7.11 (1/2)

The King of Destruction rode to war and everyone watched. Not directly, but by reactions. In their studio, Noass and Sir Relz scrambled to retell the events, to analyze. Belchan was unresponsive, as was Reim; the nearest nations willing to talk and speculate were Medain and Nerrhavia. And their rulers did.

They were of course, appalled. Everyone was. Queen Yisame was pale as she declared war again on Belchan. And when you looked at her face, well—you might realize that she had never seen war up front. Not like that, in detail. She was a [Queen] who had seen the truth of battle for the first time.

As had many. Wistram was sending out an apology to those who had witnessed the scene and were venting their fury over seeing dead children and blood. Because, that was, of course, unacceptable to broadcast. Clearly, Wistram would need to put policies in place. Delay the broadcast in case of traumatic scenes? Issue a warning?

But meanwhile, Yisame and Nerrhavia’s horror was genuine. And that earned her appreciation for her sincerity. Medain’s High King, Perric, struck a different chord. He too condemned the atrocities, but his was a measured tone. He had seen death, and you could respect a man who could speak levelly, condemning both Reim and Belchan in equal measures. But it was on Belchan his armies marched, to eat away at the north.

And the world watched it all, of course. That was the new way of things. And—was anyone sick of it? Surely so, like the Titan of Baleros, who rolled his eyes and told Foliana to stop watching the broadcasts.

“It’s politics, Foliana. Politics. I’m going back to my chess game. Tell me if they show the actual battles.”

The Squirrel Beastkin woman didn’t respond. She was perched in front of the scrying mirror, nibbling on walnuts and other nuts. There was a little bowl of honey she occasionally dipped them in. This wasn’t a contract; it was just a favorite snack. But she was watching with that absorbed look of someone experiencing broadcast television for the first time. Also…she might have been studying potential targets, but you couldn’t ever get away from the job.

But she was one of many. And the world…

The world watched.

—-

The world, the world, what a stupid thing…it was always ‘the world’ this, or ‘everyone’ that. Sometimes the dramas of nations could be stupid. Who cared what the King of Destruction did thousands of miles away? What bearing did it have on here?

Nothing. And everything. It would not have mattered as much, that war in Belchan, a single dead Gnoll tribe, if Wistram hadn’t broadcast it. If people didn’t pay attention, it wouldn’t have affected everyone. But they had. And the ripples spread wide.

Tails and Scales, one of the best bars in Pallass, was not a happy place that night. Patrons filled the seats, talking urgently, angrily, or hysterically over what they’d seen. Rufelt, at the bar, was suppressing nausea and anger and a sense of vindication as he did his job. Lasica had gone to her kitchen to feed her clients. She’d shrugged off Rufelt suggesting she sit down. She wanted to work.

The bar wasn’t run by just the two of them of course. Their staff was hurrying about. Two apprentice [Bartenders] and some of Lasica’s assistants were serving tables. One of them, a Garuda, took a trio of drinks to a table where two Drakes were sitting.

“Apologies for the delay, sirs. I have a large water with ice and lemon, a carrot juice, unsweetened, and a Chaldion’s Eye for uh—”

“Me. Thank you, young man.”

Chaldion glanced up from his conversation with Grimalkin. The Garuda bowed and served the cocktail. It was, in fact, a Firebreath Whiskey and an Ultasian bitter made from the Ultasa flower, all mixed together with some lime.

And if that sounded really bitter and sour, well, the key to alleviating the pain was the floating ice ball, carved into the shape of an eye. And inside the already-melting ice was a shot of exceptionally sweet, practically syrupy, wine.

Rufelt’s own blend. It would melt as the drinker imbibed, so long as they had the patience for it. The Chaldion’s Eye was a popular dish in Pallass, especially among the [Strategists]. And the Drake who it had been made for.

“Ah.”

Chaldion sipped the bitter drink as the Garuda bowed. He was new, so he was still star-struck by the clientele. Grimalkin too; the Sinew Magus’ newfound fame made him stand out. As did the bandages.

“Hm. Thank you.”

The two Drakes turned back to their conversation. Around them, the bar buzzed, but the two were fixated on their own conversation. They were, of course, talking about Belchan. They’d both seen the replays, but their own take on the matter was a bit off-kilter to everyone else’s.

“It’s another point in my theory, Grand Strategist. Regardless of the actual origins of the event, you must concede today has not been a normal one.”

Chaldion sighed. He was sipping slowly as the ice melted and the syrup began to release. The [Strategist] was quite contented with it. This wasn’t a drink you could get in any bar. Let alone the inn he’d just been in. The Wandering Inn had a different feel than Tails and Scales. It was charming, engaging—but lacked the heights of craft of this place.

And that was fine. But Chaldion liked his drinks. He waved a claw idly as he glanced over at the scrying mirror on the far wall. Rufelt had left it active, but everyone was watching it warily. Pallass’ own Noass and Sir Relz were on it, a mark of pride of the city, but they’d been apologizing non-stop for the vivid depiction of violence. Now they had another [Strategist], from Manus, giving his thoughts on the matter.

“Magus, you’re conflating the issues. The actions of the King of Destruction or other nations across the world cannot be the product of one [Innkeeper]’s Skills.”

Grimalkin leaned on the table as he drank from his very large vessel of water. Hydration was important! He raised his clawed hand and shrugged.

“Of course not, Grand Strategist. However, I will put forwards these two points. One—the actions occurred in a timeline where we interacted with Erin Solstice and were distracted again, after her use of her new Skill. It bears adding to my list of data points. Secondly—where are we now? Are we at Erin Solstice’s inn, inquiring about her origins or Skills and levels?”

Chaldion paused. His one good eye narrowed.

“True. But this has to be a coincidence.”

“And if it’s not? Let’s leave aside the incident with the King of Destruction. Her Skill, the disappearance of the child, Mrsha. Either Erin Solstice really is as oblivious as she seems, or…”

“No one who plays chess like she does is that airheaded. She magnificently deflected all of our questions. And she beat my [Path to Victory].”

The old Drake’s eye narrowed, and then, unexpectedly, he smiled. He was quite pleased by that last bit. Grimalkin eyed him.

“If I might inquire, Grand Strategist—”

“Chaldion is fine, Magus Grimalkin.”

Grimalkin nodded briefly.

“—Then if it is not a matter of security, your Skill. I have always been fascinated by the higher-level Skills as data on them is sparse. When you say she defeated…”

Chaldion raised his left eye patch. The gem in his eye flashed, creating a bubble of privacy. He spoke casually as Grimalkin switched to his carrot juice.

“It’s no large secret. I’ve used it so many times that its public record, as you well know. It can be defeated; it just shows me one route to victory in any given battle. Not even the optimal one. It has vast utility, but it’s hardly impregnable. Miss Solstice saw me use it; she was able to change her entire strategy and defeat me. But that was a mark of her skill at the game. The third time we played and I used my Skill, she won.”

“Fascinating. And my assertion?”

Chaldion drummed his claws on the table and nodded.

“You have my full agreement. I may personally investigate this matter, along with you; I doubt an agent would have much success. But I have put out an inquiry on her.”

Grimalkin paused, mid-drink.

“And?”

“Nothing.”

The Magus put down his drink and paused for a moment.

“Hardly surprising for a Human no one’s heard about. Or so the other Walled Cities might assert.”

Chaldion’s eyes glinted.

“Yes. If I hadn’t met her, I’d say that too.”

The two Drakes paused significantly. But before they could speculate longer, there was an aggrieved shout from the bar.

“Dead gods take it, Saliss! We told you you’re not allowed in here without at least pants! You’re putting people off their food!”

Rufelt was not in a good mood. And Saliss had just emerged from the bathroom. His claws were clean, but, to put it delicately, he had neither had to remove or put on any articles of clothing throughout his entire process. He was still naked.

“Rufelt! Come on. Have a heart!”

Saliss protested, spreading his claws. Rufelt glared.

“There are paying customers. You’re one of them. Clothes on or you go out. I’m not arguing tonight, Saliss—”

He was interrupted by a Gnoll pushing towards him. The Gnoll had dark black fur and a dark look in his eyes. He leaned on the bar, heavily.

“I don’t care about naked Drakes. Just get me a drink, Rufelt. Bartender’s specialty.”

That was code for ‘give me what I need’. Rufelt, as a high-level [Bartender] could tailor his drinks to his clientele. Usually it was a delicate game, teasing out the emotions or state of drunk they needed to be—or not be. But tonight Rufelt didn’t even have to think. He reached for a glass.

“A Salaszarian Rockhammer, coming up, Felkhr.”

