Chapter Text
Krudbert had never been happier.
Not at any spider party, nor any of the many, many orgies he’d attended under the watchful and bleeding eye holes of the Grimstone Lord. He’d found a twin flame he didn’t even know he was looking for in this man, this leader, this father, and all he had to do was be sacrificed by his former friends and thrown off a cliff into the ocean.
Towering above everyone and leaning on the glossy, halfling-sized bartop in the main room of Tamalee’s fishery, Cinnamon was sharing a story of his youth—an almost unbelievable concept given that he looked like if the concept of “grey” had been turned into a person. “I told them—I was saying I should have been a football player, but I broke my wrist throwing my first ball, and that’s why you boys ought to drink milk with every meal, keep your bones healthy—”
“But I’m lactose intolerant,” Hellbiscuit said.
“Nothing you can’t overcome with sheer perseverance, my boy. Don’t let the milk defeat you.”
Hellbiscuit nodded with the seriousness of an avid note-taker, despite usually having the air of someone who would sooner eat a book than read it.
“Yeah, Heckbiscuit,” Krudbert piped in, sensing his chance to jump in and back up his superior, an instinct that had served him well in the Priests of the Blood Chalice. Until they hadn’t, anyway. “I didn’t know milk was stronger than a dragon. Because you defeated a dragon. Which makes you stronger than dragons. But milk defeats you.”
Cinnamon nodded sagely. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
“It doesn’t,” Hellbiscuit said. “I’ve defeated—I defeat milk all the time. I’ll show you. Tamalee, do you have any milk?”
Tamalee, the barkeep who kept reminding everyone she was not a barkeep, paused for a long moment before saying, “No.”
“Damn. I would, but… Sorry, Dad.”
“No worries, my boy. There will be many more opportunities to prove yourself in the future. The road is littered with cows, as they say.”
Cinnamon’s liver-spotted hand mussed up Hellbiscuit’s short, dirty blond bangs. The goblin beamed, his smile gap-toothed.
Hellbiscuit was a goblin with green, pock-marked skin and a straw-coloured mullet, still in the overalls he’d worn while working at a lumber farm. Krudbert wasn’t sure how long ago Hellbiscuit had uprooted the elm sapling he always carted along with him before stealing off into the night, but he knew what it was like to have your life flipped, turned upside down, and to have to pick up the pieces.
Still, Krudbert’s insides lit aflame whenever Cinnamon praised Hellbiscuit, an all-consuming inferno of jealousy eating away at him. The tattered remains of Krudbert’s own former life still hung from his perpetually wet shoulders, his tabbard bearing the titular bloody chalice of the Priests of the Bloody Chalice. The tabbard had seen better days than the burn marks and crusted streaks of dried salt water might suggest.
“I can drink milk too,” Krudbert grumbled, kicking his bare legs. In contrast to Hellbiscuit, his skin was as red as a scab. He liked to think of himself as touched by Pharashtu, his hue closer to the Killing Fields than if he’d been born green. “I drink milk all the time. Spider milk, bugbear milk, kraken milk…”
Then Cinnamon’s face filled Krudbert’s vision, the man’s forehead tapping his and his eyes absorbing each other so he looked like a cyclops. His breath smelled of the beer he’d been sipping, a reward from Tamalee despite her supposedly not operating a tavern, or a bar, or a speakeasy. He had convinced her to keep pulling from the tap, as the job they’d completed did turn out to be bigger than anyone was expecting. “Your bones must be stronger than any of ours. Such is the power of the Grimstone Lord.”
“All hail Pharashtu,” Krudbert said automatically.
Cinnamon nodded, tapping foreheads with Krudbert a second time, and sat back on his groaning halfling stool.
It was Cinnamon’s intensity Krudbert felt most drawn to, he thought. An intense minion desired an intense master.
Tamalee shook her head in an expression of pure disbelief, clearly because she couldn’t imagine such a strong, pure soul as Cinnamon missing such a massive opportunity as high school touch football.
“I feel like I’m missing a chunk of the story,” she said, her red curls settling to frame her round face. “Can I just—You emerged from a hole in my wall. You”—she pointed at Cinnamon—“were completely nude.”
