(Book One Complete!) Friendly Neighbourhood Goblin (Mercenary Company LitRPG)

It must have been a confounding moment for Morg's employer at the Tackled Hack when the dwarf returned with a goblin in tow, riding an entirely different boat than the beat up skiff they'd sailed off in.

"Uh…" his boss had said, but thought better of the objection rousing in his throat when he noted the higher quality of the vessel.

Morg squeezed it into the two stall boathouse and informed his superior in his usual gruff manner that it might be a while before he returns to work. Even Stump, whose company it was, was a little surprised by his friend's quick turnaround on the subject. They spoke of little else during their long walk back through Brinetown.

"Copper's the next goal for us, eh?" Morg was saying in a cheery tone. "We need a couple more real quests under our belt and at least five permanent members to qualify. Ten fame, too. Means badges. Means signage. Means a company motto."

"Think they'll have the sign ready at Penny Hall?" Stump looked up at him as they walked through a market of seafood stalls. He was acutely aware of the coins clinking in his pouch, and ever since the Ocelots betrayal he kept one hand resting on it like it was the pommel of a sword.

"Good chance o' that. We'll stop by the square on our way back to the inn."

"I can buy some badges now, too. And maybe look into hiring a third member."

"Aye, we'll crack open the roster and see what's there. It's goin' to be like siftin' through a dung pile, so be warned. Lots o' penny merc's out there, but few are any good, and some will lead ye to a trap company who'll steal yer earnings."

The salty breeze they'd become accustomed to during their foray into the Spits mingled with the muggy stench of the Downs as the mud and clay homes and sporegrain paddies of Brinetown gave way to the densely packed tenements of Hogg's Hollow. What few rays of orange sunlight curving off the double and triple storey rooftops failed to penetrate the streets below.

Morg shouldered the oncoming traffic with a confident swagger. Stump walked behind him, careful to step in the much larger dwarven footprints to avoid sinking in the mud.

He turned his head down the narrow alleys to spy the great black city walls separating his squalid corner of the world from the legendary riches of those companies large enough to qualify for silver and gold. He pictured what the buildings there might look like. Maybe all of them were made of stone, like some of the ones in Grimsgate.

The dwarf, blissfully unaware that his voice could not be heard over the clamour of nearby butcher shops and tanneries, rattled off his opinions of infamous mercenaries and their companies. Stump hopped from footprint to footprint, content enough to catch a glimpse of his friend in a rare happy state.

Eventually they left the urban monstrosity of Hogg's Hollow and trekked through Grimsgate, and after a lengthy back and forth about the proper direction of their company and Morg's rate—it was decided he'd take a portion of quest rewards rather than a weekly payout—they spied the ancient branches of Penny Hall.

"Oh," said the clerk, smiling thinly when the door groaned open. His eyes were glossy with indifference. "You again."

Stump clambered up the tall chair. "I've done a quest," he announced after narrowing the height between them.

The smile remained. "Haven't we all." It was not posed as a question.

Money exchanged hands. Three and a half silver was difficult to part with, but in exchange Stump left the hall clutching his purchase to his chest. The sign ate two of those silvers, and the other silver and a half net him a package deal of five badges.

It was a symbolic purchase as well as a practical one. Five badges for five members. Although it was currently only him and Morg, five permanent members would bring them into the territory of a copper company and onto the long road to twenty members for bronze.

His nose cracked against Morg's rear as they rounded the corner of a porkling pen not far from Penny Square. The dwarf turned. "Think we should get some meat for 'em?" he mused.

Stump rubbed his nose. "Who? Jin and Reema?"

The dwarf was contemplating deeply. "Thinkin' ahead is all."

"Are you thinking a gift will make her less upset with us?"

"A gift?" Morg scoffed. "A peace offerin', ye mean."

Dead in the fighting pits of Grimsgate. Rotting in a stockade in Hogg's Hollow for disorderly conduct. Face down in the mudflats of Guttershine. Fled back to Borovic, chased by old enemies from a consortium of normally quarrelling companies.

Reema's worries were numerous, each more colourful than the last. She was deft in allocating her attention, one finger wagging in Morg's uncharacteristically sheepish face, the other stacking bowls and cups and wiping down a recently vacated table.

For Stump she reserved a more tact disappointment, aimed more at Morg for his lack of dissuading him from the quest, and Jin for failing to properly describe the dangers of the mercenary life.

It was ten minutes of scolding, stuttered by her impressively rapid cleaning of the lunch rush. At the end of it she threw her rag down like a blood-stained banner, rested her hands on her hips and sighed heavily. Her eyes fell to the thick pork cutlets under Morg's arm.

"Ya staying for lunch, or what?" she said.

Soon after Morg and Stump found themselves huddled over a shared bowl of pork broth like it was a dying fire in the depths of winter.

Stump breathed the steam off his ladle and cautiously lapped at it with his tongue. "Ah!"

Morg was already on his second spoonful. Other than his reddening face he appeared immune to the heat. "As I was saying, ye gotta check what our fame's at, now that it's been some days," he said. "Higher fame means our company gets more spotlight at the registry in Penny Hall. More quest offers, more swords lookin' for a job, 'n that's just the start."

