Session 8: A Bottle and Knives

Sunlight leaks through the shattered window as you watch the doorway. Your Father steps out. The wind hushes the room.

"Finally alone!" You'd only meant to think it, but the words came flashing from your lips. You stretch until joints pop, breathing deep—until the ash turns the air to chalk. "Guess it can't be perfect," you think, trying to suppress the coughs. You lean on the half‑charred stair rail and let your thoughts idle, right up to the moment reality snaps back. The rail gives way, and you fall with it. Narrowly rolling to land on your feet like a startled gymnast as splinters scatter.

"That was close," you think, looking at the scattered remains of the rail. Something catches your eye. You kneel, curious, in the dimmer light. The broken rail looks the same, flat black as everything else, until you lift a piece into the sunlight. The half in sunlight turns a wooden brown in direct light, while the underside remains ashen gray. You move it in and out of the light; colors fade to grayscale, then return. The oddity sticks out in your mind, much like how the grass looked in the moonlight before the goblin attack. You consider telling your Father before quashing the thought. "Nope, no need for a ten‑minute ramble," you think, looking around the rest of the room. "No need for a lecture about lollygagging either."

You head for the bar, noting the destruction. The waist-high swinging door is ripped off, lying nearby. Glass crunches under your boots as you step behind the counter. The underside is bare, with no bottles, mugs, or even a peanut shell to be found. "Even last call wasn't this bad," you think, recalling the first and only time you went bar hopping with your roommate.

You take one last look at the large, open dining room before heading to the kitchen, glancing at the town hall through the kicked-in door you and your Father entered. Both had been burned, but something felt different about this building. Both had been attacked and burned, but the level of damage wasn't nearly comparable. Half of the town hall had been burned to ash, while the other half seemed to remain standing only because piles of boxes and barrels lined every wall and hallway. By comparison, this tavern was stripped. Aside from the tables, chairs, and broken glass, little else remained. "They must've wanted something here," you reason.

You push through a flapping door into what's left of the kitchen, hoping to confirm your suspicion. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene you were walking into. Debris covered every square inch of the floor. Wood, stone, dirt, glass, and even water from a barrel made it impossible to tell what the floor was and what was scattered on it. The counters are scored with knife marks and grime, every corner chipped and sawn. On one wall, knives jut out, tips stuck in like a target board. Black footprints covered every surface, and the hanging cupboards hid the worst. "Dear God," you breathe, finally seeing it. The whole back wall was smashed, just like the cottage door from last night.

"Did the goblins do that too?" you wonder, recovering from the initial shock and preparing for a more thorough investigation.

You sift through the cabinets, looking for anything the attackers may have left behind. The lowers are banged up but intact, sometimes holding a stray utensil, and in good shape compared to the uppers, which are all smashed and empty. As you're looking through them, something catches your eye. While the floor is covered in ash and footprints, the counters are relatively clean. You think back to your attackers from last night. It was hard to tell in the heat of the moment, but they all looked significantly smaller than you, not more than a meter tall.

"How'd they reach the top shelves without standing on the counters?" you wonder. There was no way they could reach the upper without standing on the counters, but there would be footprints if they had. As you ruminate on how they could've gotten up your throat scratches, and you reach for your water skin. It's mostly empty, so you move to refill it from the barrel you'd seen. A large gash across the side draws your eyes as you approach the barrel. You think back to the weapons the attackers had last night: clubs, knives, and a bow. None of them could've made a gash like that, or taken out the wall. You keep turning it over in your mind as you draw water from the bucket. Suddenly, your knuckle bumps something, and you jerk your hand out, splashing water on your cloak. After glancing to make sure your hand still has all your fingers, you look into the barrel. The collapsed wall lets in plenty of sunlight, so you can easily see a tall cylinder standing just below the water's surface. You cautiously reach in to grasp it, feeling cold glass on your skin. You pull it out and see it's indeed a glass bottle with some kind of brown liquid sloshing around inside. You pull the cork to sniff it, but before your nose gets anywhere close, your nose hair burns, and your eyes begin to sting. You force the cork back into the bottle, still gagging.

"If this doesn't work, I don't want to know what will," you say with a cough, setting the bottle down and drawing more water in your hand to clear your sinuses. As your face is over the water barrel, you hear the distinct swing of the swivel door.

"Of course, you come as soon as I find the booze," you call, not removing your head from the barrel. You wait a moment for him to respond, expecting the disastrous states of the kitchen to have given him pause. But no response ever comes, just the faint sound of glass crunching under careful footsteps.

"Why isn't he saying anything?" you think, finally turning from the barrel. As you turn, there's a faint flash of silver and then the room rotates. Without knowing how or why your body contorts, your knees bend 90 degrees so you're staring up at the ceiling. The awareness hits you with the floor, as you realize your position and hit the ground, broken cupboard doors jabbing into your back. Without a thought, you roll, unaware why, until you hear it.

