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Yuri Chernyaev (campfire tale)

Yuri Chernyaev

Andrew’s cleric (Sun: light/Protection)

My life was never difficult. I’ve tried to learn gratitude for it, but I can’t help resent it a little instead. Well alright, maybe a lot. It’s foolish, I know, but I just can’t shake that chip on my shoulder. You see, great heroes never have it easy. Astrid the Seer watched her parents die in The Creep. Yorick of Pent was raised from the dead and haunted by visions of hell forever after. Even Garpo the Wastelander fits the bill, being a goblin and all.

Not I; my parents were happy, we were well educated and I’m sure we had meat with every meal. I am kin to no twisted sibling (my sister Eva is a lovely girl). I don’t think I even had a single piece of itchy clothing, for Molkai’s sake. My brother Daniil was first in line for father’s business, so he learned the accounting, the politics and the heraldry. I, on the other hand, was ushered onto the path of a clergyman; dabbling with the usual ‘wealthy male child’ things on the way (you know -sword play, horse riding, hunting, archery and the like).

Of course, given the size of my father’s donation, I ascended to a comfortable administrative post, leaving the beggar-bathing and leper-tending to my brothers. It felt very wrong. All this time I’d told myself I would make a difference once I became a priest. No more lounging and eating grapes, no more house dogs with better diets than most people. I was going to make a difference. Yet there I found myself, waited on hand and foot by laymen while I made administrative entries in a gilded book and held meetings with other over-indulged low-level functionaries.

So I vacated my position and ventured outside the High City to become a mendicant, begging for a living and speaking of the Circle to all that would hear me. Sadly, the peasant-brothers refused to take me seriously. What sacrifice is poverty, they would say, when Yuri may go home for a meal when he gets hungry? Attend a hospice if he gets sick? Bend the Guards’ ear when someone does him wrong? I suppose in a way they were right, but my exclusion lead to disillusionment. Were these humble beggar-priests any less arrogant then their wealthy superiors? So I left them, convinced that there was no justice in wealth and power, or strength in poverty. It seemed to me that the high clergy made themselves soft, and the low clergy made themselves weak, both in a very deliberate way.

Of all the gods in the circle, it seemed to me that in the City of Otraxis we love Eurus least. Every man in trouble speaks his name for personal protection, but when does that same man heed his call to defend someone else? So I returned to the Great Temple and read. I ignored the dark looks from my brothers and the chastisement from my betters and re-learned the old ways. A hundred years ago, the clergy of Otraxis were just like those in the outside world; they would be called by a certain god and strive to exemplify that god’s virtue. Now we are all required to put equal weight on all segments of the Circle and I tell you, a priest can find an excuse for any kind of behaviour if he assembles his creed from whatever pieces of scripture he likes.

So carved my own symbol (a wooden Circle to represent the gods, but with a shield icon for Eurus placed at the top) and went out on my own. Now, I don’t know what I am. Though nominally I’m still a Clergyman, the Circle say I have lost my way by expounding the virtues of Eurus overmuch. The laymen ask me to conduct the standard rites, and I’m happy to, but they care nothing for my ideas and ask for no special protection. So I wander, supporting myself with odd jobs where I can and waiting for Eurus to guide me to where I am needed. The gods have not abandoned me, despite my penchant for ‘mild heresy’ and I take this as proof that I walk a legitimate path.

Belenus

Belenus crouched amongst the ferns, toying with the fletching on a dart. His fingers may have fidgeted aimlessly, but his mind worked with rare focus, sifting through the mire of messages found in the prophecy of the Withered Ones. He had a sister, born of a human woman. She was as much his sister just as Agrona was, and just as much an elf. Elves don’t deal in halves, a sibling was a sibling, a half-elf was still one of the gwerinoedd[1]. That was just the way it was.
 
The second part of their message was not so simple. Was he charged with seeking her out? Destiny was surely involved here, but was it her destiny or were he and she intertwined? He had asked the ghastly prophets for clarification. Not only had they refused to answer (as was their way), but he was sure to be punished for his impertinence.
 