Stump dipped his tongue in a mug of cool water. "Reema says there's been a couple people coming by with quests. That's a good sign. The inn's looking nicer, too, which means more visitors for them and more jobs for us."

Maybe it was in contrast to the grey haze that plagued their Seabrace adventure, or because of Reema and Jin's rapid upgrading over the last few days, but the Knight Inn's normally muted browns and reds were much more vibrant than Stump remembered. And although scattered holes still threatened nearby boots, the buckets had all gone, and nothing leaked from the ceiling.

"Aye, but right now we're in that early company stage… uh… what's it…?" Morg searched the ceiling for an answer. When he found it, he jabbed his spoon across the table. "Growin' pains. Too small to take serious, but big enough to draw trap companies to us like one o' them bees to a… whatever bees like."

"Flowers."

Morg chewed a piece of pork with his mouth open. "We've got to hone ourselves with more members, more quests, 'n more income. We get bigger, 'em trap companies will be behind us."

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"Are the Midnight Ocelots a trap company?" Stump said, venturing again for a spoonful. It burned a little less.

Morg stirred the bowl thoughtfully. "Trap companies are corpse scavengers. Bottom feeders. Scared o' the light, but even more frightened o' what's in the dark. That's what the Ocelots are. A beast in the woods all 'em predators run from," he said. "Best not worry about 'em 'til they come knockin'."

Stump shivered on recalling Sylas' parting words, but his next spoonful warmed him again. "So. Quests," he said, hopeful. "We'll focus on the small ones and go from there."

"Aye. Got any thoughts on our company words?"

It had been the last thing on Stump's mind in the Spits. He'd been so worried about the fire and Sir Halwyn and Morg and Denna, and all the dangers they faced. Not once did he stop for a moment to consider what their motto might be.

But as he sat under Morg's inquisitive stare, a phrase came to him. It didn't have the bounce of "From thread to thread we defend," or the intrigue of "Silence is golden, contracts are platinum," but it was his own. It was his company, or at least what he wanted it to be. And it was Denna who inspired it.

Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (7/9)

"I think I've got it," he said.

Morg was right.

The company's fame had increased since getting back from Seabrace. Stump traced a finger down the stats in the ledger with a smile. Aubany had increased to two, since the Spits fell under its direct territory, but Grimsgate had jumped to six, most of which had come from word spreading after their party.

"Is six a good number? Six is good, right?" Stump gushed.

The ceiling creaked under Reema's busy footfalls. Dust swirled in discs of fungal light. Morg sat across from him, only partially paying attention. Half the time he threw suspicious glares at a sack of garlic in the corner as if it might sprout legs and chase him out of the inn.

"Has that always been there?" he said, scratching his arm.

"And look, even Hogg's Hollow's gone up to one! How did that happen? Is word spreading there, too?"

"Goin' to have to speak to Reem about this." The scratching became more vigorous.

Stump looked up from the page. "Morg."

"Yeh?" said the dwarf, startled. "What?"

"Our fame." Stump spun the ledger to him and tapped a finger on the relevant numbers. "Look. Nine total, from our party and three completed quests."

Morg scooted closer and scowled thoughtfully at the stats. "Might be ten or twelve once word dissemates 'round the Downs. Not bad for a start, though nothin' like the hundreds or thousands of 'em gold companies."

"Disse-what?"

"Dissemates. Spreads. Like a fog, but, y'know, words."

"I'm not sure that's Ingilish."

Morg rose from his seat, scratching his neck, which had turned red. "I think 'em cloves are gettin' to me. What say ye we take a walk, maybe put up our sign?"

"Good idea. I was thinking we could buy some things for the hall to make it look nice for clients," said Stump, grabbing his pouch.

He only had a little more than two silver leftover from his rewards and the split earnings of the coin he and Morg had found by the lighthouse—and one of those silvers needed to be saved for rent in a few days—but already Stump's mind was churning with ways to turn their dank cellar into a proper company hall.

"We should visit Dusty Taps too," he said, as they ascended the staircase. "I'm sure they've plugged up some of their holes by now."

Morg sneezed in reply.

Several hammer strokes later and Jin had driven their new company sign into the ground outside the inn. The oxfolk stepped back, sweat darkening his loose mosshair shirt, and gave the sign a shake. When it didn't budge he nodded proudly at his work.

"Good colours," he said. "Bright and eye catchin'."

Stump, Reema, and Morg stood further back, and waited for the large man to move out of the way.

The sign glowed brilliantly in the light. "THE NOBODIES" was scrawled in big black letters above the goblin and knightly shadow on a yellow-gold field, ringed by a kite shield border of goblin green. At the bottom, penned last minute were the words of their company:

Lighting the knight in all of us.

"Huh," said Reema, folding her arms. She leaned on her back leg and cocked her head. "The green works better than I thought it would."

Morg was bent forward and squinting. "Those are yer words?"

"You don't like it?" Stump said, looking up at him.

The dwarf appraised it for a while longer, then straightened and nodded sagely. "Sort o' inspirin', actually."

