Dungeons & Decorum: High Fantasy in High Society

[VIIVs]

I.​

While it is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman in possession of good fortune must be in want of a wife, it is no less true that – should his rites funereal precede those of his marriage – such wanting is abruptly abrogated.

Mr. Thomatthis Almkirk of Gandlandshire is the unfortunate gentleman here in question, and it must be observed that in the twelvemonth previous to his terminal exeunt he had gathered very sufficient fortune to qualify for the wanting of a wife, and further enjoyed every prospect of a very fine one.

As a third-born son, but a year before had seen Mr. Almkirk possessing no more than a thankless curacy, under the heavy onus of a thriving parish and with but a doddering and very elder elder to pay his wage and guide his work. Luckily to his prospects – although not, as it happened, to his longevity – the defeat of the Dark Emperor of Gaullevorn and the return of peace had likewise seen the homecoming of many of Albaeon's most daring sons. And amongst those lucky veterans who rode home upon tides of gold and silver, few could match the distinguished Captain Fitzjarven Rammstrong: by chance the oldest and most loyal schoolmate of Mr. Almkirk.

This captain, meanwhile, had arrived to find his ancestral home of Musimount Hall in disarray. The infirmity of his mother and ignorance of his elder brother had been unable to check the extravagance of their father, who – while he had the good sense to predecease his sons – had the discourtesy to leave their finances under considerable embarrassment. Much of the captain's fledging fortune had been spent extracting their family's name from their father's repute, and with such influence it should hardly prove surprising that he convinced his brother to bestow the prosperous living of Feyston Parish upon so hardworking, steadfast, and deserving a friend as Mr. Almkirk.

❀❀❀​

Now in the same county – a mere two miles from Feynston and Musimount Hall by the crow's flight – stood the far more ancient dwelling of Gildenbough Groves, and beyond it the elven hamlet of Everspring. The two families had long kept their own circles, however. Mr. Davalon of Gildenbough Groves was an elf of considerable age, erudition, and retirement, and for generations had found as little in common with the louder denizens of the Hall as they could countenance in his dry and faded conversation. They were not actually ill-disposed however, and when changes came – as they so often do – the families found themselves in circumstances far more favorable to agreeable communication.

There were two points to this change: the first occurring some three decades before our story's beginning. This was the unexpected re-marriage of Mr. Davalon, who had lived so far past the twilight of his life as to see dawn again in the personage of Miss Jane Vergerwood. In her, Mr. Davalon found a woman of amiable manners, lively temperament, zealous curiosity, and the highest taste. She proved as eager to hear his histories as – with such an audience – he proved to tell them, and a union as unlikely as it was affectionate was therein derived.

Still, little association passed between the two families in the intermediate decades, who were still then as likely to cross each other in town as in their native country. Even with the revitalization wrought upon Mr. Davalon by his charming wife and three new children, the habits on both sides were quite fixed, and the expensive and expansive delights of the late Mr. Rammstrong gave him little interest in the doings of more modest neighbors.

Thus, it is the second point of this change which must be considered as far more direct, both in its cause and in effect: the purposeful widening of the Feyston Road, which was completed but a year before the establishment of Mr. Almkirk at the parish-house. What had been once a two-hour's carriage ride on uneven and unpleasant lanes was now much amended, and between Hall and Groves lay now a comfortable foot-journey of just over an hour, on a shady road.

And thus, with the rejuvenation of Mr. Davalon's company and the refurbishment of a road long overdue for it, Musimount Hall and Gildenbough Groves – with the addition of Mr. Almkirk at Feyston Parish – entered into a congress most agreeable on all sides. For, while all on the side of the Hall and Parish were the fortunes of eligible bachelorhood, all on the side of the Groves were Mr. and Mrs. Davalon's daughters: Elisabriel, and Mariwyn.

❀❀​

The engagement between the elder daughter -- Miss Elisabriel Davalon -- and Mr. Almkirk was one quick to leaf but slow to flower, warmly anticipated by all parties to it but the happy pair themselves. For there, between the two, was from the start a sense of consideration so obliging and sweet it could not intrude even where it was most genuinely sought. She longed to sit for one of his drawings with no less ardor than he wished to take her portrait, and none but he could have attended to her fervent exultation in arcane minutiae with a joy so close to her own. But he could not ask her to sit, and nothing in the world would induce her to bore him with the declensions of vulgar Draconic.

How happy a day, how fateful an hour, when nerve overtook nervosity and passion took propriety in hand! The gentleman hazarded, and the lady, with considerable pleasure, at last suspected. The lady refused to drop the subject, and the gentleman in turn refused to yield. She understood, and her breath caught. He understood that she understood, and his pulse thundered.

A kiss, like the blossoming of a rose.

And, but a month later, the gentleman was dead.

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

II.​

Mr. Almkirk had died while taking part in the grand tradition of expedition, wherein those of gentle birth take it upon themselves to secure their lands against orcs, goblins, and other nuisances so endemic to the uncivil places of the world. This tradition, long seen as a peculiarity, had seen a manic surge of popularity since the return of the Albish armies from Gaullevorn's shores; men and women enriched by combat sought to grow their fortunes further, and youths and maids with their head full of adventures sought with equal fervor to try their hands at glory.

The party that had assembled for an Expedition to Lake Gand had consisted of Captain Rammstrong, of the navy; his cunning servingman, Booth; and a rather indolent magician in the personage of Mr. Midlingtour, a warlock of the fey who had taken residence in Feyston some time before.

However, their usual fourth, a dwarven professor of natural philosophy, had been called away upon urgent business in town, and nothing would do but that they had a fourth versed in the rites of healing. They needed -- must have -- either a clergyman or a philosopher. And, besides him being a little green in such things, no objection was raised against Mr. Almkirk, who had been clamoring for such an opportunity, from supplying himself as remedy to this unanticipated vacancy.

The Gandland Wurm was their target, an ancient reptile said to haunt the stony shores of the small island in the northern potion of Lake Gand. They made landfall; crude, yet suggestive stones marked the perilous way to the lair of the wurm, a low crevasse in the exposed side of a rocky slope. It seemed… small… for a dragon of the Wurm's purported age, but they thought little of it at the time.

Mr. Almkirk, as their healer, was relegated to the rear of the party as they crept down the dark, cramped passage into the hillside. And, had the beast been within its lair, that must have been the saving of him. The wurm, however, had been without, and scenting the intruders upon its island followed them with slathering haste into an ambush of their own making. The party heard the scraping of its claws, the rasp of its scales upon the stones. They turned…

The Gandland Wurm was not a dragon. It was a basilisk, and as the rear of their party was now its vanguard, Mr. Almkirk was affixed most directly before its gaze.

And while -- with the loathesome creature's dispatch -- any respectable clergyman could have recited the Stone to Flesh and restored Mr. Almkirk to the living, during the fracas the beast had overturned him, and his stone limbs and head had shattered most gratuitously. Thus, the execution of Mr. Almkirk's execution had left nothing to be done short of importuning the True Resurrection from the Archbishop of Lairdsbury himself -- and at £25,000 in diamonds, plus his lordship's fee, such must remain an impossibility.

❀❀​

The remains of Mr. Almkirk -- such as they were -- were laid out in the front parlor of Feyston Parish for four days. This, as no rules of etiquette strictly applied to situations such as those attending his passing, was agreed upon as a sensible duration to suit the needs of his relations to grieve and the town to pay respects, without beggaring the undertaker as to the cost of candles.
As Mr. Almkirk was without family within the county, Elisabriel could not but feel it a solemn duty, as his affianced, to sit in vigil for him. Fortunately for her state of mind, it was not her doom to pass this time alone. During the days she was joined, as per custom, by those others who had taken part in the fatal expedition: Captain Rammstrong and his manservant, Booth, were steadfast company, and even Mr. Midlingtour would alight upon the parlor from time to time. And when the hour came to face the long nights, Elisabriel had the benefit of gentler company, for on the first two vigils she was joined by her mother, and upon the third by her sister.

If the hours between dawn and dusk were over-ripe with the dull monotony of grave, sterile, and above all polite conversance, how much more blessed by Elisabriel was the solace she found in the lingering silences between dusk and dawn! Quietly contemplating her spells for the next day granted her mind the liberty to dwell overlong upon each page, grieving Thomatthis Almkirk even as her mind probed the bleak thoughts that welled from a future without him.

To think that another month must have changed all! She should have been Mrs. Almkirk, and the halls of the parish-house her own! How could she not but conjure in her mind all the plans they had made and hopes they had treasured, from the greatest to the smallest, now dispelled in a but moment? The expansion of the gardens, refurnishing the the library as her own study, and, dearest dream of all, the refitting of the nursery…

All gone. All horribly gone!

How quietly precious had the halls of Feyston Parish become to her in the year since Mr. Almkirk became their keeper. And now they must be made over to another: the living of Feyston Parish was too valuable to fall vacant long, Elisabriel well knew. Her own mind had foreshadowed it, and Captain Rammstrong had hinted, however gently, that she must steel herself for their tenancy by another with all haste.

And what of herself? What now did the darkened mirror of the future hold for her?

It was on the fourth and final night of Mr. Almkirk's vigil that Miss Elisabriel Davalon at last made up her mind.

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

III.​

As night fell, Elisabriel gazed out the western window of Feyston Parish, where the broad lawn sloped gently toward the village in the twilit distance.

It was almost done.

In the morning, the black-plumed carriage would pause at the parish-house door, steal away the last vestiges of her unlived life, and lead the bleak procession to Old St. Peredur's where Mr. Almkirk's stones would be interred below the church's.
So enrapt in her own thoughts was she that, when the knock came at the door, she did not even glance away. Thus, it was not until the figure spoke that she even knew who was there.

