Spirits of the Earth

(((Continued from Ain't Nothin' (http://www.spiritsoftheearth.net/smf/index.php?topic=23809))))



   Alan and Elan rode in the driver's seat of the passenger carriage. Sat next to one another. Four wagons followed them, filled with eighteen rough looking men and a stockpile of their guns, their swords, their ammunition. Some meager foodstuffs left over from the trip from Arca that went through Blackbane pass in the Kilanthro Mountains and through the Valley and finally into Reajh proper.
   They had everything they needed.
   Except the damn shipment. The whole reason for the journey to Arca in the first place.
   Elan hummed a peppy tune as Alan steered the carriage toward the upcoming city gates of Reajh. She had a knife in one hand, whittling away at what was once a block of wood, but now very much resembled a statuette of a person.
   Alan glanced over at his little sister. "Hey, looks like you almost done there, Gizmo."
   She smiled. Stuck her tongue partially out of her mouth as she concentrated. "Yup. Just a few finishing touches..."
   Alan watched her for a moment; the horses could walk straight on their own. She looked calm. Serene. Happy. Hard to believe she, along with Alan and the rest of the eighteen men, were about to get beaten to a pulp on their Master's order for failing to deliver the shipment. Shit, Alan knew for the longest while that Gizmo wasn't about this life. But what were they gonna do about it? Their Mom and Pop both sold them out to Laython. Mom had a gambling problem, and Pop had a whorehouse problem. Racked up a shitload of debt together. So they cut Alan and Elan loose. Sold them into slavery under Elliot Isaac Laython. Well, Master Laython—been that way for a good ten years or so now.
   Alan scratched his chin. One day, maybe one day, they'd have enough of their own money to buy their way out. Hell, enough for Gizmo at least. Alan could do this sort of job for life, son. He was made for shootin' thugs and ugly mugs. But Gizmo? Nah. She wanted out. He knew it. She was a builder, a crafter, a tinker-type, not a shooter. Most of the time she just tossed her pistol to Alan and started reloading his for him if shit got hairy. Hell, if Alan remembered right, she only fired her pistol twice in ten years. Missed both shots. Wasn't even fuckin' close either time. One of those shots accidently hit a chicken in the ass. Damn thing went squawkin' 'round like crazy. But it was all good. Alan Marky Marc Buckley put the shot where it needed to go: right between the eyes of the wacko farmer with the loaded rifle from his old army days. Mothafucker was so high on Ignis Root that it took him a minute to flop dead. Crazy sumbitch, that guy.
   That was the kind of shit that made it proof-positive that Gizmo needed out.
   "So who is it? That figure there." Alan asked, pointing to the wooden statuette.
   Elan grinned. "You."
   "Me?"
   "Yeah. You. You like it?"
   "Aw, come on, Gizmo, cut me some slack. You know I ain't that ugly."
   "Well, I still gotta paint it. It'll come out fine. You'll see."
   Alan laughed. Clapped her on the back. "I'm jus' teasin'. I know I got a handsome-ass, mothafuckin' face right here. I make all the ladies swoon and drop when I walk into the shop, ya feel me?"
   Elan giggled. Gave him some shit back. "Can't say I do. Haven't seen it happen yet."
   "That's 'cause you ain't seen my new moves yet, Gizmo. Gotta save the best ones for last. Just wait 'til we get done meetin' up with ol' Master Laython. I'll show you the slick tricks of a manly maestro at the most poppin' tavern in all Reajh. You wait. You'll see."
   Elan grinned again. "Yeah. I'll see. I'll see about five different women slap the hell out of you again."
   "All part of the plan. That ain't nothin' but the sweet sting of success."


   Back to Market Street. To the new brothel behind all the commotion of merchants hawking their wares and shoppers and people talking and walking and all that hubbub. The boss man used to spend most of his time in Uthlyn, at his other two brothels there. But now there was this one. Closer to the action or something. Whatever.
   Alan steered the carriage off the main path of Market Street. Down a dirt side street that went between the buildings built on the Street proper. The carriage and the rest of the wagon convoy pulled up in front of a large, nondescript, three-story building. Enough open space for all the wagons of the convoy to pull up and stop in front of the building.
   Alan jumped down from the carriage. As did Elan. The eighteen other men all did the same from the wagons.
   And they all entered the brothel.
   The main lounge was a big room. Suitably dim and relaxing on the eyes. Sweet aromas and perfumes permeated the air. Rugs and sofas and pillows everywhere, all various colors. Some distant moans of pleasure—too early in the day, so not all that wild yet. A staircase at the far end of the lounge, leading up.
   Alan and Elan and the eighteen men crowded into the lounge. Most sat down on the sofas. Alan and Elan stood. Elan put the wood statuette into her pocket.
   After a few minutes, one of Master Laython's bodyguards came down the stairs. The bald, dark-skinned man, Spectre. He had been expecting them to show at about this time.
   Spectre eyed the men. The downtrodden and anxious looks most of them had. Then, to Alan, said, "Where is the shipment?"
   "Stolen, my man. Right out from under our noses. Gotta find out what Master Laython wants us to do about that."
   Spectre closed his eyes. A hint of frustration and disappointment coming across his face. And he called out to the men of the lounge, "Two volunteers. Tell the working girls and clients inside the brothel to leave. Do this, and there will be no beating for you."
   Two men instantly jumped from their seats, much faster than the rest.
   "Right here!"
   "That's me! Me!"
   Spectre pointed to them. "You. You. Get it done. And watch the front doors when you're finished. Tell anybody who asks that we're closed temporarily."
   The two lucky men hurried, all but running from room to room and interrupting several different private moments to shoo the prostitutes and clients from the building.
   Then Spectre pointed at Alan and Elan. "Now. You and you. Come with me. Mr. Laython will want to speak with you both."
   And Spectre started back up the stairs.
   Alan saw the nervous look on Elan's face. Laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. A little reassuring shake.
   "Hey. Ain't nothin'. Remember. Tense up your stomach muscles. They like to knock the wind outta you first."
   She nodded. "Okay. I will."
   Alan grinned. "Thatta girl, Gizmo."
   And they started up the stairs after Spectre.
   Together.

Now, Reajh was not a place you entered with a giant spider.  No, not even if you could convince them that he was a perfectly domesticated companion, which of course Concord was.  The truth is, however, is that Gary had an extra-good reason to not bring her in here.  The truth is, during a raid of the palace vaults - while a party was going on - Concord had charged in unexpectedly, getting over the perimeter walls and that of the palace's own with ease, because...well...spider.  They hadn't ever been charged by a Hunter Spider Queen, so the night guards were ill-prepared at the time.  Now, they might be more wary, so - as he had carefully-instructed Concord - they would have to be more clever in regards to sudden escape attempts, should any be required.

That is why, for now, Gary was alone.

He was not without his own ways, however.  For instance, he was currently in a very cunning disguise, perhaps his best, to date.  Yes, he was a short man, by all appearances, but it was done with such care that he could not hope to fail.  He was, at this time, a jovial jester.  Over his own clothes, he had on an overly-flamboyant-looking purple musketeer outfit, complete with passably-human-looking mask, which frankly was unflattering, but certainly had the look of a bald little fool.  He had a novelty toy gun, wooden sword, and noisemaker, as well.  He did NOT have the item on him.  That was with Concord.  So, here he was in the streets, pretending to be an absent-minded buffoon while he sniffed about.  Hmmm...  Too much scent in the city.  Concord could do it, but not him, not to this extent.  It was when he noticed a fair amount of unhappy-looking people out in the street that he decided to make his play.

"Why the frowny faces, sirs?  I thought this was happy place!"

"Not when they close it when you're halfway done, it's not.  Who the devil are you?"

"My name is James Batmire, but you can call me Juggalo Jim.  My card."

Yes, he had a card.  You find a decent scribe, you can get these things done.  This one read...


"Keep it.  I have more.  Why not accompany me to yon tavern across the street?  You talk, I listen and entertain."

Some would find this reasonable, while others couldn't be bothered.  Still, it would get him some information and he'd be able to sucker these humans out of some coin.  To the pub!

   The two lucky men stood by the front doors of the brothel outside. Their arms crossed. Their gazes quizzical when the odd man approached some of the clients that they had kicked out of the brothel early.
   The two men shared amused glances when the odd man made off to a tavern with some of the more adventurous clients from the brothel.
   "Who the fuck do you think that was?"
   "Beats me. There's all sorts of low-brow street acts around here."
   "Low-brow? Fuck you. Like you can read or something. Give me a break."
   "Whatever. As long as this nut keeps those blue-balled guys entertained, then it's all good with me."

   Up the stairs. Up the stairs. To the third floor.
   Alan and Elan reached the landing. Turned right and walked down the hallway. The sleek and polished wood door in front of them. Ghost, Laython's second bodyguard, stood beside the door. Two short strands of rope in her hands.
   "Turn around. Hands behind your back," Spectre said to them.
   "Yeah, yeah, I know. Same ol' song and dance," Alan said as he did what Spectre ordered. Elan complied as well.
   Ghost came up to them. Bound their hands tightly at the wrist. Spectre took their pistols and their daggers. Set the weapons on a nearby end table close to the office door.
   "Inside. Stand two paces from the table." Spectre said, opening the office door.
   They walked inside the office, Ghost giving Elan a rough push to get her moving. Just as ordered, Alan and Elan stopped exactly two paces from the big table in the center of the office. The kingly chair behind it empty. Spectre left to go and summon Master Laython. Ghost walked to the far end of the room, lighting the lantern hanging from the ceiling on her way. She slowly pulled the massive curtains of the wall-sized window shut, blocking out the natural light from the outside. Sealing away the sight of Reajh. Of freedom. Trapping them in the room.
   Elan swallowed.
   Alan kept his head high.
   Footsteps. Behind them. And Spectre came back into view briefly before he took his position behind Alan. And Ghost took hers behind Elan.
   More foosteps. Slow. Deliberate.
   Master Laython came around from behind them. Stopped by his ornate chair on the other side of the table. Took off his expensive jacket. Hung it on the back of the chair. Took a long moment to gradually sit down in his seat. Pulled it closer to the table. The dull screech of the chair legs on the floor.
   He rested his elbows on the table. Bridged his hands. Rested his nose on the bridge, his mouth hidden behind his entwined hands.
   He looked them over. His glare burning into Alan. Then Elan. Then Alan again.
   "Are you an imbecile?"
   "Boss?"
   "Well, that answers my question, but I'll ask you again to give you the benefit of the doubt. Are. You. An imbecile?"
   Alan shook his head. "No. No, boss."
   "Then where the hell is my shipment?"
   "Stolen. Boss."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Yes."
   "Did you check your pockets?"
   "Boss?"
   "YOUR POCKETS!" Alan and Elan both flinched. "Did you check them? Perhaps my shipment fell in there. How about inside your shoes? Or maybe, just maybe, it got mixed up with the bags of rice out in one of the wagons."
   Alan started to sweat a little. "Boss, we're pretty s—"
   Laython pounded the table with both of his palms. "Holy fucking shit, you didn't need to respond to that. Here's what I want you to answer. Are you ready? Here it is: Where...the hell...is my shipment?"
   "Someone stole—"
   "You said that already."
   "In the middle of the night, someone stole—"
   Laython stood up from his seat and slammed his hands on the table again. "You fucking said that already!"
   "Boss, I can get it back if—"
   "Stop," Laython said, slowly taking his seat again. He adjusted his nobleman's clothes. Straightened his posture. Glared at Alan. "Do you know...how much this item cost me? Hmm? Can you even hazard a guess? Can you even count that high? And there is...only...one of them. In the entire world. Years and years of time went into the forging of this item. Valuable time. And I do not have the luxury of being able to wait for a replacement to be made."
   Alan took in a breath of air. Said with a renewed confidence, "Boss, I'll hire a professional tracker with my own money. Set me up with one. I'll get your item back."
   Laython stared into Alan's eyes. And slowly shook his head.
   "No. You won't."
   The blade of a dagger sliced deeply across Alan's throat.

