Goatword: Entry 3

7/30/2019 Goatword: Entry 3

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Paul! Lang

Goatword

Entry Three: The Girl Hanging on the Tree

You tug and pull and tug and pull and the person, who is surprisingly light, is almost to the

top. Suddenly, someone taps you on the shoulder. You quickly turn around. Remember that

person who was following you earlier? You forgot, didn't you? Well he didn't.

The man behind you is very tall. You are pretty much consumed in his shadow. He is dressed in a

dusty black cloak with gray stitching and silver lining. He is wearing a hood, and his face is invisible,

but as he breathes he disperses clouds of dust into the air.

All in all, you'd consider this Dust Phantom to be quite the intimidating figure, not that you are

actually intimidated, cause you totally aren't!

He stands there, towering and breathing dustily for a few seconds while you crouch in his shadow

and make sure not to drop the rope. Finally, he speaks.

Ah, the Blue Knight stands before, in a state of convex humility. What a mad world we kings

preside over, in which I should encounter such dwarves, such ants. In this realm, Kings and clowns

drink from one chalice, and history is on the tongue of the old wives, and prophecy is written in the dirt

by the finger of a child. Yes, for such is the unraveling of the equinox, and each spark gives laud to the

great aphelion. Alas, what clowns are we that we should take part in such a carnival. Gods fear nothing,

but lapse gently into their conscious graves, with five eyes shut and six eyes wide open, filling with

dirt. The gods know nothing of clairvoyance.

You stare blankly at the Dust Phantom when he is done. Does he really expect you to have any idea

what he is talking about? Probably not. These mysterious hooded types rarely do.

He stands in front of you for at least ten seconds before realizing that you have no intention of

responding. Really, if you wanted a load of nonsense you'd just go back to the Blacksmiths shop and

demand that he explains how 'Synthesis' and 'Ability Points' work. You don't plan to do that, and you

certainly don't plan to give this Dust Hoodlum the time of day.


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He waves an emphatic, goofy wave with his black, gloved hand, and then finally vanishes from your

presence. Good thing. You were pretty sick of his crap. Why is it that the mysterious hooded guys

always want to get all up in your presence?

Maybe there's a prophecy about you or something, the gods only know.

Now that that's done with, you finish pulling up the thing on the rope.You get it up over the edge and onto solid ground and get a look at it. The thing appears to be a girl,

or perhaps a strangely proportioned man. You made that mistake once, so you don't assume things

anymore, but it is probably a girl.

The girl is wrapped from her shoulders to her waist in tight, coarse rope. There is a black cloth over

her mouth and a white rag tied around her eyes. You wonder to yourself, how did she scream? But

whatever, this damsel is obviously in a great amount of distress, and you are the only one who can untie

her. You are also hoping that by some freak chance, she might have something to stop your face from

killing you. You take a second and investigate her hands. One has short nails and the other has long,

orange nails. Does that make her some kind of half-evil sorceress? Maybe. It doesn't really matter to

you right now.

The rope is really tightly wound, and you don't have anything to cut it with. Maybe you should start

with the face. First, you go to undo the cloth around her mouth. When you touch it, you feel a faint

shock and your brain conjures up a picture of a skull. That's peculiar, but not really thatpeculiar.

When you get the cloth off, her mouth is revealed. The lips look cold and dead, but, after you put

your hand on her chin, she suddenly gasps heavily and starts breathing. Next, you unwrap her eyes. The

same thing as last time happens; you get shocked and you see a dragon made of blood in your head. It

could really just be a coincidence.

Her eyes open slowly, and she stares up at you. You stare back down at her.

Hello You say to her How's it going?

That was really the best thing you could think of. Probably a dumb question. It is probably going

very badly.

She doesn't answer, but just keeps starring. You look behind you to see if there is something back

there for her to look at. There isn't.

You look back down at her, and she is still starring.

