Chapter Text
“Well, there was this one time…” The red-haired madman’s eyes twinkle as he taps his chin.
“I’d been captured by goblins, you see, but they are rather short and not always the best at knots, so I kept getting away.”
Candaith had been on a fairly banal scouting mission when he stumbled into the hidden hollow where the goblins had set up camp. Anlaf, the proprietor of the region’s only wayhouse, had complained of goats and even travelers’ horses going missing, and as the Dunedain Ranger watching over this reason, he considered this a matter under his purview.
The goblins disagreed.
A rabble, all with mismatched armor from much further south, they were clearly far from wherever they once called home. Wary wildlife of this region was not something they knew how to hunt, half of them starving despite the bones of horses and goats and even a few unfortunate travelers that littered the camp.
When Candaith’s foot snagged a hidden trap, they sprung on him and quickly overpowered him through sheer numbers.
At first, the goblins just tied his hands and left him near the center of their camp while they argued in harsh, guttural voices about what to do with him. The niceness of his weapons appeared to concern some of them, and what little he could make out of their speech seemed to be an argument over whether people would come looking for him or if it was safe to just cook him and be done with it.
Candaith had no intention of being goblin supper. As soon as they weren’t looking, he simply stood up and slipped away, crawling among the tall grasses with trained slowness.
He had made it nearly out of the camp before a lookout spotted him and raised the alarm. Clawed hands seized him, dragging him back by arms and hair. The goblins forced him to his knees against a rough wooden post, his hands tied now to the post instead of just one another.
Candaith spent the next few minutes working his hands down far enough to grab the knife from his boot. He tossed it just enough for it to flip around — risky but efficient. The knife made short work of the rope and he made another attempt, this time going slower and choosing his cover with greater care.
Unfortunately, he was once again spotted. The cut rope revealed he had used a knife, and this time the goblins weren’t taking chances. They swarmed him, stripping him of boots, belt, and tunic. He was dragged back to the pole, broad tattooed chest on full display. This time his feet were tied to each other behind the pole and an extra rope was secured around his upper arms. For good measure, a noose of rope was tied around his neck and then to the pole, forcing his back into an uncomfortable arch.
Rays of the setting sun turned the grasses of the Lonelands pink and orange as the goblins stoked a cookfire. It seemed like there was now an argument about how they would cook him.
But they hadn’t taken the sharp-edged Ranger brooch he wore around his neck…
Candaith’s audience looked skeptical about the accuracy of the tale, but it was agreed that this would certainly serve their purposes.
A square-sided wooden post was set up as Candaith stripped down to loincloth and necklace for the pose. Soon enough he was trussed up, grinning cheekily, and the portrait-maker got to work.
Orchalwë watched with amusement, arms crossed. Once the artist had enough done for the redheaded Ranger to be released, the older rogue called out a taunt.
“Come on, Candaith, let’s see if you can re-enact your great stunt!”
For the first time that afternoon, a flash of concern lit the tattooed madman’s eyes — he had indeed exaggerated some details.
Candaith tried. He really did. But with the rope on his neck, he had no way to get the brooch in any position to use as a knife. Finally, Orchalwë took pity on him and cut him free, laughing the whole time.
The redheaded Ranger rubbed his limbs, shaking out the strain from holding the pose, and turned on the one-eyed rogue. “Alright then, you go next, old man!”