The Gnoll, who was a new guest tonight, nodded. He was the Flying Gnoll of Pallass, another one of those faces. Rufelt had invited him to Tails and Scales after the Wyvern attack. He saw Rufelt fill the glass with ice, mix up the steady drink—and then add something from a bottle.

“What’s that?”

Rufelt glanced up as he slid the drink over, without his usual flourishes.

“Calming drink. Everyone needs them tonight. Xif, Saliss, sell me some more of your tonics. We need it.”

The Drake [Alchemist] paused. He dug in his bag of holding and a Gnoll sitting across from him did the same. Xif, the other top [Alchemist] of Pallass, shook his head.

“I can send a Runner unless you have some, Saliss—”

“No problem, Xif. I always carry—aha! Got them. Here, Rufelt!”

He flung them across the bar. Everyone in the path ducked and Rufelt swore. But the potions, all five of them in small vials, slowed as they arced towards his bar. They landed without so much as cracking the glass.

Rufelt glared at Saliss. The Drake waved. But he was toning down his usual riot act. Rufelt nodded. He began pouring the rest of the calming tonic into the drinks he was serving.

Felkhr sighed as he drained half of his drink. His fur had been standing on edge. Now, he relaxed. But his grip on the glass tumbler was still strong.

“Humans.”

That was all he said. But half of the Gnolls around him nodded. Rufelt said nothing as Lasica emerged from the kitchen. Felkhr amended his statement.

“Some of them are decent. But that—”

“Have another drink. I’m doubling up your tonic. Something sour to chase that down with.”

Rufelt advised Felkhr. The Gnoll sighed.

“Thank you. It’s one thing to know or hear about it, but to see it—”

“We’re all shaken. No one’s denying that. Apologies for the delay, Magus, Grand Strategist. Here is tonight’s special, Chaldion—”

Lasica was being followed by orders of food. The [Chef] came to the two Drake’s table to deliver their orders personally. Both Drakes looked up. Chaldion eyed the dish placed in front of them.

“Interesting. What is this?”

He stared at the neatly, even artfully sliced fish on the rice and colorful little bites wrapped in the roll. Well, some were wrapped—some just looked like literal raw fish on rice. And there were little dishes with sauces…

“I’ve heard it’s called ‘sushi’ by Erin, but it’s a traditional Dullahan and Drathian food. Raw fish, rice, seaweed—there are variations, but this is Magus Grimalkin’s request.”

“A Balerosian dish.”

Grimalkin was nodding. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Did you say Miss Solstice had a specific name for it?”

“She has names for everything, Magus.”

Lasica shrugged, unconcerned. Grimalkin gave Chaldion a significant look. The Grand Strategist nodded, his expression calm.

“Ah, I’ve had this. Zeres serves it too. Most excellent, Miss Lasica.”

She smiled. Grimalkin raised one claw.

“I’ll need eight more portions, Chef Lasica. I am attempting to build up my muscles. How about two more of these sushi plates, a stir fry of meats and noodles and vegetables, a steak, no, three—Wyvern cuts? And…any suggestions?”

Lasica eyed Grimalkin. He was thinner than before, but his list of food was making even some of the [Gourmands] who liked to frequent her bar look queasy.

“I’ll throw in some shrimp—fresh from Zeres. I have a quinoa for Saliss—I’ll make two portions. Would you like some lard too, Magus? In a bucket?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The [Chef] shook her head as she went back to the kitchen. Grimalkin turned back to his food as he and Chaldion began to eat. He did not shovel his food; the two Drakes used the lacquered chopsticks they’d been given to eat. Grimalkin was rather adept and Chaldion remembered how to use his in moments.

Grimalkin ate methodically, savoring and chewing each bite. If he hadn’t, Lasica probably would have stopped serving him long ago. She had no room in her establishment for scarfers.

And to be ejected from the bar was to lose your access to it, and that was no light thing. Tails and Scales was one of the best establishments in all of Pallass. That meant husband and wife could cultivate the clientele they wanted.

Rufelt and Lasica had created a very selective clientele. They had a group which were pleasant to serve, got along with each other most of the time, and could pay for quality. And that number expanded seldom and usually by invitation by way of friend, sponsoring. You couldn’t walk into Tails and Scales without being on the list.

Literally. Rufelt had a Skill. [Bar: Selective Admission]. It could literally keep anyone below his level from casually walking in. But emergencies and higher-level individuals were an exception.

And that happened now. The door to the bar burst open and a Dullahan hurried into the room. Or rather—his head. Rufelt looked up from the bar as the apprentice Dullahan hurried him over.

It was rare to see a Dullahan without their body, but the strange, armored folk of Baleros could separate body parts and send them long distances. Usually only a hundred feet, but with practice, you could go further. It was said the Seer of Steel could control his body thousands of miles from his head.

In this case, the Dullahan was doing this on purpose. He was another [Bartender], whose body could make drinks while his head spoke or interacted with his clients. Tonight, however, the head looked anxious, which meant for a Dullahan he was panicking.

“Rufelt! I must seek your help.”

“What’s the matter, Yeart?”

Rufelt didn’t stop fixing his drink, but he turned to the Dullahan as his assistant put the head on the counter and stepped back, bowing. Yeart looked up at Rufelt, worry written all across his face.

“My bar is under siege. You know I just bought a scrying orb? I had a full bar when it happened.”

“Oh no. Were there—”

Yeart nodded, miserably. It was difficult without a neck, but Dullahans could do it.

“Some of the Gnoll families had children watching the broadcast! They’re all howling and I need something to serve them! The parents too!”

Rufelt cursed. Few of his clients had children, but he could just imagine the scene. He looked around.

“Xif, calming tonics. Can Yeart buy some from you?”

“Send a Runner. I’ll bill him later.”

The Gnoll raised a paw. Rufelt nodded to Yeart. The Dullahan was concentrating. His actual body was writing out a request to be fulfilled immediately by a Street Runner; they often lingered around bars or places where they knew they’d find steady work.

“How heavy are the Gnoll kids, Yeart?”

“Um—young. Some are barely old, but the ones who are old enough to know what happened must be—ten? Eight? And older!”

Rufelt nodded. He grabbed the calming tonic and brought it down so the Dullahan could see. He shot a drink sideways as he made a second one, demonstrating.

“Listen up. You give them one drop per three stones. Estimate low instead of high. Don’t mix it with alcohol for the kids. Give them milk, juice, and mix it in—”

“No milk.”

The two [Alchemists] chorused instantly. Rufelt and Yeart looked over, the Dullahan apprentice turning the [Bartender]’s head. Saliss waved one claw.

“That’s right, no milk. Not if it’s the whole thing. A tiny amount’s good, but milk reacts with the calming tonic. Juice is fine. No carrot juice, though. Carrots mess with potions.”

“Who drinks carrots—?”

Yeart’s mystified voice was lost as Rufelt kept giving him orders. At his table, Grimalkin snorted. Chaldion smiled as he pulled something out of his bag of holding.

“Doesn’t that Courier drink it too, Magus? Hawk.”

“He put me onto it. A nutritious drink. I’ve persuaded Miss Lasica to keep a stock—with some of her classic infusions for muscular growth. Both he and I drink it.”

The [Chef] was known for her ability to make food that would make you shed weight no matter how much you ate. She could also make dishes that gave you energy all day, and so on. Erin was taking lessons from her.

Grimalkin eyed the roll of paper that Chaldion had pulled out. A small box, actually. It was a thick cigar, known as a ‘puffer’ colloquially. Recreational drugs had an uneasy relationship in Drake cities most of the time, and they were almost always imported from overseas.

“Where did you get that, Grand Strategist?”

“The Centaur offered me some. Palt, I believe. Wistram has its tentacles in the inn, Magus.”

“So I noted. Did I recount the incident with them to you, Chaldion?”

“No. But do tell. Hm. Not a bad gift or bribe, whichever he intended. Would you care for one?”

Chaldion offered a cigar to Grimalkin. The Magus shook his head. He stared as a hand tried to sneak up over the table. Chaldion brought his fork down.

He missed. Saliss yanked his claw out of the way just in time. The Named Adventurer poked his head over the table with a huge smile. Xif wore a pained expression as he watched his dining partner. Saliss looked at Chaldion with as serious a face as he could muster.

“What’s the Assembly’s policy on substances in Pallass, Grand Strategist Chaldion?”

“I don’t recall, you brat. Here. Give me yours.”

Chaldion flicked a cigar at Saliss. The [Alchemist] caught it, and flicked his claws. The cigar lit instantly; the Drake had conjured sparks with a little snap of the claws. He puffed twice and rolled his eyes.

“Weeeeak. But I suppose it’s the best a non-Alchemist can make. Here.”

