Me mallet spent the day shrieking every time I hauled it up to hammer away at the support post for Dunnagen's barn. Dunny's wife kept runnin out to see if I was steppin on her cat.
It's me best mallet, better'n the 35 pounder or even the 20 pounder. A nice, solid, well-weighted 25 pounds. Well, it's got a bit of wear these days, what with the duelling and all, but it's nearly part of me arm.
But this carrying on is wearing me out. It shrieks and coughs. Sometimes when I get back from the necessary, all the hired help is quittin the job because the mallet's steaming and whistling. It once boomed and knocked me on my bum, and shot some bit of flame across the road and scared the daylights out of some poor cow.
So. I'd put the thing away and leave it to shout and smoke itself to pieces, but it's me best mallet. And it doesn't do it all the time. Every couple months or so. Well, it used to never do it at all...
One morning last fall I woke from a balls-shrinking dream about vampiresses and jumped outta bed trying to get to the door. Overturned the table near my pallet, and everything tumbled and crashed to the floor. Including this gold egg thing – a gift that Topaz gave me last duelling season.
The egg smashed to pieces.
I tried to fit the shards together, searched around on me hands and knees looking for them. I lifted the shaft of my mallet, finding even tinier pieces underneath. "Oh for a bit of Magik for this...." I muttered miserably. My vices and clamps and fasteners were useless with such a wee thing. I tucked the shell fragments into a cup and put it out of the way. Spent me breakfast thinking about how to repair it but couldn't find an answer so I went off to work.
Through that workday, I kept hearing odd sounds and noises – whistles, humms, buzzes – had nothin to do with what I was doin. Finally tracked down what sounded like a gurgled song and I found that it was me MALLET. I ran it over to a barrel of water and left it alone for an hour, but it kept up its muttering. Now bubbly. Aside from the noises, the mallet didn't look different. It was definitely mine. There was no new damage or marks or whatnot, so I went back to work with it, confounded about how this might have happened.
By supp time, I could only think of the egg as having something to do with the mallet's oddness. And, since the egg came from Topaz, I decided to seek her out amid the Magikers after work. I also knew that Brigath would be at the Twilight Isle, and might be of help if Topaz was not to be found.
That night, I dragged me sputtering mallet to Twilight Isle and learned that the egg was Magikal, and must've spilled some faerieness onto me mallet. While I was on the Isle, the mallet went about it's own doings, with me in tow. It did a fair amount of damage to meself and friends and foes alike.
Afterwards, though, the mallet was like a good, obedient, unMagikal tool. Thought it was all good and gone til a few weeks back, when it shot sparks at me while I was setting floorboards for Honey Killter. I stood for a few days of more and more rude noises and ... emissions ... before I headed back to that Isle to see if a bit of recess would shut it up.
And it did. Nearly took me head off, and Azjah's along with it, but no harm done, I spose.
So here we go again. Don't know whether to curse the egg or vampiresses or even Magikers, but all in all, I guess it's not too bad. Except for not knowing what it's likely to do...
common, garden-variety carpenter
Moderator: Michelle Montoya
common, garden-variety carpenter
Last edited by RabMallet on Wed May 03, 2006 3:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
ABOUT GOBLINS
The room’s dark, but it feels like morning. I get up and squint around, and hear the goblins snickerin somewhere. Ah. They emptied all my clothes from the chest and hung them over the windows. When I pull them down, the sun’s in my face, so now I’m late to Swanson’s. And there’s gruel in the ha’keg of cider. I bluster and holler a bit, then off to the half-built mill, where the help has left already on account of my lateness. Fine then. The help can get stuffed. I spend the day setting rafters meself. Lots of time to ponder.
……
One was bad enough, but two are jest … maddening. It sets me off, comin back from a day’s labors to find they’ve stacked all the firewood up inside the chimney til it’s pokin out the top, or thrown all me bits and pieces of furniture out in Sean Toggins’s pond. They wrestle in the middle of the night, perch on my bed to mutter long stories back and forth, and scramble over one another to get to me dinner so’s they can throw it at the wall and inspect the results.
They’re a menace.
Course, there’s naught I can do about it … I’ve shooed them away. I’ve tried luring them into a gunny sack with some moonlight-milk hooohaw that a doubtful-looking witch told me about. I locked one goblin in my toolchest but he started giggling over my tools, so I let him out before he thought of something smart to do with them.
Nope, they’re here to stay. Someone evil-eyed me or voodooed them onto me or some-what-nonesuch. Thought I’ve been all pleasant and how-dyou-do when I go to Rhydin, but then, next yeh know, they’re trottin home after me. Followed me from the Magikal Isle, one wee, hairy, cackling critter per visit. Like one o’ them portal prizes the well-dressed are always jabberin away about, only these’re not so much prizes as half-penny bits of chaos. They look the same – green, nasty hair, beady eyeballs and permanent smirks – though one carts a pewter mug about, and the other’s got a wee crown of weeds on his head. ‘Tween them and the doing’s with me mallet, I wish I’d never been to that Isle, truth be told. Magiking’s not for yer common laborer.
But to solve this matter with goblins in my hovel: tried the usual – yelling and beating. Every time I let go a holler after they’ve gone and poured pepper in my cider again, they jest snicker and run. Went to give one a good thrashin after he dropped my own mallet on my head in the middle of the night (dunno how he got it up there, but no doubt the other one helped) – I bellowed and the one was giggling like a maniac and couldn’t run, so I snatched him up. He shut up quick. I hollered some more and shook him good and that little bleeder went “POOF” and all that was left in me fist was a wad of ratty green hairs. Spotted his pink hairless arse dartin behind my toolchest, sputterin and laughin his fool head off. Durn hairs stuck to my hand like burrs. Next day my hired help at Swanson’s mill spent the morning carryin on, askin bout the color and condition of my unmentionables.
……
And here we are today with no hired help at all. Sun’s headin down and I can’t stretch the ache out of my shoulders. Rafters by meself. Now that was stupid, an even I know it. But least I’ve got an idea for them goblins.
The room’s dark, but it feels like morning. I get up and squint around, and hear the goblins snickerin somewhere. Ah. They emptied all my clothes from the chest and hung them over the windows. When I pull them down, the sun’s in my face, so now I’m late to Swanson’s. And there’s gruel in the ha’keg of cider. I bluster and holler a bit, then off to the half-built mill, where the help has left already on account of my lateness. Fine then. The help can get stuffed. I spend the day setting rafters meself. Lots of time to ponder.
……
One was bad enough, but two are jest … maddening. It sets me off, comin back from a day’s labors to find they’ve stacked all the firewood up inside the chimney til it’s pokin out the top, or thrown all me bits and pieces of furniture out in Sean Toggins’s pond. They wrestle in the middle of the night, perch on my bed to mutter long stories back and forth, and scramble over one another to get to me dinner so’s they can throw it at the wall and inspect the results.
They’re a menace.
Course, there’s naught I can do about it … I’ve shooed them away. I’ve tried luring them into a gunny sack with some moonlight-milk hooohaw that a doubtful-looking witch told me about. I locked one goblin in my toolchest but he started giggling over my tools, so I let him out before he thought of something smart to do with them.
Nope, they’re here to stay. Someone evil-eyed me or voodooed them onto me or some-what-nonesuch. Thought I’ve been all pleasant and how-dyou-do when I go to Rhydin, but then, next yeh know, they’re trottin home after me. Followed me from the Magikal Isle, one wee, hairy, cackling critter per visit. Like one o’ them portal prizes the well-dressed are always jabberin away about, only these’re not so much prizes as half-penny bits of chaos. They look the same – green, nasty hair, beady eyeballs and permanent smirks – though one carts a pewter mug about, and the other’s got a wee crown of weeds on his head. ‘Tween them and the doing’s with me mallet, I wish I’d never been to that Isle, truth be told. Magiking’s not for yer common laborer.
But to solve this matter with goblins in my hovel: tried the usual – yelling and beating. Every time I let go a holler after they’ve gone and poured pepper in my cider again, they jest snicker and run. Went to give one a good thrashin after he dropped my own mallet on my head in the middle of the night (dunno how he got it up there, but no doubt the other one helped) – I bellowed and the one was giggling like a maniac and couldn’t run, so I snatched him up. He shut up quick. I hollered some more and shook him good and that little bleeder went “POOF” and all that was left in me fist was a wad of ratty green hairs. Spotted his pink hairless arse dartin behind my toolchest, sputterin and laughin his fool head off. Durn hairs stuck to my hand like burrs. Next day my hired help at Swanson’s mill spent the morning carryin on, askin bout the color and condition of my unmentionables.
……
And here we are today with no hired help at all. Sun’s headin down and I can’t stretch the ache out of my shoulders. Rafters by meself. Now that was stupid, an even I know it. But least I’ve got an idea for them goblins.
MORE ABOUT GOBLINS
Firstly, a good lump of wet sawdust. As I cross the footbridge over Swanson’s Creek I lean down to scoop some up from where it’s caked at the water’s edge. Feels like cold oatmeal. Looks like dog yack. Packs like a good, early-winter snowball. I make it goblin-sized, stick in two square-cut iron nails for eyes, and tuck it in my pocket for the walk homeward.
Now, there were plenty of the little buggers about where I grew up, but they were radish-red and if’n yeh clanged a bell at them, they took to the hills. They weren’t as pesky, so I used to keep em around a bit, seein what they’d do and tryin to get them to do something actually helpful. Like my chores. Learned a word or two of goblin and once got one to give me mum a good kick in the buttocks, but on the whole, not a lot came of it. And these green ones – they’re craftier. Craftier sneaky-like, not crocheted-wall-hangings-like.
I can see there’s something odd with the house as soon as I set foot on my parcel. Jest go on, pretend nothin’s wrong… I try to ignore my front door, off its hinges and leaning against a tree. I ignore the (impressively large) mass of blackberry brambles stuffed into the empty doorframe. No matter . This’s their last fling. “Hope yeh bleeders enjoyed yer day!” I holler as I stride past the front door to the side window by my pallet. Titters from inside. Shove my mallet through the shutters (which they’ve closed and latched from inside). Tittering stops. Pull myself in through the window and have a devil of a time, as there’s something not-right with the floor.
I try to ignore their accomplishment. It’s a bit difficult. Instead of my plank floor, there’s a good two feet of dirt. My head’s between ceiling rafters. There’s not a stick of my furniture, but there’s three small Scotch pines planted against one wall, an abused-looking clump of azaleas where my bed was this morning, and an immense pile of something that smells like a cow manure. The two critters are in the fireplace, snorting and sputtering and reeling on their feet, laughing so hard that goblin nastiness strings from their noses.
It suddenly seems easiest to throw the mallet at them. Sod the plan. Jest a green shmear on my hearth and … then my stomach turns a bit and the plan is jest spot on. So here we go…
I impress even meself with my roarin and screamin and carryin on, chase the bleeders all over the shack and all over the parcel. I finally manage to grab one, and soon as he sheds himself nekkid I pocket the clump of hairs -– put them with the wad from the other day – and keep after them.
Finally, when I’m dead on my feet and they’re hiccupping drunk from running and snickering, I stop and give em what-for: “Beng-den-de-ladel!” Bout the only bit of Goblin I remember … pretty sure it means ‘Shurrup, chaos imps!’