He stood. The thrush feathers on the dart weren‘t going to get any straighter. The bore of his blowpipe was clean and smooth and his sapstone [2] daggers were honed to perfection. He resolved to return to his village and drink greatly of mead. Perhaps Tala would send him a wild dreaming[3] and these questions would be resolved. Belenus grinned. It was a good plan, but as he climbed the nearest pine and embarked upon the bough-road, he couldn‘t help but wonder if he’d just tripped upon the roots of the life tree[4].
 
[1]The name the elves use for people of their race. Often adopted by other races to refer to the elven nations.
[2]An incredibly hard ceramic material crafted by mixing mixing a specific tree resin with clay, followed by firing in a kiln. Saptone goods are available on markets worldwide, but the secret of its composition is protected by the elves unto the death.
[3]Prophetic dreams sent to one who has become comatose after imbibing mead, especially mead spiced with hallucinogenic fern spores.
[4]Cynical elven saying for one who unwillingly encounters their destiny.

Lars in his element

“So for one, Geir, you’re going to compensate us for our donation  at the temple of Chemosh“, said Lars. “Then, you’re going to pry that tight fist of yours open a little further and pay us properly. Elsewise, you won’t see the goods, ever again”. His face was hard, but his bowels were water. He could run a great bluff, but there was no bluffing his adrenaline glands. There would need to be several stiff drinks after this.
 
The dwarven merchant spluttered. This updweller was spoiling the fine, hand-picked gnomish coffee he had selected to go with his breakfast. Pork steak and quince paste. It should have been perfect, but this manling upstart was threatening to turn it into a hard day of indigestion.
 
“What makes you think I’m going to pay you more money, thug? I’ll have you clapped in irons, then my cousins in the duke’s dungeon will shatter your finger bones until you squeal”, he barked through a mouthful of beautifully rendered pork fat.
 
***
 
The dwarf’s barking retort brought yesterday’s messy ambush roaring back to the front of Lars’ memory. ‘Wella had lodged herself in a tangle of kobolds down at the bottom of the hollow, forcing Lars to charge in and help. The frontline had never been his place in life and he’d paid for it. The feather-plumbed leader of the warband had brained him with an axe, which luckily was rusty and blunt. Even still, Lars had gone down like a sack of dried kine-dung.
The memories were fractured from there … a wave of heat had washed over him as a flaming ball of magic bounced down the hill and flash-fried half the little fiends in short order. Immediately after, Garpo had flung himself into the fray from who knows where, scattering lizard-heads around the firepit like lawn bowls. The goblin then snatched a moment to pour something foul and acidic into Lars’ throat to stop him dying.
 
Things happened very quickly from there. One of the little beasts crept up behind Garpo and brought one of the ‘cheap’ cooking pots from the wagon crashing down on his head. Flakes of black paint flew everywhere, causing the mithril underneath to gleam in the sun.
 
“Strong silver” Garpo had gasped, shrugging off the bump on the head. He wrenched the pot from the kobold and tapped its brains out onto the ground.
 
“Mithril“, cried ‘Wella, as a fuming acidic arrow lashed one of the remaining kobolds.
 
“Molkai bend me over, and part the mists of time”, cursed Lars through a mouthful of tooth chips. He’d been fooled before but never, ever, had he been tricked into smuggling something like this. The penalty for mithril smuggling was death on site. No trial, no sympathy from the duke.
 
***
 
“Well”, grinned Lars (how can he not see that this grin is pasted on, he wondered), “First of all there’s my letter”.
 
“Letter?”
 
“Yes”, he continued to smirk, “the letter I’ve written to the Overlanders Guild, who don’t seem to know about any mithril shipment in these parts. You see, if I don’t check in with my friend tomorrow morning, that letter does to the Guildmaster. How is he going to feel when his heavies comb your books over and match those ‘cheap’ cooking pots on your register to the cleverly disguised lumps of mithril I’ve got holed up in the Creep somewhere”.
 
“You wouldn’t dare”.
 