He fished out two dark purple-brown cigars from his bag of holding. Xif coughed—Saliss flicked out a third and spun it across the bar.

“If you’re handing those out, Saliss—”

Rufelt caught the two flying his way. Other people hopefully called out and Saliss demonstrated his uncanny ability to throw. He was in a generous mood, and this was another reason why people tolerated his nudity and personality. Palt might have had decent quality, but he wouldn’t find a large market in Pallass if he tried selling his wares here.

“Magus.”

Saliss offered Grimalkin the cigar with a grin. Chaldion was already lighting his. Grimalkin held up a claw.

“I don’t smoke. I regulate all my intakes.”

“Don’t be a lizard, Magus. We could all use one. This had better not be one of your prank ones, Saliss. Or I will throw you in the deepest cell.”

Chaldion sighed. Grimalkin hesitated. He eyed the cigar and at last, took it, muttering.

“…I suppose I could check my physical changes. I am eating enough to throw off my nutritional charts anyways.”

He accepted it and lit it with one claw. The Magus inhaled, coughed—Saliss grinned as he gyrated back to Xif’s table.

“Where were we, Xif? Ah, right. That fire helps cut some of my processes in half. Nice flame; has a magical influence on what it burns. Useful, once I figure out how to optimize it.”

The Gnoll’s eyes lit up. They were, as always, comparing alchemical notes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a sample of this marvelous fire, would you, Saliss?”

“Sure do. Like I said, it burns fuel way too fast. But it works on wood; I just can’t let it go out, since Miss Solstice doesn’t look like she’ll give me any more easily. When I’m not there, I have to feed it with charcoal or even magicore; I need a device to toss wood at the fire so it always has something to eat. Then it’ll be cheap. I’m going to bug an [Engineer] about it tomorrow.”

The Gnoll [Alchemist]’s eyes lit up. He had discolored fur and smelled of…everything. Mostly acrid powders or substances, even when he washed. He was the best [Alchemist] in the city—or second-best, if you counted Saliss. But while one was specialized mostly towards war, Xif was specialized towards selling his creations. Naturally, the two were friends. It was that or rivals.

“You can leave it with me. I’d be happy to look after it.”

“Hah! Go eat your tail, Xif.”

Saliss grinned over his shrimp quinoa. Xif sighed; the dark cigar lay at the table, for later. Rufelt had already deployed one of his apprentices with an anti-scent tonic to dab surreptitiously around the bar. It cut some of the good smells, but it meant each booth wouldn’t bother other customers with the smoking.

“Come now, I’ll pay you well—”

“Give me some of your flowers. What’ve you found?”

The Gnoll sighed.

“It’s psychedelic. Extremely so. Magically—I tried an anti-magic blocker, but it went through it. Not sure if I’m missing the components, but it keeps reacting differently. Raw, the nectar has one effect. Mix it with alcohol, and—well, I saw my parents.”

“How awful.”

Saliss’ face was straight. Xif ignored that.

“Almost every bit of it is strongly magical. If I had more, I’d test it, but I’m sure it’s a high-magic sample. As good as Sage’s Grass. It must be due to that inn. The ambient magic is high enough to grow it…I regret pushing Miss Solstice so fast. But I must have more.”

“Can’t you take some cuttings?”

Xif glowered.

“They’re extremely hard to grow. I tried with Miss Velaaia. Twice! They died. I’m not risking my one sample; I’m sending it to Oteslia.”

The Drake’s brows shot up.

“Velaaia failed? They must be hard to grow! I wonder how Erin did it. Say, you do that. I’ll just get more fire from her. And flowers.”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll have them—I’ve been meaning to stop by again. Maybe with a little gift. I’ll tell you what, Saliss. You can probably make a potent sleeping agent. Burning the petals when dried creates an amazing soporific effect…”

“Ooh. Do tell. Can I see it?”

“No.”

The two [Alchemist]’s banter was an anomaly in a sea of talk that all went invariably one way. Belchan, the Gnoll tribes. Tails and Scales was discussing what they’d seen. In fact, Chaldion and Grimalkin soon became a center of that discussion.

“Oteslia will not send an army. Neither will Zeres or the other Walled Cities; the declaration of war was symbolic.”

Chaldion was reassuring some clients. He’d been communicating with the other Walled Cities. He sighed.

“Oteslia does have the highest Gnoll-to-Drake population of all the Walled Cities. The Grand Gardener must have decided to make the declaration.”

“And now it’s war. Good. I say that nation deserves it.”

Felkhr nodded. A cluster of Gnolls and Drakes were sitting together. One of the other Drakes waved a claw.

“But it’s the King of Destruction! He might have cause, but this could all be some—trick.”

“Trick?”

All the Gnolls present looked at the Drake. She wavered.

“Well, not a trick, trick. But a—casus belli. You know? He’s still the King of Destruction. We shouldn’t be glad he’s attacking Belchan. This is exactly what we should be worried about. He was bound by his oath, and if he gets stronger…”

Another Gnoll slowly ground her cigar into an ashtray.

“And? The King of Destruction’s gotten a lot of talk, but I don’t remember him ever attacking Gnoll tribes. Seems like there was one good Human I just saw. And it wasn’t Belchan.”

That provoked a lot of nods, again from the Gnolls. They were angry. The Drakes were worried, but the Gnolls—more than one was nodding at the King of Destruction. Chaldion sipped from his drink, watching carefully as they spoke.

“I remember back when I used to live with my tribe. There were some cities we never went near. Ever. One time, we had to stop at one and the first thing I smelled was a hide cloak. Made of—”

Felkhr made a disgusted sound. Some of the Drakes looked uneasy. But the other Gnolls were nodding.

“Small tribes have it worst. I thought I recognized that Chieftain. Nelrra. Um—um—his tribe’s the Dustfur clan. That’s the one.”

“It’s not all like that. Surely…”

“What would you know? Pallass is one thing. But when they talk about some of the cities—”

“Chandrar looks just as bad.”

“But they have a [King] who went to war for them. That’s something.”

“But they’re not going to the Meeting of Tribes. Or will they?”

“Surely not. But when you think about it, look—I’m not saying I support the King of Destruction. But…”

“White fur, all of them. Do you think it’s really true that—?”

Worrying talk, for some. Rufelt kept his face straight. But Chaldion could see the writing as if someone was indeed scrawling it on the walls. The Gnolls in Pallass, across Izril, were thinking. And their opinion of the King of Destruction was changing.

Grimalkin kept his own counsel, plowing through his food. But he kept a single sushi on one of his plates. And he kept staring at it. The almost unburned cigar lay next to the plate. The Magus frowned.

“Sushi.”

He would remember that.

—-

When the world shifted, butterflies across the world caught indigestion. Or something like that. But concretely, the events such as the war in Belchan could add a dimension to the thinking of Gnolls in Drake cities. It could inform and change the Meeting of Tribes, move a Walled City, from Pallass to Oteslia.

And sometimes, it didn’t matter at all. It was just entertainment. Horrible, but true. Sometimes it would never matter. And what concerned the fate, rights, and dignity of Gnolls mattered little to…everyone else.

Elsewhere, in a farmhouse, Wailant Strongheart leaned back in his plush chair. He waved a hand and nearly sloshed his drink out of his cup.

“Fuck, that’s interesting. Sounds like there’s gonna be another war. Shame about those Gnoll kids. What’s the white fur mean again? That little Gnoll who came over had it. Another drink? Here.”

He waved a bottle at his guest. Said guest refused, and Wailant shrugged.

He was a humble [Farmer], in his farmhouse, entertaining a guest. Although that sentence got almost every nuance of the situation completely wrong.

Wailant Strongheart was a [Farmer]. He was also a [Pirate]. He had retired, but he was still almost as fit as he’d been in his heyday of marauding the seas. He had tattoos, some of them magical, and a magical cutlass.

He was not wearing the cutlass now, but reclining in a chair in his farmhouse. And yes, it was a farmhouse in that it was a house on his farm. But it was hardly…rustic.

The home Strongheart had built for his family was large, and extravagant. Not on the level of say, the nobility, but a rich place. There were paintings by [Artists], one of a ship caught in the middle of a storm, the second of Wailant, his wife, and a portrait shot of his family. There was a little girl in the frame.

Wailant also had a hardwood floor carpeted by a Chandrarian rug. He had a library of books over there—two shelves of neatly arranged tomes, a few old sea maps, and his furniture was all padded. No hardwood backing for the [Farmer] taking his ease.

Right now, Wailant was sitting at a table filled with food. The remains of dinner, rather. He’d had a bowl of the stuff, with some long-grained rice.

