Gobland

chapter one Solipsia’s Repose Through ice and darkness, focused on singular edge of mind and blade, swung Drake, son of the kingdom’s now lost hero, Eldred. He trained as his father had, in preparation for the moment of his own ultimate trial. Every night and through to the morning was the routine, regardless of the season. Dawn crept over Solipsia, light stealing glances at her beauty. The light, a timid suitor, wiggled exploring fingers through the stark silhouettes of trees and the frost-kissed shrubs below. Shadows clung to snow, as if reluctant to yield their nightly dominion, retreating slowly into gorges and hollows where they would linger. Silence was thick in the waning winter, broken only by breezes slicing past bare branches and snowy pines dripping in icicles. He stood in the small clearing of receding snow, hemmed by old trees stretching toward the heavens like calloused hands seeking solace and warmth from the sun. Loam, sap, and pine permeated his senses, each of Drake’s misty breaths drawing in more frozen essence of Solipsia. Drake’s father had saved the kingdom from goblin aggression. Eldred also developed an entire system for notating fighting forms and battle strategies. The many lessons were always with Drake, “Music notations follow sets of five lines, each set indicating definite separations of vibrancy patterns across a central one, in a spectrum. It is a map of frequencies as distinct moderations, which is little different from what we do with our defensive motions, sword strokes, and strategies. We judge the tension, strength, and timing against the distances, environment, and the actions of our opponents.” Drake was Eldred’s greatest student, passed down as his teachings were, most fervently. Training his sword song through the night prepared him for the coming of the darkness once again, and it was well known to him. Drake was yet hardened beyond his years, as product of his father’s persistent care in upbringing and focus on inner strength first. His face was the frame of resolute determination rather than innocence, the rightful property of his given years. Storm-filled eyes bright beneath brows drawn tight in concentration, the thoughts behind them ever resident and present on this inheritance in deed. Drake’s breath plumed before him like spectral banners of purchased nobility, vanishing into the cold as swiftly as they appeared. In his hands, he grasped his father’s own sword, a relic from an age when heroes walked unhesitatingly towards perilous destinies. The blade bore no adornments save for the scars of battles long past and the patina of time etched deep into its metal. It whistled as he swung, winding a melody through the song of his steely purpose. His grip tightened. The sword moved in arcs against the dawning sky. Each stroke was deliberate and precise. This was a dance honed by countless hours of ceaseless practice. Drake’s body flowed through well-rehearsed patterns, muscles’ memories guiding him as surely as any map for a ship navigator, or sheet music for a conductor. Drake’s blade moved with pure force and imposition upon anything he struck, like fire through ice. With each swing, Drake felt power released from a coiling within, as he had been trained. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the biting cold, tracing paths down flushed cheeks. This was his life, every day without end. He had tried and failed to get others to take this all as seriously as he did, as his father had taught him. Grimness set deeper into his soul as he pushed onward through the pain, “saving it for the rain,” as his father would say. Many questions remained past his father’s mysterious death. A tremendous legacy loomed, a burden wrapped in motivation, entwined tightly. Drake felt compelled ever more to hone himself into a weapon as formidable as the sword he wielded, preparing himself to replicate what his father had done in battle. The whistling crescendo of steel upon wood mingled with the rhythmic crunch of boots against snow and frozen earth. Each motion reaffirmed resolve, every breath fueled the inferno within that scorched away doubts and fears alike. This was meditative ritual as much as exercise and martial forms. His foot slipped on packed ice, a mistake. He was able to correct for it at the last second and land with sword in defensive position, just as trained. He took special pleasure in moderating himself, as his father had taught him. Each end, no matter how small, was an opening to the beginnings of still greater moderation. Each mistake was an opportunity to develop correction. Drake squatted, breathing deeply now. His gaze swept over the clearing, as though to check if anyone had witnessed his foul. He closed his eyes and rehearsed again, avoiding the packed ice that was there this time in his mind as well, before rising and trying again. In moments of stillness like this, Drake invested in himself. He held glimpses of iron will and progress. Thoughts of triumphing over his wicked foes filled his mind. Reflections of his father, in personal visions greater and more embedded than the tales now in bards’ retinues across the land. There were other shadows here