We’re exploring the corest of our core characters today: our dearly beloved Goblin’s Head. When I was a kid, I had a book called What It Feels Like to Be a Building (Forrest Wilson), and I’m not going to pretend that wasn’t a contributing influence. Enjoy!
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The building that was the Goblin’s Head did not feel, in the traditional sense.
Having observed mortal humanoids for several hundred years, the inn knew that they felt all sorts of sensations. Pain, tastes, touch, heat and cold—all of these were foreign to the inn. Its body was constructed by loving hands, long ago, of stone and wood and iron, with mortar and nails and tar holding these pieces together. It hadn’t been aware of what it was then, but it remembered, down to its foundation. But this foundation did not ache with age, nor did the rattling of its shingles make it shiver, nor did the feet of hundreds of people wearing down their floorboards tickle.
Sensation was foreign to the inn, but emotion was a different animal.
The inn did not have eyes or ears. What it had was the vibrations of its components, of the air breathed inside, a sense of where every part of itself was. The tables and chairs were the inn, the bar was the inn, the bottles and plates were the inn. Nothing happened in the inn that was a secret to itself, and it knew the positions of the chickens in the sideyard, and which kegs were getting low, and what was being served for dinner. It knew every word spoken within its walls, even if it couldn’t technically hear them. It knew each of its inhabitants—the quiet original owner, the boisterous family, the jolly captain and his boys, and now dear Tessa and formerly her daughter, and from the moment it had awakened, the inn knew what it was to love, and be loved.
Today it knew love because Tessa had awoken and filled the oven with bread dough, and then patted the oven fondly before going about her business. The inn didn’t need acknowledgement, but it liked acknowledgement. The day was off to a pleasant start, and the inn felt pleased. The beloved adventurers left for their day of travel, and the inn waited until any guests who did not want to move were clear, and then—
The inn imagined—imagined! A building that can imagine! A thought the inn marveled at even as it was wondering—the inn imagined that it was like breathing. A broad, wide, deep inhale, a gathering of purpose and energy, collecting not only its own intention but the intention of the adventurers as well. And then an exhale, a release of the only sort of magic the inn really knew, and it was somewhere else.
“Where now?” Tessa wondered idly, taking the bread out of the ovens. “Ah, more snow.”
The inn took Tessa’s word for it, and determined not to let its steps ice over.
It felt especially cozy inside the inn on a snowy day. Everyone said so, and the inn thought it was true. Slowly through the day, people trickled in, seeking respite from the snow or a bit of home, or maybe just curious if this inn had always been here.
This was, of course, when the trouble started.
There were many interesting people in the inn today; none so interesting as the inn’s chosen adventurers, of course, but the inn did what could charitably be called listening and found each guest fascinating in their own way. One particularly fascinating guest seemed to be called “Clarence.”
Clarence was loud, and ordered many drinks. The inn at first believed that Tessa would be pleased by that, because a jolly atmosphere made for a pleasant and profitable evening, but then the inn noticed that Clarence’s words were brash, and every time he spoke, there was a large and uncomfortable silence. Ah. Clarence’s words were not jolly, but offensive and obnoxious.
Tessa commented to that effect. Clarence did not take to her suggestions to either shut his loud mouth or leave; in fact, he opened his loud mouth and said more and worse things.
This would not do.
Tessa was in agreement with the inn. She took the sturdy club from behind her bar and told Clarence exactly what she would do with it.
And then, Clarence plucked the club out of Tessa’s hand.
This would not do at all.
The inn could not speak, although sometimes it tried to make itself understood by the creaking of its rafters. The inn attempted this now, a threat to Clarence in the form of a loud and terrible creaking. The distressed noises of the other patrons gave the inn hope that it was working, but Clarence began shouting again, and as clearly as if Clarence had been wiggling the inn’s finger, the inn could feel him swing the club at Tessa.
He missed. Tessa was quick, and Clarence was drunk and belligerent, but he only had to be lucky once. A humanoid like Tessa was so fragile.
The inn felt a rare emotion: anger.
Effortlessly, the inn made two small motions: it loosed two nails in its floorboards and released a link of chain holding one of the chandeliers up.
Clarence slipped on the loose floorboard, his feet flying out from under him, and was pinned by the chandelier in the same moment. Other patrons converged on him, kicking the club away, dragging him out of the inn and tossing him into the snow.
There. A good work done.
Everything was chaos for a little bit, and then the guests settled back into a more comfortable evening, and before long the beloved adventurers reappeared. Tessa, for her part, seemed none the worse for wear, and was back to business as usual in moments. Luckily, the club stayed tucked behind the bar for the rest of the night.
It was not until later, when Tessa had cleaned up and closed for the night, that she paused to lay a hand on its wall and took several deep breaths. She had been shaken by this evening. The inn was glad she was safe.
“Thank you,” Tessa sighed, and patted its wall. “Thank you very much.”
It was the inn’s pleasure.