There Weren't Always Dragons in Northport...

Chapter One: A Goblin In Northport

The bitter cold wind attempted to snatch his hood away from his head, but a quick movement of his hand held it into place. Unfortunately, this distracted him from seeing the root from a nearby tree jutting up from the ground. As he tumbled face first into the frigid white powder, stars burst behind his eyes as a terrible and searing pain shot up his left leg. He cried out and rolled over onto his back. He grabbed his left foot certain he had broken it and was all but cursing his lack of attention. He opened his yellow eyes and let his heat sense take over in the near darkness.

His cold and hunger addled mind slowly realized there was very little warmth left within his three toed foot. He was certain that in normal light, the green colored appendage was probably turning an ashen gray from the onset of frostbite. It was then he suddenly remembered a boot had once covered his foot.

He looked up and around him trying to locate the fur and leather boot, but it was nowhere to be seen. He had lost it sometime back in his single-minded trek through the Marketha Woodlands.

He gripped his frozen and wounded foot between his gloved hands and began uttering a simple prayer.

“Please, his lord,” his normal heavy baritone had become almost a whisper with exhaustion and exposure. “He is unworthy, but he asks for healing.”

A part of his mind he was unaware of snapped into focus and a surge of energy began to course through it, but as quickly as it started it faded. He absently concentrated harder repeating the prayer over and over. The surge of energy eventually began again and the answer to his prayer began with a sudden feeling of warmth creeping back into his foot. The pain diminished slowly, but in time his left foot was as healthy as it had ever been. The cost of his effort, however, was high.

He flipped himself onto his hands and knees and wretched, but three days lack of food left him nothing to regurgitate. All he could do was wait for his stomachs to finish quailing, finally leaving him in a quivering heap. It was all he could do to keep from passing into unconsciousness. To do so would most certainly mean his demise in the woods. And that would be even more devastating to him since he had begged his lord to get him to the town of the “good people”. For him to die now would have been a waste to his lord’s power and would certainly doom him to an even worse hell than he was already destined for.

When he recovered moments later, he pulled a small knife from his belt and quickly cut a sizable chunk of his fur cloak away. He returned the knife to its scabbard and with the same hand he opened a small pocket in his fur and leather tunic. From this he pulled several small strips of leather. With quick and deft movements, he quickly fashioned a new boot around his left foot. When he was finished, he studied his handiwork and decided the makeshift footwear would serve until he could make a replacement boot for his old one.

He looked around at his location.

The woods were dark and his heat vision could only make out the very dark blue colors of snow, ice covered stones, and only the barest of light green from the hibernating trees. It was the worst winter he had ever known in his eighteen years of existence. He imagined it was the worst winter the northern part of the continent of Namca had ever known.

He had been prepared for winter of course as he had always done, but his food supplies had diminished much more quickly in his efforts to care for the starving denizens of the forest as they passed him on their way South.

Before he knew it, his food was gone and there was no animal life left to hunt and no food plants to gather. He did his best to subsist on tree bark and dead scrub brush for a time, but he knew he would not survive for long even on this diet, especially as each passing day grew even colder than the day before it. Even the fearsome Worgs, giant wolves that were a constant danger had left, following their usual prey South. It became clear he would have to do something drastic.

He could never imagine willingly walking into a city full of beings that would most likely kill him on sight without a passing thought. What else was he to do? To go home would most certainly mean his death or even worse…conscription and enslavement.

No! His sensibilities had screamed at him then. He would sooner die at the hands of the “good people” than ever go back to…to that life.

And so, decision made, he began making his way Northeast to the closest town of “good people”. It was a town called Northport that, if he remembered correctly, was a town whose citizens would trade with anyone. They would even trade with his kind, the “bad people”. They might be willing to trade with him, but chances were good, he decided, that they would most likely strip the meat from his poor bones and toss him into a fire.

At least he will be warm, he thought glumly as he dragged himself up to a standing position and continued his trek towards the dim glow of a torch lit town ahead of him.

Another stone of time had passed him by before the woodlands had begun to thin and a second stone of time beyond that when he finally topped a snow-covered rise overlooking the port town and the vast body of water beyond it.

