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“The thing no one realizes about ghosts is we do not stay in one place. No!

“The bodily needs of the living impose restrictions on a person, yes? One must eat and sleep. Oh—how I miss eating! Eating is a very sensual activity when done properly.

“Mortals need to use the restroom. Yes—even the fairest elven maiden poops. If you find a ghost in the bathroom, it’s not because he was relieving himself. (You might wonder what he was doing haunting such a vile place. Perhaps he was trying to live vicariously through the strained grunts issuing from the stall. Or maybe it’s because even the dead think farts are humorous. Mortals are so pleasantly disgusting.)

“We ghosts have no need of bedchambers. No use for bathrooms. Every room is the same as the last, and none hold any appeal.

“There’s also a lack of physicality you can not understand until you experience it yourself. Movement creates sound. Listen to a dwarf take the stairs and tell me any different. You cannot! All the huffing and all the stomping. Stairs have killed more dwarves than orcs, of this I am certain.

“We ghosts are silent. We do not float around, waiting to yell ‘boo!’ at mortals who wander across our path. No, no, no! The suggestion that a ghost has nothing better to do than to quicken the heart of the living is an ugly stereotype. Ghosts are complex individuals. No two are alike.

“You may think to yourself—how boring it must be, drifting about from one room to the next, lacking the ability to enjoy the finer things. Forever a voyeur, never the exhibitionist.

“There is an adjustment period, it is true. I spent the first 50 years of my un-life watching mortals clumsily paw at one another. I burned with hatred for them For the pleasures forever denied me. In my wrath, I made chandeliers sway eerily, and shouted obscenities from dark corridors.

“They did not notice. They were too busy with all the pawing. I would’ve done the same, but my paws were incorporeal. Unwittingly, I’d become the very stereotype against which all of ghost-kind rails.

“I am a wiser ghost now. A gentler one, yes. I have discovered great satisfaction in the simple act of being. You do not know meditation until you’ve spent a century thinking the same thoughts endlessly. You begin to understand the great mystery that is life. Not why we are here. No! That is self-evident—to fornicate and frolic.

“No, I speak of something more essential, something of the spirit, which survives the transition from life to after-life. I speak, of course, of being of use. Purpose, my fat friend. Even ghosts seek meaning.

“So, when you come to Blasé and ask—nay, beg—for his help, how can he refuse?”

Durgin opened his mouth for the first time in at least five minutes.

“Of course,” Blasé continued, “you were rather rude last when we spoke. So perhaps I should refuse. Tell me again why you need Blasé’s help. Something about a suspicious gnome?

“Hah! There is your problem. All gnomes are suspicious. Do not get me started on the garden variety. Those little perverts, always dropping their overalls to mount tulips. Do flowers need so much fertilizer? I do not think so.

“They mock Blasé, with all their humping. That should be your first order of business. Make eunuchs of them. Let them fertilize the old-fashioned way.

“Now—what was I saying?”

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“Welysa Gumpkin? The geologist?” Yeji’s eyes swallowed his eyelids. “You’re sure of it.”

Durgin had found Yeji working a ledger in his office and had quickly recapped the interview. “If your bauble works like you say it does, aye—I’m sure.” He slipped the amulet off and laid it on the desk.

Yeji shook his head. “I… I can’t believe it. Welysa is so… kind.”

Durgin gave him a skeptical look that went unnoticed. Yeji normally spoke like he was paid by the word, and given bonuses for long and usual combinations. This sudden inability to find words, to stumble in the searching, was a new look. Durgin wondered if there was something between the two of them, at least on Yeji’s side. But he didn’t ask or dwell on it—it was irrelevant to their purposes.

“It caught me off guard too,” Durgin said. “She doesn’t have a killer’s disposition. She said her best friends were rocks. Rocks, Yeji.”

“There must be a mistake.” Yeji sat forward. “What did you ask her? Precisely.”

Durgin sighed but decided to indulge the gnome. “I asked if she had any reason to want Sergeant Mountainfist dead. She said no. The amulet named her a liar.”

Yeji sank back into the chair. “That doesn’t mean she did it. Only that she wanted him dead.”

Durgin didn’t honor that with a response. Someone had killed the sergeant. Welysa had motive.

“But… why? Why would she want to harm the sergeant?”

“Maybe he insulted her favorite rock. Listen—the why is not important. We have our mole. Now we can throw her in irons, and be done with this.”

“No.” The words came out hard. Yeji’s eyes were flat. “We’re not doing that.”

Durgin swallowed his first twenty words. “Oh? Were you promoted to foreman while I was doing the job?”

“Apologies.” He smiled thinly. “I only meant that locking her up would be a mistake.” He started to say something else, paused, continued. “There’s still much we don’t know. Why she wanted him dead. How she acquired the black curse. Who she’s in league with, and the greater mystery yet: why has Deephouse been targeted?”

He wormed his fingers through his beard. He wasn’t convinced that Yeji wasn’t just playing for time for a gnome he was smitten with. But there was a certain cunning in what he suggested. Taking Welysa off the board would not deter whoever was interested in Deephouse. It’d only make them more cautious, and more careful. The only advantage they had was that their unknown assailant didn’t yet know that they’d found a loose thread. Something they might be able to follow back to the source of all this.

“I’m not saying I agree with you. But if we did it your way—how would it go? We can’t just follow her around at all hours without drawing suspicion.”

“No,” Yeji agreed. He smiled darkly. “We don’t have to. There’s someone else who could handle it for us, and she’d never be the wiser.”

Durgin’s fingers stilled. “Blasé.” It fit. It made sense. He could even see it working. Only problem—he wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with the ghost. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

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Based On a True Story

One of my favorite things about this comic is how it’s become a lens through which our gaming personalities can be glimpsed. In most instances, it’s an idealized likeness; our real-life Wizard (Shawn) has yet to accidentally kill the entire party.1 The comic is ‘based on a true story’ in the Hollywood sense. Embellishing truth to amplify narrative payload.

The events in this week’s strip have yet to happen in-game, but that’s only because the Warrior (Chad) has never encountered a roomful of horny elven maidens.

D&D is a game in which the joy of discovery is the reason for playing. How will your players respond to this trap or enemy? It’s less interesting when you already know what they’ll do. For whatever reason, elven maidens—and only elven maidens—are Chad’s weakness. The kryptonite against which he has no natural antibodies.

Naturally, we have only used this knowledge for good.2

This strip came out of jokes made around the table about how Chad would respond to this exact situation. We even used the Costner gif from Superman in describing his response.3 This strip, then, is a completing-the-circle moment.

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Durgin sat behind his desk, nervously playing with a letter opener. He had one interview left. If Deephouse had a mole, this had to be it. He glanced at the file again.

