Prompt of the Week - Week 163

The tavern was oddly quiet for that time of night.

Sindri had been dealing with this problem for the past several weeks, ever since the local lord had called up a levy and most of his regular patrons were called off to fight in some random war somewhere too far away for him to care. And while he normally would’ve been able to weather this temporary slowdown, his alternative means of income was also severely affected.

He’d heard rumours of why the influx of adventurers had begun to dwindle, though he never bothered to check whether or not these were true. What he knew was that the steady trickle of idiots with too much money and not enough wisdom to know how to spend it had started to dry up, which spelled disaster for his finances. The townsfolk were a constant source of business, sure, but he couldn’t exactly up-charge them a high three-digit percent value and call the watered-down beer “Sindri’s Special” as an excuse… well, not any more at least.

Without rich morons to exploit, and absent the usual flow of locals wanting a warm place to stay after hours, Sindri sat there behind the counter and watched the half-dozen or so souls that had dragged themselves in, amounting to a pitiful amount of sales and not enough effort to justify pretending that he was busy.

He needed to find out what was happening.

Putting down his conspicuously clean rag and patting down his apron, the elf walked out from behind the counter, attracting maybe a couple of glances as he took the stairs into the basement. There, he slid open a section of the stone wall, recovered a small steel lockbox, and procured just enough coinage to get at least one of his clients that night to start talking; something of a waste, given the circumstances, but he reframed it as an investment in future-proofing.

Once upstairs again, it was a matter of finding the most foreign-looking patron he had in there, which, given the presence of the dwarf stonewarden sitting alone at a table with a gargantuan slab of stone he called a shield on the floor next to them, was… exceedingly easy.

He walked over, knowing he didn’t have to care or concern himself about appearances; this was his establishment, and he’d ask questions if he damn well wanted to. The gold was really just to help smooth out introductions, though, given the expression on the dwarf’s face when he sat down next to them, Sindri began wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have grabbed more coins.

“If yer here to sell me more o’ that swill-”

“No, not at all,” the elf immediately cut through, ending that line of discussion before it had the chance to blow up all other avenues, “I just wanted to ask you something, if that was alright?”

The dwarf nodded and grunted, but said nothing, burying his head in that bowl of oatmeal he’d been struggling with for the past ten minutes. Sindri figured this was his cue to get a foot in the door.

“So, I’ve noticed things have been hectic out there.”

“Aye.”

“And I’ve also noticed that less of you adventuring sort were passing by as well.”

“… aye.”

“… would you happen to know why that is? We get a lot of rumours, of course, but those are just that, and one can hardly be expected to trust everything one hears from passers-by.”

The dwarf sighed, putting down his spoon and shoving the bowl a good foot in front of him, almost spilling its contents. When he looked back up, what Sindri saw wasn’t annoyance, or anger, or even frustration.

It was awe.

***

It was actually uncanny how no one in their regiment had any idea how to tie a good knot. Given how most of them had come from farming stock, or otherwise rural folk who worked the fields most of their lives, this felt statistically unlikely.

And yet, as they all struggled to tie that damned flagpole down, all they could think about was their sergeant’s stare drilling through the back of their head, the man’s desire for murder heightening for each second his troops made a mockery out of him and his lord’s colours.

Of course, no one really thought much of what they were doing; it was just a flag, and not even a pretty one at that. For most of them, it was a flag they’d all seen every day, flapping around the top of their lord’s castle looking like a misshapen abomination, nothing like an actual bear. But there, in the trenches, it was apparently a symbol of utmost pride, one that had to be handled with the greatest care possible for… whatever reason.

For most of them, the fact they were even there was confusing to begin with. There was no war going on, at least none that they were aware of; their lord hadn’t become involved in a succession dispute, and neither did their lord’s lord, or that lord’s lord. There was peace, albeit one maintained through a level of taxation one would consider somewhat excessive, but that was a problem for the next harvest.

So why were they in the mud, digging holes and preparing to face off against a “great enemy unlike any you have seen”? Where was this enemy? The scouts had reported no army, only vague inklings of a “great monster” lurking the edges of their encampment, apparently getting ready to strike; utter hogwash as far as most of the soldiers were concerned, especially since the “scouts” were all the biggest brown-nosers that army could find, rather than any one of the thousands of eager volunteers that actually knew their surroundings like the back of their hand.

Still, sergeant said raise the flag, so raise the flag they did… until they heard a horn blowing in the distance.