*Thunk*

You glance back at the cupboard where you were lying and see a knife jiggling, jutting out, and shaking. You spring to your feet, looking around to see where it came from, and notice a child drawing another blade from the target board you saw earlier. His movements are efficient and precise as he pulls the blade and sends it flying towards you. Instinct takes over, and you dive behind a counter, your hands move to your blades, drawing them, drawing them halfway before you wrestle control back.

"No!" You think, stowing the blades. "I can't kill a child." You take a deep breath, listening for any sound of movement, but hear nothing. You slowly peek up over the counter, but as soon as your hood peeks over, a blade is sent slicing through it, and you drop down again. You hear the sound of a struggle and take another peek, thinking they're having a hand-to-hand fight, drawing the knife from the wall. You finally get a good look at your attacker and realize your initial observation was wrong. It is a person, a man about a meter tall, dressed in the same manner as the other villagers. But you realize he's not a child from the white beard hanging from his chin down to his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask as he draws again. "I only came here to—"

"I know what you're here for!" he barks, pitching another knife at your heart. You dive behind the counter, not just hearing but also feeling the knife sink into the counter above your head, followed by his booming voice.

"You damn Gate, ya think you can strike while we're down and take me back? Ya got another thing coming! I'll send ya back to the cold black hole ya crawled from!" You hear him race across the room, glass and wood scraping and cracking across the floor as he tries to outflank you. Your legs are moving before you're aware, darting from one position of cover to the next.

"Gotta get out of the kitchen," you think, diving to a new covered position. "But he's staying between me and the door." Your swords dig into your ribs, and again you fight the reflex to draw them. "I can't kill him," you think, pulling your hands away from the hilt. "He's probably just confused and scared after the goblin attack. Besides, I'm not a killer." You flinch down as another knife hisses past your ear. "But I can't leave without the bottle…" You scan as you dash to a new counter, and the bottle still sits near the barrel. You duck as a blade smacks the counter behind you. His throws are precise, you're reflexes have saved you thus far, but not your clothes. Your hood and cloak have more than a few holes in them, and you've only managed to avoid him thus far because he takes so long between throws. "I could dash out the back hold, but that would mean leaving the bottle behind, have to grab it, and then the swivel door's right there. If I time it well… No, he'll get a clean shot at me. Unless…" you think, grabbing a cupboard door from the floor and waiting. You pop up, a knife parting the top of your hood is your signal. You explode from cover, cupboard door in hand, vaulting one counter, then another.

*Thunk*

Steel is buried in the cupboard like a wooden shield. You grin, dropping the door and swapping it for the bottle without missing a beat, and sprint for the door.

*thunk*

A final knife punches the swinging door as you close it behind you. You're about to run outside when an image pops into your mind. You see your neighbor chasing a stranger from his house, yelling about how he stole or threatened him. It doesn't take a genius to guess whose side the guards are on, and more importantly, the people will be on.

"Hide!" the thought runs through your mind like a command from God. You jam the bottle into your belt as you scan for shadow. The tavern is bright in the noon time, but maybe he won't check the loft. Glass crunching beyond the kitchen door prompts you into action. You take the stairs two at a time and flip a table. Tucking into a ball behind it and shoving the swords back when the goudge your ribs just as the kitchen door flips open.

*creak*

*creak*

*creak*

Footsteps prowl the floor below, as you hold your breath, remaining more still and silent than a statue.

"As long as he stays down there, I'm fine," you think as the footsteps get quieter before disappearing. You release your breath, only now realizing how desperate for air you are. A few deep breaths later, you hear the footsteps again, louder, coming up the stairs. You panic for a moment until they stop at the top. You don't dare look up, praying he sees nothing and leaves. The air crushes you like a boulder before a softer sound kisses the air.

*fwip*

*fwip*

*fwip*

"AGH!" you cry, pain blooming in your forearm. You look and see a knife sticking from your limb. You rip it free just as your cover rolls away. The bearded man towers over you like a giant, blade raised to the heavens. The knife stabs where your chest was, stabbing your cloak as you roll away and jump onto a table.

"Thought ya was clever hidin' up here, eh?" he says, pointing the blade. "Ain't hard to spot when only one table's knocked and ya sword's pokin' out."

"Look, I'm not one of these Gates," you say, hopping as he swipes at your ankles. "Ask my dad, he's the one who healed those six—"

"Lies!" He cries, slamming the table so hard it wobbles. You leap to the next to avoid riding it down. "How dare ya drag that kind soul into this!" he rants, knocking over tables as you keep moving. "He hauled me off death's door, he did! I won't let a filthy Gate sully his name before I thank 'im! I'll carve ya up like ya did to my clan!"

