Dawn crept over the horizon. In its wake, pitch black changed to greys, and greys changed to color, bringing a new day. A day that, on a cosmic level, was functionally identical to the one before. The word "cosmic" here is generally used for its definition "pertaining to, or containing, worms." A gardener may attribute the success of his prize winning zucchinis to his cosmic soil, or may be told by an equally disgusted and medically fascinated doctor of his cosmic bladder. This is all to say, the worms would never know a new day had dawned.

　　Chicken woke up, having not realized he had slept. Things were now happening in the goblin camp, and he found he had not made a daring escape overnight and was still tied to a pole next to a giant bubbling pot. He was sore in many places, having been denied simple comforts like bed clothes, room service, and freedom of movement.

　　A procession of goblins was approaching the scaffolding in an almost reverent procession. Armed goblins with grim faces led the way for what looked like robed individuals.

　　Among them was a frail and saggy goblin, wrapped in a scrap of cloth like a shawl, who was moving in a way more comfortable than quick. It was attended by the several robed goblins. They were helping support the old and teetering thing, keeping it from keeling over dead, which looked more likely with every step.

　　The smell from the pot was making Chicken woozy. Breathing it all night made his throat and sinuses feel like they were coated in algae slime.

　　Several eons later, the procession reached the mezzanine, at the top of which Chicken was tied to his pole. They at least didn`t hurry the old goblin.

　　It was hard for Chicken to read their stony grim faces, so he spectated, idly wondering who this goblin was. There wasn`t much else for him to do, and it got his mind off the boiling pot sitting just below the edge on the other side from the procession.

　　When they reached the top, the guards checked and double-checked Chicken`s bonds. An attendant placed a seat, a short wooden tripod stool, on the other side of the platform from him.

　　"I`m surprised you don`t creak when you bend," Chicken muttered as the old goblin sat down.

　　"I lucky to have reached old age," it said in a voice like cobwebs and rust, "unlike you. I live full longly. It makes me happy."

　　Startled, Chicken forgot to process the garbled words. It had spoken to him in his own language.

　　While he played them back in his mind, the goblin continued, "I happy to contribute to goblin tribe. It the least I can do." It sounded mournful.

　　Chicken regained his footing, so to speak.

　　"If you can speak my language and gobbledygook, you can tell them to let me go," Chicken said, now fully caught up. "I`m not tasty boiled. I don`t meet the qualifications for a roast."

　　There was a popping and creaking noise. What Chicken had thought was the stool rocking under the old goblin was in fact laughter.

　　"No, no," it said eventually, "Gobbos no make mistake. You sacrifice. You get to be part of goblin boil, just like I."

　　Before he could elaborate further, a hooting noise started down below. Chicken noticed there were no more goblins in the distance bringing fuel to the fire. They were all gathered around the pot, looking expectantly at the chef goblin`s tent.

　　With a smart flip, the tent flap was cast back and the head chef appeared.

　　It stepped out majestically and the crowd cheered. The chef goblin held its hands up for a moment and soaked in the praise, then ducked back into the tent, quieting the crowd. Making another entrance, it came back out to even more raucous approval, holding a great brown mushroom aloft.

　　Chicken could only just hear the quiet old goblin over the crowd.

　　"Secret ingredient for goblin boil. Make it special. Make it goblin boil."

　　Chicken realized the old goblin was talking about the mushroom the chef goblin was holding, staring at it as though enamored by the fungus.

　　****

　　Amerigo had been flying for hours.

　　The bubble of sea water in which he was suspended had been soaring at speed the entire time.

　　He hadn`t screamed at first, having lived his life in silence since becoming the reef caretaker. It wasn`t first nature to him any more. Fen, having no vocal cords, couldn`t scream, but he was digging into Amerigo`s scalp with each leg and claw.

　　There was no sensation of wind, just of unearthly movement.

　　By now, there was nothing left for Amerigo to empty from his stomach, though its attempts at trying again were coming at longer intervals. The water was disconcertingly cloudy.

　　The back of his mind, Amerigo`s calm center, calculated that his trajectory had leveled out, and only now was the bubble starting to return to the ground.

　　Just not in so many words.

　　Today`s sun was rising over the edge of the world to his right, pink-ening the clouds and blue-ening the sky.

