Grunk nudged me awake. “Get up, Tell. Time to go.”

I rolled over with a groan. “Are we seriously doing this?”

A stoic nod. “I think so. Is there a better option?”

“We could keep heading outwards…”

Grunk looked sideways towards the cluster of adventurers, Omish among them. “I don’t think they would let us. Lack of trust and all that.”

“Yeah… I have this fleeting hope that we still have options,” I mumbled as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “I need to feel like we are not doing something entirely idiotic.”

“Our lead is already shot. We don’t have a portal. We don’t know where a portal is,” Grunk frowned suddenly. “And I don’t know why, but I… believe them.”

“Believe them what?” I asked.

“I believe them about the Underfell, and the Wizardking… do you think it is a coincidence that our lives are short? We just accept it? I mean if I have a chance to live another thirty, fifty, seventy years? Is that worth it? If I can help the kids in my village live longer? Or Omish? Or even you, you hardass? Honestly, I would do it. I don’t know why, Tell, but I believe ’em.”

I felt some pressure at the back of my eyes like a tear needed to form. I pushed it down with a sense of righteous Goblin anger. Gobs don’t cry. “Alright, alright you sentimental lunk. Help me up. But what about the Underking stuff you said before? Him giving us power, and all that?”

Grunk looked at this hands, embarrassed. “Can’t both things be true? Now, I am not sure it is worth the cost. By the way, the little fire mage was asking about you.” Grunk offhandedly mentioned as he slapped dust from my shoulders.

“Hmmm?” I tried to act nonchalant. She was a smoke show. What was it with magic and sheer undiluted hotness going hand in hand?

Grunk grinned slyly. Pervert. “Asking where you grew up. Told her I had no idea.”

“Yeah you do. Stoccard-on-the-Well.” I made a face at his apparent lewdnes. “You going senile?”

A semblance of his own nonchalance via a shrug. “Maybe I didn’t think it was for me to share.”

“Hmmm.” I agreed emphatically for all the reasons he already knew. Grunk was a bastard.

“Let’s go my little Goblins!” Christoph announced from the door. “Miki, light the way!”

Miki tapped her wrist twice, and her staff appeared in her hand. She was a full blown mage, there was no doubt. Being able to summon a staff of power? Check. Being able to focus magic without it? Check. A goblin mage. The world was queer as fuck. Her staff end, terminating in a small blue jewel the size of an eyeball, radiated overly bright at first, then shifted downwards to a muted soft glow.

Yet, I still had to squint. “Maybe we should walk in front,” I muttered.

“We will walk in front of you all,” Grunk announced much more loudly.

The tall knight looked uncomfortable. “If we are together, we are safer, are we not?”

“If we are in front-” Grunk tried.

“They can see better. The light we need hurts their eyes,” Miki finished.

I scrunched up my nose in annoyance, but Grunk squeezed my wrist. I smiled instead. A big fake eat-a-big-fat-bag-of-troll-testicles kind of smile. “That’s right. And when we step into a razor trap, you will only get splashed with a tiny little amount of our blood.”

“Stop it,” Grunk whispered.

“No,” I whispered back.

Fror looked uncomfortable. “Razor traps? Is that a thing?”

“Oh yes,” Omish jumped in with glee. “Entire cows are rendered down to their prime cuts. Imagine a whirlwind of razor wires spinning about like a small tornado… slicing and dicing until all that is left is only chunks. They are aw-www-www-esome.”

“Great,” Streya smugly frowned. “Yet another scary thing to put into my book.”

“Book?” Omish looked confused.

Fror shook his head. “You had to ask.”

“Pay no attention to my dwarven friend. It will be the talk of the homeland. I am thinking using the title ‘The Underfell Guide, or perhaps, the The Idiot’s Guide to the Underfell, or maybe even, The Underfell and You, a Survival Guide. The title needs to be workshopped.”

“I would say.” I muttered.

“What would you call it then?” Streya looked at me sternly, but it wasn’t anger, it was… curiousity?

“What is it about? Like, uh, what is it focused on?” I tried to salvage my offhanded smartass remark.

“Oh, it is all the things. It is meant to be the source for new adventurers. At some point, the Underfell is inevitable for any growing population. Villages attract entrances. We don’t understand the mechanism, but when the village reaches a certain size, a dungeon entrance opens nearby. I am hoping to create a guide on all the ins and out of surviving, even thriving, in the Underfell. How to sleep, how to eat, how to avoid the traps, how to fight the monsters, how to survive. All the important bits.” Streya waved at the dubndub we were all filing out of. “How to use the washrooms… no one knows about how they work! Firewood? Waste gates? Fresh water? It is remarkable.”

“Not that remarkable. The Brownies have to put their dead somewhere,” Grunk sighed.

A horrified look came over Fror’s face. “What?”

“Brownies. When they die, they become wood. They are shuttled to the nearby burial site… which are the fire boxes in the dubndubs,” Grunk explained.

“We were burning corpses?” Fror’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“Its fine. They want it to be that way. Funeral pyres and all that. Its how their departed return to the Spirit Realm.” Grunk said. “And the smoke gets the harpies high.”

“By the Fist,” Fror had turned white as a sheet.

“Oh, its fine. Its fine! Everything is fine!” Grunk waved at him apologetically. “A little funeral, a little hookah action, everyone wins!”

“After all, don’t dwarves turn to stone when you die?” I asked.

“Absolutely not! Where did you hear that nonsense?” Fror protested.

“Around.” I tilted my head to my shoulder as an explanation. It was common knowledge.

“When we die we are just like any other living thing, we leave a corpse behind.” Fror grimaced.

“I think you would make a nice cornerstone if you did turn to stone.” I added thoughtfully.

“We don’t turn to stone!” Fror insisted. “But thanks. Cornerstones are important.”

I smirked. “This way.”

We walked down the wide hallway, the three of us in front, the four of them a few steps behind. The far end was lost to the dark, but with the steady mana glow behind us, I could make out a fair bit of the details. There were pressure traps across the full length of the corridor about two meters ahead. I held up a hand for everyone to stop and glanced across the length of the ceiling.

Small nozzles along the edge. Acid traps. Nothing like being dissolved and cooked at the same time! Slime shit. Literally. That meant that there was a slime cell nearby…

“What?” Christoph whispered.

Omish pointed as if it was obvious. “Pressure triggers.”

“Where?” Christoph squinted as if he needed glasses.

“How did you survive to get that big, human?” I laughed.

Christoph smiled in self-deprecation, “Lots of good food from a great mom, little goblin. How else? Teach me. I want to learn. How do you see them?”

Christoph kneeled down, his armor clinking lightly against the stone floor. Streya leaned over next to him, a little sketchbook in one hand and a well chewed pencil in the other.

Omish looked at me questioningly. I waved for him to continue.

“See the ridges on the stone? Its faint. All along the edges.”

“Noooo, oh yes, I do see them. Like scratches! Yet the plates are the same height as the stones around it?”

Omish made his hands flat and put them side by side as if representing the stones. “The pressure trigger relies on a static fluid pressure underneath. Its called hydraulics. The edging where the stone meets other stones allows smoother movement so the trap is triggered successfully. If they were perfectly flush, dust and dirt could make the trap stick. There is a trap disable along the line of the stones… we just have to find it, flip it and the static pressure will be negative. The trap can’t be tripped.”

“Why would there be a mechanism to turn it off?” Streya asked in a mild whisper.

“Why are you all whispering?” I teased. “The traps cannot be set off with sound. We have to be able to disable traps to work on them. Everything down here requires maintenance.”

I patted the tall knight on his blonde head and strolled along the length of stones. I flipped my trusty knife out of my belt, stuck the square edge of it against the disable stone, and flipped it up. All the pressure traps sucked downwards a few millimeters, as if relieved. Which in a sense they were, when you thought about it.

“Interesting.” Christoph stood up and walked over the stones.

“What is interesting is that you could have still tripped it there, bigfoot.” I grimaced. “Policy states not to intentionally step on traps even if they are in a disabled state, as the trap can still be triggered.”

“Oh! Oh!” Christoph danced forwards a few steps and looked at the three of us goblins with guilt written broadly all over his face. “Are we ok?”

“Are you melting into a screaming pile of goo?” I asked.

“Nooooo…” He exhaled, trailing off.

“Then you are fine.”

A look of relief crossed his features.

“Seriously? How do you survive?” I asked again.

Streya made a few scribbles in her little black notebook. “Why are they called dubndubs?”

That caught me offguard. “Sorry?”

“We call them washrooms… where we camped last night.” She clarified further. “You keep calling them something else. Something I don’t recognize. Like a different tongue? Dub-in-Duubs? Is that High Latter Orcish?”

“Nope, just laziness. Waste and Water rooms. Double U, Double U. Dubndub. Dubndubs plural.” Grunk explained. “In training, wthey are called safe rooms. No traps. No lairs. No distractions.”

“Why?” Fror asked confusedly. “It is a dungeon!? We are in a dungeon, right?”

“Yeah so?” Grunk raised his unibrow on one side.

“It kills explorers! It is designed to harvest lifeforce. Why put in safe places?”

I internally agreed. It never had made sense to me either. Don’t get me wrong, they are very useful. But that means they are useful to everyone, and that’s not great for us when the goblin killers feel nice and cozy (and fuck those guys sideways).

“Because they serve a purpose. It is an ecosystem. For the Underfell to persist, it has to be in balance. The dubndubs create balance in lots of ways. They serve water, they haul waste, they are used for transfer points for all sorts of community byproducts.” Grunk seemed to enjoy teaching the adventurers. “Each dubndub is at a critical junction on that part of the floor, and it is there for a reason. The communities around it need them.”

Streya put her hands up, pencil and notebook both held askew. “Hold on. Communities?”

“Yeah. Communities. These acid traps,” Grunk pointed at the nozzles. “Waste product from a cell of slimes. They are up there, or nearby, living their slime lives, doing whatever slimes like to do. I have no idea. They are slimes. As far as I know, the height of their civilization is forming geometric shapes. Tetrahedrons. Cylinders. Cubes. And digesting things.”

“This is wild.” Streya sounded like she on the verge of outright giddiness.

“How did you think this all worked?” I asked sardonically.

Streya’s eyelids spread wider as she thought about it. “From our side of all this, one day a dungeon entrance appears. Monsters start to come out at night to steal our livestock and our children. When that dungeon entrance appears that day, through the curse of the Wizardking, we are no longer able to delve near them. Our shovels stop turning the earth, our mattocks do not carve stone, and the wells cannot be dug any deeper. For some communities, that means fleeing at a minimum. Others are able to make do. Some thrive when they get lucky with where the dungeon entrance appears and they just have to guard their town from the monsters. For most villages, the dungeons are a pox. A plague. To us, it is a form of warfare being used against us. Sometimes a dungeon entrance sinks back into the earth and life picks back up… but that is rare.”

“It’s not warfare. It is our homes.” Omish’s nose wrinkled at the thought.

“Yes. That is true.” Streya nodded thoughtfully, turning back to her notebook and scratching out her secret thoughts.

“Slimes. Yuck.” Christoph shuddered.

“I agree,” Omish smiled. “Yuck.”

“We can keep moving,” Miki sighed. “As interesting as this is, we are still on the first level. The only way we win all this is if we keep making progress down.”

“By killing the Wizardking?” I asked. “Is that winning?”

No one replied. But some uncomfortable looks floated between the adventurers.

“Surface dwellers…” I muttered it under my breath. Grunk nodded sagely.

“How far down is it?” Christoph asked as he turned inwards to head towards the end of the hallway.

“How far is what?” I sighed. I knew what he was asking, but playing dumb apparently was also in my wheelhouse.

“The Halls of the Underking start at level one hundred and one.” Grunk’s voice was positively glowing with pride. “But even we don’t know how deep it goes. Need to know basis. And we don’t need to know.”

“Did you say one hundred and one?” It was Fror’s turn to make a face.

I loved seeing that face. What was that? Dismay? Defeat? Ooooooh, please let it be defeat! Turn around and flee, suckers.

“I have made it to fifty five,” Christoph said offhand. “Granted our mage had to emergency portal us out, but we did get at least halfway before. That counts for something, right?”

I was impressed. I had never gone below ten (for obvious reasons, such as dungeon management teams primarily having the bulk of their work closer to the surface.)

“Fifty five?” Omish whistled. “That’s not bad.”

“I lost half of my party,” Christoph frowned heavily. “It seemed bad at the time.”

“And you wanted to try again?” I teased. It did not sound like teasing. Grunk gave me a disapproving look.

“I have my reasons,” Christoph said tersely.

“We all have our reasons,” Miki admitted. “Alright Team Kelpie, where is the nearest stairs?”

I have no fucking idea, lady. But instead I said, “This way.”

“Soooo… how long have you been in…?” Fror leaned back as he asked the question, not sure where to take it.

“Dungeon Management.” I inserted for him.

“Right. Dungeon Management?” Fror leaned back over the pleasantly crackling fire. “Grunk?”

“My entire adult life… so about fifteen years?” Grunk flicked a toothpick into the fire, watching it catch as it fell amongst the embers.

“Teller? How about you?” Fror was being polite.

He wasn’t a total orc taint, but he was still a dwarf, and an explorer. So he had a couple strikes against him. And I was going to hold them against him. I was goblin. We are great at grudges.

“I started in Dungeon Management after a stint in farming. It was what my dad and mom did, but it wasn’t for me. I have been at this for only six years.”

“This is my first year,” Omish volunteered.

Christoph chewed on a bit of journey cake, nibbling the corner thoughtfully. “When you do start working?”

“Five,” Grunk offered.

“Wow. Five years old.” Christoph nodded. “How long do Goblins usually live for?”

“My grandpappy died at the age of thirty. But I would be most of us kick off well before that.” Grunk shifted in his seat and I knew that he was farting. He would blame Omish if anyone looked uncomfortable.

No one noticed.

Does that mean that everyone was farting?

Should I be farting?

I had never hung out around a fire with a party of explorers before.

“Wait, that can’t be right.” Streya hooked her thumb and finger into some old bow twine she was refining into lashing. “I met Miki, what? Twenty five years ago? When I had my outparty?”

Miki winked salaciously. “Your fifty fifth! I remember that! Oh, I got so drunk!”

“You set the salad bar on fire. My da was pissed.”

“Who wants salad at a coming of age? Come on, Streya, beers and steaks. That’s all you need!” Miki laughed.

“Hold on. Back the fuck right up-” I interjected across their jog down memory lane.

All four of the explorers stopped and turned expectantly. Miki made a face. Something between an eyeroll and admonishment.

“Let me ask you a question first, Teller. Why do you think Goblins only live for twenty five years? And before you give me some bullshit… think about this. Christoph? How old are you?”

“Twenty eight.” The human meat shield replied.

“Fror?”

“I just had my one hundredth and fourth.” The beard with arms replied.

“Streya?”

“Eighty even. Still a maiden.” Streya crossed her huge hairy feet like she was keeping a secret.

“And I am nearing fifty.” Miki finished. She waved at me as if I needed permission to answer her dumb question.

“Stress?” I offered lamely.

Grunk nodded as if what I said made perfect sense. Omish, poor kid, looked so confused his might spin backwards and fall off.

“No. Not stress. This is an extractive ecosystem. This whole thing.” Miki waved her arms erratically.

“The whole thing? What whole thing?” I said.

“The Underfell.” Christoph said kindly, his voice was gentle. A stark contrast to the huge sword at his waist.

Grunk shook his head emphatically. “That is a lie.”

“I assure you it is not,” Streya said.

Miki continued, “Three hundred years ago the Underfell Wizardking was just another guy. War came to his part of the world-“

“We all know the story,” Grunk crossed him arms, his body reflected his opinion. “His family, his people, all of them were killed. He searched the world to find a way to protect others, those that could not protect themselves. He created the Underfell, reshaping the world to allow those that had been beneath the heels of the world above to have a place down below. He locked you all out from those protected spaces. He gave us the ability to choose for ourselves.”

“That is what they told you?” Miki was making that confused face again.

“That is what happened,” Grunk asserted firmly.

“Oh that is what happened, alright. But not for the reasons you think.” Miki snapped her fingers, a set of sparks lighting the space. “And you do NOT have a choice.”

“I have a choice.” I said.

“You have the illusion of a choice.” Miki fired back. “But you are inside one of the largest lifeforce generators ever devised. And everything you do is to keep it running. Smoothly.”

I frowned angrily, “This is dumb.”

“It might seem that way. But the Underfell Wizardking did not win three hundred years ago. He was defeated.” Fror recalled sadly. “Many were lost that day. My father included. Many tens of thousands of good people were lost. We believed it was a mighty victory under the direst of circumstances.”

“So you are telling us, that the Underfell Wizardking… fucking died? And then created the Underfell? And he just decided to hole up for three hundred years?” Grunk said, his lip curled like he was smelling a shit smeared across this upper lip. “This is bullshit. Look at all that he has done for us? For all the species underfoot of the ‘humans’ and the ‘elves’ and the ‘approved races’.” Grunk added air quotes for each, as if he was using prejorative slang. “The WizardKing has done more for all of our lot than any of your kind. What have you ever done? I mean besides kill us?”

Fror showed his teeth (a mash of white squares nestled in the darkness of his bushiness), “You think the dwarves have had it any easier? Or the Elves? Or the Humans? Or the Halflings? Our kind have seen violence and death just as much as your kinds, and usually at the hand of you and yours.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Christoph sighed. “Can we just agree for right now that none of us wishes harm to any of the others?”

Everyone nodded slowly, except me.

“No.” I grimaced. “I very much wish I could harm all of you. For being dumb. Grunk is right. We were the ones being stepped on. When have goblins ever won anything? We are not even in the middle of the food chain compared to all of you. And the Underking has been nothing but a protector for us.”

“I know you believe that…” Miki tipped her chin upwards, looking at the ceiling as if she searched for inspiration. “But the Underking is using you. All of you.”