They freeze. No more yuck-yucking. For the first time since destroying me quiet, the goblins look serious. Excellent. “Lookit what I found today!” I bellow, and can’t keep my grin away as I yank the sawdust not-goblin from my pocket. Now covered in the shedded green goblin hairs, though a few clumps fly off.
The goblins don’t notice the patchy hair. They’re thunderstruck. They gape at one another, at me, at their damp, mute cousin. I give my captive a good, thorough shaking, and the two jabber at it and jump up and down. They want it to go ‘POOF’.
Instead, I shout a Magikal word I heard at the Isle: “Gesundheit!” and smash my hands together. Sawdust and greenness fly everywhere, and one of the goblins faints dead away. The other’s eyes are jest enormous, and his chin is bout on the floor. I point at him and raise three fingers. “Three months, yeh both beholdin to me, now. Three months, yeh do my will. Or else… GESUNDHEIT!” I smash my hands together again, and the second one is lying beside the first.
Well then.
Easy-peasy, I take the pewter mug from one and the weedy-crown from the other and stash them in my shirt. I find me pallet atop Toggins’s chicken coop. The blackberry bramble in my doorway is tied up in a web of string, so I leave it for later and go in through the window again. Uproot the Azalea and put it outside. Crash into sleep. See what the buggers will do on the morrow.
Firstly, a good lump of wet sawdust. As I cross the footbridge over Swanson’s Creek I lean down to scoop some up from where it’s caked at the water’s edge. Feels like cold oatmeal. Looks like dog yack. Packs like a good, early-winter snowball. I make it goblin-sized, stick in two square-cut iron nails for eyes, and tuck it in my pocket for the walk homeward.
Now, there were plenty of the little buggers about where I grew up, but they were radish-red and if’n yeh clanged a bell at them, they took to the hills. They weren’t as pesky, so I used to keep em around a bit, seein what they’d do and tryin to get them to do something actually helpful. Like my chores. Learned a word or two of goblin and once got one to give me mum a good kick in the buttocks, but on the whole, not a lot came of it. And these green ones – they’re craftier. Craftier sneaky-like, not crocheted-wall-hangings-like.
I can see there’s something odd with the house as soon as I set foot on my parcel. Jest go on, pretend nothin’s wrong… I try to ignore my front door, off its hinges and leaning against a tree. I ignore the (impressively large) mass of blackberry brambles stuffed into the empty doorframe. No matter . This’s their last fling. “Hope yeh bleeders enjoyed yer day!” I holler as I stride past the front door to the side window by my pallet. Titters from inside. Shove my mallet through the shutters (which they’ve closed and latched from inside). Tittering stops. Pull myself in through the window and have a devil of a time, as there’s something not-right with the floor.
I try to ignore their accomplishment. It’s a bit difficult. Instead of my plank floor, there’s a good two feet of dirt. My head’s between ceiling rafters. There’s not a stick of my furniture, but there’s three small Scotch pines planted against one wall, an abused-looking clump of azaleas where my bed was this morning, and an immense pile of something that smells like a cow manure. The two critters are in the fireplace, snorting and sputtering and reeling on their feet, laughing so hard that goblin nastiness strings from their noses.
It suddenly seems easiest to throw the mallet at them. Sod the plan. Jest a green shmear on my hearth and … then my stomach turns a bit and the plan is jest spot on. So here we go…
I impress even meself with my roarin and screamin and carryin on, chase the bleeders all over the shack and all over the parcel. I finally manage to grab one, and soon as he sheds himself nekkid I pocket the clump of hairs -– put them with the wad from the other day – and keep after them.
Finally, when I’m dead on my feet and they’re hiccupping drunk from running and snickering, I stop and give em what-for: “Beng-den-de-ladel!” Bout the only bit of Goblin I remember … pretty sure it means ‘Shurrup, chaos imps!’
They freeze. No more yuck-yucking. For the first time since destroying me quiet, the goblins look serious. Excellent. “Lookit what I found today!” I bellow, and can’t keep my grin away as I yank the sawdust not-goblin from my pocket. Now covered in the shedded green goblin hairs, though a few clumps fly off.
The goblins don’t notice the patchy hair. They’re thunderstruck. They gape at one another, at me, at their damp, mute cousin. I give my captive a good, thorough shaking, and the two jabber at it and jump up and down. They want it to go ‘POOF’.
Instead, I shout a Magikal word I heard at the Isle: “Gesundheit!” and smash my hands together. Sawdust and greenness fly everywhere, and one of the goblins faints dead away. The other’s eyes are jest enormous, and his chin is bout on the floor. I point at him and raise three fingers. “Three months, yeh both beholdin to me, now. Three months, yeh do my will. Or else… GESUNDHEIT!” I smash my hands together again, and the second one is lying beside the first.
Well then.
Easy-peasy, I take the pewter mug from one and the weedy-crown from the other and stash them in my shirt. I find me pallet atop Toggins’s chicken coop. The blackberry bramble in my doorway is tied up in a web of string, so I leave it for later and go in through the window again. Uproot the Azalea and put it outside. Crash into sleep. See what the buggers will do on the morrow.
SPOILER
Morning. Takes a bit to remember why the ceiling looks so close. Sit up and see that the dirt is all still there on the floor. Can’t see the goblins anywhere, but can’t see any mischief either, so that’s all good. The mug and crown are still tucked in me shirt, so that’s good too. I slap my hands together. Breakfast.
I don’t see my larder chest, which reminds me that I never found it yesterday. So, instead of startin my day with a poke at the embers and warm belly-fillings, I climb out the window and tromp around my parcel.
The shovel is lodged in the pear tree, along with my barrow. The larder chest is upside-down in the creek. My old boots, heavy winter cloak, and the rest of my clothes are scattered in the water and on the banks. I put everything in the barrow and wheel it back to the cottage.
The goblins are settin by the door, mutterin to each other and stealin glances at my mallet, which I left leaning against the wall. The mallet looks fine, but they look completely miserable – nekkid without their little possessions, bare-skinned without their green hairs (though it’s growin back a bit), and weepy without their cackling and grinning. Jest settin there, legs dangling off the stoop.
“Right then. Yeh can start by getting that blackberry bramble outta my doorway.” Slow and tortured-like, they drag each other up and begin unravellin the web of string and brambles. Arright. Somethin goin my way. Finally. I give them orders for cleanin up the cottage and head for Swanson’s. It’s a long day, as of course I’ve no help anymore, and the durn mallet starts sputterin Gaelic songs (leastwise I think it’s Gaelic) and foaming. Sigh. Back to that Isle. Again.
Get home at sundown, and they’re sprawled on the door stoop, snoring and filthy. They set the cottage to rights though. I don’t even see where they put the dirt – and, come to think of it, I dunno where they got it to begin with. The treat of me day is that I get to have dinner like any normal human bein, pulling black bread and salt beef out of my larder chest and a handful of greenbeans from the garden. Haven’t thought much bout what the goblins eat, so I pick another handful of beans to leave beside their snoozings.
Then, off to the Isle to set me mallet straight…
On the trek home again, under a half-moon, me brain is fogged and full from that mess I tromped into. Magikings flyin everywhere. Me mallet carryin on. Getting hit from every which-way by Magikers who seemed to have control over their doings. Recognized a few of them, but all in all, it was a tavern-knock-down-drag-out. Not to my liking.
“You’re horrible,” came a voice, with a tone like the upper-ups use from up on their fine horses. I take a look around, but it’s jest moonlit fields and trees, and empty road. “Here, you nit.” Nearly underfoot is a small, familiar green shape. Egad. A talking one?
This goblin has a pointy hat and a stick. He’s got his arms crossed and squints his beady eyes at me. “You’re horrible. What’re you doing there with real magicians? How’d you get in?” I’m not ready to be chattin with him, so I start walking again. Can’t believe I’ve gotten yet another one stuck to me…they must be like burrs on that Isle. Wonder if anyone else has them…
“You should just let that Archmage fix your little hammer and save yourself the embarrassment of getting blasted in the arse all night,” he says, which makes him laugh nastily and stumble about on the road. I glance at my mallet, a bit sad bout all this mess. It’s jest a mallet; oak shaft, oak-block head with iron bindings. No oddness anymore.
I take a path off the road to swing by Swanson’s. Think there was a tale someone told me bout how goblins can’t cross running water… I take two long steps over the footbridge but the bugger’s right behind me. Sputtering and snickering. “Ah, no, water don’t bother me none. Your goblin lore’s about up there with your magical prowess. Hanging around you’s going to be a real treat, Clod. That’s what I’ll call you. Clod.”
I take longer, faster steps but he’s stayin with me. “I’m Hizae, Clod. I’ll be ruining your daylight and nighttime hours for awhile.” More phegmy snickering. Then he’s quiet until we reach the parcel, when he says, “Introduce me to your mum. I’ve got a bit of something she’d like…”
Before he can go another word further, I found that I’ve turned and swung me mallet low and hard. With a noise like a dropped melon, he’s sailing off into the brush. “Think I’ll call yeh Spoiler, yeh rotten goblin. Me mum’s six foot down.” His pointy hat is still on the road, so I pick it up and tuck it into my shirt. I don’t expect him to be gone long.
The other two are settin in the hearth, playing some game whereas they cover their eyes and blindly yank the hairs off each other and then count them up. Seems to cheer them up, though there’s none of their cackling. A bit sad, that. “Yer gonna have another … brother,” I say, but they jest look at me blankly. Then there’s a rumble in the fireplace and the two are buried in a mound of soot. Spoiler lands on top of them.
“Nice sty. You’d best give me that pallet to sleep on or I’ll spend the night pissing on you. Oh, and unhand my hat, Clod.” He cackles, then staggers as the soot shifts and the two goblins reappear with enormous grins. Spoiler jumps back and stares. “What the devil’re you two doin here?” They all jabber. Spoiler laughs and does something with his stick that makes the other two jump, shriek, and fall down. Goblin greetings, I spose. I leave them to grand ol' times and drop onto the pallet...
Something something something not right something in my … ear …
“WHAT do you keep in here, Clod. Disgusting.” I jerk awake, sittin up and Spoiler falls off my shoulder. There’s a spoon shoved into my ear. It’s raining out, and it’s still dark. Mug-goblin and Weedy-goblin are standing together on my larder chest, watching Spoiler and still looking miserable.
Spoiler climbs onto my knee. “You. Are. Daft. You’re the most ridiculous excuse for a human bean I’ve ever come across.” I jest stare, wonderin what he’s on about. I mean, what do yeh even say to a foul, hand-high, hairy green critter? Guess it’s all good. He didn’t piss on me yet. Spoiler waves his stick at me. “Firstly, ‘Gesundheit’ is Barbarian for ‘Excellent sneeze.’ It has never, and will never, cause the imploading of goblins.” When Spoiler says the Magikal word, the other goblins jump and grab onto each other.
“Secondly, ‘Beng-Den-De-Ladel’ is indeed Goblin, but since we’ll never know what the devil you thought you were saying, I’ll tell you that it’s actually a rather tasty testicular stew.” Sleep is weighin on my eyes, and I swipe at him to get him to shurrup and get off my knee. He leaps out of the way and waves his stick again. It makes a small PHOOO sounds, and instead of fingernails, I have daffodils.
