PARTY OF ONE
Fwet walked forward, his large boots echoing off the bare stone floors. He reached back over his shoulder, his fingers instinctively going for the hilt of the great sword secured there. At the last moment his hand swerved, plucking a stiff card from beneath the scabbard. He eyed the block letters, briefly ran his fingers along the deep imprints left by the crude press that made them, and then gently laid it on the moisture-warped surface of the desk.
The goblin eyed it but didn’t take it. Instead the creature sighed and scratched at the locks of scraggly hair slicked back behind one long, pointed ear (the other had been torn off). Then it adjusted its sweater vest and gave Fwet a look of impatience.
“Where’s the rest of your party? Rustwallow Deeps Dungeon has a strict policy. The whole party must be present when you submit your reservation ticket.”
“Um,” said Fwet. He swallowed and ran a hand through his own--far more luxurious, far blonder, and far longer--hair. “It’s a, um, single. Ticket.”
To its credit, the goblin’s expression changed only enough to allow for a modicum of skepticism. Real professional here. It hooked its glasses chain with one scaly thumb and followed it to the arm of its bifocals. The goblin fitted them in place and gave Fwet the once-over.
“A solo, hm?”
“That’s right.”
The goblin just kept staring. Fwet found himself looking over its head at the neat rows of filing cabinets next to the square portal scoured with sword marks and dried blood. This close to the entrance of a real dungeon, he felt his heart speed up.
“I’m sorry,” he said, realizing the goblin had spoken. “What?”
“Where is your shirt?”
“Oh. I’m from the hill tribes of Delowse.”
“So?”
“We don’t wear shirts.”
“What about winter?” The goblin asked. Fwet couldn’t tell whether it was being sarcastic or politely interested. “Do you wear shirts in winter?”
“We wear cloaks.”
“Cloaks. Hm. Is your reservation a day-trip?”
The goblin’s gaze was somehow withering and sympathetic at the same time. It finally scooped up the card from the front of the desk and glanced at it.
“It’s two days, three nights--”
The goblin cut him off with an irritated growl. He waggled the card towards Fwet. “Ridiculous. A three night solo in Rustwallow Deeps without so much as a shirt?!”
“I have ample camping and food supplies.”
“Have you a potion to cure the racking cough you’ll be battling in twelve hours?” Its gravelly voice rose to a high pitch.
“Fighting will keep me warm,” Fwet said, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. The goblin tugged its glasses off, steepled it’s long bony fingers together and glared at Fwet with barely concealed disgust. So much for the professional demeanor.
“Sir,” the goblin said in such a way that it was clear the honorarium was being used strictly for courtesy, “a significant portion of Rustwallow’s passages are natural caves. That means the temperature will be similar to early winter regardless of the season outside. Have you ever been in a real dungeon?”
Fwet felt the blood rising in his cheeks. Deep down, the famed Delowse battle lust, that gift from the strangely wrought gods of the hills, began to stir.“I carried out an excursion into the blackest depths of Rat’s Tooth Warren!” Fwet said. Despite the--admittedly chilly--air in the waiting room, sweat broke out across his forehead.
The goblin pursed its lips for a moment and then cast its yellow eyes back at the card. “It says here you are accustomed to ‘great dangers and fearsome beasts.’” That interrogative gaze flicked back on Fwet like an archer popping up from behind a battlement to loose an arrow. “Tell me about the fearsome beasts of Rat’s Tooth Warren.”
“Well, there are the giant rats of course.”
“Naturally. What else?”
“There was an animated skeleton near the back.”
“What kind of weapon did it wield?”
Fwet frowned. “It was unarmed.”
“It had no weapons at all?”
Fwet stared at the goblin. “It had ... no arms. Just a torso, head and legs. However,” he added, jabbing a finger for emphasis, “it was very quick!”
“I bet,” the goblin replied in a neutral (possibly neutral evil) tone. “Was the skeleton the worst?”
Fwet shook his head and smiled. “Oh no. The giant spiders were the worst. I fought three of them. At once.”
“Oh my,” the goblin said, picking up a nearby coffee mug and checking to see if it was empty. It was.
“I think they may have even been plague-ridden--”
“Let me just stop you there.”
Fwet could now hear the rhythmic thud of his heart pound in his ears, drums calling him to war. The battle lust would soon be beyond his ability to control. He clenched his teeth and stared at the goblin in front of him. He felt sorry for any beast that still stood in his way once the rage overtook him.
“Johan, it’s Scabgnash,” the goblin was speaking into a small scrying crystal. “Could you come up here please?” The crystal pulsed blue and the creature nodded, returning it to a worn leather cradle. “It’s going to be a few minutes,” the goblin said to Fwet before gesturing to the waiting area: a row of wooden chairs placed beneath manacles too rusty to be practical, but clearly retained for decorative appeal.
Fwet clenched and unclenched his hands as he walked over to the chairs. All of them displayed gouges and nicks from various weapons banging into them. No doubt his great sword took a chunk from the backrest as Fwet fell into it with a sullen hostility.
Scabgnash busied himself with filing a few stacks of paper that had been clipped together and covered with an assortment of different hued stamps. He took the opportunity to refill his coffee from a brass tureen with scorch marks on the bottom.
A moment later Fwet heard the unmistakable sounds of approaching adventurers: metal tapping on metal, creaking leather and the muted thump of full canteens bouncing off armor. Fwet turned towards the entrance of the dungeon. He saw long shadows cast by the setting sun stretching from around the bend.
