With gilded fence posts, elaborate ivy carvings, and a fountain with no actual water, the Bimbleton residence loomed before them, a grotesquely lavish display of wealth and bad taste.
And in front of that very gate, bellowing like a deranged naysayer in the middle of the town square, stood Anders. “BIMBLETON! YOU FESTERING TOAD! SHOW YOUR COWARDLY FACE! SHOW YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW YOU DING-DONG KING-KONG!”
Blorbo, still strapped onto the cart, cringed so hard he felt his wood grain tighten.
You’re literally asking them for a favor. Why’re you cursing them out?
The guards at the gate, two poor souls who probably didn’t get paid enough for this nonsense, stood stiffly. Their faces froze as if they wanted so badly to flinch and frown but couldn’t.
One of them cleared his throat. “Sir, please—”
“DON’T ‘SIR’ ME! I KNOW HE’S IN THERE, HIDING LIKE A ROTTEN TURNIP! YOU TELL THAT BLOSSOMING BUTTOCK THAT ANDERS WOODYWISE DEMANDS HIS PRESENCE!”
Lena, standing next to Rob, pinched the bridge of her nose and looked at him hesitantly. “Dad.”
The old man screamed even louder, “BY THE ANCESTORS, IF YOU DO NOT OPEN THIS GATE IN THE NEXT TEN SECONDS, I WILL SUMMON A DREADFUL PLAGUE UPON YOUR FLOCKS! I WILL ENSURE EVERY CABBAGE YOU EAT FOR THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS TASTES FAINTLY OF SOAP!”
This man was probably not the archmaster negotiator back in the days.
The gates creaked open, and out came Master Bimbleton in a ridiculous velvet robe as if that was the only color he knew, embroidered with obnoxiously intricate gold filigrees. Five guards flanked him, standing at attention like decorative furniture.
“Well, well, well,” Bimbleton drawled, voice dripping with condescension. “If it isn’t Anders Woodywise, the esteemed foreigner, gracing my humble doorstep with his usual… charm.”
Anders growled, “SHOVE YOUR FAKE POLITENESS UP YOUR BLOSSOMING—”
Bimbleton cut him off with a pointedly smug smile. “Now, now. Do keep your voice down. You wouldn’t want to frighten the decent folk, would you? Oh—wait. My mistake.” He tapped his chin, mock-surprised. “Oh wait, you would. You’re not exactly beloved in these parts, are you, Woodywise?”
Robert cleared his throat, stepped forward, and spoke in a measured tone, “Master Bimbleton, we’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Oh? Are you now?” The corner of Bimbleton’s lips curved. “My farmer cousin has spoken. And what, pray tell, does agriculture want from high society today?”
“We were hoping for information,” Rob replied. “Someone broke into our house last night. They didn’t take anything except for a set of knives—”
“Twelve knives,” Anders interjected, glaring daggers at Bimbleton. “All with immaculate craftsmanship and imported steel.”
Bimbleton blinked once. “Ahhh. And you suspect that I, Pierre-Philippe Bimbleton, would lower myself to common burglary?”
“No, we suspect you know who did,” Lena cut in, arms crossed. “Who in town deals with imported magical artifacts, odd relics, or good interior decorators?”
“Oh, Lena, my dear.” Bimbleton’s entire demeanor morphed into a saccharine sweetness of a snake oil salesman. “Why didn’t you just say so?” He glanced at the table.
Lena was about to speak, but Bimbleton had already interrupted her, “Ah, I see you brought your table as well.” Finally, he turned on his heel. “Come in, come in! Let us discuss this matter properly. Over tea, of course.”
Rob clenched his jaw, forced a smile, and followed his wife inside, all the while saying nothing. Anders muttered something spitefully, but Blorbo’s Perception was too low to be able to listen to it.
***
Instead of being led to a cozy sitting area with a kettle of tea, the three were led by Bimbleton and his butler, ushered down a long lined with paintings of Bimbleton’s commissioned paintings of himself. They passed through the corridor until they arrived at a cavernous room that was noticeably colder than the others. It didn’t help that Blorbo unsocked legs had to touch the marble floor, and that sent a chill up his non-existent spine.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
With one arm outstretched, Bimbleton announced, “Here we are. My collection of masterworks.”
Before their eyes was something akin to a museum exhibit. So many tables. But the most noticeable piece was a mahogany table placed at the center of the room. Its legs were sculpted to resemble rearing lions, claws extended and paws bracing the floor. “This one has never lost a duel,” Bimbleton commented.
Beside it stood a velvet ottoman, an obnoxiously large piece cloaked in Bimbleton’s favorite color with a tufted top so overstuffed it practically looked like a cloud. A little to the left, positioned against the far wall, was a baroque cabinet with doors made of polished Sapient Pearwood and inlaid with gold.
Lena muttered so softly that Blorbo could barely hear her, “This man only runs a trade guild… But he’s richer than some Lords.”
“Even Lords might not get to touch Sapient Pearwood in their lifetime,” Anders whispered.
Sapient Pearwood? Sapient? Is that thing like me? Ayo!
But Blorbo was already carried away.
As the walked toward the far corner of the room, Bimbleton pointed toward a small table. “And now, my friends. I present to you my weakest piece.” Even though Bimbleton claimed it was his “weakest,” there was nothing humble about it. The table was crafted from polished obsidian, and the edges were softened with swirling patterns of silver inlays. It had a design of elongated griffins wrapped around the legs, their wings raised as if they were about to take flight.
Look at all these beautiful furniture! When am I going to be as magnificent as them? While they sit here exude power, I have to sell cabbages and touch ribbons! I’m tired of these lowly, irrelevant quests! Give me real challenges! Give me something to fight! I want a horse, a sword, and shiny armor!
Anders scoffed.
Lena eyed it warily. "Surely this couldn’t be the Master’s weakest piece?" she echoed. "This looks like it could feed a kingdom."
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” Bimbleton grinned. “The craftsmanship is indeed impeccable, but it’s... overly simplistic for my collection. Far too plain to be of true value, don't you think?”
I mean, this thing has got nothing on Elviswood. Although obsidian looks posh, they’re rather cheap and brittle in comparison.
“Why are you showing us your collection of tables?” Rob asked.
“Why of course.” His grin grew wider, before it turned into teeth-gritting. “I would like a rematch. A table duel. And since I granted you my mercy by picking my weakest piece, I get to choose the type of duel.”
Gulp.
A large, glaring red exclamation mark appeared above Bimbleton’s head, blinking ominously like a warning light in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Blorbo had never seen that before, but he knew what it meant.
[NEW QUEST: Table Duel – A Rematch of (Non) Legends]
Objective: Accept Bimbleton’s challenge for a table duel and win.
Reward: +5 EXP, +10 HP, +5 CP
Failure: You’ll never receive any information about the potential burglar.
Accept: YES/YES
A mandatory quest.
Wait… I’m fighting against THAT? That obsidian table with lion heads on the rear?
On second thought… maybe we don’t have to do this, haha. I’m chill with selling cabbages, man. I love cabbages. Have loved cabbages all my life. Love this life, man.
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Daniel Newwyn
