It had been a fair while since Glintsprock had thought about Basalt Flyntwood.

       Now that he really thought about it, the last time he'd seen his friend and former business partner had been a couple of hours before their last job for the Claws of Shadow. Prior to becoming Venari's best frog player (Glintsprock was very modest), the goblin had experimented with many different careers - including a short but sweet stint with the Claws of Shadow. The Claws were Red Fern's official guild of assassins, and such an organisation appealed to Glintsprock's goblin nature. Killing was something goblins did well. Very well indeed. Taking orders and following procedures, however, were not. Which was why Glintsprock's time as a guild member had only lasted for three jobs. The fact that he'd managed to stick it out for that long was nothing short of a miracle.

       If Basalt had been on his mind on that chilled dark winter evening, Glintsprock may have been able to explain away what was happening as some kind of auditory hallucination. Not that he would have used the word 'auditory', mind you. He probably would have said that his usually loyal ears (goblins - like gnomes - were very proud of their ears) were playing tricks on him.

       But Basalt wasn't on his mind. Basalt was never on his mind.

       So why did it sound like the long-forgotten wotdafuq was calling to him? For those who are unfamiliar, a wotdafuq is a strange person with horns like a bull, wild hair, short legs, a huge appetite for hot beverages, and long tusk-like teeth on their bottom jaw. Glintsprock always thought that Basalt was both adorable and absolutely terrifying. This was why he liked her; goblins are drawn to terror.

       "Glintsprock,” the voice said. "Glintsprock...”

       'It's the wind whistling around the buildings,' he thought, not buying a word of what he was trying to sell himself. 'Nuthin' but the wind and my imagination.' He snuggled deeper into the old ratty winged back chair and pulled a threadbare blanket around his shoulders. It smelt like damp and reminded him of his childhood home.

       Returning his attention to picking his nose (a popular pastime amongst goblins and small human children), Glintsprock tried to ignore the voice and the growing feeling of guilt that was building in his gut.

       You see, not only had Glintsprock not seen Basalt for a while, but the reasons for their estrangement didn't paint Glintsprock in the best light. Guilt wasn't something that goblins usually wrestled with, but this time it had a hold of him. Perhaps it was because Basalt had been a close friend. Or perhaps it was because Glintsprock was struggling to remember what exactly had happened.

       "Glintsprock... Glintsprock...”

That definitely wasn't the wind. And if it wasn't Basalt, it was someone doing a bloody good impression.

       "Glintsprock... Glintsprock...”

       "Bugger off!” the little goblin muttered, his voice like gravel. If Basalt wanted to speak to him, she should just come out from whatever rock she'd been hidden under all these years and show herself.

       Somehow Glintsprock managed to ignore the voice for the rest of the evening and, by the time he went to bed in the early hours, it was nothing but a minor irritation, like a dripping tap.

       Glintsprock went to bed.