You are starting to be uncomfortable. Why is this damsel so entranced? Could it be that she is taken

in by your fantastic good looks? Perhaps. More than likely. Definitely.

You wave your hand in front of the enamored young lady's face to make sure she is still alive. She

frowns. That probably annoyed her.


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What year is it? She finally speaks! She speaks in a far less distressed and attention starved way

than you'd expect a hanging damsel to.

Hi. You respond. Silly. That's not how you answer a question.

What is the year? She asks again, and sits up. She tries to move, but realizes that her arms are still

tied. Her legs are motionless too, and they are very pale. If they were hanging loose while she washanging, they've probably lost all of their blood. Her legs are probably asleep, or dead.

What year am I in? She asks again, this time with a bit more demand in her tone. You decide that

you should probably stop looking at her legs and listen to her speak.

Um . . . You search your mind for the answer to that question. It has rarely mattered to you.

People who go on magical adventures don't care much for New Years Eve parties, they gauge years in

the hundreds and thousands; The demon lord Rastergaster was sealed away five thousand years ago!

This Scroll of Cow Summoning was written by my ancestors two thousand years ago! That sort of

thing.

Still, you feel like you should know. You recall looking at a calender to see when next Sabaton

Festival would be (They only come around every five years, so you make sure to catch them).

You try to remember the number on the top of the page.

Thirteen thirteen. You respond, and she looks kind of shocked. You wonder, what is going on in

that woman's head?

You are the lovely young damsel who was hanging on the tree. You are a sorceress by trade.

You are Fue Holly!

(But this guy doesn't need to know that)

My name is . . . You stumble through the devastated temple of your thoughts, searching tomes,

grimmoires and classic volumes of contemplation for a lie that will satisfy this fool. He doesn't need to

know your real name, nobody does. What is in a name? A name is power. To know a person's name is

to have power over that person, and you are certainly not one to relinquish power, especially in your

current, drained state. This giant splinter took more from you than you'd expected. It will take time to

gather your former influence. Gaining influence is fun though, so regaining it should be equally fun.

This world will know you by many names, and work in those names many deeds. Yes, you will conquer

it. You must start with this poor fool.

Sorena. You say My name is Sorena Vess.


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Good choice. That was a good name. It was just sinister enough to sound like the truth. If you made

up some really innocent name like Daffodil Butterwing or Aerith Gainsborough he would have

probably been suspicious. Sometimes the best way to get away with being dangerous is to go around

with a hook-edged halberd in your hand shouting I am dangerous! You doubt that this lug will

appreciate the subtlety of your lie, though. He doesn't look like the appreciative type.This lug, who is he?

You consider uttering the forbidden 'Goat-Word' and disposing of his marshmallow soul in a split

instant, but when you think about it, you aren't completely sure that the 'Goat-Word' is even an actual

spell.

You take a few seconds to snap-shot his appearance.

You wouldn't quite call him 'Shrimpy' but he certainly isn't what you'd call the picture of a rugged

adventurer. He is just about average height for a weak person (You have already categorized him as

such). He has blonde hair, and it is either styled carefully or just the kind that naturally maintains a

shape. You think he is type who spends a long time in front of mirror every morning before he picks up

his cheap, but flashy sword and searches for possums and squirrels to run through. His eyes are big and

blue, and not the type that have seen much blood. His outfit would be dashing, but it has pink frills on

the pant legs and sleeves, un-masculine little doily things. This is very off-putting. You wonder how

this little creature even got to the top of the tree.

At least his shoes are armored. What does one call those armored shoes again? You can't remember.

It doesn't really matter.

His gloves are also made of metal. Those are called gauntlets, you remember thatmuch. The

gauntlets have some cheap, synthesized runes on them, probably the kind that does something stupid

like makes them shoot fireworks or carry status ailment. He looks like the kind of dweeb who would

find that type of thing really cool.

You don't see any other kind of weapon on him. Is it possible that he just has the gauntlets? This

dweeb is a rare breed indeed, as you have no idea how he has not been eaten by a squinge yet.

