Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
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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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