“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just pay up. The fee on a job like this should be 100 gold drakes each, not the fifty silver swans you coughed up. I would dare, and you know what? It’s not just your gnomish forest-coffee that’s at stake here Geir. One sniff of this and the duke’s men will burn every damned holding of the Overlanders Guild to the ground. In fact, without my co-operation from here on, beardy, one of your two deceits is going to come to light and either way, you’ll hang by your thumbs. That’s why you’re not only going to front the 300 drakes; you’ll also write us a contract for three more jobs, 50 goldies each per outing, the task is up to you but we get veto power. Right?”
 
The thick, earthy blood drained straight out of the merchant’s face and Lars knew he had won.

Hardly Worth It

Llewella felt a little sick and her head swam. Worse still, the goblin was poking at her face with a finger covered in green gunk.
 
“Take herbs, put under tongue” Garpo barked.
 
She shook her head and was rewarded with an explosion of pain. She took a moment to review the situation. Lars was at the bottom of the dusty basin, maybe dead, maybe just incapacitated, either way he was trussed up tight with leather thongs. He had fallen while trying to kill the kobold that had brained her. Garpo had dragged her up the rock-strewn eastern slope while Lars fought fought them. “Easy”, the merchant at the wayshrine had said. “A half dozen kobolds at most, armed with blunt stone spears and pissy little slings. You’ll have ’em for breakfast”. That merchant was an idiot, ‘Wella decided, and would certainly not be seeing his cargo should she and her companions survive to liberate it.
 
“Take herbs, elf-girl eat, friend Garp needs your help. You make magic for to save Lars.”
 
The goblin tripped over the word ‘friend’, but she supposed the sentiment was there. She scooped the green paste from his filthy fingers, deposited it under her tongue and … it was wonderful! She swallowed the healing salve and energy surged into her system. The pounding in her head receded and the world snapped into focus.
 
They had stalked the scaly bandits to their lair in this tiny gully, only to find themselves flanked. The merchant’s ‘half-dozen’ had expanded to nearly twenty, most of whom pounded them with stones. One of the bigger ones had gotten through Lars’ guard and struck Llewella in the head, ruining her spell and casting her to the ground. Garpo had managed to haul her away and hack into the kobolds at the same time. Lars stood his ground and held them at bay, but not for long. The kobolds had swarmed him and taken him down. Now half the band tried to light a ritual bonfire while the others stalked up through the shrubs and boulders, wary of Garpo and his sturdy horse-bow.
 
All this for that lying dwarf’s cargo – a dozen iron cooking pots and a barrel of beer. “We really need to hit the big-time” she murmured, as she kneaded a noxious lump of tallow, sulfur and iron dust in the palm of her hand.

Llewella

It was, on balance, good to be out of Otraxis. Sadly, Lars had invited a goblin along. The little monster had practically inhaled a half-raw joint of pork, almost started a fight with a dwarven footman and had taken the name of half the gods under the sun in vain, at the top of his voice. How horrible, Llewella mused, that the atmosphere of such a quaint little wayshrine Inn be spoiled by this stunted barbarian.
Her old friend sat arguing with the creature, both of them well into their cups.
“No, Garp. Not a chance. Elves build the best bows. The best. Bar none”, Lars slurred.
“Goblin bow better”, the smelly wretch replied, “bow short for the riding of horse. Strong for to shoot through bison skull. Made from beautiful horn for to carve and polish. Always you buy bow from goblin, not tree-things”.
Garpo had made this exact statement, word-for-word, each time Lars made a new point. his lack of imagination was astounding. Even worse, each time he said ‘tree-things’ his greasy eyes would flick to Llewella. Never mind that she was a half-elf and had lived in a stone house in Otraxis all her life; to the goblin she was a tree-witch. Fine, she thought, to her Garpo was little more than a half-tame cannibal.
“These goat-pebbles you spitting make me dizzy, Lars. I go outside for to pass water and breathe the wild air for a while”, grumbled Garpo.
“The wild air?”, Llewella sneered as the goblin left, none too sober herself.
“The goblins think it is wrong to trap air inside a building, ‘Wella. They prefer life outdoors, in the wind and rain and wild air” replied Lars. He was about to add that this made them a little like the elves, but bit his tongue – literally.
“Why Lars? Why a goblin. Otraxis is full of men, elves and dwarves, all hungry for work and you choose this little green man!”
“Yes, he smells, he eats raw pork and pretends that it’s people, then drinks horse milk that smells like piss, but by Enlil ‘Wella – you should see the little bastard fight!”
“I’m not sure I want to”, she replied, as string of guttural goblin curses exploded from the coutyard.