Welysa Gumpkin. A gnomish name if ever he’d seen one. Degrees in Mineralogy, Sedimentology, and something called Stratigraphy. A learned person. Not the type he’d expect to bring a black curse down upon Deephouse. But his last suspect.

No, not the last suspect.

It wasn’t lost on Durgin that Yeji had quietly exempted himself from scrutiny. He’d mentioned that Klyde and Blasé were not suspects—rightly—and then had suggested the current course of action: interview the staff wearing an amulet that detects falsehoods. A good trap. One Yeji had positioned and sidestepped.

A hesitant knock came from the hallway. The door was open.

“Come in.”

A long pause.

A female gnome cautiously stepped into view. She paused just inside the threshold, with the hesitancy of someone sticking their hand into water and preparing to quickly remove it should the water prove too hot. She was small even for gnomish standards, her skin the color of sandstone, her face darkly freckled. Most of her face was obscured by enormous glasses; the eyes beyond darted around the room, glanced briefly at Durgin, and flew away again.

Durgin quietly filed the nervousness, though he couldn’t make himself believe this person was their mole. “Please.” He gestured at the empty chair, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Be seated.”

She didn’t move immediately, and then moved all at once, the anxious haste of someone who wanted to get something over and done with.

He waited for her to make eye contact.

She pushed the glasses up on her nose with one blunt finger. Fidgeted with the raggedy satchel slung crisscross on her body. Studied the surface of his desk. Did not look up.

“Welysa—thanks for coming.” He glanced at the file even though he already knew what it said. “It says here you’re a geologist? That’s rocks and stuff, yeah? What exactly do you do here?”

Her eyes shifted to him and held for the first time, a settling that lasted little longer than a blink. They were steady, the sort that studied hard things up close and drew meaning from them. Then her gaze drifted. “I analyze deposits and sediment to determine the likelihood of mineral lodes for digs: coal, gems, precious metals. At least, that’s what I did. I haven’t been in the field in two months. The last foreman forbid me from going on expeditions. So mostly I sit in my lab and study the same rocks I’ve been looking at for the last two months.”

Durgin noted the enthusiasm with which she answered. He could engage her with rocks, if nothing else. “Do you enjoy the work?”

She pushed the glasses up her nose. “Oh, yes, tremendously. Rocks are some of my very best friends.” She paused. “Most of them.” Another pause. “All of my friends are rocks.”

He hid a smile behind another glance down at the file he didn’t need to review. “Do you have any reason for wanting Sergeant Mountainfist dead?” He asked it lightly, expecting nothing, doing it just to check a box.

The slightest pause. “No.”

The amulet under his shirt flared to life, warming his chest.

Durgin looked up. Welysa Gumpkin, the studious gnome and lover of rocks, was their mole.

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The morning passed in a blur.

Durgin worked his way through the general staff. Six miners, an even split of dwarves and gnomes, none of whom had done any mining in months. When pressed for details on what they did all day, a gnome named Norgram told him they mostly played cards. He’d shown no shame in the admission. “We can’t very well mine if the foreman hasn’t provided a spot to point our pickaxes.”

The amulet had not outed any of them as liars.

There were two dwarven soldiers on staff. They’d served under Sergeant Mountainfist. They were dour and stoic, with strong opinions on what Deephouse was doing wrong and how to fix it. There was an undercurrent of discomfort under the blustery professionalism; they’d been the ones who’d found Mountainfist. But their alarm seemed rooted entirely in the horror of the thing. Durgin filed their suggestions and sent them away, no closer to the truth.

He checked his tally. Nine interviews done. Two to go.

The door swung open. No knock.

Three gremlins scurried inside. They were arguing about something. Durgin only caught the tail-end.

“…the right way to cook bottle-fish,” the halfling said. He wore stained leathers a size too big and enormous mutton chops.

A scaly lizardman roughly two feet tall slapped the halfling across the back of the head. “You don’t cook bottle-fish, stupid fat halfling.” The only thing approximating clothing was the bandolier worn across his chest, studded with tiny knives.

The halfling rounded on the kobold, punching him in the snout. They went down in a heap of angry limbs.

The last of the trio entered the room. Pale green skin, a long hooked nose, sharp teeth. He wore a long cloak that closed in the front. Only his head and hands were visible.

The goblin smiled at Durgin and took the chair opposite. “Hello.”

Durgin glanced at the two figures wrestling on the floor. “Should we do something about that?”

The goblin followed his gaze. The golden eyes return to Durgin. “Hello.”

Durgin frowned. “You’ve said that already. Hello to you, too.”

“Hello.”

The halfling and kobold rolled into a table. The lamp wobbled but remained standing.

Durgin glanced at his roster. He pointed as he read names.

“Joric.” The halfling biting the kobold’s fingers.

“Jeplu.” The kobold punching the halfling in the nuts.

“Juics.” The goblin smiling at him.

“Hello.”

Durgin sighed. “Oy—you two rolling around on the floor. On your feet.”

The two diminutive figures separated. The halfling was bleeding from the nose but didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy trying to push the goblin out of the chair. “Move, green-skin. This is mine.”

The goblin pushed back. “Hello!”

The kobold drew a tiny knife from its bandolier and approached the halfling.

“Ut-ut: none of that now.” He held a blunt finger towards the kobold until he sheathed the blade. “Enough squabbling.” His voice boomed. “Sit, now, all of you.”

They jockeyed for position on the chair, finding an uneasy compromise of limbs faster than Durgin would’ve expected.

“It says here that you are kitchen and custodial.”

The halfling—Joric—nodded. “We call it kitchodial.”

The kobold—Jeplu—hissed. “It’s custochen, stupid.”

The goblin—Juics—nodded agreeably. “Hello.”

Durgin rested his forehead on his hand. “Does he say anything else?”

Joric and Jeplu exchanged a glance.

“It’s the only Common he knows,” Joric said.

“It may be the only word he knows,” Jeplu added.

“One word, many meanings.” Joric licked his hand and smoothed down his mutton chops.

Jeplu nodded. “He asked if you enjoyed breakfast. It’d be rude to ignore the question.”

Durgin looked between the three of them, squeezed onto a single chair. “Breakfast was fine. Thank you.”

The goblin nodded happily. “Hello.”

“Did any of you see anything suspicious the night Sergeant Mountainfist died?”

They shook their heads as one.

The amulet was cold on Durgin’s chest. “Any grudges towards him?”

“He was a mean dwarf.” Joric pulled out a bone comb and slicked back his hair.

“He stole our liquor.” Jeplu pulled a tiny dagger from his bandolier and used it to file a talon.

