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Chapter Ten

To the little bobbin standing in the morning mist with the golden sunshine suddenly blocked by the gloom of the blue shadows and banks of surrounding fog, an impossibly tall wizard stood there at the crossroads musing his long-stemmed pipe.

And inquiring about his circumstances.

Whereas in times past Tappert had considered the wizard mildly boorish, even sometimes annoying when the elven sorcerer straight from the Emerald Council at Indolién paid unannounced visits to old Abbey Hill and the lands of SaltBlocke Farm beneath the spreading oak the district had known as the Old Man for all Tappert’s days, right now… well… it was downright inconvenient[NC1]  and quite a bother what with a stranger, a man of the woods and mountains, dying no less in the guest cottage.

So there was that.

And there was also that business his crazed old uncle had whispered to him on Whistle Eve in those last years and would say no more on the subject.

That beyond pearls of great price, Malrond was never to be trusted with the secrets of the underhall.

And if that wasn’t enough, then there was the dying stranger telling little Tappert MaCrow to hide the worn out gunna sack, which is what bobbin, or Littles if you prefer, called rucks sacks, or packs. Your choice. But to hide his travel worn gunna sack in one of the most secret recesses of the underhall of SaltBlocke. And if that wasn’t enough… this secret hidey hole his uncle had set aside, was largely unknown to Tappert before its revelation by the stranger.

Then again…

There were all kinds of undiscovered clever places down there in the halls below the main hall of Saltblocke Hall. And Tappert had a mind that he knew a very great many of them even if he couldn’t quite gain access to them just yet with whatever particular key or puzzle gained entry to them.

And then of course… there was just downright burglary and the picking of locks which any good bobbin knew how to do, not because they were low thieves of any sort, but that keys were bothersome, and locks were easy to pick, and hard to come by[NC2]  if one needed replacing.

So, it was a handy skill known by one and all.

Most bobbin kept a pick or two handy anyway as much as they did a fried egg biscuit or a cheese, ham, and pickle press in one of their many pockets.

A “presser” is what they called a cheese, ham, and pickle sandwich. Made with two thin slices of country bread, a strip of mustard, and then the red country chestnut ham and a nice pokey cheese which is what we would have called cheese with holes in it and which Littles, in their practical experience just called Pokey Cheese. The reason all this assemblage was called “a Presser” is because this particular sandwich was best when kept in the back pocket of a bobbin out walking or working, and therefore sat on frequently during breaks.

All agreed that the pressing made the Presser taste better, especially if the pokey cheese was sharp, the pickle sour, and the mustard mild[NC3] .

But those were thoughts for other fine days and not this mess of a morning as far as Tappert MaCrow was concerned.

“And what would you be doing out this fine too-early morning, young Tappert?” asked the wizard with none of his usual joy and enthusiasm which Tappert often thought seemed… feigned or even “ginned up” as some had whispered before.

“Don’t get the feelin’ that one’s up and up,” as Miss would have put it, busy about the kitchens back at Saltblocke.

And yes, kitchens, plural. There are fifteen between the old abbey grounds, the underhall, and the secret undercellars, though most of those are little more than a pantry, a cutting board, a good knife, and a set of plates to set forth a proper snacking when one’s busy rotating the ports or wines down there in the lonely and quiet, yet very cozy halls.

And sometimes you hear things down there. Things that bother you, and as every bobbin knows, a little snack banishes a bothersome ghost or two.

“Aren’t you out a little bit early, or late, for your normal long walks through the night, Tappert MaCrow?”

Now Tappert knew that some knew of his late-night walks, often taking him far out near the Barrow Hills where he would only get within sighting distance and never close enough to see the old and ancient stone doors set long ago, sometimes cracked and open, for fear of seeing an actual barrow wight out and about haunting on a late eve.

But then again, Tappert would often ask himself when he stood there for long hours watching the soft rolling hills under the late evening moon, the mist and shadows making it seem as though something was indeed out there and moving among the old and ancient stones, “Why are you out here then, Tappert… if not to see one of ‘em. To know if it’s true… or it ain’t? A wight and all.”

But then Tappert would tell himself he was more interested in the ancient artifacts still rumored to lay deep in the barrow halls. The swords or other weapons of renown, perhaps even crumbling books, or ancient maps impressed on the walls that could be copied down and studied later in the safety of his cozy tower.

“Thas’ why,” Tappert would whisper to himself later when wondering why he’d done such a foolish thing as getting so close to the old barrow halls of the ancient kings little was known about in the nowadays of these present todays.

“Why…” stammered Tappert to Malrond. “I’m…”

He couldn’t think of an answer or a why, as to why he was out running in the morning fog, jumping at shadows, and clearly headed over toward the acres, maybe, because the way around from the crossroad that he was clearly about to take would lead him there directly.

But it was clear he was lying, or at least… omitting. Or at least it would be. And it was best not to do that with a wizard when important matters were on the line.

So Tapper did not.

“Why… I am off to see Ol’ Sorley about a medical problem I’m having… this morning.”