Oh. He says. He talks in a voice that says 'I'm sorry' with every syllable. Pathetic.

My name is Trevert Vardan.

He stares at you as he says this, then, as if to punctuate, he tries to make a muscle. You cannot see it

through his sleeve. Fail.

I'm an adventurer. I quest toward treasure, artifacts, fun and women! He declares, completing his

introduction with the most awkward attempt at an dramatic statement you have ever heard. You are

pretty sure he just threw in the 'Women' part because it sounded right.


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You are Trevert Vardan

(Again!)

You just threw in the 'Women' part because it sounded right. You aren't sure how this tree hangingbabe took it. Some women are bothered when you list them among other collectable commodities.

Usually, hanging damsels aren't bothered by that kind of thing though.

You've never really had an urge to collect woman, even this tree woman doesn't really make you feel

anything special. You're far more into treasure than you are romance. There is something peculiar about

this tree-girl anyway. Something about her aura.

Speaking of auras, her hair is long, flowing, and in heavy orange curls all the way down her back. It

looks like nice hair. It makes you think of cheese. Her skin is a tan color, and looks kind of unnatural in

color contrast to the cheese . . . er . . . hair. Her eyes are a deep blue color, like blue cheese. Her feet are

bare, and the rest of her is tied up in a rope. Like a cheese rope. You have decided that you are hungry.

She looks up at you with those innocent, blue cheese eyes and says in a soft, damselish voice

Trevert . . . Vardan? She repeats your name, softly, perhaps in fear. She looks very afraid. You need to

show her that she doesn't need to be afraid. You make another muscle. Chicks are always comforted by

that mess. There is nothing more comfortable than your soft muscles . . . er . . . never mind.

What are you doing, hanging from a tree? You ask in your most manly and reassuring voice.

The question bounces off. Perhaps she is still confused after waking up. Perhaps she is too afraid to

answer. All she does is look back and forth like a scared squirrel, and stop to gaze at you sometimes.

There is no doubt. This tree babe is infatuated with you. You'll have to think of a clean way to reject her

advances before things spin maniacally out of hand.

Can you untie me? She asks bluntly.

You aren't sure how to tell her no.

I have a knife. She nods toward her shoulder, and you notice a black thing sticking out of the rope.

You reach in and pull out a dagger, not just any dagger, this is a;

Darksteel Dagger of Shadowgrin

Its handle is made of real ebony, and it even has the smiling skull design on it. You wonder how a

chick like this would get her hands on such a creepy and rare weapon. Maybe she borrowed it from her

dad or something. Perhaps her dad is some Super-Evil Dark Lord or something un-nifty like that! You


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know you are jumping to a lot of conclusions, but you don't really have a lot to go on. I mean,

seriously! What was this girl doing up in this tree?

Not only that, but when you drew the dagger, there was blood on it, and the girl gritted her teeth.

Was this knife in her freaking shoulder?

Anyway, she is shaking her head impatiently. You should probably cut dem ropes.You cut dem ropes carefully so as not to spill anymore of her innocent blood. It takes a while, and

she seems nervous the whole time. This is one nervous girl.

Finally, the ropes are cut. She stretches her tan arms out and breaths a deep breath, as though feeling

the blood go from her heart into her arms. She is dressed in a simple cloth garment, faded green in

color like dying leaves. Really, besides the clue of the bad dagger, there isn't much to go on regarding

who she really is.

Ugh. She sighs and frowns I still can't move my legs. She breathes deeply, then looks up and

says Why did your face turn green?

Why did your face turn green? Probably for the same reason that it now burns like a thousand white

hot coals being pressed against your eye sockets!

You try not to shout, but in fact, you do end up shouting. You do nothing but shout for the next three

minutes, then, when the pain has dulled just a little bit, you sit down and start to cry uncontrollably.

You seriously hope that this doesn't make you look any less robust and masculine.

