Chicken was running. He liked running. This was because while Chicken was running, he wasn`t being pummeled and bitten by the horde behind him. And so, Chicken liked running.

　　This wasn`t just a flat-out foot race against the angry mob, however, because the terrain in the geyser field wasn`t laid flat. It was broken, like a smashed ceramic plate amidst a pile of other smashed ceramic plates. The rocks jutted out of the ground, laying on top of one another at odd angles, baking in the noon day sun. The horizon flickered with illusory water. Chicken hastily clambered up a steep incline and leapt down to the surface below, his scales protecting his skin from the blistering rocks.

　　He grabbed a large and twiggy scrub bush, its roots clinging to a vertical surface for dear life, for a quick right turn. He bunny-hopped down each haphazard surface to the next incline. Try as it might, the jagged path was no major hindrance and he masterfully maintained his momentum and balance. Chicken climbed and slid and clambered all while carrying the large brown mushroom in the crook of his scaly arm. He juggled it constantly to free up either hand, elbow, shoulder, or to shift his weight to maintain his pace and course.

　　A calamity was chasing him, the mob hurling insults in Gobbledygook. They were incomprehensible, but stung him nonetheless. They were certainly words more heinous than "thief". The goblin language is increasingly versatile in that any phrase may be augmented to yield insult. Chicken had no way of knowing, but he was being described in acute detail, every aspect of him cursed and likened to all manner of slime, ichor, and unpleasantness. It was like an exacting verbal portrait, from a palate of raw sewage, on the expansive side of a hog.

　　Chicken looked back, despite his better judgement. He had yet to see the body of the calamity, the mob of goblins angry at him for stealing their precious mushroom. For interrupting and ruining their goblin boil. They had no reason to believe he wasn`t the cause of the drop of water that had fallen from the sky, so they channeled their malice into the chase. The riotous tide of sharp-toothed, red-eyed, pallid-skinned, dirt-encrusted goblins from the goblin encampment scourged hand and foot over the obstacles with none of Chicken`s grace, but with bonus points for passion. The nose slits on their faces flared with effort, keeping their bodies moving and curses flying. The long pointy ears on either side of each head bobbed in all directions with the constant motion.

　　Luckily for Chicken, the few with crude or rusty weapons were in the back of the mob, slower for being unable to use of both hands. But it was a mere consolation. The ones in front were liable to get the job done before a blade could ever reach his skin. He instantly regretted the glance. It might be the last thing he ever saw.

　　Up ahead, the terrain looked hopeful. A wall of red rock in the distance. It was debatably less dangerous than a mob of angry goblins. Chicken ducked under a desiccated log as he slid down a short incline, only to start climbing the sheer face of the cliff in front of him. He hoped it had enough hand holds to get him to the top of the seven foot rise. It was his only choice in this dead end, and the mob was gaining. Hand over hand with steadily deliberation, he ascended.

　　Halfway up, Chicken slipped and he lost purchase. His left side swung out. He clung tighter to his prize while painfully digging his claws into the stone. If it was hot from the sun, he couldn`t tell and didn`t care. The mushroom was making it hard for him to climb. He stole another glance at the enraged goblins, who were quickly approaching the base of the cliff, and decided he was close enough to the top for this next maneuver.

　　He chucked the giant mushroom over the ledge above him.

　　With his hands free, he could recover his grasp and make it to the top. A lucky throw saw the mushroom sail above the top of the wall and out of sight. Hopefully nothing carried it away by the time he got up. It was the only evidence of his tale, if he could make it out alive to tell it.

　　He started scrabbling up the last yard with both hands. A last heave at the top and he had made it, face down but over the ledge. With his snout against the hot dusty rock, he took a moment to catch his breath. His lungs hurt, his mouth was starting to dry out, and his muscles burned. Come to think of it, his joints ached slightly too. Judging by the sound, the calamity grew closer, congregating at the bottom.

　　So colorful was the goblin language, he couldn`t hear any of the curses being used twice this whole time.