"Mine Ellie, doest not thou tire?"

At the sound of the voice, Elisabriel looked from the window to the door. Even before she did, however, she knew who it was who spoke, and -- despite a certain uneasiness in the present circumstances -- permitted herself a slight smile.

"Father. I beg your pardon. I was expecting Mariwyn."

"And may not a father comfort his daughter?" Mr. Davalon asked, doffing his hat and gloves as he stepped into the room. Although at three-hundred and thirty-two well over three centuries in age – a tremendous span of life, even for an elf – a passing glance by human eyes would have thought Mr. Davalon a mere five-and-thirty save for the silvery gloss of his hair. But Elisabriel was well versed in the faint lines of his face, and behind their studied reserve saw in his eyes the tender grief of a doting parent.

"Of course. Please." Elisabriel said, her tone subdued, and – wrapping the black cotton of her dress close around her – shifted carefully to the far end of the couch. "It is early yet. Shall I send for the tea things?"

"Yes, please. I came straight from my dinner, and the night hast proved chillier than I expected."

Elisabriel called for the housekeeper, Lansie, and between father and daughter as they waited there settled a silence born of conscientious, paternal concern one one side and uneasy anticipation on the other.

Despite herself, Elisabriel felt the pangs of her dejection sharpen poignantly within her. That her father had known grief most intimately formed, to her mind, a fundamental portion of his character. Over his long years it had been Mr. Davalon's misfortune to lose one wife and four grown children to the perils of war, disease, and confinement: Elisabriel's eldest brother, his original heir, had died fighting in Albaeon's Civil War over a hundred years before she was even born.

That her father, of all people, would most know her present need went without saying; but not all his good intention could ease the discomfort that attended her upon the coming conversation. The idle axioms and platitudes of others were easily set aside; the deep and abiding love of her mother and sister begged no response; only in her father's company might Elisabriel feel pressed to the perils of self-reflection.

The tea things were brought, and Lansie retreated for the evening into the upper recesses of the house. Finally, as Elisabriel poured the tea, she ventured to break the truce of silence.

"I must admit myself surprised that you have said nothing more, Father."

"There are many things I wish to say," her father confessed in his understated way, "But I am here for you, mine Ellie. If it is silence thou require, it is silence thou wilt have. And if thou wouldst speak, it falls to me to listen, not to deny thee thy grief."

Elisabriel wished only that his answer had been less satisfactory, or more easily deflected. Taking a sip of the tea, she braced herself as she readied her next words.

"I have decided," she began, "to apply for the Scholomantia Publica."

Elisabriel had, at least, the satisfaction of surprising her father, and so deferring any more meaningful conversation: and small wonder, for she had just declared her intention to become a Mage Public. Mr. Davalon, as was his custom on such occasions, gave only a slow and quite deliberate blink as he adjusted the courses of his thinking. Elisabriel, emboldened, continued:

"The schools have always admitted women with the Talent, so I shall not be turned away on that account. And with the common employment of magi by solicitors it is by no means below the gently-born–"

"Yes, but at such a time as this?" her father objected, his voice loud with unaccustomed warmth, "Elisabriel, think of what thou sayest. The schools of magic do overflow with applicants, many of whom served with grand distinction upon the shores of Gaullevorn! Thou art skilled, mine Ellie – truly thou art – but thou art learned only in the magics of defense and utility. Dost thou think to defeat an ogre by means of thy Unseen Servant?"

"No more than a battle-mage shall mend a torn painting with a Fireball. If I can but build a reputation for my utility, surely I can secure sufficient business to live?"

"That is an 'if' where one wants none, Elisabriel. From whence has this idea been born? Please, but wait a decade or two; thou art halve-elven, thou shalt outlive them all–"

"But shall you, Father?"

Her voice, though sufficient to be heard, was tremulous, and at the sound of it Mr. Davalon stopped. Elisabriel steeled herself with a draught of tea.

"It is not of Mr. Almkirk's death alone I have thought these long nights, Father. You have already outlived most of your kind, and none, even you, know what hour you shall fade from this world. You know that Orelfion – while by blood, law and magic your son and heir – cares not for us, nor extends his courtesy to us. Not to my mother as your wife, nor to Mariwyn and myself as mere halve-elven half siblings. We can expect nothing from him; no, less than nothing, for as strangers he would at least condescend to treat us with courtesy."

Mr. Davalon's countenance stilled at this reproach, but he could no more deny it than he could stay the sun from its paces. The behavior of his now-eldest son, Mr. Orelfion Davalon, over the past three decades had been so callous as to leave no doubt of the cold disgust he harbored towards his father's current family. Indeed, all discourse between Orelfion and the family had ceased following the death of Edrond Davalon, Elisabriel's full-blood brother, who had died at sea during the war.

Mr. Orelfion Davalon, upon hearing of the tragedy befalling his younger half-brother, had infamously spun it into a bon mot at a dinner party by comparing it to the deliberate drowning of a piebald pup. His father, though furious and heart-broken at the breach, found himself unable to disown his son for it under Elven law, which safeguarded the rights – and rites – of inheritance under the most stringent of restrictions and primal of magics. That Mr. Orelfion Davalon would be master of Gildenbough Groves after – and despite – his father was a nigh certainty.

When Mr. Davalon continued, it was in a tone more quiet, but no less urging.

"Still, there are other ways to secure thyself, and thy happiness, then to expose thyself to the world. Thou art still young, Elisabriel; another ma–"

Mr. Davalon stayed his tongue – realizing too late the cruelty he had committed – but Elisabriel could not guard her heart in time. The line of her mouth wavered, her cheeks flushed, and she felt her eyes grow hot with the thin veneer of tears.

"Oh, mine Ellie, I'm so sorry." her father apologized, distraught at having unbridled the flow of grief she had withheld so long, "That was careless. I prithee, please forgive me."

But once started, such earnest and needful tears could not be so easily staunched, and it was some time before Elisabriel could compose herself. At last the distressing tightness in her throat passed, her breath easing, and she was able to blot the last traces of moisture from her cheeks. Taking a final and deliberate gulp of air she turned once again to her father, who returned her gaze with unaffected concern.

"I have never known such a man as Mr. Almkirk, Father, and I do not -- cannot -- believe I shall again. A mind of such fine sensibility, neither blind to the beauty of the world nor slave to it! Steadfast, patient, kind: devoted both in his work and his leisure. I loved him long before I dared to hope such affection might be returned, and how much dearer has each day since made him!

"Even in his flaws -- and I was not blind to them, Father -- did I find him to rise in my estimation: too tender a heart, too quick too give, and too indifferent to his own promotion where good might be done!"

"Mr. Almkirk wast indeed a fine man, mine Ellie, and there is little I wouldst not give to see this vicissitude reversed, were it within my power. I should have been happy to call him my son, and happier still, to know how greatly thy felicity eclipsed mine own..."

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

IV.​

It was several hours later, just gone eleven, that a furious knocking came upon the door of the parish-house.

Elisabriel startled abruptly at the raucousness, jarred from the unseeing stare she had left in vacant contemplation upon the page before her. The shock likewise alarmed her father, who had been leaning over a rather spiritless volume of poetry while he discretely entered his trance, and each spun with all rapidity to look at the other.

"Dost thou expect… ?" Came the inquiry, and Elisabriel gave her head a firm shake in the negative. Upon perceiving her misgivings, Mr. Davalon rose to his feet, adjusted his tailcoat, and murmured, "...do not trouble Lansie. I shall see to the door."

He passed into the hall, and Elisabriel, despite considerable curiosity, did not strain herself to catch the conversation. Her mind, however, refused to find itself at easy repose: her attempts to readdress her thoughts towards her spellbook proved fruitless, with only the occasional word catching her eyes in a quizzical confusion of meaning.

…divine… occult… friend… chymical…

A minute later a chill breath of air spoke to the opening of the front door, with a pair of voices beginning to carry on at counterpoints through the halls of the house. And, despite her careful determination not to eavesdrop, Elisabriel nonetheless heard something of her father's tone as it shifted from quiet affront, to a careful inquiry, to a cautious and provisional acquiescence.

But a moment more and the voices had rejoined to the parlour, with Mr. Davalon in the company of a second gentleman.

"A Mr. Byrose of Umbreleigh Dounes, late a captain of the navy and generally known at Musimount Hall, has come to pay his last respects to Mr. Almkirk."

Thus spoke Mr. Davalon, but if Mr. Byrose had heard him – or had even noticed Elisabriel herself – was dubious at best to the lady's reckoning. Upon the gentleman's entrance, two things were rendered immediately apparent in his appearance: Mr. Byrose was exceedingly handsome, and distraught, and in no way less one than the other. The flush of his cheeks, disarray of his hair, and the fresh blots of snow that mottled his greatcoat all spoke of someone who had travelled fast and hard to reach them; but despite such shows of friendship to the deceased, there was nevertheless something in his manner that Elisabriel found uncouth and displeasing.

Three loping strides brought the gentleman to the center of the room, where he placed a single, trembling hand atop the polished elm box that housed the ruins of Mr. Almkirk.

Elisabriel was taken aback by the familiarity of the gesture, especially from someone of whom she had never heard Mr. Almkirk to speak. Of Umbreleigh Dounes he had spoken often enough -- it was the greatest of the ancestral houses in the neighborhood from which he had hailed -- but never had he spoken of its denizens with any particular affection. Indeed, when talking of 'old Mr. Byrose,' Mr. Almkirk had always spoken of having had a child's superstitious fear of the man… and of any younger inhabitant she had heard not a word.

