Brunhilda and the Wyrm (mmmf/m) and (mf+/fm)

[leconteur]

The Tobico mine was full of stories, mostly those of warning. You’d think you would have to be mad to go into such a place if the tales were any indication. But he had been going every night for three nights straight. She was pretty sure he’d found something valuable. Obviously the mine itself played out long ago and it was mostly coal that they’d been looking for. Rumor was something else was found, a buried French colonial era treasure, but Old Whistlin Jon had put that all down to, “a few cannon balls and officer buttons the miners found near the surface. See folks always tend to drift towards the claim of ‘treasure’ because in a way finding this stuff yourself, it’s kind of a real treasure to you. But others, eh most won’t see it that way. I’ known many who use to sell artifacts back in the day, the eye of the beholder type thing was a big part of it. Sure someone might throw money at you for a set of musket parts. But generally it’s just junk to most.” Notts had often gone to the man of, well he must be at least 60, for advice. Of course they always made a show of wanting to sell something they’d picked up on night’s work but it was really to engage with the old timer. Notts did not generally like the company of most people. Some old folks they could stand, especially Whistlin Jon.

“Don’t go wanderin’ around there Notts, ain’t worth it. You remember what happened last time you ran afoul of one of them’ clinkers?” Notts got red in the face, Jon often did this bit of paternal stuff despite being no more than very distantly related to Notts (a fifth cousin maybe). Notts had ran into some tweakers who had been looting a Hopewell burial mound near the local park. Notts always steered clear of such places when it came to their own work. But the lights off in the distance had drawn Notts in. They’d been finishing up a bit of mudlarking and metal detecting in the park and had seen the flashlights. The looters had found Notts out and it had taken Notts five hours to get loose enough from the rope and tape the clinkers had wrapped them up in to place a call to Whistlin Jon.

“They coulda killed you Notts, you’re lucky they were just small time addicts and that the stuff they were pulling out wasn’t so good as they thought it’d be.” Notts remembered with a bit of subdued anger how the tweakers, two men and two women, had just tossed the skeletons out on the ground next to their bound form. “Poor indians these ones. Just some broken pots, not even decorated much!” One of the women kicked a small but almost complete pot over in frustration, breaking it, revealing a small turtle shell inside.

Notts had gotten a good look at the crooks though. It pissed Notts off that the assholes had taped them up, but it was nothing compared to desecration of human remains and burial pots. Notts had always been involved in what might be seen as “quasi-legal” digging and metal detecting that yes, might damage historical sites. But something about those Notts knew who engaged in grave looting always made the 20 something explorer very uncomfortable. They were not the same, they obviously did many of the same things, but for very different reasons.

Whistlin Jon’s words penetrated these thoughts, “they give all of us diggers a bad name.” Notts was genuinely interested in history but ultimately did the work as a form of survival. A few bad jobs in the past for entitled Karens and Tims had led to difficulty securing work in the field of home repair. Notts had especially hard times on the wealthier ridge top side of town where the deep pockets were. The neoliberal aristocrats might mouth the words of inclusivity, but they didn’t know what to think of Notts. Notts’ birth certificate said that they were a female, but to tell the truth Notts never felt very feminine, even when mom put them in a dress or a swimsuit. Notts dressed decidedly male to most onlookers, but that had more to do with being a carpenter and less to do with some desire to be a man (apparently a popular opinion among the clientele based on poorly concealed whispering in next rooms and through open air ducts). Notts just wanted to be Notts. Why couldn’t these supposedly educated Karens and Tims understand that?

Knotts had met or ran into many of the sort like the clinkers but had usually been careful enough to steer clear of them or at worst outrun them. This guy was different. He carried books and other objects in, but didn’t seem to be bringing anything back. In fact it seemed like he was on some sort of strange scientific expedition with all of the books and his well chosen outfit. Knotts would have known if it was a legitimate archaeological investigation though. They had their ear to the ground for such activity.

The man had so far seemed to not be aware that Notts had been tracking him to and from the mine. He was calm and had none of the sketchy head turns and looks this way and that you’d see among the clinkers. This time though he had failed to return at the usual time. Notts was inquisitive. Ever since a young age phrases “curiosity killed the cat” failed to scare Notts off.

Upon entering the mine, and it was a tough choice given the history of the place, Notts heard some whispering. Drawn like a moth to flame, Notts put a hand to the wall and followed the twists of the tunnel. A small source of torchlight was eventually visible. “You’ve got to believe me Gar! The prices have gone up on those earbuds. It’s inflation, nothing I can do, wait what are you doing with that?!”

Notts put their hand over their mouth to stifle the surprised gasp. There were four goblins. Notts did not know what else one would call them. Green men with pointed ears and devious grins. They had evidently captured the off the books researcher. He was in a hogtie on the floor of some sort of encampment, arms bound behind the back and attached to the feet with strong thick cordage unlike any rope Notts had ever seen.

“What is it the hoomans say? ‘Put a sock in it’? Yes, I believe that is how it goes.” The largest of the goblins was standing over the bound form of the explorer, holding two socks which had evidently been removed from the man’s feet. Notts’ nose wrinkled in disgust as they watched from a concealed position. The goblin pushed one sock into the man’s mouth and tied the other around his head tightly holding the mouth packing in with a double knot that bit into the corners of his lips.

Notts didn’t really know how to process the sight on display before their eyes. Should they go get help? But just then the troop of goblins began to drag the man away, the leader who had spoken before saying, “you are coming with us, the chancellor wishes to speak with you.” Shit, shit, what do I do? Notts was not about to let them carry the man off.

"Mr. Rava, which by the way I doubt is your true name, you are making entirely too much noise. These large ears of ours can hardly stand your 'inside voice' and this is rather more than we wish to stand for our journey. Belagone, your sash. The smaller of the goblins, much more feminine looking, took off the sash holding her falcion in place on her back. The sash, of a crude and thick woolen-like material seemed to absorb the pleas and angry grunts and murmurs of the now thrashing captive.

He did not seem excited about the promise of meeting with this "Chancellor." A fine wooden knitting needle from Belagone's hair was sufficient to hold the knit work tightly in place over the man's lower face. They continued to drag the man away with mutters about "how nice it was to hear oneself think again" and "hoomans should be seen not heard."

Hell Knotts didn’t even know the guy. But they just had to follow, like the band of brothers, or perhaps more honor among thieves, there was an unspoken kinship here. Taking a deep breath for courage, the young hero began to carefully pursue the goblins and their fellow adventurer in distress.