Bottomless [Chapter Three]

The interior of the eatery, named simply 'Pig Feed', was a sloppy place. Where the common races sang and cheered over tales of great adventurers of battles, here the goblinkin screeched and roared over battles lost. Goblinkin were the type of people who'd slit your throat because of a dirty look. Skrog hated the port district but he needed food and figured his chances of getting it were greater here than in the other districts. 

The screeching was sombre and the smacking of lips as the patrons devoured their food filled the eatery with a savage kind of urgency. Skrog made his way to the bar, trying to ignore the dirty looks from the goblins he passed. When he stopped in front of the bar an old hobgoblin woman stood with a hunched back on the other side.

"What'dya want?" She asked in a shrill voice. 

Skrog looked behind her and saw hobgoblin workers slaughtering cattle and various types of birds. Then they'd toss the usable bits to another set of workers who were frying them. Skrog's mouth watered.

"I'll take as much as this will get me." He said and handed her a silver coin. He noticed a goblin near him eyed it greedily. Skrog turned his back to the goblin. Then he felt a thin bonelike hand press against his shoulder. The hand turned him around. 

The greedy eyed goblin stood in front of him with a shiv made of filed down bone in his hand. Skrog straightened. This was not going to end well.

"You gotta lot a coin don'tcha, HALF BLOOD?" The goblin asked in a western dialect of goblintongue. It was a vile language to begin with, but this dialect made Skrog disgusted. "Give 't up."

The greedy eyed goblin waved a hand toward himself, ordering Skrog to toss him his coin purse. The other still clenched the shiv tightly. Skrog glanced at the old hobgoblin, but she had stepped backward and was surrounded by the workers. Each of them looked at Skrog with the same greedy look as the goblin.

"I just want my feed for the day." Skrog said in his southern dialect. That seemed to upset the goblin.

"Didn't ya 'ear me!?" His voice started to rise in both pitch and volume. "Give up th' coins!"

Skrog glanced around the eatery and saw that other goblinkin were on their feet and nearly all of the patrons were looking at him like he was their next meal.

Skrog raised his hands, one with the rosewood staff in hand, and said as politely as he could,

"I don't want any trouble." He took a step backward and bumped into something hard. He glanced up and saw an orc behind him. 

He heard movement in front of him.

He looked forward.

The goblin lunged at him.

The shiv darted toward him.

Instinct kicked in.

Skrog extended his free arm and grabbed hold of the goblin's wrist. He swung himself into the goblin's body so that the goblin was now behind him. He guided the goblin's shiv into the orc. It slid into his stomach gracefully.

The orc roared.

Skrog saw the orc's left arm move. He ducked as the massive arm swung at him. The goblin wasn't so observant. Skrog heard the bones in the goblin's face shatter as the orc's fist connected with it. The next thing Skrog heard was the goblin slamming into a table next to them.

Skrog pressed his staff against the ground and flipped himself over the bar. He felt the wind of another orc arm pass narrowly by him. He landed on the side where the old hobgoblin woman was standing. 

The instant his feet hit the ground he was running.

He saw the entrance and bolted for it. He heard feet slapping against the wet floor behind him. His heart was in his throat and his veins felt like they pumped fire. The door seemed to be forever away, but he ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

He saw another orc stand in the entrance and fold its arms. Skrog didn't slow his pace. He shoved his free hand into his leather pouch and grabbed the only vile in it. He chucked the vile at the orc. As the orc extended its arms to grab it Skrog swung his staff. Just as the vile landed in the orc's hands Skrog's staff crushed into them. 

There was a flash of light.

There was a sonic boom.

And in that instant the orc flew backward into the street. He skidded against the wet and eroded cobble stone until he smashed into a neighboring fishery building. He didn't quite break the iron walls of the fishery, but he dented them something fierce.

Skrog didn't stop running until the had reached the center district.