“Hello.” Juics looked down sadly.

Durgin’s eyebrows lifted in a silent question.

“The sergeant called him names.” Joric translated. He put a hand on Juics shoulder.

It all seemed rather petty. He still needed to ask. “And did any of you try to get even.”

“Always.” Jeplu smiled, a gesture given vicious airs due to his snout and sharp teeth.

“Sometimes we made his dinner using a chamber pot.” Joric’s eyes took on a faraway look. “That’s my favorite prank.”

Juics started laughing, a sudden, rising sound like a hiccup.

“Pranks. So none of you tried to kill him?”

The triplets exchanged glances and started laughing.

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We’re asking the hard questions

The inspiration for this strip is a South Park bit we referenced during a D&D session and couldn’t stop giggling about. It’s admittedly juvenile, but I take the long view on this kind of thing; like the Tri-Lambs, penis humor is open to people of all races and creeds, and sexual orientations.

I sometimes wonder, fleetingly, if all other D&D tables are like this. Does pretending to be elf wizards naturally lower the bar on how one behaves in polite society? Do we use crude humor to deflect our embarrassment at playing make-belief as adults? Or is this just a natural outcome of a game that routinely involves things like 10-foot poles and immovable rods?

Said another way: Are dick jokes baked directly into the pizza pie, or are they sprinkled liberally on as toppings?

I’ll leave that for the philosophers to decide. I just know D&D makes me laugh, and probably 50% of those laughs are phallic in nature. The questions posed by today’s strip seem to suggest a potential product for a captive audience. In the core D&D rules, guidelines are provided for height, weight, and age. We can only infer the other measurables.

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The interviews were conducted in Durgin’s office.

He sat behind his desk. Fidgeting. Feeling like a fraud.

Up to this point, being foreman had only entailed shady negotiations and the near-certainty it was all going to end in disaster. Nothing he wasn’t unfamiliar with. But sitting on the other side of the desk, from a place of implied superiority, was a new experience. He didn’t care for it.

He and Yeji had agreed there was no point in interviewing Blasé or Klyde. Neither had motive to undermine Deephouse. That left 13 interviews. 11, if the so-called triplets insisted on being interviewed together; Yeji assured him they would.

11 interviews. That was a lot of talking. He sipped his breakfast mead. It was going to be a long day.

He touched his chest. Yeji’s amulet tucked under his shirt, pressed up to his skin. It’d burn slightly in the presence of a spoken falsehood. A clever device, and useful to their purposes. With some careful but pointed questions, perhaps he could root out the traitor before the day was done.

The door thumped, jumping in the frame.

“Aye, come in.”

A female dwarf shouldered inside. She wore a heavy leather apron atop her clothes. Thick gloves tucked into her belt. Her pants had more pockets than Durgin had ever seen in one place, all of them bulging, several with something poking out. Ruddy cheeks, a singed eyebrow, copper hair pulled back into a tight braid. She looked at Durgin with flat eyes and sat.

He glanced at the roster. “Brildryn?”

A blink. This close, her industrious perfume—iron, oil, smoke—was unmistakable.

He recognized her as the person who’d heckled him after he and Yeji and returned from meeting the Deep Ones. She hadn’t been a fan.

“Chief Mechanic.” He looks up. “Is that corporate speak for smithing?”

Her expression remained unchanged. “Mechanizing. Any boob can bash metal into shape.”

He wondered if she knew he’d been a blacksmith. “I didn’t know we had automatons.”

“We don’t.”

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

“So what’d you do, then?”

“Keep the heat flowing.” Her tone monotonous.

He placed her file to the side and leaned forward. “Listen: we’re on the same side here. I’m trying to keep Deephouse running. Keep us all in work. The more I know, the better job I can do for all of us.”

She held his gaze. “Permission to speak freely. Sir.”

Finally—he’d gotten through. “Of course.”

“This is a waste of my bloody time. I have projects that need tending and work that needs minding. It don’t stop just because the fancy city dwarf needs someone to hold his hand. Sir.”

The rebuke was given in the same flat register as everything else she’d said. That somehow made it worse, her tone suggesting she wasn’t sharing an opinion but a boring, universally understood fact.

The amulet on his chest was cold. Brildryn was not posturing. She truly believed what she’d said.

Durgin felt his cheeks burn but he restrained himself from responding to the insult. “I won’t keep you, then. Just one more thing—Sergeant Mountainfist. Did he ever give you cause to be angry with him?”

Something like humor passed across her eyes, there and gone. “Cause? All that dwarf did was piss me off. With his demands and his layabout manner and his breaking every damn thing in this place.”

She stood without waiting for dismissal; he’d said one more thing, she was holding him to it.

“Since you’re not gonna come right out and ask, I’ll tell you myself: I had nothing to do with it. But I’m glad he’s dead.” Her eyes burned briefly. She turned on her heel. She left the door open on her way out.

The amulet was silent.

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The black curse.

The word hung in the dim office like an unfulfilled promise.

The dusk gnome crossed his legs precisely, as though they were two gentlemen discussing the finer points of sailing, or cravat shopping, or however people who don’t work spend their lives.

Yeji was stalling, or steeling himself, maybe. Durgin let it happen. He didn’t really want to have this conversation.

Yeji sipped his wine. Set the glass aside carefully. “Let’s approach this logically. Of all the Underearth factions, the cartel alone has the resources and connections to commission a black curse. Sergeant Mountainfist was found dead shortly after their representative visited you. A strong coincidence.”

“You don’t think they did it.”

The gnome shook his head. “It’s not in their best interests, and they always act according to their best interests. It’s not their style, either. They wouldn’t come bearing gifts and vague threats, and immediately escalate after being rebuffed.”

Yeji studied the fire in the hearth. “They’d rather let time be their ally. Let misfortunes accrue. Drive you to them eventually out of desperation. They play the long game.” He shook his head, conclusively. “It wasn’t the cartel.”

A swell of relief washed over Durgin. He’d met with their representative only hours ago. If they’d sent the curse, it would’ve been personal. He would’ve been responsible. The facts remained—Sergeant Mountainfist dead—but if the cartel wasn’t involved, it reframed everything. “Who then? The Deep Ones just got what they’ve been after. You said the Spiderlings are pacifists—”

“No,” Yeji interrupted. “I said they’re primarily concerned with insect rights. They keep their mandibles sharp. They’re meat eaters, primarily. But escalating in such a matter doesn’t fit.”

Durgin shivered. “Right. The Cavebillies, then.” He could see the shape of it. An isolated fort, populated with non-humans. Seemed a prime target for a group of racists looking to stir up trouble.

