73. Sticks and Stones

The imps, who respectfully declined your offer to name them for now, wing away into the deeper lair. You've given them instructions to find Mercy and Sapphire, taking finding Feathers for yourself.

And yet, as soon as you're alone, something stops you. An alert, like a tic in your mind. A pop up, asking permission to emerge. You frown, your eye ridges furrowing. You're about to accept when one of the imps flies back into the room. The alert vanishes.

“Eh, sorry man, wur that Mercy lady again?”

You send it away with, somehow, clearer instructions than last time, and as soon as you're alone again the alert reappears in your mind.

You hit accept and a pop-up fades into existence. It's half translucent and tiny, each letter smaller than a grain of rice.

Well that's ominous.

As soon as you've read the words, the pop-up disintegrates, tiny grey particles whipping away.

You stand there for almost a minute, contemplating the message. That was no system notification. You cast your mind back over the recent days – the blank pop-up from your excursion to the summit. The strange messages that appear word at a time rather than all at once. Even a half remembered memory of a red notification, although when that happened you couldn't say.

Yeah, you'd been having abnormal messages for a while. In the end, what was there to be done? You turn the warning over in your mind one more time, and then do your best to put it from you. What would you change anyway?

The goblin town is unchanged. Smoke drifts from the handful of low-banked fires, forming a lazy haze that hovers across the ceiling in thick swirls. As you gaze at it, it almost seems to form shapes – grasping hands and snarling faces and catch and bite at the carved palisades that jut up into their space. Hammer and Notch-Ear nod to you from where they lay, both of them covered in small bumps and bruises. Just finished with a training session most likely. You hesitate, unsure if Feathers is more likely to be in the arena

You ascend the stone steps that you carved what feels like a lifetime ago, the smoke always staying above you, gnashing ephemeral teeth as you pass – a side effect of the Cluttering you assume. A camp fire smokes. Goblins have shaman, even if yours don't. Thus, magic evil smoke. So long as it doesn't get thick enough to choke anyone you like, you don't really care.

You pause, one foot half raised, and eye the smoke again.

As a way of proving that you have no idea what the governing forces behind creation are, it's a pretty effective metaphor. You're just assuming that the evil smoke demons are due to the Hero-centric world you live in and their assumptions about goblin culture. You have no proof. Could be smoke demons for all you know.

Your foot comes down. Still don't care. The mysteries of the universe can wait until you hit level 100. till then, you just don't see yourself having the time.

With that, you put the smoke out of your mind along with your last worries about the strange message, and find yourself face to fur with the hide flap that covers Feathers section of the cave. Your tail curls around to rap against the frame with a handful of the longer spines, a staccato rattle. Within moments the flap is flung aside, revealing Feathers small form. You don't bother to acknowledge the blade that had preceded her, vanishing as quickly as it had come.

“Need to update everyone. Tavern in fifteen minutes?”

She doesn't respond, staring at you with her yellow eyes instead. It takes you aback somewhat. Feathers is usually the taciturn one yes, but she's usually quick to respond.

After a few more seconds of intense staring, still silent, the gobliness pulls the fur back further and jerks her head towards the darkness inside.

You take the invite, or knowing Feathers, the order for what it is and push past her. She leads you to the bowl of fur and stone that acts as her bed, and gestures for you to lie down.

You do, somewhat nonplussed. Your lack of pluses grows into worry as Feathers turns and sits back against your side, one hand picking at your scales and the other on her lap.

The silence stretches.

You open your mouth to ask her if she's OK, but she beats you to it.

“You OK?”

Your jaw shuts with a click, and she turns her eyes, nearly luminous in the darkness, to yours. It takes you a second to find your voice.

“Of course. Amanda gave me some health pot-”

Feathers snorts. “Stupid. Not body. You OK,” she reaches up and rests one hand against your temple, “Here?”

Once again you're surprised by her. Just because she struggles the most with Common, you're forced to admit you've underestimated her.

You take a few more seconds to formulate your answer, the time slipping past in the darkness. “I'm OK. Talking helps. Partly why I want to talk to everyone together.”

She nods, accepting your answer, but makes no move to stand, still staring at you.

“Are you?”

She nods again. “Was worried. Seen bad-head before. Some chiefs who chief too long, some who captured and taken away. Body heals alone. Head... doesn't.”

You relax as she talks, curling yourself more to give her more support where she leans against you.

“Thank you then, for checking on me.”

She nods once more. Neither of you move.

“How is the new cave? Is there anything you need?”

“No, no needs. More wood, more furs, more stones all good. More space if too many more gobs join. More weapons to train. More heroes to kill.” She shrugs, the muscles of her back bunching against you. “Will come with time.”

Time passes in the dark.

“I think the others will be nearly ready. We need to head to the tavern.”

Feathers nods, still silent, before double checking the buckled straps that hold her peg leg in place. She puts on hand on your back to help her stand in a show that could be seen as showing weakness, but in the scary gobliness in front of you was a show of trust. You let her rise first before standing and stretching. A little more of the tension seems to have left you, your body smooth and limber as you step out of the nested caves that serve as the goblin's town.

That tensions returns with interest when you enter the small cave that served as the old sleeping area, then as Hyena's sleeping area, and now as just sort of... a cave.

Stood stone still, seemingly examining one of the stalagmites, is the Oread. Its cracked head was tilted, with its smoother hand outstretched toward the stone pillar that so entrances it. The soft orange light from its eye barely illuminates the contours of its face.

It doesn't turn to look at you, and somehow that's worse. A shudder passes through you as you walk past it.

A hand, cold as stone, brushes against your side.

You never heard it move.

The temptation to put an Under Milk Wood quote was strong... I studied that thing for about a year.

A huge thank you to my patreons NA, Spockk Kirkk, Un Casualsniper, Tyrant615, Jon Dunning, Jakelandiar, Curious and Torish