Still, however overwrought in manner, the severity of this Mr. Byrose's affliction deserved some… recompense.

"It has been a most devastating blow." Elisabriel hazarded, trying in vain to read the tension in Mr. Byrose's back and shoulders from behind, "To us all. I take it you knew Mr. Almkirk well?"

At the sound of her voice the figure stiffened, rising from the huddled discomposure of his grief to the fullest extent. She could not see his face, but when he spoke it was with a rigid -- almost unforgiving -- formality.

"...Yes. You are, I take it, Miss Davalon? And you her father, the master of Gildenbough Groves?"

They both concurred to such.

"I must beg your forgiveness, then, as much as I owe to your indulgence. You see me under -- I am quite -- that is to say that, three days ago I was at Brestiene in Gaullevorn when I received the Sending sent on behalf of our mutual acquaintance, Captain Rammstrong, and have been travelling since with all haste."

Elisabriel could not constrain her surprise.

"From Gaullevorn in three day's time!?"

"Indeed." Mr. Byrose scoffed bitterly as he pivoted from the casket. "Oh, I had sold my commission some time ago, and was on expedition there as a private gentleman. The costs of a Teleportation from Gaullevorn, however, are hardly to be spoken of, and all preference for such has been given over to the royal forces. I tried to call in old favors -- but such hardly signifies -- I was instead forced to book passage across the channel by boat, which cost me most of a day."

Their eyes met, and Mr. Byrose seemed to catch something of the surprise in Elisabriel's expression. For but a second she thought she saw his hitherto handsome countenance darken -- a ressentiment she imagined to be aimed solely at her -- but soon doubted herself, for in his face and manners she then perceived nothing but a propriety which had been elsewise absent since his entrance.

"From your surprise I take it that Mr. Almkirk did not mention me?" he said.

"...No." Elisabriel admitted, "To Umbreleigh Dounes he frequently referred, as well as to the 'old Mr. Byrose.' Your… father? Grandfather?"

A half smile pinched at Mr. Byrose's mouth. "My uncle, I presume. Perhaps my cousin, although I understand he never technically held the honorific. I'm afraid both perished when the Dark Emperor sent the plague against Davreton the wintertide last.

"I was raised upon their charity at Umbreleigh Dounes, which is where I first became acquainted with Thom -- your pardon, with Mr. Almkirk -- as we were of a similar age. Later we were both sent to the Fontminster School, which we attended alongside a young Captain Rammstrong."

"I take it you, like Captain Rammstrong, left school when the Regent called for forces to invade Gaullevorn?" Elisabriel inquired, intrigued despite herself in these missing annals of Mr. Almkirk's life, "My father had mentioned the navy?"

"Yes. Such was… the greater part of the rupture between Mr. Almkirk and myself." Mr. Byrose admitted with solemnity. "I pressed for Mr. Almkirk to join us likewise, and I did not brook his refusal well. He was very, well… very much a… brother to me." he concluded, somewhat lamely to Elisabriel's mind.

"Will you be staying up at the Hall?" she asked, eager to be alone with her thoughts once more. If he noticed her perturbation, however, he did not show it.

"Yes. For the funeral at least, and Captain Rammstrong has long since requested I visit him at Musimount Hall for a time. While I must return home briefly to attend to business, I intend to return shortly for a few weeks for hunting -- or perhaps an expedition, given the weather."

"Such seems in poor taste, given recent events." Mr Davalon avered, and Elisabriel could read in the sternness of his mouth no small disapprobation of their visitor's suggestion.

Mr. Byrose shrugged, "Do you think so? Well, perhaps it is, at that. But in the navy, it was quite a thing to do to expedition on behalf of someone who had died. Such could afford your compatriot not only a good funeral, but sufficient funds to settle their accounts and, perhaps, even enough to send home to any wives or children they should otherwise leave wanting. Not that you have any such concerns, Miss Davalon," he avered, and once again Elisabriel could not escape the conviction of some deeper disdain for her on his part, "I have no doubt but that you will soon find yourself in the market for wedding-clothes again."

From another speaker, such words might have meant well: but to say such a thing, at such a time, and in such a place!

Fortunately, Elisabriel was spared the need to respond by her father's timely interjection.

"Actually," Mr. Davalon said, placing a steadying and supportive hand upon her shoulder, "my daughter hast just announced her intention to join the ranks of the Magi Public. I have no doubt she shall retain her mourning-clothes for their full duration, and perhaps beyond."

❀❀​

The funeral happened. It was awful. And life moved on.

❀​

 

[K von Carstein]

That's a fun concept, I like it.

 

[VIIVs]

Thanks! Elisabriel's first dungeon is coming up in the next post...

 

[VIIVs]

V.​

It was a mere two weeks before the midwinter festivities that Mr. Byrose's long-anticipated suggestion for an expedition was fulfilled, and as such, it was to serve as a last hurrah for the more adventurous in the neighborhood before the general removal to Londinium for the social season.

❀❀❀❀​

The intervening month since Mr. Almkirk's funeral had seen Elisabriel's ambitions become public knowledge, to the general consternation of the neighborhood. Opinions -- even within her own family -- were decidedly without consensus. Her father's steadfast and quiet approval was contrasted by her mother's grim refusal to even acknowledge the subject, and as for Mariwyn, she held no opinion, but could not for the life of her make sense of Elisabriel's motivation to leave the life and privileges of a private gentlewoman.

Elisabriel was quite fortunate, however, in her most ardent advocate: Captain Rammstrong's strong-minded endorsement of her decision provided her with not only support, but with opportunity. It was he who saw in her untapped potential, who scolded the nay-sayers even in her absense, and who went so far as to prevail upon Mr. Midlingtour to open his long-disused library to her perusal.

When in his twenties, Mr. Midlingtour had been a dandy infamous for his good looks, extravagant fashion, and dissipated character, and the subsequent two decades had changed him in no way but to render each of the aforementioned graces a little stale. That he had to be prevailed upon to permit Elisabriel access to his books hardly begs explanation: men indolent in their work are seldom more zealous than in the protection of their income, and indeed, such was the gravity of Mr. Midlingtour's disinclination to exertion that it formed the second most prominent reason that people were shocked to learn his wife was with child.

Elisabriel's joyous exploration of the books in the tower's library was not, however, to be accomplished without sacrifice: the library was in considerable disarray, Mr. Midlingtour seemed convinced she was there to drink tea and chat, and Mrs. Midlingtour proved to be a sweet, good-natured woman whose earnestness to help was inhibited by the condition of her body from gestation and that of her mind from disuse.

More, even when left to her own pursuits, Elisbriel found herself continually drawn to the enigmatic words that she had gleaned on the final night of the vigil: divine, occult, friend, and chymical. And intermittently -- between copying scrolls or while waiting for the proper inks to delisquesce -- she would allow herself to muse upon them. Not that she believed there was anything too them, of course: rather, it was an intellectual exercise. For example, divine could also be a verb -- as from 'divination' -- or even a noun in the sense of 'clergyman, cleric, or theologian.'

And occult could simply mean 'secret.'

❀❀❀​

How the expedition began was thus: Mr. Midlingtour had spent the first week of the month in Londinium, where in the course of spending some days to settle some unseemly debts at the Scholomantia Publica, and racking up considerably more of them during his nights at the Liliman Club, he left a poorer man than he had arrived.

The gentleman had enriched himself, however, in at least one way during his tenure in town. He had had the good fortune to avail himself -- and thus his habitual party -- of an expeditionary commission within a day's easy travel of the Feyston neighborhood. A baronet of Mr. Midlingtour's passing acquaintance, one Sir Delwick Fortring -- a man who had spent the most of several decades in one town or another -- had been advised under the most stringent of terms by his physic that good, country air and rest were the indisputable remedy for a number of ailments that plagued him.

As such, Sir Delwick had reluctantly sent his servants to open his long-derelict estate of Wosewood Park in preparation for his tenancy, only for the serving maids to discover to their horror that a veritable malignity of goblins had ensconced themselves in Sir Delwick's place. And while fortunately none of the goblins' entrapments had proven fatal -- injurious, infuriating, and disgusting, yes, but not fatal -- numerous items of import were discovered to be absent from the manor house, and must, by presumption, have been secreted elsewhere.

The baronet was, upon consultation with his solicitor, offering the following commission: a total sum of £1,000 for the removal of the goblins, with an additional £100 each for a list of nine familial heirlooms to be recovered. Any valuables and magical items found not upon this list were to be considered as the spoils of the expedition, and could be kept.

❀❀​

Such reticence as there was, on undertaking an expedition so soon after the death of Mr. Almkirk, was soon overcome by any one of the hundreds of minor excuses that one keeps on hand for such an occasion. In the case of Mr. Midlingtour, it was for want of money; Elisabriel, for want of experience; the navymen, for want of honoring Mr. Almkirk; and the rest, for want of anything to do.

Indeed, the greatest obstacle to be faced was the nervousness of Mrs. Davalon, who could barely comprehend her daughters' participation in such a scheme. True, expeditions were practically routine in these days, and true, the risk accrued in the company of experienced expeditioners such as Captain Rammstrong was negligible, yet Mrs. Davalon remained steadfastly against it. For not only was Elisabriel intent upon joining the party, but Mariwyn seemed to have been charmed by the idea -- at least, the idea as presented by a face as handsome as that of Mr. Byrose.