“Possibly,” Yeji said in the tone of a teacher correcting an especially stupid student. “You’re thinking too myopically. Consider: who would benefit most from a weakened Deephouse?”

The chair groaned as Durgin leaned back. He ran through the list of factions in his head. He didn’t see the answer Yeji clearly already had in-hand. “Just tell me,” he grumbled.

“We aren’t being targeted by an Underearth faction.” Yeji smiled tightly. “We’re being led to believe we are. This is corporate espionage.”

Durgin frowned. “That’s…”

“Unfathomable?” Yeji shook his head. “Adventuring corporations send people into mortal danger to secure profits. That’s their business model, and it informs everything they do. The value of your life, and mine, resides in an actuary chart kept in a dusty filing cabinet. Is it so hard to believe their profit calculus might involve more… aggressive maneuvers?”

“Wait—you said we’re being led to believe the cartel was behind this.” Durgin sat forward. “That means the timing wasn’t a coincidence.” His fingers pinched the armrests. “Deephouse has a mole.”

Yeji nodded. “Which further suggests the perpetrator of this attack could be our own employer.”

Durgin found it hard to believe TEC would target its own operation, kill one of its own employees. That Yeji considered it a possibility suggested dark alleys he wasn't prepared to walk down.

“You knew all of this.” He slumped into his chair. “You begged me to stay anyway.”

The gnome showed his palms in an apologetic gesture. “What I said before is true, and perhaps balances the danger: Deephouse must be advantageously positioned near an opportunity of great value. What else would merit such attention?”

Shadows danced in the hearth. “Do we have any idea what that might be?”

“No.” Yeji picked up his wine glass. “We’re operating blindly.”

Durgin chuckled darkly. “Do you have any good news, or do you just enjoy kicking me in the balls?”

Yeji smiled; he did in fact appear to enjoy dispensing hard facts and ugly conjecture. “Only this—they don’t know that we see through the ruse. We have an opportunity to tip the scales. If not steal them outright.”

His fingers wormed into his beard. “We need to find the mole and put eyes on him.”

“Fortunately, we have just the cover for such an operation: A recently arrived foreman, conducting personnel interviews with his staff.”

“What? And just ask them straight out if they’re working angles? ‘Hello, I’m Durgin, the new foreman. Are you playing shadow games?’”

Yeji’s grin was that of a snake who’d come home to find a rodent sleeping in its nest. “Leave that to me.”

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Surprise!

One of the things that makes D&D so fun is its unpredictability. There’s that saying about how no plan survives contact with the enemy. I believe it’s usually attributed to parents with young children.

D&D players take that truism and flip it on its head. They are the enemy, and the plan is everything the Dungeon Master thought they’d try, and the DM thought they’d thought of everything.

Players often bypass the obvious answers—the logical ones, you might say—in favor of the most bizarre schemes imaginable. I suspect this is a natural extension of a gamer’s desire to find the edge of the simulation. We do it all the time in video games.

• Where’s the literal edge of the game world?

• What did the programmers code for?

• What can I do that they didn’t intend?

Once we have those answers, the clever player can often exploit them, to hilarious effect.

D&D is unlike video games in this regard because there are no edges. Anything you can think of, you can attempt. We’ve coined a phrase around our table for this: “It’s D&D. You can try anything.” The trying is the fun part, where inventiveness meets randomness. And from that coupling: life.

The first time a player reckons with this knowledge, with this power, is a light switch moment. It’s when D&D stops being a funny elf game and starts taking on something with life-like contours. It’s still a simulacrum, but it’s closer to reinventing reality than any other magic humans have dabbled with.

Give me D&D over the Metaverse any and all days.

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“You wish to know everything?” Yeji smiled broadly. “Allow me to crack a bottle. This will take some time to tell.”

The gnome waddled to a small wine cabinet, returning with a bottle of dark liquor. “Dublait, 723.” He popped the cork and took a long sniff. “An especially auspicious vintage.”

They lifted the glasses. Yeji swirled, sniffed, sipped.

Durgin drank half of it off in a gulp. He belched. “Not bad.”

Yeji cradled the glass against his chest, his eyes unfocusing as he fell into memory. “I have been stationed at Deephouse nearly a decade. Not long by our accounting of years. Only a breath compared to the centuries this fort has stood. But long enough to reach an understanding and form some theories.”

His eyes flashed to Durgin. “I won’t be able to assuage all your doubts or answer all your questions. I retain many of my own. But I can tell you what I know, what I suspect, and what remains a mystery.”

Durgin nodded in agreement, but the gnome didn’t notice. He was wandering the spaces between now and then.

“Most believe the cartels run Underearth. Certainly, they’re the most organized and the singleminded in their pursuits. Their interests run the gamut of organized crime: racketeering, elixir-running, extortion, trafficking… Everything up to and including murder.”

Durgin winced inwardly. Just hours ago he’d had a cartel member in his office, trying to intimidate him. He’d said as much to the orc and had been a bit short with someone who killed for a living.

“The cartels are not to be trifled with, but they’re also motivated primarily by profit. That makes them predictable, to a degree.” Yeji leaned forward, setting his glass on the desk. “The representative they sent—what did he want?”

Durgin summarized the exchange. “Assurances we’d not meddle in their business.”

“A little enough ask. You told them yes?”

“No.”

Yeji blinked and just stared at Durgin. “That was… probably unwise.”

Durgin didn’t disagree.

“We should discuss which clan approached you. That will frame our response. But allow me to first finish setting the scene. The cartels are just one of several factions jockeying for position here in Underearth.”

Yeji sipped his wine. “Deep Ones are the most dangerous. Apart from their appetite, their motives are unknowable.” He smiled tightly. “Our deal with the Deep Ones gives me pause. I do not believe they are motivated only by their stomachs.”

Durgin wondered what could possibly be worse than something wanting to crack his head open like an oyster. He held out his glass for a refill.

Yeji looked at his half-empty bottle of Dublait, 723—a rare vintage wasted on someone who couldn’t tell the difference—and refilled Durgin’s glass.

The gnome continued, counting off with his fingers, now up to three. “Shadow Elves, like Klyde. They come sniffing around Deephouse every fortnight. We tolerate it. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them allies, but they’ve been known to aid us in the past. Letting them snack on our emotions is the cost of maintaining that relationship.”

Yeji flicked up another finger. “Gremlins: the little nuisances of Underearth. Kobolds, Goblins, Halflings.” He scowled. “Not a unified faction, just a convenient way to group them.”

His thumb made five. “Spiderlings. Sentient creepy crawlies with the capacity for speech. They serve the Queen Mother, a spider said to be the size of a castle. Terrifying thought. Fortunately, she mostly seems interested in insect rights. She sent a delegation here some months ago. Wanted to put posters on our walls. The tagline was something like: ‘Don’t step on me.’ Your predecessor sent them away, against my better judgment.”