The wizard mused his pipe, waiting for the lie to reveal itself. Or at least, that was the feeling Tappert had as he stood there quite uncomfortably. And, as if some small voice whispered to Tappert that now was when the liar would double down and explain more as if to mortar or seal the lie like it was an odd stone in a country wall that needed more fidgeting than fixing in place, Tappert ignored that suggestion [NC4] and instead said nothing.

Like a pro as his friends would have said.

The wizard blew a large smoke ring at Tappert though he seemed not to even inhale, or exhale, for that matter.

In the mist, growing colder and thicker by the moment, it was as though the elven eyes of the sorcerer had turned into burning dark coals, studying Tappert in the deepening of the dark that was so… well, dark… it seemed for a moment there that it was not first morning at ‘tall, but perhaps end o’ day when dark came early due to the mists from off the coast.

This was… Tappert would think later… passing queer.

A liar would lie more, Tappert told himself in the same instant and continued to say nothing.

Finally, the wizard removed his long-stemmed pipe from his thin mouth and murmured, “I hope it is nothing… too serious, Tappert?”

Tappert gave a short giggle which is a very bobbin thing to do when uncomfortable about some delicate matter and wishing not to be impolite but also not revealing.

Tappert patted his stomach, covered by a fine cut waistcoat with three brass buttons. “Nothing a tonic won’t see to this morning, I hope, Malrond. I should be…” Tappert trailed off.

“Yes, going,” finished the wizard. “Sorry to have waylaid you. May I ask one small question though, my young Tappert?”

Tappert said nothing and the wizard stepped forward and leaned slightly as though seeking to keep the matter just between the two of them. His boots grinding the gravel of the road in the thick foggy silence.

“Were you out… late… last night?”

Tappert made a face, pure acting and showing nothing but startled pleasantness. Then, “Well of course, Malrond. I o…

Chapter Nine

The sun came through the mists above but only in brief bursts as Tappert, wrapping himself in a nice thick Wickshire scarf he’d acquired the previous year for just a few coin, ran down the steep hill from the Old Abbey grounds that were Saltblocke Farm atop the hill and under the great oak. But the clearing mist and bursts of wan early spring sunshine were only due to the fact that the hill was a slightly higher elevation than the surrounding countryside and so quickly, before Tappert reached the twisting roads and bottoms of the lands, he was once again running off through the thick mist, suddenly enveloped in the dense quiet it always made at this time of the morning, hearing nothing but the strike of his boots, the crunch of the road rock, and the gasping of his breath as he tried to keep his coffee and bacon down.

“Bother,” he gasped, and burped since no one was around. “This is no way to start a proper morning of breakfasting.”

Which was a very bobbin thing to say as breakfasting had sort of an event level statues to it

Tappert rushed on through the gloom and pushed away thoughts of frying eggs sizzling in rich butter, more perfectly cooked bacon, and perhaps even a dense and sweet lavender scone with one nice full pot of black coffee to see it all along and call proper breakfasting done and done. But none of this was going to happen and so he ran toward the crossroads, intent on the desperate errand he was about and perhaps bargaining that some sort of emergency breakfast could still be had if things went off quicker than they were looking.

But it never does go that way,does it?

And yet, despite all this, there were other darker thoughts to push away as Tappert ran for the wise man, Sorley Barters, who made his small residence in an underhill along the small hamlet all Littles called the Acres.

Things… moved… out there in the swirling mists.

Morning mist, even on one so fine,or so the morning promising seemed, still clutched at the shadows of the night out there in its grasp. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. Goblin small and seeming, and off, moving, and always there at the next twist or turn heading toward the crossroads, only to disappear as Tappert continued closer.

And hadn’t the strange man said something about being beset upon by goblins?

Just then something moved too quickly near one of those dark shapes beneath the tall oaks and Tappert stopped suddenly, wishing he’d brought along his sturdy walking stick, as he studied the land. Perhaps if it were a beast, he could drive it off, he thought.

But, Tappert had that peculiar sense this was not just some beast out too late after morning rise. Some natural predators out too late hunting, or just one of the stray dogs that plagued the flocks throughout the day. Or p’raps even a wolf come down out of the high places to hunt little children playing beyond the call and care of their parents and good dogs. No, this was not those natural things. There, standing stock still and watching the swirling mists off to the side of the road, Tappert had the distinct impression he was dealing with something out there in the mists, following parallel to his course, other than just a beast out hunting.

Of course, despite their stature, bobbin are quite adept in dealing with beasts. So Tappert was not afraid but not curious. Just… cautious.

This… was different. Felt different. Was… different.

Other perhaps.

We shall, if we continue this tale, need to discuss the meaning of other. Especially with respect to the little known yet very remarkable bobbin. But now is not the time for meanings and a deep discussion of Other. So, please remind me if I forget.

Tappert began to walk slowly now, reasoning that if it were a beast of some sort then it was best to move slowly as a predator would perceive prey as running and try to take it from behind.

