The ground rose up about ten feet at a slope, forming a steep hill. As Frank’s golden eyes searched for anything among the bark, a rustle in the foliage gathered the attention of the three in the cart as well (who were still bickering about the necessity of travel songs). Flynn grabbed hold of his shield and lept from the cart, placing himself intentionally in front of the others. Arsa stood in place, pulling the bow from his back and notching an arrow. Acadian stepped down from the cart as well, pulling out a crossbow from beneath the seat and loading an arrow into the flight groove.
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With all eyes fixed on the treeline, another rattle of leaves shook from the hill. Flynn began stepping slowly forward, careful not to make too much noise inside the echo-prone armor. Just as he reached the edge of the path, an object like a boulder lept from the top of the hill, tumbling down with loud thuds and high-pitched cries with every impact. As it landed on the dirt road, the group saw that it wasn’t a boulder at all, but rather a very sturdy dwarf tangled up with a rather thin goblin.
The dwarf was no more than four and a half feet tall, dawning an assortment of fur-lined animal hides and bone-plated armor. His long beard reached far below his belly and was tied in three different places. A messy top-knot held his unkempt hair out of his face. As he landed atop the pale-green goblin, he shouted a guttural roar before pummeling into the poor thing’s egg-shaped face.
The four had hardly any time to react before another squeal came from the opposite side of the road. A smaller goblin came running out of the thicket, a short bow, that was much too large for him, in hand.
“She’s gonna kill me!” he cried, snot dripping from his upturned nose. Just then, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, her green eyes hooded by bored eyelids. Her pitch-black hair hung over her face, obscuring most of her features. Pale, almost greenish skin clung tightly to the woman’s sinewy frame. A tattered and torn white dress held onto a single bony shoulder, the bottom caked with moss and mud. She threw out her hand, revealing missing fingernails and protruding cephalic veins. As she did so, her eyes began to glow. Roots erupted violently from the earth, ensnaring the goblin’s ankles. He screamed as he was pulled to the ground and toward the woman.
The roots lifted him by his feet, dangling him upside down in front of the pale lady. She tilted her head to one side before grabbing his short throat, her arm striking like a serpent. The veins in her hand pulsated a deep purple as the goblin began to cough and sputter out drops of red blood. When she had finished with him, she flicked her wrist, commanding the roots to toss the corpse away.
Frank and Arsa had gathered behind Acadian, who stood ready behind Flynn. The donkeys were whinnying and stomping, anxious to run. Acadian ordered everyone back on the cart, and they did as he said. Before he could whip the reins and move them out of the fight, another silver-tipped arrow flew through the air and glanced off of Flynn’s shoulder pouldron. Three more goblins, all clothes in gilly suits and rags lept from the trees where they had been hiding and onto the cart. All four men on the cart, and all three goblins, shouted at one another.
Arsa kicked one of the attackers square in the snout, launching it from the cart. It tumbled off and landed with a skid in the dirt. It looked up with a snarl, a crescent-shaped grin of razor-like teeth baring their yellowed facades. One of the goblins scurried up Frank’s leg, reaching for his necklace. His tattoos began to alight a bright red as he thrust his palm into the creature’s face. A sound like hot oil and the smell of burning flesh filled the clearing, the goblin scrambling to pry itself out of Frank’s hand.
The remaining goblin unsheathed a crude dagger and attempted to thrust it into Flynn’s midsection. The boy gave a polite shake of the head before grabbing the assailant by the arm and flinging it into the air. While the thing traveled, Acadian aimed his crossbow at the target, launching an arrow on its descent, pinning it to a nearby tree trunk by its hide tunic.
The goblin Arsa had kicked climbed back onto the cart. It nimbly leaped over the crates and barrels, tunneling toward Arsa’s throat with a dagger in hand. As it jumped with the dagger above its head, Arsa quickly notched an arrow and let it fly point-blank at the goblin. The force of the strike didn’t pierce the green flesh but did knock it back.
At this point, the dwarf had finished his assault on the goblin he had entered with and turned his attention to the other greenlings in the vicinity. His eyes darted to and fixated on the one dangling from the tree, pinned by Acadian. The boulder of a man charged at the tree and reached for the feet of the goblin before releasing another roar. His arms quickly sprouted thick fur and something like a tail emerged from beneath the hides. Like an animal, he climbed up the tree using all four limbs to reach the goblin. With one hand, he pried the wriggling goblin from the arrow and threw it with force to the ground. He then leaped off and landed feet first into the creature’s chest, its rib cage cracking like the sound of a dozen fragile branches. The dwarf looked up with rage-filled eyes, his animalistic form continuing to overtake his body.
The goblin in Frank’s hand eventually pulled himself free and stumbled off the side of the cart. Blinded, he tripped over himself trying to run to the trees. The pale woman then whispered a strange string of words and pointed at him. Vines slithered from the trees and grabbed at his limbs. He was lifted up by his wrists and ankles, shouting in fear and agony. Slowly, as though admiring a painting, the woman approached the pained form of the goblin. She drove a blackened forefinger into the center of his forehead as she whispered another incantation. The goblin began to choke before becoming very still. Its green form then melted away into a black ichor, dripping into a puddle in the grass below.
With all the other goblins dead, the final one looked at the tall folks with panicked eyes. He picked up the dagger off the barrel and hurled the arrow that knocked him back into the woods. He twisted onto his small bare feet and darted like a wounded woodland creature to the brush. Acadian’s eyes darkened a deep maroon color as he stared into the foliage. Something like a silhouette appeared to him through the shrubbery and grass. He held the crossbow up to his eye and stuck the tip of his tongue out of his lips. He pulled the trigger, firing an arrow directly into the nape of the fleeing goblin’s neck.
The gathered company eyed one another with anxious breath. The dwarf returned to the more humanoid form he had when he tumbled down the hill. Arsa noticed his hands drifting to a pair of stone handaxes holstered at his sides. He notched another arrow.
The pale woman stood silently, examining the others like a prodigy might examine a chess board. The roots and vines she had summoned quickly began to wither without her attention fixed on them.
Acadian reloaded his crossbow and held it at the ready. He turned slightly, squaring his stature in the direction of the unknown figures. “We oughtta get goin’ now. Best that none of this gets any messier than it a’ready is, ya hear?”
Before anyone could respond, Flynn had jumped from the cart, landing in his armor with a startling clang.
“Hi, I’m Flynn!”