A sixth finger. “Last and certainly least are the Cavebillies. Stooped humans with sloped brows and a disinclination for bathing. Refugees from a surface war some centuries ago, left to degenerate here in the crushing dark. Feeble-minded, offensive, blatantly racist. They seem interested only in relitigating their lost war, getting drunk on mushroom moonshine, and racing souped up mine carts.” Yeji made a face. “Avoid at all costs.”

Durgin sat with all of that. He took a drink of wine, slower this time. “Which of them would’ve sent a black curse against Sergeant Mountainfist?”

Yeji nodded, satisfied. “Good: we come to the important question. I have a theory.”

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A crowd was milling in the Great Hall when Durgin passed through.

Nobody tried to stop him.

He looked away from their faces, tried to ignore the light leaving their eyes. Hope was a strange thing. Intangible, more of an idea, really. And yet, if you looked closely, you could see the exact moment someone lost it.

Durgin pushed the chest into the lift’s cage and crammed in behind it. The lift shuddered to life and began the torturous climb to the surface. He watched Deephouse dwindle, growing ever smaller before the darkness consumed it whole.

Moments later, the lift coughed violently and died. It swayed, creaking.

“Can’t be done of this place soon enough,” he muttered. He knelt beside the engine and tried priming it, as he’d seen Perlen do.

In the silence, he could hear the muffled call of birdsong.

His LiveScroll.

The enchantments that enabled LiveScrolls were weak this far underground. Unlike on the surface, where communication was nearly instantaneous, messages here could be delayed by days.

He opened the chest, digging through layers until he found it. The lift forgotten, he sank to the floor and read the scroll by the lift’s ever-burning torch.

It was from Elryn.

My dear Durgin,

We’re all okay.

Dalrigg broke his leg falling off a roof. He was showing off to his new friends. It was a bad break. His days of running would’ve been over without tonics. We had just enough money to cover his treatments.

It’ll be a week before he’s whole again. He’s antagonizing his sister right now, which I take as a good sign.

I admit I had misgivings about this job. It took you far away, for too long. And I do not trust these adventuring companies. A person’s worth is greater than what they add to a balance sheet.

Still, I won’t deny it’s come along at a good time. Somehow those creditors tracked us to Thornview. I’ll sleep better once your bonus comes in and we don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore.

Speaking of sleep: make sure you’re getting enough. Write when you can.

All my love

~ E

Durgin sat staring at the words. His immediate inclination was to rush to the surface, sweep his family into his arms, and never leave them again. But the message was already days-old. The emergency had passed. He could do nothing more for them.

That wasn’t entirely true. Elryn’s words rang through his head: I’ll sleep better once your bonus comes in and we don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore

He wiped the scroll clean and penned a quick response, then stowed it and fiddled with the lift. It was several long, anxious moments before the engine roared back to life.

Durgin reversed the directional indicator and rode the lift back down into black depths.

He found Yeji studying documents in the lawyer’s office. The gnome looked up, the surprise in his eyes giving way to something bright.

Durgin looked away. He had no intention of giving them hope. Deephouse would have him only long enough to earn his 90-day bonus. He was nearly halfway there. It’d be foolish to leave now.

He sat opposite Yeji. “Tell me everything.”

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Of Sticks and Staffs

The impetus of this week’s strip was rather mundane: we realized our wizard wasn’t properly outfitted for adventure.

Robe ✅

Point hat ✅

Staff ❌

A wizard without a staff is just an old man in a bathrobe. It’s unnatural. Perhaps even a bit unseemly.

You may have thought the inspiration was the long-held tradition of boys turning mundane sticks into guns and swords and objects with other, more phallic purposes. Maybe that’s even what happened here. I’m not Freud; the subconscious is a foreign place with alien intent.

The one thing that was an intentional decision: the title of the strip. “This is a good stick” is a callback to Aragorn at Helm’s Deep trying to cheer up a teenager who’s facing death holding the equivalent of a sharp stick. The moment is meant to drive home the danger, to give the battle stakes in the form of a gawky kid who hasn’t even started shaving. Humanize the drama. And it does. But after you’ve seen The Two Towers a dozen times, Aragorn holding an obviously rust-pitted sword with a straight face becomes hilarious.

To come full circle, and round back to D&D: last year my friend Chad rolled up a new character with awful stats. Which led to one of my proudest creations:

Regale Us With Tales of Your Own Adventures

What’s your favorite item you’ve ever received in a game? It doesn’t even have to be magic. It could just be a stick you believe is magical. Let us know in the comments!

Leave a comment

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Durgin was hastily packing his things when Yeji interrupted.

“Mr. Grimforge?” He poked his head into Durgin’s private chambers.

Durgin didn’t bother looking up. He’d upended a chest and was hurriedly stuffing his belongings into it. “I’m quit of this place, Yeji.”

The gnome took a cautious step inside. “I cannot cast aspersions upon your inclination to depart Deephouse. Nor do I seek to dissuade you of what you have quite rightly come to understand—this is a troubled place in no small amount of danger. If I may, I wish only to offer a more complete picture than the one you’ve cobbled together.”

“Don’t see as it’ll make a difference.” Durgin knelt to look under his bed for a wayward boot.

Yeji folded his hands on his plump little belly. “I should’ve taken a more active role in helping you survey the lay of things after you’d arrived. For that, I apologize. I was afraid the untarnished truth would send you running topside. Perhaps that was unavoidable, but my handling of things remains inexcusable.”

Durgin sank back on his haunches, a boot cradled in his hands. “This business with Mountainfist—the black curse. Is that a regular thing?”

“No, no—that was new, even to me.”

“Wonderful—Deephouse is still finding new lows. Guess it’s not my problem any more.” Durgin tossed the boot into the chest. “If you’re as smart as your vocabulary lets on, you should leave too.”

Yeji winced. “I’m afraid my contract is rather explicit in that regard.”

Durgin shrugged. His mind was already elsewhere.

“Blasé mentioned you had a visitor from the cartel. Eventful day. Did they bring a gift?”

“No mere gift, that.” Durgin slammed the chest shut and latched it. “I know golden shackles when I see ‘em.”

“Underearth is a place of ever-shifting alliances, of feints and shadow games. It is not, admittedly, the best arena for a dwarf to demonstrate their quality. No offense but from what I’ve seen, you exhibit the practical rigidity that appears to be ingrained in your people, as though stubbornness was a birthright.”

“I’ve had worse compliments, but not many.”

