Nivvy and Trojan and the Fireball

“Should I save the wine?” Niveus asked, the flask belted to his hip already half-empty.

“I say finish it.” Trojan always was the best motivator.

The two were sent out on a hunt, though not the usual kind. No monsters, nothing draconic — simply looking for some missing children. They had in their company a rather laconic monk named Ped Xing and a gratuitously annoying fey, Finneas, but it was all about the reward:

Find the missing children, collect one thousand gold, and the drinks are on the house.

Niveus tossed back his wineskin, savoring the deep red wine the group had picked up (at his behest) at the last village. It warmed him to his leather boots, and he didn’t mind it was only a few hours past sunrise. Today will be magic, he thought.

Trojan scouted ahead, his venom-soaked dagger ever at the ready. He’d protect Nivvy, as he was called, at any cost. The wizard was too delicate but too ready throw out a spell for his own good, gods damn it. The underbrush scraped at his breeches, but Trojan silently moved forward: careful enough not to make any untowardly noise, but heavy enough to sound like a creature of nature. Easy.

About three hundred meters in the forest cleared, opening on a crude sort of encampment. Trojan scanned around — goblin tents, that was certain — but probably only three or four. Between Nivvy and Ped Xing, taking out these monsters was a matter of seconds. A sneak attack, a few swift strikes from the monk, and a cantrip or two from Niveus would render the camp… well, dead.

“Time to take initiative,” Trojan whispered to himself. The goblins weren’t around, but the recent burning of kindling suggested they weren’t far. He could wait for the others, but the promise of spoils in some of the empty tents was a little just too tempting. “To save up for the wedding,” he told himself.

Trojan snuck to the first tent, stepping tentatively. He peered inside and found naught but slaps of jerky and soiled bedding. “A waste,” he pronounced.

“Hold it, half-breed,” said a crude voice behind Trojan. He immediately shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and mocked surprise, though inwardly he was annoyed about being marked out for his half-elven heritage by what could only be gutter-trash goblin fodder.

“Turn around.”

Trojan pivoted, careful to keep his hands up at his sides. Best not to provoke the enemy. A lock of his silver hair fell flanked against his cheek, but he nonchalantly whooshed it away with a breath as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“May I help you?” he asked his inquisitor, a four foot, nasty looking goblin with even more remarkably bad teeth. Had they no dentistry?

“Your purse, loner,” said the goblin. “Empty it.”

No way was that happening. After picking up a diamond the size of a dwarf’s thumbnail not only two days prior, the last thing the rogue was about to do was hand over his haul. He deliberately stepped on a twig, moving a scant inch closer still in supplication.

The goblin had a crossbow, cocked, aimed right at Trojan’s chest. Perhaps cockiness wasn’t the best option. Trojan wondered if he had no choice but to empty his spoils and acquiesce to the little bugger’s whims.

“You win,” he said. “Just let me go, and I’ll give you what I have.”

The goblin sniffed. “Very well, half-breed. I’m sure your purse will have us well into drink tonight…”

“Fireball!” came a voice from the outer-cropping of the wood. Niveus couldn’t cast that, not yet… but then Trojan remembered: Nivvy had a necklace of fireballs. Each pearl was the same as if the wizard had cast the spell himself.

Instinctively, Trojan leapt backward into the sullied tent, not waiting for the rush of fire and heat to envelope the environs of the camp. Cloth went ablaze, and he quickly quaffed a potion of fire resistance. Things were about to get hot.

MORE NEXT WEEK!!