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chapter eight. the apple
Smoke puffed from the reaches of the goblin camp, a dreary shadow against a landscape of mud. One would wish not to forget the coast looking on such a place, but the wretched stench carried on the wind insisted upon itself, and Fallon found herself questioning the decision to have come here on purely hygienic concerns. This was all a far cry from the dining room of Raphael, though it wasn't his face but her mothers that floated to the surface of her mind, albeit warped, the oil paint of her portrait smeared at the edges, the man beside her clear, sharp, biting as the valley that rushed up to greet her, as they came to crouch on a rocky overhang.
Astarion broke the silence. "This should be simple enough. A little zappy zappy from the worm," he tapped his temple, "and we'll be right through the front door."
"I'm glad for your confidence," Marth muttered. He'd happened upon a mint bush and had scrolled two leaves up his nose, making him look, and sound, quite nasal. "Getting in might not be the concern in such a case, but getting out."
"Don't forget the middle bit," said Dalaia, "what're we looking for, boss?"
Fallon had slung her pack off her shoulders, pulling out gloves to hide the perspiration dewing on her palms. She knew she was being quiet, mulling over the impossibility of the task. She needed them to enter, split up, hope that she would find what she was looking for without crossing any of their paths ... She sensed Astarion's calculating gaze.
"Supplies. Potions, yes. Gold, we will need. Food, of course, food, and drink, and maybe some armor, a new blade wouldn't hurt ..."
"So, everything," said Orikas.
"Yes. Everything. Who knows when we'll have this opportunity. Once in a lifetime kind of a thing," she laughed thinly when met with their blank stares. Moving on ... "We'll have to divide ourselves accordingly."
"Hm," said Astarion, with a nod. "Then let us make haste."
The outer gates were barely on their hinges, and the squadron guarding their front were toasting chipped mugs when the group happened upon them. A square faced goblin whose armour included two studded shields strapped either side of himself poured the remainder of his drink in a tin dish for the leashed worg before grabbing his spear.
"Oi! Stop! Who goes there?"
Without missing a beat, Astarion strode forward, chest clutched. "Such a harsh tone! Don't say you've forgotten me already. After all, I remember you. Dolphus, yes?"