They all knew what that meant: the enemy had been sighted, and had gotten close enough to them to spring an ambush! The worst case scenario, prompting such a calamitous and panicked rush that several people were downed before they had the chance to grab their weapons or armour, left unconscious in the mud as all the others tried in vain to avoid stepping on them as they ran towards the enemy formation.

But, for those lucky few who came close enough to where this enemy army was supposed to be coming from, they would find that they were not, in fact, tackling a conventional opponent. No, when they saw that great and looming form, that gargantuan gut splayed out in front of it, and how it seemed to be able to single out the leadership from the footsoldiers and sweep them up with uncanny speed, they knew.

This was something special.

***

Vern had lived in and around those woods for years by the time she was hired as a scout, mostly on account of being a wood nymph than any amount of actual skill. She didn’t complain; money was money, and getting the humans off her back was fine enough payment on its own. Besides, the fools wanted her to tell them whenever she saw an enemy army pass through, as if any commander worth their salt would ever try and march their army through the Gloomwood.

Not that she mentioned any of this, of course. If her employers were too stupid to understand basic logistics, it really wasn’t her responsibility to remind them of it.

As expected, nothing really happened for several days afterwards. She would glide through the trees, occasionally stopping to have a nap or two, ask the other nymphs whether they saw anything of worth, get the same answer as always (“Naught but the wind, sister”), then report to that man in the shiny bucket armour to tell him nothing was afoot. Money provided, humans placated, and she could go back to her all-too important periods of lazing about.

Until that day.

She was still, hovering a foot off the ground. Vern had been doing her rounds when she saw something off the corner of her eye that prompted her whole body to freeze and shut down; an instinctive response, she came to understand, rather than a logical one. She wasn’t in control there: her body had (correctly) identified a predator, and had picked the third option between fight or flight; she wanted to move, wanted to force her limbs to take her anywhere other than where she was at that exact moment, but unfortunately, all those limbs did was hang down, pulled by gravity as if weighed by chains, leaving her to watch as that thing approached her.

Vast. Noisy. Thundering. Hungering. A ravenous, slavering beast with a mouth as big as a full grown human and claws so powerful they could tear trees from their roots. A belly of such portent that its mere presence invoked sublime awe, and a form so bloated that it was a wonder it could move at all… yet, still it bore down on her, reaching out with a paw so massive that Vern found herself surrounded on all sides by warm fur, and a surprisingly soft pad.

It was paradoxically comfortable, given that she was being pulled closer and closer to the gaping maw of a creature that would surely devour her if she did nothing. Maybe it was why her body chose that, of all times, to snap out of her frozen state, her mouth shooting open as well in a loud cry:

“I’m just being paid to check the forest! I’m not with the humans!”

The descent halted. The beast’s mouth slowly closed, their head tilting so as to make eye contact with their prey. When they spoke, their voice was soft, far too much for someone of that size, and carried enough strength that Vern felt herself quiver before each word.

“Then point me towards them.”

***

Run.

Keep running.

Armour’s been discarded. You can always buy more. You can’t buy yourself out of a stomach.

Keep running.

Something is gaining on you. She is gaining on you. She shouldn’t; too big, too fat, too large, yet, faster than you, faster than your ranger, stronger than your warrior, resistant to anything and everything your mage could throw at her.

Now only you.

You knew you shouldn’t have taken this contract. You knew you should’ve listened when your partner told you that this was the one who’d taken on a whole army and won without a scratch. You could handle it, you had thought to yourself, you can employ tactics unlike those buffoons who called themselves generals and commanders. You could exploit their weaknesses like others couldn’t. But, most of all, you could trust in the competence of your most trusted companions, who’d been with you for years of dutiful service to your lord.

Now nothing but gnoll fat, churning away in the belly of some great beast wearing the skin of something you could vaguely recognise.

Turn le-

A bright light. A sense of sharp, stabbing pain. Stars erupting in your eyes. Your head, smashing against the floor, knocking all sense of direction out of you.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

You could hear her footsteps getting closer, the gurgling and sloshing of her belly becoming louder. You didn’t want to hear it; you could swear you could hear them in there, begging to be let out. But you had to move, you had to run; your lord had to know just what he was dealing with, and if you didn’t get there in tim-

“There you are~”

You felt something grab you by the scruff of the neck, followed by all sense of physicality around you vanishing. You were pulled up, into the air, then turned around to come face-to-face with your quarry, her eyes piercing through yours and all-but worsening the pounding headache from you slamming into that wall.

“I expected better from you. A paladin, in service of a tyrant like Mogador?”