   "No!" Elan cried out.
   Ghost grabbed her by her bound wrists and by her hair. Bent her over and slammed her head down onto the table. Pinned her head in place with a heavy hand. And Spectre did the same with Alan.
   Elan and Alan. Their heads pinned down on the table. Forced to look at one another.
   "Alan!"
   Alan tried to say something. Gargled. And Spectre pulled back on Alan's head, opening up the wound on his neck further. The skin and muscles ripped and tore apart as his head arched back.
   A stream of blood shot out from Alan's neck and splattered on Elan's face. Got into her eye. She blinked rapidly, her breath frozen in her lungs. Another burst of blood. Painting her face red. Running down into her mouth.
   Elan shivered with shock and horror. Her words heavy in her throat. She wanted to say something. Couldn't. Her mouth open. Only a quiet, hollow, ragged gasp.
   Alan looked at her. As best he could. His eyes pleading. Begging for her to be okay. To make it.
   Blood pumped out onto the table. Pooled and spread and dripped off the edge. The soft and quickening patter of liquid streaming to the floor.
   Alan's body jerked violently. Shuddered. And his eyes fell away from Elan's. And he looked at nothing.
   The pool of blood reached Elan's cheek, pressed down against the table. Warm. The last remnant of her brother.
   Elan clenched her eyes shut. Her mouth still open. Her lips moved. Trying desperately to say his name. No sound. The breath tight and painful in her chest.
   Her body hitched. An overwhelming sorrow.
   The soft patter. Slowing down. No more blood dripping to the floor.
   Quiet.
   An empty silence.
   A voice. Next to her ear.
   Laython. "Do I have your attention?"

Of course, Gary was completely unaware of all of this.  He was, at the time, telling them the one about the three men on one horse who kept falling off due to insufficient room on its back.  Turns out the horse had been a shapeshifter who jumped on all of them suddenly, going 'See how YOU like it!'.  Always good for a laugh, these twist-ending anecdotes.  He had - off and on - been asking innocent questions about happenings in the town, more now since he was currently juggling knives.

"I can juggle perfectly harmless things, of course, but for some reason people love to see the thrill of me possibly gutting myself like a fish!  Hah hah hah!  Never happens, though."

It was in this manner that he was able to learn all about the brothel's sudden closing, and that a some of 'Laython's men' going in.  Apparently, he was the owner, and he had some indentured servitude.  Really, this country is going to hell!  Now, these random people didn't know squat about the things that Mr. Laython, owner of the brothel, was up to...but there were always juicey rumors, and men getting drunk liked to talk about that.  'Course, they were also bragging about women they had had in there and complaining about being half-mast when they were halfway through foreplay.

It made Gary wonder, briefly, if he was ever going to settle down and raise three or four-dozen kids.  Probably not.  All gobs were his kin, and they needed him badly.  So, in comes the rumors about Mr. Laython this and Mr. Laython that.  Speculation all, but some of it was probably true.  And when he asked if Mr. Laython was a strong and powerful man, alot of heads went up and down.  Yes...that confirmed Gary's suspicions.  The thingy that he'd stolen was for a purpose.  This man was reaching high.  The Grand Duke, perhaps?

   "Y-Yes..." Elan managed through quivering lips.
   "Speak up."
   "Yes..." A tortured reply.
   "I can't hear you, Elan. Try again."
   "Yes!" she yelled as her body hitched and her legs trembled and tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes. Ripples in the pool of blood on the table as she sobbed.
   "Good." A pause. "Good."
   Spectre let go of Alan's corpse. Gravity took it. Dragged it down to the floor. A dull thump as her brother's body hit the wood. Spectre kneeled down and wiped his dagger clean on Alan's clothes. Stood back up.
   Laython sat back down in his chair. Ghost still had Elan bent over and her head pinned down on the table. She pulled back on Elan's hair, to bend Elan's neck enough so that she could make eye contact with Laython from her awkward, submissive position.
   "And now I will ask you," Laython said. "Where is my shipment?"
   "I know who took it! Please! Don't...don't..."
   Laython tilted his head forward. Glared at her from under his brow. "Tell me."
   "Gary Blight! I swear. Alan saw it. He did. He told me!"
   Laython glanced up at Ghost.
   And she lifted Elan's head off the table and slammed it back down. A white-hot flash of pain in Elan's skull. Blinding colors danced before her eyes. Some of the blood from the pool splashed from the force of the impact.
   "Blaming fairy tale creatures is not an ideal strategy," Laython said. "One last time. Where. Is. My. Shipment?"
   Elan tried to speak, but only a pitiful whimper escaped her throat. She rolled her head as much as Ghost would allow, burying her nose and her mouth into the blood on the table. Her body shook and rattled violently and sporadically. Beyond her control. A tiny trickle of urine ran down her legs.
   Her voice a mewling mess. Barely intelligible. "I'm sorry...Master Laython...I'm sorry. It was Gary Blight. Gary...Blight. Oh god. Please. Please..."
   Laython sighed. His eyes rolling around in the sockets as he considered her answer, and any future answers if pressed. He leaned forward in his seat. Elbows on the table. Arms crossed. "Look at me."
   Elan coughed and sobbed. The rush of air spraying her brother's blood about.
   "Look. At. Me."
   Ghost twisted Elan's head so that her left cheek was pressed against the table again. And she looked at Laython.
   "There. Now, listen carefully. I don't care who currently has my shipment. But within one week's time, you will present it to me. Here. On this table. Do you understand?"
   "Yes..."
   "Tell me how much time you have to recover my shipment."
   "One week."
   "How many days are in a week?"
   "S-Seven."
   "Which do you have? One week or seven days?"
   Elan swallowed. "They're...they're the same thing."
   Laython smirked. "Good. I suspect your brother would've gotten that question wrong. Now. Listen again. If one week has passed and you have not recovered my shipment, then you are to return here. And you will be killed swiftly. Do not make me come and find you. Now. Go ahead and ask me."
   "W-What?"
   Laython stood up again. Walked around the table again. Leaned in close again. His breath against the tiny hairs of her ear again.
   And he said quietly, "Ask me what will happen to you if you run."
   Elan's teeth chattered. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose. "What will happen...to me if I run?"
   "There are some men," Laython said, "who have been looking at you, Elan. Asking about you. Not the men you've been working with—men of stature. Prominence. Who know you are my slave. Desire is a powerful thing, Elan. They could have just about any woman they want...but they want you. And not just for the sex."
   Laython slowly walked back around to his side of the table. Placed his hands on it. Looked down into her eyes. "If, in one week's time, you attempt to flee, then I will turn you over to these men. I will feed you...piece by piece...to them. I cannot say how long they might keep you alive for their pleasure, but I promise you, that this would be a slow, painful, and dehumanizing death."
   He narrowed his eyes. "And do not try to get someone to help you escape, either. That would be a foolish mistake. Because I can guarantee you, Elan, that there are no better men in this world. Certainly not in Reajh. Everyone has a price, a weakness, or both. And I'll outbid any would-be savior's morals, or I'll have him and his family buried in unmarked graves. So don't waste my time."
   Laython sat back down in his chair. "One week. Back here. With or without my shipment. Now go and get yourself cleaned up."
   Ghost let go of her. Untied the rope binding her wrists behind her back.
   Elan stumbled. Fell backward onto her rear end. Took one last look at her brother and stood and covered her mouth with her hand and stumbled for the door and almost collapsed as she crossed through the threshold and back out into the hallway.

   Elan saw her reflection in the pail of water in the bathroom of the third floor of the brothel. Her face. Red. All red. Stained from hair to chin with her brother's blood.
   And as she washed her face and the water ran down her skin and dripped back into the pail and clouded it red and she lost sight of her reflection in the murk, it hit her. Everything. All at once.
   She pressed the towel hard against her face and into her mouth. Screamed a muffled scream into it. Her shoulders hitched and the tears burst from her eyes again. Her eyes shut.
   The silence of the room caved in around her as she ran short of breath.
   And she fell over onto her side.
   Lay there.
   On the bathroom floor for a long, lonely while.

   Her face cleaned up, a new set of her clothes on, Elan walked down the stairs to the main lounge.
   Alone.
   She passed by the men still waiting to be called up to Laython's office to be beaten by Spectre and Ghost. Left through the front door. Walked past the wagons outside. Walked down the dirt path back to Market Street.
   She stood there once she reached the Street. Watched the busy commoners going about their daily routine and chores and shopping trips under the afternoon sun.
   Elan stood there. Her face distraught.
   She reached into her pocket. Pulled out the wooden statuette of her brother.
   Looked at it. The confident face she had carved into it. Tried to smile.
   And placed it back into her pocket.

Well, after a while, there was simply nothing more of interest to learn from the townspeople.  Why, the last thing that he had heard was that the duke had no idea who hit his vault.  Of course, between the runecaster, the knifey elf, the lich, and Concord crashing the party, could you blame them?  They ended up singing merry songs and forgetting - for a time - that they'd been cockblocked without refund.  And yes, the Ballad of Gary Blight DID come up, but so did The Amateur Sailor's Caterwaul.  Gary - or rather, Jim - was out of there afterwards.  That was, he figured, the last he would probably be able to get in terms of information.

At least, it seemed so until he saw a rather despondant figure.

Well, he certainly knew that person.  Or rather, he had seen her up in the mountains, along with all those other men.  It wasn't exactly hard to pick out.  She had been he only female present in the convoy.  She seemed quite put out, depressed even.  Oh, do we dare (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-UW-boaWAE) press her for information?  Oh yes, we most certainly do!  He wondered if he could get anything from her, though.  After all, she appeared devastated.  And distracted.  That is why he was able to sidle up to a wall nearby to lean against, hat tilted forwards so that even his disguised face wasn't exactly visible.  And then, he spoke up.

"A copper for your thoughts, lady?"

   Elan looked up to the sky. Lifted the small brim of her hat as she looked into the sun. Squinted as as the glare burned her eyes.
   Where could she even begin to look for a legend? A legend? It seemed an impossible task. Even if she could make some sort of flying contraption, even if she could use it fly as high as the sun, could see all Le-raana with the most advanced spyglass ever constructed, she probably wouldn't find him. Was he even real? Was he even around Reajh? She didn't have enough time to get to the Kilanthro Mountains and back, let alone conduct a search while she was there.
   Seven days. Seven rotations of the sun in the sky. That was it.
   It all seemed so small when she thought of it like that.
   Time. Life. Everything.
   She lowered her gaze. The afterimage of the sun burned in front of her eyes for a long moment.
   And then she heard a man speak.
   She looked over. Then down a bit. She was short, but the man was shorter.
   Elan tried again to smile. But it felt false. Dishonest. Wrong.
   So her mouth curled into a frown. "I'm sorry, Mister. I'm just...looking for a tavern. I need to..."
   Her sentence trailed off. She wanted to have a drink in Alan's memory. Have a mug of his favorite kind of ale, even though she was a total lightweight. But she didn't have any money of her own. Not on her. Alan had their meager stockpile of coin—boosted from the odd jobs Master Laython usually sent them on—back at their small room in the slave quarters of the estate. And that was a long walk across the whole city, to the better and cleaner parts of Reajh. Precious time.
   She felt the wooden statuette in her pocket. Pulled it out. Said, "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be a collector or something would you? One gold piece, for this figure here. I know it's not painted...but...that's half the fun."
   It pained her to ask. But Alan was the kind of guy who would've wanted a last drink in his honor.

Gary had to tilt up his hat and look carefully to see what she was talking about.  Hmm, it kind of resembled the big fella she'd been with, up in the mountains.  It was actually a perfect replica, but at a distance, Gary wouldn't have been able to pick up details on the man.  No matter.

"Figurines?  Not my thing.  Mine is in entertainment."

He took off his hat with a flourish and did a fancy sort of bow as he introduced himself.

"James Bartholomew Batmire, jester-at-large, at your service."

He was a weird little bald man, now replacing his hat as he straightened up.

"But you can call me Jim.  As I was saying, I would have no use for such a thing, but as you seem a little distraught, perhaps a tale would do just as well.  I just cleaned up in yon tavern.  Why not talk and drink and unload what's weighin' ya down?"

Of course, narurally, Elan should be wary of small men offering drinks, but then this isn't Game of Thones...  An entertainer whose job it was to draw attention to oneself couldn't very well do anything sneaky.