“As the day I was born, my dear,” Cinnamon said.
“But old,” Krudbert said.
“So old,” Hellbiscuit, who was one year younger than Cinnamon, added with a faraway look.
Cinnamon was no longer nude, but given that the clothes Tamalee lent him were her size, he was still bearing a lot of skin in the midriff and thigh regions. Around his shoulders, he held a blanket closed—a halfling king, more of a twin for humans.
Next Tamalee pointed at Hellbiscuit. “You had a sword that wouldn’t stop smoking—”
“I tried turning it off,” Hellbiscuit said, looking to the fireplace where he’d been told to place the enchanted broadsword he found in the tunnels burrowing deep under Otari.
“—and you were dragging a full dragon’s head behind you in your wagon.”
Said dragon’s head lay on a canvas tarp Tamalee had laid out in a hurry, its scales a luminous bright green and its blood oozing violet over the thick fabric. It filled much of the space in the room, and it did nothing to improve the already overpowering stench of fish. The wooden wagon was directly behind Hellbiscuit, as it carried his uprooted elm named Edgar, which he guarded as if at any moment someone from the lumberyard would try to steal it back.
“Cinnamon Jr. was a Boss Baby,” Cinnamon said.
“He was the one eating your fish. It takes a lot of fish to feed a Boss Baby,” Hellbiscuit said.
“We thought you’d require proof of job completion,” Krudbert said.
Lastly, Tamalee turned to Krudbert. “And you. You’re still so wet.”
“I was born wet,” he said, “and I’ll die wet.”
Gamely, Krudbert, Hellbiscuit, and Cinnamon went over the day’s events one more time. Tamalee had hired them, three strangers who’d just met at the Otari notice board, to investigate the cause of her mission fish shipments—“Fishpments,” Hellbiscuit added helpfully. The cause, it turned out, was that a group of kobolds— Trapmaster Kathy, Timmy Table, Billy Bookshelf (who was still down there, happily trapped in a hole filled with pornography and fish), and their leader Zolgran—had summoned a dragon that was growing faster than usual with the blessing of the Wild Mother, Gazrog. The kobolds wanted to build a baseball stadium and start a minor league team, an awesome plan that would have been nice to know before sacrificing them all to the Grimstone Lord. The dragon boss baby, Cinnamon Jr., on the other hand, wanted to become a slum lord and run Otari himself, a much less awesome plan because landlords are parasites on society. Also, some otherworldly force called The Dreaming One was trapped by a partially tampered magical seal, but Krudbert couldn’t recall that being relevant to the rest of the plot.
Simple, really.
“Fairly convoluted plans all around,” Tamalee said.
“It’s a clear delegation issue,” Cinnamon said. “If there’s one thing I learned from years of watching my father run a corrupt business empire, it’s the importance of delegation.”
“And corruption,” said Hellbiscuit.
“And murder,” Krudbert said.
“Well, yes, to a lesser, and much less admirable, extent,” Cinnamon said.
“No wonder the real estate market was so cheap when I moved to Otari,” Tamalee said. “Who’s to say what other local businesses are connected to this network of tunnels? Was the dragon eating anything else?”
“Nope, just fish,” Cinnamon said.
“Hardly seems fair. It’s hard enough being a small business owner as it is.”
“Might be easier to get by if you opened a tavern,” Krudbert said, “or, say, a speakeasy.”
Tamalee stared at him and said nothing.
“I’m just saying. You’ve already got everything you need.”
She grabbed an empty pint glass and a cloth, idly wiping the glass like she was born to be a barkeep. “I love fish. Fish is my passion.”
“Fair enough,” Cinnamon said.
“She loves fish,” Hellbiscuit said with a shrug.
“Gotta respect following your passion,” Krudbert said, nodding. “Especially in this economy.”
The trio each grabbed their pints, leaned back, and drained their beers.
Cinnamon burped. “Pardon me. Years of tasting the world’s spice rack has given me a tongue stronger than the Wild Mother, but I never could handle a fizzy drink.” Covering his mouth with his hand, he burped again. “Excuse me.”
