Chapter Text
For creatures who lived for millenia upon millenia, the denizens of the Feywild Courts largely lacked the slow patience and affable nature that one might expect from creatures who had, quite literally, all the time in the world to spare. Instead, relations between the courts moved and changed with a ceaseless viciousness and hunger for vengeance from its leaders, the target of which shifted, it often felt for soldiers and citizens, week by week. This was doubly true for the Goblin Court and the Court of Hoof and Claw, who butted heads as frequently as they met minds, being as they were the most physically motivated factions, as well as the ones most willing to draw steel to solve a problem.
To walk through Goblin territory as a member of that shape-shifting court was to always be unsure of where one stood. The citizens of the Goblin Court, devoted as they were to their King, were nonetheless largely uninvested in the endless fighting that took place at their borders. They were, however, prone to playing tricks, particularly upon members of other courts, who were less likely to see an obvious trap coming than their fellow countryman. And there was, of course, the matter of the goblin soldiers, who, returning from the battlefield, held grudges against former combatants that were nearly impossible to satisfy.
But the skirmishes on the borders had long since fallen from stalemate to ceasefire to tense peace again, and the decorated Sir Wrackingspelt was not here as a soldier, but a diplomat. Though his hand twitched uncomfortably toward the battleax sheathed on his back, Wrackingspelt took a moment at the entrance to the city to calm himself.
A young Bariaur man of just under seven feet tall, Wrackingspelt knew that his strong goat body, curling ram’s horns and shining plate armor, on the best of days, struck an imposing figure, and on the worst of days, posed an irresistible challenge. He would need to walk slowly and steadily, allowing the proud colors adorning his tabard to stand as a white flag rather than a rallying cry.
A deep breath. A deep breath, Wrackingspelt. Then he squared his shoulders and began the long march to the Goblin King.
The heavy armor that Wrackingspelt bore left out of the question the possibility of a subtle entrance. It clanked and clattered where it shifted along the joints of his hind legs, announcing his arrival, even over the din of music, tinny laughter, and bargaining, to all those gathered within the cluttered mercantile entryway. As he drew nearer, many civilians’ eyes darted his way, regarded him suspiciously, and then turned back to their prior engagements with reluctance. The music continued to play, filtering out from a nearby festivity, but the chatter that hung above it before quieted, no longer as easy and raucous as it was before the unexpected entrance of an uninvited party.
Still, Wrackingspelt lifted his chin and continued forward. As itchy as it felt to be watched and observed, to be inspected, he knew that he had been chosen to carry his court’s missive for peace specifically because of his flashy appearance. The end of this most recent bout of combat needed to be a very visible procession indeed, to ensure its veracity in the eyes of its recipients.
As he went, he turned, surveying his surroundings with calculated interest. Piled into an organizational series that Wrackingspelt could not understand, the wares of the goblin mercantile were many and varied in the hands of the creatures who pawned them. Ceramic thimbles there, wooden needles here, mismatched socks there. He watched for a moment as a robed hobgoblin bartered for a series of spell components using a handful of broken feathers and pen caps. Raking his eyes away from that, he ran his eyes over a series of wooden crates and barrels, studying their labels, and suddenly found himself staring into the wide eyes of a bugbear.
Gangly and long-limbed, tufts of fur sticking up oddly from his adolescent body, he clearly seemed to think himself well-hidden, but the shadows that lay over him from the crates were not deep enough to disguise him. As Wrackingspelt tilted his head the boy’s way, a soft gasp visibly sucked into his chest, and he tensed, clearly fighting the impulse to duck back behind his crate while knowing that he had already been spotted regardless.
It wasn’t the first time that Wrackingspelt had been watched by a child as he passed through a city’s streets and, with his eye-catching figure, he was sure it would not be the last. But there was something about the little creature’s gaze that was different. His wide orange eyes regarded him with, yes, the frank awe of an adolescent seeing something strange, but also with something approaching recognition.
Wrackingspelt slowed in step and considered him carefully for a moment, before offering the slightest bow of his head. The bugbear’s claws gripped into the wood. After a moment, he imitated Wrackingspelt’s motion, his eyes glimmering in light. Then, holding his gaze, he nodded sharply to the side, indicating a point in front of Wrackingspelt. Wrackingspelt turned his head curiously to follow the boy’s indication, and when he did, he saw a single shine in the bright light of the midday sun, the quavering gleam of a hairline trigger in the path in front of him. Glancing back again, the goblin boy had vanished.
Blinking out of his misdirection, Wrackingspelt sniffed once, turned back to the road having adopted the stately gate of a decorated soldier, and continued walking as though unaware. Only a few paces forward, Wrackingspelt felt something tug, slip, and then break with a soft snick against the metal plate of his front right ankle, and suddenly he was doused in a flood of pond water. Looking up with a gasp, his sopping wet arms rising, dripping, to his sides, Wrackingspelt spotted the closing of a summoning circle above his head as a salt goblin, snickering, darted away from it. Around him, guffaws and cackles began to crackle out from the sides of the street. Wrackingspelt, heaving a performative sigh, shook himself inelegantly in a vain attempt to clear the murky water of his clothing, and in doing so he caused his armor to clatter spectacularly against itself, and the laughter rose further in pitch at his apparent befuddlement. He repressed a grin of his own at the sound.
In truth, Wrackingspelt carried a spell that could easily relieve him of the discomfort and make him perfectly presentable for his meeting with the Goblin King. To be greeted with such lighthearted trickery, however, was a treat that he would only receive in this court, and he was loath to shrug it away so quickly.
He attended the audience with the Goblin King soaked in pond water. It went swimmingly.