   At first, Elan's spirits sank a little lower. The man didn't want to buy her statuette, and so the final drink in her brother's memory would have to wait.
   But then he introduced himself. James Bartholo...Jim. Jim was better.
   A jester. A jester who apparently straight-up offered to buy drinks for the two of them. It seemed that even in one's darkest hour, a small glimmer of hope could still be found.
   Her face flushed a little. "Oh. That's...awfully generous of you. Thanks. I, um...well I'd hate to impose, but does that tavern you mention serve firebrand ale? It's...for someone. I know that probably sounds a bit strange, but I have to drink that kind of ale. It's important."
   She waited a second for his response. Then remembered.
   "Oh! And my name is Elan. Elan Buckley. I'm sorry, it's hard to think straight." She closed her eyes. A tiny quiver of the lips as she tried to play it down. "Bad day."

   Laython watched Spectre pick up the man that he and Ghost had just finished beating. Watched him haul the man out of the office and toss him into the hallway.
   The office was clean again, save for some sweat stains and globs of saliva. Perhaps there was still a hint of blood from the mouths or noses of the men who had taken their beating. But Alan's body was gone, the mess cleaned up before the beatings began. Spectre had gone downstairs and offered two more men the opportunity to clean Laython's office and dispose of the body and be spared the beating. And, like before, two men eagerly volunteered.
   The story was simple, if the two men transporting Alan's body happened to be asked by the guard. Alan started getting a little too rough with one of the girls. Pulled a weapon on the bodyguards. Got his throat slit. Laython had to close down the brothel temporarily for the safety of his clients. What a shame. Didn't happen too often, but such an event was never out of the question when one ran a brothel. Lust could drive a man mad, after all.
   Laython leaned back in his chair. Watched Spectre and Ghost lower their masks and take a breather. A vigorous exercise, to go full force on so many men. And they weren't even half done yet.
   "Do either of you think there was any merit to Elan's story?" He said. "Speak freely."
   After permission was granted, Ghost shook her head. "No, sir. I think we may have pushed too hard. Sounded like she would say anything."
   Spectre wiped some sweat from his brow. "I'm not so sure, sir. I could see the fear in her eyes. Just the right amount. And she stuck to her story when pressed. Can't say I've ever heard of a 'Gary Blight' though."
   Laython smirked. "A character from a tavern song, fit only to amuse drunkards. But perhaps her brother did see something, and reported a few details erroneously. It's not out of the question that a single man may have been responsible; a miscalculation on my part, that the sheer numbers of mediocrity could prevail over someone who possesses true skill."
   "Question, sir," Spectre said.
   "Ask."
   "You think she'll actually find the man responsible?"
   Laython laughed. "Let's say that I have my doubts. No, no, Aden, that was just a bit of fun for me. I fully expect Elan to attempt to flee within a week's time. Not a terrible outcome; I could use her to pay off a few nagging favors. If she can be recovered alive, that is."
   Ghost anticipated the next topic. "Shall I put out the word for a professional tracker then, sir?"
   Laython nodded. "Yes. That would be ideal."

"Ah, Firebrand... (http://ghostsngoblins.wikia.com/wiki/Firebrand)  The mark of the demon lord.  Yes, I believe they must.  This is Reajh, after all.  Everything can be found here."

Including whopping-huge sacks of loot for the enterprising Goblin.  Ah, that was such a good time...  They probably mobilized a small army after them, but eight legs were faster than four.  My my, was that a true glimmer in Gary's eye, just then?  Not a trick of the light or a metaphorical thing.  Actual yellow glimmer, briefly, before he led her in the promised direction as she spoke again.  Bad day?  Yes, he imagined so.  She didn't look beaten, so it must have been something else.  The distinct absence of the man she'd been with prior lent a possibility to Gary's mind.

"Yes, it seems alot of people were having a bad day today.  Brothel owner kicked out a bunch of clients unexpectedly.  As I said, I cleaned up earlier, since they needed something to get their minds off of it all."

Elan would probably recognize some of those regulars if any were coming out of the tavern or even still present there.  Nevertheless, if any of them asked, he was officially 'on break' and requested a couple of Firebrands be taken to one of their booths, where he and Elan could talk.

   Mark of the demon lord? Sounded intimidating. But Elan didn't think much of it. Alan drank the stuff all the time. Usually either until he blacked out or pissed himself. Elan wouldn't mind the former if a single mug of firebrand was too much to handle. Away with the world for a time. Spend some time in a far better place, all the sorrow of this life left behind. The refuge of dreamless sleep.
   And Elan completely missed the yellow glimmer. Stayed quiet as Jim mentioned the brothel owner.
   She perked up some when the tavern came into sight. A couple of the men who had been rushed out of Master Laython's brothel just came out of the door. Walked past the two of them.
   Elan entered the tavern with Jim.
   A lively atmosphere inside, for an afternoon. Probably due to the abrupt closing of the brothel. All the stools at the bar counter were occupied. Many of the tables, booths. Men talked and laughed and boasted and clinked their mugs together. A few women enjoyed the attention and gazes of the men that surrounded them at their tables. One man, a bit too drunk or overzealous to return to his table and his friends, tripped and dropped four full mugs of beer. The conversations all but stopped throughout the tavern as the beverages splashed all over the floor. The man's three friends howled out with a loud and in unison "Awwww!" and half of the tavern joined in. Someone in the crowd yelled, "Lick it up!"
   Elan sat down at the booth with Jim as conversations about the tavern resumed, and the normal social environment returned.
   And she sat there.
   For a long and awkward moment that she wasn't aware of.
   Until it finally struck her that she had in fact been sticking there and hadn't said anything.
   Her eyes widened as she realized it. "Oh! Sorry. I'm normally not this much of a shut-in. Really. It's...well..."
   She thought about it again. Being there, with Alan, in that room. That awful room. Her face down the table. The blood—
   Her eyes averted. A tortured look. Briefly.
   She blinked rapidly. Looked back at Jim. "So, uh, what brings a jester around here? I can't say I've run into many jesters around Reajh. Or, at all, as a matter of fact. I..."
   Elan couldn't. Just couldn't be herself. It was too soon. And it weighed far too heavily on her.
   She pinched her eyes shut. Her eyelashes wet. And she wiped her face and her eyes with the back of her hand.
   Her head lowered, she said something. Whispered it. A tiny sound, buried underneath the ambient noise of the tavern. As if she both did and did not want Jim to hear. Conflicted.
   "Can you keep a secret?"

Gary had joined in the reaction over spilt beer by adding a cry of "The waste of it!" with a chortle.  It was no business of his own, nor important unless they spilled his drink too.  Then, he might have to lecture someone on the fine art of keeping one's drink in hand or in mouth, nowhere else.  He turned his attention back to Elan as she made her apology for being so quiet.

"Not at all.  Everyone has these moments.  Even me, one of wit and whimsy."

More times than you can imagine, thinking of the early days of his awareness.  They might've both had certain tortured looks, but Gary was wearing a mask.  How could you even be sure?  It was a good mask, but good enough to perfect all his subtle facial expressions?  Doubtful.  Still, as the woman attempted to make conversation, Gary was about to spin a whole new lie about Juggalo Jim Batmire when...well, obviously he wasn't going to need to.

Her distress was palpable.  Her problems were large, and Gary knew it even without questioning her.  She was definitely one of Laython's indentured servants, and definitely in a great deal of trouble because of him.  Now...this alone did not matter, in general, to Gary Blight.  But...if what he believed had happened had been done...

"Yes, I can keep a secret.  I'm not a clergyman, but tight lips are not restricted to the church.  Go on..."

   Their drinks made it to the table intact, the bartender taking a wide berth around the spilt beer and the man wiping it up with a rag.
   Elan looked at the mug placed in front of her. Stared down at the ale inside. She bit her bottom lip, the tips of her teeth only just visible.
   That would be a foolish mistake.
   Her right hand reach up and grabbed the handle of the mug. Her left hand wrapping around the front of it. She held it like that for a while. Didn't lift it.
   A slight shake of her head. Back and forth.
   There are no better men in this world.
   And she glanced up at Jim. Her brows curled in anguish. A lingering fear just behind the pupils of her eyes.
   "I'm a slave," she said. "And I want to escape my Master. But I'll die if I try."
   Elan lifted the mug and pressed it to her lips and tipped her head back and took three big gulps. A trickle of ale ran down her face. Dripped from her chin. She coughed harshly into the mug. Accidentally slammed the mug back down on the table, propelled forward in her seat by the force of her coughing fit. She held a hand to her throat, then slid it down her body and smacked her chest a few times.
   Sorry, Alan. I'll try not to spill anymore.

'Jim' watched this display and listened intently to her words.  It was as he had guessed.  She was forced to work for Laython, and not in the brothel.  Not yet.  Otherwise, she wouldn't be going on special journeys to bring in special cargo for diabolical schemes.  So, she was a slave and she wanted to get out.  Gary could, once again, guess why.  He waited until Elan was done coughing before he said anything, and he began to drink his Fireband Ale a little more patiently than she did.

"You know, ales are not meant to be drank all at once, like that.  That's more of a beer and lager thing, or whiskey.  Ale is closer to wine, but not quite up to its snooty behavior.  At any rate, it is to be enjoyed."

He put the drink down for a moment talked more seriously, and in a lower voice, less Jim and more Gary in tone.

"I assume the owner is rather vindictive, a violent and perhaps obsessive personality, yes?"

Serendipity law or any forward-thinking and generous person would never be able to buy off that type of person, otherwise she would be gone by now.  He could see that much in her eyes.

"What exactly occurred that you find yourself feeling more endangered than usual?

   Elan wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. "I—" She coughed, and coughed, and coughed again. The burn in her throat abated some, but it was still there. "I think I just found that out the hard way."
   She left her mug on the table for the moment. At least until the initial burn died down some more. She said nothing to Jim's comment on her owner. Master Laython didn't like people talking about him, sharing details about his personal life and character, especially not his own underlings. That ingrained fear still held sway, and Elan stayed quiet.
   Then Jim had a follow-up question. Something she was far more happy to answer.
   "My Master had us on a mission. Just transporting something from Arca to Reajh. It...it was supposed to be easy. But..."
   A laugh. A short, tiny little laugh, more akin to a rush of air from the nose, but a laugh nonetheless. A piece of the real Elan coming through.
   "You'll probably think I'm silly if I tell you."
   Her throat still ached, but Elan grabbed hold of her ale and took another drink. Following Jim's advice, she went much slower with it this time and then set the mug back down. Still, she couldn't contain another couple of coughs as the alcohol blazed its way down to her stomach.
   "But it's real. My brother saw what happened. I know he did. He wouldn't lie."
   Elan glanced around the tavern. Eyed all of the other patrons as if they were all potential spies or eavesdroppers of a sort. Then back to Jim. She leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table.
   And in an almost conspiratorial way, she whispered to him, "It was Gary Blight. The Gary Blight. He robbed our convoy in the middle of the night. And...my Master...wasn't happy."

Yes, Firebrand Ale will get back at you like that for mistreating it.  A harsh lesson, but fair.  Of course, she didn't answer his Laython question, because he'd already heard some bad rumors about the man and his servants, but the one after...  She leaned in closer to tell him, and he...admittely had to lean a bit on the table to do the same.  And she told him.  Of course, she told him.  So, he had been witnessed.  He had a feeling that the light drug didn't keep people from waking up if there was a sharp nose, and one of the men had gotten off a shot, in the confusion. 

'Jim' now sat back in his seat and did not say anything for a moment, taking a pull of his drink.  He could definitely put two and two together.  She was here without her brother, in desperate need of a drink.  She had a distressed and depressed look about her.  Yes...a familiar feeling.  No, it was not one of regret, per se.  The death of a human did not bother him.  However, there was a certain aspect about this which felt close to home.  Yes...home...  Oh, why not?  What harm could it do to speak it?

"Do you know why Gary Blight steals and steals so much?  So much, in fact, that people can scarcely believe that he's real?  There are tales, but I know the true one."

He extend an index finger now.

"Consider goblins, for a moment.  They will live practically anywhere, if given the chance, and once they settle down...it's a population explosion.  Humans and other races don't like that, especially if the gobs start playing rough.  However, when any of them do that sort of thing, it's laws and punishment, maybe even war.  When it's goblins, it's extermination."

He lowered his hand down to the table.

"They hire mercenaries, sellswords, adventurers - and they tell 'em 'Go there and kill every goblin you find'.  And you know what?  They do it.  But the survivors..."