Northport was the town furthest north in the Kingdom of Warwalker the Conqueror. A very famous and powerful point ears, if he remembered correctly. It lay directly upon the coastline of a large open bay where the majority of trade from other continents came through. It was also the most protected port. He turned his yellow eyes towards two tall towers near the docks proper. Atop each appeared to be nothing more than mounds, until one of the mounds stretched out its massive reptilian wingspan then brought them back close against its sides.

He looked away from the dragons quickly, fearing they would feel his eyes then seek him out, to the center of the port town itself where a tremendously huge tower was built. Very powerful magic wielders, he imagined hundreds, lived there and defended the city in tandem with the town guard. He scanned the walls then. Yes. There they were. The Sloth Manimals of the town guard lining the wall with their deadly bows in hand. Slow to move? Yes. But deadly accurate with those devastating bows. Other beast Manimals were with them, but not as archers. That task was left to the Sloths, the greatest and deadliest archers in Namca.

It was no wonder they left the Western Gate wide open, had no moat surrounding the city and only the single thick wall. No one dared cross this city of “good people” without risking two armies…or more. He wondered at this as his eyes were drawn back to the two Dragons. What power did the good people wield to put the beasts under their control? What riches did they offer? He was simply amazed they were there at all. Dragons, he knew, stayed away from everyone and that included each other more often than not.

He shook off the thoughts, swallowed a lump of fear and focused his gaze on the Western Gate. He prayed to his Lord for his mercy once again and began the last two miles to the gate. As he went, something far out on the horizon of the great water caught his eye. He blinked and it was gone. It looked like one of the floating houses the “good people” used to transport cargo and themselves over water, except that this one had been leaning to one side and had no lights to identify it. He chalked it up to his imagination and continued on.

He took note that another thing that made this port city safe was the vast expanse of a sheer mountain range making up the north wall of the city, if one looked at it that way. It was made even safer by the presence of torch lit paths leading up the sides of the mountains and into cave openings. The Hair Faces lived there. They were very tough, very mean and could be very hard to fight. The north side of the port city was as well protected as the docks.

He found himself feeling overwhelmed at the sheer size of the city as it grew closer. The single wall with its battlements and protections were a lot taller than his earlier inspection had shown. He would almost swear that a king lived in this town. He knew this to be a falsehood, as everyone knew the king of this area lived farther south and west in the city called Distre Colum. If all the stories he had heard were true, then this city at the edge of the unfrozen world was even better protected than the king’s capitol city.

He didn’t know much about the yellow and gray colored metal discs the “good people” prized so much, but he could understand trade and barter. The amount of goods and services that flowed through this city were the only reasons he could think of for the massive defensive state.

He slowed his pace as he got closer to the gate and held his hands out before him in as non-threatening a manner as he could. He walked slowly just knowing that an arrow from a Sloth Archer would be arriving soon to pin him to the ground like an insect to a collection board.

He made it slowly through the gate unscathed and just as a fresh snow began to fall.

Now, he thought with his heart thumping quickly in his chest, they will pour out of guard caves and strip the meat from his poor bones.

Still nothing happened as he slowly made his way down the wide major thoroughfare of the city. He was a little less chilled now that the wind had been blocked and occasionally he could feel the heat from the oil street lamps lining either side of the road. He studied the handmade mud and wood caves trying to determine where he might get food and shelter. That was when he noticed a silvery glint coming from the center of the road ahead of him.

He peered around cautiously and made his way to it.

He thanks his Lord, he prayed looking and reaching down to pick up the small coin. It was round and flat as all metal disks were, but it was a color that was unfamiliar to him. It was like silver only, not as much so. It did not matter either way. His hopes dared to climb up just the tiniest bit simply because the “good people” liked metal disks. Perhaps with this one, he decided tucking the coin into one of his hidden pockets, the “good people” might let him eat and rest before they stripped the meat from his poor bones for being one of the “bad people”.

Not sure of where to go, he continued on through the town looking for one of the caves that might have lights in its crystal openings. He did not want to awaken anyone and anger him or her. He had already decided he was dead just for being there. It was just a desire and a continually repeated prayer to a god he had no name for they wouldn’t kill him in some horrible and painful manner.

It wasn’t long before he came to an open area. It was huge and circular and beneath his booted feet he could feel hundreds of now frozen ruts where wagon wheels had rolled over. He surmised it to be the main market area of the city. What caught his attention was a building to the south that was brightly lit from within. He could hear music and loud talking, the clinking of crystal vessels for holding liquids and foods, and something else familiar to his ears, but not familiar to his memories.

