Cig's Epilogue
“Have a good niiight Decarabia!”
The slightly slurred speech, with a volume unmodulated by sobriety, snapped the tiefling woman out of her pensive state.
“Ah, you as well! Get home safe! There’s still a lingering winter chill, so try not to pass out in an alley and freeze to death!” Decarabia calls back to the regular, a dusky-skinned tiefling sailor with horns bleached white from salt and sunlight, with a wry smile. As she quips, Decarabia’s eyes, the color of the golden flame of an inviting hearth, betray her underlying concern. Caring and worrying about patrons was what kept The Laughing Gnoll successful throughout the years, passing from one Goldeneye to another.
As the last echo of the door’s bell jingling hangs in the air, Decarabia breathed a sigh of relief. Tensions have been high after the New Year, with news of a political coup in Rel-Kadrar spreading across the nation of Rakka. An official statement had yet to be made, but snippets of what happened - colored by the expected half-truths, rumors, outright lies, and sometimes even facts - had been spreading uncontrolled like a plague. All that was certain was that the nation’s leader, High Marshal Jalil Hafiz, had been assassinated. Mayor Proserpine's departure following the “New Year’s Coup,” as it was now called in common circles, was the confirmation. Why else would the former High Marshal’s daughter leave so suddenly? It took all she had to provide a safe island of normalcy for her patrons in this sea of strife.
Decarabia walked a winding path around the scattered tables, perfectly practiced from years at the job, picking up any remaining glasses left behind. She tasked herself with cleaning the surfaces of the bar, scrubbing residual stickiness from a day’s worth of spilled drinks. As she traveled around the semicircular counter, moving from the left to the right corner, her practiced hand stops, hovering over the counter by a specific seat. That’s where she first met him. ---------- It seemed like ages ago when the first iteration of Rakka's Heroes, the new state-sponsored adventuring group, first walked into her establishment. They were a diverse group with diverse skills, and to someone only used to the local toughs from the docks or the guard garrison, these heroes seemed to radiate power. And more than that, they radiated confidence in their ability to succeed in their mission. Decarabia’s mind drifts to the savvy ram-horned Mickal, their leader at the time, the armored giant Shad Stixs, and the cutlery-obsessed automaton Pino Chio. They had started to become a regular fixture at The Laughing Gnoll when they were suddenly snuffed out, like candles in a hurricane. Shad was slaughtered and eaten by her tavern’s namesake, while Mickal and Pino were killed at sea by angry ghosts.
It was a devastating blow for Decarabia, to lose people she had befriended in such a violent way. To lose people she believed could survive anything. It was a shock to her when a new batch of Rakka’s Heroes, reserves to replace the fallen, found their way into her tavern months later. She approached these new members with tentative reservation, hoping she could dissuade them from following in the footsteps of their predecessors. The cautious optimism of the previous set of heroes was absent, instead replaced by a lingering sense of resignation. It was no secret that the adventuring group was hemorrhaging members. All the more reason to get them to abandon their risky lifestyle, at least in Decarabia’s eyes.
Although these new adventurers had come to terms with their inevitable deaths, there was an undercurrent of something else she sensed governing their actions. She first realized it when her eyes glanced over an enigmatic figure seated in the corner of the bar, helmeted visage barely peeking over the counter. As she walked closer to him to offer her trademark hospitality, her eyes gained a greater measure for the figure. Barely four feet tall, if even that, clad in battered and well-worn leather armor. The helmet she saw peering over the counter had chips and dents, almost as if it were the flesh of a battle-hardened warrior. Speaking of flesh, she saw no exposed skin on the person at all. When he first ordered a glass of Joseph Daniels in his gruff voice, she lingered to watch him drink it. Her curiosity as to his appearance compelled her to. It was with a bemused expression as she watched the small man pull a small reed from his pack and anticlimactically drink the whiskey through the small openings in his helmet. She soon learned that this curious and odd-mannered individual was named Cig, and just like his companions, was ever pessimistic about his chances of survival. However, despite the chance of failure, she often caught sight of him gathering information from patrons and making plans. He seemed to try and gain every advantage so he wouldn’t meet the same fate as the others. In the banter she exchanged back and forth with him, she often asked to see what his face was like. He characteristically responded, “One day, if I survive long enough.”