And that would not do the stabbed man a bit of good at this dire moment.

Bobbin have a thing about strangers of the road dying in their halls and care. And so, Tappert was intent on avoiding that whole mess.

In the mist and fog, all Tappert could hear out there were the sounds of his own boots against the rough rock of the well-maintained road. Nothing else. Not even his breathing which he’d made very quiet. He was nearing the crossroads where he would turn and take the road up to the Acres and Sorely Barters, when his heart stopped and he saw, ahead on the road, some type of looming… skeleton, or even a pit demon perhaps, it was so tall, maybe even a giant and drooling warewoof come in to feed.

Bobbin hate warewoofs and are convinced these creatures lie at the source of all their troubles. Their fireside tales will, invariably, involve the accusations of a warewoofbeing involved.

But it was not this, or any of those things, and especially most of all a warewoof thankfully. It was in fact, merely the crossroads lamppost still lit in the dense fog, and what Tappert had taken for the two burning eyes of the hungry warewoof were merely the last two candles burning down and turned fiery orange by the early day’s misty light.

Tappert suddenly heard movement a’near’off, a bobbin way of saying over there, but whatever it was it was going away now, rustling off through the brush and none too clever by half or so it, whatever it was, must have been thinking to itself that it was about.

For again, bobbin are remarkable creatures alone and in the wood and field. And if a bobbin is so of a mind, they can move through a forest at a dead run and never leave a trace. Especially if they’ve turned to taking off their boots, which they prefer for work and styling, and even the elves of Indolién come to have boots done in Leatherby, for bobbin boots are the finest workmanship, so all agree. But without boots, and wearing their walking mocs, as they call them, soft leather hide shoes their long-ago bobbin ancestors made, then a bobbin cannot be found having moved through an area no matter how recently, and at what reckless speed they did so.

But not with fine boots on, as Tappert was so beshod this morning. Next to fine maps and well-kept books, Tappert MaCrow’s other passion was well made clothing and leather boots. The sounds of his crunched on the hard rock, and just before the lamppost burning its twin evil eyes in the morning mist, the Little listened to whatever it was that had been trailing him, running alongside the road, take itself off and into the brush, heading off toward Quiet Stream a bit farther over. Which is how bobbin mean a’near’off but farther away.

No less than a league.

“P’raps it was a beast,” whispered Tappert to himself in the lonely morning gloom. “Needin’ a drink before the day’s sleep. That’s all.”

When it was gone and everything was silent once more, Tappert turned back to the lamppost and was just about to run again when standing there in front of him was Old Malrond himself.

The elven wizard who often came from Indolién to share news and tales and magics of telling and show.

Puffing his pipe and watching the Little through the morning gloom, the wizard stood stone still.

“Well, Helloo there,” muttered the elven wizard, musing his beard as he blew smoke rings into the mist. “And what would little Tappert MaCrow be out doing at this time of the morning. Shouldn’t you be making one of your fine breakfasts a…

A very special episode with the Medusa and Chungo

Chapter Eight

Mistand the darkness before dawn came to SalteBlock farms, and the little Bobbin everyone called Tappert MaCrow entered the kitchen down inside the old, and really evenancient, abbey from which his lovely tower rose near a corner in what remained of the wall. Quickly, Tappert MaCrow fell to the business of starting the copper kettle, grinding the coffee, and selecting two fat strips of his choicest cured bacon from the herd that fed on acorns up in the high hills, for the first of the several meals Littles would regularly have throughout the day.

Bacon, as it was simply known.

Normally, Tappert would always have one single strip of bacon for this first meal of the standard Little dining schedule of meals and snacks throughout the day. Bacon wasusually at this standard time of pre-dawn darkness and the quiet before birds and their songs, but today was already off to a bad start and it was a wonder that even bacon was possible.

But Tappert needed a moment to think. Problems abounded and troubles smelled like they couldn’t be too far off. Hadn’t old Ned Thom, his gardener, said his elbow was,“a’hurtin’ something powerful,” just yesterday. That had been a clear warning if there ever was one.

Tappert MaCrow had a stranger bleeding in the guest cottage near the old storage shed which was next to the unused smithy inside of what remained of the ancient wall that all bobbin called Salteblock Farm. So far none of Tappert’s skills in binding wounds, or even simple medicine, had been enough to stop the wicked little wound the strange man had received from continuing to trickle blood in a slow yet constant stream. So… being a Little, two strips of bacon were exactly what was needed at this moment, thought Tappert as he impatiently watched the bacon sizzle in the cast iron skillet that was as old as the MaCrow occupation of the old abbey. As this took place, he waited for the coffee to be ready and sat staring at the glowing coals inside the much renowned oven of the farm.

His beautiful little kitchen with all its copper pans and pots, things he had paid great money for via the occasional dwarven cobbler who passed through, or even importing from Indolién itself, gave Tappert no real comfort this cold misty morning with the early soft light of blue dawn creeping through the leaded window in the kitchen.