Streya pulled an old flechette arrowtip from a pocket to pick at her teeth with the sharp point. “Teller. Look at me.”

“What!? I mean, what are you? A stunted human?” I said angrily. I don’t know why I was so upset. Something boiled in my gut, and everything they did was pissing me off. Grunk seemed uncertain, and Omish looked like the fucking idiot he was.

“I am a halfling. We are not human. We are not dwarves. We are our own. I have traveled very far and wide. Across the continent to the seas of the east, the deserts of the south, and the northern wastes, and in all of that travel, I have learned that there is much evil out there-“

“No shit.” I mumbled hotly.

“Let me finish. I have seen many evils, but they are simple evils. Mundane, even. Selfishness. Gluttony. Envy. The protection of kith and kin at the cost of others. Evil that seems to come out of good, out of love, but is a harm to the greater good. That is where our people’s struggles comes from, Teller… bad communication. Lack of patience. Lack of empathy. Lack of understanding. But the Underking is something else. He is evil personified… and the fact that he is causing you harm and you do not even realize it, that should be a consideration in just how evil he is. He has bent the world to his whim, and that is evil of a wildly different sort.”

Grunk groaned with a lilt of admission, as if it all made sense.

“It is no different than a dragon hoarding untold wealth that will never be spent,” Miki said. “The Underfell was created for one purpose and one purpose only.”

“And what is that?” Omish’s voice was full of wonder. Just a stupid ass kid entranced by a story.

“To keep the Underking alive,” Miki finished.

“I don’t believe it.” I groused.

“Come with us then. See for yourself,” Miki ventured. “Better yet, prove us wrong.”

“If I prove you wrong… what do I get out of it?” I tried.

“Knowing that you are right.” Streya offered with a shrug.

“I will go.” Grunk said.

I hit his shoulder. “Grunk!”

“I will go too.” Omish grinned. Yep he was hooked. Dumb shit intern.

I would have hit him too, but Grunk was in the way. So I hit Grunk again. He looked at me sidelong, annoyed as hell, but he did not move otherwise.

“What about you, Teller?” Christoph nodded encouragingly.

What about me? I grabbed my gauntlet, leveled it, and the red beam turned the knight’s top half into a red mist. I jumped into Miki with my fist extended splattering what was left of her pretty skull into Fror’s eyes. Then I death-beamed the stunted half-human thing, turning her midsection into a gaping hole of charred nothingness. She plopped backwards like a felled tree. Finally the dwarf roared, and I punched him as hard as I could in the face. His head popped free like a cork, bounced twice and hit the door with a dull thud. I cheered in victory, roaring over their carcasses. Omish clapped in admiration… while Grunk was in shock. And he shit himself again.

“Teller?” Christoph repeated. “Are you alright?”

I looked at the party of adventurers, inwardly bummed my fantasy was not true. I nodded. “Fine. I will go too. But only because someone needs to watch these two.”

I hit Grunk again.

“Stop it.”

“I need to get it out of my system, Grunk.”

“Then hit the guy with the armor,” Grunk said.

“If it will help, that is not a problem,” the infuriatingly nice knight smiled.

Fuck.

“I am going to go lay in the bench and attempt to sleep.” I grumbled sullenly. “If the world ends, please don’t wake me up. I rather die oblivious.”

I got up and did exactly that. I dropped my gauntlet from my hand next to me, curled up around it and somehow managed to go to sleep surrounded by the ancient stone, its presence making me feel like I was home.

… Even if it was killing me slowly.

Grunk shook his head at me sternly. His face, his eyes.. all sending the direst of warnings that he could muster without using his voice.

As if I was telepathic, I could almost hear it anyway: Don’t you fucking do it, Tell.

He signaled (open to some interpretation mind you) that if I revealed ourselves, he would personally brain me with his chisel (by holding the chisel up to his own temple). Yeah, the implication was clear enough. I wouldn’t blame him to be honest, and I would probably deserve it.

Take a deep breath and think this through Tell, I thought. I glanced down at the stones between my knees, trying to be rational.

At best, three goblins popping out of the wall would result in our immediate deaths. There were at least three individuals on the outside of this box that knew how to use the sharp implements of death , and they had made it this far using said instruments of death… so… if three goblins just materialized, one would most likely die on a sword, one on a knife, and one on an axe. And worst case, all three of us could be incinerated alive until we were dead-ish.

Alright. Revealing ourselves would be a terribly bad, awful, short-sighted, idiotic thing to do. See? A good think after being threatened with involuntary lobotomy has its place! A win!

Omish sneezed.

He grabbed his honker of a nose with both hands and looked at the two of us with eyes the size of dinner plates. Grunk was furious. I probably looked relieved. (I felt relieved at least.)

So now, when someone died by a chisel to the skull, it was not going to be me (silver lining.)

The dubndub was utterly quiet. The fart of a mouse could be heard, if there had been a mouse nearby, and said mouse had been in gastrointestinal distress. Phphbt! I wanted to make the sound just for a laugh. But now was not the time.

The next sound was undeniable. The sound of a long silver blade being unsheathed from a hard scabbard. That was literally the sound of the death. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhink…

I wondered how many goblins had died after hearing a noise like that? And with a measure of grim certainty, I knew it was going to be at least three more.

FUCK.

I looked hard at Grunk, mouthing the word, “Options?”

Grunk’s nearly imperceptible head shake mirrored my own state of mind. We were literally in a box of stone with someone that apparently had an allergy to staying hidden. What else could we do? We were not going to tunnel our way out. Two things could happen. They would realize that they were not alone and have the very pretty goblin fire mage blow us up, or they would have the dwarf start swinging at walls and do his dwarven-destruction-of-stone thing that dwarves got hard little peens doing, and either way, we would have to crawl out of here, fighting or dying.

We all collectively held our breath.

I ventured a look out of the peek hole that Grunk had made for me and I came eye to eye with another Goblin eye. Her eyes were pretty too. (Get a grip, Tell.)

“Its a pack of goblins. Probably dungeon management,” Miki sighed dismissively. “You can put your sword away, Christoph. Your axe too, Fror. The worst these guys will do to us is give us bad directions.”

“Harsh.” I mumbled. Maybe she wasn’t that pretty after all.

“Keep an arrow ready just in case, Streya.” Miki added.

Well that was just plain rude. I raised my voice, “We mean you no harm.”

“Come on out, and we will determine that for ourselves.” The human Christoph said calmly. He at least sounded level-headed. “Keep your knives in their places and nothing will need to get messy.”

I heard him whisper, “That sounded tough, right?”

“Yes, you sound very tough.” Omish replied, sounding like a freshly kicked puppy.

“Sorry,” Christoph said. “You guys have great hearing for being in a stone bench.”

“Great eyes too,” Miki said with a bit of thought carrying in her voice. She was thinking out loud, and I did not like the sound of it.

“If we come out, will we be safe?” Grunk asked.

“If you stay in there, you definitely won’t be, because that means we will have to come in after you,” the dwarf Fror growled. “I might have to hurt you on principle if you make it my problem.”

“We are coming out,” I said.

I pointed at our roof hoping that Grunk would knock out the top. Easier for us if we are all exposed at once and not crawling out of the end like idiots. I peeked out of the hole and they were all standing away from the bench, the short human-ish one called Streya had an arrow in her bow, but it was not raised. That may be a good sign.

The goblin had a her palm raised halfway, a little gout of flame spinning on her palm like a miniature tornado. That was definitely a threat. I heard a fair-barker in the back of my head, STEP RIGHT UP, STEP RIGHT UP, AND GET INCINERATED! ALMOST FREE!

Grunk ran his fingers on the side of his hammer, fingering a sigil, and the cores hummed in response. He swung once, pushing the stone upwards with the hammer just like he had when he had made the door for us into the hallway. The hammer remained where he placed it as the stone seat swung upwards. We stood up slowly with our hands above our shoulders in unison, like we had practiced beforehand.

It would have been funny if I was sure this was not how we were about to die.

“Cozy in there,” Fror harrumphed.

“It felt safe until someone sneezed,” I muttered.

“You are the leader,” Miki addressed pointedly.

“Not the old one?” Christoph made a face.

He was sooooo tall. I would have to be on stilts to just look at him straight in the nipples. The short human-ish one with the feet was only up to his waist, but she even seemed bigger than me. She probably wasn’t but every one near the hero in armor just appeared to be more imposing. Maybe it was the armor.

Or he was just a big scary dude (that was probably it.)

“The old ones are too smart.” Miki tittered. “They are old because they have learned to keep their heads down. Its the ones that are old enough to want more, but not too old to know better. That’s why the leader is this one.”

“What about the other one?” The dwarf said.

“He is a baby.” Miki smiled knowingly. “Apprentice?”

Omish nodded slowly.

“Where is your fourth?” Miki continued with a raised eyebrow.

“We don’t have one,” I said.

“We did.” Omish added quickly. “We lost him a couple rotations ago.”

Streya nodded sagely. “They are both telling the truth.”

How would she know? “How would you know? Maybe he is out getting us help? Maybe I lied?”

“Streya is from a tribe of soothsayers. She can detect falsehoods.” Miki sighed heavily. “So no one is out there getting you help. They don’t even know you are lost do they?”

I frowned. She was mean. But I could not take my eyes off of her. I felt my face flush.

“Oh, he is blushing.” Streya laughed.

Miki lowered her voice to a sultry register, “It’s not because he is embarrassed.”

My face went even more flushed. I finally lowered my eyes. I could die. Just box me up in the bench and let me rot peacefully in the dark.

“What were you doing in here?” Fror asked.

“We…” I started.

“Speak up. And know that I will have an arrow in your shoulder if you lie,” Streya threatened.

“I believe you,” I replied. “Can we lower our arms?”

“No,” Streya flatly replied.

“Its a long story,” I tried.

“That is true, but you are going to tell us the short version,” Streya said.

“We are dungeon management, Team Kelpie…”

“Cute.” Miki sighed.

With a half-hearted glare I continued, “We were deployed to room on level two to fix a collapse. We weren’t able to fix it in time, and the room fell in with our portal inside of it. We made the choice to head outwards-“

“Outwards?” Christoph the human monster asked.

“Outwards versus Inwards. Outwards is towards the surface, inwards is towards the lower levels.”

Miki made another thinking face. “Huh. Go on.”

“We were hoping that we could encounter another Dungeon Management team and use their portal to get home,” I finished. Then I glared wholeheartedly.

I left out the parts about why the Kappa room collapsed (explodey hexcore) and the ant colony (red beam of death and explodey ant heads), hoping those parts of the story were on a need to know basis. And this group of explorers definitely did not need to know.

“That is truth.” Streya acknowledged.

“Why were you in here? Hiding?” Christoph said.

“We were resting. We heard someone coming, and we are goblins,” I sneered with the obvious.

“Watch your tone.” Fror growled back. “Or your head may not be connected to your neck much longer.”

“Fror, friend, step back,” Christoph put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “What do you mean by that? What does being a goblin have to do with anything?”

“Goblins get blasted. They get massacred. They get chopped. Diced. Sliced. Shot down. We are treated like fodder…” My voice was raising again. I wanted to punch the dwarf in the face with my gauntlet of explodey heads. “And people like you, you people, kill us without so much a second thought. That is why we hide. We don’t want to be murdered in cold blood by a party of assholes who could give two shits less how many goblins that happen to die along their way. It happens all the time! Because WE DON’T WANT TO BE MURDERED!”

It was the dwarf’s turn to lower his eyes. Even the smaller human-ish Streya looked conflicted. Miki was grinning devilishly.

“We try not to kill anything,” Christoph smiled kindly. “We only defend ourselves when we are attacked.”

I thought it sounded like he was telling the truth. That bugged me. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had that huge sword that I wanted to believe him or because the tone of his voice made me want to believe him.

Streya’s eyes were hard, her brow was furrowed, like she was evaluating something about me that I did not understand. “He hears truth.”

Well that pissed me off even more. Could I red beam them to death before I was impaled by an arrow? Probably not. Well… shit on a stick.

“We have a goblin in our party. Do you not see Miki right here? She is with us. Obviously we don’t kill goblins for sport,” Christoph waved futilely.

“And if he tried, I would just turn him into a crispy armor-enclosed human steak,” Miki grinned.

“I have never heard of a goblin mage. Never.” Grunk finally spoke up. “Arcanists, sure. But never a full blown mage.”

Miki grinned again, that devilish glint in her eye. She repeated my line back, “Its a long story.”

“We can’t let them go.” Christoph waved at us, speaking about us as if we weren’t right in front of them, awkwardly standing in a coffin of our own making (gallows humor).

“We can’t take them with us,” Fror frowned. “They will slow us down.”

“Streya, what do you think?” Christoph tilted his head.

“I think we should be careful. They are not for us, but they are not against us. And that means danger. No loyalties.”

“Hmmmmm.” Christoph stroked his smooth chin thoughtfully. “Miki?”

“I think they should come with us.”

“What?” I said and the dumb dwarf said at the exact same time.

I made a face (probably a bad one). Fror just set his mouth in a firm line. I could barely see it under the huge bushy beard, but I got the gist. I glanced at my compatriots. Grunk looked resigned to a fate, and Omish appeared to be on the verge of fainting. He was paler than the tall human. I would say a greenish-white at this point. I had seen greener molds on cheese.

As if coming to a final decision, Miki waved at the three of us with a wide declarative swing. “They are goblins. They can see, hear, smell, and navigate better than all four of us. They can see traps. They can hear trouble. They can smell out food and water. I can’t do those things because of my acclimation to surface life. But they can. They don’t even think about it. Do you see torches? Do you see a mage among them for light? They navigated the good old fashioned way. The way my mama would have. I say we take them.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?” Grunk asked sullenly.

“We set you on your way, when we know that we are clear to do so.” Christoph shrugged. “We are headed downwards.”

“Inwards.” I corrected.

“Yes,” he looked at me shrewdly. “Inwards. Indeed.”

“Can we put our hands down now?” I asked, again. “My arms are going to fall off at the shoulder.”

Miki looked us over. “Those two can. You can’t.”

“Why the fuck not, lady?” I asked.

“Because your gauntlet is absolutely roaring with mana right now.”

“Mana? That is reserved only for living things,” Streya squinted at my gauntlet. “That is definitely armor. Not a living thing, Miki.”

Miki took a step forward and held out her hands. “Show me.”

I sighed for the sheer art of pissing her off a small measure of what she had caused me to feel so far. “Why?”

Miki lowered her voice as if the two of us were alone. “Because I want to look at it. You don’t have to take it off, ok? We are not thieves. It is still yours.”

Hmmph. I kept the groan inside my head. “Fine.”

I lowered my armored right hand into Miki’s waiting own. I swear I could feel her touch through my gauntlet, and I had the brief, one could almost say fleeting, sensation that I could stand like this forever. She smelled amazing. Was that vanilla?

She rolled my right hand over in her own, as she studied the gauntlet’s hexgrid that extended down the back of my hand and onto my wrist.

“Was the hexglow always purple?” Miki asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“That is a lie.” Streya offered her opinion.

“No one asked, you. What are you anyway?” I shot back.

“Be nice.” Miki admonished. “When did the hexglow turn purple?”

“Today. Or yesterday. I am not sure what day it is,” I corrected as I made eye contact with Streya. “We have had a bit of a hard time since the collapse. I may have passed out one point from exhaustion.”

Miki looked over her shoulder at Streya, and the stout woman nodded. “True.”

“What caused it?”

Let’s see how accurate that Streya’s sense of truthiness powers were. “I honestly don’t know what caused it to turn purple.”

“Also true,” Streya shrugged again.

“Interesting. It seems that something was invoked. Your gauntlet is housing a soul.”

“That is news to me, lady.” I sighed.

“True again.”

“Could you stop it?” I asked politely. Well it may have felt polite. The way it came out of my mouth it did not sound polite. I hoped that no one was paying attention.

“Alright little goblins, you can climb out of the bench. We are going to start a fire and set up camp. I have first watch.” Christoph said, the last part was for his party, not us.

Or maybe it was for us. He would be watching. They would all be watching. Shit on a stick (again.)

“We don’t have an excess of provisions, but you can share what we prepare,” The knight continued. “If you are able to track more food down, that is.”

Grunk spoke up, “We can.”

Miki let go of my gauntlet and clapped her hands together. “Alright that is settled then. What are your names?”

“I’m Teller. That’s Grunk, our newbie is Omish. And you are Miki, he is Christoph, Streya, and the dwarf is Fror.”

“Very good,” Miki nodded thoughtfully. “Smart too.”

They all had backpacks and bedrolls, and they let them drop to the ground, falling into a routine that I had a feeling was well established. They each seemed to have a job in setting up camp, and they fell to their parts.

The dwarf pulled a length of blackened lumber from his bag along with a cast iron skillet.

Grunk walked over to the wall. “You can save your ironwood for later on. These dubndubs have wood boxes.”

“What? Dubndubs?” Fror eyes went wide. “Show me the wood!”

“This symbol here?” Grunk pointed at the triangle over his head. “Tap here.”

Grunk elbowed the wall and it pivoted open. “Not constantly replenished, but the brownies…”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Fror laughed loudly, interrupting Grunk’s explanation. “We have spent days fretting over firewood. You my are my friend, …Grunk was it? Yes! Let’s get a proper fire going, eh Grunk?”

Grunk nodded, letting his previous explanation go, and instead started pulling firewood from the box.

How did they not know about the wood boxes? Did they know about the clean water? Did they know about the waste grates? Did they know you could shower in a dubndub if you needed too? By the Underking, no wonder these asshats died so often. They had no idea of the basics. No concept of inwards or outwards? No sign reading? No pathing details. I bet they didn’t even know the pattern of the logic rooms! Idiots.

They were babies. Wee babies with bonnets and nappies, just wandering the Underfell. They were going to die… it was just a matter of time.