　　He pushed himself up on his knees and looked down at them. They weren`t making great progress. Even as he watched, the highest lost their grip, falling heavily to the ground again. They hadn`t even made it halfway.

　　One goblin wasn`t even making an effort. It stood on a stone behind the rest and looked up at Chicken, frowning.

　　Chicken recognized it as the chef goblin.

　　It pointed a large wooden paddle up at him and spoke something garbled, mostly unheard among the rabble. Chicken shrugged and backed away from the ledge. A half-dozen stones sailed over and pelted him, and he recoiled. Rock chuckers.

　　Counterintuitively, he felt relief at the pelting of rocks. Goblins would fight a closed door before looking for a window. If they were struggling this hard, then he had time to grab the mushroom and finally lose them.

　　He scanned the area.

　　There was some greenery up here, and some puddles among the pitted landscape. Evidence of a nearby geyser. Growing from the plants were various and sundry items. There were books, leather-bound and ready to bloom into fully edited manuscripts. Mirrors grew on stalks arranged to reflect the sun`s light where it was needed. There was a bush armed with slingshots with flowers on their elastic, ready to launch the seed pods as soon as their flowers were pollinated. Small rocks were hovering slightly above the ground.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　Despite having actively sought this out, the sight nonetheless opened a pit in his belly. Young kobolds, younger than Chicken, learned to fear and avoid the geysers near their home. The store of wild magic that ran under the land, mingling with the geothermal energy and subterranean mineral water, was powerful. There were unpredictable and potentially deadly effects ready to be wrought upon the unwary. In the geyser field, water meant wild magic, and wild magic meant danger. Almost as much danger as a mob of vengeful goblins.

　　He searched for the brown football-sized mushroom among the steps, swoops, branches, puddles, and alkaline colors. He brushed against the slingshot bush, which fired a few shots prematurely. Everything looked a little organic, and not unlike the mushroom. How good was his throwing arm, really? The brown cap had a little heft to it, that is true, but it wasn`t particularly aerodynamic. How bouncy was it? It looked fleshy, like it would plat instead of bloing, but maybe its looks we`re deceiving.

　　The sooner I find it, Chicken thought, the sooner I get out of here. He looked at one of the hovering rocks, and at once what looked like a solid object shifted perspective suddenly. Now it looked like a depression or hole in the air. The facets and edges were now somehow embossed features. Something slithered out of this hole in reality and into one of the other rocks - similarly now a gash in the fabric of existence - before the perspective returned to normal. The magic must be building, he thought, and shivered despite the heat.

　　He focused instead on the narrative of these events he would tell for those at home. Chicken, Goblin-bane. Chicken, Geyser-walker. He weighed the two. Both had an impressive overtone, but he thought they didn`t sound great together. Maybe if he used them in his story they would inspire an even better title. A noise caused him to glance back at the ledge.

　　A solitary goblin had just managed to clamber onto his level. Chicken was out of time. He would have to give up on his prize and return to the group empty-handed, with no proof of his escapades. They would scoff, or worse, they would laugh at the recount of his heroic deed. He couldn`t give up yet. He batted bushes and kicked rocks. The goblin behind him, not stopping for a rest, rasped a shrill war cry.

　　There! In the shadow of a scraggly scrub of barbed wire lay the mushroom.

　　The goblin charged Chicken.

　　He dove, hurling himself against the prickly bush, the metal barbs and dry wooden twigs vainly scraping against his sturdy scale armor.

　　The goblin was almost on top of him, and here he was, prone, with the mushroom on his belly like an otter with a clam.

　　In desperation, he opened his mouth fiercely and gave a reptilian hiss.

　　HHHHSSSSSSS!

　　It was somehow louder than even Chicken had expected, and something went ping in the goblin`s head.

　　It froze.

　　The hiss, and Chicken`s sharp teeth and claws, gave it pause. It realized for the first time that it was no longer in a mob. The goblin`s face shifted from anger to concern at this epiphany, and it lowered its arms. They stared at each other.