-Jestro

Bottomless [Chapter Two]

Skrog approached what appeared to be a dilapidated three story shack in the center district of Hamwall. It resided on the main street and attracted quite a lot of business. The old man sold various types of nonmagical herbal remedies, all of which were purchased eagerly by the city folk.
The front portion of the shack was like a small shop, it had shelves filled with vials that ascended from the floor to the ceiling. Inside the place smelled of a variety of different herbs and spices. Skrog was sometimes taken aback by the intensity of the smell, but not exactly the smells themselves.
The back door was where Skrog entered. It was made of solid mahogany and fortified with massive iron railings. A rusted iron bolt lock kept the door sturdy. Skrog slid it off the door and opened it. In the back the smell was fainter, but still intense after being outside on the streets of Hamwall. Skrog closed the door behind him and walked up the first flight of stairs. His footsteps were heavy as he climbed them.
"You made it back alive." The old man said with a rough chuckle as Skrog entered his laboratory. The room looked like a library with an assortment of strange devices for making potions in the center. The walls were stacked with tomes and rolls of parchment in every language Skrog could read and hundreds more in languages he couldn't. He walked toward the old man and set his pouch on a desk.
"That isn't funny, old man." Skrog said with sincerity. "I could have been killed."
"But only if you had been a patron once prior." The old man said as he walked toward the pouch.
"But why have me go to a place like that to begin with? Would it not have been easier for me to find the mint in the bazaar?" Skrog threw his hands in the air.
"Why didn't you?" The old man asked with a child like honesty to his voice.
"I-I-I don't know! Y-y-you told me t-t-t-to-"
"That's quite alright, Skrog." The old man hushed the half-goblin. "You know I can't stand that nervous stutter of yours." He lifted the pouch and turned it upside down. The contents fell onto the desk. Skrog let out a sigh.
"But this is the best mint in all of Hamwall. And the mint is the most essential part of this particular potion." The old man began to rummage through the haul. "And sometimes its better to go through the hardships of finding the best than to go through nothing at all for something mediocre."
"I suppose you're right." Skrog said as he leaned against a nearby desk. The old man touched one of the troll teeth and turned to Skrog, confused.
"What are these doing in here?" He asked.
"They were on your list." Skrog replied.
"Were they?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my!" The old man began to laugh. "I had intended for Vola to acquire them for me."
"But you know she hates cemeteries!" Skrog shouted.
"The mystery of how the troll teeth ended up on your errand list has been solved then, my boy." The old man lifted up the two silver coins in the haul on the table and tossed them to Skrog. "Here."
"Wha?" Skrog clumsily caught the coins.
"Consider them a bonus, for being such a good errand boy." The old man snatched up the mercury and the mint and waddled toward one of his strange machines. "I never thought you'd actually go to Sky Hook's. I'm proud of you."
Skrog felt a strange feeling in his heart, as if some kind of delicate hands were tugging on the strings that held it in his chest.
"Now get out of here before I reconsider that raise and get yourself something to eat." The old man said to Skrog. He snapped out of his sentimental moment of silence and adjusted himself.
"You're right." He replied. "I'm starving." Skrog started walking toward the stairs. He turned back to face the old man. "What time should I be in tomorrow?"
"Oh, let's make it day break." The old man said with his face pressed up against a machine with glass tubes protruding out of it and steam slowly streaming out of them. Skrog waved to the old man and left his shack, locking the back door as he went.

The roads in Hamwall were still a bit more empty than normal due to the rain, but the skies were letting up and more and more people began to fill the streets. Skrog wore the robe and colors of the old man, when he asked him about it once the old man replied,

"The robes of an apothecary are a symbol of healing. Like all Mages, we serve a purpose. Now my healing may not be one performed with majik, but it is still a form of healing. People will seldom forget a healer, regardless of their race."

