Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
“Sinking Fortunes”
Featuring: Vratni, Flent, Tivlyn, Wittkun
Location: The Sunken Stones, Midgewater Marshes, Bree-land
Journal of Vratni Copperhand
Midgewater Marshes, around a campfire after the earlier goblin scrap
By the forge, this blasted bog has cost me more than I’d wagered. Me staff’s gone, me ceremonial dagger’s sunk, me waterproof pants are lettin’ in, an’ me boots ain’t faring much better. If the marsh had any sense of fairness, it’d cough up some treasure to balance the losses—but no, it just slurps up belongings like a hungry troll at breakfast.
Still, the expedition ain’t a loss just yet. We’ve got a fine enough company: Boots, gruff an’ sharp-eyed, knows his way ‘round the muck like a man married to it. He’s got that look about him, like he’s waiting for me to trip over meself again, an’ fair enough, I might. But it’s his silence that’s most telling, him muttering about things lurking beneath, an’ the marsh remembering the dead. A cheery sort, truly!
Locksley's steady, sharp, an’ all too ready to swing that axe. No hesitation, poachers, goblins, or unlucky lads on the wrong end o’ a fight… I wouldn’t cross her lightly. She moves through the bog with a practiced step, like she knows exactly where not to fall in; a skill I envy, given the amount o’ time I’ve spent gettin’ acquainted with the filth.
Then there’s Wittkun, stout an’ solid as a stone wall, more brawn than banter. Fights clean, fights hard, an’ doesn’t waste breath on what ain’t necessary. More sense than me, most likely, though I’ve yet to see him sniff out a deal, so time’ll tell.
Now, about them goblins—proper filthy little wretches, camped up at the ruins like they owned the place. We put them down quick enough, an’ their shrieking didn’t last long, but their words did. One, just before breathin’ his last, muttered out:
“The… others… they.. bring.. meat…”
Now, that ain’t nothing, that’s something. Poachers, goblins, folk dealin’ in things they shouldn’t…. there’s coin in that, an’ trouble too. Boots doesn’t like it. Locksley knows it means more than just thievin’. Wittkun listens but keeps his mace handy.
Me? I listen. Because where profit’s involved, there’s always a story to tell.
..... Alas, I sit here, lantern flickerin’ low, me map spread out before me, I can’t help but think there’s more yet to be found.
The parchment’s stained, smudged, an’ drawn by someone who’d clearly sampled far too much Bree-town ale, but after a night of squintin’ at it, I reckon it ain’t all nonsense after all.
There’s a pattern to it… landmarks marked crude but recognizable. The Sunken Stones, aye, right where the map said they’d be. And if I trace the lines further north, beyond this ruin, beyond this bloody goblin mess we find ourselves camped in tonight… well, the markings suggest more yet to uncover.
More ruins, if the scribbled sketches are to be believed. Possibly more than just another cluster of standing stones, half-buried in the bog. Older, maybe bigger, maybe forgotten, an’ if they’ve been lost to time, well…. that often means treasure ain’t far behind.
So, I’ve a mind to lead us northward at dawn, cut through the marsh before the mist thickens, an’ see what lies past this cursed ground. There’s a risk in it, aye…. Boots will grunt, say the bog don’t care for maps, say we’re better off following our feet…. but I can’t ignore what’s before me.
// .... Vratni shifts his seat by the camp fire, turning the map over in his hands, but his thoughts wander. The goblins at the Sunken Stones weren’t the first he’d come across, nor the first to put him in a tight spot. He takes a slow breath, rubbing his temples.
…. There was a time, back in Thorin’s Hall, when he fancied himself not just a merchant but a negotiator of bold deals. He had coin, connections, and, at least in his mind, more charm than the average gold-hoarding stone-thumper. That was before the misstep…
He recalls the bargain he struck, the one that went south fast. He had it on good authority that a goblin tribe dwelling deep in the Blue Mountains had stumbled upon some fine dwarven steel: axes, daggers, even a few gold-inlaid buckles, the sort only made by proper craftsmen. Stolen from some unlucky caravan, no doubt, but a merchant’s got to look past the details sometimes.
So he devised a scheme, approach the goblins, offer them trade, swap their stolen steel for something they might value more…. food, liquor, trinkets with enough shine to catch their simple eyes. What he didn’t account for was their absolute treachery.
The deal was struck, the trade arranged. An exchange at the mouth of a cave, Vratni standing firm while goblins chattered in that foul, hacking language. A few crates were brought forward, and for a moment, it looked promising.
Then came the first rustle of movement from the ridgeline above.
Vratni barely had time to blink before he saw the trick—more goblins, hiding among the rock, knives ready, eyes gleaming. They had no intent to trade, only to gut him proper and claim the goods outright.
The way his heart slammed against his ribs, he knew there was no winning a fight. Instead, he did the only thing a clever dwarf could do in the moment; he played the fool. He threw both arms wide, shouting in his most commanding voice, “Aye, ye rats! But did ye ever hear of the curse?”
That made them pause, goblins were superstitious wretches, always quick to fear things beyond their own blades. Vratni took the hesitation for all it was worth, stepping back slow, pulling a battered metal flask from his belt, a flask that, under the right light, might be mistaken for a more dangerous relic.
“Ye take me, ye take this!” He shook the flask so hard he nearly dropped it outright. “A dwarf don’t die easy, lads, and his vengeance don’t rest! This here…this is blood-oath brew, cursed by mystics that ye couldn’t dream of understanding! If ye gut me, ye take me malice, an’ I swear by Durin himself, it’ll haunt ye past death itself!”
It was a complete fabrication, of course. The flask contained nothing but a bit of watered-down ale and the faint regret of poor drinking choices, but the goblins weren’t willing to test fate.
They fled, chittering like rats, leaving Vratni alone with his pride, his stolen goods, and the unmistakable realization that Thorin’s Hall wasn’t for him anymore.
From that day forward, he knew his fortune lay elsewhere, somewhere new, somewhere fresh, somewhere that didn’t require talking his way out of death quite so often. It had not been the first instance…
It had been some time since he last tangled with goblins (what was he thinking of trying to deal with them….), but sitting here, watching the flames flicker, he reckons they’re not quite done with him yet...... Vratni seems to come back to the moment.... //
….Either way, I’ll see this through, so long as the marsh don’t steal the rest o’ me belongings first….
An’ if it does, well, Vratni Copperhand ain’t one to leave empty-handed.
By Durin’s beard, let’s hope this venture pays out more than bruises.
—Vratni Copperhand. Merchant. Adventurer. Swamp-Fouled Victim.