We could use this to our advantage. They would have to take care of us… until we run across a point that we can escape. Some opportunity would pop up eventually, we just had to keep our eyes open for that moment. Make sure they were nice and comfortable with us and the could give them the slip, work backwards and find a dungeon management team. Maybe after watching them all die. Painfully. That would be almost perfect.

Timing. In the end, it was all about timing.

Thinking all this through, I was not paying attention to what the others were doing and I realized I was just standing in the box like an idiot. Grunk was helping build the fire, Omish was asking a million questions a minute of the tall human in armor as they set up camp, and I was still standing in the box with my gauntlet arm slightly extended in front of me from where Miki had released it. She was doing her part at the fire, making small flames catch at the smaller tinder.

Streya made eye contact and she started to chuckle. “Have you never met a girl goblin before, young one? Do you think she is pretty?”

“No.” I outright refused a bit too quickly.

“Ah… that was a lie. But you knew that already.” Streya started laughing. A deep rumbling belly laugh.

I grinned for a second at the sound of her laugh, but I shifted it to a nasty frown the moment she looked at me. That only made her laugh harder.

I pouted.

Still standing there like an idiot.

Dammit.

Something hit me at speed. And time slowed down to a crawl.

There are moments in my life that I would hope would flash before my eyes when I am about to die. Like, I would see glimpses of childhood, growing up in the village of Stoccard-on-the-Well. It was probably the third largest Goblin village on the continent, nestled in the heart of a lonely mountain about a two hour walk in the Underfell. I would see my mother. I would see my father. I would see my siblings. I would see us hunting. Fishing. I would see us laughing in our cozy Goblin kitchen, tearing into a flank and greasily making fun of each other’s eating habits. I would see that one girl. You know the one, Teller. The pretty one with the long ears.

But no. As I was flung across the open space of the ant nest column, and I looked downwards into the dark depths of my impending death, none of those memories crossed my mind’s eye. Not a single great moment arose from the depths of my consciousness, and instead, you know what I got?

The urge to scream. That’s it. This is how you die, Teller. Screaming like a little baby Gob as you fall to your death towards the crushing darkness, only to be eaten by ants the size of stupid ass dogs.

But hey! At least I would be dead when they would eat me.

Then time spun back up, and after being flung, I hit the far wall and amazingly did not fall to my death. The warrior ant that had flung me in such an insulting manner was apparently surprised I did not fall to my death either.

The ants rushed us from all sides.

Grunk and Omish landed near me. Omish pulled his lighttosser and fired a bolt at the nearest cluster, and the flare shattered as it hit the lead ant in the head, spraying fuel and flame all over the rest. The light in the dark tunnel was brighter than it had been so far, and I watched as Grunk come to terms with his death as he simultaneously pulled his chisel and his hammer from his belt, the grizzled veteran making the choice in taking a few six legged freaks with him.

I looked at my Enchanted Power Gauntlet Mark 4. My baby. And she hummed. She was alive! Thank the Underfell Wizardking.

I flicked my fingers over the control grid, and with a start, realized none of the controls were the same. The nobs, the nubs, the depressions were all laid out differently. And the colors! It hummed with a fell purple light, not the customary arcane blue that it had before.

With dawning horror I realized the purple ball of death that I had grabbed in the Kelpie pool room was something more than just another power source. It must have been an engine hex core. I had somehow, mysteriously, miraculously just had my EPGmark4 upgraded against my will and with zero technical or arcane knowledge.

AND NOW I HAD NO IDEA HOW TO OPERATE IT.

A couple ants lunged in from my right, and I swung with my EPGmark4 encased fist. The balancers hummed, and the control I felt was immense. It was like dancing. I twirled, and my fist crashed into both ants. The first one’s head caved inwards like it was made of paper, and my fist smeared the first ant’s head bits across the face of the next one as it continued, caving the next exoskeleton inwards as well. The ants behind them stopped, confused.

Imagine the scene. Three goblins. And not even big goblins. Just regular old maintenance goblins, standing in a row, dirty and disheveled. The one on the far left is screaming at the top of his lungs, swinging his discharged lighttosser like an axe, as a trio of ants burned nearby in a hastily assembled bonfire of limbs and fuzzy carapaces. Then in the middle, a grizzled, slightly overweight, veteran goblin slamming his hammer into the forehead of a warrior ant, sending the oversized pinchers flying outwards as if he had just hit a mandible ejection button. The last, but not least, leader of this motley group, covered in fresh ant goop, roaring as if he had just taken down a minor god all on his own.

The ants stopped.

They slowly backed up and seemed to regard us, antennae waving to and fro confusedly.

“YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, YOU HAIRY FUCKWADS! OMISH WILL BURN YOU ALL!” Omish screamed fervently, his eyes bugging worryingly from his skull. At some point he had pulled a flare dart from his belt and was brandishing it like a knife.

Grunk was breathing so heavily I thought he was about to have an apoplectic fit. He held his hammer over his head like he couldn’t decide to chase the ants down or put himself out of his misery.

And all I could do was marvel at my gauntlet like an idiot. There were four red nubs along the knife edge of my right hand, and another on the inside of the wrist… almost like…

I laid my left hand across the back, and sure as shit, all my fingers lined up with the red nubs. They glowed briefly as each finger made contact, and as my thumb came to rest on the last nub, the fingers of my gauntlet straightened of their own accord and my palm…

Growled?

It quickly shifted upwards in tone, transforming into something like a banshee’s high pitch scream…

THEN A RED FOUNTAIN OF ENERGY POURED OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING PALM AND OBLITERATED AN ENTIRE COLUMN OF ANTS.

I yanked my left hand off the gauntlet, looked worryingly at the remainder of what I assumed would be now very pissed-off ants (their antennae had stopped waving altogether, which had to be bad), and I felt my face scrunch up with embarrassment as black ash that was previously their compatriots drifted downwards all around us.

“Sorry?” I tried.

The hissing noise that came back at us was nothing short of shit-your-pants-terrifying. The column of ants that I had just obliterated had left a nice empty ramp upwards though. That was nice.

“RUN!” I yelled. I hauled ass up the ramp, into another tunnel. Grunk flung Omish ahead of him, and turned to swing his hammer at the wall. He pulled his hammer hard across the face of it, and the metamorphosis of rock spell of the hammer did its job. A wall formed behind us, blocking our pursuers for the moment.

“I have no idea how long that will keep them.” Grunk put his hands on his knees and was attempting to take some very deep breaths. “Next time you decide to deathray something, you should let us know, first.”

“I had no idea that was going to happen.” I admitted. It sounded lame to my own ears.

Omish’s face appeared to be covered in something like surprise. It might have been shock. I wasn’t sure. But then his eyes somehow went even wider than before and I was certain that he had blown a brain vessel.

“That… that… was FUCKING AWESOME!” Omish squealed. He held his hand up, mimicking my gauntlet. “It was like all AAAAAAAAAAAH and then WOOOOOOOSSSSSSH and then… was that ash? Am I covered in Ant ash?” He sat down heavily as he came back to himself. “This might be the best day of my life.”

“We still have to make it behind that explorer party.” Grunk grizzled. “Let’s be honest, it might be the last day of your life.”

“Seriously, Tell, what the fuck is going on with your EPG?” Omish laughed.

“I wish I knew, Om. Grunk, look… the hexgrid is… different. Like the controls are not the same.”

Grunk took a few steps and slipped his tools back into his belt. He took my arm into his hands and looked over the gauntlet cautiously. “Well it’s purple.”

“Yeah, no shit.” I sighed. “What else do you see?”

“I have no fucking idea, Tell. I have never even heard of something like this. Mickroof was a great artificer, but this is beyond what I know of his work. This is… something else.” Grunk tapped his knuckle against the side of the metal.

It knocked back.

“Was that you?” Grunk looked at me.

“Uh, no.”

“Huh. Possessed Gauntlet. That’s new.” Grunk nodded. “Thought I had seen it all.”

“You have never been on your own before? Remember? Never cut off from a portaling?” I teased.

“Today is just full of new for you Grunk!” Omish grinned. “What’s that saying? Old gobs can never learn new tricks? Or was it a new gob can’t learn old tricks? I can’t remember.”

I laughed. “Shut up, Om. Come on.”

We trudged up the tunnel and after a few minutes of quiet walking upwards, we came to wall. Cut and carved stone. Not ant. Big development.

Grunk pushed past me and laid his hands on the wall. “Ha, this is new to me too. The backside of a wall.”

He pulled his chisel and hammer from his belt, and thumbed a sigil on the side of the hammer’s head. He lightly tapped the back of the chisel and cored out a peekhole out like he was uncorking a bottle. He put his eye to the hole and Omish and I collectively held our breath.

He leaned back. “Looks empty. Another hallway. There is a dubndub to the right across the way. I don’t see anything else.”

“What should we do, Tell?” Omish whispered. “Are we still on level two? Or is this one?”

“We have been heading upwards for a stretch. Why wouldn’t we be on one?” I scratched my chin. “We could be?”

There was a faint angry hissing behind us.

“I don’t think we have a choice.” I amended. “Go!”

Grunk nodded, repeatedly tapped his chisel in the shape a relative Goblin sized door, and then slammed his hammer against the center of the mass like it was a door knocker. The section of wall pivoted outwards.

“Neat!” Omish noted.

“You haven’t had to repair a labyrinth yet, have you?” Grunk teased. “It’s how we traverse the maze.”

I tilted my head towards our new exit.”Come on.”

I ducked through the entry way, Omish followed behind, his lighttosser in his hands, and finally Grunk. He pulled the hammer and the door slid shut as if it had never existed. There was a slight sizzle as the rock fused back together. Grunk slid the core back into the hole and tapped it lightly with his hammer. Another sizzle sound and the wall was exactly as it had been.

“When do I get some enchanted tools?” Omish whispered in awe.

“When it is the right time for you to get enchanted tools, numbnuts,” Grunk whispered back.

I sulked slowly across the tiles, keeping my eyes wide for traps, wires, and the like between us and the dubndub. The fell light of the ceiling stones helped me pick way towards the water and waste room, and thankfully there was nothing. I pushed the door open, held it for the other two, and then closed it in a rush. I slung the lock shut, and prayed that no one would wander along to test it.

I needed a nap. The chemicals in my bloodstream were finding ways to exit, and the fatigue was hitting me hard. I slumped against the door.

Grunk sat down heavily against the wall, tilting his head back in repose. Omish just laid flat on the stone floor.

“What a day.” I groaned under my breath. I cradled my EPGmark4 in my lap and closed my eyes, breathing deeply.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but it had to be longer than a few minutes. When I came to, Grunk and Omish had a small fire going in the warming pit, and they were drinking some of Grunk’s breaktime tea that he carried in his backpack.

We should probably inventory our gear. I can’t imagine we have much in the way of supplies. Or food. My stomach growled as if on cue.

“We may starve to death.” I grumbled.

“Nonsense.” Grunk smiled. “I have jerky!”

“And when that runs out?” I said.

“Then we eat Omish!” Grunk laughed brightly.

I made a face. So did Omish.

“Hey, I am sitting right here!” Omish complained.

“Don’t stress it Om. We both know you would taste terrible.” I stood and walked over to the small fire. “Any more tea?”

Grunk handed me a small wooden tea cup with a wink.

“Thanks Grunk.” I took a sip. It was warm and delicious. Grunk handed me a piece of jerky, and I bit out a chunk savagely.

“There is actually plenty of food to be had in the Underfell. Just have to go looking for it. Mushrooms, gardens, groves, fish in the pools… even bigger game if you are for up it.” Grunk said thoughtfully. “The Underfell is world unto itself.”

“But what’s the point?” Omish asked.

“The point of what?” Grunk asked.

Omish waved at the group sitting around the small fire. “What we do?”

I spoke up. “We manage the dungeon. Fix what needs to be fixed, help where we need to help. You know this, Om.”

“But WHY?” Omish overemphasized the point.

“Do you ever wonder why we don’t live on the surface?” Grunk asked.

“Uh, we don’t like the surface.”

“No,” Grunk shook his head. “The humans, the elves, and the ones they deem ‘good’ species lay claim to the surface. The rest of us have to rot at the edges. We have to stay in our realms.”

“That makes sense,” Omish nodded. “Goblins can be bad, alright.”

“But you are asking why the Underfell exists. This is why.” Grunk said. “What if we aren’t supposed to stay in our realms? What if the surface belongs to all of us? I will tell you straight up Om… humans and elves can be just as evil as any orc or dragon. I guarantee it.”

“I don’t get it.” Omish shook his head. “That is not a why.”

“The Underfell exists to provide a home to those that aren’t allowed to have one. Up there. And in creating it, the Wizardking worked magics that have had lasting impacts on the world above. They topsiders see him as a great enemy. They seem him as a devil. In reality, he is a savior. He gave us power. He gave us control over our own lives.”

“True, true, Grunk. That he did.” I tipped my cup towards him. “He took all the scattered peoples, Om. He took all of us and he made us something new.”

“So he just creates dungeons that anyone can wander into?”

I tapped my chin. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

“I honestly don’t know. Obviously, the Underfell Wizardking knows something we don’t.” Grunk admitted. “Maybe the exchange is important for some reason. It has to be.”

“It keeps us in a job!” I grinned, knocking the rest of the tea back. “Although our lead is definitely shot now.”

“Team Snake can suck a dick.” Omish frowned heavily. “Ratking too.”

“Maybe they got shit assignments too.” Grunk said.

“Maybe,” I nodded.

“Maybe we got lucky, and that nasty Ratking leader got her mouth blown off!” Omish grinned.

It seems everyone hated that one.

I glanced down at my EPGmark4-something and noted that it was off again. By its own choice? Does an enchanted gauntlet just get to decide when to itself off? It had learned to knock? It had learned to shoot a death ray. Hopefully it didn’t learn how to consume goblins that stick their hands in unknowingly.

I pulled my right hand out slowly and besides that bit of a tacky moisture feeling that I always had on my skin after taking the EPG off, everything looked completely normal. All five fingers, all my skin, and all of my pre-existing bruises and scars were accounted for. No new bruises and no new scars. I flexed my hand with a hesitation, like it wasn’t my own.

Grunk huffed. “It is just an enchanted gauntlet, Tell. Not the devil himself attached to your arm.”

“Did you not see the gnarly beam of total destruction come out of it?” I raised my eyebrows up as far as they could go. If I had been wearing a hat, it would have been pushed off.

“Well, yes… that was a bit odd.” Grunk conceded.

“A bit odd? Grunk, dude, its a power gauntlet. It is for construction! Designed for a goblin… like me… to do construction-y stuff. Earthmoving! Preparing materials! Not shooting beams of death!” My voice was rising of its own accord. “And bashing in the heads of a couple ants with a single swing? This was supposed to help goblins like me avoid using a shovel and a mattock, not cave in any skulls that get in the way!”

My gauntlet vibrated like an instrument strong for a hot second and then powered up. Grunk and I looked at each other and then to the gauntlet. The artifact rolled over and spread its fingers, forming a hand shaped gauntlet crab. It scuttled towards the door, hovered next to it like it was listening, and then scuttled back to me double time.

Omish was so invested in his jerky, he didn’t notice the EPG walking around of its own volition.

My gauntlet leaned against me and then butted me. Then butted me again.

“Why is your EPG bouncing against your thigh?” Omish said airily.

It pointed a finger at the door. Then again. Insistently.

“Douse the fire,” I whispered. “Gather the things.”

“Why?” Grunk looked at me weird.

“I don’t know why, but I think someone… or something… is coming.” I whispered again. I slid my hand into the waiting gauntlet. I got the sense it was like a puppy dog, just waiting to be petted lovingly.

Omish doused the fire, and pushed the wet smoking remnants into the drainage grate.

“Grunk, quick. Build a box against this wall, something that nestles in the corner. Make it like a bench or something simple that we can hide in.” I gathered all of our things as Grunk tapped a sequence out on his hammer. “Shit! Omish, unlock the door. Fast!”

Omish nodded and padded off.

Grunk tapped the stone lightly, and folded out a stone ledge from the wall, and another from the floor. I crawled into it, pushing our stuff ahead of us. Omish followed close behind, and then Grunk came in behind and closed the end with another slice from the wall. The joins sizzled briefly, and I knew it would blend right in. Grunk tapped a couple peek holes for us and we collectively held our breath.

The door opened.

“Oh thank the heavens above! Its a bathroom!” A human in silver armor walked in, a long sword at his waist, and a leather satchel across his back. “I feel like we have been attacked and wandering for days without a good place to rest.”

“We have been attacked. And have been wandering. For days.” A deadpan female’s voice came up from behind. A small diminutive woman, she had bow over her back and a pair of knives at her waist. I thought she looked like a human, but she was too short. And she had no shoes on. Big hairy feet instead. Not a dwarf either. I had no idea what she was.

“That golem was unexpected,” a third voice came up behind. It was definitely a male dwarf, the massive axe on his back was impressive. “Thing must have been sitting there for years.”

“And that is why you have me. To reduce things like that to slag.” A fourth voice said.

My eyes went wide.

“You are the best fire mage I have ever met, Miki.” The dwarf laughed.

I looked sideways at Grunk and then over at Omish, and they couldn’t believe it either.

The fire mage was a goblin.

A very pretty female goblin with gorgeous long ears. I felt a twinge in my gut.

Holy shit – ah…

Holy shit.

Holy shit!

“What in the Fell happened, Teller?” Omish shouted, as best he could at least, he was laying flat on his back still. And coughing. And spitting.

“I don’t know! How the fuck would I know?” I shot back, my right hand felt… heavy. It was distracting. My gauntlet looked the same as always, when it was off. I sat up and gently flexed my fingers within, making sure my hand still worked (for the third time).

It did. I exhaled heavily.

The memory flashed briefly of that unlucky goblin walking through the Demark from Bay Blue, one arm missing and covered in soot… that was an hour ago? Two?

