Across the ocean Book 1: On the run

Chapter Seventeen : The Angelic Relic.

Claörgh the Goblin ate at Alvindraft's table for lunch, in the company of a very few guests trustworthy to keep secrets their local lord would allow them to hear. That goblins had frequent dealing with the ruler of Mildoyest was well kept a secret for many reasons. Wealthy cutlery and silverware were placed upon a table of rosewood with a cloth to protect it. Though no need for light, the candelabras were lit and gave a pleasant smell.

A juice dripping slab of salted ham came unto his plate.

Wearing a more traditional goblin garment made of leather and fabric, a combination only goblins seemed to appreciate, made him feel like an alien at this meal. Claörgh was wearing it for a reminder to himself of who he was, not what he was or wished to become. That being said, since one's feet would be hidden beneath the table, he had judged unnecessary to use traditional footwear and instead wore poulaine shoes. He found them comfortable with plenty of space for his long toes, but also quite entertaining. While everyone looked everywhere but at feet, he half unconsciously played the flippy flap by gently forcing the elongated end of his shoes against the floor or a leg of his chair, or against the table. Humans had a strange sense of fashion.

A broiled potato went unto his plate.

He wished his beloved wife Ulcarûst would still be alive. Yes, she would be filled with wrinkles and unable to care for herself, but memories had a twist to them which made them more than simple letters in a book telling one's life. He had loved her all the more as the years had been passing by. She would be proud of him. She always had been. Were he alone, he would have smiled.

A slice of meat went into his mouth.

Claörgh was dwarfed by the Humans. Only another Goblin sat at the table, his great granddaughter Nartûsh. That she sat in the company of her friends rather than next to him brought more than a little bit of joy. Ladies dressed in gowns gossiping with her. She was married to another great grandchild of his, one equally loyal and honest. There were advantages to being a Goblin, you saw your family tree bring new leaves so much quicker than the other races. On the other hand, Goblins had much less children, generally four and rarely more than six or seven. Orcs in general wed not earlier than eighteen and Humans no earlier than sixteen. Kastosians were the exception for they wed five years later than most other civilizations. Goblins could be married as early as fourteen. The disadvantage of being a Goblin, however, was that your fertility also ended sooner than in other races.

A servant poured wine in Molvendraft's cup, the son of the local lord.

Nartûsh was beautiful in that dress of greens and violets, plus that white flower hairpin married well her tan-grey skin. She spoke of how excited she was with other women regarding the future birth of a grandchild of her own. Human women obviously showed some friendly jealousy. For a fleeting moment, great grandfather and great granddaughter locked eyes: she smiled with blissfulness emanating from her this patriarch could read the bliss in his girl. She had her great grandmother's smile.

A girl of twelve years old, dressed in an apron and a hairband to keep her hair from her face, poured wine in his cup of clear glass.

Silence fell.

-"My apologies!" yelped the young girl carrying the bottle of wine. "I am so sorry!"

Goblins, unlike Humans and Orcs, had a harder time sobering up from the effects of alcohol. None of them ever drank, knowing very well how hard it was for them to process it out of their system. If a Human could take up to half a day or more to break free from the effects of drinking after a party night, Goblins took thrice as long. Orcs, about the same time as a Human, although they could ingest more before reaching that stage. Needless to say none would want to remain intoxicated for a day and a half or two. A few scholars had in the past tried to understand why it was Goblins had such a hard time sobering, only leading to more questions and less answers, or, worser still, with sad stories.