At last, they settled upon a chaperone in the personage of the respectably married Mrs. Midlingtour, who with all due formality accepted the charge of the young ladies. And, as it had proved fortunate that Mrs. Davalon was unassociated with the decided silliness of their safeguardress, all care was taken by both young ladies to prevent her disillusionment for so long as was possible.

Thus assembled, their number was to be six plus two: Captain Rammstrong, Booth, Mr. Byrose, Mr. Midlingtour, Dr. Anvilhorn the natural philosopher, and Miss Davalon, with Mrs. Midlingtour as chaperone and Miss Mariwyn Davalon accompanying. The weather, per Dr. Anvilhorn's foretellings, augured well -- cold, but sunny -- and as the pair of coaches set out from Musimount Hall there was a sense of high feelings and genial camaraderie so general that it could serve only to be disappointed by eventualities.

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

VI.
​

The trip to the neighborhood surrounding Wosewood Park was uneventful: which is to say, there was a great deal of negotiation, animation, and activity, but little of it was physical in the mundane sense of the word.

While from the outset the three ladies were to ride together, the question of which gentleman should join them to make a full carriage proved more competitive. For, while Mr. Byrose was Mariwyn's favorite, Mrs. Midlingtour must prefer her husband; and as the condition and comfort of Mrs. Midlingtour and the unborn little Midlingtour were of paramount importance, all must give way before it.

Elisabriel could not but be glad of the decision, for she was now just as accustomed to the foibles of the Midlingtours as she was convinced of Mr. Byrose's delicately indelible disdain for herself. The dim presentiments of their first meeting had neither darkened nor sharpened, but neither had they faded even in the slightest. It was as if the most subtle of odors wafted from her personage, and whenever the wind blew wrong the gentleman must remove himself from it. It was never abrupt, never impolite, but always there.

The Midlingtours, however, had a mode of conversation that occupied the time with little need for amendment, regardless of venue. Mr. Midlingtour spoke of self-indulgent and immature picadillos; Mrs. Midlingtour laughed, and, should Mr. Midlingtour accidentally repeat himself, she laughed again. Interruptions were generally permitted and generously absorbed into the flow of conversation, but were never suffered to change it. Indeed, chief of Elisabriel's amusements during the first half of their journey was to watch as the understanding of such dawned on Mariwyn, who found her usual sparkling wit disarmed by so concerted an effort on the Midlingtours' part.

They stopped for their luncheon in the region of Quains Cross, where a relaxation in the seating arrangements led to a particular rearrangement of the carriages. The servingman Booth chose to dine with the drivers, and so, given the luxury of two empty seats to choose from, Mr. Byrose was invited to take possession of the one closer to Mariwyn. She inquired as to his naval service; Mr. Byrose responded with an exemplum, and in short order found himself regaling one end of the table with his rousing nautical adventures. Elisabriel, counterwise, was seated near the middle, and upon having her arcane studies inquired after by Captain Rammstrong, entered into lively dialogue with both the captain and Dr. Anvilhorn.

As the luncheon came to an end, it was deemed on all sides preferable that their conversations should not. A switch was proposed, and accepted: and so, Elisabriel freely took up residence in the fore carriage, abandoning Mr. Byrose to the charming conversance of her sister as well as to the coy and coquettish flattery of Mrs, and Mr, Midlingtour.

Elisabriel had been raised to be – as she thought of it – very liberal-minded about dwarves: on the few occasions when she had crossed paths with one, always fleetingly, she had been certain to treat them with politeness and courtesy equal to anyone else she met… if far more conscious of her manners than on most other occasions. She could not say that she had spoken with one above half a minute before, but she was by no means averse to their company.

This being the case, Elisabriel was thrilled that she found Dr. Anvilhorn to be a highly agreeable person, and all the more so for his being intelligent, gently mannered, and well-spoken if one allowed for his Dwarvish brogue. His beard was kempt, his mustache distinguished, and his learning vast. That dwarves were foremost among the natural philosophers was not news to her, however, even casual allusion to his work showed just how more depth there was to the subject than she had ever supposed! And indeed, Dr. Anvilhorn had much to say to her advantage, having worked closely with numerous Magi Public in the past. These magi, he went so far as to say, were indispensable in divining the location of those fossils so essential to his work…

And so, if the road was long, at least they received the consolation of good conversation -- a double blessing, as Dr. Anvilhorn had quite forgotten his playing cards.

❀❀
​

As the season was approaching the holiday, the party had sent a man ahead of them to take rooms at the Halvaigh Arms for three nights. Luck, as it happens, was on their side: their man was able to procure no less than four large, well appointed rooms for the party, as well as a pair of more modest rooms for the drivers, serving men, and maid. And, as one of the better rooms must of necessity be given over to the Midlingtours, this left the Miss Davalons to take one, and the gentlemen to split the remainder.

To her credit, Mrs. Midlingtour did dither considerably over the discharge of her duties unto the Miss Davalons. Ultimately, however – despite her husband's noble determination to accept any station in the gentlemen's chambers if she should choose to board with the ladies: indeed, nothing should be beneath him – Mrs. Midlingtour designed to select the room between the ladies and the gentlemen, instead.

Although sure it would prove considerably chilly, as their corner room had windows to the south and the east, Elisabriel was initially delighted with their point of vantage. To the southeast she could see the low rise whereupon Wosewood Park was set, the elegant silhouette of the manor house, and the dark green of the forest itself staggered beyond. And if she looked to the south, she half-fancied that – with the gentle slope of the land – she could see all the way to…

All the way to…

This was silly, she told herself, as tears unwanted wetted her eyes. She should not cry over a lake, no matter how tragic the events that befell there. Lake Gand was the center of the county, for which Gandlandshire itself was named! In how many books, poems, and songs was it called upon for its beauty, its grandeur? That Mr. Almkirk had died there was, to all the world, but a trivial misfortune…

To all the world, perhaps, but not to her. Never to her.

Mariwyn entered before the tears had quite finished, and despite Elisabriel's curt protestations instantly apprehended the situation. Seldom before had Elisabriel so appreciated her sister's ability to bring life back into a room as in that hour, and despite a prickling of pride she submitted herself to Mariwyn's compassion, gentleness, and playful humor. And indeed, she felt quite restored to herself by the time they joined the rest for dinner.

After their meal, Elisabriel briefly consulted with the gentlemen as to which of her spells to prepare for the morrow; her careful perusal of Mr. Midlingtour's library had left her with considerably more spells than she had the capacity to recall. The gentleman warlock, with a flourish, declared that he had an abundant capacity to defeat their foes, and deigned to recommend that the provision of utility magics would be the primary advantage of her presence.

Elisabriel caught the apprehensive look that passed between Captain Rammstrong and Dr. Anvilhorn at this juncture, but did not dignify by response. This was especially the case as there was a general concurrence with Mr. Midlingtour's suggestion, regardless of any misgivings.

Upon her returning to her own chamber, however, Elisabriel was gratified to find two occurrences that eased her mind considerably: windows too darkened to see even the distance to the manor house, and a fireplace brimming with warmth and light. And thus, after completing her preparations for –- and double-checking her spells upon -- the eve of her first expedition, Miss Elisabriel Davalon allowed herself the advantage of a deep and restful sleep.

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

I have created a Map of Gandlandshire, although I admit it is, at least at present, very much a work in progress. However, I am also posting it in my signature for ease of reference.

 

[Mithrill]

This being the case, Elisabriel was thrilled that she found Dr. Anvilhorn to be a highly agreeable person, and all the more so for his being intelligent, gently mannered, and well-spoken if one allowed for his Dwarvish brogue. His beard was kempt, his mustache distinguished, and his learning vast. That dwarves were foremost among the natural philosophers was not news to her, however, even casual allusion to his work showed just how more depth there was to the subject than she had ever supposed! And indeed, Dr. Anvilhorn had much to say to her advantage, having worked closely with numerous Magi Public in the past. These magi, he went so far as to say, were indispensable in divining the location of those fossils so essential to his work…

And so, if the road was long, at least they received the consolation of good conversation -- a double blessing, as Dr. Anvilhorn had quite forgotten his playing cards.

Click to shrink...

This chapter, and this part in particular, play such a merry hell with the line between Victorians on safari and genuine adventuring party.
And I'm all here for this.

Well, that and the sarcasm.

 

[VIIVs]

This chapter, and this part in particular, play such a merry hell with the line between Victorians on safari and genuine adventuring party.
And I'm all here for this.

Well, that and the sarcasm.

Click to shrink...

Thank you! I do so endeavor to please...

 

[VIIVs]

VII.​

It must speak to the character of those of Miss Davalon's party that, despite waking the next day in possession of no magical items of any significance, by the time the carriage drew near the gates of Wosewood Park Elisabriel found herself with the loan of three that would prove most beneficial to her survival.

The first of these loans had arrived at her door in the hands of a halfling serving-maid: a single white glove, embroidered with fine brass thread, densely coiled into the shape of Dwarvish runes. A neatly pinned note informed her, as the addressee, that the glove could evoke the shocking grasp cantrip once per diem – a property which Dr. Anvilhorn, the sender, had taken frequent advantage of in his early days of expeditioning.

The second item had been loaned to her by Captain Rammstrong, who had taken the opportunity of a lull in the breakfast-chamber to approach her. Pressing a small bronze badge into her palm, the good captain had also bestowed upon her the information that this token – the so-called 'Last Line' – could call up the dancing lights above her head should she become separated from the party. And, while the captain admitted with a bluff smile that the chances of her going overboard were slim this far inland, nothing would do but that Elisabriel accepted it for the duration of their expedition.