They were a small group, two men and a woman. One man was clearly a Draldish knight, his blue-hued plate armor a dead giveaway. The woman was draped in robes so black they seemed to blend with the very shadows. Magic? Most likely a wizard. The third skulked behind them with a well-oiled crossbow. He was bald, with deep-set eyes that never stopped roaming. A city-born ne’er-do-well--Fwet would have bet silver on it.
“Well now,” Scabgnash said. His voice was not made for pleasantries, but he was giving it his all for these three, “the Comrades of Everbright. Back for more ... punishment?”
“Still working the counter, Scabgnash?” the woman said with a smile. “Haven’t they made you clan chieftain yet?”
“The moon has not yet risen on my prospects, wizardress. What brings you to Rustwallow?”
“A foul lich has come to dwell in your deepest corridors,” the woman replied. Beside her, the knight was pulling forth a thick sheaf of paperwork. Fwet noted there were stamps of at least five different colors.
“You’ll need an underdark permit to go that deep,” the goblin said.
The Knight slapped the sheaf down on the counter. “This isn’t our first expedition, dear fellow.” He grinned beneath his drooping mustache.
“It might be your last,” Scabgnash pointed out and they all chuckled.
A few minutes passed while the goblin checked and rechecked the paperwork. Fwet found himself appraised by the members of the trio more than once. Each time he couldn’t quite meet their respective gazes. Not even the ruffian’s. A series of thumps brought his attention back up. He watched as the goblin stamped each page with yet another mark, this one in scarlet.
“Everything’s in order, adventurers. Proceed.” It activated some control beneath the counter and a barely perceptible rainbow pattern, like lamp oil swirling on the surface of water, winked out of existence over the gateway leading into the depths.
“Thanks for moving things along so quickly,” the woman said, and slapped a silver coin on the counter. No, not silver. Fwet peered at the large size. Platinum.
“It was my pleasure,” Scabgnash said, sliding the coin into one elongated palm. “May you meet your doom in the darkness below.”
“Nay, foul denizen, the light shall triumph this day.” She waved as they entered the dark maw. Scabgnash reactivated the magic field. In that moment, Fwet decided he would take no more council of his growing doubts.
The young man pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the service desk. The goblin looked up at him with a faint hint of exasperation.
“I have submitted a proper, correctly filled-out form,” Fwet announced, giving his shoulder-length hair a haughty toss, “and I demand admittance!”
At this outburst, Scabgnash slowly turned to squint at the small card Fwet had turned in. It had nearly been swept off the counter in the flurry of paperwork. The goblin rubbed the bridge of its nose between two sharp claws.
“Except,” it said slowly, as if explaining things to a child, “this is not correctly filled out. There is no stamp from the local equipment inspector’s office, nor seal affirming that the dungeon depredation tax has been paid. You have not included your Adventurer’s Guild membership number, and--” It shook the card with an annoyed snarl, drawing attention to its relative thinness by rubbing it between two fingers “--the form has not been submitted in triplicate!”
Why Fwet suddenly felt the urge to flee from a lowly goblin was beyond him. “That was,” he began, then swallowed noisily. “That was all I needed for Rat’s Tooth Warren.” He distantly wondered why his words were coming out as a barely audible murmur.
“Rat’s Tooth Warren is a latrine scooped from the side of a dirt clod. This is Rustwallow Deeps. We have a saying, boy: ‘if you can’t handle the paperwork, you can’t handle the dungeon.’”
“I am a proud warrior of--” Fwet’s angry retort suddenly froze in his throat as an icy fist seemed to close around his chest. He was far colder in an instant than he had ever been in his life. It was more than a mere physical chill. Rather, he felt a frigid presence that made his very soul quail.
You asked for me? something said. It was not a voice so much as the absence of a voice. Words carved out of the background noise of the underground. It was horrible.
“Thank you, Johan.” The goblin turned his attention to the young Delowsean warrior. “Fwet, was it? Please look behind you.”
Still struggling to breath and aware of an abruptly erratic heartbeat, Fwet swiveled around to stare into twin blue flames--eyes--recessed into the sockets of a grinning skull. The flames seemed far away, like he was looking at balls of chilled fire ten feet across that were nestled impossibly deep in the death’s head before him. There was a faint suggestion of a translucent robe and ghostly scythe, but Fwet couldn’t focus on anything but the eyes.
“Fwet, this is Johan. He is a Tomb Horror. He and his ilk like to dwell on level three. They won’t go down to level four. Will you tell him why, Johan?”
Terrible things lie below, said the unvoice. It was all Fwet could do not to void his bowels.
“Thank you, Johan. That will be all.”
Yes, Mr. Scabgnash. And just like that the sepulchral monstrosity was gone.
Fwet jumped as the goblin laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, its claws inadvertently raising a few welts on his exposed skin.
“Go home, lad. Take on some local quests. Make some friends. Rustwallow will be here when you’re ready. Here, take this as an enticement.”
Fwet looked down. The goblin was pressing a souvenir Rustwallow Deeps sweatshirt into his hands. He took it without thinking, and let himself be nudged towards the exit.
The setting sun felt good on his face. There was a modicum of shame at having been turned away, but--if Fwet was being honest with himself--there was ample relief as well. He began the long journey home at a pace just a bit too fast for leisure. Shortly after the sun sank behind the far hills, he found his mind turning once more to his brief encounter with the Tomb Horror. Fwet found that he could not stop shivering. Even after he had put the sweatshirt on.
THE END
Brilliant! I am suddenly very jealous of your rolls! :D
ReplyDeleteThanks! I was surprised at how much fun I had writing a genre I normally wouldn't touch. Maybe it's because I didn't feel as much performance anxiety. :)
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