Skrog would often replay this bit of advice in his mind from time to time. These were tough streets and the level of hatred between the goblinkin and the common races was still very high, even though the Great Goblin War had been over for nearly two decades. When he began working for and studying under the old man, Skrog had asked for a weapon.
"I'd feel much safer on these errands with a weapon on my person." He told the old man.
"Yes, indeed." He replied and walked into a pantry. When he returned he held a slender staff made of rosewood. Skrog's heart dropped.
"Is this it?" He asked when the old man handed it to him.
"Absolutely, my boy." The old man's demeanor changed. "A mage must never look menacing. We are healers, let the warriors radiate fear with each step."
Skrog examined the staff and the old man continued.
"You are, no doubt upset with this, Skrog. But let me tell you something my master had taught me when I was in your position." The old man sat on a nearby stool in the workroom and removed a pipe from his robe. "Every weapon has a name. When you've used the weapon long enough it will tell you its name; and not in the sense that it gets a voice and speaks it to you, but in the sense that suddenly a name will pop into your mind and it will just seem right."
The old man lit his pipe and sucked on the bit until the embers in the bowl were a bright orange. He inhaled deeply and exhaled a long stream of smoke that wafted around the room.
"Once the weapon has told you its name you will be bonded to it and the weapon will protect you. No matter the weapon, you will be more powerful than someone not bonded to their weapon."

So with his rosewood staff in hand and the robes of the old man Skrog made his way to an eatery in the port district. Hamwall was built on a peninsula and the ports were where it made most of its income. The goblinkin resided in the port district because they were the laborers and they didn't seem to mind the smell of dying fish and salt water.
The smell got worse the closer he got to the ports and the languages changed from the tongues of men, dwarves and elves to goblins, orcs and hobgoblins. The streets here were more crowded than in the center district, the goblinkin cared little for rain or the slug on the cobblestone. In fact, many would say it reminded them more of their homelands than any other part of the continent. For Skrog, it reminded him of his terrible childhood; killing so he wouldn't be killed, stealing so he wouldn't starve. It was a life he wanted to leave in his past and forget forever, but the green of his skin and the sound of his voice would never let onlookers forget and because of that, he would never forget.


But there was a rumble in his stomach and soon that was all he could think about. So Skrog followed his nose to the nearest source of cooking meat.

-Jestro

Bottomless [Chapter One]

The old man couldn't have picked a worse day to send Skrog on this errand. The clouds hung low and the dew dripped heavily from them making the already putrid stench of the bazaar that much more powerful. Days like today the common races were huddled inside their shelters away from the rain. Inside Skorg could hear cheering from happy patrons at the pub as a bard praised visiting adventurers.
The streets were nearly empty today, the only humanoids on them were the lower races. So Skrog did not feel out of place as he walked along the uneven cobble stone roads. The poor excuse for sandals he wore on his feet did little to keep his dark green feet off the wet stones. On occasion he would slip, just a bit, when he stepped on a vile greasy patch.
Two silver and a grocery list were all the old man gave him.
One pound of dried rosemary
Three pounds of black cat fat
Ten ogre teeth
Half a pound of mint
Two dried chicken heads
One cyclops eye
One ounce of mercury

