“It does teach that, but you went above and beyond. What you did was brave, and selfless, and, dare I say, noble.”
Comprehension dropped on Thistle like Grumph after too many shots of dwarven whiskey. “Ohhh, no. No no no no. No way. Look at me, you know this doesn’t work.”
“I’ll admit, you’re not exactly what most gods look for, but I don’t get a lot of options from my following. Besides, technically speaking, I don’t have to ask, you know.” Grumble walked forward until he was only a few paces away from Thistle. “I can just give you the calling, and then it’s there, and you’re stuck with it.”
“Aye, you could do that. But I don’t think you will,” Thistle ventured.
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re the god of the minions: those who are already shoved around and controlled by the powerful. If you were the kind of god who did that, you’d never have chosen us to look over in the first place.”
Grumble gave a brief nod. “You caught me. I don’t force this on anyone. If you tell me your final answer is no, then I’ll let it be. You can consider what happened with the dagger a divine boon, and go on your way.”
“My final answer is—” Thistle kept mouthing words, but found his voice no longer functioned.
“You could at least hear me out,” Grumble said. “That would be the polite thing to do.”
Thistle gave no response; however, he did close his mouth and cease his attempts to talk.
“Good enough. Anyway, there are perks to what I’m offering. Increased strength, a significant bump in endurance, and the ability to bless weapons, not quite as extreme as you saw tonight, but still impressive. Plus, there are the non-combat boons: some divine magic, prayer priority when calling your god, and, of course, healing.” Grumble leaned forward on the word “healing,” so close that Thistle could feel the breath from his snout.
“If you have something to say, please just say it,” Thistle urged, glad to hear his voice had returned.
“The woman who was with you, she’s not long for this world, and Grumph will only be a few days behind her. Demon claws are nasty things. The damage they do gets in the blood, rots the body from the inside out. Herbs and time won’t save them. They need healing magic, the kind powered by a divine backer.”
“That’s your deaclass="underline" do what you want, or you let my friends die?”
“Thistle, I’m not the one who attacked them. I didn’t unleash those demons. Honestly, if not for your prayer, I never would have known about any of this,” Grumble said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m not trying to bully you. I’m offering a way to save them, something you wouldn’t have any other way to do. Without this conversation, they’d have just died and that would be the end of it. I’m trying to help.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Thistle said after a moment’s consideration. “But it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re helping in a way that gets you what you want.”
“I am still a god, after all. There’s a certain way these things are done.”
“Aye. All right then, you win. I’ll do it, on one condition.” Thistle paused for the barest of instants. “Madroria.”
“Your wife?”
Thistle nodded. “As long as serving you won’t put me in a place where I can’t see her in the afterlife, I’m in.”
“My word is given. When your time in my service is done, I will ensure your spirit is reunited with your wife’s.”
Thistle felt a surge of power, one that rippled out from his god and seemed to pulse all around them. One thing you could say about gods: they always kept their promises. They were bound by them.
“So, how do I do this?”
“You just promise to serve me, and then you wake up,” Grumble explained.
“I promise to serve you,” Thistle promptly replied.
“Really? That’s it? I mean, I don’t get many of these, and I thought you’d put a little more theatricality into it,” Grumble, well, grumbled.
Thistle choked back a sigh, which was the warning sign of a sarcastic retort. He was going to be working with this deity for some time; it would serve them both better to keep things civil.
“Oh, mighty Grumble, god of minions and henchmen, overseer of them who keep the world running, yet remain overlooked, I pledge myself to your service, and swear to uphold your standards while glorifying your name.”
“Much better,” Grumble said with a smile. “Welcome to my service, Thistle the Paladin.”
When the gnome re-entered the tent, flanked on either side by a bewildered human and a half-orc whose bandages were now removed, the goblins were a touch confused. When he jostled his way to the side of Gabrielle, moving others aside politely, but firmly, they grew concerned. It was only when he pressed his hands on her stomach and the dim glow of golden light began emanating from them that they put everything together. At their capture, the goblins had assumed these folks were searching for a quest, looking to become adventurers, yet not strong enough to actually go by the title. Once the light faded and Gabrielle’s eyes flickered open, there was no doubt left.
In the battle, something had changed. One of them, at least, had become a true adventurer.
Despite the divine patch-job, it was several more hours before Gabrielle was cleared by the goblins’ medical team and allowed to join her friends. She found them at one of the few tables not destroyed in the previous evening’s chaos, eating a few bits of jerky and large amounts of fruit.
“Pull up a seat,” Eric welcomed, motioning her over. “There wasn’t much meat that survived the fire, but a big gathering party rounded up plenty of apples and berries this afternoon.”
Gabrielle nodded and sat down next to Eric. He looked different, somehow. It took a moment for her to realize that he’d yet to re-don his armor. How many years had it been since she’d seen him sans reflective protection? It seemed to have done him good; his back was straighter, and the usual pained expression was nowhere to be seen on his face.
“Not to pester, but I wanted to make sure of something,” Thistle said as Gabrielle piled her plate full of various fruits. “I assume they didn’t send a runner this morning?”
“Definitely not,” she confirmed. “After last night, they aren’t ready to take on a band of adventurers. They need time to rebuild and refortify. Besides, they said it didn’t seem right, keeping us after we helped them. As far as they’re concerned, we’re free to go.”
“Good,” Thistle said, nodding his head. “I’d already chatted with them and gotten that story, but I just wanted to make sure they’d told you the same thing.”
Gabrielle’s hand froze, a fistful of grapes suspended mid-way to her mouth.
“Thistle, you don’t speak Gobleck.”
“Correction: I didn’t speak Gobleck,” Thistle said. “Technically, I still don’t. Everything they say sounds to me like it’s being said in the Proper Kingdom Language. Presumably, they hear my responses in Proper as if I’d said them in Gobleck.”
“That’s impossible,” Gabrielle pointed out.
“Not really, it makes ample sense. Goblins are one of the most frequent races used as minions, and as such, they are devout worshippers of Grumble. It seems perfectly fitting that a paladin of Grumble should be able to speak with them.”
“You’re not a—”
“I am,” Thistle said, cutting her off. “Unlikely as it sounds, I assure you, I am. Presumably, they told you about your miraculous healing?”
“Yes, but I just assumed they were mistaken, and some other traveler had done it. We all sort of look the same to them,” Gabrielle replied.
“It was me. For better or worse, last night changed a few things. I think it best we discuss those, and alter our plans as needed before moving beyond this point. Goblins don’t talk much with travelers, but in a few days, we’ll reach Appleram up the road. Whatever identities we introduce ourselves as there will then be set in stone, because changing them could end with us coming out as frauds.”