It was fried bits of dough and meat. Dumplings. And Wailant actually had this fermented black sauce. It was food from overseas, again. He’d broken it out as a rare treat and to entertain his guest with.

His guest was a Hobgoblin, incidentally. Numbtongue sat in the chair, staring at the small scrying mirror that Wailant had bought to see what all this fuss was about. The Hobgoblin was still a bit tense.

Firstly, because he’d just witnessed the dead Gnolls, the [King] declaring war, and the Hobgoblin felt like he was almost in the proximity of that raging Human, for all he was thousands of miles away. Numbtongue couldn’t help but wonder how you killed a Human like that.

He could tell that Human was strong just by the way he walked; he looked like a Redfang in how he moved. Deliberate. Trained. So had the others. And strong Humans made Goblins nervous.

The second reason Numbtongue was tense was because he was here. In aforementioned farmhouse, with Wailant and…he turned as someone came from the kitchen.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing, love. Just them showing this High King or whatsit. Medain. I remember sailing there once. Ornery bastards, all of them. You can get into a fight with adventurers in any bar in the port. We have any more of the good wine?”

Wailant waved his cup. His wife, Viceria Strongheart and a [Green Mage] from Wistram, came out. She had a bottle in her hands.

“Before we drink, dear—a word?”

Wailant paused in gulping his wine. He stood up slowly. Viceria smiled at Numbtongue.

“One moment, Numbtongue?”

“Sure.”

The Hobgoblin stared. He had had a dinner here. After Wailant had helped smuggle him from Celum, he’d found himself invited—dragged, really—to the Strongheart family farm.

It was a fairly small farm, if you compared it to, say, what Erin might have thought of as a farm from her world. Wailant worked only a few fields, and they were all small. But they had tremendous yields, faster than a regular field by two or even four times. And one of his specialties was the beloved and expensive Sage’s Grass.

It had made the man rich. Wailant, along with his wife, were decent [Farmers], but they were both high-level enough to protect a farm like this themselves. They had magical fences, wards, and—well, Numbtongue had met Viceria.

She was a lovely woman, with brown hair tied back in a braid that reached down to her waist. She wore a robe at home, and she looked younger than she was. Numbtongue only knew she was older because Wailant had told him, and his wife had laughed and kicked Wailant under the table.

The surreal part was how polite she was to Numbtongue. And how relaxed Wailant was. They’d drawn him into their home, treating him like any other guest. And for the Hobgoblin, that was a strange experience.

He’d been relieved that the dinner had been mostly watching the events at Belchan. Numbtongue began to eat more of the dumplings with rice as he listened to the couple in the kitchen. He had good ears and he was still hungry.

“What’s the matter? Is this about Celum?”

“Yes it is. Don’t dodge me again, Wailant. Bringing back a guest? I know something happened. Tell me.”

A pause. Wailant coughed.

“Okay, so I may have been banned—”

“Wailant!”

“Listen, hear me out. There was this [Merchant], see—”

Numbtongue listened to Wailant’s version of the events as he filled his bowl again. What a strange place. Wailant was apparently Garia’s father. And he seemed nice. Numbtongue had still picked his escape route in case this turned out to be a trap. Side window. Two steps and he’d go through. He was pretty sure the food wasn’t poisoned, too, but you never knew.

“—So, there I was, and she rolls on past me with a smirk. I may have done something to her wheels, but I asked her to move first! And then, er, well, she hired a bunch of [Mercs] to threaten me!”

“And you slapped her. Wailant…”

“I know.”

The man’s voice was guilty. Viceria sighed quietly. Numbtongue stared at the two Drakes gesticulating to a map in the scrying orb.

“Wailant…”

“I know, I know. But you should have seen that woman’s face! Riding about as if she owned the road because she had a better class than mine.”

“I understand, believe me, Wailant, dear. But we can’t afford to lose more clients—”

“I’ll take care of it. If I have to find ‘em myself. I can ride to Remendia or Wales tomorrow. It’ll be fine, Vicci. We’re not lacking for gold and we could pawn half of the stuff here if we had to—”

“That’s not the point.”

Another sigh. Numbtongue’s ears twitched. Wailant paused.

“I know. I’ll mind myself. Maybe see about paying a fine? If it takes an apology to get them to let me in faster—I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. And we’ll go together to Remendia.”

“But—”

“We’ll set up the wards. But we go together.”

Wailant made a grumbling noise, but he must have agreed because Numbtongue heard nothing more for a second. After a moment, Wailant spoke.

“You haven’t asked me about the Goblin this entire night, my darling.”

Numbtongue eyed the window. And here was his moment…or was the door better? He had seen the trap runes on the door, but they hadn’t activated. Yet.

But Viceria’s voice was lightly amused.

“What about him? I assumed he was the same Goblin that Garia mentioned. Or is it five?”

Numbtongue stopped eating for a moment. Then, he continued eating because it was good food. His old comrades would have approved of eating.

“Didn’t ask. Let’s go ask the bugger, shall we?”

The two reappeared from the kitchen. Numbtongue waved at them as if he hadn’t heard a thing. Viceria smiled as she sat down.

“Apologies, Numbtongue, was it? Would you like another drink?”

“…Yes. Please?”

Numbtongue stared as Viceria reached for the wine bottle.

“I’ll have some too, lady love.”

Wailant lifted his glass hopefully. Viceria shot him a cool look and served Numbtongue first. The Hobgoblin felt like someone was pulling a prank on him. He hoped it was Erin.

This couple was beyond strange for one reason. Not that they were hospitable. Erin was beyond hospitable and the awe of that had actually faded with time. Just a bit. But Wailant and Viceria were different from even Erin.

“So, you told me a bit of how you got here. Mind sharing it again? Wait till you hear this, Vicci. This Hob apparently fought his way through the Goblin Lord’s lot, ended up near Liscor in that inn Garia likes. Some kind of elite Hobgoblin tribe.”

“Really? Do tell us. The Goblin Lord’s army passed by Celum, but our home was left alone.”

“Good thing for them. The cellar’s strong enough to keep all of ‘em out and they’d have died by the hundreds on the trap spells. Don’t glare, Vicci! I can say that—he’s not one of the Goblin Lord’s buddies. I think. Right?”

Wailant snorted. Viceria smiled as she filled her husband’s glass. The Hobgoblin surreptitiously sniffed the drink. But he was sure neither was drunk yet.

Numbtongue had never met anyone who didn’t care. Not about him being a Hobgoblin in Celum; that was why Wailant had brought him to his home. And he’d certainly tried to beat Numbtongue into a pulp when he’d thought the Hob was a threat.

But when he knew what Numbtongue was, he didn’t really seem to…care. Again, not about the fact that Numbtongue was a Hobgoblin who’d survived against all odds. Wailant respected that. But the sheer fact of Numbtongue being a Goblin who could think? Speak? Wailant Strongheart took that at face value.

Even Erin treated it as a fact to be shared as far and wide as possible. But Wailant didn’t. It was as natural as breathing. A fascination to meet a friendly Goblin to be sure, but not miraculous. He explained after Numbtongue had recounted his adventurers in brief.

“See, I’m not surprised to find a Hob who can speak. Vicci is, but she’s being polite. And she’s Wistram. Used to weird things.”

He grinned at his wife. Viceria smiled at Numbtongue. She had her own cup, which she’d filled with a generous helping of wine.

Numbtongue felt awkward around her; a Human that smiled at him was a rare thing and immediately made him want to check for hidden daggers. He didn’t know her, like Erin or Lyonette, or Octavia and Drassi. He didn’t trust her.

“My husband lacks tact, Numbtongue. But I am open to new meetings. I do know Goblins aren’t savages.”

She gave Wailant a look. He shrugged apologetically as he took a gulp. Viceria raised her cup—and downed it.

Numbtongue paused. The wine was strong. He was on his second cup, as was Wailant. Viceria caught up in one go, and filled her cup. Then she took another deep gulp. Numbtongue had to sniff the jar surreptitiously, but it was the same wine. Wailant laughed as he saw that.

“And my girl calls me a lush. Well, I get properly drunk. Viceria—she’s from Wistram. And [Pirate] ships run out of alcohol! My lady love has two bags of holding in each boot.”

Numbtongue looked. Viceria had sandals on. The Hobgoblin blushed mildly as she wiggled her toes and winked at him.

“You were saying, Wailant?”

“Right. Goblins. I’ve met more of you lot. At sea.”

“What?”

Numbtongue nearly dropped his bowl of rice. Wailant grinned at his expression.

“Surprised? ‘Swhy I knew you weren’t a monster. Mind you, it surprised the hell out of me when you appeared. Sorry for knocking you around a bit. Don’t know my own strength. And I’m good on land or sea.”

