Sludge felt a swift, flat prod from behind. It had been staring out at a wide, sun-beaten lake for the best part of a morning, trying to figure out how it could wrap its newfound fleshy hands around the murky-green creatures that glided through its waters.
The voice grumbled again. “Hello—ooo?”
“Pard? You drank a few cups there fella?”
The sludge spun to face him, slack jawed, slightly taken aback by the viscosity of its own second-hand limbs. Its lip dropped and hung loose.
“Mighty!” chimed the man. He was old and jagged in places but his eyes were kind. His leathers and hide clothing were strapped neatly about him, tied and clasped in place by a series of well-kept brass buckles. He was leaning on a short staff of lacquered wood, but at the sight of the shambling sludge lumberjack before him he took a step backwards and planted it to the firm mud in balance.
He gathered himself, embarrassed.
“Mighty sorry there, pard,” continued the man with a grimace. “Recognised ya face there. You’re that fella that works the lumber yard over in Pickleberry, ain’t it?”
The kind man’s face dropped for a moment and he glanced out at the water.
“Sorry ‘bout your loss there. Heard you’d been looking for the boy out yonder that way, didn’t venture you’d be coming by this far.”
In an awkward jumble the man switched his hand clasping the staff several times, then eventually settled on planting his meaty left palm on the lumberjacks shoulder. He nodded firmly.
“Hope you find what you’re looking for there, big fella.”
There was a sadness to his voice. He nodded once more and left, rambling back into the dense forest while whistling a sorrowful tune.
Sludge soon followed after him. It was hungry, sure enough, but something about the man scratched a curious itch deep in the recesses of the sludge-psyche. It didn’t exactly want to eat him, but it felt as if this leather-clad adventurer could offer much more than sustenance.
It didn’t take long for the old man to realise he was being tailed. Sludge wasn’t exactly stealthy, and the lumberjacks' heavy footsteps crunched their way through stray sticks and bushes. Although the creature had no beneficial concept of time, after twenty or so minutes Sludge realised that the old man had disappeared completely.
It stopped dead in the path—only to spin and face a razor sharp arrow drawn and taut at its throat.
“Don’t take kindly to being tailed in these parts, pard. Me and my kin been on the right side of the bait line for nigh on fourteen generations now. Don’t plan on changing that either.”
A peculiar feeling washed over the creature; waves of panic and revulsion that seemed to stir and spurt from deep within. They took control. Oddly and suddenly, the creature kinked its neck and hotched it at a funny angle. A strange and familiar voice followed.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Don’t … dont b-be need that mister,” spoke the lumberjack in a drawl. “Just hungry is all. Figured a man as yourself might… might be kind enough to h-hunt.”
The voice cut off and waves of rage crashed down deep with the Sludge-psyche. The creature felt violated, saturated in a fleshy tomb—quick to the realization that it was only partially in control of this pudgy fleshling. For a moment, in an odd and slightly embarrassing revolt that felt something like jealousy, it tried to speak in its own tone.
[Sludgespeech locked. (Req. Sludgeweaving +1)]
The creature opened its mouth and a black dribble of viscous silt and sludge slid down its chin to the floor.
Slluurrfff…
The old man grimaced but then his kind eyes and smile kicked back in.
“Aye, pard. Aye, of course. Must be starving there. Been a long beat for you.”
He clasped him by the shoulder again and nodded.
“Camps just over yonder. Slim pickings but let’s get you bushmarked.”
By the high-afternoon sun, the old trapper had taught Sludge how to tie a slip knot and string a dead fall; bringing out some innate deftness in its fleshy fingers that seemed oddly natural yet surreal.
By the cool evening, after Sludge had hidden in the shrubbery of the bush for hours on end waiting for a rabbit to take the bait and trigger the trap, the old man took out his blade and began processing meat from the bone.
Sludge sat perched and poised, transfixed by the deftness of his blade.
“You start here,” he demonstrated, “with the belly.”
A small incision followed and entrails slurped and plopped to the forest floor. Sludge’s eyes grew wide and it lurched down to start gnawing at a string of intestine.
“No, n-no!” Cried the old trapper. “Not the guts. Not yet anyway. Needs some flame and butter afore we’re eating any offal.”
Sludge backed it’s fleshy paw away slowly, fascinated by the tutelage of the old man in front of him. Bizarrely, somewhere in the recesses of its ancient sludge-lizard brain, it nodded in repose and sat back.
“N-not … guts,” croaked a strange voice from the lumberjack vessel's throat.
“Aye,” chuckled the old man. “Aye, that's right. Not guts. Not unless they're cleaned and fried in some butter and fine spices.”
The old hunter smiled at him for a moment, the two of them crouched beside the fire, softly glowing in the crackle.
“Say,” he continued, his cheerful brow darkening for a moment. “Take it what you found weren't for much merry-making. Your boy… I mean.”
Sludge stared absently at him, his lumberjack eyes tracing from the offal to the blade to the fire and back to the old man. The silence didn't make for any comfort, and after a while the old man let the pause deflate like a stuck pig's bladder. He slid the blade between the rabbit hide and the fluffy fur—peeling it apart in an old habit.
“Aye,” he said—his voice cracking a bit. “Aye, spose you didn't. Spose we never do, really. I lost kin much the same a lifetime ago. Still dream of her from time to time. Polla, she was. Have to say her name out loud save I’d forgotten her by now.”
Sludge stared absently at the old hunter. His lumberjack breath was heavy and his lumberjack throat would make an odd snoring sound as he grew accustomed to the roiling and recoiling of air and gasses seeping in and out.
“Long time ago—long, long, time. Back when them green skinned bastard goblins held dominion over the mire. Pickleberry weren't nowt but tall trees and piles of rock. She was a curious girl, Polla. Skin like a milky winter snow.”
He looked up from the rabbit skin. His eyes locked on the sludge and its pudgy lumberjack form.
“I was about your age when I found her. Face down in a ditch near a crab pool. Flayed from forehead to pinky toe, she were. Imagine she'd made a mighty fine shawl for some green-cheeked goblin-queen.”
The old man’s nostrils flared as he stripped the hide fully from the fur, the blade shimmering in the firelight.
“Goblin scum,” he hissed.
Sludge eyed him with his lumberjack eyes.
"Gob..lin.. scuuum,” it groaned.
[Quest accepted! Avenge the Old Man’s… Daughter? Sister? Unclear. Kill Goblins.]