Garpo the Goblin

Garpo crouched in the dirt amongst the horses, which both reminded him of home and smelled better than the human cesspit where he found himself. To pass the time, he admired the notches he’d made in his father’s old sword. The nicked edge from Arche Valley was especially impressive, acquired when he’d struck the nail-studded skull of an Orc chieftain’s bodyguard. His little band of mercenaries had done well that day, a hundred brass bits, which was almost unheard of for a dirty band of goblins. Of course, Erbe and Kocochu were dead now, betrayed by Neikun for those very coins. This is why Garpo sat amongst the horses in front of a stinking tavern in the Creep, trying not to feel jealous of the human Lars, who was allowed into Otraxis and had gone looking for work(1).
Garpo the Goblin. What a stupid name. Back in the khanates they’d called him Guzzling Garpo, or Garpo the Gorger, never ‘goblin’, ‘stinker’ or ‘shorty’ like they did here. In those days Garpo had some weight to him, a big boss-belly to frighten the children and attract the ladies. That was before Garpo’s father insulted the myangan(2) chief and lost his head, forcing Garpo to flee his comfortable life in the camp. Now Garpo was worn and wiry, a veteran of a dozen petty raids and skirmishes. His arbat(2) brothers were dead, his steppe horse was lost and he had finally run out of kumis(3).
It was hard not to feel nervous as he waited for Lars. Garpo had saved the man’s life (quite by accident) as they fought their way out of a caravan ambush along the river Thienne. In the khanates this would earn Garpo a year or two of loyalty, but Lars was a human and humans cheated goblins, that was just the way of the world. Not to mention that Lars claimed to know a wizard – an elven she-wizard – and had promised to bring the filthy witch-thing back here to meet Garpo. Still, they had decided to become treasure hunters and no worthwhile band of ‘diggers’ ever ventured forth without a spell-slinger(4) of some kind. He would meet this tree-loving harpy and perhaps they could even make some money together. Perhaps instead she would die and he and Lars could hold a funeral feast(5). Garpo licked his lips at the prospect. It had been a decade since the khans had signed the Trans-Palir Pact(6), but surely an elf already dead was fair game?
The wiry goblin sheathed his sword. Lars was trotting down the steep stairs into the Creeper village with the blue-eyed she-devil in tow. More importantly Lars’ hardened fingers gripped a small leather purse filled with brass. This meant wine, cheese and if Garpo was lucky, roasted pork, extra rare …
FOOTNOTES
(1) Although tolerated in human lands, goblins are rarely admitted into the city proper. Instead, taverns in the Creep do a roaring trade entertaining them while their human, elf or dwarven allies do business in the city.
(2) The arbat is the smallest unit of khanate military structure, comprising ten goblins (always male, except in the case of the elite female horse-archers). Ten arbats constitutes a zuut (100); ten zuuts make myanghan (1000); and ten myanghans combine into a tumen of 10,000 warriors. A tumen is rarely assembled and is almost always led personally by a khan.
(3) An alcoholic beverage made from fermented mare’s milk. The fermentation process removes the lactose, to which goblins are intolerant.
(4) Spell-slinger is a terrible cliche and I apologise. By all means suggest some better slang.
(5) The funeral feast is probably the most unsavoury custom retained by the goblins, who are otherwise gradually becoming civilised. Instead of burying or burning a dead relative, the deceased goblin will be roasted and consumed by their family, who are said to retain their spirit from then on. The ghosts of goblins who were not feasted upon are said to wander the khanates as evil spirits and feature heavily in goblin folklore.
(6) An inter-racial treaty designed to promote trade in the regions around the Palir Mountains. Among other things, it contained a clause requiring the elves to retract their “death-on-site” policy if the goblins would refrain from eating elf-meat.
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