Now I’m awake. “Ah yeh bleeder! Come on!” It’s depressingly familiar, the shouting and running and chasing and bits of green hair flyin about. There’s some more PHOOOs and though I don’t feel any different, I think something about my pallet has changed. The other two goblins jabber and jump around, but don’t do much else. I stop chasing Spoiler after a bit, point to Weedy-goblin and spread my hands far apart. “GESUN–“
The two scream and dash away different directions. Spoiler is on top of my toolchest. “He’s harmless, you nits! Watch this!” He’s pointing the stick at me again, and then suddenly he’s lying on the floor with Mug-goblin sitting on his head. Weedy-goblin sprints toward me, tosses Spoiler’s stick at me with a shriek, and runs away again. “Oh, I’m going to ream you for that, crotch head!” Spoiler yells at Weedy. “Give that back, Clod, or you’ll be waking up with more than piss on your head.”
The stick looks very fancy – carvings, shiny bits, color. I snap it in half between my fingers and it makes a funny howling sound. Spoiler’s banging his fists on the floorboards and shouting angrily. Weedy and Mug are eyeing him and brushing each other off. I put the halves of the stick in my shirt.
“Arright, Spoiler. Shurrup. Not another word.” And jest like that, me shack is quiet again. Spoiler stomps off, looking likely to murder someone. “An no messin with these two,” I point to Weedy and Mug, “Or messin with my stuff.” I try to think what other protective things I should say, but can’t think of any.
I go back to my pallet. It smells a bit odd but looks fine. There’s a long, jabbering chat goin on over by the fireplace. Some snickerin, too, but Weedy and Mug keep it all low and I’m not frettin over it. Jest be sure to sleep face down, atop all those goblin goodies in my pocket.
Morning. Takes a bit to remember why the ceiling looks so close. Sit up and see that the dirt is all still there on the floor. Can’t see the goblins anywhere, but can’t see any mischief either, so that’s all good. The mug and crown are still tucked in me shirt, so that’s good too. I slap my hands together. Breakfast.
I don’t see my larder chest, which reminds me that I never found it yesterday. So, instead of startin my day with a poke at the embers and warm belly-fillings, I climb out the window and tromp around my parcel.
The shovel is lodged in the pear tree, along with my barrow. The larder chest is upside-down in the creek. My old boots, heavy winter cloak, and the rest of my clothes are scattered in the water and on the banks. I put everything in the barrow and wheel it back to the cottage.
The goblins are settin by the door, mutterin to each other and stealin glances at my mallet, which I left leaning against the wall. The mallet looks fine, but they look completely miserable – nekkid without their little possessions, bare-skinned without their green hairs (though it’s growin back a bit), and weepy without their cackling and grinning. Jest settin there, legs dangling off the stoop.
“Right then. Yeh can start by getting that blackberry bramble outta my doorway.” Slow and tortured-like, they drag each other up and begin unravellin the web of string and brambles. Arright. Somethin goin my way. Finally. I give them orders for cleanin up the cottage and head for Swanson’s. It’s a long day, as of course I’ve no help anymore, and the durn mallet starts sputterin Gaelic songs (leastwise I think it’s Gaelic) and foaming. Sigh. Back to that Isle. Again.
Get home at sundown, and they’re sprawled on the door stoop, snoring and filthy. They set the cottage to rights though. I don’t even see where they put the dirt – and, come to think of it, I dunno where they got it to begin with. The treat of me day is that I get to have dinner like any normal human bein, pulling black bread and salt beef out of my larder chest and a handful of greenbeans from the garden. Haven’t thought much bout what the goblins eat, so I pick another handful of beans to leave beside their snoozings.
Then, off to the Isle to set me mallet straight…
On the trek home again, under a half-moon, me brain is fogged and full from that mess I tromped into. Magikings flyin everywhere. Me mallet carryin on. Getting hit from every which-way by Magikers who seemed to have control over their doings. Recognized a few of them, but all in all, it was a tavern-knock-down-drag-out. Not to my liking.
“You’re horrible,” came a voice, with a tone like the upper-ups use from up on their fine horses. I take a look around, but it’s jest moonlit fields and trees, and empty road. “Here, you nit.” Nearly underfoot is a small, familiar green shape. Egad. A talking one?
This goblin has a pointy hat and a stick. He’s got his arms crossed and squints his beady eyes at me. “You’re horrible. What’re you doing there with real magicians? How’d you get in?” I’m not ready to be chattin with him, so I start walking again. Can’t believe I’ve gotten yet another one stuck to me…they must be like burrs on that Isle. Wonder if anyone else has them…
“You should just let that Archmage fix your little hammer and save yourself the embarrassment of getting blasted in the arse all night,” he says, which makes him laugh nastily and stumble about on the road. I glance at my mallet, a bit sad bout all this mess. It’s jest a mallet; oak shaft, oak-block head with iron bindings. No oddness anymore.
I take a path off the road to swing by Swanson’s. Think there was a tale someone told me bout how goblins can’t cross running water… I take two long steps over the footbridge but the bugger’s right behind me. Sputtering and snickering. “Ah, no, water don’t bother me none. Your goblin lore’s about up there with your magical prowess. Hanging around you’s going to be a real treat, Clod. That’s what I’ll call you. Clod.”
I take longer, faster steps but he’s stayin with me. “I’m Hizae, Clod. I’ll be ruining your daylight and nighttime hours for awhile.” More phegmy snickering. Then he’s quiet until we reach the parcel, when he says, “Introduce me to your mum. I’ve got a bit of something she’d like…”
Before he can go another word further, I found that I’ve turned and swung me mallet low and hard. With a noise like a dropped melon, he’s sailing off into the brush. “Think I’ll call yeh Spoiler, yeh rotten goblin. Me mum’s six foot down.” His pointy hat is still on the road, so I pick it up and tuck it into my shirt. I don’t expect him to be gone long.
The other two are settin in the hearth, playing some game whereas they cover their eyes and blindly yank the hairs off each other and then count them up. Seems to cheer them up, though there’s none of their cackling. A bit sad, that. “Yer gonna have another … brother,” I say, but they jest look at me blankly. Then there’s a rumble in the fireplace and the two are buried in a mound of soot. Spoiler lands on top of them.
“Nice sty. You’d best give me that pallet to sleep on or I’ll spend the night pissing on you. Oh, and unhand my hat, Clod.” He cackles, then staggers as the soot shifts and the two goblins reappear with enormous grins. Spoiler jumps back and stares. “What the devil’re you two doin here?” They all jabber. Spoiler laughs and does something with his stick that makes the other two jump, shriek, and fall down. Goblin greetings, I spose. I leave them to grand ol' times and drop onto the pallet...
Something something something not right something in my … ear …
“WHAT do you keep in here, Clod. Disgusting.” I jerk awake, sittin up and Spoiler falls off my shoulder. There’s a spoon shoved into my ear. It’s raining out, and it’s still dark. Mug-goblin and Weedy-goblin are standing together on my larder chest, watching Spoiler and still looking miserable.
Spoiler climbs onto my knee. “You. Are. Daft. You’re the most ridiculous excuse for a human bean I’ve ever come across.” I jest stare, wonderin what he’s on about. I mean, what do yeh even say to a foul, hand-high, hairy green critter? Guess it’s all good. He didn’t piss on me yet. Spoiler waves his stick at me. “Firstly, ‘Gesundheit’ is Barbarian for ‘Excellent sneeze.’ It has never, and will never, cause the imploading of goblins.” When Spoiler says the Magikal word, the other goblins jump and grab onto each other.
“Secondly, ‘Beng-Den-De-Ladel’ is indeed Goblin, but since we’ll never know what the devil you thought you were saying, I’ll tell you that it’s actually a rather tasty testicular stew.” Sleep is weighin on my eyes, and I swipe at him to get him to shurrup and get off my knee. He leaps out of the way and waves his stick again. It makes a small PHOOO sounds, and instead of fingernails, I have daffodils.
Now I’m awake. “Ah yeh bleeder! Come on!” It’s depressingly familiar, the shouting and running and chasing and bits of green hair flyin about. There’s some more PHOOOs and though I don’t feel any different, I think something about my pallet has changed. The other two goblins jabber and jump around, but don’t do much else. I stop chasing Spoiler after a bit, point to Weedy-goblin and spread my hands far apart. “GESUN–“
The two scream and dash away different directions. Spoiler is on top of my toolchest. “He’s harmless, you nits! Watch this!” He’s pointing the stick at me again, and then suddenly he’s lying on the floor with Mug-goblin sitting on his head. Weedy-goblin sprints toward me, tosses Spoiler’s stick at me with a shriek, and runs away again. “Oh, I’m going to ream you for that, crotch head!” Spoiler yells at Weedy. “Give that back, Clod, or you’ll be waking up with more than piss on your head.”
The stick looks very fancy – carvings, shiny bits, color. I snap it in half between my fingers and it makes a funny howling sound. Spoiler’s banging his fists on the floorboards and shouting angrily. Weedy and Mug are eyeing him and brushing each other off. I put the halves of the stick in my shirt.
“Arright, Spoiler. Shurrup. Not another word.” And jest like that, me shack is quiet again. Spoiler stomps off, looking likely to murder someone. “An no messin with these two,” I point to Weedy and Mug, “Or messin with my stuff.” I try to think what other protective things I should say, but can’t think of any.
I go back to my pallet. It smells a bit odd but looks fine. There’s a long, jabbering chat goin on over by the fireplace. Some snickerin, too, but Weedy and Mug keep it all low and I’m not frettin over it. Jest be sure to sleep face down, atop all those goblin goodies in my pocket.
A FROG. A FANCY MAN.
A frog’s on me doorstep. Green. Small. Dunno what he’s doin there, but when I set off for Swanson’s, there he is. Hops right in, so figure he’s sposed to be here. So it goes. Green goblins. Green frog. What’s next.
The goblins jabber and point at the frog as they follow me out the door. Course, Spoiler’s silent, but no complaints from me. They’re all good with the work, now, and as soon as we cross the footbridge as Swanson’s, they scoot off to set up wall planking. Spoiler has his sour look and throws wood scraps at their noggins but he’s terrible shot. Soon enough, he’s back to pickin up stray nails and stacking roof slats. Today we’ll side the mill and slat the roofing. Then on to Wylie’s footbridge, and mayhaps that Artemus who spoke of some buildings in town. Work hums right along with extra hands, even goblin ones.
They’re drunk-tired at day’s end, and hit the floor like great green turds. I manage a bit more of an evening, what with the help and all. Time to wander into Rhydin once or twice, time to repair tools and work on me lettering… figure if’n I can write, I can make some headway with some Rhydin business…
BamBamBam. Someone’s knockin at the door. Knockin. At dusk. Who the devil’d want somethin built now.
As soon as I open the door, the guy out there jumps back and tries to keep his balance. He’s waving something in one hand and has a box under his arm. City bloke. Frilly sleeves and shiny, silly gold and red leggings. His boots are blueish and also shiny. A good horse with gold and red trappings stands behind him. “Hullo,” says I.
He stops waving his arm – he’s got a little hammer. Catch something outta the corner of my eye and turn to find a big round thing nailed to me door. Red an gold. Shiny. I turn back to the hammer man and point at the round thing. “Hey! What the devil’s that? Yeh NAILED it to my door?!? Nailed it?” Grab me mallet from inside the doorway and shake it at him.
He looks a bit uncertain.