And so he did survive. He helped defeat the ravenous gnolls plaguing the region, and even defeated a ghostly ship, carrying the vengeful dead spirits of those killed in the massacre of the Elflands capital. Every time the heroes faced these deadly situations, time and time again, Decarabia almost felt that she was holding her breath for days, even weeks, until they returned. Only when she saw their faces - or helmets - was she able to breathe easily again. She sat at the edge of her seat as Cig and the others regaled tales of deadly encounters and monstrous foes. And through their stories and successes, she grew to believe in them again. They were even able to recover the body of Pino Chio, restoring hope that one of her fallen friends could be rebuilt.
It was on a warm evening, the last one of the year as the chilling winter breezes became the norm, that Cig told Decarabia that he was leaving to the distant city of Rel-Kadrar. There was business, a conspiracy that threatened the nation’s security, that he needed to stop. The journey would be long and arduous, and there was no guarantee of his success or survival. That night Decarabia asked Cig, pleaded him, to see his face before he left. At the very least, she could be someone who kept his memory alive. When the small man took off his helmet - showcasing the light yellow-green skin, pointed ears, and hooked nose of a goblin - she was taken aback. Not by shock, but overcome by an ineffable attraction to him. It wasn’t his appearance, but the fact that he was willing to trust her before anyone else, that welded the iron chain of fate between them. She still remembered the kiss she gave him, and the final parting words she left him. “No matter what, come back alive.” ---------- Decarabia, as she held a tray of beer-encrusted mugs in her hands, snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the door’s bell ringing.
“Um, excuse me,” she said, turning around. “We’re closed right no---”
The tray of glass fell from her hands, shattering on the worn wooden floor below. Standing before her, clad in the same helmet and armor she remembered (albeit with even more wear and tear), was an unmistakable figure. And as he took off his helmet, any lingering doubt in Decarabia’s mind was wiped clear.
“It’s been a while Decarabia,” Cig said sheepishly, his usual confidence stymied by the unfamiliar social situation. “I brought-”
Cig’s feeble attempt at offering explanations was cut short by Decarabia, crossing several strides of floor space faster than any of Cig’s foes ever had. Caught surprised, he was unable to avoid the swift slap delivered to his face.
“The nerve!” Decarabia said, tears welling up in her eyes. “You have the nerve to just SHOW up here! Without sending any word! You could have sent a letter! Something. Anything!”
“I, uh -” Cig’s protestations were cut off by further yelling by Decarabia, punctuated by a few more choice slaps. As this continued for nearly a minute, Cig reached out and forcefully caught Decarabia’s hand, loosening his grip once he had gotten hold.
“I kept my promise, didn’t I?” Cig’s words served to douse Decarabia’s burning fury. Cig continued, entwining his hand with hers.
“I wasn’t going to die, not with you waiting here for me.”
Decarabia’s eyes began monsooning tears at this, dropping her pretense of anger and embracing Cig and lifting him off the ground. “I...know you dummy. And I knew you’d be back.”
The duo’s tender moment was interrupted by a mechanical voice, devoid of emotional nuance. “I believe you owe me ten gold Christopher. My knowledge of romantic conventions suggested a 78% probability Decarabia would react like this. If you prefer, you can pay me in silverware.” The origin, a tall human-shaped construct made from metal and wood, stepped into view from the doorway.
“You have no mercy do you?” says another voice. A beleaguered red-skinned humanoid, clad in several ranged weapons - crossbows, daggers, and compound bows - also steps into view.
“Bark,” says a third individual. A massive worg, the size of a small pony, approaches the door from the night’s depths.
“Stop waxing philosophical Fluffy,” Christopher says, breathing a sigh of frustration. This clearly wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, that this massive mastiff would say something incomprehensible to anyone not proficient in the Goblin tongue.
Blinking away tears, Decarabia motions for everyone to join her inside. Her beloved Cig, her old friend Pino, the well-armed hobgoblin Christopher, and the enigmatic worg Fluffy. “I think I can pour out a few more drinks. We have a lot to catch up on!”
Cig, Fluffy, Christopher, and Pino all made it back to The Laughing Gnoll safely a few weeks after the coup. Decarabia embraced them with open arms. Cig and Christopher formed an independent band of mercenaries, taking on tasks offered to them that would pay well and keep them far from Sardivelia. Having fought the devilish foes, both kept channels open to the Rakkan military, The Shroud, and The Handgun in order to maintain information superiority. At the end of the day, the gang swore loyalty to no nation or organization other than their own, the regulars of The Laughing Gnoll. People joked that Decarabia was too busy to settle down with anyone, except for a regular patron of her tavern. In this case, the jokes had merit. Both Cig and Decarabia had newfound purpose in their lives, now that they were together again. -Written by Kush
The slightly slurred speech, with a volume unmodulated by sobriety, snapped the tiefling woman out of her pensive state.