too, stranger recollections shared by his father that nipped at these moments in peace. Goblins were gone from Solipsia, banished by the actions of the heroes, yet questions remained which only multiplied with remembrances of his father’s words. “The goblins came from the shadows, boy. Swarming like locusts, darkening the fields. Yet we stood, against the darkness and anything else.” Eldred had said that they would return, as he always knew they were still out there in the larger world. It would take the whole kingdom by surprise. They were forced to wait for evil to rear its ugly head again, instead of preparing for it as a kingdom, pleas falling upon deaf authority. Therefore, “Only action mattered,” as Eldred would often say. Drake’s actions were born of duty and would be finally executed in steel. He resumed the martial dance from memory, sword singing once more. Every fiber of Drake’s being screamed defiance against the creeping dread, each swing was a declaration of intent. The sun ascended higher over Solipsia’s frozen landscape. In Drake’s exertions, his father’s old tales would drift through his mind wildly. He strove towards this as if to capture all remaining warmth from an extinguishing fire, and the last embers of a dying light. Each strike with his sword against wood was a jarring reminder of extreme violence and its results, the steel to eventually meet flesh and bone. The scents filled his lungs, high up there in the mountains. His body burned like a torch, slick with sweat despite the chill. Muscles screamed for respite, but onward he pushed, driven by the ghostly reminders of yesteryear and his father’s truths. His father’s voice resonated in his memory, low and as grave as the tolling of a funeral bell. “Years had passed in peace and people became soft, just like now,” Eldred would say, eyes reflecting distant horrors, “and that darkness crept over Solipsia like a plague then, just as it will again.” Drake often imagined the goblins swarming from shadowy chasms, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. Claws and teeth bared, they descended upon the villages and farms, once golden, now trampled underfoot. “They were all over the entire kingdom. Their war cries and shrieks filled the air,” Eldred’s voice rumbled on, “like the wailing of innumerable banshees.” Drake’s grip tightened on the sword hilt, fingers tracing the worn grooves pressed in by his father’s own fingers before him. He could almost feel the vibrations of battle, heroes clashing against evil. “We fought them back,” Eldred would continue, voice rising with fervor, “however they nearly overwhelmed us many times!” He envisioned those heroes of his father rallying from every corner to bolster defenses. Blacksmiths left their forges, farmers abandoned plows, and scholars set down quills, with nobles donning armor alongside the common folk. Drake’s heart pounded the drum of war as he recalled his father’s descriptions mid-forms, “The ground shook with our charge.” Eyes gleaming with fierce pride Eldred waxed on, “Axes swung wide, arrows rained down like storm clouds unleashing fury.” Drake’s breath hitched as he mimicked the fabled assault, imagining clans upon clans of goblins surging forward. * * * “The princess, heart of Solipsia, held captive within their deepest darkest cave den, became something for the multitudes to rally around in all that chaos,” Eldred’s voice strained as he recounted the rescue efforts, “We stormed their dens,” he would say, “and we did not stop.” The old hero’s words generated vivid images. “And they fell before us like wheat.” Drake felt a shiver down his spine, not from cold but from the weight of his legacy. His father had led them all to victory. Eldred was Solipsia’s man of hope against despair. “If I train you correctly, the battle and camaraderie will shape you further, son. Our swords sang their grim songs as we had trained them to, and as the battle changed us,” Eldred pronounced. Drake’s sword sang out its own song, as he prepared himself ever for the dark days approaching. The old tales were more than history as alive within him, shaping every breath, every movement. “The battle for our lives bound us tighter than any chain,” Eldred had spoken of the heroes’ alliance fondly, “a bond forged in blood and fire, pain and sacrifice.” The sun climbed higher still, its golden tendrils stretching across the forest floor, gilding leaves and bark alike. Most of the shadows retreated, hounded by daylight’s relentless march. Yet within Drake, darkness lingered, as stubborn residue clinging to the corners of his soul. He straightened then, spine as rigid as the ancient oak beside him, resolve ever hardening with every thought and every action. His father’s legacy wasn’t just fame nor stories by the hearth, but duty carved by his father’s own hand into his very soul. Each form in practice added a new verse to his battle song, unvoiced yet unmistakably of Eldred’s inspiration. The fact that his father and the other heroes went unrecognized and mostly ignored by the royalty and authorities in the land infuriated Drake, not just out of loyalty to his father or friends, but out of loyalty for Solipsia