　　Some said the world was flat, and having seen it at this height, Amerigo could believe them. The horizon stretched out in a straight line in both directions, disturbed only by the large formations which dotted the wastes.

　　The sun, those same people said, was different every day of the year, with each passing over the earth in turn. Supposedly they were a kind of bioluminescence, like what some denizens over the drop off employed, designed to foster life on worlds which passed through the digestive tract of a giant worm. But a digestive tract that recursed on itself. One complete pass through the cycle marked a year. Diagrams in textbooks show what the academics long deliberated, measured, and attempted to disprove.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

　　The tract was a figure-eight. The straight-aways, with no bend in the curve, were short intermediary parts of the year, spring and fall. Either end of the figure-eight, the world and suns swapped the inner track. With the suns on the inside of the curve, they were spaced further apart, allowing the nights to be longer and to cool the bolus, enacting winter. With the bolus on the inner track, the suns are angled such that the rays converge more closely, shortening the night and overall heating the bolus. This is their summer.

　　And this is one story among many told to explain the change in seasons and the course of the year. This one has the benefit of being true.

　　Stormhaegen offered no insight, and required no doctrine, regarding any one belief about the physical nature of the universe, so Amerigo was free to speculate at his leisure.

　　Right now, as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out again, he had decided the universe was simply too big, too fast, and too much.

　　****

　　The head chef climbed the scaffolding much more nimbly than the old goblin did. He was practically dancing, swinging at the switchbacks, and trying to stay in the view of his adoring public.

　　The crowd exploded again when he made it to the top.

　　He moved from one side of the platform to the other, playing the crowd, getting each side to out-scream the other by waving the mushroom around.

　　Chicken noticed a sharp metal knife dangling from the chef`s belt, the only untarnished metal he`d seen since he had arrived.

　　At a gesture from the head chef, the crowd quieted to half their enthusiasm.

　　It was just enough for the chef to shout over them, launching into his monologue for the occasion. Unfortunately for Chicken, he spoke in gobbledygook.

　　"Chef say, today is momentous day," the old goblin translated, "Today is day of goblin boil."

　　Its expression was one not of helpfulness, but one that sought to torture Chicken. The chef shot a glance at the interruption, displeased, but clearly unwilling or unable to stop the old goblin.

　　Chicken tilted his head at the goblin playing the crowd.

　　"Chief? He`s your chief?"

　　The old goblin shook its head vigorously.

　　"No! Chef! Chef!"

　　It pointed to its own bald head. Chicken looked back at the chef hat on the other one`s head.

　　"And what are you?" Chicken hissed at him. "Are you one of their priests, here to bless the meal or something?"

　　The creaking sound again. It found Chicken`s plight funny. The chef`s monologue continued over the slight noise.

　　"No, no. I sacrifice too. You, me. Sacrifice. Important for goblin boil."

　　The chef hit a beat in his speech. He gestured respectfully to the old goblin, who stood at the cue. The attendants had returned as if out of the air, Chicken not noticing their arrival in the confusion. One had affixed a ramp leading down to the lip of the pot. A short pier over pungent bubbling muck.

　　The chef and attendants were suddenly more reserved, bowing respectfully to the aged goblin.

　　"It is time," it said turning back to Chicken, "I sacrifice. I happy to go. See soon, other sacrifice!"

　　It was disrobed and helped willingly into the goo, its face locked in a peaceful expression as it sunk below what had to be scalding liquid. The fire had gone through the night, the hot liquid keeping him warm through his imprisonment.

　　Chicken`s mouth went dry.

　　The old goblin did not come back up.

　　After a few moments, the crowd decided it was time to cheer again, and the chef switched back to his previous stage-drunk attitude.

　　He bounded over to Chicken and leaned over him. With a crisp sliding sound, he produced his knife. Looking him in the eye, he gabbled something indecipherable only to Chicken.

　　Though fearing for his life, Chicken could only reply with a confused, "&what?"

　　Apparently satisfied, the chef hopped over to the pot again, tempting danger by skipping right up to the edge of the ramp.

　　Holding the mushroom and knife aloft, he finally concluded his monologue, emphasizing the last three syllables and igniting the crowd yet again.

　　He started to chop the mushroom in his hand.