The third and final loan – for so Elisabriel assumed it must be, as no explanation had been given – was thrust upon her right as she was about to exit the Halvaigh Arms for the carriages. Mr. Byrose, his face more inscrutable and fixed than ever, had approached without a word and all but forced into her hands an ornately sheathed dagger and phial of ruby liquid. Her thanks, once she marshaled her composure, were generously granted, but the gentleman was no more inclined to wait upon them than he had seemed predisposed to give the very gift he had just presented – which is to say, not at all.

All these gentlemen, however, were none of them impoverished in the slightest by donating these objects to herself; and upon approaching them in the daylight, Elisabriel was stunned to see them in their full panoply. The Messrs. Brooks, Byrose, and Midlingtour were each clad in studded leather armor, but of such variety that such could hardly be called a similarity. The matte black of Mr. Brooks' scarred hides and iron studs made him seem almost to vanish beside the fur-trimmed naval blue and silver rivets of Mr. Byrose's attire, and yet only a peacock could have made more of himself than Mr. Midlingtour's violaceous display of leather flourishes and star-shaped golden spangles.

The most altered, however, could only be Captain Rammstrong, whose blunt countenance and sturdy proportions were now enhanced by an adamantine shield and a full suit of mithril plate; indeed, even Mariwyn's breath caught at the sight of it. That mithril was prized by mariners for its advantages of lightness and adroit maneuvering must be no secret, but to see so beautifully wrought a set in a single piece! Every poetic association came back to Elisabriel at once: the 'Elven treasure,' the 'liquid silver,' the 'glittering ice' – each seemed more real, more complete, now that she had seen such in truth!

And so the company situated themselves within the carriages, gently shaking as the horses pulled away from the Halvaigh Arms, and looked onward towards the distant silhouette of the Park.

❀❀​

Even after decades of dereliction, it would have proven difficult to undervalue the stately grandeur that the approach afforded visitors to Wosewood Park. The earliest designees of the Fortring baronetcy had established their ancestral stronghold through the time-honored tradition of dispossessing a dwarven clan of their own, and thus had benefited for centuries from the secure strength afforded by dwarf-worked foundations for the cost of a few dozen soldiers and a few months siege pay.

The keep these forebearers had erected upon the site still stood, although the expansions and restylings of subsequent generations had considerably transformed the building in both its forms and functions: the low-est levels of monolithic dwarven masonry gave rise to the merely low-er levels of gray stones, frothing with ivy, which were in turn capped by timber-braced wattle-and-daub apartments. From the front, high, square towers projected from either side of the edifice's chief portal… although the architectural vanity of one-Sir Fortring-or-another a few decades since had deigned to improve this by the additions of a thrusting triangular pediment, supporting entablature, and rather rococo pillars.

The carriage, singular – they had left Mariwyn and Mrs. Midlingtour, along with the staff, at the gates – pulled forward around a dry fountain, and the party disembarked.

Elisabriel was not sure what she had expected, but her fellows had foreseen all: a letter had been dispatched the previous evening engaging a meeting with one Mr. Hayes, who was the chief steward currently overseeing the Park. It had previously been left under the care of the groundskeeper, who had quit suddenly on the grounds of undue exposure to the goblinoid arrows, snares, pit traps filled with spikes, pit traps filled with excrement, pails of soured milk above his door, and the wasps' nest they had cunningly concealed within his pillow.

Mr. Hayes was in all self-evidence a halfling manservant of quiet professionalism and stoic manner, which together with his grime-speckled clothing, rent pant-leg, and haggard, sleep-deprived appearance peculiarly coincided with a violent fit of coughing on the part of Messrs. Booth, Midlingtour, and Byrose. Once the gentlemen had recovered their breath, however, Mr. Hayes placidly informed them of the situation as it stood:

"We have done our best, gentlemen." the halfling droned, "Just yesterday we evicted a lone straggler from where she had walled herself within the pantry with the preserves. All quite ruined, sir, save the blueberries, which apparently disagreed with her digestion. Violently."

"Violently?" inquired Captain Rammstrong, although his tone indicated he much rather would not.

"Quite, sir." Mr. Hayes reiterated, "In addition, we have taken advantage of the furniture damaged by the goblins to establish barricades throughout the house, by which expedience we have primarily confined the intruders to the floors below the level of the ground. With the exception of the Southern Front, of course."

The captain and Dr. Anvilhorn shared a quizzical glance. Behind then, someone -- let us be honest, it was probably Mr. Midlingtour -- snickered.

" 'Southern Front?'" the captain hazarded.

"The ballroom, sir." came the reply, with a monotone seriousness. "Such appears to be their stronghold within the manor. If they are defeated there, it is likely they shall fall back to the Wosewood itself."

"Is there no other entrance to the ballroom, save the main?" Elisabriel asked the steward, "Perhaps -- perhaps a balcony?"

The look in Mr. Hayes eyes -- already politely detached -- took on that peculiarly distant quality that they do when someone's attention is diverted by unpleasant recollections.

"No." the halfling replied with the stiffest negative, "The stairs to the balcony are accessed from within the ballroom itself. So secured, our goblins also have, perforce, the… advantage… of the high ground."

"What of the tunnels?" asked Mr. Byrose, wedging himself now forward in a way that, of necessity, caused Elisabriel herself to fall back, "Surely the old dwarves had something up their sleeves in the case of an emergency? And narrower confines must play to our strengths, as it will be more difficult to overwhelm us."

"I do believe there were a few escapes built into the place back in more… turbulent days. All quite bricked up now, however, sir." Mr. Hayes responded with a sniff, "There is, however, one avenue that shows promise. The lower floors are also accessible through a small passage which opens into a summer-kitchen at the back of the estate. We have been surveying it, and have seen no activity there; we have every reason to believe the goblins have not yet discovered it."

"Well then," said the captain, "by all means, lead the way."

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

The first of the character sheets is up; as is only fitting, it is for our heroine. More detail and potentially some artwork to come: including, if people are interested, potential casting choices for various personages of interest?

As with the maps (now under "Atlas"), there is a permanent link to the character sheets under "Personae" in my signature.

 

[VIIVs]

VIII.​

The goblins knew about the passage. Of course the goblins knew about the passage. Oh, sweet Sacred Sword and Spell the goblins knew about the passage!

Such was the drifting tenor of Elisabriel's thoughts as she followed Mr. Midlingtour away from the sunlight and into the close, narrow confines that extended into the unknown before her. To decide upon a marching order for the party had been perfunctory, and most members had fallen into line without a second thought. Mr. Booth went first under his offices as a scout, with Captain Rammstrong close behind for his protection; then came Mr. Midlingtour, and then herself; Dr. Anvilhorn; and finally Mr. Byrose acting as their rear-guard.

It seemed that, if the goblins had not been seen to favor the passage, it was rather because they had gone through considerable effort to trap it, as opposed to any ignorance of its existence. They were to be spared pit traps, it seemed, only where afforded such a comfort by the fortitude of dwarven masonry: the floor of the summer kitchen itself had concealed a sizable one beneath the thick mantle of grasses, moss, and wildflowers that neglect had permitted to take root between the boards.

Even taking this aside, the passage itself had been carefully converted into a veritable barbican of entrapments. From a crude, dung-encrusted needle at the door to a swinging bucket full of nails and rocks that, when released, careened downward at the height of head for a creature of medium size; every element, it seemed, had been carefully calculated to slow, harry, and injure interlopers into the goblin's domain.

Finally, the dim outline of the far door came within the dawning edge of Dr. Anvilhorn's light spell, and despite her resolve Elisabriel felt her heart leap at the chance to be free of the constriction of the corridor. She had never hitherto felt any of the painful anxiety or dread panic which staggered the claustrophobic -- but to be caught in such imperiled circumstances, with so little chance of escape should the worst occur! It played upon the imagination in most frightful and inclement ways, and Elisabriel felt almost a yearning to be in more open space again.

But of course, some mere five yards from the aperature, Mr. Booth abruptly raised his hand in cautious alarm, and their column ground to a miserable halt. Despite the dissatisfied muttering of much of their party behind them -- for to stop for five traps in fifty yards is most dissatisfying for those who expedition for the excitement -- Captain Rammstrong and Mr. Booth set to their tedious yet conscientious work. Dr. Anvilhorn's light had been cast upon Captain Rammstrong's shield, which he carefully raised into a more illuminating position as Mr. Booth knelt and removed from his person a discreet case of black leather.

Elisabriel was under no illusion as to the nature of those "precision instruments" that Mr. Booth carried on himself as a testament to his role. However, despite Mr. Booth not being among the gently born, she would have still been loathe to insult him by any implication of their being the tools of a thief.

What happened next was never thereafter clear, and Elisabriel -- although often appealed to as the nearest witness to the event -- could not, with the angle of the light, truly judge one way or the other in retrospect. By Captain Rammstrong's account, it was due to Mr. Midlingtour's impatient encroachment upon his own space that the warlock bumped into the captain, who, unbalanced by the event, in turn interfered with Mr. Booth. According to Mr. Midlingtour, it was by Captain Rammstrong's own doing that, while turning to shush Mr. Midlingtour's irritated mumbling, the captain accidentally upended Mr. Booth's elbow.

The consequence of the error, however, was the same. Mr. Booth's fell forward, his knee collapsing the wire that had been pulled taught along the ground. And worse, as he still had the left side of the wire in his hand, the narrow cord burned a searing welt across his palm as it slipped from his grasp, causing the man to hiss at the unexpected pain.

There was a ripping sound as the wire vanished, and in the distance there came the loud bang and the unmistakable ruckus of shattering glass. That so terrible a cacophony must rouse and marshal the interest of their enemies must be held as certain; that the goblins would move against them swiftly yet more so.