You reach the last table, positioned next to the railing, and look out to the lower floor for a landing point. You focus on the chandelier hanging before you.

“AAAGGGHHH!" The man lets loose a violent cry as he charges towards you, bashing the table with his whole body—the table tilts, crashing through the railing and leaving you no choice. You leap at the last possible second. Fingers clasping around cold iron that bites your skin. The chain sways and groans but holds.

*CRASH*

The table falls to the floor, but you've no time to look at the damage.

"I need to figure out what to do before he—"

"Oooooh." You thought it was cut short by a groan from below you. You look down and see the short man leaning over the table on the main floor.

"Phew," you sigh when he doesn't move, relaxing your shoulders a bit but maintaining your hold on the chandelier. You weigh the options of dropping straight down and trying to swing back onto the loft. The chain may not be able to withstand the swing, but a drop from this height would definitely hurt, possibly even resulting in a broken ankle. You swing your legs, preparing to swing the gap.

*CREAK*

*CREAK*

*CREAK—SNAP*

The chandelier jerks as a ceiling anchor rips free. Your grip fails as you drop, feet first. Your knees bend as far as they can, but your body still falls further, dropping you onto your butt and then rolling onto your back, ending with your head cracking onto the floor.

"AGH," you groan, palms clinging to your scalp. Your panic spikes as you feel something cool and wet.

"Blood!" You think, drawing your hands back to look, only to have your nose singed again by the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Your hands move to your belt, yanking the bottle and seeing a crack from the top to the halfway point down one side.

"Could be worse," you sigh, letting your arms go limp as the wave of pain passes.

"Well, well, well," says an unfamiliar voice. You lean your head back to look, seeing two silhouettes standing in the doorway. It's hard to tell with the noontime sun behind them, but they look armored and have spears in hand, though one is drifting to your left, head taller than the other.

"Ain't this a pretty lil' picture," the tall one drawls, stepping into the tavern and circling you on the right.

"Can't say I'm surprised," the short one says, drifting to your left. "Ma always told me bad things come in threes. Why would a Gate showin' up be number two?"

"There's that 'Gate' word again," you note. "What is that? Some kind of nickname or something?"

"Look, gentlemen," you say, trying to put on a polite voice, "I assure you there's a perfectly reasonable expla— AHH!" A metal boot stomps on your chest, cracking ribs and knocking the wind out of you.

"WHO TOLD YA TO TALK?" the tall one roars, grinding his boot further into your chest. "I know I didn't, and I don't hear Scooter sayin' so neither—did ya, Scooter?"

"No, Ray, I didn't," the short guard says. "Seems we gotta teach our lil' infiltrator some manners." He kneels by your cheek, spit dotting your skin. "Listen here, ya dirty lil' Gate," Scooter snarls, jabbing his spear so close you smell the packed dirt at the bottom. "I'll stake ya to the floor. Speak outta turn again and I'll put this through that cold black mass you call a heart—ya hear?" You try to respond, but the boot makes breathing a luxury. "Ya keen on dyin'?" Scooter yells. "I'll spear ya!"

"I'd recommend against that," calls a calm voice, followed by clanking footsteps. Both guards look behind you, but your head is locked in place by the boot on your chest. "You wanna get your foot off my son?" the voice asks, closer now.

"Son?" Ray says, his stance wobbling. "What are you on about, stranger? This here's a—"

*CLANG*

The weight vanishes from your chest, allowing air to flood your lungs. You sit up, taking deep breaths, and only now noticing Ray leaning over a table. You look behind you, seeing a man clad in armor with a thick red cross on his chest standing between you and the remaining guard, shield on one arm, and a spear in the other.

"Feel free to stand anytime, son," your Father says, ignoring Scooter's spear leveled at his chest.

"What do you think you're doin'?" Scooter demands, arms shaking.

"Protecting my son," your Father says, turning to Scooter. "Point that at me if you like, but point it at him again and there'll be consequences."

"You got a lotta nerve!" Ray snarls, staggering up. His helmet sits crooked, and a new dent gleams in his breastplate. "I could kill you for assaulting a guard!"

"Not without this," your Father says, tossing his spear back. Ray fumbles for a grip, nearly dropping it before getting a firm grasp.

"Who are you?" Ray asks, his voice laced with fear.

"The man who's going to exterminate those goblins," your Father answers.

"What're you on about? Is you that paladin feller Matt told us of?" Ray asks.

"Indeed," your Father says, stepping close enough to kiss their spearheads. "My son was investigating this scene before you two interrupted. Now, I suggest you scurry along before I include your interference in my report." The pair turns to each other, and then back to you, before lowering their spears and shuffling out, grumbling all the way. Your Father turns to look at you, still sitting on the floor with a hard, measuring look.