“Because you are the dumb ass that launched your Gob ass at the glowly pearl of death, Tell.” Grunk followed with a grimace. “Although… in hindsight, that may have been dumb taking it out of the box.”

Omish turned his head and glared. “Ya think? Grunk? Aren’t you supposed to be the most experienced out of all us? Like aren’t you the guy that should know better?”

“I am still just a Gob, you lank.” Grunk sighed, holding his britches up. “This old Gob is going to go wander to the nearest water n’ waste room and clean up. There should be one down the way.”

“If you find a dubndub, try not to intentionally step on… ANY TRAPS ON THE WAY!” Omish yelled after him.

“Om, if you stay so high strung, you are going to have a heart attack or a stroke,” I said. I would need a dubndub too if I needed to wash any wounds once I got my hand unstuck. “But to be fair, Grunk, try to avoid traps, eh?”

Grunk just waved at at us with an extended middle finger as he wandered off with an apparent mess in his pants.

“We can’t fix an entire room collapse!” Omish whined. “And our portal back to the hub was in there! What the hell are we going to do?”

“Yeah, I am thinking. Give me a minute.” I put my finger to my chin and scratched absentmindedly. My other hand remained locked in the inert fist, and once again, I flexed my fingers. So what? I am paranoid.

You know what goblins are called by the Dungeon parties?

Cannon fodder. Yeah. Paranoia is a good thing.

We had a couple options. Grunk would know better than most, he probably had done it himself at some point. It wasn’t impossible, it was just rare… and dangerous. Any party that we come across wouldn’t think twice about obliterating us on sight.

And that’s the trick. We would have to work backwards to get behind an advancing party without being obliterated. Find a damaged room (there should be many) and wait for one of the many Dungeon Management Teams to portal in. Then hitch a ride home. Easy.

The last part was easy.

The first part was un-fucking-believably hard.

Not to mention, finding the way back meant that we would have to head outward in the dungeon design, and we, against our well established regulations (thanks Fat Tits), had dove inward during the collapse of the room behind us (thanks me).

The Underfell had a design. It had a well multipathed structure. It had connections between floors and between areas, so one caved in room would not mean that we were stuck going in only one direction. Explorers all had different reasons to explore the Underfell. Some were looking for wealth, others for action, others for glory. I have no idea how the surface worked, but I would guess that they were all crazy.

Who would volunteer to come into this? Like honestly? You had to be nutzo. I didn’t want to be here and I was born and raised in the Underfell. And I work here! For two measly glints a day and the promise of a sublevel homestead back at the Gob villages if I survived my contract.

And I thought the places I had visited so far were obvious places to die. So if the surface was thaaaaaaaat bad that you just had to come down here to make your way, you have my pity.

So I knew going forward was problematic, but it was really the only choice we had.

Grunk shouted down the hallway, “Dubndub here, lankheads. There is a spike pit to the left, don’t walk into it.”

Omish made a face and yelled back, “Its amazing you didn’t!” He turned to me, his young face still wide with the aftershocks of fear. “What do we do, Tell?”

“Well we have our wits, our limbs, and most of our asses. So that tells me we find a path outwards and try to slink behind whoever is working their way this way.”

Omish’s blood drained from his face.

“We will be fine, Om.” I added encouragingly.

“It won’t be. It will be that party that is causing the ruckus. The one with crazy Fire Mage.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We will be blown to smithereens. Black, crusted, ill shaped bits of ourselves smeared all over a wall.” Omish continued as if he had ignored me outright. He dragged his hands down his face theatrically.

“Om!” I shot with a bit of heat.

“Yeah?”

“Get off your ass and get to the dubndub. We can figure it out with Grunk.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Omish stood up, groaning as he got to his feet.

He tottered off unevenly, and I stood to follow, pulling my heavy right up hand behind me. With the gauntlet in a tight fist, I couldn’t free my hands from its depths. I pulled it up to my waist with a sigh (again flexing my fingers within to ensure they had not been reduced to burnt jelly) and flicked the buttons for the start up sequence with my other hand. Same old routine I always had.

Nothing happened.

It did not hum.

It did not glow.

It did not even vibrate.

It was a hunk of inert metal at the end of my arm.

I felt a wave of emotions all at once. (Gobs have emotions, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.) Fear, doubt, anger, regret all washed through me at once. I had one of the greatest enchanted power gauntlets ever made and I had cocked it up so bad that now it was one of the heaviest useless gloves you could imagine. Without the enchantments powering the glove, the sheer mass of it was going to strain my shoulder socket until my arm popped free.

It wouldn’t, but it felt that way. I would chuck it in frustration, BUT IT WAS ATTACHED TO MY FUCKING ARM.

I followed Omish to the dubndub, cursing under my breath the entire way. I did not see the spike pit to the left, but there was a sense of deepness in the soft dark that spoke of a hole in the floor. Humans would have torches or a mage to light the way. Goblins have exceptional vision in the dark, and depending on the part of the Underfell, there was light to be had, you just had to know how to look. Or you said fuck it and shot a flare at the ceiling with a lighttosser. Either way.

In the muted dark the hallway, the stones reluctantly issued their fell light, and the pit became obvious to my goblin eyes. I did my best to look for pressure plates and tripwires, but the designers had thankfully thought only a silly spike pit would be sufficient. Idiots. Any party would consider this hallway a damn blessing. They could set up camp here, it had a dubndub and everything!

I pushed the door to the dubndub open to find a well appointed washroom. Omish was drinking heavily from the tap, and a half naked Grunk was wringing is pants out over a drainage grate.

There were pairs of eversconces on each wall, giving the space a warm, welcoming light. I never had understood why the Underfell Wizardking had thought that while building a subterranean fortress city for himself and his minions, he should include accommodating and aesthetically pleasing bathrooms along the way. Thank goodness he did.

I wasn’t so thankful to see Grunk’s wrinkled ass as he wrung out his pants. He looked over his shoulder and gave me a wiggle of his hips.

“Don’t be jealous of handsome backside, youngins.”

“Grunk, your backside wasn’t handsome when you first shot out of your mom and I assure you it has only gotten worse since,” I said.

“You’re jealous.” Grunk hummed. He pulled his damp pants back up with a smile of satisfaction. “Your gauntlet?”

“Still stuck.”

Omish looked up from the basin, a concerned look on his face. “Stuck?”

“Its fine, Om. Not a big deal. Happens all the time.”

“It does?” Omish pushed back with worry all over his gob.

Grunk and I exchanged a knowing look, but I lied anyway. “Of course it does. Not a big deal. Sit for a minute while Grunk takes a look.”

“Pull up here and lay it on the basin counter.” Grunk tapped his fingers on the surface and shifted his knapsack from his back. He pulled some more tools from its depths as I tried to lay the inert metal fist as gingerly as I could on the stone surface. “I don’t have the tools or skills to fix this, but there is usually an emergency latch to decouple the mechanisms. I think the Mark4’s had them. Pretty sure at least.”

Grunk looked over the gauntlet, and grabbed a small screwdriver (normal, nothing enchanted about it) and started tapping the knuckles.

“Roll it over, let’s look at the hexgrid,” Grunk said.

I rolled my forearm so the back of my hand was raised to the ceiling. With a start I realized the controls that I normally would use to control everything…

“The hexgrid is gone?” Grunk’s eyes went wide.

“No wonder nothing was happening.”

“Yeah no wonder.” Grunk tapped the knuckles of my gauntlet again, and put his ear to the back of it. “I don’t hear the cores.”

“What?”

“Listen.” Grunk tapped his screwdriver against it for emphasis.

I put my ear to the metal, and sure enough, there was nothing. The signature resonance was completely absent.

“Easy fix. We get back to dispatch, then we stop off at Torino’s shop, he pops in some new cores, and you are back in the races.” Grunk smiled.

“What about the grid? I can’t operate it without a way to… operate it.”

Grunk made a strange face. “It is odd. The grid is a part of the metal, from the first forging of the artifact. It can’t be just blown off.”

“So where did it go?” I tried.

“Great question. One you should ask Torino.”

Omish finally piped up, “If we ever make it back to dispatch.”

“What’s his problem?” Grunk asked me first, then he looked at Omish pointedly, “What’s your problem?”

“We are going to die,” Omish whined.

“We are not going to die.” Grunk looked at me and lowered his voice. “We are not going to die are we?”

“Why are you asking me?” I asked increduously.

Grunk shrugged. “This is my first time.”

“What do you mean this is your first time?” I added with some extra sauce.

“I have never been cut off from a portaling.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I groaned. “You are kidding, right?”

“Uh. No?” Grunk shrugged innocently.

“We are going to die!” Omish repeated.

“We are not going to die.” I said, repeating Grunk’s sentiment. “We can do this. Come on, Om. Get your ass in gear.”

“What about your hand?” Omish crinkled his nose as if something was obvious.

“What about it?” I shot back angrily.

“What are you going to do?” Omish flinched like he was about to get hit.

I sighed heavily. A release latch would help nothing. I pulled my hand away from Grunk and shook my head. “Nothing, Om. Come on.”

Grunk packed his shit back up, and pulled his enchanted hammer from his belt. He flicked his fingers over its side, and I noted the runes shifted from glowing blue to a soft red. I raised an eyebrow.

“We don’t have much for weapons do we? So I set it to Obliterate.”

“You mean demolitions?” I laughed.

Grunk tilted his head. “I figured if it explodes stone, it will explore a skull or two.”

“Om, pull out your lighttosser and nock a flare,” I said.

“So we can see?”

“No, so you can shoot something if you have to, kiddo,” Grunk smirked. “Its like a crossbow. Except your bolts have a hot pokey bit at the end.”

“Oooooh, smart.” Omish nodded and put a bolt from his belt in.

“How many of those do you have left?” I asked.

“Counting this one? Eleven.”

“Well that just leaves me.” Dead fucking weight, Teller. I kept that thought inside. I pulled my knife from the small of my back, its gleaming six inches looking all the more pathetic than usual. I might as well been holding a fork. “Let’s go.”

Grunk opened the door from the dubndub, and a massive fucking tentacle grabbed his face and pulled him out.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Omish screamed and he fired a flare wildly in the direction that Grunk was pulled.

“Careful, Om. You could hit Grunk!” I shouted. I put my knife between my teeth and yanked the door handle.

To find Grunk on his back, being whipped back and forth, swinging his hammer wildly, futilely trying to make contact, as the tentacle’s thrashing was preventing any such event from happening. Thankfully the flare had hit the far wall over the pit, illuminating it brightly, and it was imminently obvious that it was definitely not a spike pit. It was a lair. For something that appeared to be made out of nothing but tentacles. The fucking designers of this hallway could suck a dick.

A bag of dicks. And they all should be Orc dicks. Sweaty ones.

I pulled my knife from my teeth, and launched myself towards the closest part of the tentacle. As I flew towards the tentacle holding Grunk, I realized that my gauntlet was not just dead weight, it was a cudgel too. I let it drop along side my knife hand, and the noise it made as it made contact was satisfying. It was like a scrunching, squelching sound, and my knife went in like the tentacle itself was made of butter.

The tentacle went slack for a hot second and Grunk finally swung true. The hammer hit the tentacle and the entire end of it exploded outwards and upwards, covering Omish and I with blue slime.

“FUCKING GROSS!” Omish kind of screamed (as his voice was subdued since it had to travel through the slimy bits).

More tentacles whipped upwards and started to seek us out, as the injured explody one was pulled back with a deep whispering groan winding its way out from the pit.

“To the doorway!” I shouted.

Grunk stood, his eyes wild, a sucker mark or two across his face like he had gone on a wild bender and had made a terrible choice for a facial tattoo. He started to run, his little gob legs moving faster than I could have imagined for the old guy.

“Come on, Om!”

We ran for the doorway, and thankfully, did not encounter the trip wire that a real asshole designer would have put in the way. This was the challenge that we had to face as we moved inwards. Traps were designed to face one way, and we were running in that very direction.

We caught up to Grunk, who appeared to be flagging. I could hear him muttering the same curse word under his breath the entire way.

“…fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.” With each step, as if he was chanting his way to success.

The three of us crossed over and I ventured a glance. Thankfully whatever was in the pit could not reach much further than what we had encountered coming out of the dubndub. I looked Omish over (covered in goo), I looked Grunk over (sweaty and puckered), and then I looked down at myself (also covered in some goo). Thankfully the goo was not acidic and actively melting us down to our bones.

“Man, we just left the dubndub!” Omish muttered sorrowfully.

“The smell might help ward off other nasties,” Grunk observed.

I looked around the palely-lit room and frowned. “Its a puzzle room.”

“Goddammit.” Grunk agreed.

“My mom told me about a puzzle room she had to repair once. It killed every single party that had wandered into it? Something about vaporization.” Omish observed thoughtfully.

“Not helping, Om.” I said. “At least we have three doors. That means at least one of them goes backwards. And that means at least one of them is less valuable than the others…”

“Why does that matter?” Omish looked at me funny. Like I had a booger for a head.

“Because that means we only have to be half-right. The most expensive option is the path forward, and we don’t want that.” Grunk explained patiently. “We only have to solve half of the puzzle or solve the wrong part. Stakes will be lower.”

“Ohhhh.” Omish said.

“And no monsters.” I added.

“Yet.” Grunk appended quickly.

I shook my head and appraised the room.

Four columns were arrayed around a square in the center. The columns did not reach the ceiling, but they were far taller than a human. The room itself was a square, and each door had a symbol above it. I could throw a rock from one wall to another (reminder, I am a goblin), so it was not a huge space by any means. Not quite cozy, but not quite airy.

The fell light from the roofstones was enough to make out the parts and pieces. The columns were the puzzle. The symbols were the paths. It was most likely the one straight ahead was the way inward, and one, maybe both of the side doors were outward. There was a chance that the designers were dicks and had intentionally made it harder, but we were only on the second level. Nefarious shit was deeper down. Level one was easy. Level two was a step up. Going outward and upward should make things easier as we go…

Hopefully.

“What do you think Grunk?” I asked.

“Simple logic puzzle. I am guessing an elimination game. Each column describes a path, but you have to discern all four columns to understand which path is which. And the warning of what is next room is given. I bet…” Grunk walked around the first column. “I bet that the least dire one is the one we want.”

I walked around the column to the left and noted symbols at regular intervals. The second to the right and furthest third one were the same. The fourth one, the one that was closest to the entry door, it was different. It was a series of arrows. I looked back at the symbol over the arch that we come in through.

Grunk apparently had arrived there at the same time. He said, “A circle with a slash.”

I ran my eyes up the column. There it was. “And that is the first symbol. Arrow to the right.”

Omish picked up on the process and pointed at the top of the column. “It’s a square.”

I looked down for a square on the first column. It was a… “Arrow to the left.”

Grunk moved to the other column. “Moth? Or may be a mirrored footprint?”

“Got it. Arrow to the left again.”

“Uh…” Grunk tilted his head, looking it over. “A couple fingers crossed?”

I looked down the column. There it is. “Yeah, like a promise breaker?”

“That’s it,” Grunk confirmed.

“Arrow straight on.” I said.

Omish moved over the to the fourth column. “Its a picture of the room we are in? A circle with four circles, in a square shape.”

“That’s it. We came in from the circle marked arch, so we follow the pattern to the door you want.” I confirmed it as I said it out loud. “So the circle lead to here. Makes sense. Which door, Grunk?”

“Righty tighty?” Grunk offered.

“Sure. Its a toss. The right one is a… square?”

“What’s in it?” Omish wandered closer. “It looks like an ant? Or a termite?”

My gut sank. “Fuck. What’s to the left?”

Grunk squinted and sighed. “Its a square again, with a chicken claw?.”

My gut sank further, now it was pressing against my abdomen firmly. “I am going to regret asking, but what is above the last door?”

Omish laughed. “A square with a tree.”

“Square with a tree?” Grunk’s brow furrowed. “Weird.”

“Well I would bet that way is a fire ant colony. And that one is a cockatrice.” I said pointing to the side arches. “What’s worse?”

“What about the tree?” Omish ventured. “That sounds easy.”

“That is what makes it the worst choice.” Grunk and I said in chorus. I added, “It is probably something really nasty, like a Dryad or a Tree Golem or some shit. That’s part of the trick. Make the explorers pick the worst thing thinking it was the best thing.”

“I say we go ants. At least we can step on them.” Grunk thought out loud.

“Omish? Big cock wanting to slice you to pieces or billions of boiling death bugs to sting you to death?” I asked.

“Uh… bugs.” Omish frowned heavily.

“BOILING DEATH BUGS IT IS!” I shouted. “That is an arrow to the left.”

“Frowny face. Like a fairy.” Grunk pointed.

“Got it. Arrow straight on.”

Omish ran his eye down the column. “Like a boat? Upside down?”

“Yep, arrow to the left again.” I said.

“Smiling face, but definitely a human. It has exes for eyes.”

“Hilarious,” I grinned. Dead explorers were the best. “Arrow to the right.”

Omish jogged to the other column, “Uh… oh here it is. It is a fish?”

My column only had one thing on it that looked like a fish. I pushed it. The door in the archway to the right swung open slowly, gratingly, as if it was just trying to sound ominous.

“Alright. Bugs.” Omish said to himself as if he was psyching himself up. “I can handle bugs.”

We all gravitated to the center of the room and stared at the door, expecting a flood of ants rushing out to meet us, but nothing happened.

“I guess we have to go to them?” I said.

“If I was an ant minding my own business, a door wouldn’t bug me.” Grunk waved a hand as if it was obvious.

“Pun!” Omish grinned.

“Pun.” I concurred. “Let’s go.”

As we crossed the doorway, we found ourselves in a tunnel. Not another room, but a tunnel? Like a…

“Ant tunnel.” Grunk said.