It was a high-toned, but very confident voice that carried over the rest of the noisome crowd. It contained a hissing and growling quality that reminded him of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on where he had heard that sort of voice before. The voice’s command of “trade tongue”, a universal language among most good races and bad, seemed choppy at best. It seemed to miss words or confuse them. He stopped at the door and listened a moment.

“Heeehahahaha,” the voice sounded out amidst a sudden burst of cheers. “Dwarfy to slow for me!”

Dwarfy? He wondered, and slowly reached for the door latch.

His hand stopped just short of gripping the latch and opening the door. His mind quickly played out a dozen scenarios of his death once he opened the door, each and everyone ending with the meat stripped from his poor bones.

But he is so hungry and tired, his mind argued with the part of his brain that was screaming at him to run far away from the town and as fast as he could. Surely they could not be so cruel even to such a pathetic one as he. They are “good people”. They will allow him to eat and rest, then they will kill him.

He watched blankly as his fingers, seemingly of their own accord, went around the latch and began to push the door open.

The wave of twice blessed heat hit him so hard that his vision blurred with tears. He felt the heat envelop him like the embrace of a lover and he basked in it for several seconds. Had it not been for the gravely voice from behind the bar, he might have collapsed right there in front of the tavern and just let the heat wash over him.

“Shut the damn door you little idiot!” The voice commanded in “trade tongue”. “You’re lettin’ all the heat out!”

He lowered his head to keep his features hidden and hurried inside, pushing the door closed behind him. He turned back to the tavern interior and looked around carefully assessing every danger he could find.

The tables were all made of rough, unfinished wood and scattered about the main room in a haphazard fashion across the expanse of the stone floor. On each was a simple crystal globe seated upon a small wooden stand. Within each crystal there blazed a small yellow light casting a pleasant glow on each of every table’s occupants. He could sense the magic from each lamp and he was in awe that a city could be so wealthy to afford a sorcerer to make such trivial items for an establishment of this type. To the right of the door and stretching down the length of the wall was the bar itself with more of the magic lamps, a number of empty and full tankards and various other dishes. Lining the wall behind the bar were a number of shelves containing at least a hundred different bottles. Some of the alcohol containers he recognized, but most he couldn’t. He assumed they were libations from other lands. In the back of the room were two doors. One had barmaids laden with trays of food going in and out and brief glances through the swinging doors gave him glimpses of a busy kitchen. The other door must have been a water closet since various individuals were going in and out of it. The center of the room was where his focus finally lay with an almost lustful sort of gaze. The largest fire burning in the largest hearth he had ever seen had him nearly hypnotized and he thanked his god that there was a single small table near it.

As though they had a mind of their own, his feet began to take him to that small table. As he went, his gaze fell upon and quickly studied the various patrons and workers.

It was mostly Manimals and Dwarves making up the majority of the crowd with a few small groups of Halflings, Gnomes and Elves.

His heart leapt into his throat and he pulled his hood lower as he made his way to the table. In a more shadowed corner of the room sat three Elves. These three Elves all held a look of distaste on their sharp features and their clothing colors and symbols made them from one particular tribe.

The Ygnosh.

This tribe had always been highly xenophobic, keeping to their Northwestern plains area and avoiding contact with even other Elves more often than not. He knew if they got even the faintest glimpse of the Goblin shuffling through the tavern, they would kill him in a heartbeat. It would not be a meat stripping from his poor bones he would get from the Ygnosh; that would be too kind. Especially for him.

Before discovering his lord and escaping the old masters and his tribe, he had been part of a force that destroyed seven of ten Ygnosh strongholds, slaughtering every last living thing.

To this day, there was no hatred that could match the Ygnosh hatred for Goblin-kind.

They took no notice of him as he settled himself at the small table next to the hearth as their collective attention was focused upon the middle of the bar where a large group of Manimals and others were gathered. Before he could determine what they were doing, a female voice purred into his ear startling him.

“I hope you aren’t here to cause trouble,” the voice said.

He spun his head in the direction of the voice and saw a shapely feline Manimal looking down at him impassively with glittering blue eyes. Her brown and grey streaked fur was partially covered with leathers and filmy cloths; the clothing of a serving girl.