Now, he criss-crossed his fingers.

"What if a goblin lived through such a horror show and - having to do just about anything to survive - ended up cursing humanity from the depths of a bitter well with no end?  What might he do for revenge?  What is something that goblins are very good at?  Why, stealing, of course.  And thus, a legend is born."

He now finished his ale, setting it down gently on the table.

"He killed your brother, didn't he?  You're barely holding yourself together, and that's why you want out of service so badly."

Uhhh, he wasn't sounding like he was a jester, just now...

   At least Jim didn't laugh at her. He actually seemed to be taking her quite seriously. She watched him take his drink, still with a persistent worry that a joke at her expense might be forming in his mind.
   But no. He was serious.
   "The true one?"
   Was...was Gary Blight real? Real, as in, really real? Not just a fanciful ballad character? If so, was he alive or...not? It was hard to tell with legendary icons; they almost universally seemed to take on a timeless quality.
   Elan found the possibility hard to consider, even though she was the one who brought up Gary Blight in the first place. But Alan did see something. She was sure of it.
   And she listened. Listened to the merry man tell a not-so-merry story. Elan had never seen a goblin before, much like she had never seen many of the fantastic creatures across the world. And so she had no idea these exterminations, these wholesale slaughters, were happening with alarming frequency. How could this be allowed to happen? It would be like if a marauding band of mercenaries and sellswords hired by another race came marching into a human town and massacred everyone. It'd be a tragedy, an outrage. Why was it somehow different the other way around?
   Elan frowned and spoke while Jim finished his ale. "That...that sounds awful. The songs and the tales all left that part out. The whole legend made it seem like...well, like Gary did what he did because he could, and that was it. I..."
   She trailed off. Looked down at her mug.
   But looked up again when Jim spoke again. When the jester turned from a merry-maker into a truth-teller.
   And it smacked Elan hard in the chest. Her mouth dropped open, and her throat constricted itself. Words and thoughts fled from her mind, and the raw fear and sorrow nested in their place.
   Yesterday, Alan was alive. Joking with her. Laughing with her. Comforting her.
   Today, Alan was dead. And he would never come back.
   Her mouth slowly closed as her lips started to tremble. She pinched her eyes shut, squeezing out the tears that had collected on the edges.
   And the fear. The fear of Master Laython kept her mouth shut.
   She couldn't bring herself to say it.
   But.
   She could nod. And nod she did.
   Elan lifted the mug and drank a little more of the firebrand ale. For her brother.

He didn't need her reaction or her confirmation, but it was there.  Though she did not speak it, she had the will to admit it to another.  For her, there was hope.  She wanted to be free, and the first thing we must be free from is ourselves, our own doubts and limitations.  Gary learned his at a very young age.  That is why he was such a connoissuer of the alcoholic beverage.  The thought of it, the memory of it, would drive him to madness because of it.  At least, at a young age.  In these times of his adulthood, at least he could merely shake his head in disgust and say he had no choice...because there was no choice, unless you count dying.  He looked out at the tavern now, its gathered customers...

"Human beings - indeed, many likeminded beings - romanticize all kinds of things.  Good men, bad men, naughty men...  Women too, I'm sure.  They invent stories because they're bored, and because terrible realities could crush them into the ground, literally and figuratively.  Hell, he hires entertainers to keep him from considering how bad life can be, to remember that there are good times with the bad.  That alone is not wrong."

Was it her imagination, or was his voice taking on quite a new dynamic?  Not the rhythmic jester, but eloquent speech, even gentlemanly?  Perhaps he was just good with his voice.  Perhaps this was his real voice.  Perhaps he had a real voice that he'd trained himself to not use and cover with this one instead.  It was hard to tell.

"The problem is when it leads to self-delusion, bad thinking, like he is any better than any other being.  The people of Connlaoth eschew magic.  It is the devil's work or somesuch.  Naturally, they think similarly of non-human races.  I met a lich at a party once.  He was one of Connlaoth's marked servants.  An undying skeletal wizard, under the Grand Duke's thumb."

He shook his head, tsking as he did, and then looked Elan carefully in the eye.

"At any rate, let me tell you what is going to happen.  I am going to walk out of that door and to the outside of the city, a mile or so from its borders.  When I do, I suggest that you follow, if you wish to be free.  Know that we are not running, but planning, because I know the sort of man we are dealing with.  Now, finish your drink.  There's work to be done."

He hopped from his and went to pay for the drinks.  Was that the same man she walked in here with?

   The ale was starting to get to her. The warmth of the blood in her cheeks. The buzz in the back of her head.
   Jim seemed like a different man. Definitely talked like someone else. Had Elan come upon him like he was now, she'd never have guessed he was a jester. No more wit and whimsy here.
   Was it the alcohol playing tricks on her? Seemed unlikely, but hard to say for sure.
   Her face became quizzical. The people of Connlaoth? So he was a traveling jester? And...what? A lich? Wasn't that a Thanatos Isles thing? Huh? One of them? Here? With the Grand Duke himself? And Jim knew about it?
   Elan had little idea what Jim was truly talking about. But one thing was clear: he knew a lot more than she would have imagined.
   And she took another drink of her ale, enduring the burn in her throat. Less than half left in the mug.
   Let me tell you what is going to happen.
   Elan's heart stopped for a moment. Her breath frozen in her chest as she listened intently to every word Jim had to say. And she watched him leave his seat and go to the bar counter to pay for the drinks.
   Then she stared down at the table.
   If she wished to be free? Planning what? The sort of man we are dealing with? There was no way this was happening. Elan tended to look on the bright side of life whenever possible, but even she doubted her own luck just now. Jim did seem to know quite a bit about Gary Blight though. He even said that Gary often hired entertainers, and Jim was an entertainer himself. Made sense. But, if this was the case, then...then Gary was real. What sort of man was Gary, to warrant such seriousness from a jester? And for that matter, a man? Wasn't Gary a—
   Elan's eyes went wide.
   Oh, no. No, no, no. He...Jim...did he mean Master Laython? What did he intend to do? This could end badly. Badly for both of them.
   Elan crossed her arms on the table again and buried her face down into them.
   Master Laython had eyes and ears everywhere. He only needed to ask about her, and someone would volunteer the information. Tell him that she had been seen leaving Reajh. Maybe tell him that she had been conversing with a short, funny-looking man. Maybe somebody was watching her. Right now. Waiting for any hint of defection.
   Elan let out a ragged breath. Felt the heat of it as it spread across the table and her arms and her face.
   She wanted to be free. But she didn't want to die.
   A terribly conflicted mind.

   The last man limped out of Laython's office in the brothel.
   Laython had grown bored of the beatings. The first dozen or so were amusing, yes, but his mind had since drifted. He thought of pressing business matters:
   The repairs at his low-brow brothel in Uthlyn were almost complete. Some idiot had managed to start a fire in one of the rooms. It was either the working girl or the client, and both quite naturally had blamed the other. It didn't matter much; he had them both punished anyway. And for an interesting role reversal, he switched up the punishments on them. Had the working girl beaten to within an inch of her life, and had the slob of a client gang-raped by four uncouth types who could scarcely believe they were actually being paid to do it.
   An intriguing rumor on the streets as well. Word had it that Jessos "The Butcher" Rains, the late Mr. Deegan's former lieutenant herself, had been murdered. Stories conflicted as to the murderer's true identity, but that was of little importance. There was now an opportunity to seize control of the Pit, Rains' large drug operation and facility in the Niraya neighborhood. It could be done with minimal to zero casualties. After all, the Pit was much more valuable if it also came with its own work force as well.
   Ah, yes. And the Dampener. Perhaps Ghost would be able to secure a true professional to track down the thief or thieves who had taken it. Worthwhile help was increasingly difficult to procure these days. The ongoing civil war had either provided too much competition among potential employers, or had driven out the professionals to less tumultuous countries. A shame.
   "Ghost," Laython said as he straightened up in his seat, "Put out the word. See what's available."
   "Yes, sir."
   "Spectre." Laython sighed. "Get some of the men to watch the brothel. We'll reopen tomorrow. I promised Vanessa that I would return home to Uthlyn tonight for dinner."
   And, like Ghost, Spectre said, "Yes, sir."
   And they both left the office on their assigned tasks.

Unlike Elan, Gary was not in distress or concern over the situation.  He had already made a decision on how this was to be handled.  Some things were technically more important than money.  Not many things, such as personal satisfaction over an undertaking achieved...if it was worth doing...or blood.  No, it wasn't that he cared about when humans die.  There were just some things that spoke to him a little more than others.  The story...  Yes, the story.  All true.  One small detail left out.  The important detail.

Gary paid the tavern owner and headed for the door.  As he did, he began to whistle... (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HivG2wiApB4)  It was a real somber tone, nothing like that of the jester from before.  Were it not for the look of him, the clothes and the face, he'd be almost unrecognizable.  He checked his daggers before pushing the door open.  He'd said what he had to say.  She had to have the strength to follow him down the wossname, that hole from a book.  He couldn't remember the title.  Probably something offensive about goblins.

   Elan sat there.
   Thirty minutes passed.
   Then a full hour.
   She had shifted from arms-crossed and heads-down, to hands on her head, to a hand on her chin, to a normal seated posture, to hands covering her face, and then back all over again. She had finished her ale within the first ten minutes of her troubled thinking, and by thirty minutes in she had a sloppy smile and a goofy look on her face; a sharp contrast on the outside to what was happening on the inside. Elan was a happy, hugging, hands-on drunk. And, without anybody nearby to touch, she hugged herself intermittently as her thoughts rebounded from the optimistic side of her mind to the "But what if...?" side and back and forth and back again.
   And she giggled as the first minute of the new hour passed.
   This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. She had just met Jim. Hardly knew a thing about him. He could be anybody, really.
   But, on the other hand, what else was she going to do? She was dead at the end of the week for sure. There was no way she could ever find Master Laython's stupid thing. And why should she? He killed Alan. Why should she do anything to help him?
   Yeah, that's how Alan would think. And Alan would take the opportunity to get out, to be free, to live dangerously. He'd stick it to Laython. Absolutely he would.
   Elan glanced at the mug. Pulled it close to her. Then lifted it up and hugged it to her chest.
   She'd do it. She'd go outside the city gates and find Jim and follow through on whatever plan he had cooked up. And she'd do it for Alan.
   Elan put down the mug and stood and turned toward the tavern door—
   And stumbled and tripped and fell to the floor. The group of friends from earlier all laughed. One called out, "Hey, watch your step, lady!" and another said, "Joseph, man, there's a perfect match for you right there.
   Elan got back to her feet. Dusted herself off and straightened out her blouse and her pants and her hat.
   Her balance still severely hindered by the vicious grip of the firebrand ale on her mind, Elan carefully made her way to the door.

   Drunken wandering. Drunken wandering.
   Elan made her way to the main gates of Reajh. Legitimately and "accidentally" bumping into a number of random people along the way. Didn't matter which. She grabbed their hands and touched their shoulders and apologized sincerely to their puzzled faces before moving along.
   Elan hugged each of the guards standing watch at the gates on her way out. The first one bristled harshly when she did, since his attention was elsewhere and she had caught him by surprise. The troop of guards eyed each other; they had no idea what to make of it. The last guard actually hugged her back though, and asked if she was going to be busy later on in the evening. She said yes, and he looked disappointed.
   Then she walked.
   Down the road, passed a few incoming travelers and a wagon.
   Down and down and down the road.
   Until the gates and walls of Reajh were some distance behind her. Until the natural sounds of Sirantil Valley, the birds in the trees and the rustling of the leaves and the swaying of the branches and the ripple of wind through the lush forest, replaced the urban sounds of the city.
   She stood by the road. A goofy, drunken smile on her face.
   And hummed a soft tune to herself.

A fool would say he was being sentimental.  Hell, Jim Batmire would say it too, and he was someone that he made up.  And perhaps to some, it would seem that way.  He was something of a gentleman thief, after all.  Vicious and deadly, but when you spare them from your knife, they're suppose to remain spared!  Punished, yes.  Pissed upon by fate, sure.  But that is low.  He would not be made into the ilk as those 'hearty adventurers'. Some might say it was silly, the great Gary Blight saving a human woman from disaster.  Surely one for the rumor pages, no doubt.  Well, let them speculate.  How many would dare to guess that it was not for reasons of gallantry, but sanity?