Numbtongue shrugged and muttered into his cup.

“I didn’t use my guitar. Didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hah! See? I knew I liked this one.”

Wailant reached over and slapped Numbtongue on the back. Viceria laughed at Numbtongue’s expression. She floated over a bowl of cold dumplings and made them hot again.

“But Goblins are monsters. Everyone knows that. Not at sea?”

Wailant shook his head in response to Numbtongue’s question.

“Goblins? Monsters? Sure, we know what everyone says. Goblin Kings? Bastards. But Goblins, savages? That’s just what they tell you, in your fancy landfolk nations. Even in Izril; you think you’re free, but all you know is what Wistram and all the other rulers tell you. Like that line about Rhir, ‘the Blighted Kingdom’, hah!”

He was half-talking to Numbtongue as a representation of ‘landfolk’, half to Viceria. She sighed; it sounded like an old quarrel.

“Wailant, they’re right about Rhir.”

The former [Pirate] rolled his eyes.

“Pah, you’ve never met them, Vicci. Demons aren’t so bad. They’re a folk. Drowned Men and [Pirates] trade with them. So do some of the Dullahans. And Drathians. They’re not any more monstrous than the things you can find in the Blighted Kingdom. Like their damned [Flesh Reapers]. I’ve never been far inland, but the Demons are just people. No worse than their enemies, or places like Roshal.”

“What’s Roshal?”

Numbtongue was embarrassed by the laughter. But Wailant explained, pointing at one of his maps. It was of the world, in miniature. The ends of the world were clearly marked on either end, as were major ports. The one he pointed to was on the southwestern side of Chandrar.

“Slave port. Lailight Scintillion, the port-capital of Roshal and the Market of Fables. One of the wonders of the world. You take prisoners, you sell them there. And you never cross the [Slavers]. It’s a wondrous place. So long as you don’t stare too hard at the shadows. I looked, once. And I never went ashore again. I’ve been around, you see.”

“And you know so much more than any [Mage] or educated sort.”

Viceria raised her brows. Wailant scowled.

“I know enough to know what’s whale shit. I’ve seen Goblins at sea. In [Pirate] ships, no less! Even once or twice on their own ships. Nasty buggers in a fight, but they leave you alone unless they’re [Pirates]. You can even trade with ‘em. If you think they won’t gut you as soon as you lower the gangplank. But that was how I was raised. Not on tales of Goblins as primitive monsters and so on.”

He pointed at the scrying orb.

“Wistram is the worst of ‘em all! Damned liars, the lot. Always plotting and tricking people. You saw how they were setting up those freaks in A’ctelios? They were trying to set up the King of Destruction. Only, they got caught in their own trap. Shifty bastards.”

Numbtongue looked sideways at Viceria. She was rolling her eyes, exasperated.

“Isn’t your wife from Wistram?”

The couple laughed. Wailant took another gulp.

“Damned right! I married one of the sneakiest! Don’t be surprised by her nice demeanor. She’s craftier than I am, and twice as evil. That’s how I know they’re crooked as a [Seductress] with a shiv hidden across her back! Or hidden up her…”

He leaned over and whispered into Numbtongue’s ear. The Hobgoblin paused.

“…No.”

“Happened once to a fellow I knew. Then she stabbed the rest of him. I swear it happened on salt!”

Numbtongue edged away from Wailant a bit. Viceria looked at him and laid a hand on her husband’s arm.

“I think it’s time we let our guest speak, Wailant.”

“Right, right. Hey, Numbtongue. You ever been to sea?”

It was a challenge. Wailant grinned, knowing the answer. Numbtongue frowned.

“No. But I have been in the High Passes.”

“Really?”

Both Viceria and Wailant looked up. The [Pirate] gave Numbtongue another look up and down.

“What’d you fight there. Anything nasty?”

The Hobgoblin shrugged, face straight.

“Not too bad. Do you know Gargoyles?”

Wailant waved off the bravado.

“Gargoyles are tiny bastards compared to a Kraken. You know them? Fleet-killers. Like Sword Whales—they literally crack ships apart unless they’re enchanted! Or—Reefeyes. You drop in the water with those and you’re as good as dead unless you’re at least Level 30 or your mates haul you out in seconds. Land monsters—hah! What’ve you killed on land that’s worse than I’ve seen at sea?”

“Crelers.”

The [Pirate] coughed on his drink. Viceria clapped her hands together with a smile, laughing in delight. Wailant glanced at her, and then looked at Numbtongue, casually.

“Oh? Well, they’re twice as tricky in the water. But er, how many did you run into?”

“Thousands.”

Wailant stared. There was nothing for it but for Numbtongue to relate the battle at the inn. When he was done, Viceria laughed.

“Have you done that, Wailant? I think one of your guests has finally told a better tale than a fine seadog.”

“Argh. Do you have to rub it in?”

“Yes, and relentlessly. Wailant loves telling his sea tales, thank you for taking him down a peg.”

The [Green Mage] winked at Numbtongue. He bared his teeth.

“What about your stories?”

Viceria blinked and both she and Wailant laughed.

“I am poor at fighting. The second monster I ever ran into outside of Wistram nearly killed me. It did kill my entire escort, until Wailant saved me. I rather think I’m three times as good at actual combat as I was before we met. There’s a world of difference from learning to cast combat spells in Wistram to seeing an actual monster.”

“That’s how we met, by the by. I saved her, and we got to talking. Among other things.”

Wailant grinned at Numbtongue. The Hobgoblin saw his wife roll her eyes. He thought he liked Wailant, a bit. The man was sort of Garen-like. Overbearing, but in a good way to his friends. The [Pirate]/[Farmer] had to recount the story of how he had persuaded Viceria to stay with him, and how she had made his farming venture an actual success.

“Get yourself a lady like I did, Hobgoblin. It’s the only way to live.”

Wailant finished with that sage advice. Numbtongue almost caught himself nodding. Viceria put her hands on her hips.

“And why is it his job and yours to get a woman, Wailant? Can’t we choose?”

The husband laughed, his face flushed with drink.

“Not a chance! Because no lady’d choose one of us, right, Numbtongue?”

He grinned. And Viceria and Numbtongue both burst out laughing. Viceria leaned over.

“Tell me, Numbtongue. I’ve heard Goblins have [Shamans]. Have you ever seen them casting higher-level magics?”

“Here we go. Magic talk. Don’t let her ask you about spells or you’ll talk your mouth off.”

Wailant reached for the wine bottle, found it was empty, and got up. Numbtongue was explaining that the Redfangs hadn’t had many Goblin [Shamans]—a few, but they had died in battle as often as the [Warriors]. Viceria sighed.

“A shame. I was studying different types of green magic. That’s my specialty, incidentally. As a [Green Mage], I wanted to visit Oteslia. Well, I ended up here and I don’t regret it. I had a life of academia ahead of me, and I was rather sheltered—I grew up in Wistram, you know. Most [Mages] do and it leaves us sheltered.”

“Sheltered is better than unsheltered.”

Numbtongue opined. Viceria glanced at him.

“Yes, well, I suppose it is. But we tend to die in accidents, or underestimating our enemies when we leave the academy. I imagine that’s quite amusing to Goblins.”

“A bit. Redfangs…hunt [Mages]. Sort of easy.”

The [Bard] coughed. Viceria glanced at him.

“How so?”

“If we see robes, we run away. [Mages] chase. Forget to put barriers. So then a [Rogue] or [Archer]…sorry.”

Numbtongue gestured, embarrassed. Viceria shrugged.

“I imagine many Wistram [Mages] have it coming. It is an ongoing conflict. But that’s rather disheartening. What happens if a [Mage] is wise enough to keep their barrier up?”

“Run away. Shoot arrows from afar. [Mages] get tired. Have trouble hitting Goblins with [Fireballs], Lightning is the worst.”

The Hobgoblin scowled. Viceria nodded.

“It is, isn’t it? I don’t know if you know this, but Wistram [Mages] duel all the time. And lightning tends to carry a lot of duels. We even have—had—an Archmage famous for her ability with lightning. But among [Mages], it’s seen as a bit of a gimmick. Anti-electricity spells are quite common. And you can stop lightning other ways.”

“Really?”

Numbtongue’s ears perked up. Viceria stared at them and then nodded.

“A rod of metal in the ground will reliably draw the lightning away.”

“Really?”

Wailant returned and had to give his opinion on lightning at sea—don’t do it. Fire was a nightmare on ships. Numbtongue found himself discussing fighting spells, which was something he knew. Before he had realized it, he was in his third cup and everything felt—better.

