19 Alturiak, 1502 D.R.
We received, oddly enough, an invitation to a tiny festival in a practically unheard-of hamlet a thousand miles away. Were it not for Thrax's connections, I don't know how we would have made it, but make it we did -- myself, Bri, Sylthas, Shev, and Temoren together.
Inviting outsiders to this festival was apparently a remarkably liberal step, one practically unheard of. With good reason. The festival was to honor the ascension of a literal goat to the office of mayor. The goat was to be the village mayor, in a very real and legally-binding sense. It will, I am certain, come as an absolute shock to the reader to discover that there was more going on behind the scenes than was first apparent.
The festival went well enough to begin with. We were greeted with varying degrees of cordiality, depending on whether the townsfolk in question approved of inviting outsiders or not. We watched their mayor-elect, in a little tricorn hat, drink, in the manner of goats across the world, from a bowl on the ground. Beer. Beer was the only drink they served anyone, the goat included, but they served it liberally. We met the town council and were welcomed, and informed that the town was looking to expand its connections. The area is purportedly dangerous, and they had determined, after all these years, that it would be best to make friends outside.
Our meeting with the townsfolk was interrupted by a sweaty, oddly dog-like man. Alas! The mayor had gone missing from his pen! This was a matter of grave consequence. The Council, in begging for our help to rectify the matter, told us the real story of their town. Some generations ago, it seems, a dark, hooded figure threatened the town with its complete destruction, unless they yielded up a boy-child as sacrifice to his Blood Lord. This, to their shame, they did. Again and again and again, every year, for ages. Then one day, their mayor came up with a plan: convince the hooded figure that a man would make a better sacrifice than a child, a man in a position of power, to satisfy his Blood Lord's hunger. The mayor commended unto him, henceforth, once a year, the mayor of the town. The figure accepted, and... well, that is the story of how the town took to elevating a goat unto the position of Mayor every year. The figure stood by its bargain and accepted the goat. Now their sacrifice had vanished, and it was up to us to find it, lest the town be destroyed.
Enough exposition. The goat had been accidentally released by the daughter of one of the town council, and had wandered into the forest -- a forest inhabited by what the townsfolk called "The Neighbors," speaking of them only in hushed tones. Fey folk, of course. We followed the goat's trail -- aided by the odd dog-like man, who only became more canine in nature as time passed -- into the woods, and must, at some point, have stumbled through a fey portal. We battled giant snakes and wil-o-the-wisps, slaying them save one wisp, who escaped with a petulant parting word. We proceeded then along the goat's continuing path, and passed into a clearing wherein, under the direction of a satyr, a celebration was taking place. Numerous wee folk, satyrs, dryads, and such creatures frolicked and danced and played, ate and drank and made merry. We were invited -- with great insistence -- to partake ourselves.
None of us were so foolish as to eat their food or drink their drink, but to appease our "hosts," we all performed some act of entertainment or another. The satyr Cornelius was pleased enough to allow us to speak with the goat-mayor. And speak with him we did. It seems the hat now permitted him that power. The mayor was happy where he was, pampered and fed even better than he had been in the town, and did not wish to return. The fae of the clearing had made friends with him, and would not suffer him to be taken against his will. But rejoice! for there was another goat, and this one was an asshole, and they did not mind having him taken in the mayor's stead. And so the mayor named this second goat his legal vice-mayor, and then abdicated his position, and we dragged the asshole goat kicking and screaming back to town.
Too late; for time had passed, in the manner told in stories, and the hour we spent in the fae world was half the night in ours. We returned to the town at half past midnight, and the time to turn over the sacrificial Mayor had passed. But the Council bade us go forth and negotiate with the hooded figure on the edge of town. And so go forth we did.
The hooded figure, as it turned out, had made a bottled captive of the Mayor who had originally struck the goat-mayor bargain -- Robin by name. The warlock was amused that his game was at last at an end, and intended to destroy the town. We challenged him to another game, and he was pleased to accept. He set the terms: if we succeeded in solving his puzzle perfectly, he would leave the town be henceforth (and, at my urging, release Robin from his captivity); solve it to his satisfaction, and he would accept our asshole goat for this year; fail, and he would obliterate the town as intended.
It was Sylthas who solved the puzzle, much to all of our astonishment. The warlock upheld his bargain and released, Robin, swearing never again to darken the threshold of the village. The festival was over, and our impromptu contract complete, and so we returned in good spirits to the Syndicate.
-- Yashir adh Rumahr