“Problems and problems…” whispered Tappert to himself as he sat on a stool, listening to the bacon and thinking what to do.

A man was bleeding to death. This was clearly a result of violence out there on the roads late in the night last, and Tappert was now responsible for him.

Somehow. He wasn’t really sure of that part other than to accept the responsibility that if one was out wandering in the night, exploring, then what happened was one’s responsibility.

This wasn’t necessarily an adventure. Or what derisive Littles called, “a’wanderin’.” But it did feel close to one.

So, there was that.

Tappert turned the bacon. The kettle was ready to brew. He sat back down.

“Problems and problems…,” he softly whispered again.

This was not a burden, not exactly… but it was bothersome to a degree. Tappert had written, in his tiny cursive beautiful script, an entire schedule for today and now that schedule was clearly not going to be met. Not in the least.

Not at this rate.

He checked the bacon, removed it from the heat just like he liked it, considered frying a yellow duck egg and perhaps even some toast with rich creamy butter and a nice big swath of fig jam, thought better of that, and held the ground coffee in the grinder to his nose, inhaling it.

Every morning he did the same thing. At this point. This was the ritual.

“Today…,” he whispered to himself. As he did every morning. “…an adventure will happen.”

The bleeding would not stop despite best efforts and even now the stranger was beginning to turn white, if not gray altogether. Perhaps that was just a trick of the light in the room there. But then again, he remembered he had gone to great lengths regarding the lighting in the cottage, wanting it to be cheery and rosy for any guests who stayed the night there after some fine meal Tappert had put on. No one ever really did. But he was ready. And ready was a thing Tappert prided himself on. Being ready that is.

Tappert had done his best to keep pressure on the evil wound that had a definite air of poison smell to it. The man who’d only given his name as Walker. Now he was keeping pressure on the wound as best he could, though Tappert expected some kind of delirium might not be far off.

So how long could that last?

And what about that schedule for today?

“Problems and problems…”

Tappert liked his bacon crispy and yet barely cooked. He brewed the coffee and gobbled, not his preferred way to eat Bacon, quickly. He was, he had decided, going to have to do something to assist the man. And that meant going out quickly. He was going to have to run out before the sun even came up and get himself down to Wiseman Sorley Barters. The wiseman was the Bobbin stitcher of bad wounds acquired during farming, and a wise old, if not silly, Bobbin much skilled in healing. He was off down the hill from the farm, off toward the crossroads from there, and then up Apple Road to the small little village of underhill homes near the big meadow most just called the Acres.

Tappert drank the coffee faster than he would have liked, again, not his usual manner of such things, stacked the cup unwashed, worried what this would do to his schedule for a brief moment, sorted himself that Miss could see to it when she came up to work with Ol’ Ned Thom for the day, and then resolved himself to do something helpful.

“Bother that schedule,” the little Bobbin thought and dashed back across the quiet yard of the old abbey, making his way to the guest house he’d set up near the old storage shed that had once been the smithy. This was near the corner tower where Tappert kept all his books and all his precious maps.

Tappert’s tower, as all the Littles called the old rebuilt abbey tower, and thought it an unseemly thing for a Bobbin to be messing about in, lay in the corner of what remained of the wall where the old abbey had once been. It was, in fact, all that remained of the old abbey no one really knew much about. Above ground that is. Beneath the hill much of the old abbey was still quite… there, as some say.

Some even said he lived there, in the tower, which was crass by Littleviews. This was not completely true in the least. Tappert, like all Bobbin, in fact lived in the hill beneath the old abbey which sat atop the hill.

All Bobbin live in underhillhomes.

Old Uncle Gusbert had of course built a proper Bobbin hall beneath the old abbey into the recesses of the wide and sharply steep hill. No one was sure how many rooms there truly were down there beneath the soft green grass and the towering oak that loomed over even the tower. Some of the parts of the Salteblock Hall even reached into the old cellars of the strange and forgotten abbey atop the hill with the broken tower Tappert had paid large amounts of gold coin, his inheritance from his eccentric uncle, to fix up and turn into a proper scholar’s tower not in the least like those of the famed Elven Sages in Indolién. But at least… an homage to… a likeness of.

Tappert was quite proud of it. And yes, there were nights he fell asleep there, in fact, working on his maps and pouring over his books. But he had no official bed there. Just a large, overstuffed leather chair and a blanket Miss always kept for him folded and neat.

And though she was a Little, or Bobbin if you prefer, and that meant much given to the vice of gossip, Miss his faithful keeper of the hall, tidier of books and strange things, maker of beds with fresh linens in all of the fifty rooms, told no one of the blanket she’d sewn and kept there for little Tappert, whom she’d basically raised due to the fact ofhim having no mother, or father, since he was young and came to live with his eccentric uncle.

Tappert kno…

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Chapter Seven

Nehtar

As Tappert hustled Walker off toward his estate at Saltblocke Farm, the night growing darker, the winds coming up from off the coast and starting to toss everything about… another was out on this wilding night of the hunt.