itself, as well. It was such a missed opportunity for improved security of the kingdom. Eldred’s wrath had descended like a thunderstorm unleashed upon an unsuspecting valley. The battlefield stretched out beneath the heroes, a churning sea of murderous creatures pierced by the flame of their arson, l*****g hungrily at the sky. His sword had danced. The strokes of his blade carved paths through the seemingly endless masses of goblins. The conflagration roared. Goblins had torched everything. The air was filled with acrid smoke and the grotesque smell of goblin blood. Heroes fought side by side, their voices raised in battle cries. Many dens hid throughout the land, a fine metaphor for the turmoil of goblins. Steel and strategy cut through the goblin ranks, leaving nothing in the wake of Eldred’s heroes. The old warrior moved with a ferocity born of patriotic desperation. His blade swung in trained fluidity. Each goblin felled brought him closer to safety for the kingdom, and so he pressed on, driven by all the lives that depended upon him. His companions duplicated his fervor, their blades carving through foes with similarly grim efficiency. His own cousin, a beast of a man named Edmin, forge-hardened muscles gleaming with sweat and blood, wielded a hammer larger than most men could lift. He crushed many a goblin skull, like overripe fruit, roaring damnation all along the way. Eolande, another cousin yet more distant, was a great hunter who struck down many of the goblin leaders, bowstring relentlessly moving in the direction of strategic goblin deaths. There were many other heroes who helped with the eventual goblin downfall, too many to speak of. Blood flowed like rivers across the battlefields in the heart of Solipsia, soaking into the earth, a crimson quagmire. The stench of death covered everything. The acrid scent of burning flesh was newest, heavy now like the disease and starvation. Eldred’s heart pounded wildly as he hacked through wave after wave of attackers, his vision narrowing to a tunnel focused solely upon Solipsia’s survival. Each moment blended into an eternal nightmare from which there seemed no escape. Gradually, the tide began to turn. Goblins fell in greater numbers, their shrieks of rage gave way to whimpers of fear and, in many cases, the tromping of boots as they fled. The heroes pressed their advantage, relentless in their efforts, and took out every den that could be found. No goblin was spared. Goblins lay strewn across the earth like discarded dolls, twisted forms stark against the pallid grass. Heaps of corpses marked the spots where heroes had made their stands, their sacrifices etched forever in the grim geography. Eldred stood amidst the c*****e, sword arm shaking from exertion and heart heavy with the weight of b****y victory. Eldred surveyed the destruction as he led further search parties seeking out the princess. Cheers rang out in great numbers only after they had found the princess, upon a more thorough inspection of one particular den which had been cleared. The chorus of jubilation seemed almost sacrilegious given such desolation and damage the goblins had done. The solemn murmur rippled through the gathered heroes, long before they gave themselves leeway to celebrate at all. They knew well the price paid for this hard-fought victory… the bloodshed, the lives lost, the scars borne both visible and unseen. Exhaustion, relief, internal celebration, and silence mingled in equal measures. The silence which followed the great upheaval was profound, almost unsettling for many heroes. Eldred went about seeing to his soldiers’ health immediately, honoring the dead, and seeing to messages being sent out for the nearest kin. His march across the land was heavy and quite solemn, hoping for additional survivors or more lost prisoners of the goblins, yet knowing there would be fewer by the hour. On this occasion he was on his way to personally deliver bad news to an exceptionally talented warrior’s widow. “Eldred,” a voice then had called out, “Come see this.” He followed the summons to an injured goblin captured in a particularly deep and remote bunker. He was unlike any they had encountered before. Its skin bore an unusual hue, paler and more human toned than the sickly green of its kin. Its eyes held a glint of intelligence rather than mindless malice, though still soaking in madness. It looked more aged, with too many wrinkles and hair that had gone beyond white and silver into translucent. Eldred knelt beside it to meet it at eye level, locking gaze with the creature. “Who are you?” he asked, “And why do you look different from your kin?” The goblin coughed weakly, and then spoke in a language both strange and familiar, an archaic dialect tinged with the cadences of a Solipsia long past. “Yi hafta years… over others then twine passage,” it rasped, “Yi servine... destruct thee, yim life all.” Eldred had said nothing and just frowned, standing up. The goblin reached for Eldred’s sword then as he stood, which prompted the guard to strike the murderous fiend mortally, though the creature disappeared before they could confirm the fact of it. This encounter left Eldred with questions that gnawed