Skrog put the list in his leather pouch, inside he had five of the seven items on his list. The ogre teeth were the most difficult thing so far. Never again would he go into an Ogre cemetery. His arms would be sore tomorrow from all that digging. All that was left were the half a pound of mint and the ounce of mercury.
The old man was a hard ass, to be sure, but he made life as easy for Skrog as it could be. Life wasn't particularly easy for anyone of mixed blood and Skrog learned that the hard way until he met the old man.
"Go to the holy temple of Asward for the mercury. They use it as a holy offering to the metal god. They drink from it, and in time its said they can have visions. But for now," The old man told Skrog before he departed. "just get the ounce of it."
"How much will it cost?" Skrog replied.
"Possibly just a confession, or type of offering to Asward." The old man said.
Skrog saw the temple of Asward and approached it.
On the outside it looked like any other human structure, strong and sturdy, built of wood and stone. It was decorated with the vibrant blue of the metal god and bore his holy symbol. The image of an axe. Skrog came to the building's opening, just an open doorway covered by a blue sheet. It was a way of showing that all were welcome should they choose to enter.
Skrog pushed the sheet aside and politely made his way inside. It was crisp and warm inside the small entryway. The floor was made of impressively lacquered oak panels and the walls were solid marble. Just before him stood a monk wrapped in blue robes.
"Welcome to the house of Asward, brother." The monk spoke.
"Umm." Skrog began. "M-m-may I-I-I." He paused and adjusted himself. It was uncommon for strangers, especially humans to be so polite to him. "Apologies. May I have an ounce of mercury?"
The monk turned and began walking further into the temple. Skrog wondered if he had offended the monk and quickly followed him.
"I beg your forgiveness, monk. I-I-I work for the old apothecary in the center of the city and h-h-h-he asked me for an ounce of-" He was cut off when the monk turned around to face him.
"Your reasons for our divine liquid are your own, and we needn't a detail. We give all our brothers and sisters whatever Asward can give."
"Really?" Skrog was shocked, maybe he could keep the two silver after this job was done.
"We ask only that you make a simple offering to him." Then the monk turned around again, deeper into the temple.
The ceiling rose several dozen feet higher making Skrog feel tiny. There were no windows in the massive one roomed temple, just long banners of blue and white that hung from the walls. All along the oak floors rested monks in similar robes as the one Skrog followed although the hue of each carried from a soft pale blue to a deep ocean blue. Each of the monks lie crouched with their heads on the ground resting just next to their knees. They rocked back and forth and would occasionally rise upwards and lift their arms to the heavens.
The first monk had reached the other side of the temple and Skorg hurriedly followed. He noticed that the monk stood next to an ornate fountain that flowed a shiny silver liquid from it.
"Now, brother." The monk began. "An offering must be given in order to receive Asward's holy liquid."
"Okay, what kind of offering?" Skrog asked.
"An offering of blood or flesh." The monk said flatly.
"My blood?" Skrog asked. The monk nodded and turned to face the fountain. When he turned back he held a decorative dagger.
"Place your hand above the alter and grasp the blade firmly. Gravity will take care of the rest." The monk spoke. Then he handed the dagger to Skrog.
Skrog didn't know what to do but he took the dagger. This was not the first time he'd held a dagger, nor would it be the last time. But he still felt uneasy.
"Breathe evenly, my brother." The monk said calmly. He gently grasped Skrog's wrists and lifted them above the alter. It was majestic and humbling at the same time. It wasn't a gaudy alter with decorative charms, just a simple bust of Asward atop a column. Below it was a pool of water with small silver fish swimming in it.
"Now grasp." The monk said. Skrog obeyed and lightning sting of the blade dug into his left palm and dropped the blade into the water.
"Oh, no! I-I-I'm sorry!" Skrog said in a panicked voice.
"Be calm, my brother." The monk assured him. "For this in not the first dagger to be lost in offering." The monk turned to the small mercury fountain and waved his hand to it. "Your offering is accepted, now be blessed with the metal god's gift." Skrog removed an empty one ounce vile from his leather pouch and dipped it into the mercury. When he removed it and put a cork in the top the monk was facing him.
"Here you are, brother." He extended a blue wrap. "For you hand." Skrog bowed to the monk and wrapped his hand.
"Uh, thank you very much." He said and turned to leave.
"Brother." The monk called to him softly. Skrog turned back.
In front of him the monk held a scroll.
"These are the teachings of Asward, please read them and return to us. We can be a place of safe haven for you. For I imagine there are few for your kind in this city." Skrog took the scroll and put it in his leather pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He bowed again, thanked the monk and left.
"I am never doing anything like that again, old man." Skrog said to himself when he was outside again.