Yeji smiled thinly. “Only an observation. Here’s the compliment: Perlen sent down a copy of your resume before you hired on. I thought, perhaps, I spied a glimmer of hope nestled between the bullet points.”

“Looking for a patsy, was that it?” Durgin grasped the handle of the chest with one hand, his battleaxe with the other. He didn’t anticipate any problems getting to the lift, but he hadn’t anticipated anything that had happened since he’d signed on with TEC.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Grimforge. And misstate your own competence.”

Durgin pulled the chest through the office and into the corridor.

Yeji followed, talking all the while. “Yes, your smithing business went under. Fate can be a cruel lady. But you exhibited great creativity and innovation in staving off the end as long as you did. You fought, Mr. Grimforge. And that is what Deephouse needs. A fighter. Someone with ambition and imagination.”

“That’s not what Deephouse needs. It needs a miracle.”

“Perhaps.” Yeji stepped in front of Durgin. “What is a miracle but effort and determination, plus a little luck?”

“Yeji—move.”

The gnome stood his ground. “For all its many faults, Deephouse offers one thing you will find nowhere else: endless opportunity. All of the wealth of Underearth, as yet untapped, waiting for someone to just stretch out a hand.”

Durgin rested a hand gently on Yeji’s shoulder. “That may be. But if it was so easy, wouldn’t someone already’ve done it?”

He pushed Yeji aside and walked away.

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The body was laid out on a metal table in a cold, brightly-lit room.

A ghastly creature, pale and emaciated, stood over the corpse. It looked up as Durgin entered, rheumy eyes widening. White lips pulled back in a cold smile. “Foreman. Welcome.”

Even at this distance, Durgin could feel the pull. Dark elves sustained themselves on the living. It was not harmful but it was deeply unpleasant. They relish strong emotions.

Energy vampires. Revolting creatures, but not killers. A body empty of life was of no use to them. But it still shouldn’t here.

“What are you doing?”

The shadow elf’s smile deepened. He ran a long fingernail across the corpse’s chest. “Just saying goodbye to the sergeant.”

“Friend of yours?” Durgin was trying to puzzle out what a dark elf was doing here, and what he should do about it.

The elf stood, a straightening reminiscent of a spider stretching its legs. He wore black leather—pants, vest, duster—and a collection of uncomfortable-looking piercings. He waved a hand. “More like a reluctant acquaintance.”

“I’ve never known a dark elf to be overly picky.”

“Have you known many shadow elves, Foreman?”

Before Durgin could respond, Yeji stepped into the room. “I see you’ve already met Klyde. Excellent, we can get straight to work.”

He’d never admit it, but Durgin felt a swell of relief from Yeji’s presence. “You know this thing?”

“Does one ever dare know a shadow elf?” Yeji’s eyes darted toward Klyde and back again. “I can vouch for him. He’s part of your staff. Sees to our medical needs.”

“Why?” A shadow elf would be incentivized to prolong suffering.

Yeji shrugged. “He was here before I.”

Klyde’s smile grew teeth. “I could tell you, but mmmm, the wondering, it’s delicious.”

Yeji strode toward the body, pointedly not looking at Klyde, and climbed onto a stool. Durgin followed his lead but remained standing.

Absent bluster and bravado, Sergeant Mountainfist was greatly diminished in death. He was also physically diminished; his blackened face was sunken, as though his skull had partially melted.

Durgin averted his eyes.“What killed him?”

“It’s far too early to say. What with all these grievous wounds.” Klyde lifted the sheet draped over the corpse’s chest. Split, blackened flesh oozed bright fluid. Klyde pulled at the puckered skin with the tips of his long fingernails. A large flap pulled free.

Durgin’s stomach lurched. He spun around, blindly looking for a trash can. He was still looking when he vomited on his boots.

Klyde sighed contentedly. “Would you like to see what’s left of his manhood, Foreman?”

“Enough of this.” Yeji’s voice had an edge Durgin hadn’t heard before. “You’ve had your snack. To business, or suffer the consequences.”

“Fine.” With great reluctance, Klyde pulled the sheet up to Mountainfist’s chin.

Durgin rejoined them at the table. He stood as far from Klyde as he could without making it obvious he was trying to. “What could do this?” He tried to project authority but his throat was raw from vomiting; the words were uncertain, weak.

“Magic.” Klyde’s long fingers drummed on the table. “Powerful magic. The sergeant’s recovery will be long and quite painful.” He shivered in anticipation.

Yeji nodded sympathetically. “I’ll submit the resurrection requisition at once.”

“You are so very wrong, vampyre.” Blasé emerged from Mountainfist’s torso. “There will be no resuscitation. No resurrection. No, no, no. This was the work of a black curse. His soul was consumed.”

Black curses were dark rituals, the domain of powerful liches and arch-fiends. Durgin wasn’t willing to accept the possibility that something that powerful had Deephouse in its sights. “There must be another explanation.”

Blasé disdainfully inclined his nose. “Yeji, please tell the foreman that Blasé knows of what he speaks.”

Deep Ones. Cartels. Black curses. It was too much.

Durgin backed away from the table. And ran.

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Give Me Your Last Price

Everybody plays D&D differently. Some come for the thrill of pretending to be somebody else. Others like to cause mayhem in a consequence-free environment. And everything in between.

The one truth of every D&D game is this: players will (generally) be complete assholes to imaginary merchants. They’ll bend over backwards helping maidens and puppies, but as soon as somebody tries to earn an honest living, all civility goes out the window. GTFO with trying to feed your family through medieval commerce. Villains are held in higher regard.

It’s impossible to trace the lineage of this practice back to some original sin. Perhaps what manifests in the market stalls and apothecaries of the imagination is a form of therapy. Whether you like haggling or hate it, you generally come away with the vague idea that you were the loser in the transaction.

In such a light, burning down an innocent halfling’s business makes complete sense.

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“Finally—some intrigue to dine upon.”

Durgin startled, spilling mead down the front of his shirt. He’d remained by the fire after the orc departed, silently weighing portents and plans.

Blasé’s head and torso drifted into view. His airy shirt was open to the navel, revealing a forest of fine, ghostly hair. He stopped floating when he was level with Durgin’s crotch.

“Were you spying on me?” Durgin was too surprised to be angry. He twisted his legs to the side and clumsily crossed them.

“Well, of course. I am forever interned here, and it is dreadfully boring. I was hoping for a bit of sport, something to stir my cold dead heart. Alas, you’ve yet to disrobe.”

“Excuse me?”

“No need to apologize. There will be much time for the peeping. Time is my one true possession. But this is better, I think. There is no fruit so sweet as anticipation. And the orc was a welcome surprise. It is not every day you meet someone named Elf Splitter, no?”