“Entertainment. You want to see this. You see, on a [Pirate] ship we don’t fight like landfolk. Formations. [Strategists]. Horses! It’s all action! Boarding the decks! And you fight with a cutlass in one hand and a wand in the other! Or a crossbow or something! See?”

Wailant heaved himself up and went for a set of wands in a case. He tossed one at Numbtongue.

“Don’t worry, it’s just [Light Arrow]. Weak spell, but it’s good for fun. Watch—come on.”

He led Numbtongue and Viceria outside. Wailant had, for his entertainment, set up targets, from glass bottles to metal cans and painted targets. No bulls eye targets for him; he’d drawn in glowing paint, or made clumsy illustrations of sea monsters.

“Scit! Scit! That’s the spell. You try!”

Wailant was drunk, but he managed to hit one of the cans on the fourth try. A glowing, orange arrow of light shot from his wand as Viceria laughed. Numbtongue raised his wand, swaying, and tried to aim it. He’d used wands before; they were a nice treasure after a battle for Redfangs and greatly desired.

“Scit.”

The blue arrow shot from his wand, slower than an arrow, but bright and colorful. He nearly hit one of the cans. Wailant laughed as Numbtongue nailed his target after five tries.

“My turn. Scit. Scit. Scit.”

Viceria hit two of her three targets dead-on. She was a good shot. Wailant and Numbtongue applauded, then they took aim at the harder targets. At some point, Wailant decided it was getting hot.

It was a summer’s night and they were still drinking. Numbtongue felt—welcome. He was almost certain he wasn’t going to be attacked and Viceria and Wailant were laughing. And plying him with more drinks. He watched as Wailant tore off his tunic.

“You get naked at sea! Fuck swimming with clothes! Damn them!”

He hurled his tunic to the ground. Numbtongue was nodding—until he saw Viceria toss off her robe. He turned. And then he discovered that nudism was a universal trait. Saliss would have fit right in. And what was Numbtongue to do? Well, Goblins didn’t need clothes either. Just for bugs and keeping warm.

—-

Later that evening, three figures wavered around the outskirts of the Strongheart farm. Lights illuminated the dark buildings and the barnyard animals wisely kept indoors as the three figures shot spells at targets.

They were, all three of them, naked, and shooting wands of [Light Arrow] at some targets on fences, the roof of the farmhouse—a few hanging from a tree—and very drunk.

That was how Garia found them. The City Runner was jogging up to the house dragging a literal door behind her. It was tied to her waist via a rope and she’d pulled it all the way from Celum; a glittering mana stone lay on the front. She stopped as the three figures turned.

“Who goes there? This is private property. Piss off!”

Wailant shouted. Viceria pointed her wand.

“[Light Beam].”

Garia shaded her eyes as the light illuminated her. There was a pause and Wailant shouted.

“Garia! My girl! Hey! Hey Numb-Hob! Look! There she is!”

He poked a wavering figure. As Garia approached and the light turned into a ball, illuminating all three, she saw a naked Numbtongue blinking at her. Garia stared. She stared at her mother, her father, and Numbtongue.

They had no clothes on. Garia threw up her hands and shouted.

“Mom! Dad! What are you doing?”

“Entertaining our guests! Come here!”

Wailant went to hug his daughter. He was very drunk. So were Viceria and Numbtongue. Garia dodged him.

“Put some clothes on! Do you know how worried Erin was? I ran all this way—”

“Garia, dear, where’s your bag of holding? Why are you dragging a door?”

“It’s exercise, Mother! Mother! Put some clothes on!”

“My girl, you get naked at sea. What, do you think you swim with clothes on all the time?”

Wailant paused, addressing Garia—or the air next to her. She glared.

“Dad.”

Numbtongue, head spinning, saw Garia arguing with her parents. He had to sit down. He was rather glad she was arguing about the clothes. It was hard to stop staring at Viceria. She didn’t seem to mind, but he did. Naked female Goblins were distracting enough, thank you.

At this point, Pyrite, who had been silent, helpfully added his memories of naked Goblins, opining that there were only a few differences. He had a number of very unhelpful memories. In vivid detail. Nice memories, but ones that were not helpful here—Numbtongue decided to punch himself in the groin. Then he curled up.

The [Bard] didn’t know Garia well. She’d been in the inn a few times, met him and the Redfangs. Or so he thought? But he really only knew Garia from Erin.

Apparently, she’d changed. The Garia standing in front of her parents and waving her hands was Ryoka-ish. But Numbtongue had never met this Ryoka, so that too was lost on him.

What Erin meant by that was that Garia was slim. She had been heavier, apparently. Which was a good thing for Goblins, a mark that you had enough food to live on, but not for Human females. Whatever the case, Garia had changed drastically when she’d gained the [Martial Artist] class. Her Skill, [Weight Control], had led to…

Well, this. Garia Strongheart was, in Numbtongue’s eyes, a young woman with black hair, not long and wavy but full. She had a bit of blue running through hair, just streaks, a legacy from her mother’s side.

She was also incredibly toned. Slim was not the word. Because slim implied a lack of muscle. And Garia Strongheart had muscle. But her body had shed almost all of its excess fat, and she was much changed.

For one thing—she had inherited some of her parent’s disposition for lack of clothing. Garia’s stomach was bare, exposing some magnificent abdominal muscles. Combined with her emerald green-eyes, a trait shared by all three Stronghearts, she was striking.

Numbtongue certainly appreciated the sight. But he decided not to punch himself in the groin again as he got up. Wincing, he looked around for his pants.

Garia had been shy, loyal, but timid around Ryoka and Fals in the past. But the Garia of today was more outspoken. Certainly more confident as she harangued her parents. But then, she was at home, and Numbtongue had never known the other one. He eyed her as she talked with her parents.

In a way, Viceria and Wailant also explained why Garia was Garia. She had always seemed ‘normal’ in Erin’s description, a good-natured City Runner. But she had an extraordinary family, one she never talked about. But that almost made sense.

If you had parents like Wailant and Viceria, it was hard to follow in either one’s footsteps. And—seeing two drunk parents staggering around blasting [Light Arrows] around at night might make you yearn for a bit of normality.

Certainly, the exasperation in Garia’s tone was familiar.

“Dad, I heard you were banned from Celum. And you hit an unarmed [Merchant]!”

“She had it coming. She sicced a bunch of [Mercenaries] on me. Harpy. Anyways, look what I found.”

“I know what you found! You kidnapped Numbtongue! He’s part of Erin’s inn? Remember? You were supposed to visit?”

Viceria sighed.

“Garia, don’t shout at your father. Why is your midriff bared? And what are you wearing? Are you trying to make yourself a target on the road?”

She pointed to Garia’s wrapped chest. Which was exposing her bosom in a way part of Numbtongue appreciated—and her parents did not. Viceria frowned. Garia glared at her.

“Mom! You’re the naked one!”

“And I am naked at home, with your father.”

“In front of a guest!”

“So? He’s not one of them raping Goblin bastards. I’d cut him apart before he did. Don’t be racist, my girl.”

Garia stared at Wailant. Viceria murmured.

“It’s speciesist, dear.”

“Right, that.”

Garia threw up her arms.

“I’m home.”

She looked at Numbtongue. He paused in putting his pants on and waved.

“Hi.”

Garia stared at him. Then she stared, fascinated.

“Oh…hi.”

She didn’t look away. Wailant and Viceria turned to look at Numbtongue. He hurried to put on the pants. Viceria eyed her daughter and smiled. Wailant scowled.

“Alright, clothes on!”

—-

A little bit later, Numbtongue was eating cold rice and dumplings again. He rather liked it cold; Garia was eating it hot, and her parents were sitting around their dinner table.

Garia coming home was a bit of a rare occurrence, or so it seemed to Numbtongue. Her parents were pestering her with questions.

“And you’ve just been running? That’s it?”

Viceria sighed as her daughter uncooperatively described her life in the intervening months since she’d been back. Garia shrugged.

“That’s right, mom. It’s just my job. You know.”

“Nothing interesting happened? At all? No fascinating deliveries?”

“Meet any [Bandits] on the road? Monsters?”

Wailant was sipping from some milk to sober up. That sounded good to Numbtongue so he helped himself. Garia glanced at him and shrugged.

“I mean, a few. But I’m not a big name, Mom. You know that. I’m making more of a name now; I still do the big deliveries of heavy stuff, but I’m saving up for a bag of holding.”

“You could take your father’s old one—”

“I can afford it myself! Besides, it’s good training. And I’m safe. I can wear what I want; I knocked out a [Cutthroat] on the road and he had a horse.”

“Aha! Tell us about that!”

“I kicked the horse and then I punched him. That’s all, dad. I don’t take risks, like Ryoka. But I’m getting better requests.”