“Ah, you as well! Get home safe! There’s still a lingering winter chill, so try not to pass out in an alley and freeze to death!” Decarabia calls back to the regular, a dusky-skinned tiefling sailor with horns bleached white from salt and sunlight, with a wry smile. As she quips, Decarabia’s eyes, the color of the golden flame of an inviting hearth, betray her underlying concern. Caring and worrying about patrons was what kept The Laughing Gnoll successful throughout the years, passing from one Goldeneye to another.
As the last echo of the door’s bell jingling hangs in the air, Decarabia breathed a sigh of relief. Tensions have been high after the New Year, with news of a political coup in Rel-Kadrar spreading across the nation of Rakka. An official statement had yet to be made, but snippets of what happened - colored by the expected half-truths, rumors, outright lies, and sometimes even facts - had been spreading uncontrolled like a plague. All that was certain was that the nation’s leader, High Marshal Jalil Hafiz, had been assassinated. Mayor Proserpine's departure following the “New Year’s Coup,” as it was now called in common circles, was the confirmation. Why else would the former High Marshal’s daughter leave so suddenly? It took all she had to provide a safe island of normalcy for her patrons in this sea of strife.
Decarabia walked a winding path around the scattered tables, perfectly practiced from years at the job, picking up any remaining glasses left behind. She tasked herself with cleaning the surfaces of the bar, scrubbing residual stickiness from a day’s worth of spilled drinks. As she traveled around the semicircular counter, moving from the left to the right corner, her practiced hand stops, hovering over the counter by a specific seat. That’s where she first met him. ---------- It seemed like ages ago when the first iteration of Rakka's Heroes, the new state-sponsored adventuring group, first walked into her establishment. They were a diverse group with diverse skills, and to someone only used to the local toughs from the docks or the guard garrison, these heroes seemed to radiate power. And more than that, they radiated confidence in their ability to succeed in their mission. Decarabia’s mind drifts to the savvy ram-horned Mickal, their leader at the time, the armored giant Shad Stixs, and the cutlery-obsessed automaton Pino Chio. They had started to become a regular fixture at The Laughing Gnoll when they were suddenly snuffed out, like candles in a hurricane. Shad was slaughtered and eaten by her tavern’s namesake, while Mickal and Pino were killed at sea by angry ghosts.
It was a devastating blow for Decarabia, to lose people she had befriended in such a violent way. To lose people she believed could survive anything. It was a shock to her when a new batch of Rakka’s Heroes, reserves to replace the fallen, found their way into her tavern months later. She approached these new members with tentative reservation, hoping she could dissuade them from following in the footsteps of their predecessors. The cautious optimism of the previous set of heroes was absent, instead replaced by a lingering sense of resignation. It was no secret that the adventuring group was hemorrhaging members. All the more reason to get them to abandon their risky lifestyle, at least in Decarabia’s eyes.
Although these new adventurers had come to terms with their inevitable deaths, there was an undercurrent of something else she sensed governing their actions. She first realized it when her eyes glanced over an enigmatic figure seated in the corner of the bar, helmeted visage barely peeking over the counter. As she walked closer to him to offer her trademark hospitality, her eyes gained a greater measure for the figure. Barely four feet tall, if even that, clad in battered and well-worn leather armor. The helmet she saw peering over the counter had chips and dents, almost as if it were the flesh of a battle-hardened warrior. Speaking of flesh, she saw no exposed skin on the person at all. When he first ordered a glass of Joseph Daniels in his gruff voice, she lingered to watch him drink it. Her curiosity as to his appearance compelled her to. It was with a bemused expression as she watched the small man pull a small reed from his pack and anticlimactically drink the whiskey through the small openings in his helmet. She soon learned that this curious and odd-mannered individual was named Cig, and just like his companions, was ever pessimistic about his chances of survival. However, despite the chance of failure, she often caught sight of him gathering information from patrons and making plans. He seemed to try and gain every advantage so he wouldn’t meet the same fate as the others. In the banter she exchanged back and forth with him, she often asked to see what his face was like. He characteristically responded, “One day, if I survive long enough.”