Behind Walker and Tappert, stalking through the darkening hollows where great evils had once been done in the long ago, and all that was left to tell of these terrible doings were the sunken and broken stones of older, other, times, stalked a servant of the Shadow.

A powerful servant of the Shadow King. Ûmaia. Servant of Darkness.

The beast was known by its old name from before the age of even the ancient Eldaar. Ûmaia. But men and elves had called it something else during the great first wars against the Shadow, when the Kingdoms of Men had fallen into ruin and the elves came from over the distant seas to drive the Shadowed One back behind the Gates of Doom in the southern lands. But, to the little darklings that moved about on the hunt in the night, about the dark beast’s bidding of the hunt of the smoking prize, they simply referred to the great and terrible beast as “Master” cowering in fear of it as they did so. Not daring to make eye contact, and being gone and off from its malevolent presence, on the hunt as fast as was possible for a goblin, and especially fast for one of the distant and southern Moon Fens near the great lost city and sea down in the Lands of the Shadow.

“Yessss… Mastah… we will finds it.”

“Yessss… Mastah… we smells it too. It is close now, Mastah. We shalls not fail you. We shalls not fail the Shadow King,” they hissed and seethed because even for them, to be in the presence of such a beast as the ûmaia, an ancient thing and not a natural thing of this world, an almost wholly unnatural thing in fact, not an angel of light, but one of the dark, even for the diabolical and mischievous goblins of Moon Fen who were especially gifted in such witch-hauntings and dark night sorceries of finding and murder… even for them, to be in the presence of one so darkly revealed as the terrible ûmaia… was pure torment.

For the beast that was the ûmaia knew… true torment. True hell. For that was where it came from, and where it had been in the long dark ages during the rule of men. It had been imprisoned in those frozen and burning Hells by the great and powerful Eldaar, deep down there in the Fortresses of the Deeps.

The Vanumno.

The Lost and Hidden Deeps.

The beast’s wide cruel bull’s horns were obsidian black and razor sharp and the tremendous creature was at least three elves tall when it stood. Its skin, or fur, black and almost the blue of darkest night. Only its eyes burned with a malevolent, almost hateful fire. In short… it terrified even the wickedly diabolical goblins for it seemed to radiate fear and destruction from its very malign presence. Around its waist it wore a great belt forged from some ancient skin and made with great the great workmanship of a kind not known in ages. Along this belt was a great and powerful blade it never drew. And opposite this mighty weapon, along its powerful rippling thews bursting with enough raw power to rip great creatures in two, lay a coiled whip of three barbs, and at times, small, mephitic sparks seemed to leap away from the tips of the whip as the great beast moved about in the night.

As the goblins hunted for Walker they came and went from this terrible creature’s advancing presence, terrified, scurrying this way and that from it, almost laughing insanely as they lit green fire torches and blew their cruel horns each time some clue as to their prey’s presence and track was discovered in the waning night.

They made their cowering reports back to the creature as it moved slowly through the dark, following the lower shadows between the steep hills where it would be most likely to be unseen. About its great hooved feet an unnatural mist gathered and where each of its mighty steps would have surely been the ground strike of a shaking earth, there was only silence and the goblins had surmised this surely was some great dark sorcery of the beast’s making far beyond their stealthy crafts. Having made their reports they fled in mindless terror with new orders, cackling maniacally for the very presence of the humungous dark beast older than the ancient Eldaar themselves, seemed to promote a kind of wild insanity loosing the bounds that constrained the mind.

The beast stopped and looked toward the skies, seeing the moon had gone down now. A grim smile spread across its demon’s gaze and yellowing fangs, and deeper darkness within itself were revealed.

But time was short now, there was little left of the night and the beast knew its time was waning for the hunting this night, for still the powers of the Shadow could not stand the day.

The goblins came and fled, vowing to search harder, and the thing they called the Beast, the thing their haunted shaman knew the called name of, knew they would fail this night to locate the prey they stalked.

Their prize had eluded them. The goblin hunting teams had struck too fast at first finding, sensing some small advantage in perhaps the finding of a dirty little prize of a few coppers, even a much-coveted gold coin, or perhaps a crude gem… or even a weapon for the having, for they knew not the making of fine weapons.

Little did they know what they were truly chasing, wondered the dark thing as it stood like some mysterious carving of an ancient and terrible god within the midnight shadowed grove it found itself in on this hunting night.

Then… then its huge nostrils inhaled like a great bull’s just before the great snort of a savage charge. Sensing something on the wind. It moved its dark claw to the hilt of the ancient blade it strapped. The other to the coiled whip, delivering almost a lover’s gentle caress of the coiled pain and torment it could deliver.

“Smoke…” it rumbled softly like distant thunder brewing out over the fractured lands of the east from where it had come from, long, long ago.

And then she was there, whispering in its labyrinthine mind.

“Ahhhhhh…” she sang coyly. Her voice sinister and evil. Both a warrior, and a slayer in the dark.

