>>6320764
>>6320746
>>6320742
>>6320624
>>6320559
“I figure we oughtta just go, ya know? Like, the forge is already, uh… like, not the most reliable fer fuckin’ around with non-gobs to begin with, even if we wait. And what if the Southmen decide to, like, execute or sacrifice him or something in the meantime?!”
You look across the table you are sharing with Ayla and Veigar. The three of you are enjoying a selection of snacks they brought back from their recent journey to the east: tangy fermented vegetables rolled in rice and seaweed and dipped in some kind of fish sauce, some barbecued pig ribs, and some golden flower-shaped biscuits soaked in honey, accompanied by Dura’s heart-fruit herbal tea. The two of them chew and sip thoughtfully as you conclude what has become a rather long rant about your preferred approach to Jimmy’s liberation: an urgent extraction, without delay.
“You make a lot of sense,” Veigar says levelly, though you aren’t blind to his nervous glance towards your sensei, Ayla, who continues to masticate a while longer.
“Agreed,” she finally says, once she’s swallowed her food and washed it down with her own cup of tea.
You breathe a sigh of relief. These two are some of the smartest people you know. If they say you’re making sense, you can truly trust your instincts are rooted in good sense rather than residual emotionality. You’ve come a long way in that regard: prior to the forge transforming you inside and out, you wouldn’t have even thought to double-check that!
“THEY should heed your advice when THEY go.”
Veigar winces at Ayla’s pointed words, which take you a moment to parse. Even when you do, you find yourself confused.
“H-huh? Whaddaya mean?” you ask, looking between the two. “You guys are gonna come, too, right? I mean… ya GOTTA! This is Jimmy! He was YOUR friend before me ‘n ZZ even met him!”
“Izirina’s friend. Ezreal’s friend.” Ayla sets her cup down with a crack and thump, staring you down. “Not ours. Zith-Zi’s boyfriend, for that matter—not yours.”
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>>6250467
…
“Sorry ZZ’s not bringin’ ya along,” you say.
“It’s okay,” Martyn replies quickly.
“It’s just, ya know, I think she wants ya workin’ on the forge, so it’s good to go when we get back.”
Martyn hesitates a second, and you feel a spike of anxiety. Then, he nods.
“What?” you ask, worriedly. “What is it?”
You feel a pang of fear, and guilt, and some sort of knot of mixed emotion underneath and beside it. You approach Martyn, reaching out to him. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel him WANT to flinch. You, in turn, pull back.
“Did I, uh… Is somethin’ wrong, Marty?”
Martyn laughs, a brittle little sound, and starts to say: “No, it’s nothing!”
…But then, he thinks better of it. You feel the shift before it happens. You can’t make out his thoughts or anything, but you can see the turbulence, the raising and lowering of priorities popping up like ground-squirrels peeking out of the burrow that is his brain. You kind of <WANT> to reach out, to grab hold of those thoughts by the throat, and to rip them out of their hiding places to make them squeal their secrets…
But you resist the urge. You wait, instead, for him to finally speak.
“The forge is… I think it’s working.”
“It is??” You jump to your feet, wobbling slightly on your near Easterly lady-shoes. “Well that’s fuckin’ SWEET!”
Martyn frown.
“…A-ain’t it?”
Martyn looks away. He looks back at you, and then asks: “Are you sure that what we’re doing here is… Good?”
You’re speechless for a moment. Then, you laugh, because you’re just so flabbergasted.
“‘Course it is!” you say. “This is how I get myself all bee-yoo-tee-ful, ‘n, you know…”
You lower your voice as you slip into lewd giggles. You start to salivate a little at the thought.
“This’s how I get my snug l’il cunt fer you ta, you know, ~pound~
(And then, FINALLY, everything will be juuuust the way it’s s’posed to be!)
…
(But then why doesn’t Marty look, or FEEL, excited??)
“Marty?”
“It’s just… Cara—”
“Carazzi.”
“…Carrazzi, I don’t know if the forge is working the way it should.”
“Well shit, izzat all?” You laugh. “Fine tune the thingamajig while we’re gone, then! Shit, that’s prob’ly why ZZ wants you to stay here with Ayla ‘n the blueberries. Ta fix it up!”
“That’s the problem, though,” Martyn says, lowering is voice and drawing a little closer. “I can’t remember what went wrong with it. And the goblin… Ah, Mister Wheat… He came out fine. I can’t put my finger on it, and yet…”
(Oh… OH. Oh, shit!)
“Uh,” you ask, “didja talk ta anyone else about this?”
“I raised some of the concerns with Miss Ayla,” Martyn confesses with an embarrassed air, “and she addressed all my concerns more than adequately. But even so…”
…
“Sorry ZZ’s not bringin’ ya along,” you say.
“It’s okay,” Martyn replies quickly.
“It’s just, ya know, I think she wants ya workin’ on the forge, so it’s good to go when we get back.”
Martyn hesitates a second, and you feel a spike of anxiety. Then, he nods.
“What?” you ask, worriedly. “What is it?”
You feel a pang of fear, and guilt, and some sort of knot of mixed emotion underneath and beside it. You approach Martyn, reaching out to him. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel him WANT to flinch. You, in turn, pull back.
“Did I, uh… Is somethin’ wrong, Marty?”
Martyn laughs, a brittle little sound, and starts to say: “No, it’s nothing!”
…But then, he thinks better of it. You feel the shift before it happens. You can’t make out his thoughts or anything, but you can see the turbulence, the raising and lowering of priorities popping up like ground-squirrels peeking out of the burrow that is his brain. You kind of <WANT> to reach out, to grab hold of those thoughts by the throat, and to rip them out of their hiding places to make them squeal their secrets…
But you resist the urge. You wait, instead, for him to finally speak.
“The forge is… I think it’s working.”
“It is??” You jump to your feet, wobbling slightly on your near Easterly lady-shoes. “Well that’s fuckin’ SWEET!”
Martyn frown.
“…A-ain’t it?”
Martyn looks away. He looks back at you, and then asks: “Are you sure that what we’re doing here is… Good?”
You’re speechless for a moment. Then, you laugh, because you’re just so flabbergasted.
“‘Course it is!” you say. “This is how I get myself all bee-yoo-tee-ful, ‘n, you know…”
You lower your voice as you slip into lewd giggles. You start to salivate a little at the thought.
“This’s how I get my snug l’il cunt fer you ta, you know, ~pound~
(And then, FINALLY, everything will be juuuust the way it’s s’posed to be!)
…
(But then why doesn’t Marty look, or FEEL, excited??)
“Marty?”
“It’s just… Cara—”
“Carazzi.”
“…Carrazzi, I don’t know if the forge is working the way it should.”
“Well shit, izzat all?” You laugh. “Fine tune the thingamajig while we’re gone, then! Shit, that’s prob’ly why ZZ wants you to stay here with Ayla ‘n the blueberries. Ta fix it up!”
“That’s the problem, though,” Martyn says, lowering is voice and drawing a little closer. “I can’t remember what went wrong with it. And the goblin… Ah, Mister Wheat… He came out fine. I can’t put my finger on it, and yet…”
(Oh… OH. Oh, shit!)
“Uh,” you ask, “didja talk ta anyone else about this?”
“I raised some of the concerns with Miss Ayla,” Martyn confesses with an embarrassed air, “and she addressed all my concerns more than adequately. But even so…”