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In a seat at the bar of The Wailing Griffon, a tavern in the slums of Ranara, an aging warrior talks as much as he drinks, and he drinks way too much. These are his tales...

The Job with the Goblin Who Picked Flowers
​ by Nathan Dain                       (Title by Ted Spence)

I like to think of myself as an open-minded human, exceptional in almost every way, yet fair. To that end, I try not to be racist. I know, not a terribly accepted line of thought through most of the realms, but when you've met as many people as I have, you start to understand that we're all similar in many ways. Sure, elves and dwarves live way longer, and that gives them a weird way of looking at things, and gnomes have a very unique perspective being so low to the ground—I doubt that explains why they're as kinky as they are, but hey—and I've even known a few orcs who, while rough around the edges, were still pretty upstanding people.

Yup. Across this whole world, all of us are quite a bit alike.

Except for goblins.

I hate those little buggers. Thoroughly irredeemable.

Don't believe me?

Fine, then I'll tell you about the kindest goblin I've ever come across, and you tell me whether or not my generous categorization is misplaced.

Her name was Chaurghlee, and she was a gardener. I know this because when I first met her, she'd said, “Hi, my name is Charlie. I'm a gardener.” At the time, I thought I knew what all of those words meant, but in goblin culture, completely innocuous words can climb off tongues and stab you in the face. Sometimes literally.

I'd been hired by a caravan of merchants to guide them through the forests of Spearspar. The idea was that if they all pooled together, they could afford someone of my caliber—so... me—in order for them to cross one of the most preyed upon regions of lawlessness as a shortcut, cutting weeks off of their travel time, and eventually making even more money than they were going to pay me. I didn't really care how much they were going to make, just so long as they paid what they promised.

Anyhow, we'd already made our way through Pointy Spearspar, Razor Spearspar, and were halfway through Dark Spearspar when we set up camp for the second night. I'd established a perimeter, assigned positions to lessor sellswords, and found myself a nice cozy log to sleep against, when I saw the first signs of possible ambush. Nothing major, just a few tiny footprints here and there, brush moved around, rocks piled weirdly, that sort of thing, but enough to make me think this could be a bad night.

Goblinkin in general are terrible creatures. Groks, knocks, kobolds, lilliputs, all are their own special kind of evil, but none of them are particularly smart. Goblins on the other hand use tactics. One on one, dropping one is like little more than cutting off the head of a large chicken, but in a small group, you should start to worry. If they have a priest in their ranks, even skilled warriors have a hard time surviving.

It was only a problem for me insofar as if everyone I was trying to protect got killed, I'd be out of the next several months of drinking money. Oh, and obviously it'd be sad if a bunch of merchants were killed.

So, I notified the others to be on guard and began scouting around.

I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again, I am not a quiet man. It has a lot to do with my full suit of armor that fits perfectly, but still clatters like a tinker wagon at full speed on a dirt road. Because of said cacophony, I don't sneak. Meaning, when I say I scouted around, I did it the way that suits me: with my greatsword Kelly drawn and leading the way. I have a deviously keen eye for anything out of the ordinary, and unparalleled reflexes capable of turning the tables on anything laying in wait, so that whole walk-slowly-and-keep-the-enemy-from-knowing-that-you're-coming thing just doesn't work for me. It's a waste of everyone's time, really: mine, theirs, the gods waiting for the souls of those stupid enough to ambush me. I guess I just have more respect for everyone involved than that. I'm generous in that way.

I walked a quick patrol, and sure enough, just as the sun was setting, and after I'd walked into the most obvious place someone might pick to stab a stranger, five goblins leapt from behind rocks and fired a salvo of arrows at me. They had all the hallmarks of their race: pasty green, pointy ears, dressed in leather armor, but of course, goblins tend toward the rather small, and so do their arrows. All five of the little darts bounced off of my stunningly well-crafted dwarfstar steel armor and rattled against the rocks. Not an inspiring opening attack on their part.

With a sigh, I strode forward, lopped off the heads of the ones on my right, and made my way around the circle to number three. It bears repeating, the little buggers are smart but more akin to livestock when it comes to fighting in small numbers, which encouraged the last two to flee as fast as they could before I got to their turn of head-lopping.

The Dark Spearspar Forest was... surprisingly airy once you got off of the poorly maintained road, and almost nice if you ignored the murderous chest-high denizens of nastiness. It made tracking the two fleeing from me just that much easier, despite the fact that the shadows were quickly flooding in around the trees and occasional shrubbery.

Don't judge me, but it was about this time I pulled out a Sorcerer Sam's Scintillating Stone. It was a nifty little rock embedded into a leather bracelet that cast off a crazy amount of harsh white light. I know you're thinking, “But Bram Thunderfist, Swordsman Extraordinaire doesn't like magic.” And I don't. But little baubles like these are just so damned useful. Besides, I always keep a lantern and several torches handy when it decides to fail me.