“It was a first for me,” Durgin muttered.

“Surely not?” Blasé tilted his head. “What could draw a Dwarf out of the mountain, save to dabble in more risqué pleasures? I see the denial on your face, but do not voice it! I know the heart of the city. None can resist its lurid call. We are men of passion, no? Of verve. We come gladly to the orgy, and drink our fill.”

Durgin didn’t know what city Blasé was referring to. The only frenzied displays of communal passion he’d witnessed had been the Mid-Summer’s Eve pie-eating contest. “I’m a married dwarf, and true,” he said brusquely. “You have me confused with somebody else.”

Blasé looked at him slyly. “Ahh, but of course. We are gentleman, and will not speak of prior dalliances. Though if you insist, I will indulge your curiosity—what you’ve no doubt heard is true, I once lounged at the heart of a three-way tryst with a treant and a mermaid.” Blasé winced. “I would not recommend crossing swords with a treant. Exotic, yes, but oh, the splinters.”

Durgin stood suddenly, toppling the chair. “I’m sorry—Blasé, is it? I must demand you take your leave. I have… things to attend to. Decisions. Things.”

Blase’s good humor vanished. “Life is wasted on the living. You fritter away these precious heartbeats, worrying over little nothings. Deep Ones, cartels, interdimensional shapeshifters… these are all triflings.”

“Inter-whats?”

Locked in a monologue, Blasé did not seem to hear. “Do you wish to know the secret of life? What am I saying—of course you do. Even a dour dwarf cannot help but wonder. Where do we come from? Why are we here? I do not hate you enough to ruin the surprise. As they say, the journey is the destination. Here’s a hint: it doesn’t involve tedious reports and crinkled brows. No! Surely you must—”

“Enough.” Durgin’s voice rang like a hammer striking anvil.

Blasé drew back, his hand dramatically groping his own throat. “Was it something I said?”

“Your endless prattle makes my head hurt. Your assertions about my character are unwelcome. I don’t know why you’re here, but you will serve Deephouse. Or I will find a way to remove you. Is that clear?”

Blasé inclined his nose with all the aristocratic disdain he could summon. “Perfectly. Sir.”

“And stay out of my chambers. No more peeping. On anyone.”

Glaring daggers, Blasé drifted through the floor. “One day you will have want of a friend.” His disembodied voice whispered through stone. “And your apologies will fall upon dead ears.”

Apologize? For what? Durgin sank into the chair behind his desk. “For not taking life advice from a dead man? Madness.”

His thoughts untethered, drifting like soap bubbles. The Deep Ones. The sad state of Deephouse. The orc’s gift that was no gift at all. His majordomo, who enjoyed haunting bedchambers. Each time he tried to focus on one thought, it spun out of reach.

He drew his LiveScroll from a drawer, thinking of sending Elryn a message, check on her and the kids.

A fist thumped on the door. Heavy with urgency.

A dwarf in chainmail stood without. Eyes wide and nervously gripping the heft of a battle-axe. “Apologies, sir. It’s Sergeant Mountainfist.”

Durgin sighed. He wasn’t ready to have it out with the sergeant. “It’ll have to wait till morning.” He started to close the door.

The dwarf put his boot in the opening. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Durgin’s face flushed. He didn’t appreciate the implied summons. “Then tell the sergeant to get up here.”

“That’s impossible, sir. Sergeant Mountainfist is dead.”

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The orc was called Zhok ‘Elf Splitter.’

Durgin handed Zhok a mug of mead and settled into an armchair flanking the hearth. “So… did you have to kill a bunch of elves to earn that name?”

Zhok paused with the mug halfway to his mouth. “Who said anything about killin’?”

“Oh. Oh.”

Zhok drained the mug in a single gulp.

Durgin tried—and failed—to follow suit. He wiped a hand across his damp beard.

“I work for Chief Gruzo’Mal,” Zhok said. “He sends his regards, and this.” He lifted the bowler from his lap. A plainly wrapped package sat underneath. An envelope was bound to the package with green ribbon.

Zhok held it out to him. “C’mon, take it. Otherwise, you risk insulting my boss.”

Durgin accepted the package gingerly. It was surprisingly light. “Please offer your boss my gratitude.”

“I’m to wait until you read the letter, so I can bring back your reply.”

Durgin slipped the envelope free. The green seal bore the mark of a single eye.

Mr. Grimforge—

Congratulations on your appointment. Deephouse plays a vital role in Underearth. I rest easy knowing it is in your capable hands.

Your appointment comes during an unsettled time. Certain assurances had been made by your predecessor regarding the flow of goods to the surface. I would sleep easier knowing our business could continue unimpeded.

As a token of my esteem, I’ve sent a gift. And a pledge: I’ll help repair the abandoned tracks. You’ll need them if you want to pull serious weight out of the mines.

Yours in friendship,

Chief Kog ‘Blind Eye’ Gruzo’Mal

Durgin reread the letter. “What sort of goods are you moving to the surface?”

Zhok twirled the bowler loosely in his hand. “Better for you if you don’t know.”

“I won’t agree to anything without details.”

“That’s your call, gov. But you’re all alone down here. The going’ll be easier if you have friends.”

Durgin hesitated for just a second, a final breath before the plunge. “Then the answer’s no.”

Zhok’s fingers squeezed the bowler’s brim, bringing it to a halt. “No?”

“Aye. No disrespect to your boss, but I won’t be bullied into making decisions without knowing all sides of it.”

Zhok leaned toward Durgin. “You should reconsider. Underearth is dangerous. People have a habit of disappearing. Whole crews, even.”

Durgin returned the stare. Say one thing for insolvency, it prepares a dwarf for appearing comfortable in uncomfortable situations. He held out the package.

“Keep it,” Zhok stood and placed the bowler on his head. “It was a gift.”

He left.

It was several minutes before Durgin’s pulse stopped racing.

He considered leaving the package unopened. Just stuffing it in a drawer and trying to forget about it. But curiosity got the better of him.

“By all the gods...”

Nestled within folds of green velvet was a mithril locket.

Durgin lifted it by its silver chain and gently cupped it in his palm. It was slightly warm to the touch and cast a soft glow. Shaped to resemble a diamond, each facet etched with dwarven runes. He was no arcanist but had seen symbols like these in his smithing days. He thought they granted some sort of protection and, perhaps, safe passage.

He set it back in the box and closed the lid.

This was no mere gift. It was a kingly treasure. An ancient artifact. And it would not come cheap.

He could feel invisible strings winding around his limbs. The cartel meant to have his help, one way or another.