Captain Rammstrong reached downward and -- with one strong arm -- helped propel Mr. Booth to his feet, goading his serving man onward with bellowed commands of "Go! Go! Go!"

Before she quite knew what was happening, Elisabriel found herself rushing to the captain's directive, striving to keep up with Mr. Midlingtour as the warlock began to sprint after their advancing vanguard. She was dimly aware of the whisper of blades and bowstrings being drawn to the ready in the darkness around her, and reached to where Mr. Byrose's dagger lay sheathed at her waist.

It was only by chance that Elisabriel glimpsed -- just at the junction where the doorway opened into a small, dark chamber beyond -- the slimmest thread of shadow cast by the glare that yet emanated from Captain Rammstrong's shield…

She opened her mouth to warn -- but it was already too late.

Mr. Booth missed the taut cord by sheer chance, but the captain was not so lucky, and the goblin's last trip-wire snapped across his ankles. Regardless, both men found themselves caught when, just as they exited the perilous corridor, something heavy and sinuous dropped from the darkened vault to envelope them both!

The light was entrapped with them, and for just a second the wild shapes cast before her eyes made Elisabriel's vision unravel before her mind managed to discern the shadowed lattice of a net being sprayed across the walls and ceiling -- as well as the glint of fragmented green glass scattered like leaves around the floor.

Mr. Midlingtour, she was sure, gave a most ungentlemanly oath, but the sound was drowned out by the frantic struggles of the entrapped and the sudden slamming open of a wooden door set across the room from their entrance.

Lit from below, the wide faces and protuberant noses of the three goblins now opposite abruptly knotted into folds and crevasses of jaundiced skin; their blue veins bulged, and the cracked green of their lips peeled back to reveal slender, cat-like teeth wet with spittle.

Despite herself, Elisabriel took a step back, and was relieved -- and steeled -- by the touch of Dr. Anvilhorn's steadying hand upon her arm.

The goblins raised their weapons, the edges of well-honed farm implements and cruelly sharpened butcher's knives catching the light.

There was a breathless moment where everything stood still...

Combat was initiated.

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

IX.​

Elisabriel was not sure what she had expected from the melee, save that those expectations bore as little a resemblance to the truth as to shame the pen of even the most juvenile novelist. If she had ever been forced to put words to her idle presumptions, it would have been to say that she had rather anticipated something like a martial engagement with line infantry: individuals in crisp, bright, and not-undistinguished uniforms standing shoulder to shoulder and delivering powerful volleys against the foe. How so orderly a process should apply to the melee she had no idea. Perhaps some sort of designated order, or the taking of turns?

Instead, to her chagrin, Elisabriel found herself standing still while the battlefield abruptly pivoted around her. While she was caught off guard, her fellows were not: with the sudden indisposition of the captain and Mr. Booth, it was now essential that their rear-guard come to the fore, and the rest of the party fall back. And she was caught in the middle.

Mr. Midlingtour did not wait to be told, and given his usual capacity for remaining stalwart in the face of adversity, might have failed to hold the line even if commanded to do so under the auspices of a startling variety of deities. Wheeling backwards, the warlock slammed Elisabriel with one blind shoulder even as an eerie and green-violet blast of eldritch force escaped his hand. The look he then turned upon her for having the impudence to remain where she was was most displeased, but Elisabriel had no time to react before -- upon her other flank -- the more battle-ready forms of the doctor and Mr. Byrose raced forward and into the fray.

One can only imagine Elisabriel's bewonderment when, before her very eyes, the already robust silhouette of Dr. Anvilhorn burst upwards and outwards in a radical transformation of figure… and her horror likewise as, slipping upon the gleaming shards of glass, the colossal bulk of the doctor's new and wild shape shuddered to the ground! The doctor had previously informed her – as now proved fortunate, for she little knew how she should have reacted otherwise – that when forced into the melee he preferred the form of an axebeak, of the genus phorusrhacidae, a foreign bird of terrible aspect and dreadful size. But more dreadful still was it to see the doctor prone beneath the cruelly hooked implements of the goblins!

Mr. Byrose, quickly apprehending Dr. Anvilhorn's now precarious position, rushed the foe with rakish audacity. As the gentleman's footfalls effortlessly threaded the shards of glass, a curved approach – pressed close to the wall – allowed him to easily isolate one of the enemy. With a final flourish his rapier lanced between the goblin's ribs, and it fell to the ground with a dull thud: soundlessly, yet desperately, sucking for breath.

No. She had to act, not watch. The net! She should help with the net!

As another flash of green-violet light sundered the air, Elisabriel quickly closed the distance between Captain Rammstrong and herself. She announced her presence; she knelt; but as she prepared to cut the rope the captain spun to face her, with a force that almost propelled the dagger from her hand.

"No!" the captain commanded, "Booth! Help Booth! My strength will suffice. His may not, and he has already fallen on the glass!"

Half a glance proved the veracity of this objection, as the scarlet cut across Booth's forehead was bleeding most profusely, and Elisabriel quickly readdressed her efforts. But where to cut the net? Captain Rammstrong had managed to bunch the ropes in his efforts to extract himself, but Booth's more spasmodic and pained gesticulations had only drawn the lines tighter around him! She needed… there! A few errant loops – not much, but enough to make a cut. Thank Heavens she had worn her gloves; elsewise, she was sure the rope would have twisted within her sweat-weary grasp in a way impossible to counteract…

From the goblin-haunted shadows behind her, Elisabriel heard a grim snarl, accompanied by the insidious seething of breath and drool between torn lips. The room echoed sharply as metal met metal, and she knew Mr. Byrose -- relying only on the quickness of his reflexes and the surety of his leather armor -- now fought to preserve them all! And worse still, despite all her attempts to steel herself against desperation, she felt her fingertips tremble numbly as she clutched the coils of rope in one hand, the dagger shaking irresolutely within the other.

She sliced. A few fibres of hemp separated, but that was all. Persisting, she cut again, pulling hard against the rope with her weight, but the only effect was to come within a hair's breadth of severing her own veins. This wouldn't work – the dagger, no matter how finely made, had been made to pierce, not to slash. She needed something else… something…

"Look out!"

The warning came from Mr. Byrose, but it was not of the goblins he warned her. As the axebeak that held the temporary morphological designation of Dr. Anvilhorn fought to gain purchase and right itself, it threw its head back against the ground with such ferocity that it scored the flagstone with its beak, striking mere inches from Elisabriel's hand.

She recoiled, her hand flinching away, but… wait!

It was only by the barest fraction of a second, but she reacted in time, deftly looping the loose cords of the net between the massive jaws just before Dr. Anvilhorn's now-eponymous beak sheared closed with devastating force. Immediately the ropes slackened, a huge rend splitting the net nearly in half, and instantly freeing the unhappy pair beneath! Her heart swelling with relief, Elisabriel leaned forwards to help the serving-man to his feet, only to find herself rebuffed: Mr. Booth gasped for air as he leaned his weight on one elbow, braced to lift himself from--

"Don't stop!" he hissed between heaving gasps.

"What?"

Booth grabbed her arm, pulling her out of harm's way just as Mr. Byrose slid into a new position where she had hitherto just been, kicking up a spray of dust and glass as he whirled to keep his attention pinned upon the foe.

"Don't stop! You're never done until the enemy is!" Booth declared as, pulling a dagger from his belt, he charged towards the remaining goblins at a low crouch. Elisabriel lept to her feet, the frayed ends of the unraveling net still clenched in her fingers, and turned to see the four -- Mr. Byrose, Booth, the captain, and the doctor -- closing against the foe. By luck it was Dr. Anvilhorn who struck first, snatching one goblin in his jaws and worrying it as a terrier does a rat, and with a squeal of horror the sole remaining goblin gave a nimble, crab-wise hop and -- turning in panic -- plunged with desperate haste into the lightless corridor beyond.

"Stop him! Stop him!" Mr. Byrose cried, but to no avail. Booth's dagger and the captain's javelin both went wide, skidding off the wall.

There was a long pause, as if something or someone awaited had failed to materialize. And then, as one, the four turned towards her.

"What? What is it? Is something wrong?" Elisabriel inquired hastily, alarmed by their sudden, and sharply focused, attention.

"...Fire Bolt?" asked Mr. Byrose.

"Acid Splash?" asked Booth.

"Ray of Frost would have been an excellent choice." Captain Rammstrong recommended.

"BWUAKK?"

"Oh, no, no." said Elisabriel, "I'm afraid you quite misunderstand me, gentlemen! When I requested input regarding which spells to select last night, it was in no small part because I do not, in fact, have any cantrips suitable for such an occasion!"

Mr. Byrose looked scornful; Booth, amused; the captain went carefully poker-faced, and the axebeak had the advantage of being an axebeak, and thus, utterly inscrutable.

Behind her, Mr. Midlingtour stifled a laugh.

"Well, then." said Captain Rammstrong with a low cough, "Do you know how to fire a crossbow?"

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

X.​

Elisabriel felt fortunate, in the moments that followed, that she was already quite set upon mending the net and repurposing it to her use. For -- despite a quick and expedient remedy in the form of a crossbow, easily and readily bestowed by the courtesy of Mr. Booth -- she felt keenly aware that her want of offensive capacity had fomented an unspoken strain amongst the others in her company.

Such controversy prompted within her a complexity of emotions, such as Elisabriel had felt only rarely. The awareness of her gaffe smarted most distinctly, and made her feel altogether foolish, as she was now uncomfortably aware that without range she should have been at a considerable disadvantage should the melee have followed another course. However, Elisabriel could not, try as she might, completely smother a pang of indignation at the disapprobation of Messrs. Byrose and Booth. She had not fled, nor cowered, as one often heard of juvenile enthusiasts doing when confronted with their first melee. Indeed, she had moved with all alacrity, and certainly had not found herself wanting for anything to do!

