2. “A goblin cleric”
“I can’t believe you let it cook, Girard.” The knight shoved past the rogue, pushing him almost into the camp fire, turned cookfire.
“What, don’t be an asshole, Clement; the little one has talent!” Girard tsks.
“That thing? Talent? Khyrin’s big balls, it does! Has it ever washed its mits! It’s gonna put scabs in the soup!” The knight turned and spat at the feet of ‘the little one’, who dodged easily enough, carrying a pot to the fire, adding it to the assortment.
“Seriously, Clement, you’re being a dick.”
“What? It’s not like it has _feelings,_ ” Clement snorted, rolling his eyes. He sighs, finding a seat and putting his boots near the fire, nearly tripping the cook, growling, “Watch where you’re going!”
“Clement,” Girard hissed, raising his brows in warning. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The cook tinkered at the fire, stirring this, adding a little of something, playing about with something bubbling, turning a spit, mumbling quietly and petting the ladle in its hand.
“Bah,” Clement said, looking annoyed. “What’s taking it so long to make dinner, anyway?”
The little cook seemed to finish its murmurings, and perked up, taking the ladle from the larger pot and getting a scoop of this and that out of each of the simmering things, and then cutting a thick slice of meat from the spit and putting it in the bowl. Scampering around the fire, it used the ladle around its neck to scoop from a pot low in the ashes, and poured it over the top. Then, the cook went to to hand out the bowl, but when Girard reached for it, the goblin bared its teeth in a hiss. “No! Is special!”
Girard flinched back, looking stung.
Clement sneered, baring his teeth, and reached to grab the bowl out of the cook’s hands. “Special, is it?”
“For you!”
Clement dove in, a starving dog, slurping and eating like a ravening beast.
“Is good?” the cook asked, smiling up with big yellow eyes.
“Eh,” Clement said, dismissive.
The cook nodded, turning back, and used the ladle from the big pot to serve up a second bowl, a bit of almost everything, and a large slab of spitroasted meat. Something out of every simmering bit, except one, and then he offers it to Girard, nodding to him.
Girard took the bowl, frowning slightly.
“Eat, eat,” the cook said, gesturing.
“Yeah, eat!” Clement snorted. “Slop is slop — fills the belly.”
The cook’s ears drooped, looking at Clement, and then to Girard, hopeful.
Girard looked to the cook, moved to take a bite, hesitant, and then — his eyes widened, and he ate, happily, smiling wide. “It’s delicious!”
“Yes, yes! Delicious! Praise to the goddess!” the cook beams, getting up and getting its own bowl.
“Delicious!” Girard agrees. He eats, happily, saying, “It is delicious, isn’t it, Clement?” But he turned to look at Clement, who had tumbled over, dropping his bowl, dead.
“Delicious!” said the cook, waving the ladle about its neck. “Praise to the goddess!”
“Clement?” Girard whispered, shocked.
He looked over at the goblin cook, who rubbed a green thumb over its blessed ladle. “No scabs for knight. Just mushrooms!”
“Praise the goddess,” Girard said, and they both went back to eating his dinner. “Delicious.”
Writing Prompt