He waves the box like he’s parrying. It’s well-wrought, well-worn box. A rich man’s heirloom. “Talent,” he shouts. “Talent? What?” “No. TALON.” He points at the door and clears his throat. Stands tall and formal now, tucks the box under his arm and tucks the hammer away and unwinds a bit of parchment. “With some slight delay and accompanying apologies, I have the honor of bestowing unto you, Rab of the Mallet, the celebrated though temporary title of Talon of Redwin. Your accomplishment is recognized by this escutcheon.” He points at my door again. Most city folk cover their faces when they sneeze, but not him. Didn’t even try. I say “Bless yeh” anyhow.
He continues. “And this, the Dagger of Redwin.” He fumbles a bit to keep his parchment unfurled. Fumbles a bit more to get the box open and does a fancy flourish thing with his fingers to show off the dagger sitting inside. Its pretty, crested with red and gold like the thing on me door. Clean blue blade. “The Talon reflects and recalls the noble deeds of Sierra Redwin…” He reads faster as the bit of dusk light faded. There is a bruise on the side of his head that cheers me a bit, seein as he weren’t all clean and neat, and I try a bit harder to listen to his lecturin. “…to be returned to the next claimant upon the completion of the tourney of the next cycle.”
What? “Return? Yeh nail that thing to me door, and give me a verry pretty blade that I can’t use, and then yer goin to come back and take them away? All for that tourney?” He glares at me. One of his eyebrows seems to jump around a bit on its own, and he mutters somthin about commoners. “I’ve served the Talon and the tourney as well as can be expected,” he says, rolling up the parchment and shoving the box at me. I take it. The lid falls shut on my thumb.
He gets himself up on the horse and seems to feel better. “The Talon is entrusted to your care. Entrusted.” He keeps his eyes on mine. “Yeh. Arright I heard yeh.” “It is an award of honor. Well respected.” Now he’s getting me back hairs up. “What? What? I’m a carpenter. I’m not a fancy noble but I’m not a … bandit. Not goin to keep this box in Toggins’s sty or nothin. Sneer bout me respectin yer Talon again an we can discuss how I came about gettin this thing…”
The man seems to smile a bit, though it’s only moonlight out now. He turns his horse and rides away. “Cheers then,” says I. The thing on me door clangs a bit when I close it. The frog hops past me, toward the goblin mounds on the floor.
A frog’s on me doorstep. Green. Small. Dunno what he’s doin there, but when I set off for Swanson’s, there he is. Hops right in, so figure he’s sposed to be here. So it goes. Green goblins. Green frog. What’s next.
The goblins jabber and point at the frog as they follow me out the door. Course, Spoiler’s silent, but no complaints from me. They’re all good with the work, now, and as soon as we cross the footbridge as Swanson’s, they scoot off to set up wall planking. Spoiler has his sour look and throws wood scraps at their noggins but he’s terrible shot. Soon enough, he’s back to pickin up stray nails and stacking roof slats. Today we’ll side the mill and slat the roofing. Then on to Wylie’s footbridge, and mayhaps that Artemus who spoke of some buildings in town. Work hums right along with extra hands, even goblin ones.
They’re drunk-tired at day’s end, and hit the floor like great green turds. I manage a bit more of an evening, what with the help and all. Time to wander into Rhydin once or twice, time to repair tools and work on me lettering… figure if’n I can write, I can make some headway with some Rhydin business…
BamBamBam. Someone’s knockin at the door. Knockin. At dusk. Who the devil’d want somethin built now.
As soon as I open the door, the guy out there jumps back and tries to keep his balance. He’s waving something in one hand and has a box under his arm. City bloke. Frilly sleeves and shiny, silly gold and red leggings. His boots are blueish and also shiny. A good horse with gold and red trappings stands behind him. “Hullo,” says I.
He stops waving his arm – he’s got a little hammer. Catch something outta the corner of my eye and turn to find a big round thing nailed to me door. Red an gold. Shiny. I turn back to the hammer man and point at the round thing. “Hey! What the devil’s that? Yeh NAILED it to my door?!? Nailed it?” Grab me mallet from inside the doorway and shake it at him.
He looks a bit uncertain.
He waves the box like he’s parrying. It’s well-wrought, well-worn box. A rich man’s heirloom. “Talent,” he shouts. “Talent? What?” “No. TALON.” He points at the door and clears his throat. Stands tall and formal now, tucks the box under his arm and tucks the hammer away and unwinds a bit of parchment. “With some slight delay and accompanying apologies, I have the honor of bestowing unto you, Rab of the Mallet, the celebrated though temporary title of Talon of Redwin. Your accomplishment is recognized by this escutcheon.” He points at my door again. Most city folk cover their faces when they sneeze, but not him. Didn’t even try. I say “Bless yeh” anyhow.
He continues. “And this, the Dagger of Redwin.” He fumbles a bit to keep his parchment unfurled. Fumbles a bit more to get the box open and does a fancy flourish thing with his fingers to show off the dagger sitting inside. Its pretty, crested with red and gold like the thing on me door. Clean blue blade. “The Talon reflects and recalls the noble deeds of Sierra Redwin…” He reads faster as the bit of dusk light faded. There is a bruise on the side of his head that cheers me a bit, seein as he weren’t all clean and neat, and I try a bit harder to listen to his lecturin. “…to be returned to the next claimant upon the completion of the tourney of the next cycle.”
What? “Return? Yeh nail that thing to me door, and give me a verry pretty blade that I can’t use, and then yer goin to come back and take them away? All for that tourney?” He glares at me. One of his eyebrows seems to jump around a bit on its own, and he mutters somthin about commoners. “I’ve served the Talon and the tourney as well as can be expected,” he says, rolling up the parchment and shoving the box at me. I take it. The lid falls shut on my thumb.
He gets himself up on the horse and seems to feel better. “The Talon is entrusted to your care. Entrusted.” He keeps his eyes on mine. “Yeh. Arright I heard yeh.” “It is an award of honor. Well respected.” Now he’s getting me back hairs up. “What? What? I’m a carpenter. I’m not a fancy noble but I’m not a … bandit. Not goin to keep this box in Toggins’s sty or nothin. Sneer bout me respectin yer Talon again an we can discuss how I came about gettin this thing…”
The man seems to smile a bit, though it’s only moonlight out now. He turns his horse and rides away. “Cheers then,” says I. The thing on me door clangs a bit when I close it. The frog hops past me, toward the goblin mounds on the floor.
ANOTHER FANCY MAN.
I take a good swing with my mallet at the peg locking the flume gate. The peg pops out, and the two not-Spoiler goblins shout from atop a ladder leaning against the mill. Sounds like counting. I keep bein tempted to give back their things, since without them I can’t tell which is Weedy and which is Mug. But who knows what’ll happen.
They both leap at the long, high arm of the flume gate. One makes it, and cackles as he flaps about like a banner in a storm-wind. The other hits the ground and bounces into the dry flume. Makes a booming noise against the planks and rolls around. Sits up looking confused and rubs his noggin. “Yer both daft,” says I, as I spot Spoiler up on the bank a bit, head between his knees laughin at the one who missed. Course he makes no noise, but I can tell he’s laughin.
The gate didn’t go up. One goblin’s not heavy enough. So I pick up the woozy one outta the flume and hold him up near the other one till he can hold on. He wraps his legs around the gate arm too, and it slowly lowers. Water from the pond slips under the gate, then sloshes through. It pushes heavy and fast against the waterwheel. Paddlebuckets fill and the big ol thing starts to turn. Arright then. There’s a job well-done for yeh.
Swanson’s inside somewhere, probably waitin at the millstones with a sack of grain. He’s not too keen on the goblins. No complaints bout the mill, though.
The two can’t hold onto the gate arm anymore, as it’s pointing straight up in the air and the gate-plank is swingin around crazy like. They fall down and race each other to the flume to splash water about. Then they jabber and take off into the mill.
Throw the last of me tools onto the handcar. Early day. I’ll start on the footbridge for Wylie tomorrow. Gotta get me last bit of coin from Swanson, though…
“Hail!” A voice calls, I can hardly hear over the waterwheel. I duck and take two long steps that put me under the eaves of the mill roof. Sky looks clear. Odd.
The voice comes again but can’t hear anything this time. Takes me a bit to find him. It’s another bloke on a horse – the second in a week – shouting at me. He’s downstream and I can only jest see him round the edge of the waterwheel. His mouth opens and closes, and surprise surprise, he’s waving somethin around in his hand too. Better go cross the spillway to see what he’s after about.
“There goin to be trouble, Rab?” Swanson pushes open a shutter and pokes his head out. Lives in fear, that man does. “Trouble? Yeh serious? It’s a man on a horse.” “Soon’s the brigands hear about the mill, they’ll be round to try burnin it… dirty Normans…” He closes the shutter again. “Yer mad Swanson.”
A few strides take me cross the spillway. The horseman’s ridden up to meet me. He’s got city garb on, no doubt, but less frilly than the last bloke. Helm, armor, capey thing, Rhydin colors. “RabMallet?” he says, a bit startled to find our eyes at the same level. “Ayep. Rab’s good enough though.” Guess he’s in a hurry as he’s stayin on his horse.
“I have a message from the Council of Rhydin, pertaining to the Barony of Dockside.” I’ve not the faintest what he’s on about, and think over what he said a few times till I see that he’s waitin for me to tell him somethin. “Er. Right…”
“The message requires that I return to Rhydin with your answer.” He leans toward me with leather squeakings and metal clankings. A rolled up parchment’s in his hand. Now what. I wipe off me hands so’s to not get the parchment dirty, and try to unroll it without the thing ripping. The writing’s very scripty-scrolly, like the thread-patterns on the edge of a lady’s dress. Can’t make out a thing. “This in … regular English?”
The man peers at me. “Yes. Can you read?” “Course I can read. I can read English, not this … fairyland English. Lookit.” I hold it up to him. “Can you read it?” He’s not sure of what’s what. “Are you trying to make a fool of me, sirrah?” he says, making some get-ready-to-draw-yer-blade-type-motions. Sigh. “No, no. Look, if’n yeh’d jest read me the thing, I can get yeh an answer and we can move on with the day. Eh?”
The horse is bored and starts eating some grass. The man takes the parchment back and clears his throat. City folk have such … boomin speakin voices. He announces to meself, the pond, the spillway, the mill, Swanson, the goblins, and whoever else is about that I’ve been invited by the favor of the Senior Baroness Topaz to compete for the Barony of Dockside. My answer is required forthsooth. Forthwith. Hitherlike. Well, now.
Swanson bangs the shutter open again and shouts across the stream. “You’re to be the Baron of Dockside? Lord help us all.” “Nah, it’s a tourney, not a gift. See –“ I says, but he’s slammed the shutter again. Well. The Baroness herself requested me. Now that’s somethin. Not too shabby, then.
The man is smiling a bit now, but tappin his fingers on the saddle jest the same. “Who’s all in this tourney?” “Nine others.” He names a few, but they’re not folk that I know so well. “It’s not a tourney like Redwin,” he goes on, “It’s a brawl.” “Egad. Not like that mess on the Island…” He nods. “That exactly.”
Something blurs past me and bounces off the horse’s leg. The horse shies, bolts downstream with a shriek. The man is roarin and bouncin and somehow stayin on. Spoiler’s sprawled in the grass in front of me, hopeless with silent laughter. Then he has a coughing fit. I pitch him back to the other side of the stream. “Leave off it. This is a message for meself,” I holler after him.
