Checking it Twice

[Darren Tereos]

((This is actually one I was working on in January or so, but have been really struggling with getting it to my liking. After having put it down for long enough, I think I can post it without too much self-cringing. Also, since it's relevant for Cataclysm (at least for my intended Goblin), I'd like to put it out there before then.))


The Feast of Winter Veil had reached its end for the current year. As part of the close of business for the Winter Veil season, one of the innumerable Goblins of Smokeywood Pastures was sorting through the deluge of letters to Great-Father Winter, most of which would find themselves burned to keep the cooking fires for their tasty treats burning brightly. However, as part of regulation a select few letters were persevered, for publicity reasons. This meant that a Goblin, in this case, Scruture Copperpinch, had to read each and every one that came across his desk.

“Puppies, trains, Swords of the Wolf, Onyxia's head? It's always the same!” The exasperated Goblin threw a handful of letters into the air, which then lazily drifted to the floor. The crudely drawn reindeer and cartoons of Great-Father Winter that ornamented the letters seemed to smile up at Scuture, mocking him. “One more and that's it.” Scruture picked up the next letter from the pile, immediately noting that there were no drawings and that the handwriting seemed as if written by a spider crawling across the page. Furrowing his brow, the disgruntled employee began to read.

Dear Great-Father Winter,

I think I'm supposed to write things down about what I want for Winter's Veil. I got a present today that was a little gnome. It was nice, but not what I wanted. I would like a new quill. I lost mine a long time ago and have been using this one. It's nice, but is very worn and I don't think it will last much longer.

I was going to send milk and gingerbread cookies, but I used mine today. I was invited to a Winter's Veil feast. Strange, since I don't eat much, but I got an invitation from an Apothecary, something about service done. It's bad to say “no” to them anyway, so I went.

It was in Undercity, in the Apothecarium. Well of course it was in the Apothecarium, that's the home of the Royal Apothecary Society. I don't know if you know that or not Great-Father Winter, but it is. I was late, which isn't good, but no one seemed to mind: I got there and everyone was sitting down. Some air-gulper with dark drool hanging from her lips said something like “please sit down in your seat, master,” cried a little, and moved me to a seat at a very large table. Not sure who the “master” was, but I had a seat. Humans usually are crying in the Undercity; I don't think they like it there. I'm not sure what their problem is; I've been to their city and it doesn't look very nice. There's a lot of sunny skies and Gnomes and Dwarves everywhere. Undercity is quiet and peaceful. You should come there sometime, you might like it more than Orgrimmar. There's less dust and whoever decorates the place does a good job.

But I was writing about something else: I looked at the table-setting that the Human had shown me. Lots of silvery knives, shining like little fireflies. I used to chase fireflies as a child, before The War. But now I have lots of knives. I didn't see any food on the table, not that I eat much, but supper's supposed to have food. So, I looked to see who was there. All Forsaken, most people I'm sure I'd seen before. As usual, I couldn't remember where though. There was a bunch of air-gulping humans standing at the sides of the room. All with blank eyes and dripping something from their lips. Tears too, they were crying, it just ran down their faces, like rain. Then the Forsaken at the head of the table stood up. His jaw was missing, gone. But he still talked.

“Keever is very pleased to have you all here. It has not been the best year for the Royal Apothecary Society, but we have seen much of our work proven. Albeit more public than Keever had wished. But you all have done your share of work for the Apothecary and as a thank you, Keever has invited you all to a Winter Veil feast.” He laughed then, his tongue moving loosely like a grandfather clock. “Keever also wants to try out some new results.”

Those around me looked at each other, some sort of expression of alarm on their faces. Quickly, the one calling himself Keever said “No, it's perfectly safe for you all. Loyal helpers should not be wasted. You all have been loyal, haven't you?” The Apothecary surveyed the room for a moment before continuing: “So, now it is time to enjoy your feast. Please feel free to thank our servants, some of them have given much of themselves to bring you this meal.” He then clapped his hands above his head. Nothing happened. Frowning, he clapped again. The air-gulpers shuffled out of sight a moment and returned carrying covered trays, also shining like fireflies. I used to chase fireflies as a child. With a clatter, the servants put the serving trays on the table and clumsily removed their lids.

Dinner was served. Each tray was a heaped pile of meat, raw and partially liquefied. The others rapidly cut free and pulled handfuls of the stuff to their plates. It was supper, so I grabbed a handful of meat. It felt like a tender cut of beef. Everyone was using their hands, so I did too. I'm not sure what it tasted like, but it slid down my throat easily enough. For some reason, a few of the air-gulpers were crying, but not moving an inch.