The very moment she had so-confirmed her brother's death, it had to be done.  Gary did not regret killing, and this woman's brother was nothing to him, but obviously this particular death had pushed past the realm of good taste.  People die and other people mourn them.  Goblinkind are killed all the time.  Life is a struggle.  It's meant to be so.  However, when somebody rubs it in your face, that was going too far.  When you're forced to bear witness to horror, or to do more terrible things than you ever would imagine, that is a line that should never have been crossed.  That must be paid back to you, or else you'll never live with yourself.

'Jim Batmire' had plenty of time to get out of town.  He'd even gotten a bite to eat outside when he noticed that Elan wasn't following.  Well...  He couldn't force her to leave.  It had to be of her own free will, or else - in her mind - she would never be free.  He took his time, made no strange moves, just headed out of town with his considerable headstart.  He walked, as he said, for a mile or so.  Then, where the snapped branch lay, he turned left and walked straight into the woods.  It had been laid for him.  Concord liked to move around, but she often left some indicator.  Silly spider.  He could smell her.  He walked in there, until enough trees obscured visibility from the road, and then the spider hopped down from the trees.

"Hello, Concord."

"Hurgur?"

"It's nothing."

He looked down, pulling off his mask as he patted the spider's head area.  At times like these, you needed a friend, if only for their presence.  After a moment, the goblin looked up at her again.

"We're having guests.  One of them, I believe you will recognize.  The others, if any, will be unwelcome followers.  Here is what's going on..."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By the time Elan came to the area on the road, that explanation had passed.  As she closed in on the area of the stick - which had been removed - she would hear that whistling again, the same tune as in the bar that Jim had made.  Then, curiously, she would hear something like his voice from the woods, going "Now, you try.".  There would be a sound, a sound like someone was trying and failing at whistling.  She'd then hear "No no no, listen...  You've got to put your mandibles together, and blow.  Try it.".  The sound that followed was very much like a loud raspberry.  Of course, if Elan chose to follow these sounds, she would find the goblin rogue in his normal attire, teaching a giant spider to whistle.

   Someone else was humming too. No. Whistling. That was whistling.
   Elan glanced around. Road. Trees. Bushes. Whoever was doing it was close by, but not visible directly from the road. Hey. That whistle sounded familiar. Jim? Yeah, Jim. He whistled something like that when he left the tavern an hour or two ago. And Elan hadn't heard that tune before today. Had a different style to it. So that just had to be Jim. Signaling her.
   This was the right decision!
   Elan stepped off the road and into the vegetation of the Valley proper.
   Followed the sound of the whistling.
   Oh. He was talking to somebody. Great. It wouldn't just be them. She certainly felt safer with—
   Elan eyed the forest floor and stepped over a large root and came around the thick tree it belonged to and lifted her head and the first thing she saw was a gigantic spider.
   She flinched hard. Tripped. Fell and rolled forward ungracefully, coming to a stop with her back on the ground and her arms and legs splayed out and her hat in the grass beside her.
   She looked at the spider.
   Then at the short...guy with the weird eyes.
   Then at the spider again.
   And she burst out laughing. Her whole face flushed red. Her speech a bit slurred. "Ish that a shpider? That'sh the biggesht shpider I've ever seen. Gosh, I'm sorry. I've forgotten my manners. I'm Elan. Elan Buckley. Nish to meet ya. I'm looking for a short guy, goes by Jim. 'Bout your height. He'sh a merry-man." Another fit of giggles. "You know, a jeshter type. Whishles like you were whishling. Oh gosh, didn't mean to shuggest that I was eaveshdropping. I'm not normally one to intrude. Well, I guessh I'm intruding now, so I might as well, right? You teach Jim how to whishle like that? Ah. Wait. I should ashk if you even know him. He's a short guy. Goes by Jim. 'Bout your...I said this already, didn't I? I'm sorry, I'm a little...I've a had bit to drink. I don't know if you can tell. Here. 'Mere. C'mere. I'll give ya a hug. Make it up to ya."

There are many reactions one could have to coming across Gary Blight and his faithful steed.  One is fear, a most understandable reaction.  You step into this place, and you find a masked goblin with a giant spider.  Goblins are a menace and the spider can rip your head off.  Completely understandable!  Another reaction is confusion, the question of 'What the fuck am I looking at?'.  Because there is a certain audacious absurdity in coming across a pair like them, the very reason - one assumes - that such a character as Gary Blight would be of such a fantastical nature is because the very notion of a goblin a'riding a giant spider to rob people is just patently ridiculous.

Ordinarily, he was not encountered like this by somebody flat drunk.

Oh dear, it looks like she's had one too many...

Elan Buckley was a bit out of her gourd, thanks to her drinking at the tavern.  Had it been more than just the one?  He had heard her stumbling through the brush.  Hell, a deaf man could've picked up on that!  She rolled into view - having tripped - and came to be on the ground before them, tipsy being an unsufficient word to describe her behavior.  Well, at least she was a happy drunk.  Gary despised Rage-oholics and Depressos.  She was, however, in no condition to put two and two together.  She was in more of a 'Two plus three equals chair' mood, at the moment.  Nevertheless, her mood put a decided smile on the goblin's face, as she flipped himself onto Concord's back, crouching with his hands on his knees.

"Miss Buckley, I know who you are, and why you're here.  You see, I am Jim Batmire.  And it just so happens too...that I am Gary Blight."

   Elan stared.
   Her mouth dropped open.
   Incredulous.
   And then she laughed again. She tried to get back up as she did, but she stumbled and fell back down again. She settled for sitting up straight on the ground, even though she was far more comfortable lying down.
   As the laughter subsided and the world stopped spinning as her body adjusted to its new resting position, Elan blinked. Blinked again. Squinted.
   Gary came into focus.
   "Oh, you've got to be joking. Can't be sherious." A giggle. An aftershock. "You're Gary. The Gary Blight? And you're real? And you were shitting in front of me the whole—wait, that didn't shound right. Lemme try again. Lemme try. Ahem. And you were..." Intense concentration. "Sit...ting...in front of me the whole time? I don't. Um. I don't know what to shay. Uh, thanksh for the drink? I didn't know you were shuch a gentleman...goblin...gentlegoblin...gentlegob. One of those. But I guess it'sh fair to shay that I didn't know much about goblinsh in the first place."
   She felt around on the ground for her hat. Found it. Carefully put it on her head.
   And still, it was slanted to her right side.

Happy drunks seldom take anything seriously.  Gary could tell one that he was planning to steal his pants and the drunk would still be laughing while sitting in thr bar, half naked.  Naturally, he wasn't planning on doing anything so crass and ridiculous to Elan, but it's just the sort of state that she was in.  Hell, he even chuckled along with her, just to show how good a sport he was about this.  He laughed harder at 'shitting'.

"Indeed, it didn't seem right, at all."

He let her talk, try to gather her thoughts a bit more carefully.  Hmmm, gentlegob...  He liked that.  Might have to use that later.  In his own right, he was a gentleman.  Of course, in his own right, he was also a tenacious bastard.  Well, it takes all kinds, doesn't it?  Once she had finished talking, he decided to inject some understanding into her, see if it would stick.  In her current state, he'd give it about a 50-50 chance, but he had a 'ringer' that'd grab her attention.  The sack was on Concord's back.

"Yes, well, I'm sure there would be any number of goblins who would claim to be me, for whatever reason, but I am who I say I am, and I asked you here because it seems we must settle matters in some fashion."

He pulled out the spiked bauble and the control stone.

"The cargo in question, stolen by a foe who knocked out twenty people in full stealth.  The carriage stolen, the locks melted, and even a few guns and swords taken."

The items were placed in a belt pouch now.

"I asked you here to discuss the means of your freedom.  Now, we're not going to try anything like killing the man.  That's for if he tries to do anything foolish.  I have what he wants, and I understand the fullness of its value.  I think, perhaps, when he learns of this fact, he could be tempted to deal.  After all, by force would be a fool's errand.  I've been at this since I was a child, and I don't play fair."

   Elan squinted again and slanted her head forward some. Neither move was particularly effective at bringing the two small items in Gary's hand into focus. Both remained tiny blurs, and more so appeared to be four items instead of two.
   She giggled. "What? All that money and all that shecurity for those four little thingsh? Whadodey even do? Can't imagine they'd be worth all that much. But I guessh they are to Mashter Laython. That shtupid bashtard."
   And Elan listened to Gary's proposal, a look of wonder overcoming her. This truly was a day like none other, a defining day in her life; perhaps the most defining, unseating the day that she and Alan were sold into slavery by their parents. And now, like then, it had an almost surreal quality about it, as if it were a dream or a vision provided by a divination mage or seer. As if these sorts of events, the death of her brother and meeting a legend in the flesh, just didn't happen in real life, or were strictly reserved for other people.
   And yet, here she was. Listening to Gary Blight, the Gary Blight, telling her his plan for getting back at Master Laython and setting her free at the same time.
   Overwhelming.
   Simply overwhelming.
   And a few tears of joy ran down her face.
   A sloppy smile as she wiped them away with her hand. "You're gonna get hugged today. Shoon as I can shtand. You wait and shee."
   And when she finished wiping, she said, "What can I do to help?"

"Well, let's just say he would be able to make back that money very easily with these."

He didn't want to tell her exactly what they did.  Not yet.  If she knew that it could control the minds of any being whose brain was thus afflicted with it, she would naturally be appalled, and Laython would probably notice some look on her face about it.  After this was over, it might be safer, but for now it could be very dangerous to know the facts, for secrecy of the device works in its favor, and rumors would make its implementation harder.  Nay, it was far better if Elan didn't know so Laython would not execute her, as well.

Her reaction to what he was saying told him that the ale was starting to wear off, because she was beginning to understand now, and she looked entirely grateful.  Gary did not want a hug, though.  He wasn't against affection, but he still didn't like humans...  He didn't have human friends.  At the most, he had colleagues who were in the same world as he was, the underworld of thievery and such-like.  You may make curious bedfellows, but only be the profession.  Oh well.  At least, she didn't point her gun at him for getting her brother killed...

"The funny thing is...what I need you to do is to tell him the truth of how you found me.  You must tell him that I lured you from the city to this meeting, having recognized you from the convoy.  It must be thus, because a lie would probably never pass."

He now hopped down from Concord and turned to the creature, and simply nodded.  That was - as he had explained to the spider before - the indication that he wished for followers to be hunted down and dispatched quickly.  He did not think of Concord as a mere Attack Spider.  She was his trusted friend, and a very strong one.  The spider jumped into the trees, and would begin to hunt in a spiral pattern, making quite certain that anyone within earshot - any thinking being she could smell, besides the two of them - would be pounced and bitten before moving on.  Gary turned to Elan, once more.

"You see, Miss Buckley, you are to be the messenger for my intent to strike a bargain with this Laython.  He will not like that I ever stole these articles in the first place, but their worth outweighs even trying to kill me, if he can get them back swiftly.  Of course, he may be a backstabber, and I have considered this, but I believe he will do business and move on, because darkening my day with treachery would require the use of deadly force against him.  Not the sort of thing that men with plans get into, if avoidable."

The goblin smirked, exposing some of his not-human teeth.

"No, he will want them back and to quietly move on, if he's smart.  The message will appropriately convey my intentions, and explain that you are to lead him to this area.  Part of my price will include your release from slavery, unscathed.  You have already paid a price in familial blood...  That, to me, is...quite enough."

He'd gone sort of quiet at the end, there.  That true story, before...  He must have meant every word, and more.

   The proposed plan scared a bit of sobriety back into Elan.
   She needed to go back to Laython? Tell him all of that? Gary's description of Laython's mindset was pretty spot-on from all that she knew of him and how he liked to do business, but he was furious before. Maybe he'd believe her. Maybe not.
   And Gary's voice. At the end there. Elan didn't make the connection yet, but she could hear the sincere solemnity. Understood on a base level that she and Gary shared a similar experience in common. The vaguest hint that his motivations ran deeper than mere things of value whispering in the back of her mind.
   But. The plan.
   Elan thought about it, taking longer than normal with the haze of alcohol clouding her mind. She fixed her hat, straightened it on her head, and said, "I'll do it. But I'll need shomething from you. Shomething I can show Mashter Laython that I'm not making thish all up. He...um...doeshn't think you're real. He won't believe me unlessh I can prove it to him."