I watch the horse and horseman disappear down the road at a good clip. A brawl eh? What a mess. And Dockside? I’ve not even walked through it…it’s nowhere near me route to the Red Dragon or that Island. Dockside means waterfront, I spose. Dunno anything bout that. But water means ships, ships means PiRaTes, and that means Napoleon and company. So that’s all good. Not good enough to need a Barony though. When would I be able to Baron with all the work stackin up? Go in to Dockside every day to … to … Baron … and then back out to do the work? Shake me head.
Course I spose a Baron might get paid. For what. That’s the worry. If’n I only know wood and carpentry and such, how’m I likely to make Dockside work? Egad.
But at the Baroness’s request! I can’t turn that away, nohow. Make a good showing, knock a few noggins, see who could use a carpenter in their corner…
The horse is slowly clopping up the slope again. Sweaty, bug-eyed. The man looks cross. “I’ll accept,” says I. “Tell the Baroness that–“ “I’m at the beck and call of the Council of Rhydin, not Baroness Topaz,” he snaps. “I have your answer and bid you good day.” So I can’t even get out a thankee. The man turns his horse, which was eyeing the cool stream water, and gallops away. Guess I’ll have to get someone to write up my thankee and send it on into Rhydin somehow. Guess I’ll have to knock off work early on Monday. Can’t imagine Dockside needin a carpenter though…
I take a good swing with my mallet at the peg locking the flume gate. The peg pops out, and the two not-Spoiler goblins shout from atop a ladder leaning against the mill. Sounds like counting. I keep bein tempted to give back their things, since without them I can’t tell which is Weedy and which is Mug. But who knows what’ll happen.
They both leap at the long, high arm of the flume gate. One makes it, and cackles as he flaps about like a banner in a storm-wind. The other hits the ground and bounces into the dry flume. Makes a booming noise against the planks and rolls around. Sits up looking confused and rubs his noggin. “Yer both daft,” says I, as I spot Spoiler up on the bank a bit, head between his knees laughin at the one who missed. Course he makes no noise, but I can tell he’s laughin.
The gate didn’t go up. One goblin’s not heavy enough. So I pick up the woozy one outta the flume and hold him up near the other one till he can hold on. He wraps his legs around the gate arm too, and it slowly lowers. Water from the pond slips under the gate, then sloshes through. It pushes heavy and fast against the waterwheel. Paddlebuckets fill and the big ol thing starts to turn. Arright then. There’s a job well-done for yeh.
Swanson’s inside somewhere, probably waitin at the millstones with a sack of grain. He’s not too keen on the goblins. No complaints bout the mill, though.
The two can’t hold onto the gate arm anymore, as it’s pointing straight up in the air and the gate-plank is swingin around crazy like. They fall down and race each other to the flume to splash water about. Then they jabber and take off into the mill.
Throw the last of me tools onto the handcar. Early day. I’ll start on the footbridge for Wylie tomorrow. Gotta get me last bit of coin from Swanson, though…
“Hail!” A voice calls, I can hardly hear over the waterwheel. I duck and take two long steps that put me under the eaves of the mill roof. Sky looks clear. Odd.
The voice comes again but can’t hear anything this time. Takes me a bit to find him. It’s another bloke on a horse – the second in a week – shouting at me. He’s downstream and I can only jest see him round the edge of the waterwheel. His mouth opens and closes, and surprise surprise, he’s waving somethin around in his hand too. Better go cross the spillway to see what he’s after about.
“There goin to be trouble, Rab?” Swanson pushes open a shutter and pokes his head out. Lives in fear, that man does. “Trouble? Yeh serious? It’s a man on a horse.” “Soon’s the brigands hear about the mill, they’ll be round to try burnin it… dirty Normans…” He closes the shutter again. “Yer mad Swanson.”
A few strides take me cross the spillway. The horseman’s ridden up to meet me. He’s got city garb on, no doubt, but less frilly than the last bloke. Helm, armor, capey thing, Rhydin colors. “RabMallet?” he says, a bit startled to find our eyes at the same level. “Ayep. Rab’s good enough though.” Guess he’s in a hurry as he’s stayin on his horse.
“I have a message from the Council of Rhydin, pertaining to the Barony of Dockside.” I’ve not the faintest what he’s on about, and think over what he said a few times till I see that he’s waitin for me to tell him somethin. “Er. Right…”
“The message requires that I return to Rhydin with your answer.” He leans toward me with leather squeakings and metal clankings. A rolled up parchment’s in his hand. Now what. I wipe off me hands so’s to not get the parchment dirty, and try to unroll it without the thing ripping. The writing’s very scripty-scrolly, like the thread-patterns on the edge of a lady’s dress. Can’t make out a thing. “This in … regular English?”
The man peers at me. “Yes. Can you read?” “Course I can read. I can read English, not this … fairyland English. Lookit.” I hold it up to him. “Can you read it?” He’s not sure of what’s what. “Are you trying to make a fool of me, sirrah?” he says, making some get-ready-to-draw-yer-blade-type-motions. Sigh. “No, no. Look, if’n yeh’d jest read me the thing, I can get yeh an answer and we can move on with the day. Eh?”
The horse is bored and starts eating some grass. The man takes the parchment back and clears his throat. City folk have such … boomin speakin voices. He announces to meself, the pond, the spillway, the mill, Swanson, the goblins, and whoever else is about that I’ve been invited by the favor of the Senior Baroness Topaz to compete for the Barony of Dockside. My answer is required forthsooth. Forthwith. Hitherlike. Well, now.
Swanson bangs the shutter open again and shouts across the stream. “You’re to be the Baron of Dockside? Lord help us all.” “Nah, it’s a tourney, not a gift. See –“ I says, but he’s slammed the shutter again. Well. The Baroness herself requested me. Now that’s somethin. Not too shabby, then.
The man is smiling a bit now, but tappin his fingers on the saddle jest the same. “Who’s all in this tourney?” “Nine others.” He names a few, but they’re not folk that I know so well. “It’s not a tourney like Redwin,” he goes on, “It’s a brawl.” “Egad. Not like that mess on the Island…” He nods. “That exactly.”
Something blurs past me and bounces off the horse’s leg. The horse shies, bolts downstream with a shriek. The man is roarin and bouncin and somehow stayin on. Spoiler’s sprawled in the grass in front of me, hopeless with silent laughter. Then he has a coughing fit. I pitch him back to the other side of the stream. “Leave off it. This is a message for meself,” I holler after him.
I watch the horse and horseman disappear down the road at a good clip. A brawl eh? What a mess. And Dockside? I’ve not even walked through it…it’s nowhere near me route to the Red Dragon or that Island. Dockside means waterfront, I spose. Dunno anything bout that. But water means ships, ships means PiRaTes, and that means Napoleon and company. So that’s all good. Not good enough to need a Barony though. When would I be able to Baron with all the work stackin up? Go in to Dockside every day to … to … Baron … and then back out to do the work? Shake me head.
Course I spose a Baron might get paid. For what. That’s the worry. If’n I only know wood and carpentry and such, how’m I likely to make Dockside work? Egad.
But at the Baroness’s request! I can’t turn that away, nohow. Make a good showing, knock a few noggins, see who could use a carpenter in their corner…
The horse is slowly clopping up the slope again. Sweaty, bug-eyed. The man looks cross. “I’ll accept,” says I. “Tell the Baroness that–“ “I’m at the beck and call of the Council of Rhydin, not Baroness Topaz,” he snaps. “I have your answer and bid you good day.” So I can’t even get out a thankee. The man turns his horse, which was eyeing the cool stream water, and gallops away. Guess I’ll have to get someone to write up my thankee and send it on into Rhydin somehow. Guess I’ll have to knock off work early on Monday. Can’t imagine Dockside needin a carpenter though…
CONCERNIN GOBLIN-CRAFT AND LOCALS
Wiley’s leanin on an iron-bound quarterstaff and givin me an odd look from across the creek as I tromp up the rise. The goblins putter long behind me, dump the tools in a great heap, and wrestle each other into the creek. One is promptly dunked and floats downstream. Mug, methinks. Spoiler sets about tryin to drown Weedy til I knock him over with me boot. “Told yeh, don’t kill him.”
Look up to Wiley. “How do, Wiley. Where’s the timbers for yer bridge?” He keeps on with his queer look, and spits into the creek.
“Don’t need yer help on this one, Rab.”
“Bah. Yeh can’t do it yerself. C’mon then.”
I realize now that he’s glaring at the goblins more’n meself. Downstream, Mug has dragged himself out on Wiley’s side. He’s slappin water off him like he’s covered in skeeters. Makes wet, rude noises.
“Get them vermin away from here.” Wiley’s got a steady eye on Mug, who’s shakin like a dog. Next to me, Spoiler crawls out of the creek and Weedy after him.
“They’re all good. Well, some good. Well, they won’t bother yeh none.” Mug spots one of Wiley’s chickens and takes off after it. “Well, they don’t mean anything by it…” Wiley pokes his staff at Mug, who ignores it and tries to throw the chicken across the creek to Weedy, who’s jumpin about and wavin his arms. The chicken bawks and lands in the creek. Spoiler smirks and shoves Weedy into the creek after it.
“Yer vermin’s drownin my chicken,” Wiley growls, and clobbers Mug in the back of the head. He tumbles into the creek. Three squawkin, splashin, not-sposed-to-be-wet bodies floatin downstream. One grumpy, goblin-fearin ex-customer across the creek. A fine day.
“Easy there, Wiley. There’s no call for that. I’ll get yer chicken. And I’ve had yer bridge planned out now for weeks. Jest get the timbers over here and I’ll get it set in not time.”
“Told you nohow.” Wiley leans on his quarterstaff and spits into the creek again. “Take off, Rab. Do yer goblin bit elsewhere.”
Shake me head. "Yer daft, Wiley. Goblins don’t make a lick of difference in me work. It’s still me standin over here…” Wiley jest nods and jerks his head toward the chicken, which Mug has caught up to. He’s tryin to splash it toward Weedy, who’s got to his feet again. Bawk. Flop. Bawk. Splash.
Durn Wiley. I grab the poor wet-feathered chicken out and put it to ground. It staggers about and sits down, confused-like. Then fish out Mug and Weedy. “Pick up then, gobliners. Let’s go. No work here today.”
“How bout my chicken?” Wiley’s sourpussin at me now.
“How bout it?”
“It’s on the wrong side of my creek. Fling it over.”
“Well then.” I give Wiley a grin. “Guessin yeh need a bridge then.”
Home we go.
We pass Swanson’s mill. Fine-lookin structure if I say so meself. Swanson himself leans out the window over the waterwheel. I stop by the footbridge and the goblins collapse with much groanin and moanin.
“How do, Swanson.”
“Piss poor,” he calls back across the stream, and slams the window shutter. In a bit he comes out the man-door at the bottom and throws me a rude gesture. “No one wants their grain milled in a mill that reeks of goblin. They’re goin back to Buttonroog’s.”
“That’s daft. Buttonroog’s three miles up. And he’s crooked.” Dunno what’s come of folks’ common sense today. Goblins or no goblins, it’s a durn good mill.
"Too bad you didn't win Dockside. None of them city folk would mind your little green runts running about. Shove off now." Swanson waves me away and trudges up to his house.
“Well now. Dockside's got nought to do with it.” I put me hands on me hips and lookit my three, wet-dog smellin, weary-lookin goblins. "Guess yer all the end of me work out in these parts eh?"
Guess there's some change on the breeze then.