“Um…he…” he stammered in fear of having been discovered, “he only wishes to b-be warm for a little and e-eat. He is alone and peaceful. H-he will eat, get warm then leave the good people city.”

“You have coin?” she asked.

He was mute a moment as it seemed like the female was hardly bothered by the fact that he was one of the bad people. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the metal disc he had found on the road.

“He has this,” he said holding up the coin.

“Platinum,” she marveled a bit. “Don’t see many of those. How hungry are you?”

“He has not eaten for three days,” he said sadly.

“Well,” she said with a light smile in her feline eyes, “I believe we can solve that. For that coin we can even fill one of your kind up and provide a bag with extra to carry with you when you leave.”

“He thanks it,” he said and handed her the platinum coin.

“Do yourself a favor,” she said leaning in close giving the Ygnosh a glance, “Keep your hood in place and try not to attract too much attention to yourself. I’d rather not be cleaning your blood and dismembered parts off the floor and walls tonight.”

“He shall do as the mistress says,” he nodded.

As she made her way to the kitchen to get his food, the very thought of which caused him to drool, the gathered crowd suddenly erupted in cheers and curses. He watched them as they laughed or complained while passing around a number of the metal discs to each other.

They parted for just an instant and in the center of the group was an old Hairface and another being, the sight of which caused him no small measure of surprise.

But we are so far North, he thought in awe of the being, they cannot live here because of the cold.

2

The laughter from Cricket Marthinor was something like a hiccup mixed with a hiss. He tossed the small stone up into the air and caught it on its descent while eyeballing his adversary. A grizzled old Dwarf whom everyone simply called, Boss Silverhand. The old Dwarf muttered grumpily as he finished his current tankard and thumped it roughly onto the bartop.

“Why-do-you-keep-playing,” came the deep toned and slow speech of Northport’s Archer Captain, Talas Faldor, “when-it-frustrates-you-so-much?”

The eight foot tall gray furred Sloth Manimal had amusement twinkling in his coal black eyes as he also finished his drink, albeit about five times more slowly, as Boss Silverhand snarled.

“Made meself a vow,” he replied glaring at the Kobold, “that one day I’ll be snatchin’ that rock straight out of his hand and collect the five thousand gold he be promisin’.”

Cricket chuckled in his way and said, “Dwarfy never get dis rock from me’s.”

The old Dwarf grumped and said, “Your turn to buy, ye goofy lizard.”

“Yep yep,” Cricket said standing to his full three feet of height on the top of the barstool and waved at the bartender. “T’ree more, Grumpus!”

If the nickname he had rightly earned bothered him, the gray and black Badger Manimal, with a patch over his left eye, didn’t show it as he busied himself with pouring up the drinks. When he brought the tankards over, Cricket shelled out the necessary coins as Talas questioned him.

“Next-game-coming-up,” he said slowly. “You-making-a-bet?”

Locke Tamen chuckled as he pocketed Cricket’s coins and curled his mouth into something of a snarling smile, “Already got me the next six bets lined up. Them bloody Ygnosh boys are so hateful of the Kobold they bet against him every round. Stand to make about three platinum off them.”

Talas chuckled as he picked up his tankard and drank deeply.

Everyone who lived in Northport knew that the white scaled Kobold was a master in the open hand fighting of the Eastlands and it made him incredibly quick. Even Boss Silverhand knew he would never be fast enough to snatch the small rock from Cricket’s hand, but he played nonetheless and mostly for the benefit of the foreign traders and out of towners. Rather, he benefited the townsfolk of Northport since the old racial hatreds always had the visitors betting against Cricket. Every single time.

“Makin’ your bettins!” Cricket announced cheerfully as he tossed the rock up and down a couple of times in his right, four fingered hand, “Dwarfy look ready to get de rock dis time.”

Money was slapped onto table tops, barstools and the bar top as everyone began making their wagers for or against the Dwarf. One of the Ygnosh Elves had left his companions to get a closer look at the game. Most figured the xenophobic Elf was thinking the Kobold and others were cheating him.

Cricket figured that was likely. The Ygnosh tended to cause more trouble in Northport than do any actual trading. He looked out of the corner of his eye to see the Goblin, that he noticed entering earlier, eating at a plate of meats with gusto. His hood was still in place and his head was lowered.

Good, Cricket thought. At least this one seems smart enough.

