We’ll see about that, Ren thought with a smirk. Because now they had an idea – a very, very good idea – one that Pansy was all but guaranteed not to like.
3
Pansy
Dirt has been and will always be a halfling burrow’s greatest enemy. The principle of keeping it out underpins the very construction of our homes, made manifest in plaster walls and plank flooring. Remember, dears, just because we live underground, doesn’t mean we have to show it!
ELLA MERRYWEATHER,HOME IS WHERE THE HEARTH IS
Although Pansy had been anything but serious when she’d made that quip about getting a new goblin housemate, it seemed the universe was determined to have the last laugh, even if it came entirely at her expense.
To say that today hadn’t gone according to plan would’ve been a tremendous understatement. Granted, Pansy’s three-point “plan” relied on a generous interpretation of the word; its second step, lodged firmly between “acquire cottage” and “live happily ever after”, little more than a long series of question marks. But even so, finding her grandmother’s cottage –hercottage – beset by a longtime squatter didn’t seem like the sort of situation any amount of foresight could’ve solved.
Though, perhaps said squatter wasn’t quite so longtime as they would’ve liked her to believe. As Pansy wound her way through the cottage’s expansive halls, she couldn’t help but notice that most rooms were largely bare. With more plants than furnishings, the cottage seemed closer to an overgrown garden than an actual home. And while Pansy could believe that goblins didn’t share her own people’s propensity for decorating every last shred of available space, surely even they needed more than a tattered, halfling-style armchair and a handful of other equally worn pieces.
So, Ren lied to me. What a surprise. Pansy scowled, more frustrated with herself than anything else. Only a fool would take a smirking goblin’s claim at face value, especially in matters of ownership. But she’d confront Ren about it later. Right now, there was still so much to explore.
Because unlike her parents’ burrow in Haverow (and halfling burrows in general), the cottage wasn’t confined to just a single level. Instead, it pushed deep into the earth, leading Pansy lower and lower via a series of wooden steps. There, the polished floorboards of upstairs gave way to rich, black dirt (necessitating a quick trip back up to retrieve her shoes), and the air, once bright and warm, was cooled and thickened with moisture. If Pansy hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she’d just stepped intoa cave. But this wasn’t a cave; this was aburrow– just one that was a little rougher around the edges than most.
An expansion in progress! Yes, Pansy concluded with a satisfied nod, smiling at her own good thinking. Clearly, her grandmother – or perhaps whoever had owned the cottage before her – had simply not gotten around to putting in proper walls or floors. Once those were in place, there would be no question that this was a halfling burrow. But until then…
“I suppose a few carpets would go a long way,” Pansy mused, surveying the space. “Maybe some nice tapestries, too – to cover the moss growing along the walls. And those icky mushrooms. But then again…” She tapped a finger against her chin, considering. “They are kind of useful, glowing like that. Who knows how dark it’d be down here otherwise.”
Far too dark for any halfling to see; that was for sure. Even now, Pansy struggled to navigate the murky gloom, ever-pulsating with eerie bioluminescence. It was no wonder, then, that she eventually tripped, her foot catching on a bit of raised stonework, jutting just high enough to be a hazard.
She went down hard, landing in a graceless heap. The dirt, at least, was soft where she fell; though Pansy couldn’t bring herself to feel grateful for it. The sting of indignity was too great to be soothed by such a small mercy.
Ignoring the twinge that had hooked into her ankle – a dull throb that was hardly worth any measure of concern – Pansy staggered to her feet. She dusted herself off, grimacing at the dampness that now marred her skirt in twin points by her knees. Hopefully, getting the stains out wouldn’t take too much scrubbing.
Cursing her clumsiness, Pansy whirled around in search of her inanimate assailant. Her eyes landed on a small, stone circle,jutting out of otherwise unbroken earth; not quite a dais, but too large to be a mere steppingstone. It sat alone at the space’s midpoint, its placement purposeful. But for what, Pansy couldn’t say; unless it was simply there to trip the unaware.
Squatting down, she squinted closer at the flat stonework, her fingertips skimming across its surface. Strange swirls unfurled beneath the pads of her fingers, flowing into one another like the tide. They clung to the stone’s edge, creating a circle within a circle. Indecipherable, yet familiar nonetheless.
“They’re runes,” she whispered, awe sweeping the breath from her lungs. She’d seen them before, stitched into her grandmother’s favorite, magically warming blanket. Not these same runes – it wouldn’t make much sense for a random stone to heat up – but similar enough that a thread of recollection, nestled somewhere deep in Pansy’s brain, pulled taut.
“I wonder what they’re for,” she murmured, a question her own limited knowledge of magic would struggle to answer. That was the realm of elves and gnomes; not halflings, who “should know better than to muck about with that nonsense”, as her mother had once put it. But perhaps there was a clue in her surroundings.
She glanced around, her eyes straining against the greenish half-light. However, apart from a couple of dusty old rugs, rolled up and shoved in a corner, there wasn’t much to be found; this part of the cottage was just as empty as the last.
That being said, therewasa stone archway embedded in the wall ahead of her, its surface decorated with an intricate pattern of drooping wolfsbane, identical to the plants growing along its base. But it led nowhere, its center revealing nothing but flat, unblemished rock. No seams or anything. Just another unfinished project.
“Add it to the list,” Pansy grumbled.
Still, those runes didsomething. Was it too much to hope that they might help her with her current goblin predicament? Maybe. But that wasn’t going to stop Pansy from noting them down on the small notepad she usually kept on hand. Just in case.
Had Ren already come across them? she wondered as she slipped the notepad back into her apron pocket, her shopping list now accompanied by a crude rendition of the runes at her feet. Better not to take any chances, she decided.
Seizing one of the old rugs she’d spotted earlier, Pansy dragged it over to where the stone was. She unfurled it, coughing as the motion loosed what must have been a couple of decades’ worth of dust, and laid it out over the runes.
“There!” she said, smiling at her handiwork, the slight protrusion that remained easily dismissed as one of many wrinkles. “Totally hidden.”
It was then that something solid brushed against her leg, quelling her triumph with a sudden deluge of ice-cold fear. Pansy jumped, letting out a high-pitched squeal that she hoped wouldn’t make its way upstairs. Looking down, she found a familiar pig staring up at her, its head cocked to the side in confusion.
Pansy let out a breath, the tension unspooling from her shoulders. “Oh, it’s just you, little thief.” Bending down, she gave the creature a light scritch underneath the chin, which it received all too eagerly. “That wasn’t a compliment, by the way,” she added, when the pig pushed itself more squarely against her palm.
After a minute of petting, punctuated by ever-more-pleased-sounding snorts, Pansy finally withdrew her hand, much to the pig’s dissatisfaction. When it realized it couldn’t persuadePansy to resume her ministrations, it snuffled over to the rug and began pawing at it with one cloven hoof.
“No, no, no. Let’s not do that,” Pansy said, gently nudging the pig away with one hand. “It’ll be our little secret, okay?”
