Elf and Bear: Fleshbag

“What’s this?” said a gruff voice, and Thornbriar felt a rough hand grip him by the shoulder and lift him painfully to his feet.

The elf shook his head and blinked his eyes against the flickering firelight.  His muzzy sight focused and he found himself looking into the pinched and stony face of a goblin.

“Who are you?” the gangrel creature growled, giving the elf a shake.  “Answer up quick, or me and my lads will put paid to you without a fare-thee-well and not think twice.”  There was a chorus of snarls all around.

Thornbriar looked about fearfully.  There were seven goblins in all, standing around in what was plainly a make-shift camp.  Although none but the leader was as tall as the elf, they were broad at the shoulder and brawny.  All were dressed in tattered clothes and battered mail and armed with bows and spears.  The leader carried a sword, rusty and notched, which he now drew and held up to the elf’s neck.

“Talk!” ne hissed.  “What are you doing here?”

“I am Thornbriar of the Field Folk,” the elf twittered, the rusty sword tickling his throat.  “My home is far from here.  I went wandering and got lost.  I didn’t mean to trespass on any goblins!  Let me go and I’ll leave you alone, and never come back here again.  I swear!”

“Don’t you do it, Cap’n Fleshbag,” growled a goblin with an eye-patch.  “I say croak him now and hide the corpse.  Lot safer for us in the long run, I dare say.”

“Dehead ‘im! Dehead ‘im!” shouted another standing next to the fire.  “I hates all elves!”

“Who don’t?” said Fleshbag.  He lowered his sword. “But I got a better idea.  Gimpy, fetch out the leg-irons.  We don’t want our guest leaving too quick.”

While a short goblin with a twisted foot hurried to obey his orders, Captain Fleshbag looked Thornbriar up and down.  “Here, that’s a nice hat,” the goblin said.  “I’ll take that.”

He reached out and took the tall blue hat off the elf’s head, obviously savoring the elf’s anger and helplessness.

The goblin placed it on his own round noggin, tilting it at a jaunty angle.

“Now then,” Fleshbag said, as Gimpy came forward and snapped the leg-irons around Thornbriar’s thin ankles.  “You are own prisoner of war, and my personal slave, until you’re ransomed or the end of your miserable life,   I don’t care which.  You’ll cook and clean and carry for us all, though, and your first job is to get supper ready.  Pigbottom, show him where the food and pots are.”

A squat, fat goblin came forward to lead Thornbriar away while the Captain leaned back into a comfy drift of leaves between the huge twisted tree roots that stuck out of the creek bank.

“I’m taking a little nap,” Fleshbag announced, “and I expect to eat in an hour.  It better be good, elf.  Lads, you can keep the whip handy so he don’t get lazy.”  He pulled Thornbriar’s hat over his eyes and stretched out in exaggerated comfort.