Upon hearing about Laython's apparent skepticism, Gary went "Hah!" and began to pace.  He was genuinely amused by this particular point.  If Laython didn't believe in him, then he didn't fully appreciate his abilities, either.  That was both good and bad, in terms of how things stand right now.

"How could I possibly convince a man that I exist?  Much of what I am revolves around taking from others.  Even a personal item is dubious.  Why would someone who does not know me believe that they are mine?  My mask?  Some article of clothing?  It could come from many a place.  I carry no official seal or documentation.  Even if I were to loan you one of my personal weapons, he would not believe that I would part with one...and he would be right."

My my, this was a quandary, was it not?  Then, he stopped, and got an idea.  His means to prove himself need only go so far as to show he was the thief of the convoy.  Quickly heading behind a tree, he came out with a - now emptied - pistol in one hand and Bitterfang in the other.  He held both over his head, touching the end of the gun barrel to the blade.

"The locks on the carriage and chest went like this."

Sssss...  Bitterfang began to melt and misshape the barrel into two halves before Gary quit.  He waved the smoking - and now useless - weapon in the air a few times until the smoking stopped, then tossed it lightly over to Elan.

"There you are.  A chemist might manage that, but not with such precision.  It is certainly one of the guns supplied in the convoy, and you and anybody there knows that the locks were melted similarly, so he must know by now, as well.  Will that suffice?"

   Elan watched with fascination as the metal of the pistol gave way to the blade. Even inebriated, her mind began to race with all of the possibilities for such a tool. Crafting precise pieces of metal for different applications. Might be a little rough on the edges. Perhaps a blacksmith could fix it, or the tool itself could be used in a specific manner or, if need be, toned down and engineered for accurate cutting.
   She picked the ruined pistol up and inspected it. A big smile on her face. "Oh yeah. I think thish'll do nicely. All the men got a good look at the door and the locksh. It'sh no shecret that they were melted. If this doeshn't make him believe, I don't know what will."
   Elan tried to stand, then sat back down before she'd gotten halfway.
   "Whew. I, uh, made a mishtake. Got comfortable. Hold on."
   She took in a couple big breaths, then carefully tried again. And she made it, somewhat haphazardly, back to her feet. The world rocked like a ship at sea, and it took her a moment to truly regain her balance.
   She held out her arms, as if bracing herself against some invisible objects. "Okay. There. I got thish." Then, she grinned at Gary. "I'm gonna hug you when I get back, you know."
   And with that, Elan started back toward the road with the ruined pistol.
   It would be a long and sobering walk back to Reajh.

"That may not be wise, given the presence of the people we're dealing with."

As Elan was headed away, she probably heard Concord return to the goblin, which she did, in order to report negative treats for her stomach.  This seemed to please him, and then he stopped when he realized...oh hell!  The message!  She left without the thing and he hadn't even written it yet!  Quickly, Gary pulled out paper and inkwell, and a sharp pieces of wood for the writing.


Blowing the ink dry, he then pursued the fortunately-not-moving-quickly Elan while tying the paper up in a bit of string.  She would hear the goblin clear his throat from a tree branch before tossing her the message in question.

"Let us not forget the actual invitation.  It would be improper not to convey myself, after all."

   A noise.
   Elan looked up. Oh, hey, it was Gary.
   And the message bounced off of her head.
   "Ah. Okay. Lemme just..." She carefully crouched down and scooped up the scroll and pocketed it. "Right. That'll do it then. I'll be back shoon."


   The sun low in the sky.
   Elan made it back to the brothel behind Market Street, the alcohol mostly gone from her system now. The two men posted as guards were still at the front door. They watched her approach.
   "I need to see Master Laython," she said. "It's important."
   "Sorry," said the man on her left, "Mr. Laython's gone for the day. Back to Uthlyn."
   Elan looked back at the one wagon and horse that was still present in front of the brothel. "Then take me to him. It's about his shipment. I know where it is."
   The two men glanced at each other.
   "Think we'll get some extra pay if we take her?"
   "Maybe. The shipment was important enough to get all the other boys beat."
   "Worth a shot."
   The man on her left gestured his head toward the wagon. "Hop in back. Hope you got somethin' good, or Mr. Laython'll be pissed that we came knockin' on his door."
   "Trust me," Elan said, "he'll want to know."


   Laython stood in the kitchen of his Uthlyn estate with his wife Vanessa. He was out of his normal attire, dressed in casual house clothes, and a folded white rag on his shoulder. He worked on slicing the vegetables while Vanessa prepared the meat. Unlike most other men of his status, Laython preferred preparing his own food whenever possible. Unpredictable patterns and intermediaries sufficed when it wasn't.
   It was starting to get dark.
   "Vanessa, could you light the lantern?"
   "Yes, dear." And she did as he asked, returning to cooking the meat with a content smile. A subservient wife. Pliable. Loyal to a fault. A good front.
   Spectre entered the kitchen from the portal to the main foyer.
   "Sir," he said. "Maritsa has come back from the market."
   Laython put down the knife and set aside the chopped carrots. He said to his wife, "If you could finish up with the vegetables, Vanessa, that would be lovely. I'm going to go say hello to Maritsa before dinner."
   Content as ever. "Okay, dear."
   "Thank you."
   And he left.

   Upstairs, Laython tapped lightly on Maritsa's door and opened it and stepped inside her lavishly decorated room and shut the door behind himself and smiled at his daughter. She smiled back and crossed the distance between them and cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply.
   Laython held the kiss for a long time. Working and spending so much time in Reajh had its downfalls. But a reunion after weeks or even a month apart was its own special pleasure. Somewhat hard to believe, that he was indeed the sort of man who valued such things. Or, at least, could value them. Perhaps it depended on the woman one returned to. Laython felt no such feelings for Vanessa. She was more a tool, a means to an end whenever necessary, useful in that particular regard. The best thing she had done was given him Maritsa, a woman who truly understood him. Vanessa could be sufficiently summed up as vaguely fearful and persistently submissive. Maritsa, on the other hand, was full of nothing but admiration. She held a genuine interest and appreciation for the work Laython did, where Vanessa would shrivel and shy away, the details far too much for her delicate ears to handle. Pitiful. Maritsa, even as a child, was simply enthralled and captivated by the workings of powerful men. Laython could only imagine the exact thoughts that crossed her mind, the sensations that rippled through her body, the passionate fluttering of her heart when she learned—not too long after she had come of age—that her own father was such a man, and that he was involved in so many things that she could scarcely conceive of at the time. She turned down every would-be suitor in the fourteen years since. And how could Laython blame her? Surely, those effeminate, silver-spooned, birth-righted, nobleman's sons paled in comparison.
   Maritsa drew back. Her face expectant. "Did you get it?"
   Laython smiled. "The Dampener was stolen. A few days ago, while the convoy was crossing the Kilanthro Mountains."
   Maritsa took a few steps back and turned around, her right hand to her forehead. "Nothing but bad luck..."
   Laython stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. Rubbed them. "Come now. The Dampener will be recovered. A simple matter of time. We've already waited years; a few more days or so is little to worry about."
   "You haven't heard about Pritchard?"
   "That fat bastard is running late. Color me shocked."
   "He's not late. He's dead."
   Laython paused. "Dead."
   Maritsa glanced back at him. "Yes. Dead. Crushed inside of a carriage that apparently was thrown forty or fifty feet into the air. It happened on Market Street, for gods' sake."
   A simple 'hmm' from Laython. "Inevitable, that some events will slip by unnoticed. And...what of—?"
   "She's gone. And nobody seems to know where she is." Maritsa's eyes hardened. "Give me some men. Whoever is available. I'll have them turn Reajh inside-out if I have to. I will find our daughter, Elliot."
   A moment passed.
   Laython was about to say something else, but a knock at the bedroom door interrupted him.
   "Yes, what is it?" he said.
   "Sir," said Spectre from the other side, "you're going to want to come downstairs. It's Elan Buckley. She said she's found your shipment."
   Maritsa whirled around, her face brightening up in an instant.
   Laython smiled. Said to her, "All the pieces of a well-laid plan fall into place with a patient mind and a careful hand."

During this time, Gary and Concord were in special preparation. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRpu-7qzaIY)  It was nighttime, and they had time on their hands for an eventual meeting.  Honestly, he expected there to be a much quicker response, certainly before the fifth net trap.  Oh, allow me to explain: Between the two of them, they are rigging a number of carefully-triggered traps in the area.

The first is, of course, the nets.  They're spider webs, waiting to fall from certain trees at certain heights.  Spiders are ever-so-good at creating webs, so nets were basically a cinch to create, even spontaneously from the creature's posterior.  Rigging them to fall was more of a Gary thing, though.  They would only be triggered by someone IN the trees, deliberately.

The second were the simple sling traps.  Nothing special here.  Rigged on flexible branches, here and there, they ranged from being a distraction and a nuissance to causing physical harm with a good direct hit.  These took less time than the webs up high, and were not really on the path to Gary that Elan had taken earlier, so if you were not deviating, you wouldn't find one.

The third were what Gary and Concord were getting up to now: Burmese Tiger Traps.  And dammit, there are NO Burmese Tigers in the area, so Wile E. Coyote can just piss off!  Anyway, by the time they actually got here, those two would be well-rested in the trees, out of direct sight.

   Elan stood at the front doors of the estate, the soft glow of the two lanterns illuminating the porch. Ghost stood with one foot outside and one inside, her back against the door frame. Watching Elan.
   A throbbing in Elan's head. The beginnings of a headache, the parting gift of the firebrand ale.
   And as she waited, as her toes fidgeted inside her boots, she started to wish that she had some ale handy.
   But finally, Laython came down the stairs with Spectre and approached the two of them.
   "What a surprise," Laython said as he eyed Elan. "I certainly didn't expect to see you back so soon. Now. Where is my shipment?"
   Elan didn't say anything. Simply presented the ruined pistol, took the message out of her pocket, and offered it as well.
   Laython glanced at Ghost. Nodded.
   Ghost grabbed the pistol. Started to inspect it as Spectre grabbed the message and undid the string and skimmed over it.
   "It's signed Gary Blight, sir," Spectre said.
   "And this pistol appears to have been melted in a way consistent with what the men described of the chest," Ghost said.
   Laython took the message from Spectre and gave it a read himself. Despite herself, despite all the proof Gary had provided, she swallowed nervously. Watched his eyes move left and right and left and right as he read each line of the note.
   He put the note on an end table beside the door.
   Looked back to Elan.
   Elan looked back at him. Tried not to shake.
   A moment passed. The sound of crickets filling the gap.
   Then Laython glanced at Ghost and said, "Gather some of the men from the estate. Have them fetch my carriage. We'll take it along with the wagon Elan arrived in."
   "Full arms and armor, sir?" she asked.
   "Yes. We don't know what we're walking into."
   And Ghost did as she was bidden. Spectre stayed at Laython's side. Kept watch on Elan.
   Laython's eyes drifted back to Elan then. A smirk. "Alright, Elan. It seems you may have a shred of credibility to your name. For your sake, this 'Gary Blight' business had better be genuine."
   "It is," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You'll see, Master Laython."
   He tilted his head forward. "We both will."


