Meanwhile...

(Happy holidays to everyone! This, and the next few posts, are fragments written to describe events occurring elsewhere in my campaign world while the adventuring party is off ... adventuring.)



When they brought the man to Taig Banath, he had shed much of his fear, but he was still wary. The goblins around him shoved him along with the crosspieces of their man-catching poles, chattering and grinning at each other. He was a tall, lean man with the kind of sympathetic but coolly intelligent eyes that could easily draw people in. She gaged him to be creeping into middle age, and had no doubt a lively time of it. The goblins had disarmed him, of course, and the signs of struggle were still there. His legs were heavily bruised and moved stiffly, and she could both see and smell the blood spots on his tunic. Judging from the rips, the goblins had torn away his armor.

She nodded at the goblins, who jammed the man towards an empty chair near the side of Taig's fire circle. The fire was mostly coals at the moment, putting off a steady aura of thick heat that kept the abrupt chill of the wasteland night away. Nearby, the hobgoblins were going through their nightly ritual of checking their gear, crafting and repairing and trading riddles. Some of them looked up when the man was driven to sit down, and there was some bleak amusement. The man glanced around, searching, and then settled his eyes on Taig. She knew what he was trying to resolve; her snub nose was set too forward on her face, her eyes were too large, too almond-shaped and caught the fire with shimmering green light. He studied the horn-like peaks of her ears, protruding from under her glossy, sleek black hair and she saw the familiar mix of revulsion and intrigue as he took in her awkwardly beautiful face.

“Yes. My father was human,” she said after a moment, and let an edge of disdain show in the word. “My mother was a goblin.”

To his credit, he did not show any surprise. He also didn't say anything. Taig nodded a little. “Your people have been split up. None of them have been harmed... well, any more than what they got coming in. One of the scouts tells me that you are a musician.”

She paused for a reply, but the man simply kept watching and waiting.

Wary one, and sharp, she thought as she signaled. Two of the hobgoblins stalked over, the fire gleaming over the silk brocade of their robes, and stood on either side of the man. He got the message.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment.

Offers nothing, thought Taig. “I have a bargain for you. I'm a musician as well. What sorts of music do you play?”

“Ballads, epics, histories of heroes,” said the man after another pause. There was a rakish glint in his eyes, and Taig recognized that as well. This one isn't going to pass up on a chance to show his skill.

“Do you sing? What do you play?”

“Lute,” the man replied. “It's with my packs.”

She nodded to one of the goblins, who trundled swiftly away to fetch the man's instrument.
“I'm going to offer you freedom,” Taig said. “You and your companions will go free if you try and match my skill at music. I'll wager your instrument against mine. Whatever the case, you and your companions get to leave, and we won't pursue you if you stay out of the area. What do you say?”

“Match my music against yours? Gladly, though I hope you are not fond of your instrument. But why let us go?”

Taig turned slightly, letting her apprentice Baragi set the intimidating red-lacquered bulk of her drum near her. She waited until he carefully rested the playing rods on the drum's stand, dangling their red tassels, and then looked back at the man. “Do we have an agreement? Your instrument against mine own. My talent for yours. If you win, you get both. If I win, I get both. Do you understand?”

His eyes widened a little, but she knew already that his pride wasn't going to let him walk away, even though he knew the consequences of this competition. Goblins were fey, yes, and bargaining with them was dangerous, yes, but his pride overwhelmed his caution.

“I do, and I accept,” he said, and then there was loud crackle and sputter as the fire blazed blue for a moment, and several shooting stars left greenish trails overhead before meeting oblivion. She watched him flex his fingers, and then carefully checking over and tuning his lute when it arrived. He nodded a little, in his element again, uncaring of the camp of goblinkin all around him and afire with the risk of the competition.

“Would you like to begin, or shall I?” she asked, standing.

“I will start,” he said, and at her nod immediately flew into a soaring triumphant lyric poem of unlikely heroes accomplishing the impossible through wit, strength, trickery and faith. Fingers moving with deceptive grace, he coaxed the lute to match such daunting lyrics, and his voice was sweet, clear and empty of anything but the genuine emotion he kept on slow-burn in his heart. It was a powerful, passionate song, and nearby goblins kept time to it as he played. A pair of goblin whelps even mimed out some of the deeds he mentioned in the singing. Of course there was romance and tragedy alike in the tale, but in the end, those great names wrote themselves into history and song as usual, immortalized as visions beyond what they really were.

Finally, he damped the strings, more confident now especially after the scattered applause from the goblins, and graciously nodded at Taig. She took a short breath through her nose, picked up the rods, shut her eyes and then hit the drum like a roll of thunder.

She opened up the sky with the deep voice of the drum. She coaxed it into a monstrous heartbeat, the surging wave of the earth's blood, if the earth felt enough to bleed. When she let her voice go, it was in pangs, and it ripped at the echoes of the man's poem. She mourned the death of beauty, murdered by humanity. She seethed against humanity's spread, and broke history open to show that the true heroes have been buried by the glory-seekers who followed them, who only lived and rose and became because someone else sacrificed all they were to make the world safe. She brought her voice down like lightning, shattering the world with the indignity and horror of the human plague, and then smote the song to silence.

The fire hissed and spat, and Taig looked over at the man. There was a sudden discordance as his lute strings snapped in a flurry of dusk-colored sparks. His wide eyes suddenly filled with horror, and he tried to sing, but a terrible flat note emerged and he stopped instantly.

Taig nodded at the two hobgoblins, who took hold of the man and led him away. He kept looking back at her, stunned by a nightmare. The night swallowed him up.

“Baragi,” she said to her hobgoblin apprentice. “See that he and his companions are set free. Have scouts trail them, make sure they leave as he agreed.”

“As you will.”

“Also... once they leave, have the scouts pepper a couple of them with poisoned arrows. But not him. He lives, no matter what.”

“...as you will.” Baragi crept away with a toothy smile, and Taig sat back down, looking over at the fire.

Sing the songs of your people now, she thought. I've ruined you, wrecked your talent and won your skill entirely. It's a fit revenge against a vainglorious boaster of humanity's pompous deeds; you've stolen from my lieges again and again, over and over. You've claimed credit for the salvation they wrought and wrecked all the beauty they'd created and for what? For the pride and arrogance of dangerous vermin. One day, one day you and yours will find yourselves exactly where you deserve, and I shall be there to sing of it for years afterwards. But you? Your voices will be silent.