(c) Nin Harris 1998-2007

Incongruous, considering his past existence, but not his current persona, Ackbroll of the Silver Spear greets the day from a mangled patch of marigolds. He squints and groans at the light slicing into his retina. Which mischievous wind-sprite had left him here, just beyond the limits of Nemorosum Somnium?

Grumbling, the spear-bearer scratches his bare chest and scrambles to his feet. Or tries to. In fact it takes him several tries before he is finally upright. Muttering curses under his breath as memory emerges in sluggish increments, he damns the goblins for bringing him so far in their drunken revelry. A pounding head evokes fanciful images of Polyphemus and his brothers going at him with stone mallets. Ackbroll sneezes, then winces at the slight motion that creates. He remembers the feeling of exhilaration induced by goblin mead, and utters a dirty word.

“Confounded goblins!”

Ackbroll picks up his silver spear and trudges back to the Nemorosum Somnium. There had been a fabulous moon last night, hence the revelry that had occured, spontaneous as bird-song. The different hunters and the gatherers of the woods and dell had been present, including several honey bears, a congregation of squirrels, badgers and beavers. The dryads, hamadryads and the naiads had all joined the feast by the River Oesna, and the river deity had left her hidden place of slumber to bless the revels. There had been several members of the Seelie Court present.

Ackbroll remembered two dusky boys with wings a hybrid between that of a brown night-moth and the feathers of a bluebird. There had also been a generously endowed faerie maid with rippling blue hair and a magnificent plumage which was a mixture of peacock feathers and that of a kestrel’s. A glittering lapis lazuli had been embedded on her forehead. They had danced, She flirting with him the whole time. Later on, after the goblin mead had loosened her up, he remembered rolling in the dirt, convulsed with laughter at the profane jokes she had regaled him with, primally concerning the man who had kept her for several decades, an obscure playwright whom she referred to as The Bawd. He – she pouted in the retelling- had also written rather misogynistic but very clever sonnets about her. She had then proceeded to detail how she had exacted revenge upon the Bawd for his impertinence.

Ackbroll winces now, even as he re-enters the sanctuary of the Forest’s cool green light. Bare feet padding upon a carpet of ferns, he picks up his pace when hunger assails him. He reaches out a hand to pluck a guava off a branch. Trained in the ways of the forest, he warbles an apology to the tree’s guardian spirit, in a less than mellifluous voice. The juice from the guava beads his parched lips as the ever disheveled woodsman moves deeper into the forest, his brain’s lucidity improving as as the fruit’s sugars slowly work into his bloodstream.

Apart from the odd hangover-filled mornings, thanks to goblin mead, and the many times he had risked being mauled by an over-friendly tiger cub, life was relatively satisfactory. Lately, however, the nightly revelries were beginning to take its toll. He had awakened on a marigold patch, of all things! In bright sunlight! Ackbroll grumbles, throwing his silver spear in the air, thrusting his body into the air in a cartwheel with an animal shriek before landing in a half-crouch, his spear clenched between his teeth. In truth, he is a bit alarmed at the way the days are sliding into each other, and the lack of focus in his life. Don’t ask him to admit it though, he won’t. Not ever.

The spear had scared the peacock faerie yesterday, he remembers, even as he brushes aside the nagging thought at the back of his head. He had informed her that it kept the members of the Unseelie Court away too.

The faerie had been one of the more interesting ones he had met ever since the meeting with Him had brought him here, and changed his life. Her head-dress had been studded with gemstones and purplish-blue plumes from some denuded bird of paradise. She had worn it to some mortal revelry called a ‘Mardi Gras’, she had informed him. She boasted of the many mortal pockets emptied with skill, contents appropriated as due tribute. She also snickered over a certain over-amorous human turned into a ram.

Her laugh rang out against his shock, pointing out to him a man with dark honey skin, glowering at them from across the purple-green bonfire. He had curled horns protruding from his forehead. She had grown so fond of her pet that she had allowed him to become at least partially human, she had gloated. Scratching his head now as he stands within a hollow, Ackbroll remembers how he had shivered as he stared at the man with the diamond embedded in his forehead before the heat of the moment and the temporary euphoria of the mead lifted him to the heights denied him by the wild maiden.

Ackbroll grunts now. His shoulder has been punched, none too gently. Whirling around, he glares at the distorted hairy visage of Griller the goblin, whose face cracks open in something bearing strange resemblance to a grin.

“Aszhag!”

Roast chicken is dangled in front of Ackbroll’s face. He boxes the goblin’s ears in a tribal gesture of gratitude, then tears into the juicy flesh, making loud, uncouth sounds that would have horrified his under-secretaries, not to mention the higher-ups in the government he had left behind. He shrugs away the thought as he fills his queasy stomach with a delicately spiced meal. It had probably come from the kitchen of the wizard. No one cooks chicken as well as Zelgar. Ackbroll looks up mid-chew, giving Griller a questioning glance. The goblin shrugs and spreads his furry paws stained with chicken juices wide. Ackbroll sighs- some compensation will be required to soothe the wizard, undoubtedly wrathful at the loss of a fine meal. Grumbling under his breath, he wraps the remains of his breakfast with a handful of large leaves and a long dried weed. He attaches the result to his denim cut-offs, scavenged from the corpse of a foolish mortal who had tried to turn an albino tiger into a pet.

Bare feet stamping on brown leaves, Ackbroll whirls, tossing his silver spear overhead as he whizzes through the air. His wild long hair brown with streaks of varicoloured dirt blends with his golden brown skin. The sound of heavy, mortal feet trampling over the underbrush sends him scampering for the trees. His agile, goblin-trained hands and feet find easy purchase up a rain tree and soon, you’ll find him perching on a broad, overhanging branch. Below him, a group of young men and women stroll leisurely under the canopy of leaves, twigs and branches, holding hands and chattering animatedly as tiny pixies flew in cluster above them. A couple of dwarves carried long staffs and baskets laden with food. Ackbroll whistles irritably under his breath. Fools and their overpaid guides! He sprints from branch to branch, following their trail while muttering goblin imprecations under his breath.