at him until the day he died. These questions would define how he raised his children. The feeling of peace and ease settled upon Solipsia in a quietude that seemed almost too still, the attendant presumptions eventually settling into an unquestionable cement. Through cobblestone streets and over emerald fields, the air hummed with an undercurrent of tranquility. Tavern doors swung open to spill laughter and warmth onto the night air. Within, patrons leaned into one another’s spaces, voices raised in spirited debate or excited discourse. Tattered maps spread on rough-hewn tables by heroes in boast, tracing their clever and courageous paths. Fingertips followed lines inked with daring deeds. Bards recounted all these tales far and wide. Others would eventually come to mock the great reverence held for the heroes, as the fear passed by Solipsia, an ironic testament in itself. Children darted through market squares, sticks clutched like swords, eyes aglow with make-believe battles. “I am Eldred!” a boy called out, swiping his stripped branch through imaginary foes. His companions cheered, taking up cries of “For Solipsia!” and “Death to the goblin hordes!” Their shouts blended with the clatter of blacksmith’s hammers and the bellowing of some nearby cattle. * * * Years had passed. Eldred died in a mysterious incident, which could not be accepted by Drake as accidental. Drake had inspected the felled tree himself, and believed he found evidence of goblin charm magic used at the scene, but he was ignored by the constables as usual. Five years since that event, and not a day went by without the impact of Eldred’s death being felt fully by his son. Shadows lingered in the corners of memory, refusing to dissipate despite good times had with friends nor heroic retellings of the bards. Rumors drifted like smoke from dying embers, carrying particles of ash and doubt. Old women clicked their tongues over laundry basins, voices lowered to barely audible murmurs. “They say not all were slain,” one said. Another nodded solemnly, “Ran away in the fog, more like. T’is a trick of the devil if ever there was.” At least seven matronly voices crooned in united agreement at this pronouncement. Many more, perhaps through optimism, pressure, or ignorance, dismissed such talk as mad ravings, which was just as well since this was the official stance of the crown, ever the more rotating with each new bearer. Still, there were those strange-looking passers-by occasionally stirring unease through the villages. Travelers and merchants from faraway lands with skin tinted an off shade, eyes holding flecks of unfamiliar hue, and very strange facial features were less than uncommon throughout Solipsia as late. They kept to themselves, often speaking little and moving on swiftly, but their presence was enough to rile the locals nonetheless. Many claim these are just foreign tourists, encouraged to visit by the relative peace that Solipsia now enjoyed in its repose. Others disagreed. Taverns had become more packed since those old days, more expensive, and more depressing. Late in the afternoon in the dim recesses of The Drowsy Badger, one particular forest tavern his own father used to meet with friends, Drake sat at a table and chair with a mug of ale. It had been purchased for him by another patron in honor of his father, yet it sat untouched before him. He was the frame of honed strength, with his short two decades of life spent in total dedication to mastering his father’s art and science of fighting. He was lost in thought, as was usual for him. Across from him sat his sister, Telyn, her eyes wide and reflecting the flickering candlelight. “Brother,” Telyn spoke excitedly, though her voice still barely rose above the hum of the surrounding conversations, “you’ve always said this would happen, and now I heard rumor of a goblin g**g escaping a band of constables. You and dad were right all along, I guess,” she said as she scoffed to herself. Drake nodded grimly, gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the tavern walls. He shivered as if chilled by some sudden gust from outside, but it was simply the phantom of old terrors embedded into his blood. Part of it had to be his training calling him back in reaction. Finally, he began to speak, almost at the same time as Telyn, but she deferred and allowed him to continue. “Solipsia celebrated the heroes’ victory,” said Drake. “Bonfires burned, feasts lasted for days, and the monsters were forever gone, you know, and that’s what everyone said. Dad and some others knew something was amiss, though.” His hand curled into a fist. Drake continued, “Joy itself has been robbed, now haunted by what goes unseen. Dad’s battle defined his legacy. It’s the crucible of everything I am. Father raised me in it. It drives me. The lies gnaw at me, sister, and hold my attention more than anything else. How many heirs to the throne have to die before anyone picks up on the fact that not all is well?” Drake’s gaze flicked back to Telyn, her expression mirroring his own turmoil. “Battles change form instead of ending, from the steel and blood then to doubts festering in the dark now. Still I see it bubbling over