“The Balroc walk the world as once they did long ago when I was forged, and great wars were fought against the light and the darkness. Between the day and the night, cruel one. When men were but children and ruled the middle lands like petty tyrants. It has been… a long, long time indeed, Servant of the Shadow.”

The demon rumbled in the night. And it is not a question of whether this was a good thing, or a bad thing, for nothing good can come from such creatures, but more a question of pleasure, or despair. For even the Balroc, of which there were only five left in the lands beneath the sun, knew it was talking with something far, far greater than even itself[NC1] .

Something its master, the Shadow, desired greatly even now. But this voice was only smoke on the wind tonight. It was near, but it was not here. Not within grasping.

“Nehtar…” whispered the demon in the dark, speaking the true name of the thing.

She laughed like a wicked girl.

Slayer. Killer. Nehtar. As the old elvish had once so rightly named the thing when it was first forged and held up under other stars.

“I am close now, Balroc…”

The demon tasted the air with its bull’s nose, huffing and causing the wind to be filled with the smell of burning leaves all around in the dark.

The prize was close indeed. The prize the master sought. “So… very close,” it whispered like the earth shifting.

The Shadow’s delight.

The thing it had been sent across the ages and the lands for, by the Master beyond the Doom Gate himself.

“Tell me your name mighty Balroc,” she cooed, “…and I shall remember then if we fought together at the Mánalante? The Fall of the Blessed… do you remember ûmaia? Do you remember the fire and the rain that day when my slaughter was great?”

The dark beast stopped as the memories of the lost battle at the gates of …

Chapter Six

A Bobbin

Now, there was a Little, or a Bobbin if you prefer, of, well… how should we say this? A Bobbin of a peculiar nature. That’s how some folks in the district would have put it in an aside, behind the hand, whisper if you knew ‘em well enough. Especially down in the lowlands areas of the Gentle Lands where things were much more proper like.

But up in Dry Hills and all the way out to Lost Valley, perhaps not so much. Not so formal. Things were stranger up there and those who raised olives up among the dry canyons and hillsides had a tendency to keep to themselves as did the small quiet villages of workers who tended those twisting pastel trees of soft green and washed out white or grey, trees[NC1]  and made the oils which were exported even to the court of the Elf King of Indolién himself.

They were serious about their work up there and tended to stick to their own business and shutter up quickly, sometimes even before dark. But it was pleasant enough up there, in a sort of hauntingly quiet way. Folk there referred to themselves properly as Bobbin and not the elvish phrasing of Littles.

Nercë as it would be said in Indaarian. Or sometimes just, “the Ner.”

Littles.

As we were saying… there was one such Bobbin of a peculiar nature who lived up in Dry Hills and had inherited a modest estate of SalteBlock Olives from his rich uncle Guthbert MaCrow of the Wayside MaCrows before the big split in the family in which the respectables severed ways from… well, the peculiar branch.

And it was on this night when the winds were wild and dark off the coast, that this particularly peculiar Bobbin who’d inherited his estate was on a late walkabout far from his orchards when he came upon the wounded stranger stumbling up the road with the bundle of the old ruck under his arm.

And the hilt of a broken sword in the other.

Tappert MaCrow saw the dark cloaked and hooded figure from afar off making his way along the winding Old Road up into the hills. Now… it must be said… most Bobbin[NC2] s would have seen such a sight on a windy spring night like this particular one well after midnight and approaching Last Snack, and thus promptly taken themselves off back home for a warm glass of milk and a dozen Oat Berry cookies to put themselves back to sleep and to forget all the nonsense of dark cloaked strangers stumbling about the lands in the middle of the night.

That’s what the average Bobbin would have done. No doubts about that. I can assure you of this. But as has been said, Tappert was not an average Little, or even Bobbin for that matter.

He was in fact, quite peculiar for his kind.

How peculiar, the reader of this tale might ask right about now.

Let me explain.

Tappert had been, from a very young age, his strange uncle’s favorite young Bobbin, and thusly rewarded such by a sizeable and oft talked of inheritance. And Tappert, sometimes known as Tap Tap, or even Tapper among the small band of young friends he maintained, had the very un-Little trait, a nasty one at that, of being… curious. So of course, it wasn’t any stretch for young Tappert to one day inherit the modest yet renown SalteBlock Farms of his weird uncle who’d been known to go off a’wanderin’ at times and even once or twice for more than a year or so. All this happened not because Tappert was exceptionally good at the raising, pressing, and barreling of oils, but because, like his uncle, Tappert was peculiarly curious.

We’ve used that word a lot. Curious.

And to understand its context here we have to understand the Bobbins. An easy way to say what needs to be said next… is just to say it. So here it is. The Bobbins, Littles really, were a simple lot concerned with just their own daily business, and especially the business of other Bobbins, or the greater outside beyond their gentle lands. And very much not so much in the least[NC3]  concerned with the affairs of the world at large, though they would sit and listen to a little bit of gossip near the inn’s hearth on any given night of the week. Or perhaps over a neighbor’s fence if they were about some snack between chores. Perhaps even in the morning when the coffee was brewing, and it was just bacon. But by and large they tended to keep to themselves and be busy with the ordinary everyday business of their lives. Farm. Family. Flowers and gardens and such.