The last item on the old man's list was the half a pound of mint. No big request, so to speak.
"The half a pound of mint should be obtained at Sky Hook's Tavern." The old man told Skrog prior to his departure. "They brew the most divine minted ale. You really should try it."
Skrog shrugged the idea off. There was no way he'd be able to purchase ale at a tavern like that. It was a common race tavern and Skrog knew to stay away. However, Skrog respected the old man and knew he'd never send him someplace that was too dangerous.
Before he knew it he was standing outside Sky Hook's Tavern. He hadn't noticed until his feet just naturally stopped. He had hoped it would have taken longer, to delay the inevitable. But he was here. So he stepped toward the door.
Sky Hook's Tavern had been established after the great Goblin war that raged between the common races and the goblinkin for decades as a form of celebrating the common race victory. But the prejudices still ran strong in this country as well as the surrounding ones.
Skrog took a deep breath and entered.
The sound hit him first. Sky Hook's Tavern was loud with bardic music and boisterous chanting of drinking songs in human tongues. There was clattering of mugs slamming against one another and the occasion thud when one landed proudly on a table. Skrog had never drank socially, there weren't any pubs or taverns who'd serve him. So if he drank, which he rarely did, it was with the old man to celebrate one of his human holidays.
The warmth hit Skrog next. Sky Hook's Tavern was a wet hot kind of warm that happens when too many people are crammed into a small space together. It was a nice feeling and made Skrog feel comforted. That was all meaningless when he approached the barkeep whose back was turned away from him.
"E-e-excuse me, sir?" Skrog tried to make his voice as loud as it could be despite the fear that was rising within him. The barkeep turned around slowly. He had a rag in one hand and a mug in the other.
"Yeah, what'dya-" Then he saw Skrog and his grasp of the mug went limp. "What in the name of!?"
It was then that the entire bar just happen to fall silent. The gaze of the patrons all shifted in Skrog's direction.
"A goblin!" Someone in the crowd shouted in disbelief.
"What business do you have here, creature? We don't serve your kind." The barkeep shouted.
"I-I-I am on an errand for-"Skrog began but was soon cut off by a clammer from behind the barkeep. The barkeep turned slightly but he never shifted his gaze from Skrog. Behind him was a door that could have easily been missed, it was made from the exact same wood as the rest of the bar. It had no frame and the handle was a very small metal grip that resembled a leaf.
The door swung open and a giant of a man stepped through.
"A goblin! In MY bar!?" The words shot from his bearded mouth like fire. His face was cracked with age and his hair had long since gone white. He was a man well into his last years, however his frame was still a massive thing to behold. He peered over the bar and saw Skrog. He looked him up and down and then his brow turned sour. He turned to the barkeep.
"Is this the goblin, Fen?" The giant man raised a finger and pointed it at Skrog.
"Yeah, sir." The barkeep replied.
"Did you fight in the Great Goblin War?" The giant man asked.
"N-no, sir!" Fen replied. The entire room was breathless, watching the exchange.
"No, I don't suppose you did." The giant man turned back to face Skrog. "I, on the other hand, did."
The giant man leaned forward toward Skrog.
"I daresay I may have killed hundreds of goblins, hobgoblins, orcs and even trolls." Skrog's hands began to shake. "They are vile, sickening creatures with no sense shame!"
Skrog wanted to flee. Maybe he still could, just turn and bolt for the door. It wouldn't have been the first time he was chased out of a tavern. Then the giant man stood up straight.
"Give the poor creature what it wants and let him on his way." He said to the barkeep.
"Sir?" The barkeep replied.
"I pity you, boy. You seem about the right age. You were born during the war, weren't you?" He was talking to Skrog.
"Y-y-yes, sir. During the last years."
"That sounds right." There was a deep sadness in the giant man's eyes. "Fen, do as I say. Give this boy his drink."
"He only asked for mint, but sir, why?" Fen was confused. "We don't serve goblinkin."
"Was your mother human, boy?"
"Yes, sir." Skrog replied sheepishly.
"Then out of respect for her you will get this one admittance into my tavern. But let it be known, if you should enter again, I, Sky Hook the Mighty Claw of Woncehall will strike you as dead as if you were your raping father." The giant man brought his face close to Skrog's. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir." Skrog replied "Very clear." Then Sky Hook stood up again and faced Fen.
"The mint, Fen."
"A half-goblin?" Fen replied in shock. "But how did you know?"
"One of the more haunting traits of goblins are their heads and pointed ears. As bald as eggs, they are." Then Sky Hook looked at Skrog. "Is this one bald?"
Fen, as well as the entire tavern looked at Skrog, he was not bald. He had black matted hair that wasn't very long, and a short curly beard that grew in patches along his face.
"But the most haunting thing about a goblin are their beady red eyes. Those eyes still haunt my dreams."
Fen gazed into Skrog dark brown eyes. They were still the size of a full blood goblin, larger in proportion to the rest of their face, but very humanly brown. Beyond those two differences, the only other thing that set Skrog apart from a full blood goblin was his height. He was about as tall an average human. Full blood goblins were, in general, the size of halflings or gnomes; typically the size of human children.
Sky Hook turned and headed through his door and left the bar. There was coughing and murmurs from the crowd but within a few seconds the roaring and cheering continued as if nothing had happened. Fen hadn't taken his gaze off Skrog until a loud thud was heard in the crowd. It was then that he snapped to.
"How much mint did you say?" He asked.
"Half a pound, sir." Skrog replied.
"No, its fine." Fen replied as he turned to fetch the mint. He lifted a jar from beneath a floor cupboard. "You are my elder, all things considered." Then he turned back around with a wad of mint leaves in his hand. Skorg extended his hand with the two silver pieces in it. Fen drew his hand out to take them then reconsidered.
"That's quite alright, sir." He said. "Enjoy the mint."
And with that Skrog left Sky Hook's Tavern. He could;t be sure if it was the smell of the alleyway or something else, but his eyes began to water as he headed back to the old man's hut.