   The carriage and the wagon traveled down the road. Lanterns hung from the sides of both vehicles. Beacons of light in the surrounding dark. The clouded night was king out here.
   Elan kept watch in the driver's seat of the carriage, the lead vehicle. She squinted, paying close attention to the road with the limited light available. Hoped she hadn't missed the spot.
   But there.
   At last.
   The particular bend of the road and the shape and size of the bushes and the number of surrounding trees refreshed the sight of the spot in her mind. This was it.
   "Here," she said to the driver, and he stopped the carriage. The wagon behind them stopped as well. The eight plate and mail wearing riflemen in the wagon all jumped out.
   Spectre and Ghost exited the carriage first. Then Laython, straightening and smoothing out his jacket after he did.
   "Have the men set up a perimeter around the carriage and the wagon," Laython said to Spectre, who carried out the order, and the men made a ring around the vehicles.
   Elan jumped down from the driver's seat. Said to Laython, "He's not here. He's ju—"
   "Not here." Laython narrowed his eyes. "You said this is the place. So which is it? Is this the spot of the proposed meeting or is it not?"
   A pang of anxiety in her chest. "He's just a little ways off the road. That's where he led me before. I swear to you that it's the truth."
   Laython glanced at Ghost, and she drew her pistol and pressed it to Elan's forehead.
   "Oh god..." Elan closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Her arms and legs shook.
   "My dear Elan," Laython said. "You wouldn't be trying to lead me into a trap, would you?"
   "No! No! It's just where he took me earlier. The road's too risky for a goblin to—"
   "Perhaps you aren't consciously trying to do so," Laython said as he glanced around at the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns. "Perhaps you are merely a pawn. A piece to be discarded in a much grander game. Ghost. If you would, please."
   "No! Don't!"
   But the shot didn't come. Ghost grabbed Elan and held her like a human shield, an arm around Elan's neck, the lightning pistol to her head.
   Spectre came back to Laython's side, stood close, his own pistol drawn and his eyes scanning the blackened trees.
   "Or," Laython said, "perhaps you have struck a deal with him. Perhaps there is a connection between the two of you that I am unaware of."
   "It's not like that," Elan said, her voice unsteady. "It's just what's written on the note. I swear it's sincere. Please, Master Laython, please. He just wants to do business. That's all."
   "We'll find that out soon enough." Then, Laython looked back into the surrounding darkness of the forest and yelled, "Mr. Blight! You wanted to talk. Come. Let's talk. I would prefer to be civil about this."
   The cold iron against Elan's head. The armored riflemen, eyeing the dark forest apprehensively, guns in hand and poised to fire.
   And Laython waited, his hands on his hips.

There was...what you could probably call an ominous hush over the forest area.  The wind surged through the trees, and then after...the distinct inflictions of a voice intoning a known melody.

"Gary Blight, Gary Blight,
Riding through the night..."

It was his voice.  And then, from the darkness between the trees, there were yellow eyes gleaming.  It was brighter than Elan would remember, but then the reason would become apparent soon enough.  First, however, a bit of worplay.

"I could swear the phrase went 'Don't shoot the messenger.'.  Dear, Mr. Laython, if I intended to kill you, I wouldn't invite you here and suggest you bring your guards."

He stepped out of the darkness, and it appeared that he had his mask off, twirling it with one of his hands.  In his other hand was an unharmed and quite loaded pistol.  True, it was one shot, but he was quite accurate with his aim.  It rested on his shoulder.  He was smiling in a manner which left fangs showing.  The way he was standing and the proximity he had to the forest would not show that he had a taut strand of webbing - like a rope - attached to his back.  He could spring back in an instant, without effort.

"Now, let's answer to your paranoia, shall we?  First, your items are hidden and therefore cannot be taken by force.  Second, I deliberately told Miss Buckley nothing so that you would gain nothing by threatening her.  And thirdly, I know your type, and that is why any measures I have taken are to deter a double-cross from you.  I will remind you that any act of violence will result in my committing terrible, terrible acts of vengeance upon you all."

There was suddenly quite the savage grin on his face.

"Now, be a good fellow and put the guns down.  I am only going to be reasonable as long as you are."

Laython, who really only cared about his magical items, wasn't going to intimidate the goblin.  The short highwayman swore bloody vengeance to acting on his violent tendencies, towards ANY aggressive act, from anybody.  Since Gary was not someone he could exactly predict, his cargo was on the line, and the goblin could simply vanish...he had to deal or there would be no deal.

   Elan's heart swelled when she heard the tune. Saw the yellow eyes emerge from the darkness, and then Gary himself. Odd, how what could have easily been a frightening sight turned out to be immensely reassuring. She managed a smile as Ghost's hold around her neck tightened.
   Spectre raised his buckler and stood between Laython and Gary, prepared to use his own body as a shield if need be.
   Laython watched the whole display from over Spectre's shoulder. Listened to what Gary had to say, still with a hint of incredulity on his face.
   Then he chuckled. Clapped for a moment. And said, "I have to commend you, Mr. Blight. You've done an admirable job convincing the world that you don't exist. A goal no small number of thieves aspire to and fail at regularly. Well done."
   Laython glanced at Ghost. Nodded. And though she appeared doubtful for a brief second, she let Elan go and took a step back from her. Elan rubbed her neck a little, her eyes darting from Laython to Spectre to Gary, but she made no movement.
   "Lower your weapons," Laython said to his bodyguards and to the men. Spectre and Ghost holstered their pistols, and the eight men circling the vehicles all slowly crouched and laid their rifles on the road. Then, to Gary, "These sorts of clandestine meetings always begin in a precarious state of uncertainty. Unfortunate, but that is the nature of the business."
   Laython stepped out from behind Spectre, taking a few steps forward. Front and center of the group. His arms crossed.
   Spectre did a double-take as soon as Laython passed him. "Sir—"
   Laython slightly raised his right hand, and the motion quieted Spectre.
   "So," Laython said, "let's have that little chat then, hmm? You have something I want, and I clearly have something you want. I don't know what, if anything, Ms. Buckley has told you about me, but I have a variety of things I could offer. Tell me what it is you want. Money? Drugs? Sex? Power? Information? Work? Favors? Do tell."

Honestly, he wasn't trying.  People just ended up turning him into a story.  It's just what people DO.  Laython may've found it impressive, or he might've been sarcastic.  Either way, it hardly mattered, now did it?  He stopped twirling his mask and put it on his belt.  He even slid the barrel of the gun he was holding there, for safe keeping.  Gary's goblin-y grin reduced itself to a smirk once Laython began to cooperate.  Once the man's fear of attack had been taken care of, he seemed well and fine with actually approaching Mr. Blight.  As for what he desired...

"Oh, well I've taken the liberty of putting my idea to paper."

He pulled out a rolled-up paper and handed to the man.  Laython was not going to like it.  It was not monstrously unreasonable, but the very notion of the thing would not please him.  It went...


"In effect, I retain proof - by your own word - of the man you are away from the public eye.  Your life, as you know it, requires the secrecy it stands by.  Without it, you become a marked man.  Because you are the sort of man that enjoys the life you lead, instead of one like mine, you shall stomach this indignity for the item you desire.  I shall not use this potent information against you, so long as you remain reasonable.  Should we ever have any further dealings, down the road, rest assured that I will not be bringing it up as leverage.  It just doesn't do.  This shall remain a stand-alone agreement to be done with matters, and to move on with our lives, which I'm certain will become more fruitful for you, in the future."

They didn't call him Gary The Magnificent Bastard for nothing.

   Another genuine surprise. Laython had never seen someone actually write down and present their negotiations at one of these kinds of meetings. A good portion of the people he dealt with weren't even literate, for that matter. Perhaps this list of demands was so large and intricate that it required the goblin to jot it down so as not to forget something.
   Laython took the paper and unrolled it and started reading, his face neutral as his eyes scanned the lines.
   A throaty chuckle at one part. "The Grand Duke? How flattering. Allarrick is doing marvelous things for this country. Far be it for me to interrupt such important work."
   And, as it turned out, there wasn't much more after that in the note. The goblin clarified some things verbally, but that seemed to be the extent of it. The document might prove to be a nuisance, given the temptations of leverage, but it wouldn't amount to more than just that. An annoyance to be swatted away if need be. Even that might not be necessary. What self-respecting Connlaothian would even take seriously the scribblings of a goblin?
   "Fetch me a pen and some ink from the carriage," Laython said, and Ghost complied.
   Curious, though, that this would be what the infamous Gary Blight—a creature whose apparent exploits made him more of a ballad character than an actual being—negotiated for. He valued Elan in some regard. Perhaps she had made some kind of deal with him. Perhaps Mr. Blight had a fetish for inter-species sex, and Elan was just his type. Possible. Laython certainly wouldn't put Elan above making that sort of deal, after what happened earlier in the day. Barring that, Laython could scarcely imagine what use Elan could possibly have to the goblin.
   Laython took the pen already dipped with ink. Ghost held up a book for Laython to brace the paper on. He signed his name on the line, and Ghost took the book and the pen back into the carriage.
   "Very well then," Laython said, still holding onto the paper. "Elan Buckley will be a free woman, pending your return of my shipment. In addition, I will permit her onto my Reajh estate so that she may gather her belongings from the slave quarters. I'll send word tonight to the men there that she is to be given the proper leeway to accomplish this."
   He could hear her. The rush of air from her lungs. The audible relief. Even if it was mostly Mr. Blight's doing, Laython still had never considered that Elan would actually be able to do something right for a change. Apparently, all she needed was the proper prompt to convey the appropriate stakes of the situation. Or, perhaps, it was her buffoon of a brother that had been keeping her down the entire time. In either case, the remedy was the same, and she had served her purpose.
   "My items. If you would be so kind, Mr. Blight."

The scribblings of a goblin weren't the main thing, of course.  This letter was a confession, an admittance of guilt that put his own signature to events.  It would be trouble in anybody's hands.  In the possession of Gary Blight, it was dangerous.  Laython would have no doubts that Gary was imaginative enough to find ways to make it all work, somehow, so as the goblin said...best to just let it go in peace.  Honestly, though, the comment about the Duke by name was amusing as hell.  Having signed his name to it, Laython then made his statement.  Gary smiled.

"Concord, could you come show the prize?"

Every man - and Elan - would hear the sound of something large-but-fast through the branches, leading them to see the face and forelimbs of a giant spider in the largest tree.  Concord was poised over them all, and there was pouch clutched in her mandibles, ready to act at a moment's notice in...whatever manner Gary thought wise.

"Hand me the paper and I will allow the pouch to drop.  I will not leave until you are at least satisfied that the items are in your possession, thus guaranteeing that this is not a trick."

   Eyes drifted upwards.
   One of the riflemen took a half-step back and muttered a curse under his breath. Surprised and shocked murmurs from the others.
   Spectre and Ghost both snapped their hands to the pistols holstered on their belts.
   Even Elan, now without the firebrand ale smoothing out her impression of the beast, gasped. The ominous glow of the lanterns holding the darkness at bay only made Concord's appearance more frightening.
   Laython stood his ground. Lifted his right hand in a similar manner to before, and the men calmed down, and Spectre and Ghost dropped their hands from their weapons.
   He simply handed the paper back.
   "And there you are, Mr. Blight. My end of the bargain."

He loved it when people reacted that way to his faithful steed.  It never got old.  So now, the paper was in Gary's hands, which he looked over and tied with a string so that he may easily slide it into the pouch it came from.  He then glanced to the giant spider and simply said "Drop.".  Concord's mandibles released and - presumably - one of the men caught it.  Of course, naturally, they would find the spiked device and the controlling runestone that goes with it, no harm done to it.  Gary had no interest in this man's politics, not unless he decided to make a move against goblinkind or something.  Having now met Gary Blight, it would be rash to undertake such a venture.

"Miss Buckley will be along to collect her belongings soon enough.  I owe her some money for services rendered, discussing matters of not name-dropping for favors, and such like that there.  I'm sure you understand."

   The nearest man, the one who had taken the step back and swore, held out his hands and caught the pouch. Opened it and took a look inside. Briskly walked up to Laython and presented the Dampener and the Control Rune from inside the open pouch. Laython inspected them. Nodded. And Spectre took the pouch from the man.
   Then, back to Mr. Blight. "Of course. The men will have already been briefed by the time she shows." He thought again of his earlier ponderings. Smiled. "Take as much time as you need."
   Laython turned around. Spun his index finger around in a small circle. Said to the men, "We're done here."
   The men all grabbed their rifles and loaded up into the wagon, some more in a hurry than others with the sight of Concord lurking above. Laython entered the carriage, followed by Spectre and then Ghost, who shut the door.
   The drivers of the vehicles flicked the reins, and the horses started off a brisk trot down the road.
   Inside the carriage, Laython took hold of the pouch from Spectre. Took out the Dampener. Held it between his index finger and thumb. The tiny thing.
   Finally.
   The shackle that he needed to control his bastard daughter.