“Keever hopes you enjoy the fruits of our helpers' labor. Some of them could not be with you today so you could enjoy this feast. I trust you find the meat appealing enough. Keever might say it falls right off the bone.”

I think I then said something about cookies: “Thank you for the meal. I brought milk and cookies for desert. I think I made them for this.” I put them on the table. Some had already crumbled. The Forsaken near me looked at the cookies and a few even took them. Someone else was laughing, probably that Keever person. A few people took some, but mostly they just sat on the table, mixing with drippings from the meat. Looking back, I think they were supposed to go with this letter. But, someone said 'it's the thought that counts.' When I finished, I left. No one really talked to me. Not that they usually do. So then, I wrote my letter, like the Goblin said I should.

I was supposed to be asking for a new quill. I think I could use one, I've spent a lot of time writing this letter and I think this quill is the worse for wear for having written it. So, please Great-Father Winter, I would like a new quill for Winter Veil.

Sincerely,

Dayari Antarios

Placing the letter down, Scruture Copperpinch glared at what he'd just read like he'd swallowed a bug. He then began to fold the letter into smaller and smaller folds, staring intently on his task as if it was a solemn duty. Then, finding a jar of ink, he submerged the folded letter and let the ink soak into the parchment, rendering the letter entirely illegible. The soaked letter sat in the jar, a pulpy black mass in a small sea of murky ink.

“Quitting time if ever there were.” And the work of the Smokeywood Pastures employee was done for the day. Leaving the office, finding it a bit colder and the shadows somewhat longer, Scruture made a direct path from work to the nearest tavern. Even if Winter Veil had passed the biting winter air swirled about him, and Scruture felt the cold snow chill him rapidly. The wind and snow soon erased his footprints; It was much later and Scruture a fair sight more intoxicated before the Goblin even contemplated leaving the inn for the night.

The late-night walk from the inn to home was started in an inebriated stupor. It had not been a night of festive drinking, but the drinking that comes with wanting to erase memories. Scruture had drunk at least two jugs of the house's fortified wine. The alcohol's heat had spread throughout his arms and legs and burned away the thoughts of what he now thought of as “The Letter.” But, unfortunately while the thoughts had been banished, the cold fear remained, a lumpen and resistant clump of ice in Scruture's chest. Swaying slightly as he steadied himself in the doorway, he looked out at the chilled evening, noting a few other late-night “revelers” making their own drunken hurried walks to their destinations for the evening, be that home or somewhere out in the wilderness. Scruture felt anything but festive and it seemed that shadows cast by each flickering torch flickered towards him with ambient menace. He shook his head, attributing this to the alcohol.

“See you later...” Scruture mumbled as he waved over his shoulder at the innkeeper and forged forward into the cold night. It was dark, but torches provided pockets of shelter from the oppressive night. However, as Scruture walked home, he found himself starting at his own shadow and glancing over his shoulder, unable to escape the feeling that his shadow was not his own and instead the shadow of some nefarious lurker, sneaking up behind him to do him incalculable harm. Walking along the path home, the approach of each torch was a moment of soothing calm, the departure a spark of near-terror. Still drunk, but managing to careen directly with the strength of his fear, Scruture neared his home, still watching the shadows that seemed to jump in time with the beats of his heart and the crunch of his feet in the snow. Stopping a moment in the bright glow of an ensconced torch, Scruture looked about, saw nothing, paused with his eyes closed, his large ears perked in quiet listening. Taking a deep breath and nodding to himself, the Goblin smiled slightly and began the last few yards to his home, still keeping his eyes on the last flickers of shadow cast by this last torch.

Nearly walking into the stranger who seemed to step out of the shadows, Scruture jumped back with a startled yelp.

The stranger stood in the shadows, features obscured in darkness. “Did he read it?”

Scruture, unsure of his response, squeaked quickly “Read what?”

“My letter, I wrote it all down.” The tall-to-Goblins stranger looked down.

“Read what letter? There are lots of...oh: The Letter.” Scruture shifted his weight from foot to foot, his thoughts of dread and unspeakable evils rushing from beneath the fog of alcohol. Suddenly sober and with the thought that he might be facing something similar to what he had read in The Letter, he stated: “Yes, Great-Father Winter read your letter; he reads everyone's letters.”

Nodding, Dayari responded “Good, I was worried that he hadn't read it when I saw you destroy it. But, I guess you can't keep all of the letters Great-Father Winter reads. I have enough trouble finding places for all the things I write down.” The forsaken briefly gestured at a piece of folded parchment jutting from the cuff of his boot. “But, I didn't get a quill. I thought Great-Father Winter gave out presents to everyone. I didn't need a gnome in a box; I need a quill.” Seemingly from the dark emerged a bony hand with long, talon-like fingernails. The hand was extended further, palm up, toward Scruture.