Tromping through the brush and lit up like a sparkly bonfire, I figured the next wave of puntable bastards would be showing up any instant. To my surprise, that was instead the moment I met Chaurghlee as she stepped out from behind a tree dressed in overalls, a straw hat, and black boots that came up to her knees. Unlike the goblins I'd first encountered, she was a little taller, coming up to perhaps my sternum, had darker skin, about the deep green shade of a lily pad, and had finer teeth, two neat rows of needles. Other than that she had the same long pointy ears that flopped to the side of her head, and red-rimmed, saucer-like iris-less eyes that gave the illusion the tiny black pupils just floated in a sea of bleary pink.

I paused as soon as I saw her, hesitating only because most rational creatures didn't step out without a weapon to confront a flawless masculine form of utmost physical prowess glowing and holding his massive keen greatsword poised as I did at that moment, unless they had something to say.

What she said was what I'd said she'd a little earlier. “Hi, my name is Chaurghlee. I'm a gardener. I pick flowers.”

Okay. Unexpected. I wasn't quite sure what to do with that information, so I pressed on. “Charlie, is it?”

“Um, no. You're spelling it wrong.”

“What now?”

“Chaurghlee. You're spelling it wrong.”

“I'm not spelling anything. I mean... did you mean pronounced it wrong? I just repeated your name.”

“No you didn't. You called me Charlie. When I clearly said Chaurghlee.”

This was a new tactic for combat I had yet to come across: confuse your opponent into submission. Well, I wasn't going to fall for it, and made that abundantly clear. “Look, I don't really care what your name is, or what your favorite pastimes might be. My name is Bram Thunderfist, Swordsman Extraordinaire, and those wagons over there are under my charge. Meaning, I'm not about to—“

“Not the Bram Thunderfist? In my forest? Well, I must say it's an honor.”

“Wha... well, yes. Of course it is. Though I must say, I'm somewhat taken aback that tales of my exploits have reached even out here, so far from civilization.”

She nodded sagely, “Well, your exploits are seldom about you mucking about in the civilized world, am I right?”

“Let's say I don't disagree with you.” The tip of Kelly dipped a little. I was finding myself liking this Charlie whose name I spelled wrong. “What's all this nonsense of me spelling your name wrong?”

She smiled. Not a nice thing to experience. “Words matter, Mr. Thunderfist. The way your tongue plays with them, the way the letters form intent. If you mangle them, you mangle the meaning.” Then to prove her point, she spelled her name for me, putting the “aurgh” in Chaurghlee. It somehow made her a little less pleasant.

“Alright Charlie—“ I made the extra effort to properly place the aurgh, “—what is it you hope to gain from having our conversation on this lovely evening?” I'd been keeping an ear out for the distant screams of the caravan, or even slight movement within the underbrush indicating another attack. So far, nothing.

“Mr. Thunderfist, it's obvious you are far superior as a single entity to the entirety of my clan. I wouldn't dream of sacrificing them for the sole reason of building your renown. Instead, I suggest a truce, I can show you my garden, you can spend the night in peace, and your little entourage can be on your way.” Smiling once again, she waved for me to follow. “Come. You might find this interesting.”

She seemed sincere, but something was off. I'd killed my fair share of goblins in the past, and not once had I heard of a gardener. But, it wasn't like they were any real threat to me, so I shrugged and followed.

The forest had settled into darkness, though the moon was doing its best to punch through the thick canopy with an occasional ghostly blue ray of shimmeriness. My Sorcerer Sam's Scintillating Stone kept it easy for me to see, despite the deep jittery shadows it cast from everything its light touched, and the two of us moved further away from the caravan, farther into the unknown.

Well, unknown for me. Chaurghlee was quite happy leading the way. She even had a little skip in her step.

Before long, warm little pinpricks of flame danced between the foliage. As we got closer, the surrounding plant life grew exponentially in diversity and clustered tighter, until we suddenly emerged on the crest of a gully. Lanterns and lampposts flickered everywhere, dotting small well-crafted buildings which nestled into the slopes on either side of a burbling creek. Goblins of all sizes—well, within reason—trotted along narrow roads, bickering whenever they came across one another, sometimes a larger slapping a smaller before moving on. And everywhere I looked were these odd-looking flowers towering above rooftops and lampposts alike. They resembled daisies, though with stalks like sunflowers, and leaves like the branches of a tree.

Spreading her hands out before her, Chaurghlee exuded pride in the sight before us. “This is my village, and my garden.”

“Not one to waste space, huh?”

Chaurghlee smiled, “My garden could be spelled 'G U A R D', pardon the pun, but my flowers shelter the village from the inclement winters, and occasional bouts of excessive heat.”

I snorted. “You sure are a wordy one.”

“Yes, well, it's part of how I keep my flowers happy.”

Something about that made my warning bells ring. “That sounds suspiciously a lot like magic.”

“No, no, nothing so grand. More of a well placed gentle word, and the will to productively urge the placid spirits to flourish.”