Wiley’s leanin on an iron-bound quarterstaff and givin me an odd look from across the creek as I tromp up the rise. The goblins putter long behind me, dump the tools in a great heap, and wrestle each other into the creek. One is promptly dunked and floats downstream. Mug, methinks. Spoiler sets about tryin to drown Weedy til I knock him over with me boot. “Told yeh, don’t kill him.”
Look up to Wiley. “How do, Wiley. Where’s the timbers for yer bridge?” He keeps on with his queer look, and spits into the creek.
“Don’t need yer help on this one, Rab.”
“Bah. Yeh can’t do it yerself. C’mon then.”
I realize now that he’s glaring at the goblins more’n meself. Downstream, Mug has dragged himself out on Wiley’s side. He’s slappin water off him like he’s covered in skeeters. Makes wet, rude noises.
“Get them vermin away from here.” Wiley’s got a steady eye on Mug, who’s shakin like a dog. Next to me, Spoiler crawls out of the creek and Weedy after him.
“They’re all good. Well, some good. Well, they won’t bother yeh none.” Mug spots one of Wiley’s chickens and takes off after it. “Well, they don’t mean anything by it…” Wiley pokes his staff at Mug, who ignores it and tries to throw the chicken across the creek to Weedy, who’s jumpin about and wavin his arms. The chicken bawks and lands in the creek. Spoiler smirks and shoves Weedy into the creek after it.
“Yer vermin’s drownin my chicken,” Wiley growls, and clobbers Mug in the back of the head. He tumbles into the creek. Three squawkin, splashin, not-sposed-to-be-wet bodies floatin downstream. One grumpy, goblin-fearin ex-customer across the creek. A fine day.
“Easy there, Wiley. There’s no call for that. I’ll get yer chicken. And I’ve had yer bridge planned out now for weeks. Jest get the timbers over here and I’ll get it set in not time.”
“Told you nohow.” Wiley leans on his quarterstaff and spits into the creek again. “Take off, Rab. Do yer goblin bit elsewhere.”
Shake me head. "Yer daft, Wiley. Goblins don’t make a lick of difference in me work. It’s still me standin over here…” Wiley jest nods and jerks his head toward the chicken, which Mug has caught up to. He’s tryin to splash it toward Weedy, who’s got to his feet again. Bawk. Flop. Bawk. Splash.
Durn Wiley. I grab the poor wet-feathered chicken out and put it to ground. It staggers about and sits down, confused-like. Then fish out Mug and Weedy. “Pick up then, gobliners. Let’s go. No work here today.”
“How bout my chicken?” Wiley’s sourpussin at me now.
“How bout it?”
“It’s on the wrong side of my creek. Fling it over.”
“Well then.” I give Wiley a grin. “Guessin yeh need a bridge then.”
Home we go.
We pass Swanson’s mill. Fine-lookin structure if I say so meself. Swanson himself leans out the window over the waterwheel. I stop by the footbridge and the goblins collapse with much groanin and moanin.
“How do, Swanson.”
“Piss poor,” he calls back across the stream, and slams the window shutter. In a bit he comes out the man-door at the bottom and throws me a rude gesture. “No one wants their grain milled in a mill that reeks of goblin. They’re goin back to Buttonroog’s.”
“That’s daft. Buttonroog’s three miles up. And he’s crooked.” Dunno what’s come of folks’ common sense today. Goblins or no goblins, it’s a durn good mill.
"Too bad you didn't win Dockside. None of them city folk would mind your little green runts running about. Shove off now." Swanson waves me away and trudges up to his house.
“Well now. Dockside's got nought to do with it.” I put me hands on me hips and lookit my three, wet-dog smellin, weary-lookin goblins. "Guess yer all the end of me work out in these parts eh?"
Guess there's some change on the breeze then.
TARPAULIN
It weren’t long for me to find that other promised work about Wee Bingham had up and run off like fast piglets. Not even Dunny has odds and ends for me, as he’s had since I was a wee one. Always comes back to the goblins – no matter me claims to their general manners and paying-heed. I even started trompin them off to the creek every day so’s they can dowse themselves and everyone nearby, and stay somewhat clean. But I see today that there’s still no work lyin ahead, and only grumpy folk behind me. Time to find new stompin grounds.
I’ve been ponderin on how to show the goblins favorly-like, and those lengths of tarpaulin I found ages ago along the shore near Rhydin should do. I lay a long section of it outside and get a bucket of wet red clay from the creekbed. Wish I had some ink, but wishin’s only brought me troubles… I cut a cattail on my way back to my parcel.
Now the laboriousness part. Me letterin still wanders a bit, not scrolly-scripty clean and neat like on that Dockside invite. But any fool could see that they’re letters, and that’s likely to warn them that there’s a word about to happen. After that, they can’t miss what I’m on about – whether I use a brush or a cattail to write it.
I leave the letterin to dry and puzzle me way through turnin hand-written tarpaulin into goblin-wear. Turns out that jest three head-holes in a row in the middle should do it, and no better tool than the fancy blue blade that came with the Talon. Might as well use it for something. Get the blade and the goblins all trooped outside to stand in front of the tarp.
“Arright now lookee here,” says I. “We’re all three … four … goin on a bit of a walkabout so’s we can keep food in our bellies and self-respectiveness in our selfs. Firstly is that yer gettin new getups. Jerkin-like. So lay down on the tarp there and I’ll cut yer neck holes.” I show them the blade so they understand.
Well that was poorly done. Shrieks and wails and they’re clobberin one another to get themselves hidden under the woodpile. I’ve not even moved to round them up again when they find a snake in there. More chaos. Then one gets a grip on it and starts whippin the thing at the other two. So it’s probably Spoiler.
Find I’m rubbin me belly where that Onyx put some whippy-welts on my in the arena. The marks are gone but hoooo Nelly. She’s a frosty one. Then I met Tele, who offered me up some work and then laid me out cold. Wasn’t quite my night, but mayhaps work will come of it…
Firewood pelts me. The two are tryin to knock Spoiler’s block off but their aim is terrible. I grab one and hold him down onto the first tarp. His eyes’re squeezed shut and he’s whimperin but jest a mark here and there and move him aside. He quivers and keeps his eyes shut. Then in with the blade, and since these goblins’ noggins all look the same, I cut two more holes the same size in the tarp. Yank it up and plunk it down over his head. He blinks and sways and looks down at himself. On his belly it says “CAHR”.
The other two’re gawpin at him. The snake is gone and Mug (?) has a few welts and Spoiler’s suckin on his forearm and then spittin on the ground. I grab Mug, who faints of course. I make Weedy hold him upright and poke his head through.
I have to dunk Spoiler in the rain barrel three times before I can get him cooperative so’s I can get him geared up. Mug’s awake again and he and Weedy are cacklin and stickin their arms outta the neck holes. Then there they are – all lined up proper-like and I permit meself a grin. A right brilliant idea this is. Jest a walkabout in Rhydin and we’ll be swimmin in work.
It weren’t long for me to find that other promised work about Wee Bingham had up and run off like fast piglets. Not even Dunny has odds and ends for me, as he’s had since I was a wee one. Always comes back to the goblins – no matter me claims to their general manners and paying-heed. I even started trompin them off to the creek every day so’s they can dowse themselves and everyone nearby, and stay somewhat clean. But I see today that there’s still no work lyin ahead, and only grumpy folk behind me. Time to find new stompin grounds.
I’ve been ponderin on how to show the goblins favorly-like, and those lengths of tarpaulin I found ages ago along the shore near Rhydin should do. I lay a long section of it outside and get a bucket of wet red clay from the creekbed. Wish I had some ink, but wishin’s only brought me troubles… I cut a cattail on my way back to my parcel.
Now the laboriousness part. Me letterin still wanders a bit, not scrolly-scripty clean and neat like on that Dockside invite. But any fool could see that they’re letters, and that’s likely to warn them that there’s a word about to happen. After that, they can’t miss what I’m on about – whether I use a brush or a cattail to write it.
I leave the letterin to dry and puzzle me way through turnin hand-written tarpaulin into goblin-wear. Turns out that jest three head-holes in a row in the middle should do it, and no better tool than the fancy blue blade that came with the Talon. Might as well use it for something. Get the blade and the goblins all trooped outside to stand in front of the tarp.
“Arright now lookee here,” says I. “We’re all three … four … goin on a bit of a walkabout so’s we can keep food in our bellies and self-respectiveness in our selfs. Firstly is that yer gettin new getups. Jerkin-like. So lay down on the tarp there and I’ll cut yer neck holes.” I show them the blade so they understand.
Well that was poorly done. Shrieks and wails and they’re clobberin one another to get themselves hidden under the woodpile. I’ve not even moved to round them up again when they find a snake in there. More chaos. Then one gets a grip on it and starts whippin the thing at the other two. So it’s probably Spoiler.
Find I’m rubbin me belly where that Onyx put some whippy-welts on my in the arena. The marks are gone but hoooo Nelly. She’s a frosty one. Then I met Tele, who offered me up some work and then laid me out cold. Wasn’t quite my night, but mayhaps work will come of it…
Firewood pelts me. The two are tryin to knock Spoiler’s block off but their aim is terrible. I grab one and hold him down onto the first tarp. His eyes’re squeezed shut and he’s whimperin but jest a mark here and there and move him aside. He quivers and keeps his eyes shut. Then in with the blade, and since these goblins’ noggins all look the same, I cut two more holes the same size in the tarp. Yank it up and plunk it down over his head. He blinks and sways and looks down at himself. On his belly it says “CAHR”.
The other two’re gawpin at him. The snake is gone and Mug (?) has a few welts and Spoiler’s suckin on his forearm and then spittin on the ground. I grab Mug, who faints of course. I make Weedy hold him upright and poke his head through.
I have to dunk Spoiler in the rain barrel three times before I can get him cooperative so’s I can get him geared up. Mug’s awake again and he and Weedy are cacklin and stickin their arms outta the neck holes. Then there they are – all lined up proper-like and I permit meself a grin. A right brilliant idea this is. Jest a walkabout in Rhydin and we’ll be swimmin in work.
A BIT OF OLD MARKET
The walk to Rhydin makes the goblins a bit cross, as unless they’re payin attention, one falls down and pulls the other with him. They liked it at first, and we spent a good hour at a narrow bridge while they cackled and tripped each other up tryin to go across sideways. It’s a wonder they didn’t drop into the creek and wash away all me hard labor.
Stop outside the Old Market gate to ponder a bit. The streets inside’re right tight and crowded, and a mess of this-way and that-way. “How’m I gonna keep yeh bleeders close up?” They don’t offer anything, of course, they’re wrestlin again and when I get their heads back through the holes I think someone’s swapped positions, but who cares. Well, guess they can’t get too far without gettin to arguin and fall down again, so I jest prod them on ahead of me where I can see them. In we go.
Horses, mules, oxen, cows, hogs, messengers, peasants, knights, merchants, carts, wagons, chairs-on-sticks, a two-wheeled dinging cart with no horse and one rider grinning like a fool, metal dragons, nobly-people wearin piles of rich cloth and folks in shiny Rhydin colors. I can see over everything, but it’s still more like swimmin than walkin.
The goblins do fine til we get to a square of sorts where market stalls, tents, flaggy-things, music, food-smells, and lots of yellin is going on. The sun can reach the ground again, and there’s a bit of breeze. A chamber-potty, salty-water, sweaty, slaughter-housey breeze, but breezey none the neverless.