He took a quick swallow from his tankard, popped the rock up in the air in front of Silverhand and said, “Ready, Dwarfy?”

“Aye, ye goofy lizard,” he grumbled rubbing his hands up and down his leather breeches a few times then together a few more times. “I’ll be havin’ that rock this time.”

The immediate area around the odd pair became still and quiet.

Silverhand was staring at the small stone in the white four fingered hand as though his mere concentration would keep Cricket’s hand open long enough for him to snatch the stone and claim a five thousand gold piece prize. Cricket, on the other hand, was watching the Dwarf’s brown eyes as he had been trained to do.

Several minutes passed since both Dwarf and Kobold were aware that building the tension would keep the betting patrons interested, as though they were watching a game of wills rather than a game of “Snatch the Stone”, even though the old Dwarf really was intent on getting that rock out of Cricket’s hand. For him, getting the stone had become a matter of pride.

The tension filled silence suddenly erupted in cheers and groans as Silverhand made his move…and missed once again.

“Us’es still ain’t callin yous Boss ‘Quick’ Silverhand, heeeehahahaha!” Cricket trumpeted and was followed up with raucous laughter from the gathered crowd.

“Aah shut up, ye rotten reptile,” Silverhand grumped into his mug and then downed the drink.

When he finished, he belched loudly and shouted at the barkeep to fetch another round for the three companions.

Cricket Marthinor was well known throughout Northport. He was a prominent Sergeant in the town guard and was equally well known for his lack of fear, which often caused the short Kobold more trouble than he bargained for. This was due to his upbringing by old Reagar “Ironpaw” Marthinor, the Wolf Manimal Cavalier that had found and adopted the abandoned Kobold more than two hundred triunes ago. No one believed the Kobold would be able to survive in the harsh cold of the North, but it was found that Cricket had an exceptionally strong connection to the Stream that gifted him with a constant field of warmth.

He was also known for his mastery of the Eastland’s combat methods that were taught to him by a group of monks who had come to Northport some one hundred triunes before. They taught him in exchange for his allowing them the use of his land to build a monastery.

He followed in the footsteps of his adopted father and became a town guardsman. He had to prove himself often, but he always did and he did so with more honor than most of his fellows. Not that it mattered, many still saw him as just a Kobold.

After Reagar passed away, Cricket was in limbo a bit with Northport since, it turned out, that his adopted father had pretty much kept everyone from constantly harassing him. Thankfully, he was not without wealth, home or land as it all had been left to him legally, though there was a massive battle on that account. Had it not been for the two major trade houses in Northport, the Atreiden and the Harkonel, that battle might still be ongoing. However, for the first time as long as anyone could remember, the two trade houses agreed on something and that was the law in the matter of Reagar Marthinor’s estate being left to an adopted son. Since he had fathered no children of his own, Kobold or not, Cricket was the legalized son and therefore legal heir. The two houses also made the town guard return his position to him. The second thing the two Great Houses of The Landrats Trading Empire agreed on was Cricket was possibly the only town guardsman who accepted no bribes or coercion from criminal elements within the city. Cricket was as lawful as anyone could get and several times he had protected both houses from severe losses.

Boss Silverhand, actually known as Farlund Farrider, was not just a seasoned former Paladin from Warwalker’s own court guard, he was one of the most sought after jewelers in all of Namca and because of that, he was given the surname of Silverhand.

Upon his retirement from Warwalker’s guard, as with most Paladins and Cavaliers, he wound up in Northport. It was sort of an unspoken arrangement that those with ingrained combat ability, while never being part of the town guard or militia, would always be ready to defend the richest city in Namca. As he was still the most sought after jeweler, Farlund Farrider was never without work.

He and Cricket could not have met in any worse possible manner.

Forty triunes ago, when Farlund first arrived in Northport, he had heard stories, much the same as anyone, that a Kobold was in residence and a town guard no less. Farlund decided that as long as he never came across the Kobold then there would be no trouble.

Farlund, like the barkeep and others around him, was a veteran of the Kobold wars and many bad memories of the horrors perpetrated by the fanatical Kobolds would always come to mind at the sight of Cricket.

And it so happened that one evening, exploring his new home, Farlund found his way into the Unlikely Target Tavern. There before him, brass balls and loud mouthed, was the Kobold. At first, Farlund wasn’t sure how to react. Everyone in the tavern seemed at ease around the short lizard being if not talking with him directly and there were many who were doing just that. He also noticed the milk white scale color of the Kobold. That was unheard of, not to mention one living so far North.

