A Call for Justice!

[DancingZebra267 1626]

A Call for Justice!

 

 

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Grimbol trudged back to his burrow, humming happily as he approached the tree where he’d carefully crafted his cozy home. His heart lifted as he neared the entrance, expecting a peaceful, quiet evening. However, the ground around the burrow’s entrance had been disturbed. Dirt scattered, and the root that formed his doorway had been shoved aside. Something wasn’t right.

 

Rushing in, Grimbol’s eyes grew wide with horror. His once-pristine home had been ransacked. His beloved paintings, which had adorned the walls with scenes of gnome life and nature, were ruined, smeared and torn. Books, carefully arranged on their stands, had been tossed about, their pages stepped on and dirtied. The mushrooms he’d lovingly tended to were smooshed into the floor, their once vibrant caps now flattened.

 

His bed, his beautiful bed, was broken in half, the wooden frame shattered as though some brute had taken a sledgehammer to it. But the worst shock was yet to come. There, in the middle of his mess, lay a dead frog, a cruel reminder of the creature he had recently buried with respect. The very same frog. Grimbol’s eyes filled with fury as he stepped closer, his tiny fists trembling.

 

And then, his gaze fell upon the wall. Written in what could only be described as the worst handwriting he’d ever seen, scraggly, uneven, and messy, was a warning, smeared in what Grimbol feared to be blood. He squinted, trying to make sense of the words, but the childish scrawl eluded him. "Aye, this looks like some child nonsense!" he muttered to himself in frustration. "Can't even read it, let alone understand who’d do such a thing!"

 

His heart pounded in his chest as he surveyed the devastation. The air was thick with anger, and he knew that whoever was responsible for this wouldn’t get away unscathed. After a few moments of silent fury, Grimbol pulled out a small piece of parchment and quickly scribbled out a letter for all to see.

 

 

 

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I, Grimbol Grobol, came home today after a fine walk through the woods—thinking I’d be returning to a peaceful evening with me favorite banjo, maybe a little pie, and of course, a good nap. But, alas, what did I find? Someone—no doubt some fool—has lifted the root of me beloved tree and squeezed into me burrow like it was some kind of public inn!

 

I tell ye, I nearly dropped me acorn stash right then and there! The mess was unreal—my paintings ruined, books tossed and stepped on, mushrooms smooshed into the floor! My bed—my bed!—broken in half like it was some cheap piece of timber! And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I find a dead frog in me home, the very one I just buried not a day ago.

 

But the worst of it all was the warning written in some bloodstained nonsense on the wall. I can’t even make heads or tails of it, what with it being written like a child's handwriting! Who does such a thing? What kind of sick joke is this?

 

The footprints—giant ones—are too big for a dwarf but too small for an Orc I reckon it’s a human, and I’d bet me last acorn they’re responsible for this disaster.

 

This can’t be allowed to stand! If anyone knows who did this, tell ‘em they’ve got a reckoning comin’! I’ll fix me burrow, but they won’t be so lucky next time!

 

Grimbol Grobol

 

 

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