Soon as the street-grip lets go, the goblins take off into the square. Three heads, six legs, one tarp. I hollar and chase the cacklin buggers. Nearly get them ina couple strides but a butter-merchant runs his cart right in front of me and I have to stagger-step so’s to jump over it and in that stagger-step I lose track of me mallet. Don’t lose it. Jest don’t realize it’s swingin round some. It knocks into a statue of some dragon-faced warlordie-type and I have to stop it tippin over and set it to rights. The statue’s nose comes off in me hand and I dunno what to do so jest tuck it into me pocket.
They’re makin good time through the market crowd, leavin quite the scene of muddled city folk behind them. Like it or not, me runnin-goblin-banner’s gettin attention. Lose sight of them behind a Red Orc Brewery standard and when I find them again they’re standin still arguin. Brilliant.
“Are you the carpenter, then?” Someone shouts. I look down and there’s a cheery-faced friar-type pointin at me chest with one hand and pointin at the (now-fightin) goblins with his staff.
“What? Yeh. If’n yeh’d let me by…” I try not to walk right through the man by turnin a bit and scootin sideways down his flank.
“You employ goblins for advertising?!” The man keeps yellin at me as though he can’t hear, so I up me volume a bit to make him feel better.
“BLESS YEH. ‘SCUSE ME A TICK, AND I’LL CHAT WITH YEH…LET ME GRAB THOSE BLEEDERS…” I’m nearly past him now, but he starts wavin his staff about and whacks me good in the naughty bits.
“GOOD HEAVENS THEY’VE SUBDIVIDED!” he cries out. So now, while I’m doubled over tryin to get to me goblins, he throws Math at me. Away from him with all speed. I hobble on, seein that the goblins grabbed themselves a blade and have sliced themselves into three small banners. I think they’re spellin something impolite but it’s hard to tell.
“HEY!” I shout. Two of the banners jump and sprint away. The remaining one (“TRI”) turns to look my way and yelps. I grab him right quick, and he stops strugglin once I pinch the banner betwixt his legs and carry him topside-down like a coinpurse.
The other two went down a shadowy street. Some second-hand-lookin Magikal peoples are in me way and I have to lead with the goblin so’s not to run them down. There’s some unpleasant words and an unhealthy-soundin singsong bit, but nothing Magik-like seems to happen. The streets get quieter and darker and smellier. Mayhaps these’re jest alleys now. Twisty turny. Puddles, rats, whatnot. At one corner, a couple blokes in raggy-tunics and rusty blades jump at me. I swing the goblin at them. Goblin shrieks. Blokes run. Onward.
(continued at Imp's Little Shop of Horrors, "messy goblin noses 'gainst the glass")
The walk to Rhydin makes the goblins a bit cross, as unless they’re payin attention, one falls down and pulls the other with him. They liked it at first, and we spent a good hour at a narrow bridge while they cackled and tripped each other up tryin to go across sideways. It’s a wonder they didn’t drop into the creek and wash away all me hard labor.
Stop outside the Old Market gate to ponder a bit. The streets inside’re right tight and crowded, and a mess of this-way and that-way. “How’m I gonna keep yeh bleeders close up?” They don’t offer anything, of course, they’re wrestlin again and when I get their heads back through the holes I think someone’s swapped positions, but who cares. Well, guess they can’t get too far without gettin to arguin and fall down again, so I jest prod them on ahead of me where I can see them. In we go.
Horses, mules, oxen, cows, hogs, messengers, peasants, knights, merchants, carts, wagons, chairs-on-sticks, a two-wheeled dinging cart with no horse and one rider grinning like a fool, metal dragons, nobly-people wearin piles of rich cloth and folks in shiny Rhydin colors. I can see over everything, but it’s still more like swimmin than walkin.
The goblins do fine til we get to a square of sorts where market stalls, tents, flaggy-things, music, food-smells, and lots of yellin is going on. The sun can reach the ground again, and there’s a bit of breeze. A chamber-potty, salty-water, sweaty, slaughter-housey breeze, but breezey none the neverless.
Soon as the street-grip lets go, the goblins take off into the square. Three heads, six legs, one tarp. I hollar and chase the cacklin buggers. Nearly get them ina couple strides but a butter-merchant runs his cart right in front of me and I have to stagger-step so’s to jump over it and in that stagger-step I lose track of me mallet. Don’t lose it. Jest don’t realize it’s swingin round some. It knocks into a statue of some dragon-faced warlordie-type and I have to stop it tippin over and set it to rights. The statue’s nose comes off in me hand and I dunno what to do so jest tuck it into me pocket.
They’re makin good time through the market crowd, leavin quite the scene of muddled city folk behind them. Like it or not, me runnin-goblin-banner’s gettin attention. Lose sight of them behind a Red Orc Brewery standard and when I find them again they’re standin still arguin. Brilliant.
“Are you the carpenter, then?” Someone shouts. I look down and there’s a cheery-faced friar-type pointin at me chest with one hand and pointin at the (now-fightin) goblins with his staff.
“What? Yeh. If’n yeh’d let me by…” I try not to walk right through the man by turnin a bit and scootin sideways down his flank.
“You employ goblins for advertising?!” The man keeps yellin at me as though he can’t hear, so I up me volume a bit to make him feel better.
“BLESS YEH. ‘SCUSE ME A TICK, AND I’LL CHAT WITH YEH…LET ME GRAB THOSE BLEEDERS…” I’m nearly past him now, but he starts wavin his staff about and whacks me good in the naughty bits.
“GOOD HEAVENS THEY’VE SUBDIVIDED!” he cries out. So now, while I’m doubled over tryin to get to me goblins, he throws Math at me. Away from him with all speed. I hobble on, seein that the goblins grabbed themselves a blade and have sliced themselves into three small banners. I think they’re spellin something impolite but it’s hard to tell.
“HEY!” I shout. Two of the banners jump and sprint away. The remaining one (“TRI”) turns to look my way and yelps. I grab him right quick, and he stops strugglin once I pinch the banner betwixt his legs and carry him topside-down like a coinpurse.
The other two went down a shadowy street. Some second-hand-lookin Magikal peoples are in me way and I have to lead with the goblin so’s not to run them down. There’s some unpleasant words and an unhealthy-soundin singsong bit, but nothing Magik-like seems to happen. The streets get quieter and darker and smellier. Mayhaps these’re jest alleys now. Twisty turny. Puddles, rats, whatnot. At one corner, a couple blokes in raggy-tunics and rusty blades jump at me. I swing the goblin at them. Goblin shrieks. Blokes run. Onward.
(continued at Imp's Little Shop of Horrors, "messy goblin noses 'gainst the glass")
THE GREY LADY'S WORK IS DONE
Comin homeward is sweet and sour. Not that there was time for farewells and such... with all me customers evil-eyein me on account of the goblins, green-apple-quicksteppin outta town was the best choice for findin some payin work. And givin everyone a break from the goblins. Particularlikewise due to the fourth that showed up after the disaster at Imp's shop...
The familiar things round about home makes all the foulness of the Grey Lady jest slip from me mind. Higginpaugh's cows stare at me as they always did, and Widow Cudfisk actually throws a bit of sod at me – like she has all me life. Good to be home then.
Wiley's got a shoddy bit of bridge now, an embarrassment to carpentry. Swanson's mill wheel is turnin, so mayhaps he's got business again. I don't stop to ask. There's a bumpin noise behind me but I don't turn. Watch yerself back there, then. Don't dump the wounded. Mug and Weed babble wearily as the wheelbarrow clatters over the gravelly track.
And then, sure enough, there's the home parcel. Garden overgrown but picked clean. Leastwise Sean Toggins kept up with it. Shame to waste good veggies. That round thing – the Talon circle – is gone from me door. But I recall them sayin it was jest on loan anyhow.
Insided, me misshapen pallet is a sight for sore eyes. I take down the rack of tools and mishmash thats been strapped to me back for this last week. Me shoulders never felt so fine. Mug and Weedy have got the barrow wedged in the doorway and jest stare at it stupidly. I pull out the two snorin bundles from the barrow and set them over by the hearth. Yank the barrow inside, with the goblins still attached to the handles.
Straw pallet, take me away...
Comin homeward is sweet and sour. Not that there was time for farewells and such... with all me customers evil-eyein me on account of the goblins, green-apple-quicksteppin outta town was the best choice for findin some payin work. And givin everyone a break from the goblins. Particularlikewise due to the fourth that showed up after the disaster at Imp's shop...
The familiar things round about home makes all the foulness of the Grey Lady jest slip from me mind. Higginpaugh's cows stare at me as they always did, and Widow Cudfisk actually throws a bit of sod at me – like she has all me life. Good to be home then.
Wiley's got a shoddy bit of bridge now, an embarrassment to carpentry. Swanson's mill wheel is turnin, so mayhaps he's got business again. I don't stop to ask. There's a bumpin noise behind me but I don't turn. Watch yerself back there, then. Don't dump the wounded. Mug and Weed babble wearily as the wheelbarrow clatters over the gravelly track.
And then, sure enough, there's the home parcel. Garden overgrown but picked clean. Leastwise Sean Toggins kept up with it. Shame to waste good veggies. That round thing – the Talon circle – is gone from me door. But I recall them sayin it was jest on loan anyhow.
Insided, me misshapen pallet is a sight for sore eyes. I take down the rack of tools and mishmash thats been strapped to me back for this last week. Me shoulders never felt so fine. Mug and Weedy have got the barrow wedged in the doorway and jest stare at it stupidly. I pull out the two snorin bundles from the barrow and set them over by the hearth. Yank the barrow inside, with the goblins still attached to the handles.
Straw pallet, take me away...
In Which Imp and Meself Play Cards on a Slow Night with Disastrous-like Results
IMP wanna play cards?
RAB sure.
IMP ::takes a deck of cards::
IMP ::shuffles:: Poker? or Blackjack?
RAB::crashes down on the couch::
RAB er. okay.
IMP ok
RAB eights?
IMP Crazy eights?
RAB wild? I dunno.
IMP hmm ::still shuffling:: how about hearts
RAB how many cards do I get?
RAB didn't yeh say pokerblackpack?
IMP sounds good... ::deals the entire deck::
RAB wow.
RAB can I look at them?
IMP You are supposed to.
RAB ::stacks them neatly in his big hands::
RAB ::fans them out easily::
RAB right.
RAB who starts?
IMP You do. I dealed. ::having trouble holding all the cards::
RAB oh. ::lays down a Dunce of hearts::
RAB is that right?
IMP ::nod:: that's good ::lays down the 5 of hearts::
RAB did I win?
IMP No. Just keep putting down hearts.
RAB why?
IMP That's the rules!
RAB ::squints at him:: is this a real game?
IMP ::shrugs:: mebbe
RAB ::picks out a 3 of hearts and lays it down::
IMP ::puts down the 3 of clubs::
RAB AHA! ::pounds his fist down on the faceup cards::
RAB that's not a heart!
IMP So?!
IMP It's a three, like the other one!
RAB ::socks him::
IMP ack!!
RAB so I hit yeh!
RAB right?
IMP NO!
RAB oh.
IMP You are not supposed to make the rules!
IMP I do! ::kicks him::
RAB I wasn't. I thought yeh OW were gonna hit me first.
RAB ::straightens his cards again and looks at the 3 of clubs::
IMP Well, yeah, but later.