And even after the fracas, how quickly had she taken the remains of the net within her mage hand and used them to sweep the broken glass from the center of the room! But no, they -- as men in particular seemed all too disposed to do -- could only consider one's efficacy in combat as a ratio of the damage done to the time expended.

And so, while still well within ear-shot and participating as needed, Elisabriel was glad of the diversion permitted by the reconstitution of the net. She did not, at the moment, trust herself to be completely the mistress of her face.

Despite their single goblin escapee, the party quickly determined that the goblins were not immediately moving to mount a counter-offensive, and this fact formed the lynch-pin of the current conversation. Mr. Midlingtour, with rather more confidence and a great deal more grandeur than was warranted, averred that such would have only have occurred if the goblins had forfeited the premises before their "onslaught," but others urged caution:

"I cannot agree." Captain Rammstrong declared in response to Mr. Midlingtour's flamboyant exultation, "Given what information we received regarding the security of the goblin's position regarding the ballroom, I find it far more likely that they are fortifying themselves therein."

"And trapping what they can before we get there." Mr. Byrose intimated darkly, to the grim concurrence of most.

"Correct, we must prepare for what they can do, and not depend upon likelihoods."

"Seems a great deal of wasted effort, to me." scoffed Mr. Midlingtour.

Mr. Booth muttered something at this juncture which Elisabriel did not catch -- although based upon the severity of the warlock's reaction he most definitely had. The body language of both shifted nigh-instantly into their most intimidating posture: Mr. Midlingtour into the high-shouldered, wide elbowed stance of a mage prepared to cast, and Booth half-hunched into the low crouch he had employed in the melee.

Fortunately for the general peace of the group, the good doctor had not yet dismissed his wild shape, and the looming bulk of the great bird was enough to dissuade the pair from further animosity when one massive, multi-taloned foot interposed between them.

"Now then," said Captain Rammstrong with a strong, yet clearly artificial, calm, "we are all tense about Thom's death. But let's not allow ourselves to fall into distraction--"

"Tell that to your servingman." was Mr. Midlingtour's acid reply.

"-- when I would suggest" the captain continued, with considerable weight placed upon the final word, "that we proceed to the ballroom with all haste?"

Another rope wove together in her grasp, and Elisabriel moved to mend the last of the ruptured knots. Still, she had heard quite enough of what passed for discourse among the gentlemen, and felt it time to intercede.

"Might I be so bold as to make a different proposal?" she hazarded, keeping her voice carefully neutral. The men started. They were… not surprised, exactly, but in their own collusion seemed to have near-forgotten she was there, and some half of them had to pivot in order to attend to her words.

"Of course, Miss Davalon." the captain said, "although we must be mindful of the time…"

"I daresay not, actually." replied Elisabriel with a light smile, "now would be the worst time to attack the goblins in their nest."

"So you suggest we allow them to fortify themselves?" Mr. Byrose challenged.

"Not in so many words. I suggest we give them the time to come off of high alert. Goblins are not generally predisposed to anything so… orderly as the martial virtues. They have closed ranks at the moment, but I daresay their own temperamental natures will have them at each other's throats and needing space in but a few hours."

"Many a goblin regiment was to be found within the Dark Emperor's armies." Captain Rammstrong observed dubiously.

"Yes, when lead by a non-goblin they can marshal something that better passes for composure in a dim light. But we have no reason to suspect that the case here: quite the contrary. Most of the races that press goblins into their service have a disdain for not just the goblins but for their traps, which here we find in an absolute profusion. More, both the facts that our enemies did not have a guard posted in this room and that they did not retaliate to our advance both hint at a lack of governing insight."

To Elisabriel's satisfaction, she saw the great head of the axebeak give a subtle nod of concurrence -- a fact which even the more recalcitrant gentlemen were forced to notice as well. Still, Mr. Byrose frowned.

"How do you know all this?"

"Oh." Elisabriel said, as the last knot came together and she tested its strength in her hands, "It is difficult to find since the war, but Simeone de Creve-Gobelins Demi-Anthropologie is generally considered to be an authority on the subject. Fortunately, my father has a copy in his library. De Creve-Gobelins is very precise when it comes to the lives of hobgoblins and bugbears as well, although his chapter on ogres is an absolute mess. You can tell how his family got their name.

"In the meantime, I suggest that we take our time exploring the tunnels." she added. "We still have nine family heirlooms to locate if we wish to receive our full comission, after all."

There was a pause as the men looked awkwardly at each other, although Captain Rammstrong gave her a considering look, and -- unless her mind quite deceived her -- there was something like approval in his glance as well.

"Very well, you've made your case. We shall put it to a vote, and per our usual, I shall abstain to avoid a deadlock. First: all those in favor of beseiging the ballroom?"

Messrs. Booth and Byrose both raised their hand, with Booth giving a little habitual 'aye' at the motion… and both reacted with resignation as they saw they were to be defeated. Still, Captain Rammstrong continued with the little ritual.

"And those who favor exploring the tunnels?"

Despite herself, Elisabriel felt a little thrill of elation as she voted in her own favor, and even moreso as Mr. Midlingtour and Dr. Anvilhorn likewise indicated their support by raising of hand and flapping of wing.

"Carried. Well, don't just stand there, m-... I beg your pardon, people. We have a job to do!"

❀​

 

[K von Carstein]

Thanks for the chapter.

Well, those guys are right to be upset. Having no damaging cantrip of any sort is just dumb for a caster. Even if you don't intend to go fighting, having something to defend yourself with is never a mistake.

 

[VIIVs]

Well, those guys are right to be upset. Having no damaging cantrip of any sort is just dumb for a caster. Even if you don't intend to go fighting, having something to defend yourself with is never a mistake.

Click to shrink...

I mean, they definitely have a point, as she herself acknowledged in retrospect. But I'd say "naive" rather than dumb, personally? She has mage armor up and shield prepared, which is what her mind would have thought of from the phrase "defend yourself."

My intent is for Elisabriel to come through as a high INT, low WIS character, especially at first. Hopefully this means I'm doing it right!

 

[K von Carstein]

My intent is for Elisabriel to come through as a high INT, low WIS character, especially at first. Hopefully this means I'm doing it right!

Click to shrink...

In that case, you were very successful 😉 lots of theoretical knowledge but not much in terms of practical ideas.

 

[VIIVs]

XI.​

It was some three hours later that they stopped for a short rest.

Said three hours had been predominantly without excitement, although by no means without progress. They had been correct, it seemed, in anticipating there would not be substantial traps in those places the goblins had habitually frequented, although given the long dereliction of the manor they had on occasion encountered a few other vermin of quite unusual size wandering about.

More promising, however, were the valuables they had acquired: three of the nine heirlooms had been discovered, in the forms of a large ivory signet that doubled as a ring of protection, a spear of backbiting that had belonged to the original baronet Fortring, and a mundane but exquisitely made porcelain vase the party was loath to tell Sir Delwick had been commandeered as a goblin's commode.

To their more immediate enrichment, however, were other items that, having been bestowed by members of the gentry upon their most deserving domestics in some distant past, proved to be of greater value than their placement downstairs would indicate. In this category the party had acquired an incomplete set of fine silverware, a few pieces of good china that had escaped the goblinoid carnage, an original but very grimy Nemeer landscape hanging in the cook's quarters, and -- almost certainly someone of vast income's idea of a 'jape' -- an box of ten mithril-plated "mousetraps of elvenkind," accompanied by a wand of secrets… presumably so you could find them again after setting them.

Having identified their magic items -- all the while quite conspicuously not pointing out the money they were saving on a diviner's fee by her doing so -- Elisabriel now returned to applying her prestidigitation's painstaking cleaning potential upon the porcelain vase, paranoid that she had somehow missed a spot. And it was fortunate that she did so, not because she spotted any errant speck of filth upon the priceless porcelain, but because whilst so pointedly aligned to her senses she was able to detect the faintest flicker of movement in the periphery of her vision.

That she had espied a goblin -- or at least a fraction thereof - - Elisabriel deemed certain from the low posture and the jaundiced complexion she had only half made out. However, there had been something so weak, stooped and distinctively cringing in its bearing that it made her, herself, reluctant to call the others to arms.

She rose and walked with quick purpose to the doorway, cautiously peering out into the hallway with just sufficient time to see a door further down the hall -- one they had yet to survey -- sway and close almost soundlessly.

"Did you see something?" Mr. Midlingtour asked, from where he had settled upon a profoundly dusty but otherwise serviceable chair in the servant's room wherein they had procured refuge. The warlock sat with one leg slung over the other, delicately and quite deliberately facing away from where Mr. Booth sat in consultation with the rest. The others, however, were roused by the insinuation, and likewise refocused their attention upon Elisabriel.

"I believe I saw a goblin… injured, perhaps, but more likely a juvenile." she stated, pausing as a most… provoking uncertainty snuck into her thoughts, "Is it… is it quite incumbent upon us to slay the women and children, as well?"

"No." replied Captain Rammstrong, albeit with a promptness that gave the pointed indication that he was endeavoring to speak before others could, "Such was not specified within our commission, and as an expeditionary party we follow the martial Rules of Engagement where we can."

" 'Where we can?' " Elisabriel repeated, with no small alarm at the dishonour implied by such a terminal clause. The captain, for his part, seemed in no measure less uncomfortable than herself upon the subject, and turned to the other gentlemen as though imploring another to take up the cause in his stead. After a brief moment, his call was answered.