　　But before the first cut, he froze like a statue.

　　The crowd hushed, waiting for what outlandish bit of showmanship he was going to spring on them in these final moments. In the silence, there was a light keening sound, previously unheard behind the cheers.

　　It was growing louder.

　　The crowd looked around anxiously, everyone trying to find the source. It was coming from everywhere at once. Chicken heard someone shout "Gobbedygoo!" and saw a member of the crowd pointing up.

　　He followed the finger and saw, coming in fast from above, the world`s biggest raindrop.

　　And it was screaming.

　　****

　　The ground was coming close fast.

　　Below him, Amerigo could see a crowd of ants in a semi-circle around a fire with a tiny pot over it.

　　The scene was rapidly growing beneath him, filling him with a fresh new panic.

　　He suddenly realized he`d been screaming again.

　　The ants became more distinct, but unrecognizable. The toothpick structure grew into one apparently made of logs.

　　The pot grew from a thimble, to a campfire pot, to something the size of a temple bell.

　　No matter how he flailed, Amerigo was stuck flying face first towards-

　　****

　　Chicken braced for impact while the chef stared up, too stunned to move.

　　The raindrop hit the scaffolding, against all expectations, with a hollow bloing.

　　The bubble rebounded, sending the mezzanine swaying. Chicken felt like he had just been flattened by a squishy boulder.

　　For a brief moment, the bubble hung in the air as if thinking about what it should do next.

　　Then, having decided, the bubble burst.

　　A torrent of frigid, salty water hit the mezzanine and the pot, drenching Chicken and suffocating him. The ocean water sluiced into the stew and over the fire. A wave rolled over the audience, sending them to the ground. The sounds of rushing water, screams of terror, hissing fire, and splintering wood overtook Chicken`s senses. The weight of the water hitting it again, the amateurish scaffolding gave away.

　　Chicken fell harshly to the ground.

　　He thought in bewilderment that he would drown in, of all places, a wasteland goblin encampment.

　　Then it was over.

　　Chicken coughed violently. The air filling his lungs was much more humid and salty than he was accustomed to. Sitting up, he saw the goblins were still completely floored. They lay around in various states of unconsciousness.

　　He also saw the beloved mushroom sitting innocently within arm`s reach.

　　This was the moment of his daring escape. Who else but Chicken, mighty hero of legend, would have not only survived capture by cannibal goblins, but also would have taken their holy relic. The catalyst to their ritual slaughter.

　　So he took the mushroom and ran, the sounds of his plodding feet slapping the wet ground, while dazed and waterlogged goblins slowly got their bearings.

　　He took no notice of the pile of limp kelp laying motionless nearby.

　　****

　　"Stop! Stop him, he`s getting away!"

　　Stormhaegen had the screen analog in both hands, shouting at it like an invested sports fan. The mice clung to the edges, unperturbed. This is a metaphor for the ineffable, after all, and they were in no danger of being shaken off.

　　One mouse tut-tutted.

　　"It was close, but that only matters with horseshoes, not holy men. Anyway, you`re caught up now." Both mice detached from the screen. They scurried back to their transcription.

　　The storm god pulled his attention from the clairvoyance device. "What do horseshoes have to do with it?"

　　"It`s a mortal saying," the other mouse said.

　　But Stormhaegen didn`t hear. He was already heading for the exit.

　　"I`m going out again," was all he said.

　　"Getting a bit liberal with the miracles ," one of the mice said. The snide hook stopped Stormhaegen.

　　"And why shouldn`t we be?" His hand was effectively on the door handle as he spoke, not looking at the mice. "There`s more to life than paying bills, Scribb. At some point it`s time to stop listing and start living." The sounds of writing stopped. "What have you done that`s beautiful lately? It`s a messy process, making beauty. Progress doesn`t stay in lock step with quota."

　　Scribb didn`t answer, instead fostering a silence, which Stormhaegen broke after some moments.

　　"You should get out more. Take a walk. Loosen up, you know?" He smiled mischievously and added, "You might find the experience&mice." He left immediately.

　　One of Scribb groaned, but despite himself, the other snickered.

　　Outeb showed no reaction, impassively watching the clairvoyance machine follow the golden kobold as it fled with its prize.