You wanted to reply. You wanted to tell her that Lord Mogador was a visionary, someone who could see past the petty squabbles of the nobility and bring the kingdom to a prosperous future, someone who understood the value of necessary sacrifices, and knew better than to think them unnecessary. Someone with the moral fibre to make the decisions that needed to be done, with nary a moment’s hesitation.

But you couldn’t, because you could barely breathe, let alone talk.

“I gave him every chance to step down. I even assisted in the transition of some of his outer fiefdoms when the freefolk revolted. And yet, I find him sending assassins after me. How quaint.”

“Cease… p-prattling… b-beast” – you immediately regretted saying this, given that it only made the gnoll cackle loudly enough for your eardrums to nearly burst.

“Prattle, sure. Listen, I’ve already filled up on your party, so why don’t I just strip you down, break your shield and sword, and have you scurry along to your lord like the good little oathbreaker you are? Maybe then you’ll do some good and tell him to listen to his advisors.”

“And what if… I don’t?”

She smiled.

Her mouth opened wide.

And you would go down knowing you were true to your lord to the very end.

***

“My Lord, with all due respect-”

“If you’re going to tell me to surrender, you may as well be quiet.”

“Not surrender, My Lord, but perhaps consider the demands of the peasantry?”

“Which is doing what, Severius?” – he sighed, his fingers sinking into the wooden tabletop upon which the many campaign maps were placed – “If I listen to one group of farmers, then the next one will start making demands, then the next, then the next, and when you know it, we’ll have a full-scale revolt on our hands, and the buffoons I call vassals will be worth next to nothing!”

“Sir,” Severius insisted, “we already have a revolt taking place. It’s far past the point we consider we may be losing.”

“Losing to WHAT?!” Lord Mogador shouted, his voice cracking on the last word, “To a lardass gnoll with a devourment charm?!”

“To one of the most accomplished adventurers the realms have ever seen, My Lord” – for all that Severius tried to remain calm, the advisor could only do so much before such obstinate ignorance – “A title that only seems to grow as much as she does, considering her aptitude for eliminating the upper echelons and leaving the common folk well enough alone.”

“And what of Ser Dorden, then? What of my most loyal knight?”

“Your knight was an oathbreaker, My Lord, and hardly the model of good behaviour, as I was wont to tell you multiple times.”

A line was crossed.

Lord Mogador did not rise from his position, leaning onto the war table, but his head did swivel to stare directly at his most “trusted” advisor, who, for their part, knew better than to say anything else. Silence fell between the two of them, as the great tyrant went through a dozen possible replies in his head before settling on simply remaining quiet, stewing over the punishment he would hand out later.

But for the time being-

“Leave me. I will send for you later.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

Not another word was exchanged, and the room was soon left empty of all but its lord, who with all his might stopped himself from turning the table over and screaming in frustration. All of his plans, ruined by some upstart dog creature with a hungry streak, all of his carefully laid-out machinations left broken and bare by some pretend freedom fighter off to tell the peasants they had rights, of all things.

And him, alone, in his war room, all of his generals and all of his commanders and now Severius made to leave him be, after failing to produce anything of worth to combat this threat. Nothing but surrender, surrender, surrender, as if he was going to give up to some ball of lard whose main form of combat was eating up whoever was slow enough to be caught!

He was the Lord Mogador, He Who Bore Flame, Commandant of the Maelstrom of Mount Trasque, Lord-Commander of the Gloom, Warden of t-

Stomp.

The table shook, the many pieces on it rattling out of place. He was halfway through the process of putting them back where they were before he realised why he had to do that to begin with, his spine freezing over in the process.

Stomp.

Distant shouting preceded the city bells starting to ring, alerting the guards that a threat was approaching. He did not receive reports of any army, for there was none, but neither was he told that the damned gnoll was anywhere close to him; he needed more time, he needed more space to figure out how to deal with her, this wasn’t in the plans, this-

STOMP.

It was closer. Measurably closer, actually; everything in the room jumped an inch off the floor, and even he nearly tripped over from how strongly he felt that step, for he knew it was her stepping closer, coming closer. He didn’t want to, but his legs rushed him to the nearest window, his eyes opened wide against his command, and his face turned so he could watch.

Watch how there, in front of him, at the head of a host comprised of every “liberated” army of his, was something that used to be a gnoll: Zura, the great adventuress-turned-”hero”, whose exploits had “inspired” all of his subjects to cast off the “yolk” of his glorious rule. There, now made into a gargantuan, living siege engine, a mountain of fat and blubber that should be barely mobile, yet, managed to remain ahead of their personal army.

There to take him.

There to depose him.

And for all that he wanted to, Lord Mogador could not move.

For he knew that he was up next on the menu.