“And how many of them are from young men?”

Viceria murmured. Garia flushed.

“Some. And so what? But I’m faster!”

“Any of them try to put their hands on you? Remember what I said about the plague you can catch—”

“Dad.”

“Wailant.”

The man subsided. He glanced at Numbtongue. Then he cleared his throat.

“So, darling girl. You’re uh, looking different again. Been a while since we last saw you.”

“I lost more weight. See?”

Garia indicated her body. Wailant paused.

“Yeah. Good for you? Anyways, here’s Numbtongue. You know him, from the inn?”

Garia paused. She looked at her father and nodded.

“Yeah. Erin sent me, actually. She’s worried about Numbtongue, even though Viceria sent a [Message] saying he was safe. She’s hoping you can let him go through the door.”

“Bah. Let him stay the night. What’s the worry?”

“He’s a Hob, dad. You said you punched him!”

“I kicked him in the nuts. And that’s because no one told me he was allowed in the city. But now we’re chums. He’s a fun one. And he likes it here, right Numbtongue?”

“Hi.”

Numbtongue waved at Garia. She nodded at him, trying to smile. She glanced at her parents. Wailant was looking his daughter up and down.

“So—when d’you think you’ll stop changing around, Garia? It seems like you’re fine enough for anyone’s fancy. Not that you weren’t before—”

Garia stood up abruptly. She glared at Wailant.

“I’m going to the bathroom. One second.”

She walked out of the room. Numbtongue paused with a mouthful of food. He saw Viceria glaring at Wailant.

“Stop pestering her! This is why she hasn’t come back!”

“I just—okay, fine! Fine!”

Wailant protested as Viceria aimed her wand at him. He scowled and folded his arms.

“What’s the problem? People trying to have sex with her?”

Numbtongue looked blankly from Viceria to Wailant. The [Green Mage] started. Then she motioned at Wailant. He grimaced.

“That’d be one thing. How do I explain to you? Well—just look at her. Look what they did, those damned women. Harpies, all of them. You saw how she looked?”

Numbtongue nodded.

“Seems fine to me. Good muscle.”

He patted one arm. Viceria did laugh at that. Wailant shook his head.

“Not that. Her! Damn, you don’t know what she looked like. Take a look—where’s that picture she made us take down, Vicci?”

“I have it. Here. Before she comes back—”

“She’s probably going for a walk. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Viceria hurried into one of the storage rooms. She came back, levitating a painting out. It was of Garia. The [Artist] had clearly embellished her features as one does for a portrait, but he’d kept what was essentially her. And Numbtongue…shrugged.

“Bigger. Ah.”

He remembered his conversations with Erin, and Lyonette worrying about Mrsha being pudgy. Viceria nodded. Wailant muttered as he stared at the old Garia.

“She used to be a sturdy girl. Not gigantic, mind. But properly tough. The kind you’d see on any crew and think twice about tussling with in a ship fight. Dead gods, the women I knew, who could squeeze your head to pieces with one arm!”

Numbtongue nodded. He knew the same types of Hobs, male and female. He still failed to see Wailant’s problem.

“She decided to change herself. She’s not the little girl I raised. She’s lost weight—I’d not recognize her walking down the street. All because that’s the way she thinks she ought to look. Changing her body around like a Drowned Woman with her Skill—what next? Chop off an arm and replace it with one of them fancy magic ones?”

“Shush.”

Viceria came back around the table with a scowl, having put the painting away. She glared at her husband, looking genuinely annoyed with him for once.

“You should treat your daughter’s choices with respect, Wailant Strongheart. We ought to let her be what she wants. So long as she’s not hurting herself, what does it matter? It’s her choice. [Illusionists] do exactly what she does. Except they can only pretend. I use my tonics and spells; why is her Skill wrong?”

She looked hard at her husband. And Wailant hesitated. He opened and closed his mouth, swallowing arguments, and at last, shook it. He looked at Numbtongue.

“Get yourself a good woman, Numbtongue. And it’s get. No lady’ll fish for copper, eh?”

Numbtongue smiled. When Garia returned, looking sour but calmer, no one said anything about how she looked. And the talk quickly went back to Erin and the inn.

“So there’s this magic door that she got from Albez. I heard about that. The Horns of Hammerad. And they gave it to her and we can walk through it and go to the inn. Anytime we want? And it’s sitting on my porch?”

Wailant stared at Garia. She and Numbtongue nodded.

“That’s right, dad. And apparently, Erin’s banned from Celum. Or—she’s decided to take the door away. There was a huge fuss. The Players of Celum are moving to Liscor too. It all happened this evening. I ran the door out of the city, but Erin’s still dealing with the fallout.”

“How’d you get the door?”

Numbtongue looked at Garia. He had a hard time imagining all the Humans would have let her. She smiled.

“I grabbed it and ran.”

“Hah! Hustle like a [Pirate]! There’s my girl.”

Wailant fondly poured a drink around. Viceria was tapping her lips.

“I was meaning to see the Players of Celum. Everyone’s been talking about them, but we had that infestation of moles, and I’ve been travelling to Wales—this door goes to Liscor? Without any delay? What about the mana cost?”

“It’s a magic door, mom. And Erin’s inn apparently charges it.”

“It must sit on a leyline.”

“It doesn’t work all the time. Can’t send many people to Pallass. Two or four per day only.”

Numbtongue nodded around the table. Wailant choked on his drink.

“It goes where?”

Garia grinned at Numbtongue, pleased at her parent’s reactions. She explained and Wailant’s brows shot all the way up.

“Really? Pallass? I sell to [Traders] going south, but only during the winter. You can’t get bugger-all past the Bloodfields. But this magic door, it goes all the way?”

He looked at his wife. Viceria leaned over.

“Garia, why isn’t this news larger than it is? Every [Merchant] in a hundred miles should be lined up to use this door. Not just them.”

“Well…that’s the reason Erin was kicked out of Celum, actually. She has a deal not to interfere with trade and the Runner’s Guild and apparently people were.”

“Because that’s smart. Hold on. Pallass. Liscor. Anywhere else it goes?”

“Um, the Bloodfields. And…”

“Invrisil soon. Horns of Hammerad are taking it there. Going slowly. Probably because of lazy half-Elves.”

Numbtongue grunted. He refilled his bowl. Garia offered him some of the dark sauce and he poured it over his rice. They were both eating more than Wailant and Viceria, who’d long since stopped; their metabolisms meant they were packing it in.

“This is really good, dad. Is this the rice you grew?”

“Sure is. Beats buying it from imports. Your mother made one of them wet fields. Take a look in the morning. Don’t fall in. We had to enchant it so bugs wouldn’t find a home, but it’s well enough. Pain to harvest. I’m hiring help to do it next time.”

Wailant picked at his teeth. Then he focused on Numbtongue.

“So, this door doesn’t’ go all the way to Pallass. But it can take some people, can it? Pallass loves Sage’s Grass. Say, Numbtongue. You think I could get a deal with this [Innkeeper]?”

Numbtongue looked up warily. Garia cut in as she offered him the last dumplings. Numbtongue took half and she grinned at him before looking sternly at her father.

“You can ask her tomorrow, dad. Mom, can you send a message to Erin telling her not to worry? I’m here, but Numbtongue’ll stay the night. That should be fine.”

“I can go back—”

All three Stronghearts shook their head, for once in unison.

“And let you go without hospitality? We’ve got guest beds. Garia, tell me more about the door. You too, Numbtongue.”

“Dad, Numbtongue’s not the boss. Don’t pressure him!”

Garia warned Wailant. He grinned, throwing an arm around Numbtongue.

“Sure, sure. You don’t speak for her. Erin Solstice, you said? Have another drink.”

And Numbtongue felt a bit uneasy. But Garia gave him a reassuring thumbs-up. He didn’t know what her plan was—until he saw her disappear into the kitchen. When she came back, Wailant insisted on everyone having another round.

Garia poured the drinks. Numbtongue sniffed, smelled the wine and the other, more potent alcohol, and took only a sip. Wailant downed his cup and went over.

“Honestly, Garia.”

Viceria had taken a deep drink, but she only sighed at her daughter’s duplicity. Garia stuck out her tongue at her father.

“He’ll be fine. You want me to help put him in bed?”

“No need.”

Viceria sighed. She flicked her fingers and the [Green Mage] and her husband stood. Well, she was levitating him. Numbtongue stared.

“I’ll put him in bed and give him something for the drink. Too much is poisonous, Garia.”

“And you have all kinds of hangover and anti-drunkenness potions. Dad’s pushy. He’d try and get you to agree to something. Watch out for my mom. She’ll try to do the same, which is why I’m here.”