“Ants the size of wolves.” I said. The ceiling was only inches from my head. At least I did not have to duck. “Hopefully they are busy. Anting. Somewhere else. Let’s get through quick. We may get lucky and this will dump us on the first floor.”

“Wolf-sized ants? I changed my mind, I can’t handle bugs.” Omish said.

I scratched my ear, pulling the tip down to my shoulder absentmindedly. Dried goo flaked off.

“Quick. Quiet.” I retorted. “Follow me.”

I pulled my knife out and headed in. The tunnel curved slightly to the right and up. We followed it upwards, stopping every so often to listen for the ants. All we heard was our own ragged breathing and the internal paranoia whispering sweet somethings along the lines of ‘you are going to die’, and ‘the ants will eat you’, and don’t forget the all time classic ‘you are a failure of goblin and terrible leader.’ The last one was special to me as it was an all time hit. Top 10.

I wanted to shush myself, but an internal monologue runs whether you want it to or not. Also I was distracting myself from the death bugs that we were about to encounter. The tunnel curved left suddenly and I turned it carefully to find an ant a few meters further on. It was the size of a small dog, maybe one of the witches’ cats. It did not sense me, thankfully. It didn’t do much of anything, except stand there, its antennae wiggling back and forth and up and down.

A sentry? It did not see me, or at least it eyes couldn’t pick me out in the dark.

I hugged the wall and sidestepped towards it slowly. The antennas did not reach the wall, and they would let me pass if I timed it right. I watched the pattern. Flick, flick, wave, wave, flick, flick, wave, wave, and… go.

I stepped past confidently. The ant did not move.

Grunk was next. He watched the pattern, and stepped past. The ant did not move.

Omish looked like he was shaking. I waved him forward, trying to encourage him.

He watched the pattern, closed his eyes and stepped past. We all collectively sighed. Thank god ants did not have a sense of hearing. Turned out that must be just as bad as their eyes.

I kept moving forward and the tunnel opened into a vast cavern, crisscrossed with bridges and entryways going for what looked like thousands of meters deep and at least a hundred meters above us. Lines of ants crisscrossed all the flat areas, sometimes in both directions, if there was room enough on the bridge or ledge, sometimes in one direction as if every ant had agreed on the flow. The ants were all the same size as the sentry, except for an occasional ant that was about thirty percent bigger with huge pincers held upwards at the front of their mouth parts. Those were soldiers. Surrounded by drones. Annnnnnnd… any touch would alarm them all.

We were going to die.

And this was the exact moment that my gauntlet decided to turn back on. There was a loud hum, a crackle of purple energy across the knuckles, and the entire thing grew warm.

Huh, that’s new.

My arm was suddenly light again. The hex cores were alive!

I was so elated that it took me a hot second to realize that both Grunk and Omish were feverishly tapping BOTH of my shoulders.

“What!?” I whispered.

Grunk and Omish both just pointed. I looked all around, and illuminated in a wash of soft purple light, every single ant had stopped in place.

They were all looking at the three of us.

“Fffffuuuuuuck.” I sighed defeatedly.

There was a heavy pause.

“…FFFFUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS…” The ants hissed back in unison.

So that means that generally… typically… most often-ish… the Master of the Underfell does not care what we do. As long as our jobs get done.

But that doesn’t mean that our boss, Fat Tits, extends to us the same level of disdain. Oh no, unfortunately, his unctuous ugliness, the grandiose Fattest of the Tits, makes it his life mission to ensure that us goblins stay under his thumb. Supposedly, if he does a good job, he will get a bonus.

Do we get a bonus?

What do you think? My boss’s nickname is Fat Tits! Of course we don’t get bonuses. We get kicked. And hit. And whipped.

“GET OFF YOUR ASSES, BREAK TIME IS OVER, YOU SUBPAR TINY PEEN JACK OFFS!”

That was our Orc boss, Fat Tits. Yelling (normal). Slobbering while yelling (also normal). And his big bouncy oversized orc-boobs were bright red (not normal).

Omish elbowed me lightly in the ribs, an impish grin on his wide face, “Look at Fat Tits. He must be in trouble.”

“I hope so. I *hate* that guy…” I replied. I pushed the last of my simple Moo sandwich into my cheek, chewing the last of the spicy delectable preserved meat sandwich thoughtfully.

Grunk smirked, “Who doesn’t?”

“Whoever butters his tits,” I joked, still mid-chew.

“GET OFF YER ASSES AND GET OUT TO LEVEL TWO, WITCHES ARE CONJURING AT BAY ORANGE.” Fat Tits continued to loudly slobber (again normal).

How that fat bastard managed to even talk around those massive lower incisors of his, I will never understand.

I hastily dropped my canvas lunch sack back into my small locker, grabbed my tool belt and my Enchanted Power Gauntlet Mark 4 (the best) and heaved a huge sigh at Omish, since he was still fiddling with his salad (gross) and not getting his shit together (dumb).

“Bay Orange, Omish, come on!” I rolled my eyes at him as I buckled my tool belt across my chest. “Fat Tits is going to beat you.”

“Fat Tits won’t notice me. He is stalking down Team Snake.” Omish waved me off. “I will catch up.”

I glanced in the general direction Fat Tits was headed, and sure enough, he was chasing down Team Snake. Fuckers. They were our biggest competition. I mean Team Ratking was close too, but Snake really rubbed me the wrong way. Their lead, Dizzi, was hot as hell, but a total see-you-next-tuesday. Power hungry and just… plain mean.

“Forget your salad, Om. We gotta roll to stay on top of Snake. They are having themselves a slowdown.”

“Fine.” Om shook his head and gathered his things. “Maybe we can take the leaderboard today.”

As if on cue, Grunk shouted from the break room doorway, “You dumbshits coming?”

I pushed my right hand into my oversized EPGmark4 (again, the absolute best), and I felt the hum as its hex cores spun up and tickled my fingertips. My gauntlet was nearly an antique, but it had been made by a master hexsmith, the greatest of my grandfather’s generation, Mickroof the Resolute. There was a rumor he created a Mark 5 EPG before his death, but I think that was wishful thinking for those diehard Mickroof fan boys. Sure I was one of those too, but I was at least realistic that what I had was the absolute best.

“YOU GOBLIN FUCKS NEED TO MOVE OUT!” Fat Tits yelled from the other side of the break room.

Omish tapped my shoulder, and we jogged to catch up to Grunk. Grunk grinned at two of us like a loon and we headed to the demarcation room (what we all called the Demark).

“Think we should add a fourth?” Om asked again. “We are the only Gob team without one.”

“There is no replacing Dink, Om.” Grunk shook his head, his pitbull like jowls shaking in emphasis. “We do just fine as a three Gob team.”

“But we are the *only* three Gob team… how can we expect to keep our lead?” Om complained.

I held up my gauntlet, its knuckles glowing blue. “We beat the shit out of them.”

“I don’t think we can beat up our competition, Teller.”

I laughed. “We could…”

Grunk turned into the cavernous Demark and beelined toward the massive bowl of the orange bay. Omish and I followed closely behind. The entire area was a hum of activity. Other Goblin teams filed through the space, either heading towards their work assignments or coming back to have their break. The conjuring bays were arrayed around the circular cavern hall evenly, each bay was like a carved out vertical bowl in the wall, each wall painted its designated color. A team of witches stood at each one, their projection crystals between them, sometimes lashed to wood trusses, sometimes nestled into a stone base, it depended on the witch team leader’s preference. Bay Orange was manned by Clementine, a human witch with a mostly Elvish coven. The three elves were named after flowers, but I could never keep them straight. Something like Rose, Orchid, and Tulip? No, that wasn’t it. Daisy, Poppy, and Lily? Fuck. It didn’t matter.

“Hey Ms. Clementine,” I yelled.

The tall human witch turned, and like most witches, she was a knockout. Even my Goblin boy parts felt a tingle looking at her. I knew it was the enchantment she held, but still. So hot. The tight clothing helped too. Goblins and humans are not so different. Outside of the skin color. And the height. And the weight. And the facial features. And the smell… ok, just about everything was different. But woof. Like all the witches manning the bays, Clementine and her elves were sex on a stick.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Gobs. How is Team Kelpie this fine morning?”

Omish grinned like a schoolboy. “Good ma’am.”

Grunk just made a noise that sounded like he either was about to orgasm or take a dump in his leather shorts. Either way, he turned away embarrassed.

“Ready to go, Ms. Clementine.” I said. “Send us on our way.”

There was a loud boom from the Blue Bay, and we collectively turned to see a team of Goblins pour out of the shimmering portal, with smoke billowing inwards behind them. A couple were limping, and another was missing an arm. The fourth was cursing up a storm, punching the ground. He was *pissed.*

“Damn it, third team today. Word is that there is a party of adventurers wrecking havoc on level one. Some hotshot mage is in the party. Apparently, he really likes using fire magic.”

“We are headed to two, right?” Om said, his nerves showing. His father had died in a confrontation with an adventurer.

“Yes, yes, you will be safe my little Gob.” Clementine winked, and I almost lost my composure. Omish definitely lost his, and he turned away, following Grunk’s earlier example.

Clementine giggled, and started her incantation. Her elvish cronies joined in on the chant, the air wavered, the rocks vibrated under our feet, and then their crystal flashed brilliantly as the cusp of the portal flared to life. It was taller than a troll’s height, easily fifteen feet tall as it was wide, and it took on a mirror-like sheen.

“Good luck, boys.” Clementine crooned.

We stepped through to find…

Chaos.

Two walls had caved inwards, and a wide blue shimmering pool between them had an entire colony of Kappa arguing loudly between. The ceiling did not show any damage, so all in all, it appeared to be highly salvageable. I couldn’t make out what the group of Kappas were gesticulating at each over, but it sounded like they were debating on how to save their families from an imminent collapse.

“Oy!” I shouted raising both of my hands into the air. “We are here to salvage the situation. Who is in charge?”

An elder Kappa limped towards us with a cane in one hand and carrot in the other. He took an absentminded bite of his cane before he realized the carrot was in the other hand. He spat out1 splinters.

“Oh thank the Underking. You are the damage control I requested?” The old Kappa asked aloud, having to shout over the arguing that had continued even with three goblins stepping out of nothing into their midst.

“We are Dungeon Management Team Kelpie. We prefer the term Dungeon Management.” I said.

“Oh sure, put on airs,” the Elder Kappa grumpily turned his lip. “Can you fix the walls?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“Is the wall damaged?” He asked.

“Yessss?” I trailed off.

“And you will control it?” He added.

This old fuck can get bent. “Yes,” I sighed.

“Then damage control it is.”

“Thanks. Can you get your people out of the way?” I asked with a sneer.

The elder Kappa turned and whistled loudly, and the entire cohort dove into the pool, heading for the deeps. He waved his carrot at me like it was his dick and jumped in last, quickly disappearing from view.

“What an asshole,” I grumbled. “Oy, Omish. Lights?”

Omish pulled his Lighttosser from his back holster and cranked it back. He gently placed a triad flare into the slot and fired it towards the ceiling. The flare spread widely, and each dart hit a different part of the ceiling, throwing off a bright yellow light.

The space was wide, the bright blue pool was lit from within, even though the depths were just a black as any pool of deep water. The walls that had caved inwards were encroaching the edges, the light of the water illuminating the lower half of the walls, while the flares cast their yellow light in a diffused way, only being noticeable once the blue light faded to nothing.

Omish made a face, “Wonder what caused them to cave inwards like that?”

“Pressure,” Grunk nodded knowingly.

“Pressure?” Omish was younger, so he hadn’t seen as much as Grunk had. Grunk was nearly twenty, which was ancient in Goblin years. Omish was only nine. I was between them, at fourteen years old, so a full adult. Om had a year or so before he would be considered an adult himself, stature and thin black hair on his upper lip aside.

“Think of the room like a box. If you squish the top, the pressure has to go somewhere. The ceiling transferred the load to the walls and the weakest walls caved first. The other two held… we need to check them out but see how the ceiling is braced? Those stanchions and arches? Then look over here,” Grunk pointed. “These arches were put in to be wider, fewer stanchions, right?”

“I see it.” Omish nodded.

“Those were designed to fail first. Warning the inhabitants to get out. Dwarves know what they are doing. Great engineers.”

“You ever met one?” I asked.

“A dwarf? No.”

“You wish you could be an engineer, Grunk?” Omish followed.

“Ha. No. I fix things. Over time, you learn to appreciate good design. Because when we have to fix bad design, our jobs are much, much, worse,” Grunk grinned his trademark veteran smile.

“I will clear the rubble,” I said. Not like Grunk or Omish had anything to say, as we each had our role to play. I was the earth mover, hence my EPGmark4. Grunk was the builder, and Om was the apprentice, which meant he held shit, levered shit, and shot shit when we told him to. He had nothing enchanted on his person, except maybe a talisman or two under his clothes, but we all wore those. Basic safety in these parts.

I ran my left hand over my oversized gauntlet on my right hand and flicked my fingers deftly over the nubs and runes that told the limited intelligence of the hex engine designed in the metal on what I needed it to do. In this case, I selected two hexes, Earth Melt and Shift To. Earth Melt would take the rubble, and aggregate it into super heated floating balls of molten earth. Then Shift To would push them into block shapes, set to a standard size that Grunk preferred. Then Grunk would use his enchanted hammer and chisel to carve and place the bricks in quick successive series to rebuild the wall while I braced it where needed. We would iterate this way multiple times until the walls were back to what they had looked like before. No one would have ever known they had collapsed.

I sighed. I guess we were damage control after all. Dumb Kappa with his stupid carrot got in my head.

“But where did the pressure come from?” Omish shook his head. “I mean, something had to create that pressure, right?”

“What’s above us, Grunk?” I asked, using my fingers inside the gauntlet to select which piles of rubble to start with. The first chunks started to accumulate a few feet above their resting place, and the heat increased. Heat waves rose from the mass as it took on its round orb shape. The first blocks emerged from the side and landed near Grunk.

“Probably that fire mage Ms. Clementine mentioned, if I were to make a guess. Probably a big explosion. Air expands rapidly, all that force has to go somewhere. Up and out. And in this case, down.”

“If I was a fire mage, I would just melt my way to the bottom of the Underfell,” Omish joked.

Grunk pulled his hammer from his belt and tapped his chisel against its wide side, inscribing what he wanted. He swung at the top block, and it flew upwards to where the stanchion columns had failed, pushing their way in and re-adhering in place as if they had their own self contained mortar, which they kind of did, since they were still so hot.

I grunted as my hand became exceptionally heavy, which meant there was something stuck in the pile of rubble. “Om, take your crowbar, and push it under that column section, eh?” I pointed at the stuck piece.

Om nodded, and Grunk continued. “You wouldn’t be able to melt your way down. The walls, the floors, the ceilings, all of it was crafted to prevent that from happening. And to blast your way through with explosions would fail quickly. You would end up either blowing yourself up, or exposing something that kills you just as quick. Imagine opening up a floor to find a deep well underneath you? Or a sleeping monster? Or the Underfell Wizardking himself? No… adventurers know that if they want the loot and the want to live to enjoy the loot, they will need to play by the rules.”

“What if they aren’t in it for the loot?” Omish pressed as he tried to find a place to place his crowbar.

“Like if they are after the Underking?”

“Yeah.”

“They die. There is a reason the Underking has been the Underking for three hundred years…”

“Ha, true!” Omish laughed as he pushed down on his bar. The column shifted upwards, and I felt my gauntlet lighten.

There was a huge crack, and the column split at the top. Omish scrambled backwards afraid he was about to be crushed, and I waved my gauntlet forwards to ensure I pushed any remnants away from him. Our fourth, Dink had died in a collapse. And it was too soon to lose another team member of Team Kelpie.

“Om? You ok?” Grunk called.

The dust settled, and Omish was sitting on his butt staring at the column. It had been hollow.

“What the hell?” I said. “Who in their right mind builds a hollow column?”

Grunk put his hammer back into his belt and helped pick Omish off the ground.

Omish smiled sheepishly, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

I lowered my gauntlet after the last rubble chunk shifted to a white hot brick and floated to its waiting spot among the others. I stepped up behind Grunk and Omish and looked on. In the hollow of the column, there was a small white chest. It looked like it was crafted from wood, but the surface nearly glowed it was so white.

“Its hailstone.” Grunk breathed heavily, his voice full of wonder.

“No.” I said. It couldn’t be hailstone. That was rare. Rarer than rare. That was like Wizardking bedroom chambers kind of rare. “Surely, its just a trick of the light.”

Grunk stepped cautiously over the rubble, doing his best to make sure it didn’t shift. He laid his hands on the chest and lifted it from its hollow.

“What if it had vaporized you?” I asked.

“Then you would know not to touch it, eh?” Grunk said flatly. “This is hailstone. Look at the etching. Its old. Ancient.”

My gauntlet seemed to vibrate as I drew closer, like I had an angry bee in my palm.

Omish stood and looked on in awe. He had been raised on stories of the magic of the Underking, the power that he had wrought in the Underfell. Hailstone, the living rock of the dwarves, said to have built the very foundations of the Earth. What was a chest made of hailstone doing on level two of all places!? It would be like going to the surface and finding a chunk of moon rock just sitting in your garden. Not impossible, but highly improbable.

“Should we open it?” I asked Grunk. “What if your face melts?”

“Then don’t put your face over it,” Grunk replied in his flat monotone.

“Gee thanks, Grunk.” I laid it out as sarcastically as I could.

Without recognizing my tone, Grunk flipped the clasp and pushed the lid open slowly.

Inside there was a jewel about the size of a hex core sitting on a small wire enclosure affixed to the bottom of the box. The stone glowed with a purplish light, not the customary bluish light that I was familiar with from my own EPGmark4.

“What is it?” Omish whispered.

My gauntlet felt like it was about to vibrate off my hand. I ran my fingers over the controls worryingly, instinctively turned everything off.