It still sounded a lot like magic, but I held my tongue on that point. Instead, I pointed out the obvious. “You speak common remarkably well.”

“Why, thank you for noticing. I haven't had the chance to use it for years, but I try to practice it regularly.” It was subtle, but I could feel Chaurghlee intently sizing me up whenever I wasn't looking right at her.

After a moment of silence, she offered, “Let me show you around.”

“Hold up a minute. Your clansmen did just try to kill me. Why the civility?”

She chuckled, “I understand your hesitation.” Even so, she started down into the gully, purposefully and slowly until I began to follow. “However, those who attacked you were some of our menfolk. Quick tempered, highly territorial, not too bright. Most people don't know this, but Goblin society is strictly matriarchal. We women do most of the thinking, and farming... and work really. The men mostly just brood around and pick fights. It's one of my responsibilities as Gardener to keep them in line.”

“And how do you do that?'

“With a well-placed word, of course.”

Uh, that really sounded like magic.

As we approached the creek, the few goblins shuffling around quickly got out of our way, and although the tiny houses were appropriately tiny, the plant-thingies loomed considerably more than I had expected them to.

“Odd looking flowers.”

“Really? I find quite lovely. They're a rare strain of rhododendron known only by goblin gardeners. They're called triffids.”

“Triffids, huh? Never heard of um.”

“I did just say they're only known by goblins.”

“Well, yeah. I...” I don't usually ramble, but this whole scenario was making me uneasy. Maybe it was the too-big daisies, or the overly-kind treatment, or that I was surrounded by a few hundred hip-high murder-monsters that didn't really pose a threat yet nevertheless would probably prefer to see me dead. Whatever the case, my small talk was suffering.

The momentary lapse in conversational skills did allow me a breather to take in the village though. Each of the buildings seemed to have quite a bit of storage. Fine mirrors, cabinetry, barrels of what-have-you stacked next to chairs entirely too large for the creatures who possessed them. Mostly covered with tarps, but occasionally overflowing to almost block the path the two of us walked along.

“You have quite the assortment of goods. Is that chair of Oasmian design?”

“Is it? I guess it might be. You have a good eye, Mr. Thunderfist.”

“Yeah. So you've got a nifty little village here, but it seems to me that everything you have is from plunder.”

Standing up taller that I thought she could manage, Chaurghlee donned a veil of indignant disdain. “Mr. Thunderfist, these have been our lands for dozens of generations. Surely you wouldn't begrudge a people from defending their land from trespassers and invaders?”

When put like that, it did have a ring of reasonablility.

“And if we just so happen to profit from that defense, would you begrudge us those spoils? Surely you have engaged in warfare where the winners profited, and what the losers might claim to be unjust? Is this any different?”

She had obviously thought this through, and it took me a moment to come up with a counter to her argument. “Well, yeah. But I don't think you've ever formalized your boundaries with other countries, have you?”

She shrugged. “We like to keep to ourselves. That doesn't change the fact that people know these roads are ours, does it? Why else would someone of your renown have been hired to protect the trespassers?”

That was a really good question. Everyone did, in fact, know that these roads went through goblin territory. So, really, her point was frightfully valid.

The geopolitical quandaries of theft paralleled very closely with tariffs, or even taxes in general. I mean, I don't like taxes, but I get why they need to be paid.

About that time, a distant horn snapped me out of consuming contemplation. I whipped Kelly out its scabbard and spun on Chaurghlee, who was now a good fifteen feet away. The words came out almost as quickly Kelly had, “What was that!?”

“I believe that was the end of our conversation. You know, you have a lot in common with our menfolk.” She had a infuriating smug little smile, and to the sky she added, “Tulip, Petunia, kindly eat our guest here, would you?”

The triffids nearest me immediately lashed out ropey tendrils the thickness of my arm, which if I must be honest is quite sizable. The vines blocked my way to the gardener in an instant, forcing me to leap back and begin looking for vulnerable spots in their thick skin. That's the shittiest part about fighting plants, they're surprisingly durable.

Over the creaking and hissing of the beastly plants, Chaurghlee seemed unable to keep herself from additional taunting. “Had you even noticed that all of the goblins around you were female? Didn't that mean anything to you? I mean, I literally told you that our men go out and fight, and not a single one in town? You are remarkably thick.”

I didn't really need to say it, but we were kinda having a chat so I thought I'd at least contribute a little. “The horn sounded the attack on the caravan.”

“Yes, and I doubt anyone in it will be a live within the next minute.”

“But, why take this chance? You know of my exploits. You know there's nothing you can throw at me that won't end badly for you.”

“Yeah, I really doubt that.” As an afterthought, she added, “Actually, when I said I'd heard of you, I lied. And now I think it's time for you to die.”

I was crushed. She been lying the whole time. She hadn't even heard of me.

And there you have it. Goblins are wholly evil and thoroughly irredeemable. I wasn't even able to collect my drinking money.

You know how it is.

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