To them, the Fall of Sirith Osildor ranked just a little bit lower than news of Goodie Tavish’s prize peonies and the county faire of course this summer.

That would be normal Little behavior. Nothing peculiar about that. And so, it was quite peculiar for Tappert McCrow to be out on such a night as this and going for a long walk as was his usual as the nights got less cold and the moon was out. He was, what the oldsters in the district would have said, young and restless at that age. And, according to them, all Little MaCrow needed was a nice Bobbin lass, round and happy, to a’settle him down a bit, ya hears me. That’s all.

And all this peculiarness could be forgiven by the locals if that were the grand extent of it. Late night walks deep into the less populated edges of the district. But such was not the case. For you see… Tappert McCrow, like his Grand old weird Uncle… [NC4] loved maps. Studying them. Making them. Finding them. Collecting them. Covering the walls of his old hill[NC5] , the one inherited from Uncle Guthbert, with them.

Maps were Tappert’s passion.

His study, high in the old abbey tower around which a great oak had grown up alongside, atop the estate inside the hill below, the hill that was the center and life of SalteBlock Farms, was filled with maps. Desks, walls, chests, great drawers paid good money for in which to keep and lay them out. Maps old Guthbert had acquired in his many strange travels. Maps young Tappert had acquired in his long walks since. And not just maps. But also… bits and pieces of the past. Curiosities. Relics and artifacts from his walkabout tours every summer as close to the Barrow Valley, which some called the Lost Valley, as he dared. And where there were not maps and curiosities in his grand study, there were books. Many of them in fact.

The collection of old dusty leatherbound collections of vellum and even papery papyrus lined the walls of his study and could be found often, open on every possible surface and space within the small tower while the latest acquisition was under months long inspection by Tappert.

So this… is what made Tappert peculiar to the other Bobbins, or Littles if you prefer, far and wide about the Gentle Lands and caused them to roll their eyes or utter something about that McCrow curse that had made that branch of the ancient family daft. For it was the McCrows of long ago who’d gone off to battle in the southern waystes to help the elves in their long-ago wars against the Shadow.

And it was the respectable branch that was greatly pleased by this history they claimed.

Elves passing through was one thing. Elves were of course always putting on airs as was their wont and traipsing through the district on some mysterious business they preferred not share. But helping elves, in war no less, this was not done in current times and the MaCrows’ long ago service, a captain among their ancestors in command of company of Bobbin spear and dagger[NC6] , could be laid as a source, or the source, of the curse that had plagued the McCrow family for three generations now as far as anyone was concerned.

It was one thing to be polite to an elf passing through. A knight or lady journeying by with their entourage, or retinue, heading south to take a ship as had been done in the long ago. Perhaps even offer them an apple from your basket and never no mind the copper, m’lady. The Elves of Indolién were indeed fine and beautiful people to look at, but they was elves after all and elves was deadly peculiar and, as has been mentioned here in this part… not a favored Little trait. Their magical ways, the elves, and always up to intrigue and dark adventures, were considered …

Chapter Six

A Bobbin

Now, there was a Little, or a Bobbin if you prefer, of, well… how should we say this? A Bobbin of a peculiar nature. That’s how some folks in the district would have put it in an aside, behind the hand, whisper if you knew ‘em well enough. Especially down in the lowlands areas of the Gentle Lands where things were much more proper like.

But up in Dry Hills and all the way out to Lost Valley, perhaps not so much. Not so formal. Things were stranger up there and those who raised olives up among the dry canyons and hillsides had a tendency to keep to themselves as did the small quiet villages of workers who tended those twisting pastel trees of soft green and washed out white or grey, trees[NC1]  and made the oils which were exported even to the court of the Elf King of Indolién himself.

They were serious about their work up there and tended to stick to their own business and shutter up quickly, sometimes even before dark. But it was pleasant enough up there, in a sort of hauntingly quiet way. Folk there referred to themselves properly as Bobbin and not the elvish phrasing of Littles.

Nercë as it would be said in Indaarian. Or sometimes just, “the Ner.”

Littles.

As we were saying… there was one such Bobbin of a peculiar nature who lived up in Dry Hills and had inherited a modest estate of SalteBlock Olives from his rich uncle Guthbert MaCrow of the Wayside MaCrows before the big split in the family in which the respectables severed ways from… well, the peculiar branch.

And it was on this night when the winds were wild and dark off the coast, that this particularly peculiar Bobbin who’d inherited his estate was on a late walkabout far from his orchards when he came upon the wounded stranger stumbling up the road with the bundle of the old ruck under his arm.

And the hilt of a broken sword in the other.