“I have no idea.” Grunk picked it from its wire cage and turned it between his fingers. “It looks like a core?”

“Uh…” I muttered. My gauntlet was vibrating even more violently. I had turned it off, but it was not off. It was violently asserting to me that it was still on. Omish and Grunk where staring at the core between Grunk’s fingers, and not paying attention to me at all. “Guys?”

“Teller…” Grunk turned in time to see my eyes go wide as my right hand, wearing my EPGmark4 literally lifted me off the ground. “Let go!” Grunk yelled.

“I CAN’T!” I yelled at no one in particular. I tried to yank my hand free, but it was like my fingertips were glued to the inside surfaces of the gauntlet, the knuckles were glowing so bright, I had never seen my EPGmark4 do anything like this before. I yanked and yanked, but it ended up with me jiggling about like a marionette, bouncing around on invisible strings, the tips of my large goblin toes inches from the ground. I felt panic. Goblin level panic.

Let’s pause here and explain something critical to understand.

See… most folks have all sorts of emotions. Intelligent beings feel things. Shocker, right? Even Goblins. But some intelligent beings feel things much more distinctively than others. Elves are really good at disassociating, and with long lives, they feel the same feelings over much longer time spans. So they may have mind blowing sex, but it also takes days, so its really spread out. Not worth the time, if you ask me.

A goblin’s life is a fraction of a humans. And we are small, so we die easy. So when we feel things, it tends to be explosive in nature, and very much in the moment. A human feels panic, they figure they either have to fight or run away. When a Goblin feels panic, we figure we either take some motherfucker out with us or we die screaming so at least our killer is deaf for their rest of their life.

I felt Goblin level panic. And the only choice I had was to start screaming.

Omish started screaming.

Grunk started screaming.

GOBLIN PANIC FOR EVERYONE!

And like reality was unrolling in slow motion, I witnessed everything with perfect clarity as it unfolded before my horrified point of hanging-in-the-air observation. All at once, Grunk’s hand inadvertently tossed the purple core upwards in his panic as if the core was a stick of lit dynamite. Omish dove for a pile of nearby rubble, pulling Grunk along behind him as if the old Gob was a bag of oats. An elderly dick-waving Kappa head emerged from the blue pool, his eyes growing wide as the same scene unfolded. And I, my legs dangling like an aforementioned dick, was launched through the intervening space, being pulled by my EPGmark4 (scary as fuck right now), as if I was a smoke trail of a projectile (and that projectile being my aforementioned SCARY AS FUCK EPGmark4).

My gauntlet encased hand flew in front of me, the fingers closed of their own accord around the purple core, and there was a blast of purple light without sound. I landed on the ground roughly, feeling my ribs get bruised against some rubble. Serves me right, right?

It was absolutely quiet, except for the sound of sizzling. I cautiously opened my eyes and noted that all the piles of rubble were smoking, the surface of the pool was steaming, and a headless Kappa elder floated at the surface. There was no blood. His neck had been cauterized shut. Ew. Gross.

“Om? Grunk?” I mumbled, pushing myself upright. My right hand was still folded over into a fist. My EPGmark4 looked the same as it did when it was off, just an inert hunk of armor.

“We are here,” Om called out. “We are ok. You ok, Grunk?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grunk mumbled. “My ass feels flash fried.”

“Not as bad as the sunburn the Kappa has,” I snickered. It was terrible. But it was also hilarious? I was so confused.

There was an ominous crack from above. The kind of sound you don’t really hear, you mostly felt. That was the sound of bad shit about to happen.

“The ceiling!” Grunk shouted.

I spun my chin from shoulder to shoulder and quickly noted that the other two wall’s arches and stanchions were not only cracked, but crumbling like old paste. This room was about to cave.

“FUCK!” I screamed.

“What? You hurt?” Om yelled back.

“No! There goes our fucking lead!” I shouted.

“Run to the doorway!” Grunk picked Om up and we started to run towards the dark entry way closest to us.

With dawning horror, I realized the entry was was going inwards. Regulation said we should never leave our assigned work area. BUT… our assigned work area was about to cave in. Regulation said we should never head inward, as that is how traps get set off. BUT… were not only heading inward, but running as fast as goblin’s legs could carry them. Double side of holy hell with the fuck sandwich.

I managed to catch up to Grunk and Omish, and the three of us cleared the entryway as the ceiling gave way behind us. We collapsed in the hallway (thank god, its a hallway, traps are usually halfway down), and the reverberations were intense as everything behind us was swallowed by the earth. And we sat, exhaling heavily in our desperate panting as if we had just outran Death himself, and somehow had managed to escape the guy, while he stood there staring dumbly, his hands in his underpants clutching jewels.

“Well not only did we lose our lead,” Grunk sighed. “I think I shit myself.”

I let my head rest against the cool stone. Goblin level panic and all had taken its toll. I sighed, “That’s fun too.”

Grandpa’s body had already been reduced to ash by the time Rory and his parents arrived to Branson Gulch three days later. What was left of him now sat in a decorative vase, surrounded by pictures of his life, artifacts of his career, and flowers that Rory thought looked both expensive and exotic.

He kept his head bowed in the chapel, unsure of where to look. The soft crying among the crowd was uncomfortable, because it made him feel like he was uncertain of how he should feel. He loved Grandpa. So much. Grandpa was awesome. So… why wasn’t Rory crying himself?

What was wrong with him? He shook his head lightly and kept his eyes downward, hearing the soft sobs of his mom to his right.  His dad was next to her, his arm draped over her shoulders like a shawl, squeezing her occasionally. He glanced to his left at Nana, and she was sitting stoically, her face was like an imitation of her real face. She was a marble bust dressed in black, staring miles into the distance, perhaps over an entire lifetime, through the wood and stone of the chapel, perhaps the very earth beyond. And yet, she was beautiful in her profound sadness, as if it could not touch her. Not the way that it touched Rory’s mom, or the others arranged haphazardly in the pews behind.

Rory reached over and put his hand on Nana’s folded hands, she did not move her face or her eyes, but her hand shifted over to squeeze his own.

Pastor Clemens waited for the music to stop, a Simon and Garfunkel song that Grandpa had loved but Rory did not know the name of. He knew who it was, but that was about it. The last note trailed away amongst the soft murmuration of the crowd.

“How can one measure grief? The progress of it? The movement and shift and sway of it?” Pastor Clemens said, folding his bible closed, and touching the podium thoughtfully. “The way that grief overwhelms in a single breath when it had been on lock down just moments before… there was that sense of assurance it was so far away, like knowing that rain is somewhere out in the world, but you needn’t see it or acknowledge it to know that it existed. Then, as if by invocation, it rains! Torrential, end times sort of downpour that breaks the levees, drowns the weak and infirm, and sends wildlife scurrying for parts unknown. That grief that threatens to overwhelm, the real shock of it is the terror that accompanies it… will I feel this forever? Will I ever be free? Will the sorrow eat at me until I am nothing?”

Pastor Clemens took a step back from the podium and shook his head. “Time heals all wounds. But we should never consider ourselves free of it. Grief is part of us, and we have to make it our own… internalize it and take solace in the knowledge that grief is just proof of how much we loved him. He was a good father, a loving husband, a reliable friend, and a great ecologist. At this time, if anyone would like to come up to the microphone and say a few words, you are more than welcome.”

He sat down in the front pew, among the people, and the chapel was silent but for the rustling of clothing, an occasional cough, and the sniffles as people dabbed at their leaking eyes and noses.

An older gentleman limped up to the lecturn, swinging behind the wood podium carefully as if he was about to topple over. Rory realized the man was probably drunk, his nose was the color of dozen roses, and his cheeks matched, but above them, his eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark pits where his bright blue eyes sat, red and watering. His face was heavily lined, his hair was long but kempt, brushed and slicked back. A few silver streaks started at his temples and wove their way backward. He appeared to be barely keeping it together.

“Morning all. My name is Hugh Tobias. I knew Robert there as Bobby and he called me Toby. And Bobby was a spitfire the moment he blew into my life at Evarist Academy. He had that nickname ready to go in his back pocket, not even two seconds into the introduction. It was a declaration that my identity was wrong, and he was correcting it. When I met him, I was all of eighteen? And I thought I knew so much about the world, the way things were, and the way things should be. I was so certain! And Bobby… it was his nature to set things as he saw them, eh? He set my life on fire. Both figuratively and literally. Bobby was my roommate, and a bit of a wild one, wasn’t he?” Tobias laughed lightly, and a few in the crowd joined in. “My favorite memory of Bobby was when we were on assignment, field work for Botany. Many of you know how hard Dr. Tell was.”

Another smattering of laughter.

“So Bobby grabs me in the middle of the night and informs me that he found some Leckerweed. Now most people would know that young people do stupid things when they smoke the Leck, and I assure you that is what I would have done. But not Bobby! No. No. No. Bobby thought it would be a great time to light up that Leckerweed and pump it into Dr. Tell’s tent instead.”

“No…” Someone exhaled loudly from rear of the chapel.

“Oh, sorry Dr. Tell, I didn’t know you were here.” Tobias squinted out into the crowd. “Man… you were sooooooo high. Dr. Tell is a great sport, but I have never seen such a hard-assed straight laced professor that… uh wild, man. He woke everyone in the camp up, dancing around a fire he had turned into a bonfire claiming he was communing with his ancestors through the flames. Half naked too.”

“I knew it was him!” Dr. Tell shouted defensively. “I knew it!”

Rory glanced back at the a withered old man in a simple green flatcap, round spectacles on his large hawkish nose. He appeared to be smiling widely at the recollection.

Dr. Tell added proudly, “One of the best nights of my life! The hangover on the other hand… and I was so hungry after.”

A few more laughs ran through the crowd.

Tobias nodded with a smirk. He continued, “He was the life of the party, wasn’t he? One of those people that just make the best of those around him? He made me so uncertain about the world. He made me ask different questions, look at things in a new way. He helped me see possibilities where I did not see them before. He helped me find my partner, Charles. Bobby was my best man at our wedding. And he always found the fun in things, even when he struggled. He was a good friend and I will miss him terribly.”

Tobias wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and walked back to his seat, shuffling his leg as if it didn’t quite work the way it should. What was it with Grandpa and his friends? That they all seemed to have injuries even though they looked not much older than his own dad? Rory wondered about it. Even Nana did not seem as old as she actually was. Rory appraised her profile again, and then to his own mom. They could have been close sisters if Rory did not know any better.

A middle aged woman with bright red hair draped over angry looking burn marks on her neck nimbly strode up to the lectern and blew a kiss at the oversized portrait of Grandpa. She moved like a dancer, nimble and fast.

“Hello. My name is Glory McMahon, and I had the privilege to work with Robert for thirty years?” She looked over at Nana, and Nana shrugged and nodded at the same time, in some form of hesitant affirmation. “Thanks Vera. Yes, about thirty years! Wow. Time flies. As you know our job is not the easiest or safest occupation. Being an ecologist takes bravery and strength, both of which Robert had in spades. I don’t have a single story, I have hundreds. I can’t share any of them up here because not a single one would do on its own. Just know that Robert was one of our best. I don’t know if we will be the same without him. I… uh…” Glory McMahon looked up at the ceiling of the chapel, blinking furiously. “Grief, huh? Just like the good father was talking about. I… guess I do have a story. But it is not about Robert. It is about the Clochan Green we have up at the Howards Conservatory? She is a beauty named Miss Fleck, and Robert is the one that saved her. They had a bond… as happens sometimes.”

Glory paused heavily, swallowing to regain her composure.

“Miss Fleck knew. I don’t know how she knew, but we found her sullen that morning. Like she was grieving a sibling or mate’s death.” She paused again, her eyes shifting downward as she reflected on some truth. “With all of our knowledge and all of our history… and we still don’t know these fundamental truths of the universe beyond the recognition that they exist. And above all that, the universe knew that Robert Ryanson Blue had left our world, and that Clochan Green? Well, our Miss Fleck grieved. That is something profound, isn’t it?”

She stepped down and hugged Nana in her seat before making her way back to her own. An ancient looking man got up and very slowly made his way to the front, using a long cane with a practiced ease. His foot came up with a shuffling step, then his cane, then his other foot would nearly make the same distance with a little stomp. It was a percussive beat as he made his way to the podium, shuffle-tap-stomp, shuffle-tap-stomp.

“Hello Vera,” the old man addressed Nana from the lectern, pulling the microphone closer to his gnarled face. The man looked older than time itself. “Hello all, I think I know most of you, but some of you may not know me. I was one of the teachers that falsely assumed that we had tamed Robert, but to my utter delight, I discovered that I did not tame him at all, I merely redirected his wildness to the wide world where it belonged. As many of you know, my own last name means ‘of the wild’, and to think that Robert deserved that name more than I did was a revelation of its own sort.”

Rory marveled at the man’s accent. It was either Irish or Scottish, but it was fierce, like it had to be its own thing, and neither of the two. You would think it would be hard to understand, but it wasn’t. It was clear and vibrant, completely mismatching his old, twisted form. There were thousand year old trees out in the world that looked younger.

“I met Robert when he was only an ornery toddler. His mother, another prior student of mine, had visited for tea, and she brought this absolute terror of a child along with her. I believe her thinking at the time was that a rabid boy like that needed to meet someone that could eventually temper him into a strong young man that he could become. Here was a promise of a man that he could be… if you will, but I assure all of you right now with God as my witness, that he accomplished all of that by himself and through his own choices. He was a force of nature, much like his wife, Vera here, and all I did was proudly marvel that the world continues to bear these young folks of such talent. In short, he was brilliant. I shall miss him as well. We thank you, Robert. For the good you did, at the time you did, acting for all of us when we couldn’t.”

Rory marveled that a man that old sounded as young as he did. It was if the voice and the temper did not match the frame it was contained within. He leaned over to Nana and whispered, “Who was that?”

“That is Professor Myrddin. My boss. And he taught your grandfather and I, years ago. Saying he was a brilliant man does not even begin to cover it.”

A familiar face took the podium next, and Rory could not place where he had seen her before. She was an older woman, stooped with age, but she had a caring face. A face… the recognition made him feel like his head rang like a bell. It was Mrs. Givins. How did he forget Mrs. Givins? She was here when he was a little kid. His bike… the… path?

Rory shook his head confusedly. He caught Nana looking at him strangely, and he tried a weak smile.

“Robert! I can speak volumes. He worked for my father you know… conservationist to his absolute core. An ecologist like none other! And, if I may say so, a wickedly talented dowser. I watched him scrub lines and create lines like they were putty in his hands. Sure, many of us can do it… sure, many of us are good at it even. But Robert? Every single one of you know that his talent was beyond compare! Robert was able to shift lines like he was out for a stroll? Any of you remember when the Department had to redirect the ley fault in Wyoming? The entire fault! A hundred years ago, that would have been a team of talented folks, and Robert flew in, made the changes like he was turning a knob and flew out the VERY next day! My father knew he was a talent. Absolute talent…” Mrs. Givins blotted at her eyes with a tissue. “I… uh… I wish that we… uh…. had the courage… the..”

Mrs. Givins stopped dead after trailing off, her eyes locked on the back of the chapel. Her face went through a wave of emotions, and Rory didn’t understand what he was witnessing. A pulse of something like fatigue washed over him for a split second, but then it was gone. It was like a suggestion of tiredness, but he knew he wasn’t actually tired, so he ignored it.

“You don’t belong here!” Mrs. Givins shouted, raising an incriminating finger at whomever just entered through the doors.

There was a slight commotion at the back of the room, and rough murmurs and isolated muttering emanating outwards like ripples in a pond. Rory went to lift himself out of his seat to look, but Nana pushed his leg down with a firm hand and shook her head warningly.

“Eyes front.” Nana whispered insistently. “Do not look.”

A genteel honeyed voice rose from the back of the room, “I came… to pay… my respects.”

It sounded like a man’s voice, deep and resonant, but the tone was strangely feminine, soft at the edges, with a lilt in intonation that did not feel natural.

Mrs. Givins face was turning red. “You turn around right now, Lumen. This very moment. Or so help me God, I will call on every power of earth and heaven to turn you into a pillar of salt where you stand.”

“So informal. In a chapel, Merry!? Holy ground!? Aren’t we all the same in His eyes?” The voice called out. His voice sounded reasonable… as if it made all the sense in the world. “You won’t. Coward. You are all cowards.”

Rory really wanted to turn his head to look at the source of the voice, but Nana’s eyes were locked on his profile. She was staring at him like her life depended on it, and for some reason he felt as if he didn’t dare move. His joints were like ice, his muscles had become steel.

Mrs. Givins made a face. Disgust. “Lumen, if you are a child of God, then you have, uh, pardon my French everyone… you have absolutely fucked it sideways. It is said not to judge others, but you are remiss to believe that you are beyond our collective judgement. You are quite literally the antithesis to everything that Robert stood for. And you… dare… to come here?”

There was a shuffling of noise behind and another familiar voice spoke with authority. Rory knew it was the older gentleman Nana had named Myrddin.

“Mr. Lumen, say what you need to say and then leave.”

“Ah. Myrddin! You deigned to show up here? For this sap? All the way from your foggy highlands? How absolutely wonderful. It is like a family reunion…” The honeyed voice dripped with sarcasm, and something underneath. It felt malicious. “Is that Robert in that jar over there? Excuse me, sir.”

The ‘sir‘ was said as an epithet. The insult was dripping with disgust.

The man’s feet could be heard on the carpet runner as he approached the front of the chapel. Each step was soft, but there was a weight of reverberation that could be felt through the floorboards. It was if he weighed a thousand pounds and every movement was a warning to world around him. It said, flee.

Rory felt as if he shouldn’t attract the man’s attention. He ventured a glance to his right and with a shock realized both of his parents were asleep. Dad’s head was straight back so he was looking upwards, snoring gently, and Mom had her head on Dad’s shoulder, a bit of drool at her bottom lip. Rory felt his eyes go wide and he turned to look at Nana, but her hand was still on his knee, and she squeezed firmly as if warning him.

