previously empty building. The reason it had been empty, evidently, was that it was used exactly for occasions like this.
The adventuring party had regrouped quickly, Eric and Grumph spying each other across the sea of short heads. Thistle was still with Grumph, a bloody dagger tucked securely in his boot. Finding Gabrielle had been more difficult. They searched for some time, trying to communicate with the goblins through cross-species charades. Thankfully, one of the non-warriors finally took their meaning and led them into a tent near the center of camp.
Cots dotted the landscape, all filled with beings that had sustained considerable wounds. Most were goblins; however, on the largest bed lay Gabrielle. Several goblins were tending to her: removing her bandages, applying a green salve, and reapplying new bandages. Others were checking her for fever and giving her water. As her friends watched the treatment, one of the goblins noticed the poorly-plugged hole on Grumph’s shoulder and motioned him over. After a few minutes, Grumph had been properly tended to as well. Gabrielle’s treatment, sadly, was not so easy.
Although they wanted to stay by her side, it soon became apparent that being in the medical tent was hindering more than helping. So, with heavy hearts, the three walked out into the camp, found some unoccupied space, and pulled out their bedrolls. It was certainly possible they’d be recaptured in their sleep, but none of them could hold onto such concerns as the weight of a stressful night came crashing down upon them.
Within a minute of lying down, all three were sleeping soundly.
* * *
Thistle knew he was dreaming as soon he opened his eyes. In part it was because he felt entirely lucid, so much so that he could piece together the impossibility of passing out in a goblin camp and awakening in a church. The other part, however, was because he knew this church very well, and he knew with certainty that if he was here, and no one was yelling at him, then it must certainly be a dream.
Carefully, Thistle pulled himself up from the pew where he’d been lying. It was all the same as he remembered: same large ceiling, causing a breeze; same enchanted glass windows, swirling with ever-changing colors, and same dusty rug running up to the pulpit. That was when Thistle realized that something had changed. Instead of a glowing orb surrounded by mist, the symbol of Mithingow, the gnome god, there was a picture of a broom with a dagger tied to the top. This was the symbol of Grumble, god of the minions.
Thistle had no sooner reached this revelation than he saw a male kobold (at least, male if Thistle correctly recalled how to interpret the number of spines atop their head) hop up onto the pulpit from the front pew. He was scaly and orange, though the bits around his knees and elbows were starting to look ashen. His lizard’s head was wide, yet, when it paused to flash a smile, Thistle found it oddly comforting. The kobold walked to the front but didn’t take a place behind the altar. Instead, he moved in front of it and looked directly at Thistle.
“Underwhelmed? It’s okay if you are. I get that a lot.”
“No, nothing like that,” Thistle told him. “Just surprised. It’s not often one dreams of meeting their god.”
“This is a dream, but I think we both know it’s not just happening in your head,” Grumble informed him. “I’ve come to have a talk with you.”
“Forgive my foreboding, but those words rarely mean good things, coming from deities.”
“Well, I guess you’re not wrong,” Grumble agreed. “I’ve come to discuss something, and whether it’s good, or bad, will be up to you.”
“This is about the knife, isn’t it?”
Grumble shook his head. “No, this is about the prayer you said right before you threw the knife. I’m not the most popular god in the pantheon — I’m the first to admit it — but I get my fair share of prayers. ‘Please, don’t let the master beat
The adventuring party had regrouped quickly, Eric and Grumph spying each other across the sea of short heads. Thistle was still with Grumph, a bloody dagger tucked securely in his boot. Finding Gabrielle had been more difficult. They searched for some time, trying to communicate with the goblins through cross-species charades. Thankfully, one of the non-warriors finally took their meaning and led them into a tent near the center of camp.
Cots dotted the landscape, all filled with beings that had sustained considerable wounds. Most were goblins; however, on the largest bed lay Gabrielle. Several goblins were tending to her: removing her bandages, applying a green salve, and reapplying new bandages. Others were checking her for fever and giving her water. As her friends watched the treatment, one of the goblins noticed the poorly-plugged hole on Grumph’s shoulder and motioned him over. After a few minutes, Grumph had been properly tended to as well. Gabrielle’s treatment, sadly, was not so easy.
Although they wanted to stay by her side, it soon became apparent that being in the medical tent was hindering more than helping. So, with heavy hearts, the three walked out into the camp, found some unoccupied space, and pulled out their bedrolls. It was certainly possible they’d be recaptured in their sleep, but none of them could hold onto such concerns as the weight of a stressful night came crashing down upon them.
Within a minute of lying down, all three were sleeping soundly.
* * *
Thistle knew he was dreaming as soon he opened his eyes. In part it was because he felt entirely lucid, so much so that he could piece together the impossibility of passing out in a goblin camp and awakening in a church. The other part, however, was because he knew this church very well, and he knew with certainty that if he was here, and no one was yelling at him, then it must certainly be a dream.
Carefully, Thistle pulled himself up from the pew where he’d been lying. It was all the same as he remembered: same large ceiling, causing a breeze; same enchanted glass windows, swirling with ever-changing colors, and same dusty rug running up to the pulpit. That was when Thistle realized that something had changed. Instead of a glowing orb surrounded by mist, the symbol of Mithingow, the gnome god, there was a picture of a broom with a dagger tied to the top. This was the symbol of Grumble, god of the minions.
Thistle had no sooner reached this revelation than he saw a male kobold (at least, male if Thistle correctly recalled how to interpret the number of spines atop their head) hop up onto the pulpit from the front pew. He was scaly and orange, though the bits around his knees and elbows were starting to look ashen. His lizard’s head was wide, yet, when it paused to flash a smile, Thistle found it oddly comforting. The kobold walked to the front but didn’t take a place behind the altar. Instead, he moved in front of it and looked directly at Thistle.
“Underwhelmed? It’s okay if you are. I get that a lot.”
“No, nothing like that,” Thistle told him. “Just surprised. It’s not often one dreams of meeting their god.”
“This is a dream, but I think we both know it’s not just happening in your head,” Grumble informed him. “I’ve come to have a talk with you.”
“Forgive my foreboding, but those words rarely mean good things, coming from deities.”
“Well, I guess you’re not wrong,” Grumble agreed. “I’ve come to discuss something, and whether it’s good, or bad, will be up to you.”
“This is about the knife, isn’t it?”
Grumble shook his head. “No, this is about the prayer you said right before you threw the knife. I’m not the most popular god in the pantheon — I’m the first to admit it — but I get my fair share of prayers. ‘Please, don’t let the master beat