Squib Ep.4 - Dungeon Woes
(Start at the beginning here)
Squib looked over from his bed of straw, heaped in the corner of his cell, to the scratches he’d made on the opposing wall. He wasn't good with numbers, but the amount was now in excess of his fingers and toes which, by all accounts, was a lot. Stripped of his belongings and robbed of his quest, there had been little to do but wait for whatever inevitable fate was coming to get him. Time had drawn on past what he had imagined would be a short, and no doubt sharp affair, and trailed off into an endless life of obscurity he couldn't quite make sense of. The Town of Silkwood had opened its door to the one dungeon it owned and thrown a solitary goblin behind its bars. Then seemingly forgotten about him in one swift move. That was, with the exception of the lone prison keeper called Igor who, as far as Squib could tell, was almost as recluse as Squib in his predicament. The squat, ugly looking fellow had a personality dryer than an old bone, and as starved as Squib was for companionship, he couldn't commend him for any form of company. Igor carried favor in the goblin though for no other reason than the dutiful nature in which he carried out his profession; Meals, horrid as they might be, arrived squarely at the same time each day; Bedding was replaced weekly with only the slightest level of discomfort; Fresh water was procured as was necessary; and the one time Squib had attempted escape he’d waken up with little more than a purple mark around his neck and a bump on the head. As far as prison experiences had gone this had been the most pleasant he could think of.
With nothing but time on his hands, Squib had little to do but think. Questions had swirled about his head for weeks as he waited and waited. Old Tom had betrayed him, or so Squib had first thought. The old man was cunning to be sure, and at first Squib had taken this for a cruel deal gone rotten in Old Tom’s favor. Yet time revealed a friendlier intention despite the poor predicament. After knocking him unconscious, Old Tom had vouched for Squibs character, which confused Squib at first. It seemed some linguistic challenge initially but after some explaining, Squib ascertained that it was a good thing. Whatever the case, Old Tom had convinced the Town to spare the Goblins life, leaving him to some unknown, future fate. Squib had always known Old Tom to have a head on his shoulders, but he wasn't aware of the favor the old man carried within the town. Normally a Goblin wouldn't be caught dead in the woods with a bunch of humans around. Quick to judge and harsh in their execution, an unaware Goblin routinely paid for such negligence. Squib didn't blame the soft skins though. He knew a score of Goblins he’d deal to just as cruelly. Probably worse if he had any time to think on it. What was important was that he’d survived, and while he had wondered if he’d waste away in the cell instead of under some axe, that thought had changed after a particularly chaotic night a week earlier.
Beyond the bars of his cell, a noise roused Squib from the contemplation of his wall. Footsteps, more pairs than he could discern, descended the steep flight of stairs onto his dungeon floor. Was this it? The day after the night of chaos there had been much the same thing. Five or more angry townsfolk storming the dungeon in search of revenge. Goblins had raided Silkwood, burning and cutting, tying up and dragging off both men and women. Old Tom had cut off the mob, and Squib sent out a silent thanks to whatever-swamp-gas had burped Igor up onto land- for not surrendering his keys. It was fairly obvious though that there was no distinguishing gray goblin from green in the humans eyes. Had he been able to explain, he’d of told them the gray goblins were enemies of his tribe, and his tribe was all but wiped out. If anything he’d of taken up arms against them- given ample enough pressure and a lack of options. The Town’s conclusion was that Squib had been a scout for the inevitable attack but had failed at his task. It was no doubt there were scouts, but Squib was not one of them. In the end, Old Tom had convinced them of Squibs value as a prisoner, and that he was harmless in his cell besides. Squib was confused by what value he might have, but his confidence in Old Tom’s ability to influence his people more than made up for it. At least it had, until now.
Igor appeared first, keys in hand, along with Old Tom and a strange entourage of individuals Squib was not familiar with. He recognised their type though. Through their arms and armaments, their packs and assorted goods, the eclectic array of personal style, it was fairly clear to Squib that these were adventurers. Squib had no love of adventurers. Shifty, cunning, thieving minds to sharp for their own, or anybody else's, good. That was His prefered position in life, which meant people such as these often lead to the cramping of his style. Usually in the form of a loss of his treasures. Squibs ears sunk atop his head, and he edged ever so slightly away from the bars.
“A goblin? Is this a joke?!” The incredulous tone stood in stark contrast to the tall, strong looking male figure who spoke it. Squib couldn't help but notice his countenance, well arranged and impeccably clean, particularly where his heavy armor was concerned. Given Squib was a Goblin living in a swamp, it didn't seem unjustified.
“If this were a joke you’d be laughing.” Old Tom retorted in a level tone.
“It’s a goblin. Maybe I should be.” The big man grumbled.
Squib moved his eyes between them, then over the remaining figures who stood staring at him. The feeling was an uncomfortable one and the only response was to feel nervous. The angry mob from the week earlier wasn't half as bad. At least He’d known their business. The business of adventurers was always up for question.
A stuffy looking fellow in an ostentatious outfit stepped forward. Squib took him for a man of some dignity. Perhaps a merchant or man of stately affairs. He bent forward to take a closer look, and Squib responded with a scowl.
“Er, hello good-fellow. Do you happen to speak the trade tongue?” The man's voice sounded slow and propper, and not at all the sort of voice Squib expected to hear around a swamp. Each syllable seemed to be a character within its own drama. Squib felt caught somewhere between scared and intrigued.
“Aye.” He replied. It seemed best to keep things simple.
“Well, it is something.” The stuffy man commented over his shoulder to his friends.
“He’s the best scout you could hope for. He knows every inch of the Silkwood, end to end. Isn't that the truth, Squib.”
Squib gave Old Tom a long look. “Ayee,” he responded a little more slowly this time, questioning what business he’d landed him in.
“But he’s a goblin!” Squib was taken aback as whatever countenance the big man walked with had now completely blown. The others seemed to ignore him.
“Squib is it?” The stuffy fellow drew Squibs attention back to center, to much dissent from the big man. “We are.. prospective business-folk of this town. Recently having come into our fortunes, after some really rather terrible events, we’re now in need of a guide to show us through your swamp, so that we might rescue a few of the missing townsfolk. I’m sure you’re aware of the hullabaloo from the earlier week?”
“..yeah I bet he is..” came a grumble from the back.
Old Tom stepped forward. “In exchange: your freedom, and I suggest you take it.” Squib watched as Old Tom’s face contorted to convey an extra meaningful message. This was his chance. Perhaps his only chance, and somehow the old man had figured it all out. He never should have doubted him. They had a relationship of mutual benefit. There was trust. Perhaps more trust than Squib had been willing to admit. Best of all, once he was out of the cell, and beyond the palisade surrounding the town, he would slip away unnoticed at the first chance he got. He’d be free, he’d be safe from any dealings the adventurers might have, and he could get on with his quest- the hope of which he’d all but lost.
“Are you all daft? Can nobody else see this is a goblin we’re talking about?!” The big man had pushed forward with one arm outstretched in Squibs direction. “He’ll run away from us the first chance he gets.” Squib narrowed his eyes at the big man. Somehow he was reading his mind.
“No, he won't.” Old Tom reached into his robe and produced a small, finely crafted box with a well oiled hinge. Squib’s finely crafted box with a well oiled hinge! He handed it out to the party while keeping his eyes firmly locked on Squibs'. “He’ll do whatever you want so long as you have this.”
Squib's eyes narrowed. The scoundrel! He knew he couldn't trust Old Tom.
(Continue to Ep.5)
Support me on Patreon or follow me on Minds for updates.
(Please leave a comment and remind!)