Tappert MaCrow saw the dark cloaked and hooded figure from afar off making his way along the winding Old Road up into the hills. Now… it must be said… most Bobbin[NC2] s would have seen such a sight on a windy spring night like this particular one well after midnight and approaching Last Snack, and thus promptly taken themselves off back home for a warm glass of milk and a dozen Oat Berry cookies to put themselves back to sleep and to forget all the nonsense of dark cloaked strangers stumbling about the lands in the middle of the night.

That’s what the average Bobbin would have done. No doubts about that. I can assure you of this. But as has been said, Tappert was not an average Little, or even Bobbin for that matter.

He was in fact, quite peculiar for his kind.

How peculiar, the reader of this tale might ask right about now.

Let me explain.

Tappert had been, from a very young age, his strange uncle’s favorite young Bobbin, and thusly rewarded such by a sizeable and oft talked of inheritance. And Tappert, sometimes known as Tap Tap, or even Tapper among the small band of young friends he maintained, had the very un-Little trait, a nasty one at that, of being… curious. So of course, it wasn’t any stretch for young Tappert to one day inherit the modest yet renown SalteBlock Farms of his weird uncle who’d been known to go off a’wanderin’ at times and even once or twice for more than a year or so. All this happened not because Tappert was exceptionally good at the raising, pressing, and barreling of oils, but because, like his uncle, Tappert was peculiarly curious.

We’ve used that word a lot. Curious.

And to understand its context here we have to understand the Bobbins. An easy way to say what needs to be said next… is just to say it. So here it is. The Bobbins, Littles really, were a simple lot concerned with just their own daily business, and especially the business of other Bobbins, or the greater outside beyond their gentle lands. And very much not so much in the least[NC3]  concerned with the affairs of the world at large, though they would sit and listen to a little bit of gossip near the inn’s hearth on any given night of the week. Or perhaps over a neighbor’s fence if they were about some snack between chores. Perhaps even in the morning when the coffee was brewing, and it was just bacon. But by and large they tended to keep to themselves and be busy with the ordinary everyday business of their lives. Farm. Family. Flowers and gardens and such.

To them, the Fall of Sirith Osildor ranked just a little bit lower than news of Goodie Tavish’s prize peonies and the county faire of course this summer.

That would be normal Little behavior. Nothing peculiar about that. And so, it was quite peculiar for Tappert McCrow to be out on such a night as this and going for a long walk as was his usual as the nights got less cold and the moon was out. He was, what the oldsters in the district would have said, young and restless at that age. And, according to them, all Little MaCrow needed was a nice Bobbin lass, round and happy, to a’settle him down a bit, ya hears me. That’s all.

And all this peculiarness could be forgiven by the locals if that were the grand extent of it. Late night walks deep into the less populated edges of the district. But such was not the case. For you see… Tappert McCrow, like his Grand old weird Uncle… [NC4] loved maps. Studying them. Making them. Finding them. Collecting them. Covering the walls of his old hill[NC5] , the one inherited from Uncle Guthbert, with them.

Maps were Tappert’s passion.

His study, high in the old abbey tower around which a great oak had grown up alongside, atop the estate inside the hill below, the hill that was the center and life of SalteBlock Farms, was filled with maps. Desks, walls, chests, great drawers paid good money for in which to keep and lay them out. Maps old Guthbert had acquired in his many strange travels. Maps young Tappert had acquired in his long walks since. And not just maps. But also… bits and pieces of the past. Curiosities. Relics and artifacts from his walkabout tours every summer as close to the Barrow Valley, which some called the Lost Valley, as he dared. And where there were not maps and curiosities in his grand study, there were books. Many of them in fact.

The collection of old dusty leatherbound collections of vellum and even papery papyrus lined the walls of his study and could be found often, open on every possible surface and space within the small tower while the latest acquisition was under months long inspection by Tappert.

So this… is what made Tappert peculiar to the other Bobbins, or Littles if you prefer, far and wide about the Gentle Lands and caused them to roll their eyes or utter something about that McCrow curse that had made that branch of the ancient family daft. For it was the McCrows of long ago who’d gone off to battle in the southern waystes to help the elves in their long-ago wars against the Shadow.

And it was the respectable branch that was greatly pleased by this history they claimed.

Elves passing through was one thing. Elves were of course always putting on airs as was their wont and traipsing through the district on some mysterious business they preferred not share. But helping elves, in war no less, this was not done in current times and the MaCrows’ long ago service, a captain among their ancestors in command of company of Bobbin spear and dagger[NC6] , could be laid as a source, or the source, of the curse that had plagued the McCrow family for three generations now as far as anyone was concerned.

It was one thing to be polite to an elf passing through. A knight or lady journeying by with their entourage, or retinue, heading south to take a ship as had been done in the long ago. Perhaps even offer them an apple from your basket and never no mind the copper, m’lady. The Elves of Indolién were indeed fine and beautiful people to look at, but they was elves after all and elves was deadly peculiar and, as has been mentioned here in this part… not a favored Little trait. Their magical ways, the elves, and always up to intrigue and dark adventures, were considered …

The Medusa tells it like it is. Nick sips coffee.