Rory didn’t know what to do. The man in the aisle finally strolled past laconically, and the scent of vanilla and mesquite wafted over Rory. The man was very tall, towering at what had to have been seven feet tall, and was lithe as a kickboxer. His skin was as white as snow, with a long silver ponytail bound at the back of his head. The man approached the table, and raised a hand as if trying to get Grandpa’s attention. He had rings on many of his fingers, and number of woven bracelets around his wrist at the cuff of his silk jacket.

“Robert? I have come to pay my respects. And to gloat, of course. I am allowed, right? When one wins, they should be allowed to celebrate their hard earned victory?” There was more rustling and murmurs in the pews behind. “You were a worthy opponent. I still to this day am not sure how you managed that whole thing on Hokkaido? That was deft! Brilliant even. I cannot deny brilliance, even when it is not solely my own. And… I shall miss our little talks. The ones that measured each of us, although, in our last meeting, you were found wanting, eh? Never recovered? Such a shame. I know you are not here, Robert. I know that this jar is not you. I know that your pattern has retreated back to the waves above and below. But still, if a glimmer of your pattern remains, know this… you are a fucking loser.”

The man turned and faced the now absolutely silent audience. A dog barked outside lonely and stark, while somewhere in the distance a car horn sounded. Rory noted the man’s eyes were so dark brown they almost appeared to be black from iris to pupil. It was a stark contrast to the porcelain white skin and tightly bound silver hair. He was strikingly handsome, with a cut chin, sharp cheekbones, and a high brow. He looked like a royal elf from the Lord of the Rings movies, if an elf wore silk suits that David Bowie would have envied. And his smile was like an imitation of a smile. He didn’t look human. He looked like something that ate humans. What was that called? The uncanny valley? Not quite human enough to trick his animal mind in accepting that he was one. This was a monster. A real monster.

Rory felt a shudder run through him.

The man’s eyes wandered the audience, as if taking it all in for a delicious memory. He took a deep satisified breath and headed the way he came, and the chapel door slammed lightly as the piston closed it at his passing with a wheezy relieved cough. A couple human coughs followed, also in relief.

A monster, like a dragon. Dragon? Memories came roaring back, a flood of impressions were unlocked simultaneously. Rory sifted through his memories of what had actually happened with Mrs. Givins. The memories of his visit all those years ago had popped into his head as if they had been wrapped up and hidden away. The more he thought on it, the more things unvieled themselves. How did he forget? How could he forget? Wella! He had seen a dragon. A goddamned cockatrice! He had seen a dragon and her eggs. He had looked her right in the eye!

Nana shifted in her seat and leaned over hurriedly to whisper in Rory’s ear. “You are rippling, Rory. Calm down… I will explain later. Deep breaths! Now!”

Rory felt a whip of reluctance and then a quick glimmer of rebellion, but Nana’s firm hand was still on his leg, and her stare was made of fire. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, and then exhaling slowly. After a few rounds of breathing, Nana finally lifted her hand from his leg.

“Good. Now, act attentive. Your parents are waking up.” Nana observed.

“Oh god, did I fall asleep?” Mom said aghast, wiping at her mouth. “Mom, I am so sorry.”

“Hit your husband, dear, he is snoring.” Nana replied, facing front.

There was a light smack and the snoring cut off abruptly. A grunt of something, it could have been an apology, it may have been a protest.

It didn’t seem to matter. Rory could only focus inwardly. Her eye. In the clearing of the trees… Wella had looked at him and had known.

The dragon knew.

Rory woke up in a panic, strangling in his own sheets, mired in the octopus-like constriction of untucked sheets, blankets, somehow coupled to his own clothing. He angrily pulled the wrapped corner of his sheets from around his neck. It flickered away like a dismayed python.

Sweat beaded at this forehead and the back of his neck, and his heart rate was running a mile a minute.

The nightmares had gotten worse. He would wake up and then couldn’t remember what they were about. Just flashes of impressions that provided nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of something… wrong. Something that he could not fix no matter how hard he tried. He squeezed his eyes shut, fiercely attempting to pry something loose from his mind, some clue as to why he was on his second straight week of shit sleep.

He had his last final tomorrow. It did not matter nearly as much as his SAT had, but they were still important to close out the senior year of high school. Not getting the rest he needed was going to take its toll. Rory sat up, freeing more of his body from the wrath of the unintentional slumber knot that used to be his bed. He pulled his leg free and a sock stayed locked up in the sheets.

“Fuck it,” Rory mumbled, yanking the matching still attached sock off his other foot. He stood, lengthening his frame upwards, feeling the muscles stretch and hit their limit, their release flooding his nerves with some form of remotely felt satisfaction of their own. His heart finally had slowed, and the sweat was evaporating quickly. His well-tuned runner’s constitution at least made recovery fast.

The clock on his phone attested it was 2:17am on Thursday, May 14th, and Spotify had a new release from one his followed artists.

“Great. Thanks Spotify,” he mumbled.

There was a missed phone call too. His grandmother. Fifteen minutes ago?

Rory felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t been able to get his Mom or Dad to spring for a visit to see Nana and Grandpa. There was always an excuse. Some reason they couldn’t visit. Some other trip or vacation always took precedence. As a result, it had been literally years since he had seen his Nana and Grandpa. But Rory had made a habit to call them every week. Every Sunday, after dinner, religiously.

Grandpa had some sort of injury at work a couple years back and had been forced to retire. He had been sick the last few weeks? Right? Not the flu. Not covid. Something else? Nana had been dismissive two weeks ago, and they had not answered their phone this past Sunday. Rory had thought it odd, but sometimes they missed each other. It happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Rory rubbed his eyes, cracked the door to his room to look for signs of activity in the house. Something that would assuage his gut feel or at least confirm it? Something? Anything? But the house was silent as a crypt. His parents were not pacing the house, Mom was not calling anyone, and Dad wasn’t sitting at his customary position at the end of the kitchen island furiously tapping on his laptop.

It was eerie, actually. Like time had stopped. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Not even the typical house noises of a fan running or the furnace cycling could be heard. Rory shook his head, attributing the weirdness to the nightmare. He closed his door slowly, letting the latch catch its home silently and then he paced back to his phone, unplugging it from its charger.

He flipped to Nana’s contact and hit dial. It did not even ring once.

“Rory? Is everything alright?” Her voice was far away. Tinny. Like she was in a tunnel of aluminum foil.

“I’m fine, Nana. It’s two in the morning? You called me.”

A sigh at the other end. A heavy sigh. Then silence.

“Nana?” Rory tried.

“Your, uh, Rory, your grandfather passed.” Her voice was solemn, but not a sound of emotion. Her voice was carved from granite.

Rory realized what that meant. Nana had cried every tear she could harbor at the moment. She was exhausted. This was the sound of his strong, powerful Nana exhausted. Something he had never heard or seen before.

“Did you call Mom?”

“I…” Silence again, like Nana was trying to think of how to say something that she knew had to be said. “Your mom. Yes. I will call her later.”

“You called me first?” Rory felt his heart pick up its pace again.

“I had to know. I mean, uh, I have to know. Did you… did you feel it? The tear?” Nana’s voice was low, like it was secret that would be made real if spoken to loudly. “The last two weeks?”

“What are you talking about?” Rory said. “Tear?”

Nana ignored his question. “Have you felt… off? Sick? Bad dreams?”

Rory felt a chill climb his arms and turn into a shiver that made him want to curl into a ball under his messy covers. “I… yes… I have been having nightmares. Bad ones. For about two weeks. I thought it was end of year crap. How did you know?”

“You have your finals tomorrow, right?” She asked tentatively, uncertain with her own words.

“Yes. Nana, are you ok?”

“Rory, dear. I have lost the love of my life and the father of my only child, so no, I am not ok.”

“Nana, you know what I mean.” Rory smiled over the phone as best he could.

“Yes, I am ok. There is just so much to do. I thought I would have him longer. …That we would have him longer. I needed him, I needed your Grandpa, Rory.” Still no tears. No hitch in her voice.

“How?” Rory asked the dreaded question. “I know he has been sick… but he sounded good a few weeks ago.”

“That is why I need you to come stay with me after your finals are done. I… uh… I will think of something to tell your Mom. When are your parents dropping you off at Drummond?”

Nana was asking about drop off at his chosen college in the Fall. “Mid-August, sometime?”

“And your heart is… nevermind. We can talk about that later. When you get here. Love you, Rory. I am going to call your mom tomorrow. Later in the morning. Try to sleep. Good luck on your finals, dear.”

“I will try.” Rory did not sound confident.

A pause, no goodbye. “Take a deep breath,” Nana said instead.

“What?”

“Take a deep breath. Hold it. Do it. Now.”

Rory inhaled loudly and held it.

“Close your eyes. Imagine the dark around you is holding its breath too. Every corner of your room is collectively holding it, waiting for you to breathe. You are going to release your breath, slowly, counting to five. When you release it, imagine your breath filling the room and the ripples returning to you, reinforcing you.” Nana paused. “Now breathe out.”

Rory exhaled slowly, again loudly so Nana would hear it.

“Good. Now. When you lay down in bed, I want you to repeat that, think of nothing else. Understood?”

“Yes, Nana.”

“Promise.” She ordered.

“I promise.”

“Sleep fast, dear.”

“‘Night.” The call ended with a click in his hand. It was strange that his Nana did not have a smart phone. She had an old land line, and it clicked so loudly when she hung up. It always sounded so final.

He tried to not think about Grandpa. The final click had happened two weeks ago and Rory hadn’t known it at the time. He fixed his sheets and his blankets, tucking them at the corners like his Grandpa had shown him when he helped with chores all those years ago. He folded them tight, making sure the crease followed the angle it should. He could almost see Grandpa smiling in the dark.

Rory laid down, breathed in slowly, imagined what he was told to imagine, paused and exhaled slowly. He did this a few times and awoke suddenly to his alarm going off, its cascading volume getting louder with each pulsing tone.

He got up, got dressed, skipped his customary breakfast, instead grabbing some bars from the pantry, and immediately headed to school before his mom got the phone call that he knew was coming. He did not want to be in the house when that phone call came. His mom was an ugly crier. It was uncomfortable. His dad made it worse. He just hovered around mom like an uncertain pet, not knowing whether to run in for comfort or flee in terror.

As instructed, Rory left his phone in his locker with the ringer off and tried his hardest to focus on the last few official steps of high school. He went through it in a daze, as if he was on autopilot. He did what he was supposed to, took his final, then sat down with his counselor, signed off his paperwork, was made promises about transcripts and the graduation ceremony… and he knew he didn’t care. He knew that he wasn’t going to graduation, but he signed all the forms anyway.

Mr. Nunez shook his hand and made a comment. Rory smiled and replied, knowing that the real trial was about to start and not entirely sure his response matched what Mr. Nunez had said. It didn’t matter. His phone was sitting in his locker, waiting for him. The future was sitting in his locker, resting calmly on a shelf of bent metal, painted gray, with the small carved figures of someone’s initials nearby. Walking down the hallway towards his locker happened in slow motion, even his on-again, off-again ex-girlfriend Casey, in her short cheerleader shorts and her tight ribbed tank top, did not distract him. She probably didn’t even notice his lack of usual attention… hence the reason they weren’t together anymore. She was a bit of a bitch. Unintentionally, it was just who she was. Rory thought there was a chance she would grow out of it.

Rory’s fingers alighted on the dial to his locker. He turned it once, twice, then reversed it, and reversed that until the combo was in. He lifted the latch and paused.

This was the end of his high school life. This moment. It wasn’t walking out the doors. It wasn’t saying goodbye to friends or making empty promises to meet up at some point over the summer. It wasn’t getting in his car and driving off the senior lot for the last time. It was right here. When he pulled this door open, and picked up his phone, the next step would arrive like a specter on the wind. Blown in furiously into his life, ready to pick him up and carry him back to Branson Gulch. Back to the Blue’s house at the end of Fairview Lane, where Mr. Robert Ryanson Blue had lived, slept, had a happy marriage, raised a daughter together, and had passed away last night.

Rory knew him as just Grandpa. He felt the heat on his cheeks, the flush, the brimming of unbidden tears at the edges of his eyelids. He tilted his head down and let the silent drips fall. He pulled the latch, swung the door open, and grabbed his things for the last time.

He flipped his phone over and the screen had a myriad of notifications, but only one mattered.

It was from his mom. ‘Nana told me you know. Hope your test went well. Packing now. Love you.’

He typed a response, ‘omw home.’ Hit send, and the little icon for being unread stayed there, forlorn. She was busy as usual.

Rory turned on his heel, dumped the last of his papers in the trashcan and headed to his car.

High school was over.

There came well known sounds that required no investigation. The garage opening. A truck pulling in slowly, a rough idle turning to silence. The muffled whump of a door closing. The garage closing, its terminus leaning into a resounding echoey thump.

Grandpa walked in from the garage looking exhausted. He glanced at Nana, then to the table set for dinner, and sighed contentedly. Yet, he shook his head sadly, patted Rory on the head, and headed upstairs without saying a word. His boots lightly thumped up the stairs, and each foot fall sounded like he carried a weight that he wanted to put down, but simply couldn’t.

“What’s wrong with Grandpa?” Rory asked.

Nana looked concerned for a fleeting moment, but smiled brightly in spite of whatever she was thinking about. “He had a long day… I am sure he just needs to shower and have a nice long sleep and he will be his normal self in the morning. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving! Aren’t you excited to see your parents?”

Rory fiddled with his napkin.

“Rory?” Nana pressed. “Aren’t you excited to see your Mom? Your Dad?”

Rory came to a sudden conclusion as if his mind was being driven by someone else. “No.”

“No?” Nana grinned as she put the finishing touches on the salad at the kitchen counter. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t leave. I don’t want to leave? I…” Rory furrowed his brow, and his napkin tore. “I am confused. Mad. Thats it. I’m mad.”

Nana put the salad on the table, next to the bread, and squatted next to Rory. She pulled him into a hug. Rory hadn’t realized he was crying, feeling the wet tracks smear against his cheek was a surprise.

“Hey, hey, hey, no crying in Nana’s house,” Nana whispered and held him tightly. “You have to go home with your parents, love. It is ok to miss Grandpa and I. We will see each other again.”

“But what about the… the…” Rory waved his hands around.

“Oh is that what you are worried about? The Touch? Think of it as a present, Rory. You are at the start of an amazing journey… but, for right now, you are only a kiddo. Enjoy it. Be a kid! We can worry about the other stuff down the road.” Nana pulled away but kept her hands on him. She looked in him over carefully. “In a few days, it won’t feel as strange. And in a few months you will barely remember why it felt weird in the first place.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Nana patted his head. “Let’s eat! Then maybe play… a game?”

Rory’s eyes lit up. “Sorry?”

“Sure. We can play Sorry. I am just glad you didn’t pick Monopoly.”

“Monopoly?” Rory amended with a grin, wiping at his eyes absentmindedly.

“Hey mister. You said Sorry first. Sorry it is.” Nana teased.

After a light dinner and a game (Rory won, of course), Rory got ready for bed. He said his good nights, falling asleep quickly. And like magic, he rolled over and discovered it was four in the morning. He laid in bed, unable to find the blanket of drowsiness again after waking up to a very early morning yet to find the sun. The wind outside was insistent upon itself, informing the neighborhood that a front was moving in. The uncharacteristically warm weather was about to turn and the chilly nights were only going to get colder.

It was not the wind that kept Rory up. It wasn’t the creaking of the house, nor the scrape of the tree branches, nor the shifting call of the wind blowing through the eaves, measured from a fierce howl to a muted muttering.  It was the unseen Cockatrice deep in her fortress of tree stands.

Rory felt it through and through. He had to see the cockatrice. He felt it deep in his bones as if it was calling to him. Her. Wella. Wella had to be calling to him on the wind. Rory thought it over. Turning it over and over in his mind. If he was super slow, super sneaky, and stayed upwind… he would be safe. Mrs. Givins had mentioned that Wella was lethargic. But once the weather changed, that would opportunity would be gone. Because she would have to warm up to keep her eggs protected.

First thing in the morning, he could sneak into the stand of trees. He could make sure everything that had happened in the last few days was… real. It didn’t feel real. It felt strange, like he was having a fever and just hadn’t woken up yet. Rory wasn’t sure, but that sinking feeling that it was all his overactive imagination made his stomach flip over. He wanted it so badly to be real. Any of it. All of it.

Rory slunk out of bed and changed his clothes in the dark. He had to take his pants off and put them back on when he realized the pockets were on his butt. His jacket was in the mud room, and then he could sneak his bike out of the side garage door. The door was quiet enough. He tied his sneakers and tip toed towards the kitchen, the mud room, and the promise of escape through the mud room door.

He slid down the hallway, and the shadows were familiar, safe. The walls held their secrets and the pictures hung kept their vigilance in the early morning silence. Only the roof made any protest, and it was a complaint to the winds of the sky, not the house beneath. Rory turned into the kitchen to find Nana sitting in a chair in the dark, dressed and ready to go outside.

“About time,” Nana whispered. “Did you put your pants on backwards the first time?”

He had, but he didn’t want to admit it. All he said instead was, “Nana?”

“If you want to see Wella, you must listen to me. And you obey me. If I tell you to stand still, you stand absolutely still. If I tell you to run in front of me, you run in front of me. If I tell you to fall to the ground and play dead, you play dead. Understood?”

“Really?” Rory whispered.

“Yes. Really. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Rory nodded once as if he was signing in blood.

“Good. Grab your coat. Here are some of Grandpa’s old gloves and hat. Bundle up.”

Rory did as he was told and Nana pulled the weird twisted walking stick from the hall closet.

“Out the side door,” Nana waved him forward. “Let’s try not to disturb your grandfather.”