Farlund decided to test the little lizard and see what sort of salt flowed in his veins. He went to the bar for a draught and purposely nudged the Kobold out of his way. Again, balls of brass, the lizard turned to him and looked him up and down like a loaf of bread he was deciding to buy or not.

“Sooooo,” the Kobold drawled out, “yous tinkin drinkins game or bar fight to finding out about de Kobold, right? I’s up for what you likins.”

Farlund decided that balls of mithril were what the lizard thought it possessed.

“How’s about,” Farlund said, “I be beatin’ your tiny hind end into the floor and then we drink if’n ye still be able t’ sit let alone stand?”

He would never forget the muted and knowing chuckles from the gathered crowd because that tiny and skinny lizard laid a beating on him that he would never forget. Pride be damned! Cricket beat him from one end of the tavern to the other in a fashion no battle had ever seen him in. Farlund couldn’t even remember if he even successfully landed his fist against the Kobold or not. Cricket said he did. The crowd said he almost did.

Cricket picked up Farlund himself and dumped him onto a barstool and started ordering flagon after flagon of ale. Neither won, neither lost. It seemed in drinking at least they were equal.

The game of “Snatch the Stone” began a few triunes later when one evening out of boredom Cricket offered up five thousand gold to anyone who could take the rock from his hand.

Only Farlund persisted to that very day.

While he would never admit it openly, Farlund “Boss” Silverhand thought of Cricket Marthinor as his most trusted and best friend. He knew he would never find anyone else so trustworthy or stalwart in companions, but Dwarf pride would never let his respect and even friendly love of that damn goofy lizard ever come out.

Talas Faldor had arrived in Northport around twenty triunes ago as commander of a fresh contingent of Sloth Manimal archers. Like all Sloth Manimals, most people had no patience for his slow ways so he found himself with very few friends among the other races of Northport. This saddened him. He had heard so much about the cosmopolitan ways of Namca residents.

This was not so with a small Kobold and a grizzled old Dwarf who called him to their usual spot at the bar in the Unlikely Target Tavern one evening. They were patient, listened to his stories, though the Dwarf would often grumble about getting to the point, and they made him feel right at home in this cold city so far North and West of his jungle home, Asrila.

He found in Cricket a kindred spirit. Always feeling out of place and most often, unwelcome. With Boss Silverhand it was more of the kinship of warriors that have seen battle together. While Talas himself had never been in battle, at that time, he found a trusted comrade and even a wisdom beyond his own years that he did his best to learn from.

Not so long ago, an army of Gnolls and Ogres from the Cigo area attacked, intent on taking the city of Northport along with its riches.

The trio, once dubbed the “clowns” of Northport, gained a new title.

During the West Gate Battle, Talas was using his handmade and perfected bow with all the skill that made the Sloth Manimal Archer a being to be truly feared. His position was nearly overrun, but out of nowhere, Cricket and Boss Silverhand appeared at his side.

Silverhand defended not Just Talas, but other Sloth Manimal Archers as well while the Kobold would launch himself out of formation like a spear and dispatch several oncoming enemies before springing back into formation.

They became known as “The Bow, The Shield and The Lance”.

That battle tied the three of them together as nothing else could and it had also earned Talas his command of the entire Archery Unit.

It had always been said that if one of them were in the Unlikely Target alone, it meant the other two were dead…or on duty.

In their own way, they had become brothers and it was a normal sight to see the three of them together on the street, in battle or even drinking and playing silly games in the Unlikely Target.

Cricket had turned his back to the crowd to grab his tankard. He started drinking when he sensed the figure behind him.

The Ygnosh Elf.

“What makes a filthy creature like you,” the Ygnosh Elf said with acid edging his tone, “think it is special enough to be around decent beings?”

Cricket stood up on the barstool to be bright red eye to golden eye with the tall, blonde and pale skinned Elf.

He all but poked the Elf in the chest when he replied.

“Same ting make Elfy feel he special enough to ask Cricket stupid question.”

They eyed each other angrily for a moment, but it was the Ygnosh who tore away from Cricket’s piercing gaze.

“Despicable creature,” he muttered as he walked back towards his companions, knowing he had lost the battle of wills against a lesser being.