Smoked Pineapple

A frantic herd of glitter-skinned men in saffron-yellow towels emerges from Akheron’s, with no goblins in sight.

“Damn,” the nun sighs. She torques the round black stone on her ear with enough force you think she’ll break it, then smacks the sword against her shoulder. “I’m going in!”

“Is that wise?” Felicia.

“No, but patience is not my virtue.”

“We’ll go with you,” I say.

A squad of water elementals arrives to fight the growing fire, and we merge in their wake, entering the open building one by one. I smell smoke, seared pineapple, and the unmistakable stink of goblin.