“Good one, Dad. Watch this!” Hellbiscuit stood on his bar seat. Leaning back like he was calling to a friend in the distance, he opened his mouth wide, showing off sharp teeth and empty spaces where sharp teeth should have been, and belched so loud Krudbert’s scarred and slit-open ears flattened against his head.
“Oh ho! Passing gas as fearsomely as ever, my son!” Cinnamon patted Hellbiscuit on the back. “You’ve earned the ‘Hell’ in ‘Hellbiscuit.’”
“You think?” Hellbiscuit asked with a cautious smile.
“Absolutely, there’s no question that you could destroy an outhouse. Maybe even an entire sewer system.”
Dropping back into his seat casually and acrobatically, Hellbiscuit leaned into Cinnamon’s chest. Cinnamon extended his blanket around the goblin, who closed his eyes in pure bliss, sighing with a contentment Krudbert had never felt in his whole life. “Thanks, Dad.”
Krudbert’s tail lashed at his stool legs, acting out as Krudbert’s cheeks and ears suffered the heat of a brewing jealousy. “I can burp,” he grumbled.
“That’s not necessary,” Tamalee said.
“Okay,” Hellbiscuit said, his tone infuriatingly genial.
“Go ahead, my other son. The floor is yours,” said Cinnamon.
A challenge. Krudbert’s chance to worm his way into his new father’s heart, and worm Hellbiscuit out. Or partially out. Hellbiscuit can live in the outer apple, but Krudbert needed the core or it all meant nothing.
In the style of Hellbiscuit but better, Krudbert climbed to stand on his seat. The bar stool wobbled, the legs ever so uneven, but he thrust out his arms for balance. Taking a big gulp of air, Krudbert focused all his energy, his soul, his life’s blood into projecting a raucous belch so powerful, Hellbiscuit’s ears would surely bleed.
“… Urp.”
That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be it. Krudbert was a devout and loyal cleric of death and destruction. To be unable to best his rival in even such a small matter—to say nothing of Krudbert’s weak pitch and poor batting average—was a catastrophe.
Cinnamon’s hand landed on Krudbert’s shoulder and squeezed. A consolation prize. “Good effort.”
It wasn’t. Krudbert shrank in on himself.
“So,” Tamalee said, unusually loudly, “sun’s getting real low. What’re your plans now?”
“Oh, shit,” Cinnamon said. He swivelled round on his stool and rummaged through a sac of his belongings, pulling out a thick, leather-bound tome entitled Spell Casting for the Modern Man. “I had wanted to renew this spellbook today, but the library closes at first lamplight. We certainly can’t leave Otari before tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, we don’t want late fees,” Hellbiscuit said. “We only just bought a subscription to Musical Accompaniment, and we need the rest of our gold for baseball uniforms.”
“We definitely can’t be in debt to the library!” Krudbert said. “Librarians are vicious!”
“Oh, I can attest to that,” Cinnamon said. “My father hires the same assassins as the Absalom Public Library, they’re ruthless and effective. People disappear, blood stains are cleaned to a shine, government records erase them from existence.”
“Oh gods,” Tamalee said, though it seemed more out of frustration than fear of the library. “Listen, I hired you for a job and I’m grateful for your competence, but I do need to close up shop here—”
“Fantastic,” Cinnamon said. “We’ve had a long day and we’re happy to retire for the night. If you could show us to your bedrooms, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Beg pardon?” Tamalee said.
“You do have beds, don’t you?” Krudbert asked. “Fisheries have beds. Fish ladies need to sleep.”
“Well, yes,” Tamalee said.
“What about guest rooms?” Hellbiscuit asked. “Not every room can be full of fish, Tamalee. You need work-life balance.”
“There are a number of extra rooms, yes, but again they are for my private use.”
“Like what?” Krudbert asked.
“Yeah, like what?” Hellbiscuit said.
“I have my mackerel ephemera room, my ceramic koi room, my animatronic bass room—” Tamalee said, counting on her stubby fingers.
“Wow Tamalee, fish really is your passion,” Hellbiscuit said.