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This Cookie Is Beyond Any of You

The parallels to Gandalf in The Fellowship of the Ring are obvious and intentional; our wizard is basically Gandalf with 50% more dementia and 100% more fireball. But—to stick with percentages—I’m 99% sure Tolkien included a footnote in one of the appendices that stated Gandalf was late to the Shire because he was chasing ancient cookie lore after getting baked on Hobbit weed.

It’s basically impossible to escape LotR’s shadow when doing anything in the fantasy genre. D&D largely suffers the same fate, in spirit if not in fact.

A Song of Ice and Fire aka Game of Thrones aka George R.R. Martin’s kryptonite, avoids this fate because the fantasy resembles reality. A nice zag but not the best hang. I’ve been enjoying A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms largely because it makes fantasy fun again. Though last week’s episode reverted to the standard formula and left me with that familiar, vaguely depressed feeling in the aftermath. It’s all poop jokes and penis cameos until the swords come out.

If it’s not already clear, our comic takes cues from Tolkien’s classic. Sometimes directly. If you enjoyed this week’s strip, wait till you see our version of Helm’s Deep. True story. The strip is already done.

We suspect we can conduct a brisk business poking into LOTR’s crannies looking for laughs. So we shall.

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The return to Deephouse took 30 days.

They passed through enormous caverns grander than any king’s hall. Forded underground rivers softly lit by sapphire lichen. Shimmied on bellies through breathless pockets squeezed by inhospitable rock. Places unknown by time and man alike.

It might’ve been a grand adventure, but Durgin was miserable.

He was bruised and bloodied in a dozen places. Even when they stopped for the day, there was no rest. The bedroll was too thin, the ground too hard, the darkness too complete.

Yeji weathered the journey without complaint, so Durgin kept his suffering to himself. His pride had taking a beating these last years, but there was no world in which he’d be emasculated by a lawyer of all things.

He felt a great swell of relief when Deephouse’s leaning towers finally came into view.

His euphoria didn’t last. A crowd waited in the Great Hall.

They sat at several tables. Less than 20 in all, dwarves and gnomes. They fell silent as Durgin stepped inside.

He stopped in surprise and cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Durgin, the new foreman.”

Yeji edged around him and disappeared down a corridor without a backwards glance.

“I imagine you have many questions. They’ll have to wait—I am weary from the journey. We’ll reconvene tomorrow, after breakfast.” Durgin started toward the stairs.

“Oy—new guy.” A broad-shouldered dwarf with salt in his beard stood. His nose was a lumpy red bulb. “Is it true, then? Dealing with Deep Ones?”

Durgin turned. “Aye, we just returned from meeting their representative.”

The dwarf spit. “Deep Ones? Are ya daft?”

“They only want one thing,” a female shouted, “and it’s disgusting!”

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd.

Durgin held up his hands. “Deephouse is in dire straits. We need to turn a profit or we’ll be shutdown. All options are on the table.” Brutal honesty probably wasn’t the best approach, but he was too tired to care.

The dwarf crossed his arms. “Even dealing with them that would drag us from our beds for a midnight snack?”

Durgin hadn’t the patience for this, and didn’t appreciate anyone undermining his authority, new as it was. “What’s your station, friend?”

The dwarf’s chest swelled. “Tharmond Mountainfist. Sergeant at Arms.”

“So I have you to thank for our crumbling defenses?”

“Bah!” Thurmond spit. “What would a city dwarf know of it?”

“Little enough, yet I am the foreman. That is all, sergeant.”

Silence followed Durgin up the stairs. Provoking someone he’d need was probably not an ideal way to start this job. Distracted, he didn’t notice someone waiting in his office until he was halfway into his private chambers.

He stepped back.

An enormous orc sat watching flames dance in the hearth. His features were chiseled out of stone, gray and unyielding. A black mohawk, edged sharply, tapered to a point at the base of his skull. He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. All black, save for an emerald tie.

A bowler rested in his lap.

The orc looked up and smiled. “G’day, Mr. Grimforge.”

Durgin froze, trapped between confusion and panic. “Uhh… I’ll be right with you.” He indicated the bag on his shoulder. “Just got back.”

“Sure, take your time.” The orc turned to the fire.

Durgin slipped into the quiet dark of his bedchambers, heart hammering at his ribs. The confrontation with Tharmond had barely stirred his blood. This was different.

This was terrifying.

What does the cartel want with me?

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Present Day

A thick, mottled tentacle rubbed the Deep One’s belly. “Yguijh’therc hungers for meats.”

Durgin was hoping to find some wiggle room in its appetite. “What about zombies? They have brains.”

The Deep One growled. It needed no translation.

“Perhaps we round up criminals awaiting execution?” Yeji rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I daresay, an end to the waiting might be seen as a blessing.”

“I doubt they’ll consider being eaten alive a kindness.”

Yeji shrugged. “Some people find a way to complain about everything.”

The Deep One’s tentacles slumped listlessly. “Meat of questionable moral fiber is less palatable. Elf is a highly-prized delicacy above all others.”

Durgin snapped his fingers. “What about Shadow Elves? We wouldn’t even have to go far—I saw sign on our way here.” Shadow Elves were people in the same way that penguins were birds—only kind of.

Yguijh’therc made a retching noise. “Dark Elves are inedible.”

“Well we’re not going to round up surface elves and preschool teachers.” Durgin thought for a moment. “It’s gonna have to be criminals awaiting the noose. Or no deal.”

He wasn’t bluffing, though he really needed this deal. The mining rights would buy time to right the ship. Or at least to properly assess if it was possible to save Deephouse.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He’d mismanaged his smithing business because he’d been poor with numbers and had overreached his limited grasp. And now here he was again, trying to stave off another foreclosure.

Knowing the Deep One could read his surface thoughts and emotions, Durgin tried to bury his desperation under layers: disgust about dealing in brains, determination not to bend his morals any further, greed for the mineral deposits he’d glimpsed.

The Deep One stared at him for a long time. “Yguijh’therc accepts prison meats.”

Durgin exhaled. “Good. Great. Uhhh… 5 brains, a year?” Durgin had no idea if that was a good number. It felt like a lot.

“Yguijh’therc suggests 20 brains to ensure none of our workers are consumed.”

Durgin didn’t know how to counter. “20 brains it is.”

“Yguijh’therc is pleased. It considers you a friend and requests you refer to it as Gui.”

“Friends?”

Yeji’s expression was unreadable. “Gui admittedly doesn’t meet many new people, seeing as it consumes most of those it does. As the purveyor of meats, you are its favorite humanoid.”

The Deep One extended a tentacle across the table. After a moment of indecision, Durgin grasped the end. It felt slimy and viscous.

How fitting.

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