Scruture stared upward, his head shaking minutely from side to side. “But I don't have...” Stopping himself as his eyes fixed upon two ragged daggers, thankfully still sheathed, at his undead stalker's side, Scruture retracted, saying “I'm not one of the Goblins in charge of presents.” Taking courage at his gambit, the Goblin continued “the many Goblins of Smokeywood Pastures help out Great-Father Winter to make sure that all of the presents get to all the...um...boys and girls. If there's been an error and someone didn't get what they asked for, it could be any number of the nefarious groups that have been known to meddle with Winter's Veil. I'm sure you heard about the kidnapping of one of the reindeer?”

The outstretched palm moved upward as the Forsaken rubbed his chin, which moved loosely in its socket with each movement of the hand on his dry skin. “Yes, I have a note somewhere about that. Pirates, or dragons, or some sort of tall person. I forget exactly.”

“Yes, yes. Terrible. What you should do, if your quill hasn't been delivered to you, is to start on a hunt to find the awful people who may have intercepted your present on its way to your hands. What do you think?” Scruture waited for an answer, aware of the likely contrast between his heart hammering in his chest and the stillness of his counterpart.

“Oh, I should do that. I still need a quill.” Dayari looked briefly left and then right, staring at no particular targets. “Any idea where my quill was last seen?” Repeating a gesture nearly identical to his previous glances, he stated “Any idea where my quill was last seen?”

“Ah, yes.” A dizzying array of possible locations blurred their way through Scruture's head. He hadn't thought this far ahead in his cobbled together escape plan and the names of towns, near and far vied for attention, leaving him paralyzed, unable to think of a proper answer. He wanted to be far from here, far from the bizarre Forsaken or even that hack Orc who dressed up as Great-Father Winter. The whole thing was too much and to be far away would give him no greater pleasure. Perhaps somewhere with easy gold and the time to spend tinkering idly in a workshop. And then he had it, knew exactly what to say. “Stonard, lost in the swamps no doubt.”

Having looked elsewhere, Dayari returned his unblinking gaze to Scruture. “What did you lose in the swamps?”

“You did! Your blasted quill was lost there. And you should go find it, before it's lost forever. Quickly, please!” The pleading had begun to edge into the Goblin's voice as he swayed, less from alcohol and more from the exhaustion brought on by the feeling that one's life might end momentarily. It was still dark and late enough that there were precious few witnesses to attest to this most ignoble end. Forsaken were known for deadly poisons and not at all known for mercy. If this was to be how he would meet his end, so be it. He had lived a good life, rife with profit and a minimum of unexpected explosions. “Fine, fine: do your worst, I don't care. Just end it, quickly, please!” But, there was no one there. It seemed improbably lucky, but in the midst of his fear Scruture had missed the disappearance of his undead tormentor.

“Hello?” Scruture looked about, not yet ready to believe that he had survived. Death was bound to be incoming from the shadows at any moment. Holding his breath, he walked slowly, his large ears alert for the slightest sound. Approaching his home, he felt tears of relief welling up. He was safe, with any luck the Forsaken would spend the rest of eternity searching for his damn quill. Shutting the door behind him, he carefully locked the door and then, as a second thought, moved a nearby chair to brace against the door. It wasn't much, but it was at least something. The exhaustion felt by Scruture was enough to leave him sleeping where he stood, but one more task was required of him this evening. Sitting down at his modest table, he found a piece of parchment and his own writing quill. Hands slightly shaking, he uncapped an inkwell and, dabbing his utensil in the ink, began to write.

To whom it may concern,

It has been an honor and a privilege to have been gainfully employed by Smokeywood Pastures. I have found the work to be rewarding and greatly profitable. However, it has come to light that this profession is perhaps one I am no longer cut out for and I would like to tender my resignation. I will be collecting my remaining wages on the morrow and setting off for fairer parts, maybe Kezan, for some much needed rest and relaxation. Again, thank you for your employment over the years and I wish you all the best in profit and bargains.

Sincerely,

Scruture Copperpinch

[Arronic]

Have you ever heard of Terry Pratchett?

[Darren Tereos]

Actually I have. In college I read I think one of the Discworld novels (which one I have no idea...it was a while ago). And I've read Good Omens (Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett work). Also seen a few of the live action works that take place in Discworld.

But I considered this piece inspired a bit from Fritz Leiber's Fafhrd and Gray Mouser stories. My brother had introduced me to his work and at the time I was busily devouring their tales at the time of this one's writing. Of course, I think anytime one writes about Goblins, there's ample opportunity for humor.