Stump's dream of being a Knight, conjured from reading the stories of the tall men, had crumbled. It was nothing but a class, a name built from an arrangement of skills. There was nothing to uphold, no standards to obey, no laws to follow. There were the tenets of the gods, but they were all dead and their Clerics extinct. No one remained to guard the class from those who broke the oaths that might've been in another age.

Animal Handling. Heavy Armour. Expert Weapons. Anyone could become a Knight if they levelled in its direction and allocated their points accordingly. Sylas could be a Knight. Thrung could be a Knight.

I could be one, too, Stump thought, but the musing didn't bring him any joy.

It wasn't until Denna's words in the boat that he'd made peace with it.

What did it matter what the system decided made a Knight? The stories Stump read, the ones he cherished, would always be there, and they would always be true. People helped each other every day. Saved each other. And most of them didn't have the right skills to be deemed Knights.

Neither did Stump, but that wasn't going to stop him. No Words From The Sky could diminish the words on the page. The stories would always make him happy, and they would always inspire him. But he wasn't just going to read them, anymore. He was going to speak them. Live by them.

And he was going to inspire others, too.

The sun had dipped below Grimsgate. The work day was done, the markets nearly closed, and Stump hoped to find light and laughter spilling out of the windows of Dusty Taps.

But the alleys were dark. Ratfolk and dwarves shuffled along with lowered heads, avoiding eye contact and idle conversation. Windows were shuttered and darkened, blending in with the abandoned dwellings around them. The street itself was so narrow and wedged so tightly between nearby hills that the overlapping shadows gave the impression that true night visited this corner of Grimsgate.

And a cool wind swept around the corner, carrying with it an acrid smell.

Stump sniffed. "Morg, what is that?" he said.

The dwarf lifted his mask. His jaw tightened. "Ash…"

It blew around the corner like the first hints of snowfall. Tiny swirls, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them.

Stump bounded ahead. Morg's protests were barely an echo behind him.

Please, please, please, he told whoever might be listening. But of course, that was no one. The gods were dead.

The scent grew thicker, as if it was a substance in the air, and turning the corner brought the smouldered tavern into view.

The skeletal frame of a wall stood behind a heap of blackened wood dusted in white ash. What was left of the bar divided the remains of the inn from the entirely collapsed back room. Fingers of shattered wood poked out of the wreckage like buried bodies, and strolling by was the occasional beastfolk or tall man. They gave the inn a passing glance, if they looked at all.

Stump was sifting through the ruin when Morg found him.

He pulled apart loose stone and wood with frantic goblin speed. There were shrivelled pages and soot-stained pottery, melted bits of metal and pieces of furniture, but no sign of any bodies. No Bonesapper, either.

"Stump…" Morg's voice was soft despite the growling undertones. "There's nothin' to find. I don't think they were here when it happened."

Stump's desperate scouring slowed, then stopped. Fragments of books he'd scattered in his search fluttered to the ground, and a creeping wind brushed ash over his feet. He looked down at them, and could almost hear the rush of the sea rolling over his toes. The beach. Denna.

The memory left with the wind.

"Could we have done something different?" he mumbled.

Morg's awkward shifting of weight between feet dislodged a leaning beam. "Uh…" his fingers searched his beard for something profound to say.

Stump's head lowered further. "It was my idea. The whole thing."

"Now don't go blamin' yerself," said Morg, a sternness returning to his voice. "Ye didn't start no fires."

"It wouldn't have happened if we didn't do what we…" Stump squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Without meaning to he'd slipped the Ocelot badge into his hand. "All for some beer. For my company…"

"Ye did it for them too, Stump. Ye tried to help." Morg's footsteps neared. "Yer not to blame. Neither am I."

A heavy hand rested on Stump's shoulder. "Right…" he said, but couldn't bring himself to believe it.

"We'll find 'em. Borag and his daughter both. We'll find 'em," the dwarf promised.

With some gentle urging Stump left the ruins and followed his friend back down the way they came, his ears dipped and head low. I'm sorry, he wanted to say. He imagined their books, all the stories Borag had collected, and the ones Boragu wanted to read, gone up in flames. Their inn had been taken, burned because Stump wanted to help.

No, he thought. That was the lesson Sylas wanted him to learn, but the catfolk was wrong. Thrung was wrong. Cruelty and selfishness held power of their own, but so did kindness. Despite the overwhelming hate and ridicule from their tribe of nearly thirty, it was the warmth of a single goblin that fuelled Stump to live—Yeza.

He ran a thumb across Germott's badge and blinked through the purple light it emitted. His skin burned and his bones vibrated. His stomach tightened, and with it drummed the rhythm of the lust.

Embrace it, Wasptongue had said.

And so he did.

Fire burned in his belly, but it didn't hurt. It bellowed heat through his veins, stoking his goblin anger. Grief melded with rage, forging a furious alloy. Focus.

I imagine we'll be seeing each other again, Sylas had told him.

Stump gripped the badge tight enough to whiten his fingers.

I hope we do. And this time I'll be ready.