Garia confided in Numbtongue. Viceria shot her daughter a cool look.

“It’s just business, Garia.”

“And Numbtongue’s a friend. So is Erin. The farm’s doing fine.”

“There’s a [Trade War]—”

“Where are those the disposable wands dad likes to buy each time the [Merchant] comes around?”

The [Green Mage] sighed.

“I’ll put your father to bed. I might be a while. Garia, will you show Numbtongue our guest room?”

“Sure.”

Garia had a mildly triumphant look as she watched her parents disappear. She seemed proud, so Numbtongue kept chewing his last bites. He was stuffed. But drinking had made him hungry again, so here he was.

Then he and Garia were staring at each other. Awkwardly, now. It was the first time they’d really talked alone, for all Garia claimed friendship. She took a sip from her cup. Numbtongue paused and then nodded towards the parent’s bedroom.

“Your mom is powerful.”

Garia started.

“What? Oh, yeah. She is. I don’t really think about it, but mom is a full [Mage] of Wistram. She mostly just uses her magic to help with the farm, though.”

“Can you do magic?”

Numbtongue eyed Garia. She shook her head.

“Basic spells. I don’t have the talent. I have a few levels, but I don’t like studying magic. It’s confusing and it’s a lot of hard work. You have to spend like, twenty years to get good at it unless you’re a genius. And I’m not. Mom offered to teach me until I got into Wistram, but I was a [Farmer] and then I wanted to be a Runner.”

“Mm.”

The Hobgoblin nodded. After a moment, he gestured at the room Viceria had pulled Wailant through.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Sorry my dad kidnapped you. He’s pushy. He does that to people he likes.”

“It was good. I was hiding from the City Watch.”

“Yeah. Um—so. We haven’t talked much, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“The…battle at Liscor. Erin told me. I only heard about it. I’m—really sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

The Hobgoblin half-turned away, pretending to stare at one of the paintings. Garia hesitated. She put a hand over the table.

“No, but I’m sorry it happened. I didn’t know the others, or you, really. But I’m…sorry. That’s all I wanted to say. Sorry.”

The [Bard] looked back. He stared at Garia. She flushed, and he wondered if that was what she had been like, from how Erin talked about her. But how much had changed? Perhaps, it was just what Wailant saw.

Skin-deep. Numbtongue paused, and closed his eyes, breathing in, and out. And then he nodded, slowly.

“Thank you.”

Garia smiled at him. She sighed as she put away the plates on the table and tossed them in the kitchen to be cleaned.

“I can show you to your room, but it’s just over there. Say—would you mind following me for a second? Mom’ll come back any second now and I don’t feel like answering questions about what kind of Runner I want to be. Or have her try and get you to sign a contract.”

She nodded towards the door. Numbtongue nodded and followed her.

Garia led Numbtongue a short ways from the farmhouse to the barn. Inside, cows and other animals looked up at the safety-lantern Garia lit. Magical light spilled from it, not fire. Good thing too; Numbtongue was familiar with how fast flames could burn things.

Like [Farms]. He’d participated in more than one Redfang raid for food. The Hobgoblin wished he didn’t remember that. Or the dead [Farmers] who sometimes fought back.

History lay between the two. Garia Strongheart had to have known Goblins are a menace, and Numbtongue had fought and fled Humans. But neither said anything about it. They had history, but the two of them had never met.

Now, Garia stood in the barn and silently adopted a pose. She lowered her posture, changed her footwork, and did…a punch.

Numbtongue stared. It was just a punch, in a rather specific form. It looked…practiced. Garia moved through it slowly at first, and then repeated the move. Faster. She had very good control; the punches always went the same way, in the same posture.

Beyond that…it was just an odd exercise. Redfangs didn’t fight like that. They sparred, or did exercises to increase their muscle, but they didn’t practice this. The [Bard] was interested—and then he saw Garia switch to a kick.

It was another move, a set pattern as she crossed her legs and then kicked out. She was less practiced with this, but she was clearly trying to achieve a perfect form. Again, Numbtongue didn’t get why. You kicked things in any position. But he had to admit, that looked like a powerful kick.

“And then—[Flash Kick]!”

Garia finished her routine with a kick. It came in the exact same motion, but wicked fast. That was a Skill, the kind that could change a battle around in one go. Numbtongue nodded to himself. Not bad for hand-to-hand combat. Garia looked strong. If she had a [Lesser Strength] Skill too, that would hurt.

The [Martial Artist]/[Runner] turned to the Hobgoblin after she was done. She wasn’t panting; she’d done a hundred of each. Numbtongue was sitting on some hay bales, staring at a cow and at her. She waited.

“What do you think? I mean, I think I look good. Right?”

He shrugged.

“Looks fine.”

Garia was slightly crestfallen.

“Is there anything I can improve?”

“Improve? Good kicks. Good punches.”

“I mean—oh, darn. I thought you might know some other moves. Ryoka talked about all kinds of things, but I was hoping a Hobgoblin warrior might know some more. This is martial arts, see. I heard Redfangs were the best. Grimalkin taught me that kick, but he said he’s not a [Martial Artist].”

“Martial…? [Artist]?”

For once, the word was unfamiliar to Numbtongue. Garen had taught his Redfangs all about how to fight different classes, but never about this. But this class was rare in Izril, or anywhere, really. Garia tried to explain.

“Right, I did some research when I first got it. I thought it was a bit weird, but I liked my first Skill, and, well, it’s a new class, right? Apparently they fight with all kinds of weapons, not just fists. But they train different from [Warriors]. They fight like…an art.”

“Oh. I see. Nice moves. But only one punch?”

“No, it’s the form, see?”

Garia showed Numbtongue. She punched upwards, down, adjusting her form but carrying the same motion. Numbtongue began to understand.

“Oh. Good punching. Like this.”

He showed her a punch. It wasn’t the same, but Numbtongue put his weight and body behind the punch, which was essentially what Garia’s practice was meant to do. She nodded.

“That’s right. Only, you do entire moves. Like jump kicks—”

She stopped as Numbtongue did a jumping kick easily. The Redfang Hobgoblin looked challengingly at Garia.

“It’s different. I have a class.”

“Does it make you stronger?”

Garia hesitated.

“Well—I think so. I have Skills like [Basic Footwork], and I’ve actually beaten a few monsters. Even a rabid bear. Don’t tell my parents. I got cut up, but I knocked it out.”

Numbtongue paused. [Cutthroats] on horses were one thing, but a rabid bear? He stared at Garia. She went on.

“And it gave me [Weight Control]. So I could change how much I weighed. And look—it gave me this.”

She pointed at her bare stomach, proudly. It flexed and Garia glanced up at Numbtongue, perhaps hoping for an impression. The Hobgoblin stared blankly at Garia’s abdomen. Then he pulled up his shirt, and pointed.

“Fine. See?”

“Oh. Oh. Wow!”

Numbtongue had abs too. His weren’t as pronounced as Garia’s, but everyone had them. Especially Redfangs; they were really prominent when you were hungry. His had begun to disappear since he’d been eating food at Erin’s inn, but they were still there. To Numbtongue, Garia looked a bit starved for food, but he understood that Humans had different standards.

“You’re in shape! I thought so, but—do you really not practice any moves?”

“Redfangs practice for a fight. Sparring. Don’t practice…”

Numbtongue copied Garia’s punch. She hesitated.

“Really? Well, maybe that will help me level. I’m asking because I want to increase my class. I’m only Level 17 now. I’ve leveled like crazy. It’s practically a record, but I slowed even though I do a thousand punches and kicks at least per day. But I’m sure I need to do something else to level. What if…could you spar with me?”

The Hobgoblin stared. Garia raised her hands.

“Not to the death or anything! Or even getting hurt! Just—to show me some moves?”

She looked so hopeful, the [Bard] agreed.

“Sure. But I’m not a [Warrior] anymore.”

He walked forwards, swinging his arms up. Garia instantly raised her guard and took her stance.

“What are you, then?”

“[Bard].”

Numbtongue feinted and punched at Garia’s stomach. She blinked, and he nailed her in the gut.

“Ow. That hurt!”

The Hob paused. Of course it had. He’d hit Garia hard. Not as hard as he could, but nearly.

“Too hard? Sorry, Redfangs spar like this.”

“No, it’s okay. I was just expecting—okay. My turn!”

That wasn’t how it worked, but Numbtongue stepped back anyways. He saw Garia step forwards and try to punch.

Instantly, he saw the problem. She was doing that same basic move, which was good for about one type of attack. Not a running punch, or if you were backing up. Just step in and—

“Need different move”.

“Hey! Don’t back up!”

Garia took more swings, trying to keep to her posture. Numbtongue walked backwards.