And so he did survive. He helped defeat the ravenous gnolls plaguing the region, and even defeated a ghostly ship, carrying the vengeful dead spirits of those killed in the massacre of the Elflands capital. Every time the heroes faced these deadly situations, time and time again, Decarabia almost felt that she was holding her breath for days, even weeks, until they returned. Only when she saw their faces - or helmets - was she able to breathe easily again. She sat at the edge of her seat as Cig and the others regaled tales of deadly encounters and monstrous foes. And through their stories and successes, she grew to believe in them again. They were even able to recover the body of Pino Chio, restoring hope that one of her fallen friends could be rebuilt.
It was on a warm evening, the last one of the year as the chilling winter breezes became the norm, that Cig told Decarabia that he was leaving to the distant city of Rel-Kadrar. There was business, a conspiracy that threatened the nation’s security, that he needed to stop. The journey would be long and arduous, and there was no guarantee of his success or survival. That night Decarabia asked Cig, pleaded him, to see his face before he left. At the very least, she could be someone who kept his memory alive. When the small man took off his helmet - showcasing the light yellow-green skin, pointed ears, and hooked nose of a goblin - she was taken aback. Not by shock, but overcome by an ineffable attraction to him. It wasn’t his appearance, but the fact that he was willing to trust her before anyone else, that welded the iron chain of fate between them. She still remembered the kiss she gave him, and the final parting words she left him. “No matter what, come back alive.” ---------- Decarabia, as she held a tray of beer-encrusted mugs in her hands, snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the door’s bell ringing.
“Um, excuse me,” she said, turning around. “We’re closed right no---”
The tray of glass fell from her hands, shattering on the worn wooden floor below. Standing before her, clad in the same helmet and armor she remembered (albeit with even more wear and tear), was an unmistakable figure. And as he took off his helmet, any lingering doubt in Decarabia’s mind was wiped clear.
“It’s been a while Decarabia,” Cig said sheepishly, his usual confidence stymied by the unfamiliar social situation. “I brought-”
Cig’s feeble attempt at offering explanations was cut short by Decarabia, crossing several strides of floor space faster than any of Cig’s foes ever had. Caught surprised, he was unable to avoid the swift slap delivered to his face.
“The nerve!” Decarabia said, tears welling up in her eyes. “You have the nerve to just SHOW up here! Without sending any word! You could have sent a letter! Something. Anything!”
“I, uh -” Cig’s protestations were cut off by further yelling by Decarabia, punctuated by a few more choice slaps. As this continued for nearly a minute, Cig reached out and forcefully caught Decarabia’s hand, loosening his grip once he had gotten hold.
“I kept my promise, didn’t I?” Cig’s words served to douse Decarabia’s burning fury. Cig continued, entwining his hand with hers.
“I wasn’t going to die, not with you waiting here for me.”
Decarabia’s eyes began monsooning tears at this, dropping her pretense of anger and embracing Cig and lifting him off the ground. “I...know you dummy. And I knew you’d be back.”
The duo’s tender moment was interrupted by a mechanical voice, devoid of emotional nuance. “I believe you owe me ten gold Christopher. My knowledge of romantic conventions suggested a 78% probability Decarabia would react like this. If you prefer, you can pay me in silverware.” The origin, a tall human-shaped construct made from metal and wood, stepped into view from the doorway.
“You have no mercy do you?” says another voice. A beleaguered red-skinned humanoid, clad in several ranged weapons - crossbows, daggers, and compound bows - also steps into view.
“Bark,” says a third individual. A massive worg, the size of a small pony, approaches the door from the night’s depths.
“Stop waxing philosophical Fluffy,” Christopher says, breathing a sigh of frustration. This clearly wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, that this massive mastiff would say something incomprehensible to anyone not proficient in the Goblin tongue.
Blinking away tears, Decarabia motions for everyone to join her inside. Her beloved Cig, her old friend Pino, the well-armed hobgoblin Christopher, and the enigmatic worg Fluffy. “I think I can pour out a few more drinks. We have a lot to catch up on!”
Cig, Fluffy, Christopher, and Pino all made it back to The Laughing Gnoll safely a few weeks after the coup. Decarabia embraced them with open arms. Cig and Christopher formed an independent band of mercenaries, taking on tasks offered to them that would pay well and keep them far from Sardivelia. Having fought the devilish foes, both kept channels open to the Rakkan military, The Shroud, and The Handgun in order to maintain information superiority. At the end of the day, the gang swore loyalty to no nation or organization other than their own, the regulars of The Laughing Gnoll. People joked that Decarabia was too busy to settle down with anyone, except for a regular patron of her tavern. In this case, the jokes had merit. Both Cig and Decarabia had newfound purpose in their lives, now that they were together again. -Written by Kush
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