RAB hmm.
IMP ::takes his cards again::
RAB ::lays down a 3 of diamonds::
RAB there.
IMP hmm... ::puts down the king of diamonds::
RAB AHA! ::pounds the cards again and cocks back his fist to hit him::
RAB that's not a 3 or a heart!
IMP ::and cards fly everywhere::
IMP It's a diamond!!! sheesh!
RAB right. do I win? ::holding back the fist, uncertain::
IMP No! ::flails::
IMP You have to get rid of all your cards first!
RAB oh. ::settles down and looks at his cards again::
IMP ::picks up his cards again::
RAB so. ::lays down a 2 of hearts::
IMP No!
IMP get that back.
RAB what?
RAB it's a heart!
IMP You have to play a diamond. ::pointing at the king:: see?
IMP They have to match.
RAB it's not called diamonds!
RAB oh.
RAB ::takes card back and rummages through his cards::
IMP ::mutters:: or another freaking king
RAB ::pulls out a 2 of diamonds::
RAB there.
IMP fine.
IMP ok... ::puts down the 6 of diamonds::
RAB is that a 6 or a 9?
IMP It's a 6. Can't you count?
RAB yeh. why?
RAB it's upside-downers.
RAB that's not countin.
IMP That's a 6. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 diamonds.
RAB oh.
RAB that's almost Math.
IMP ::slaps him upside the head::
RAB OW yeh said no hittin.
IMP Just play a card
IMP I had to before you hit me.
RAB ::plays the Manatee of diamonds::
IMP What the hell is that?
RAB weird deck yeh got here.
RAB ::squints at the card::
RAB is this a marked deck? that looks marked ::points at Manatee::
IMP I don't know where that card came from. Are you cheating now?
RAB me? I've only got fruit in me pocket.
IMP yeah, right
RAB fine. I'l play another card.
IMP hey!
IMP Pick up that card first!
RAB ::starts to play::
RAB why?
IMP You can't play twice in a row!
RAB but yeh said it wasn't a real card.
IMP So you keep it in your hand!
RAB how bout I play two that add up to the value of that one?
IMP that's cheating!
RAB ::takes back Manatee card, grumbling::
RAB ::lays down a 6 of clubs::
IMP That's better.
RAB yer deck yeh know...
RAB ::puts down the ace of clubs::
RAB ::peers closely at the Manatee::
IMP You probably switched it.
RAB with what? an apple?
IMP No! With a manatee!
RAB what's a manatee?
IMP I thought you knew.
RAB is it like a goatee?
IMP no, more like a bee
RAB ::shrugs:: arright.
RAB ::lays down a 6 of spades::
IMP You can't put that down!
RAB ::considers::
RAB that's not right, is it.
IMP No, it isn't!
IMP Either clubs or another ace.
RAB why clubs?
RAB yeh laid an ace of clubs?
RAB that's a club?
RAB that's not a club .
RAB yeah, that's a club
RAB is it?
RAB stupid cards.
IMP Do you need glasses too?
RAB ::takes back the 6 and lays down an ace of hearts::
RAB ::ignores::
IMP feh
IMP ::plays the 8 of hearts::
RAB ::plays another 8 of hearts::
RAB this is a funny deck.
IMP ::points:: HEY!!
IMP You ARE cheating!!!!
IMP I know! lookit!
RAB I'm not! It's YER deck!
RAB fine. I'll take it back too.
IMP You are too!
IMP How can you have another 8 of hearts?
IMP You are cheating!
RAB ::grabs it and lays down an 8 of clubs::
RAB it's yer deck! how should I know?
IMP You have cards hidden up your sleeve!
RAB really? ::interested::
IMP Yeah, really!
RAB ::peers up his sleeves::
RAB er.
RAB no.
RAB well, not yet, I guess.
IMP Then how do you explain the extra 8 of hearts?
RAB it's YER deck!
RAB how'd yeh explain it?
IMP So?!
IMP I know how to explain it! You are cheating! ::throws his cards at Rab::
RAB yer tryin to cheat me outta more snacks.
IMP Am not!
RAB I don't know how to cheat!
IMP First you wanted to play an unknown card and now you have doubles! THAT's called cheating!
RAB LOOK. ::points to the 8 of clubs:: there. play it.
RAB go.
RAB go.
RAB go.
IMP ::picks up his cards again::
IMP ::mutters::
RAB ::scowls::
IMP ::plays the 8 of spades::
RAB AHA! that's four eights! ::socks him:: YER CHEATIN!
IMP ::cards go flying all over the place:: Am not!!!!
RAB how'd yeh explain yet another 8?
IMP It's spades!!
RAB with that extra 8 of hearts, that's five eights!
RAB somethin's wrong!
IMP YOU had the extra card!
IMP YOU were cheating!
RAB ::sighs:: no. ::picks up his cards again::
IMP Fine! ::plays all of his cards one after the other:: I win!
RAB wow.
RAB that went faster than I thought.
IMP wanna play cards?
RAB sure.
IMP ::takes a deck of cards::
IMP ::shuffles:: Poker? or Blackjack?
RAB::crashes down on the couch::
RAB er. okay.
IMP ok
RAB eights?
IMP Crazy eights?
RAB wild? I dunno.
IMP hmm ::still shuffling:: how about hearts
RAB how many cards do I get?
RAB didn't yeh say pokerblackpack?
IMP sounds good... ::deals the entire deck::
RAB wow.
RAB can I look at them?
IMP You are supposed to.
RAB ::stacks them neatly in his big hands::
RAB ::fans them out easily::
RAB right.
RAB who starts?
IMP You do. I dealed. ::having trouble holding all the cards::
RAB oh. ::lays down a Dunce of hearts::
RAB is that right?
IMP ::nod:: that's good ::lays down the 5 of hearts::
RAB did I win?
IMP No. Just keep putting down hearts.
RAB why?
IMP That's the rules!
RAB ::squints at him:: is this a real game?
IMP ::shrugs:: mebbe
RAB ::picks out a 3 of hearts and lays it down::
IMP ::puts down the 3 of clubs::
RAB AHA! ::pounds his fist down on the faceup cards::
RAB that's not a heart!
IMP So?!
IMP It's a three, like the other one!
RAB ::socks him::
IMP ack!!
RAB so I hit yeh!
RAB right?
IMP NO!
RAB oh.
IMP You are not supposed to make the rules!
IMP I do! ::kicks him::
RAB I wasn't. I thought yeh OW were gonna hit me first.
RAB ::straightens his cards again and looks at the 3 of clubs::
IMP Well, yeah, but later.
RAB hmm.
IMP ::takes his cards again::
RAB ::lays down a 3 of diamonds::
RAB there.
IMP hmm... ::puts down the king of diamonds::
RAB AHA! ::pounds the cards again and cocks back his fist to hit him::
RAB that's not a 3 or a heart!
IMP ::and cards fly everywhere::
IMP It's a diamond!!! sheesh!
RAB right. do I win? ::holding back the fist, uncertain::
IMP No! ::flails::
IMP You have to get rid of all your cards first!
RAB oh. ::settles down and looks at his cards again::
IMP ::picks up his cards again::
RAB so. ::lays down a 2 of hearts::
IMP No!
IMP get that back.
RAB what?
RAB it's a heart!
IMP You have to play a diamond. ::pointing at the king:: see?
IMP They have to match.
RAB it's not called diamonds!
RAB oh.
RAB ::takes card back and rummages through his cards::
IMP ::mutters:: or another freaking king
RAB ::pulls out a 2 of diamonds::
RAB there.
IMP fine.
IMP ok... ::puts down the 6 of diamonds::
RAB is that a 6 or a 9?
IMP It's a 6. Can't you count?
RAB yeh. why?
RAB it's upside-downers.
RAB that's not countin.
IMP That's a 6. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 diamonds.
RAB oh.
RAB that's almost Math.
IMP ::slaps him upside the head::
RAB OW yeh said no hittin.
IMP Just play a card
IMP I had to before you hit me.
RAB ::plays the Manatee of diamonds::
IMP What the hell is that?
RAB weird deck yeh got here.
RAB ::squints at the card::
RAB is this a marked deck? that looks marked ::points at Manatee::
IMP I don't know where that card came from. Are you cheating now?
RAB me? I've only got fruit in me pocket.
IMP yeah, right
RAB fine. I'l play another card.
IMP hey!
IMP Pick up that card first!
RAB ::starts to play::
RAB why?
IMP You can't play twice in a row!
RAB but yeh said it wasn't a real card.
IMP So you keep it in your hand!
RAB how bout I play two that add up to the value of that one?
IMP that's cheating!
RAB ::takes back Manatee card, grumbling::
RAB ::lays down a 6 of clubs::
IMP That's better.
RAB yer deck yeh know...
RAB ::puts down the ace of clubs::
RAB ::peers closely at the Manatee::
IMP You probably switched it.
RAB with what? an apple?
IMP No! With a manatee!
RAB what's a manatee?
IMP I thought you knew.
RAB is it like a goatee?
IMP no, more like a bee
RAB ::shrugs:: arright.
RAB ::lays down a 6 of spades::
IMP You can't put that down!
RAB ::considers::
RAB that's not right, is it.
IMP No, it isn't!
IMP Either clubs or another ace.
RAB why clubs?
RAB yeh laid an ace of clubs?
RAB that's a club?
RAB that's not a club .
RAB yeah, that's a club
RAB is it?
RAB stupid cards.
IMP Do you need glasses too?
RAB ::takes back the 6 and lays down an ace of hearts::
RAB ::ignores::
IMP feh
IMP ::plays the 8 of hearts::
RAB ::plays another 8 of hearts::
RAB this is a funny deck.
IMP ::points:: HEY!!
IMP You ARE cheating!!!!
IMP I know! lookit!
RAB I'm not! It's YER deck!
RAB fine. I'll take it back too.
IMP You are too!
IMP How can you have another 8 of hearts?
IMP You are cheating!
RAB ::grabs it and lays down an 8 of clubs::
RAB it's yer deck! how should I know?
IMP You have cards hidden up your sleeve!
RAB really? ::interested::
IMP Yeah, really!
RAB ::peers up his sleeves::
RAB er.
RAB no.
RAB well, not yet, I guess.
IMP Then how do you explain the extra 8 of hearts?
RAB it's YER deck!
RAB how'd yeh explain it?
IMP So?!
IMP I know how to explain it! You are cheating! ::throws his cards at Rab::
RAB yer tryin to cheat me outta more snacks.
IMP Am not!
RAB I don't know how to cheat!
IMP First you wanted to play an unknown card and now you have doubles! THAT's called cheating!
RAB LOOK. ::points to the 8 of clubs:: there. play it.
RAB go.
RAB go.
RAB go.
IMP ::picks up his cards again::
IMP ::mutters::
RAB ::scowls::
IMP ::plays the 8 of spades::
RAB AHA! that's four eights! ::socks him:: YER CHEATIN!
IMP ::cards go flying all over the place:: Am not!!!!
RAB how'd yeh explain yet another 8?
IMP It's spades!!
RAB with that extra 8 of hearts, that's five eights!
RAB somethin's wrong!
IMP YOU had the extra card!
IMP YOU were cheating!
RAB ::sighs:: no. ::picks up his cards again::
IMP Fine! ::plays all of his cards one after the other:: I win!
RAB wow.
RAB that went faster than I thought.
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