The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The

pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The





pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain!

You are Fue Holly

(Once More)

It seems that this creature before you is in pain. It seems that he has come across the rare Nalisian

Face Melting Plague. Like the name implies, it starts with itches, moves on to pain, goes from there to


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agonizing pain, then it remains null for a day or two, then, one morning, you wake up and your face has

been melted! You can only imagine how much that must stink.

The intrigue and mystery surrounding this creature grows. The only way he could have caught this

illness is by encountering a rare, Sapphire Horned Amphajin, or perhaps a Great Plague Wyrm. Those

are the only two creatures that you are aware of with the power to inflict such a curse. Unless he wentaround rubbing poisonous plants on his face, these are the only ways he could have caught the Face

Melt.

Anyway, this could be to your advantage. This creature has need of a doctor or cleric, as do you.

You're legs seem to have completely lost their usefulness. You curse your legs for betraying you.

You will need someone to carry you.

What will you do?

1. Crawl all the way to town on your hands, like some vile troubadour

2. Train a team of squirrels to carry you on their backs

3. Use up some of your magic energy and whip up a spell

4. Use your Silver Tongue to make this lug carry you

5. Rub your face on something

Time to get your convince on. Why would you do that last one? Why is that even on the list? Who

knows.

You suggest an alliance. When you suggest things, you don't leave any room for a denial. You start

by cringing at the pain and starring sadly into the empty sky, your blue eyes bright with the blue hot

flame of discomfort. No knight in shinning armor can bear that routine.

Brave sir. I can't seem to walk. Would you be kind enough to lead me to the nearest city? If you

would carry me there, I would reward you handsomely. Of course, he will deny the reward, they

always do. It's a good thing too, because you don't actually have any gold to give him. You got rid of all

that troublesome yellow dirt before you began this stunt.

He does not respond as you expect him to. He screams a lot. That makes sense. Did you forget that

his face was melting?

I'll need you to take me to see a cleric. You add with pretend off-handedness. He still doesn't give

you much in the ways of a non-screaming response.

Subtlety be darned to Hades! I'll need to see the kind of cleric who can heal your face! You

virtually shout at him, and he finally understands.


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In no time at all, you are riding on his back, your dead legs dangling limp from his shoulders. It

seems that this brute is the kind that only responds to survival instinct. That's fine. You can work with

that.

Now that your pet has you on his back, it seems he's calmed down just a bit.

So, how exactly do we get back down? He asks.We go back down the stairs. You respond, trying not to sound irritated. You're not sure you like it

when he talks to you. It's kind of like a dog is barking in your ear.

Problem is . . . He looks around carefully I'm not sure where those stairs went . . .

Great.

Time to be a commander. Instruct your soldier.

What command will you give?

1. Jump off the tree and we'll figure things out from there.

2. Use thunder-shock attack!

3. Keep looking, imbecile!

You select option number three, but decide to put it a bit more nicely.

Unfortunately, he chooses without your permission. You aren't sure what is going through his head.

Can a god understand the thoughts of an ant? No. Neither can you comprehend this creature's thoughts.

Whatever the case, the ant has run straight off the top of the tower. You feel yourself suspended in mid-

air for what feels like a second, then you begin to plummet.

The fall is not long, and as your heart races, so does the ground below you. No more of these halfwit

choices! Time for quick-thinkin'!

The lug, who you are still wrapped around tightly, seems to have fainted out of fear. This is

completely up to you.

ISHTAR'S CLAWS!

Perhaps it is overkill, but you cast one of the most powerful wind spells you know. What's overkill

when your life is on the line anyway?

A blast of pressurized air pounds the earth below, leaving a tremendous dent and shooting off soil

and rocks like shattered glass. The push of the wind spell acts as a cushion, and you land on the soft

dirt. You lay there, furious and exhausted, and wonder to yourself, should you kill this man in his


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sleep?

To be continued

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Goatword: Entry 3