Arathrax's breath hits me like the draft from a blast furnace, fierce and a smell of the desert. Deep in this throat, I catch a glimpse of orange light, before I must squeeze my eyes shut against the desiccating blast. "What do you have for me this time?" "Arathrax!" "Oh. Sorry." I feel rather than see the massive head withdraw. The air that rushes in behind is not cool, but I can breathe again. Can open my eyes. My skin feels... scorched. I wonder if I'm peeling again. "Got a little excited. You always find such wonderful things." "That's gonna be a little hard to keep doing if you cook me by accident." "Sorry." "I'd just like to come home with all my skin for once." The great head sags, and his crest goes flat. "I did say I was sorry. I can pay you more if you want." "You pay me plenty. I just want you to be more careful. Try to remember next time." "Okay, yeah, sure. Now, c'mon, what did you bring me? I've been waiting for weeks!" I unwrap the soft chamois leather from around the offering, hold it up to the light. "I know it's small... don't lean in close. I'll describe it to you." "Looks like... just one coin? And a small one at that." The great face falls. "Is that... really all?" I hold the thin gold disc up to the light, rub a thumb over its worn surface. "Size doesn't matter. Judge me by my size, do you? This one's the rarest yet. I know it's too small for you to tell, but it's stamped with the face of Ozymandius the First. The founding king of Samarkand. A thousand years and half a world away. Think of what it must have in it." His face cracks with a toothy smile... "Really? Can I hear it first? Just a little bit?" "You ask that every time. All right, fine. Just don't lean in, I like my eyebrows the way they are. Well, the way they were this morning. I'll use the fork." The copper tuning fork is already in my other hand... I ring the coin once, twice, three times. Loud. His massive ears spread like crimson fans from the sides of this head, and his eyes cross, blank with something like bliss. "Oh. Oh. Oh... my. Damien, you must forgive me for doubting you. You are truly a magician. This... this is the greatest prize of all! So many songs! So many stories! So much HISTORY! I must have it for my collection!" "Well, I dunno. Faftnir might offer me a better price. And not singe my beard." "That's NOT funny, that's just cruel. Now come on, stop teasing and GIVE." "My payment?" "The little bag on the pedestal there. Rubies, a few sapphires. The human who brought them seemed to think they were pretty good. Idiot. Don't know why they keep giving me these rocks. Don't they understand the difference between treasure and GOLD?" I grasp the black velvet of the bag, pull the drawstrings... inside, heavy stones click together, throwing back glints of blood red light... some of these look good. I have better manners than to examine them too closely right here, but it looks like this will pay for the expedition several times over. And if I can sell bolts of silk in Highmark... "No, Arathrax," I tell him, "They don't. They don't know the difference. That's the point. Humans... we can't hear the memories on it. The music." "You tell me that. I never know whether to believe you. Are you all really that illiterate? And if you are... well, why do you even value the stuff?" "Well, it's uh... shiny." He raises one titanic eyebrow. "C'mon. I'm serious." "So was I." The amethyst eyes, each the size of my head, roll expressively and then gaze up at the ceiling of the cavern. "Philistines." Original Post

A surreal and satirical encounter with goblins—standing on crates, assaulting lawn ornaments, and demanding an apology—for being upset that others were upset about banning the author. Causality and logic need not apply.

A goblin enforcer informs a bewildered author he's been banned from a contest he never entered, for violating rules written the day before on a napkin.

Since before man had memory, the Obelisks of Light have stood upon the shores of the Sunset Ocean, jutting from clifftops, from rocky promontories, from the coastal swamps and the pristine white sands of far west Nymeria.

“An unexpected pleasure, Your Egg-selency. Have you brought us an omelette?” His Imperial Majesty Hakkon VI Hafthorsen, his feet over one arm of the Seat of Heroes, sniggers into his winecup, then raises his eyes to sweep the room, and is joined by a belated chorus of somewhat forced titters, from the more silk-swaddled sections of the court.

“Why do we even need to do this? Swords are for peasants.” Of course it’s the redhead, her voice as grating and whiny as her face is exquisite. I don’t even turn, just reverse my grip and stab the practice sword backwards, right beneath her sternum.

“I wuz jest settin’ on the porch, puffin’ smoke-pipe, when Ole Flattop come grooving up, real slow-like. He wuz alus slow, Ole Flattop, cuz he ain’t gotta hurry him none. Got them juju in his eyes, one wut sees the future and the other wut sees the Invisible World.

All too soon, he pulls his wrist away. I pick my head up, try to follow it, cling to his arm, whining my frustration. My need. But the legends aren’t true, at least not in this. I don’t have the strength of ten men. I have the strength of one skinny twelve year old girl.