They walked out the gate and towards the sidewalk. Nana laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What?”

“Grab here,” Nana lifted his hand to grip the walking stick.

“Uh, ok?” Rory clutched the walking stick below his Nana’s hand. He wasn’t sure why or even how two people could operate a walking stick at the same time.

“Alright. When I tell you step forward, step in time with me. I will count. Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot and when he put it down he stumbled forward as if he had been pushed. He was dizzy.

“Take a deep breath. Let me know when you are caught up.” Nana laughed lightly.

Rory looked around and realized they were not one step down the sidewalk, but at the end of the street. “What? How?”

“Turn toward the Gulch. This way. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot forward and stumbled again, trying not to let go of the stick and instead using it to balance. Now they were no longer at the end of Nana’s street but a mile and half down the path to where it branched towards the Gulch.

“Better. See? You are a natural,” Nana winked proudly.

“How?” Rory reiterated.

“Energy is prevalent. It abounds. We can harness energy to do all sorts of neat things. Like farwalking.”

“But its not speeding us up?”

“More like tricking the world that this step and our next are in the same stride. Like folding a piece of paper, we fold the way forward. It snaps back and we alight over the hump.”

“That is why it feels like I am falling in the direction we are facing.” Rory thought it made sense. It was consistent to how it felt, the stumble as his foot touched the ground, like running too fast down a hill.

“Good observation. Let’s see here,” Nana licked her finger and lifted it into the air. “Breeze is coming in front the north today. The prevailing is typically west-by-northeast. So we will need to go into the stand from that side of the Gulch. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward, but was able to maintain his balance better than before. “You far can you walk like that?”

“The longest step is about five kilometers. Past that will lead to… injuries.”

“Five kilometers?” Rory raised an eyebrow.

“About 3 miles.” Nana continued. “You could walk a very long way in a single day, but most of the time, taking a plane or a car is easier. Now. Stay close, stay quiet. Try to step where I step.”

“Ok.” Rory nodded once again, but this time if felt as if he was about to march into battle.

The sun was an hour or two from cresting the horizon, but the moon was full and reflecting its light brightly through the trees.

Nana stepped down into the gulch, the wet dead leaves allowed her to gracefully slide down the side of the hill in relative silence. Rory copied her and discovered that is was easier than he had thought. As he slid, the smell of old leaves and rotting wood assaulted his nose heavily as if it was mist sulking against the ground, upset it had been launched towards the open sky. A pressure slid over his ears and he felt a faint ringing as if he had heard a firework go off days ago.

“Nana?” Rory whispered and pointed to his ears with confusion on his face.

“I will explain later. Keep moving. Stay close.” Nana started creeping between the trees, waving her hand near her knees.

Rory realized she must have had her cadaceus, doing something to the ground at her feet. From here, it looked like she was waving off invisible mosquitos from attacking her kneecaps. Rory stayed a step behind, putting his feet in her wet footprints. The ground was not frozen, but it could have been in places, the leaves were firm underfoot as if they were carved from wood.

Nana walked for what felt like fifteen minutes, pausing occassionally, holding an open palm out towards Rory’s chest as if she was preventing his movements. He realized that he only thought that he was stopping of his own accord, he tried to lift his hand, but it was like it was tied at his side. Nana side-eyed him as she shook her head and he did not dare to try again.

He heard Wella before he saw her. It was like a humming noise, deep and resonant amongst the trees. He could almost feel it more than he could hear it, as if a part of him was also her, vibrating in time. Nana knelt at a tree and slowly Rory crept up next to her to look.

There was a nest. It was set into the ground as if it had been dug out, and the edges of the nest were formed by woven branches and sticks. Each looked like it had been sharpened to points, but Rory realized they had been chewed, like how a beaver takes down a tree. Each stick had been carved away from the tree it belonged to. In the nest, curled in a tight circle, a feathered form laid in a tight circle, a brightly plumed head tucked under one wing. The plumage was brown and white, with streaks of red feathers forming a pattern of lines radiating from her shoulders.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Nana whispered lightly at Rory’s ear.

Rory nodded and realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it slowly, and a branch moved along the edge of the nest, and a clump of feathers followed. It was her tail. It settled around her in the nest, like a soft sigh. The skin was not the snake skin he had imagined. It was supple and brown, more like the skin of a cow, with small bristles… but Rory noticed they were larger at the clump. They were feathers. Tiny little feathers. Her breathing was so slow, and that was what the vibration in the air was. She was purring like a kitten. He grinned.

Nana smiled and leaned over again. “She hasn’t thermoregulated yet. She is going to be very sleepy… nestled in like that. I think we are can get a little closer. You want to take a peek at her clutch?”

“Is it safe?”

“No.” Nana shook her head solemnly, but her eyes were bright and shining in the early morning twilight. The sky above was shifting to a dark blue, and somewhere to the east, a glimmer of sun was near cresting. “But you will never get a chance like this again.”

Rory thought it over but found himself nodded enthusiastically regardless of what his brain concluded. He discarded it before a decision even formed.

Nana stood cautiously, and waved her hand at her knees again. She stepped very carefully, but her steps were completely silent. Not even her clothes made noise. Rory stepped were she stepped and they crept up nearer to the nest.

Wella was not some small snake crossed with a chicken. She was much larger than she had appeared from the trees behind them. Her side went up slowly, and Rory realized it was like a car door raising into the air and then falling back down for a long stretched pause before rising again. Wella was larger than any dog he had ever seen. Her legs looked powerful, and the end of her foot, a long bone white dagger from the middle toe, cocked upward. From here it looked like it could slice through anything. Her wings were draped around her like a cloak, hiding most of her form, but with each step he realized that anything that Wella wanted to eat probably did not stand a chance.

His gut dropped. He had been crazy to think he could do this on his own. He would never stray off the path ever. Never. Ever.

Nana pointed excitedly. At the edge of Wella’s neck, just under the wing, Rory could make out two oblong shapes. They were a dull red color, speckled with white dots. He glanced at the eggs, then up to Wella’s face, most of which was still buried under her wing.

The eye facing him was open. And staring right at him. It did not blink. It did not move. The eye looked like it was made of crystal, bright red of a stop sign, with a corona of blue at the edges. The colors were in a spoke pattern in her eye, each radiated outwards from the black iris. And it beheld Rory with careful scrutiny.

Rory snatched Nana’s hand and dared not to breathe.

Nana made eye contact with Wella, and squeezed Rory’s hand lightly. “Bow slowly. Look at the ground. Now.”

Rory immediately bowed, ducking his head slowly and holding his glance at the edge of his boots.

Nana squeezed his hand again. “You can look up but keep your face pointed down.”

Rory raised his eyes to come face to face with Wella. Her head was only feet away from his own. Her beak was the length of his arm, its edges scalloped like a carving knife. Wella’s head swung back and forth between the two of them, and Rory could feel her exhales over his neck. Wella was sniffing them. He was being measured and weighed by a dragon.

Finally, Wells made a soft chirp as if deciding something and put her head back under wing. She did not close her eye.

“Back up, slowly. Once we get to the trees we can turn and walk the way we came. No running.”

Nana pulled him along gently, and sequestered him behind the nearest tree. The cockatrice did not move.

“This way, Rory.” Nana walked slowly, retracing her steps. Rory did exactly what he had been told. He glanced back occasionally, but there was no movement from the nest hidden there.

The sunlight above finally shifted the sky to a purple and a flutter of pink upon some far off clouds. Rory’s heart felt like it had been going a million miles an hour, and yet his feet felt like he was walking on air.

Nana took his hand and put it on her gnarled, knuckled length of walking stick. “Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward and found himself on the gravel path at the top of the embankment. Rory felt like he had just stepped off a roller coaster. “Nana?”

“Yes, dear?” Nana’s face was bright, and her eyes reflected the dawn.

Rory exhaled heavily. “Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.”

Nana laughed brightly as the birds in the trees seemingly agreed.

Rory sat on the edge of the overlook, his new shiny bike parked against the stout rock and mortar wall. His feet dangled out over the space of the grasses, shrubs, and occasional cotton tails that clumped together in the old lake bed. The cotton tail heads were bent, broken, and splayed, most of their dark brown fluff lost to the wind.

Mrs. Givins walked up slowly as not to startle the boy, her cane clumped and her orthotics crunched over the gravel path. She could move fast when she needed to, but she was feeling her one hundred and forty two years today. The air had the snap of autumn, the end of the harvest season was drawing to the close, and the elderly like Mrs. Givins often felt the coming of winter like death was standing near, looking on in empathy.

As it was, Old Cross was always in the corner of her vision now, his arms interwoven with each other across his chest, a soft sad smile on his face. He never waved, he never changed his expression, as if the image was a moment in time hidden within the waters of time, and her perception was just the same moment carried forward like a burst of light that never faded away from her vision.

Odd thought that.

That timelessness was nothing but a single moment to her as she was stuck within the flow of time. Old Cross would probably think it funny. He was a bastard. A kind bastard, no doubt, but still a force of nature as harsh as a storm and unrelenting as the tide. Mrs. Givins had spoken to him twice before. Once when her Gerald had passed, and again when her own son Michael had lost his battle. Both times Old Cross had sat there, or stood there, and allowed her to speak with him. She did not see her husband or her son behind him, but she knew. She knew they were there. And yet, she could only pierce the veil so far. There was a limit, even for the ones that Touched the fabrics of reality. Because human nature was both human and nature. An indelible connection that could not be broken… until it was. And Old Cross would be there to take your hand and lead you onwards.

She did not want Old Cross to get this boy. And Wella could give a shit less if the boy was innocent or not. Wella could be hungry, and an easy meal is an easy meal. The boy needed a reprimand, even the edge of the wall was not safe. He had to be on this side of the curtain that hung over the Gulch.

Mrs. Givins prepared her admonishment, opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped dead.

Rory was different today. His center field had shifted downwards, attuned and aligned to the earth. Mrs. Givins felt a smile spread across her face. Vera must be ecstatic! After all these years! Why did it take so long? The boy was nearly ready to hit puberty? And the Touch manifested now!? An oddity out of all the oddities in Branson Gulch to be certain.

She let her well formed criticism fade from her mind and instead tapped her cane against the bench to get his attention.

“Rory, child. Be a dear and get off the wall.” She smiled warmly as he turned and made eye contact. He was so young.

Was she ever that young?

Old Cross nodded once out of the corner of her eye. She had been, a long time ago. On a different continent, in a different country, looking on a field of green where a herd of sleeping Axaoras drowsily nibbled on the leftovers of their recent livestock kill. She loved watching the black dogs with the faces of hooked tentacles hunt in those early days of her life. With a pang of remorse, she remembered that they had been extinct by the time she had married Gerald. Such a shame. Beautiful creatures. Proud. Strong. But not survivors. The world had changed too fast.

Rory spun around, and yet stayed on the wall as if performing a level of defiance that was new to him. “Hey Merry. So… you are like my Nana.”

Mrs. Givins slowly lowered herself to her bench and exhaled heavily. The cold was quick to leave, but for a moment, her butt felt a chill like she had just sat on a block of ice.

“Yes, I am.”

Rory looked over his shoulder at the stands of trees that populated the old lake bed, covering it from end to end. “I keep looking for Wella, but I haven’t seen her.”

“She is in there, I assure you. Just quiet for a key reason… but near the solstice, her calls rattle the trees. Her species, Draconis Galliformae, have a unique adaptation for surviving both harsh winters and sweltering summers. Can you guess what that is?”

“Uh…” Rory thought through some guesses. “They hibernate?”

“Ah! Very close. It is very similar to hibernation, but instead of reducing their metabolic rate where they fall asleep for months, her species shifts their blood chemistry to a point of being either cold blooded or hot blooded. Cold blooded, or ectothermic, creatures like snakes, lizards, and the like rely on their environment to help regulate their metabolic rate. Endothermic creatures…”

“So warm blooded?” Rory added as if on cue.

“Right. Endothermic creatures self regulate their metabolic rate, so they maintain a level of a steady body temperature, like you and I. Wella is in a near ectothermic state with the change of seasons, so she is feeling lethargic.”

“Lethargic?” Rory jumped off the wall and walked to the bench to sit next to Mrs. Givins.

“Sleepy. She is going to shift from ectothermic to endothermic, typically once the nights get cold enough that her two eggs are at risk. Any day now.”

“Then she won’t be slow and sleepy.”

Mrs. Givins nodded at the boy. He was intelligent. “That’s right. She will actively hunt, and populations of other creatures in the area will drop until they can replenish their numbers in the spring. Hibernation, for them at least, is a survival benefit. Hibernating creatures won’t fall prey to a hungry cockatrice.”

“Does she hunt… us?” Rory asked timidly.

“You mean children, dear? Or just people in general?”

“People in general, I guess.”

Mrs. Givins shrugged, and out of the corner of her eye, Old Cross nodded enthusiastically. “Not so much. If she gets a person it is because that person did not follow the warnings.”

“Like staying on the path.” Rory’s voice dropped.

Mrs. Givins realized her admonishment was not needed after all. He understood intuitively. The flows were waking up within him. “That’s one of them. One should stay on the path. Wandering into that stand of trees would be a one way ticket.”

“Ooh, ooh! Does she breathe fire?” Rory’s eyebrows were high.

“Not her species. She lacks both the organs that can digest the fuel and create the gaseous or viscous flammable materials. She also lacks the tongue.”

“What does the tongue have to do with it?”

“The source of the flame is not from the dragon. They produce the flammable materials, depending on the species, but all of them have to create the spark. Can you imagine walking around with fire inside of you? Even for hardy creatures, maintaining any temperature above a certain point would be evolutionary suicide. Its all in the tongue.” Mrs. Givins flicked her hand out like she was snapping a towel. “The sides of the tongue lay down a crystalline lathanide over time. They flick their tongue against their rear teeth and that material flakes off and oxidizes very rapidly. Sparks! A heavy exhale, and fwoosh! Fire!”

“Wow,” Rory’s eyes were wide. “You know a lot about dragons, Merry.”

“I should. It is my life’s work.” Mrs. Givins smiled. “I have been studying and protecting them for a very long time.”

“An ecologist?” Rory said. “Like my grandpa?”

“Ah, yes. I am an ecologist. But no… your grandfather does something even more important. He is a Ranger. They go out and find the ones that need protecting. It is hard work. Dangerous work. What I do is simple in comparison. I am a scientist. Studying. Making notes. Observing. Your grandfather is out there doing a bit more than that. Most of us conservationists are very boring in comparison.”

“And this is the only dragon you study?”

“At the moment. She has a special place in my heart. My father helped raise her mom, Ember. She had been abandoned as an egg, and my father took it on himself to help her hatch. Crazy man. But somehow he was successful. And Wella out there is alive because my father decided to help a poor creature on a cold night. So I… guess… watching her connects me back to my own dad in a way.”

“You have studied others… not just Wella and her mom?”

“Oh, yes. I am a draconist by trade and I spent decades helping the conservation reserves get built and then populating them with complimentary species.”

Rory grinned. “That sounds cool.”

“Oh it was quite ‘cool’. Best job ever. But it was hard work, hence the limp.” Mrs. Givins tapped her cane against the bench again. “You have a lot of questions today. You rode off in such a hurry yesterday, I thought I had scared you off permanently.”

Rory laughed nervously. “I, uh, was a little scared.”

“A little?”

“Yes, just a little,” Rory said defensively. “I thought you were teasing me about Wella, and then hearing that noise, it made me jumpy.”

“I would say.” Mrs. Givins agreed. “She is a big girl.”

“How big is big?”

“Sixteen feet in wingspan, half that in length from beak to tail, and probably about four hundred or so pounds at this point in her brooding cycle. We can estimate her size well enough, but it is just an estimate. Her species is protected, meaning that we don’t get close to her unless absolutely necessary. We have protocols not just for our safety, but mostly hers.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“Oh you will. Most folks don’t. You will. It’s inevitable.” Mrs. Givins stated matter-of-factly. “You will see her because you are looking for her. On the other hand, we can direct behavior of these creatures and the ones that aren’t looking, but it takes time and effort. It takes patience and hard work to protect them from the plebians and vice versa.”

“Plebians? Is that another kind of dragon?”

Mrs. Givins laughed, a deep chuffing sound that was nearly a cough. “Oh my goodness, no Rory. Those are all the humans. The people. The terrible masses that cover the world.”

“But I am people?”

Mrs. Givins sighed. “We all are. The problem isn’t that we are human, Rory. The problem is that we aren’t one tribe. We all have different experiences that lead to different beliefs and opinions, and that is why the plebians do what they do… and ultimately that is why we do what we do.”

Rory silently sat in the sunlight, watching the stands of trees next to Mrs. Givins. Birds twittered in the distance, and the occasionally there was a buzz of an insect on the air.

“Do you have a caduceus?” Rory asked, breaking the easy silence.

“Of course I do. Its my cane, silly.”

“But… I can see your cane?” Rory observed.

Realization dawned on Mrs. Givins face. “Oh, the actual rod… that is inside the cane, dear.”

“So I really can’t see them? I thought Nana was pulling my leg.” Rory sighed.

“How much did your Nana explain? I don’t want to misstep here, Rory. Your grandmother is one of the best, you should listen to her.”

“One of the best? Best what?”

“We each have our roles to play, Rory. Some of us study and document. Others go out and preserve. And some of us… teach. Your grandmother has been teaching the Society’s talented for many decades.”

“I didn’t know she was a teacher. I guess I never thought about it. She is just my Nana.”

“Ah well… I suppose that is about to change, isn’t it?” Mrs. Givins nudged Rory. “Lots to learn now.”

“I guess? My mom and dad are on vacation, but they are coming to Thanksgiving and then I think we leave to head back home. Our flight is on Friday night I think. I don’t know how much she can teach me in three days.”

“You have the rest of life to learn, Rory. And…that could be a very long time indeed.”