into the seen. War comes again.” Drake sat with Telyn for a moment, in silence, before continuing, “Everyone thinks the legacy of our father was about triumph. It’s not, it’s vigilance. That’s what put him front and center, Telyn. Primarily, it was always about his watchfulness, which is why they killed him.” Tears formed in his eyes. “Beneath the banners and songs are all the unanswered questions which haunted dad. Even worse perhaps are the unasked questions. I just wish we could be more aware. It is more than strange that we cannot be and are not even allowed to be. You know how father tried with various authorities, and how I have since, but they take me even less seriously than him,” Drake said as he dried his tears. “I’m almost taken more serious by the other heroes and their kin. I don’t mean to complain.” She leaned forward then, voice in a low conspiratorial tone, “I remember he spoke of the way goblins… disappear. Do you recall? He said they could fade away like ‘mist on the morrow’.” A muscle twitched in Drake’s jaw. Memories surfaced against his will, hushed conversations held late at night, Eldred’s voice grave and measured as he shared tales of old conflicts, battles fought long before Drake drew breath. The old hero would speak of goblins slipping away into nothingness, leaving naught but emptiness behind. Hardly ever would he say it around Telyn, though. He pushed his untouched ale back towards Telyn and said, “Indeed, he did. That reminds me, I need to get back to training.” He stood. Telyn watched him go, concern in her expression, as he ducked out into the late afternoon air, tavern door swinging shut behind him. She couldn’t shake the feeling that shadows now moved more swiftly than the flicker of the flame. She needed to get back to take care of their ailing aunt. * * * Beyond the tavern’s walls, Drake stepped into the path, and embrace of the forest gloom along the way. Sunlight filtered from the horizon, dappling the snowy path worn icy, so that it sparkled. He moved with purpose towards his training grounds for the nightly routine, in his clearing high up near the peaks. There, by gnarled roots and ancient stones, Drake continually tested the limits of steel, body, mind, and will. His consistency in practice reminded him of who he was and what he was doing all of this for. His blade whipped through air, carving arcs precise as mathematical equations, his father’s theories of the blade as responsive against the enemy movements guiding every detail. Beneath triumphs lay undercurrents of weakness which escape the many. Vigilance was ignored in preference for celebration, so that truths remained unspoken, which does nothing to change their reality. Warriors, like their battles, are chameleons to new landscapes, and the guise of new foes. As Drake drove blade through phantom resistance, boards, or tree limbs, he knew: the fight for Solipsia’s soul was already beginning. He was fortunate enough to be taught this truth his whole life, even if his father didn’t understand all the details. Each inhale of Drake’s was determined and eager, his breath rapid, lungs burning with extreme effort in this dance of memory and might, pushing him to his edge. It was the primary and most appropriate form of communion he still had with Eldred. Drake cut through the ritualized dances of blade and force, honoring past and manifesting his future actively in each movement. He barely felt the chill, because of the warmth here in aligning his skill with his father’s art. The slipping horizontal sun cast his silhouette in a mosaic of light and shadow familiar to him. Drake’s thoughts always turned inward through these moments. His eyes narrowed, as if peering through the veil of reality. “Life,” Eldred told him many times, “is never truly your own.” The words remained heavy even now. Drake bore the yoke with exuberance. With deliberate slowness, he raised the sword once more. The blade slipped through air, a soft keen sound that harmonized with that wind through the barren tree limbs. Rustlings at the glade’s edge distracted him momentarily, the soft crunch of icy undergrowth yielding beneath familiar footsteps. Telyn emerged out of the evening, a worried expression on her face. Her gaze met his. “Drake,” she began. “King Asteri has been found murdered, and they are blaming the son of a hero.” Drake did not pause in his practice, sword continuing in its relentless movements. “I am not surprised,” he replied, voice steady. “There is no rest for me, Telyn, not until Solipsia stands cleansed of shadows. Yet the shadows grow, and so must we.” “Drake,” she murmured again, pleading now. “You cannot fight this alone, you cannot grow alone. Let others stand beside you, while you still have them to stand beside.” Drake’s teeth ground together as if chewing on an unpalatable truth. “I’ve tried, you know that,” he countered flatly, “they ignored me before, just as much as the king’s men and constables. This current path has always been mine alone to tread, it seems.” Telyn watched him move through familiar motions and knew better than to argue further. “Very well,” she conceded. “We must try to speak to them again, though. Remember, there