-Jestro

The Book Without Eyes [Chapter One]

How sure can I be, that as I recount the events that brought us here that you will make a better choice than I did? I don't see myself as someone who is insane, in fact, I don't see any change in myself at all. This is of course disregarding the physical manifestations brought on by the exposure to the horrors lurking behind my walls. But as far as the thoughts in my head, I find them just as solid and faithful as any other time in my life.

"I have a delivery here." The voice behind my door boomed.

"Just leave it and go." I thought, but I would dare never speak such a thing.

"Come on, man! I know you're in there!" The voice boomed again. "I heard your floorboards creak!" Its a lie, I've stayed perfectly still since he first knocked.

"Dude, you gotta sign or you can't have the package!" The voice called out. Then I heard another, a more familiar voice.

"Ted never comes outside. Just leave the form, he'll sign it and place it right back here." It was Ellie from room 407, the room across the hall. I could see it through my peephole. Ellie was the closest thing I ever got to human interaction.

"What am I supposed to do, come back tomorrow?" The first voice, a man's boomed again.

"I don't know nor do I care what you do." Ellie was now matching his volume. "Walk around the floor, by the time you come back the form will be signed and the package will be inside."

"How do I know you won't take it?" The man asked. Ellie just sighed.

"You don't." Then her keys jingled and I heard her lock click. The door creaked open and floorboards groaned. "You just have to have faith in Ted, the way I do." Then her door slammed shut.

The man grumbled to himself for a few moments, contemplating any number of logical reasons to leave a notepad in front of a door alone.

"Alright, TED!" He announced. There was utter distain in his words. "I'll be back in five. If the form isn't signed by the time I come back, you're going to need to pick this package up at our local office."

Then I heard his feet walk away.

I pressed myself against the door and peered through the peephole. I saw no one. I couldn't be too risky, however. I needed to be sure. I cracked the door ever so slightly and used an extendable dental mirror to peer around the hallway.

I saw no one so I stood and closed the door again. I undid the four locks and quickly opened the door.

Lying in front of it was a brown cardboard box, roughly the size of a cookie sheet, with an electronic notepad on top. I lifted the notepad and withdrew the stylus. I scribbled my name on the electronic dotted line and replaced it with the box.

Then I quietly closed my door and locked it. Then hurriedly rushed to my bedroom in order to unsheathe my prize. I had been searching for this rarity for what felt like decades and now the moment was at hand to add it to my collection. 

I ritualistically opened the package as not to damage my gem inside. I had to maintain the mint condition of it. 

As I delicately slid a knife across the top of the package I noticed it, with one hand clasped against the bottom of the package. This felt different. This did not feel like a limited edition Eva figurine, this felt like a book.

Then I rotated the package one hundred eighty degrees and out fell a dusty old tome. The thing reeked of something I could not distinguish or it was, perhaps too foul for my brain to interpret. The grimoire was heavy enough to make my wrist strain from its weight. It was covered in cracked leather and bound by three parallel clasps of iron that wrapped around it. Between the clasps, tying them together was a menacing looking lock with two identical key holes. On the face of the book were etchings that I could not understand, save for these strange letters that ran across the top of it like a title.

"του βιβλιου δεν εχει ματια"

-Jestro