   Elan watched the carriage and the wagon roll down the road. The orange light from the lanterns leaking away with them. The darkness swallowing her body as the vehicles left.
   She suddenly felt short of breath. Elated. Dizzy. Overjoyed and nauseated. The weight of the world lifted from her shoulders at the same time her stomach seemed to flop about in her body.
   And she let out a huge sigh of relief. Stumbled back some as she burst into laughter.
   "I...I can't believe it! I'm...free! I never even thought this would happen. I hoped and hoped and hoped it would and—"
   She bumped into a small rock on the road and staggered and fell down to her hands and knees. Still laughing. Still smiling ear-to-ear in the darkness.
   Elan pushed herself back up to her feet. Looked toward Gary's glowing eyes. "I can't thank you enough. I don't even know how I would. This is just...it's almost too much."
   Elan wiped her eyes.
   A defining day.

The carriages of Elliot Laython rode away, back to whatever place he called home.  Soon, the light of their lanterns was gone, leaving them in darkness.  For Gary Blight, this was not a barrier.  For Elan Buckley, it made her trip on a stone on the road.  It happens.  She could not believe her luck?  Yes, the circumstances had made quite the turn-around.  All it took, really, was a keen mind.  At least, she would be able to do something with her life.  As for what she could possibly do...Gary inclined his head up to the spider.

"Concord, would you come down, please?"

"Hurgrr."

As the big spider did so, Gary resumed speaking to Elan, unaffected by the landing of the creature some feet away.

"There are a few things that should be done, not so much as payment as using one's good common sense."

He headed on over to the spider, climbing on top to dig through a sack that was on its back.

"For instance, I wasn't kidding about the name-dropping.  Don't do it.  They'll never believe that you know me and those that do might somehow think of you as leverage against me, which wouldn't be very fair to you."

He pulled out a lantern now and lit it, giving them some illumination once more.

"Also, unless I very much miss my guess, you have no savings to help you until you find work.  So, while I am loathe to part with coin that I could put in the hands of my brethren, it'd be best that I do pay a messenger fee for services rendered."

Finding his inkwell and writing stick, he jumped down and handed them to Elan, where he would then bring out the paper he had gotten Laython to sign just moments ago.  He indicated a blank area below the man's signature.

"If you could write 'I swear by all the gods that the above is true, signed Elan Buckley', that would add some credibility to the statement.  True, they might not believe me alone - perhaps - but a witness to the affair is harder to push away."

She could use part of Concord to write on.  Concord wouldn't mind.

   "No name-dropping. Got it."
   Elan's eyes narrowed as the lantern was lit and they to adjust to the light again.
   And Gary was mostly right about the lack of coin. It was really just within the last year that Alan and Elan were given jobs in which they were allowed to pilfer whatever they liked from the target person or area. Seemed like a good deal at first. But, like a lot of other slave masters whose slaves had a form of income, Laython then started requiring them to make their own basic purchases: food, clothing, ammunition, so on. Alan had a small stash back in the slave quarters, but it wouldn't last long. That much was for sure.
   Still, Gary's continued kindness left Elan at another loss for words. She could only smile and breathe.
   But the quiet didn't last. A request.
   "O-Oh. Okay." Elan took the writing stick and the paper from Gary, glanced around for something to brace the paper against. Her eyes kept crossing over the giant spider before they settled. Elan, a bit skittishly at first, pressed the paper against...some part of Concord's body, she couldn't be sure. And she wrote the message right below Laython's signature.
   But her hand stopped halfway to giving the paper back to Gary. A thought visibly flashed behind her eyes, and she looked to be wrestling with a "Should I or should I not?" sort of predicament in her mind.
   Then she finished extending her arm. Said, "I...well, I don't want to sound ungrateful or anything like that. Believe me, you've changed my entire life. Given it back to me, really; I was going to be a dead woman in a week. But..." A huff of air has she struggled to put her thoughts into the right words, "...I just have to ask, if you'd be willing to tell. Why? Why do this for me? The tales, the songs, they all...honestly, from what I've seen from you today, they make you out to be an entirely different person. You had what you wanted from Laython's convoy, but you gave it up...for my sake. Not to sound weird, but...a human."
   She chuckled in an embarrassed way and clamped the fingers of her left hand to her nose. "Gosh, this is really coming apart, isn't it? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Forget I asked."

She was just about to hand over the paper...when she stopped.  She had understandable confusion, questions...  Yes, he had anticipated this.  At some point, he knew that - somehow - someone would have to hear the damnedable thing that he had lived with his entire life, the very essence of the thing that drove him to his deeds with surch fervor, nay obsession.  He hadn't told anybody, save for Concord, who would not see it in the same light as he did.  No, for it to be truly appreciated, the mindset must be that of one of the humanoid races, with humanoid reasoning.  So...to interrupt Elan's concerns for his privacy, he held up a hand.

"No need to apologize.  I had made up my mind that this was how it was going to unfold back in the tavern."

He turned, giving the spider a pat on the leg to indicate she no longer needed to remain still.  This was going to take a bit, so no need to bother her over it.  He turned back to Elan now, a bit more somber (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2ns3wc4ouc) in demeanor.

"Do you remember when I told you the true tale of my becoming such a dedicated thief and rogue?  I spoke of the exterminations, and then I mentioned the survivors?  Well, the thing of it is that in these attacks on goblinkind, there sometimes is an argument: 'What about the children?  They will grow up to be a new goblin menace, will they not?'.  Some say yes, and kill them.  Others say no, and leave them, never realizing the horrible mistake that they've made."

He then made a gesture with his hands, indicating something of small size, smaller than him.

"Goblings are small creatures.  My people are already small, imagine the difficulty for one to fend for oneself in a ransacked and dead goblin colony.  It can't be done.  They will inevitably starve to death.  Except..."

His hands lowered, as did his eyes to the ground.

"Except if one preys upon what is left.  We were barely aware of ourselves, just creatures of need, to be nurtured by parents who had been killed trying to defend our home.  I was only just able to understand that they weren't coming back, and I became so hungry...  I needed food, or I would simply die.  I was the strongest, and that wasn't saying much, but I was the one who fought the hardest to live.  I was forced to eat my siblings to survive and, once nourished, fed off of anything else I happened to find...at least until I understood what I'd been doing."

He looked up at her, and suddenly it was all over his face: The tortured look of having lived through that which was too much to accept, an act too terrible to face alone...yet it must.  Elan would know that look, because she had shown it to him, hours ago.

"These eyes of mine are a mark of the Blight, a corruption which - in this case - stemmed from having done what I did.  I never even knew their names...  The only thing that grants me any comfort is my work, that I fight with every breath to prevent this sort of thing from happening as it does.  It's true that I've done it largely for my own kind.  Who wouldn't?  Or rather, who would stand up for my kind but one of their own?"

He sighed, and then put back on his mask.

"That doesn't entirely explain you, of course, but I think you can guess by now.  Nobody should be forced to do things to one's own family, or watch them die while powerless to do anything.  I will admit that it's a coincidence that I stole from your convoy, or that I made little attempt to kill anybody there.  I do kill people in my line of work.  It was from what I learned in the tavern that bade me to act this way.  I'm sure that I have brought suffering to families, one way or another, but I do not operate the same way as Laython.  I am not senselessly cruel, nor a tormenting sadist.  I make off like a thief in the night, and I use the tools at my disposal."

Concord had been walking around, but now came up behind Gary and seemed to nuzzle him.

"When it comes to familial disaster, I forgot about species for a while, and just go with the flow."

   Elan didn't expect what was coming.
   She had assumed that the reason for Gary's actions would be more fanciful, despite the story he told her back at the tavern. That he was a champion not just for goblinkind, but—little known among those who had heard the songs and tales—also for the downtrodden of all stripes. A sort of noble thief archetype, taking from the rich to help out the poor, like a few other dashing characters—both fictional and real, sung and unsung.
   She thought of something like this. That this, or something very much akin to it, was his sole motivation. That, with a twirl of his mask and a wide grin, he would go riding off into the night, another daring adventure completed; just like in some of his own tales and the others of a similar vein that Elan had imagined.
   It soon became clear that his reputation had preceded him. And as he talked, the myth dissolved away, leaving only a tragically real person.
   Except if one preys upon what is left.
   Elan raised both of her hands to her mouth. The glow of the lantern bringing light to the mounting horror in her eyes.
   Like a mirror that transcended race, gender—everything—when he looked at her. She could see a piece of herself in him. A solemn bond. They each carried the weight of surviving.
   When he finished, Elan's hands slowly slid away from her mouth. She looked and felt as devastated to hear the truth as Gary surely did to tell it.
   "I'm sorry..."
   Elan closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed.
   Opened her mouth again.
   Tried to say something else. To ease the pain. For him. For her.
   Tried.
   And failed.

Behind every legend, there is a real person that started it all.  The only question is whether he is pumped up by gossip and rumor to make him appear larger than he is...or if his reality is too large to bear in the public eye.  Gary Blight was clearly the latter, not a lie by any great measure...but a truth deeper than any of the stories surrounding him.  And of all the tales, no one would have ever believed that he had had to resort to such an act as canniballism.  Of course, some might say that other goblins had, and maybe that was true, but they were all insane and true monsters, by every definition of the word.

Gary saw the horror, and yet understanding, on Elan's face.  Yes, that was enough.  The words of a non-goblin's honest sympathy, of a human appreciating that he was not simply this horrid little thing to be sneered at, was a payment that Gary would prize more than money.  What he stole from the world was for his brethren kind, not so much for his own needs.

"You need not say more.  Truly, I have enjoyed the life that I lead now, that I am able to do all I can for my own kind.  What's important is that I have never lost perspective, that I do not believe too much into my own hype.  That is what makes a true hero, in my eyes.  And even if I am hated, those I care for the most will never forsake me, and that is what matters the most."

He then held out his hand.

"Now...please, the paper.  I wish to secure it, maybe even copy it, as a means to curb Laython's behavior, in case he crosses another terrible line.  Please hand it over."

   A small comfort—in light of Elan's today, of Gary's yesterday—that nothing more needed to be said. The look they had shared and the burdens they carried were more than enough. Now, it was about tomorrow. How they would each carry on in their own way.
   "Of course." Elan handed the signed paper back to Gary. A short pause, and she said, "I suppose there's just looking ahead now. Moving on." An awkward chuckle. "It's funny. Now that I'm a free woman I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do with myself. Getting settled into a day-to-day routine as a slave is—was—frighteningly easy."
   Hands on her hips, she looked up at the cloudy, starless sky. The infinite black. "I suppose there's something out there for me. You found your calling, that much is for sure." Back down to Gary. And she smiled at him, doing her best to lighten the mood. "Connlaoth certainly is the right place for me, I think. I'll find something to tinker around with. Custom firearms, maybe." A laugh. "I bloody well can't shoot the damn things straight, but I can sure build 'em and take 'em apart alright."
   Elan took in a breath. "If you're ever around Reajh again, don't hesitate to call on me. For anything. Others may hate you for what you do or who you are, but you'll always be a friend to me, Gary."

Taking the paper, Gary once more rolled it up and put it away.  He didn't worry about what Elan did with her life after this.  Indeed, as she said, she could tinker.  Though Gary didn't exactly like Connlaoth - for reasons that were certainly explained - but if Elan felt that she could get a job working on things, perhaps firearms, then that was up to her.  Actually, the idea had a certain appeal, since he was thinking of incorporating some into his repertoire.  Her offer was a certainly a possibility he could look into.  At the moment, he backflipped up onto Concord.

"Well, I'll certainly give it due consideration.  Take care of yourself, Elan."

He turned Concord and was preparing the spider to leap off into the woods, when he paused.

"Oh, and umm...don't go into that area of the woods for a few days.  I had set up a number of traps to prevent a double-cross or even encounter a passerby.  They'll evetually break down.  Well...all except the pit traps.  Goodbye, and good luck."

Concord took a leap, and several more, from tree to tree until the sounds of spider-leaping could no longer be heard.  Where he would end up, nobody knows.  Now umm...oh.  Well, he's left his lantern here.  Well, chances are, he didn't even need one, but she might.  ...there were a few coins resting against the thing.  Services rendered.

   "Take care, Gary."
   A parting gift—two, actually—in the form of the lantern and the handful of coins. Elan crouched down and pocketed the coins and took the lantern and stood. The coin could get a room for the night. Another drink, perhaps.
   Yeah, that sounded lovely. Another drink. For Gary. For Alan.
   And Elan turned and started down the road toward Reajh.
   The lantern keeping the dark of night at bay.