“I’m sorry for doubting you,” Krudbert said.
“Sounds like plenty of space for us. And I’m afraid I’m quite drunk on your hospitality.” Cinnamon raised his empty glass, which Tamalee snatched from his hand. “I don’t know that I can make it down the street, let alone to the nearest inn.”
Cinnamon’s foot nudged Krudbert’s. The goblin knew exactly what to do.
Clasping his hands together, Krudbert trained his big, dewy eyes on Tamalee. These eyes had earned him the last hard cider at many a spider party, the best spot in several orgies, and the instant defencelessness of many a foe.
Today, these eyes would buy him a room for the night. “Please, Tamalee? Just one night. We’re so sweepy.”
He even pouted a little.
For a tense moment, Tamalee stared back at him with the hands on her hips. But he knew he’d won before she did, as her hands dropped to her side and her muscles relaxed in defeat. Dropping her cloth on the bartop with a sigh, she stepped out from behind the bar. “Follow me, then. But keep it quiet. I need a full eight hours.”
“Wow, thanks, Tamalee!” Hellbiscuit said, hopping off the stool and grabbing his wagon’s handle.
“Yeah, you’re the best, Tamalee,” Krudbert said.
Tamalee led the Twin Flames to the end of a hall with doors on either side, and opened the door on the right. Inside, the walls were covered in mounted plaques with green bass on them. Hellbiscuit parked Edgar and his wagon in the corner of the room, climbed a chesterfield, and pressed a button on the plaque.
“Don’t worry,” sang the fish, head and tail flopping back and forth, “be happy—”
“Classic,” Cinnamon said. “My father had a Big Mouth Billy Bass in his office when I was young. Back when I thought the depth of his corruption was as shallow as missing my football tryout.”
“But you broke your wrist anyway,” Krudbert said, hopping onto the low bed.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have if I’d had the magic of a father’s approval. That’s what I hope to give you boys. What my father could never have given me…”
From the doorway, Tamale exhaled loudly. “Well. Good night.”
She shut the door. Her footsteps creaked away down the hall.
Hellbiscuit crouched on the arm of the chesterfield and leaped across the room, crashing into bed with a thud and a puff of straw. “Wow, I haven’t slept on a real bed since… well, never! But I’ve seen other people do it.”
“My boys, we’ll be sleeping on beds in perpetuity once we get our baseball team off the ground,” Cinnamon said, rummaging through his pack. He pulled out a pair of robes.
“Whoa, you had clothes this whole time?” Krudbert said.
Tossing the robes over his head, Cinnamon briefly floundered in the cloth. “Not clothes,” he grunted, waving his arms until he found the way back to fresh air. “Pajamas. I can’t very well wear pajamas until bedtime, now can I?”
“The logic is sound,” Hellbiscuit said, fully wearing his blood-spattered overalls in the bed.
Cinnamon crawled into bed and lay in the middle. Hellbiscuit curled up on his side. Krudbert curled up on the other, wriggling until he found the perfect spot.
“Why don’t we play a little Musical Accompaniment to lull us into slumber,” Cinnamon said, raising his hand to the ceiling.
After a moment, the room filled with the plucking of acoustic guitar strings, joined by a steady drum beat and jaunty riff. “Be what you wanna be, see what you came to see—”
“Oh nice, Alice in Chains,” Hellbiscuit said.
“Ad free,” Cinnamon said. “Good night, boys. I love you.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“Yeah, I love you too, Dad,” Krudbert said. “More, actually.”
“No way,” Hellbiscuit said, “I love you more.”
“Now boys,” Cinnamon said, “there will be plenty of time to prove who loves me more tomorrow. Get some rest.”
Smiling, Krudbert whispered to the ether, “I love you Granddad. Good night.”
In the darkness of the room, the Grimstone Lord Pharashtu cackled, his bones rattling and his teeth clacking. “It is always night in the Killing Fields,” spake the lord of death from beyond the veil, “and it is always good.”
“Oh wow,” Hellbiscuit mumbled. “Spooky.”
Sighing happily, Krudbert couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.
