“For how you want to kill yourself.”

Pocket shook his head. “I’m not doing that! I’m just lost.”

“Well,” Muckle placed a broad, thick fingered hand on his shoulder and made a grand sweeping gesture with his big club. “This is the grand city of Black Pool. It rests on the northeastern shores of Airlann, also known as the Source Isle. Cold winds and chilly rains are typical here especially during the current Age. It all began some four thousand years ago when--”

Pocket brushed his hand away. “No. I am looking for the billier’s shop in Cauldron Town and I got confused. I have a message to deliver there and--”

He stopped himself. He was on an errand for Sir Corc and thusly, the Order of the Valiant Spur and should not be sharing that with anyone, much less a corpulent goblin who was obviously moon-brained. He tried to think of some way to excuse himself, but found he was standing by himself. Muckle had already moved off down the riverwalk, his long, ludicrously pointed shoes flapping on the stones.

“Well I’m off,” he called over his shoulder. “Have to see the bell-founder in Cauldron Town! Having myself cast in an enormous brass bell, you see! Thing of beauty! The crown will be fashioned after my own head and the clapper will be my…Anyway, pleasant meeting!”

This goblin may have been some kind of fool, but Pocket did not consider himself one. He saw his chance. “Wait!”

He caught up to Muckle and fell in beside him. The goblin said nothing, but began to whistle jauntily and with some skill, leading them away from the riverwalk and towards a flight of steep stone stairs. He was quite nimble despite his weight, but Pocket had to fight back the giggles as the goblin let out a short, sharp fart with every step upwards. Muckle stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, causing Pocket to bump into him.

“Pardons.”

“Why?” Muckle replied and then leaned down to whisper. “Did you fart?”