　　Before the goblin could mentally change gears, it realized its legs were shaking. This was not because of fear but due to a sub-audible tectonic rumble.

　　The ground hissed again. A final warning.

　　The stone exploded in a torrent of hot water and pulsing auras.

　　Chicken covered his head, protecting his vitals from falling debris, scalding water, and the intense rainbow colors.

　　When all was clear, he looked again. There was no more goblin.

　　Looking around, he noticed some new goblins had just made it over the ledge to see the spectacle, their faces plastered with astonishment.

　　He counted his limbs and felt his face. Satisfied he was still whole, and apparently still Chicken, he composed himself. Fighting wobbly legs, he stood up while carefully maintaining eye contact with the closest goblin.

　　Hesitantly, coping with his sudden success, he said, "I`m keeping this. Don`t take any more steps or you`ll really get it. I`m serious."

　　He didn`t know if any of the goblins spoke his language or not, but he felt he needed to say something. If they did understand, the things made no sign of comprehension. They just stood there, dumbly, with that same worried look. The same look he had seen on the goblin that was no more.

　　Backing slowly from the goblins before turning to run, Chicken stole away with the mushroom.

　　Chicken was running.

　　****

　　The mixture of half-steam, half-scalding water blasted through Kthakrk`s soft, slimy body right as the thief-lizard had hissed at him. It had taken another couple of moments for the water to clear and for the thief-lizard to run away with the tribe`s Secret Ingredient.

　　Despite this, Kthakrk didn`t feel like chasing it.

　　He didn`t feel like much at all.

　　"Well now, let`s have a look at you," a voice said. It hadn`t been Kthakrk.

　　It was a weary voice. A kindly voice.

　　When the former goblin turned to look at the speaker, Kthakrk discovered it had come from a short old lady in a plain dress and apron. Her curly brown hair came down just past her ears, framing an elegantly wrinkled face, which featured a pair of intelligent eyes. She was sitting on nothing.

　　She hovered solidly in the air, lounging on an unseen bar stool or similar. Next to her was a tray of cookies, similarly sitting on an unseen table.

　　The old woman, who was not goblin, nor human, nor anything but what Kthakrk could describe as "old woman", held between two fingers a short, thin white stick which Kthakrk didn`t recognize. One end of the stick smoldered with a wisp of smoke curling up from it. She held it to her lips and breathed in through it, exciting the ember with the rush of air, and then breathed out a plume of smoke.

　　She stood laboriously and walked the few steps to the disembodied goblin.

　　He asked her a question in his own chaotic tongue.

　　"You are dead, Kthakrk," she replied, seeming to have understood. "The geyser blasted you quite thoroughly." Her tone of voice was threadbare and well-worn.

　　Kthakrk was shocked at how adeptly she pronounced his name. He was doubly so when he realized that he could understand her.

　　The goblin asked another question, the sound of someone gently smashing lightbulbs on wet sand with a rock.

　　She listened patiently, sympathetically.

　　"No, it wasn`t that kobold`s doing," she said with something like fossilized compassion. "It was just time for the geyser to blow. It`s best not to dwell on it. Especially not you. Not now."

　　She added the last part hastily, before Kthakrk could hammer out a rebuttal from walnut shells and smashed bricks.

　　"There is something else you can do instead," she said, reaching over to the hovering tray. "Eat this cookie."

　　She held up a chocolate chip cookie the size of a saucer. Kthakrk had never seen a saucer, much less a cookie.

　　"Tell me all about your collection of shiny things. I know you keep it in that box you don`t tell anyone about. I`ve been watching you with interest, and I can`t say I`ve seen a more impressive store of trinkets than those you`ve been curating."

　　The genuine interest in her voice caused the goblin to grow excited. Kthakrk took the cookie.

　　Not pausing to chew between bites, Kthakrk gabbled to Death about his bits of shell and metal ores.

　　As he talked, she nodded and asked questions.

　　The two faded, and Kthakrk thought his last thought in this world.

　　He thought it a damn good cookie.