"Miss Davalon," Mr. Byrose began, and though his countenance was not unfriendly Elisabriel could have sworn there was the faintest note of condescension in his voice, "what I believe Captain Rammstrong means to say is that there are circumstances in which any rule is put to the breaking point; otherwise, after all, there would hardly be a purpose to having a rule."

Mr. Byrose paused here, as though expecting an objection from her quarter. Elisabriel did not oblige him, however, and having failed to goad her into his anticipated reaction the gentleman continued.

"If a child of any sentient creature is hiding, or running, or attempting to abscond in some way, then of course it would be a dishonorable act of cowardice to perform violence against them, and every thinking and feeling and, above all, civilized heart should be set against the perpetrator. However, what would you say if a child was to to take up arms, or to enter the fray as a combatant?"

Elisabriel was quiet for a moment, contemplating. Her first impulse was to decry such a scenario as abhorrent, but she was not so foolish as to forget that the Dark Emperor had been known -- especially as his power was failing and his armies deserting -- to press any creature he could into his repugnant servitude. What Mr. Byrose 'speculated' here was in no way conjecture; rather, it was a quandary that all too many soldiers had found themselves tested by during the war.

"I should hope that I never face so dreadful a situation," Elisabriel replied solemnly, and saw a sharp gleam light Mr. Byrose's eyes. Before he could interrupt, however, she clarified her position. "However, as I know that you are not wasting my time here with what is merely theory, Mr. Byrose, allow me to say that I should make every reasonable endeavor to procure a non-violent solution before resorting to combat."

"And what if such were not possible, Miss Davalon?" Mr. Byrose asked, brow furrowing, "And what if the one in danger were--"

"Well put, Miss Davalon!" interjected Doctor Anvilhorn, whose natural morphology had reasserted itself during the interval of their explorations. "Very well put. I'm sure none of us could ask for any more proper, or fitting, a sentiment than that. Now, I believe we all have rested sufficiently, and we may as well recommence by tracking down Miss Davalon's sneaky little friend. Which way did you say he went?"

Elisabriel motioned down the hall, but when she looked back into the room, it was to find that Mr. Byrose's attention had been diverted by conversation with a distinctly stern-looking Captain Rammstrong. As she gathered her accoutrements to rejoin their expedition, she could not help, however, wondering one thing.

Just what had Mr. Byrose been about to ask?

❀​

 

[VIIVs]

A portrait I drew of Miss Elisabriel Davalon, of Gildenbough Groves:


View: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1H2cfeOgI-O5DNhDP1eg6w_C-l9XdWfJ8/view?usp=sharing

 

[VIIVs]

XII.​

The intelligence presented by Mr. Booth, upon his return from an initial foray to survey that chamber in which the goblin had sequestered itself, was among the most unexpected of Elisabriel's life.

It seemed that the room -- a laundry, and therefore of vanishingly minute significance to goblinkind in the scope of their particular and insalubrious existence -- had been repurposed into, of all things within the world, an art gallery.

An. Art. Gallery?

Per Booth's description, the walls were lined with some ten paintings, obviously purloined from elsewhere in the Park, but which had been vandalized in a way that he refused to elaborate upon save to suggest that they had been defiled in a manner most decidedly unhygienic. And yet nonetheless the works remained readily, if repulsively, identifiable as goblinoid contributions to the halls of the muses.

So, steeled as to the foul and scandalous finesse she should witness -- and dreading such aberrant ability and corrupt canvases as must inevitably appear -- Elisabriel was both disgusted and, insidiously, impressed by the display when Captain Rammstrong kicked in the door to the laundry and the sights and smells within burst upon those without.

If one were able to utterly denude themselves of the olfactory sense -- and, of course, to erase any context of the piece whatsoever -- then one must be, of necessity, taken aback by the vivid and uncanny authenticity of the images arrayed within the room. For while much of the paintings remained untouched, the same could not be said of the faces and hands of the figures, which had been painted over by subjects of a goblinoid nature. And yet how disturbingly real were they, whose verisimilitude of countenance and manner made them seem more lifelike than the faces of those who gazed upon them!

…It was only a shame that they were rendered in a virulent green that could have only been extracted from the baskets of dried goose droppings kept near at hand.

Despite herself, Elisabriel had the most fervent and sudden impulse to share this strange, artistic revelation with Mr. Almkirk… only to find her heart to suddenly staggered upon the crags of impossibility. That the gentleman in his creative enthusiasm would have entered into the complex mix of fascination and repugnance invoked by these paintings she had no doubt, and she had to blink back the burr of irritation that stung her eyes before tears could escape.

After all, a quick glance more than sufficed to acquaint her with the fact that the majority of the party did not share her cognitive dissonance as provoked by the effort of the paintings, and instead reacted only to their effluvium. The sole exceptions were Dr. Anvilhorn, who looked taken aback without strong offense, and Mr. Byrose -- although mayhaps in the latter case it was simply that the acridity of the stench had caused his eyes to water.

"Miss Davalon! On your right!"

The voice of Captain Rammstrong rang out in alarm, but fortunately the motion had drawn her vision as well: a small goblin, presumably the same one she had glimpsed within the hall, shaking with palsied fear as it leveled a trowel upon her as a weapon. And laughable as such a situation might have else-wise proven, the fact that the trowel had been employed as a impromptu palette-knife, and was thus utterly caked with filth, made the prospect of even the slightest scratch a most perilous suggestion.

A voice from her other side rang out, croaking out orders in the goblinoid tongue, and Elisabriel -- who had come prepared for such an eventuality -- was careful to keep her eyes upon her trembling assailant even as she deftly pinched the slightest touch of soot and salt from her component pouch. Murmuring the spell to herself, she traced the fine powder around the outside of her ear in a complex pattern, and…

"Krazg ghaha queekee lasaj-oolish boy! Hide! Hide! Drop the knife! They shall kill you for having the audacity to threaten one of their females!"

"But the paintings, sir! The paintings!"

"You are the paintings, my boy!" the rasping voice broke in plaintive desperation, "Your art must survive! Drop the knife! Drop it!"

Behind her, Elisabriel became dimly aware of the tension rising, and the faint, artificially fresh alchemical scent that accompanied Mr. Midlingtour's blasts of eldritch force. With an exaggerated slowness and care -- as much not to alarm her companions as the young goblin currently brandishing a gardening implement in her direction -- she raised one hand.

"Desist, gentlemen." she said, careful to keep her eyes upon the goblin-child, lest his panic overtake his judgment.

"Miss Davalon?" Dr. Anvilhorn frowned, his eyes flickering warily from her to the diminutive green figure opposite.

"Shh." she said, tapping her ear, "I have ensured that I can comprehend their language. I don't believe he will harm me. Will he?"

The last Elisabriel directed not to the child, but to the older goblin, to whom she now spared a glance for the first time. The elder was almost exactly what she had pictured from his grating voice: a face impossibly furrowed from age, thick growths of wiry white hair protruding from his earlobes, and most importantly in the current instance, meeting her gaze with a look of cautious… comprehension.

"Sir?" the goblin-child squeaked, his posture slowly resolving from convulsive, desperate aggression to halting befuddlement.

"Careful, lad. Their female can understand us, probably making use of one of their bizarre magical secrets. I don't think she means us harm, but I daresay the males might make any excuse to take our heads. And for Bugugh's sake, drop the knife!"

The goblin-child suddenly looked to the grime-besmirched trowel in his hand with horror that, had he not been feverishly brandishing it mere seconds in the past, might have indicated that he had never seen it before in his life. There was a weighty clunk as he allowed it to drop to the ground, after which he kicked it away from him like a snake and looked up at Elisabriel with a timid eagerness to please that should have been utterly endearing… if it weren't for the yet-palpable fear that harried his minute features.

Elisabriel, in turn, gave both goblins a pleasant but above all tight-lipped smile: after all, per the writings of de Creve-Gobelin, one never gave a goblin and smile that showed teeth… not if you valued your face in its most current and desirable of configurations.

She turned and looked to the gentlemen, but instead of the general aplomb she had half-expected for calming the situation without loss of life, Elisabriel found herself greeted by a general and vaguely unimpressed reaction of "yes, and?" that rendered it quite plain that, having spared these goblins from the sword, it was now incumbent upon her to figure out what to do with them.

Well. Now…

❀​

 

[Mithrill]

Elisabriel found herself greeted by a general and vaguely unimpressed reaction of "yes, and?" that rendered it quite plain that, having spared these goblins from the sword, it was now incumbent upon her to figure out what to do with them.

Click to shrink...

I can easily see this at the table:

Elisabriel's player: I cast Comprehend Language and try to get the goblins to surrender!
DM: OK... (rolls) the elder goblin catches your drift and commands the child to drop the knife. Congratulations, now what?

 

[VIIVs]

I can easily see this at the table:

Elisabriel's player: I cast Comprehend Language and try to get the goblins to surrender!
DM: OK... (rolls) the elder goblin catches your drift and commands the child to drop the knife. Congratulations, now what?

Click to shrink...

One of the things I find the most fun about this concept is the clash of between the "genre" of realism, the "genre" of D&D, and the "historical accuracy" of realism. Because to be historically accurate, it's unfortunately highly likely that creatures deemed "demihuman" would be Muderhobo-ed in seconds. But such would be a very "impolite" truth.

Not that Austen always shied away from such subjects. She was reportedly in favor of abolition, and mentions of slavery crop up repeatedly -- both literally and in metaphor -- in her works...