are those who will stand who might not have before. They are blaming Balnor, son of Donmir, which could have just as easily been Drake, son of Eldred. It could be next time.” Her words echoed through Drake’s mind as he finished the current rotation of forms. He knew well enough that regardless how alone he needed to be in this current situation, the coming path was assuredly not meant to be walked in solitude. Drake stopped his training. Breath slowing, heartbeat steadying, he lowered his sword. Moonlight hit the blade, reflecting back a cold gleam that looked like the starlight above. He stood there a moment longer, surrounded by silence save soft sighs of forest breath, and smiled at Telyn before speaking again, “Maybe you’re right, let’s go take a look at what comes next. Anyway, it’s too late for you to walk home alone.” Then, sheathing the sword, he walked with her on the path back. Solipsia slumbered beneath a gentle snowy shroud only now thawing, dreams stirring restlessly, haunted by the growing obstructions to the fading of light. As they walked, Telyn spoke again, “This path. Hey Drake, do you remember that egg hunt where we smashed heads going for the same one?” She laughed out loud. Drake laughed heartily at the memory, “And you know if either of us had been looking out, it would have never happened!” “If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump its butt jumping, Drake.” Telyn continued to laugh. “The headaches afterward weren’t funny, though.” Drake felt a great deal of gratitude to have his sister at moments like these, and his heart swelled with joy. Although the violent deaths of her natural parents and his father’s adoption of her were certainly not enviable in any way, the events were similar enough to his own losses that they shared in more than simply memories of Eldred. Drake nodded, a soft smile appearing at the corners of his mouth as he gazed ahead. The path before them back then was winding through verdant hills, under shadows cast by the same ancient trees. He recalled their father, Eldred, running to help after the egg hunt incident, as though their lives depended on it. Tears welled in his eyes, and so he put the thought aside quickly, to continue the discussion of fond memories. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and damp earth, a fragrance that always recalled the simpler days of their youth. “Those were the times,” he said, voice low but filled with warmth, “when nothing could touch us.” Telyn’s laughter filled the woods. “Touch us?” she chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “We were invincible, Drake! Or so we thought.” “Dad made us feel invincible,” Drake contributed, as he looked away and ahead. She paused, her expression softening as she turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you remember the summer dad took us to that haunted forest? The one in the foothills he was obsessed with?” Drake’s gaze drifted to the horizon, as if he could see through the miles and years separating them from that long-ago week. “How could I forget?” he murmured. “Whisperwood.” “Yeah, that was it!” Telyn laughed again. “They did whisper!” she exclaimed. “You said they didn’t, but I always felt you were just trying to be brave like dad.” She shivered dramatically, her eyes wide with genuine horror. Drake chuckled, the memories vivid and precious to him. “You were always the braver one, Telyn, always willing to tackle any problem head on.” He looked at her then, his kid sister, now a young woman who had faced continuous loss and pain with resilience, in her persistent youthfulness. “You always charge forward with the same courage as when you were little. Why, even now you’re the one pushing me onward to reach out to the heroes again, and here I am following you.” Telyn’s expression sobered, her laughter fading like the ring of a distant bell. She reached out, gripping his shoulder, “Everything dad said was real, Drake. All of it. Don’t you go getting yourself killed, that’s why I’m pushing. You need people you can trust by your side. This is all going to get worse, and we’re the only ones fully aware of just how bad it will be, it seems.” Drake felt a lump form in his throat, the weight of their shared past pressing down upon him like an ancient stone. He thought of their father. The memories were bittersweet, tinged with the sorrow of loss. “Eldred,” she whispered, the name a prayer on her lips. “He was our rock, wasn’t he? Our anchor in the storm.” Drake just nodded, holding back the tears again. They walked in silence for some time. They were nearly home when their next door neighbor called out to them in the dark, while walking by, “A new king is to be crowned in Solipsia, Duke Gervin they say!” All Drake could respond was, “Oh! Thank you for the news, Gerald!” He did not have anything actually nice to say about the news itself, neither did his neighbor. As they continued home, Telyn whispered forlornly, “Oh no, that’s the duke rumored to have done business with goblins! Right?” Drake merely nodded solemnly, pining inwardly for the sureness that only came with his sword practice. “We do indeed have people to visit. You were right, Telyn.”