You all think I’m jus’ a drunk! You think you’ve seen it all! But you ‘avent! I was there! I was on the fields when the bloody Moonstones came to our belov’d Bumbleton. Let me tells you about it.

T’was a night like any other. A Sunday I think. There we were, all asleep in our beds, when little snot-nosed Bertie made th’call.

“Stones!” He shouted “Moonstones in the fields!”

Yeah, I remembers it like t’was yesterday. We all sprung outta our beds like jackrabbits in April and there indeed we saw them stones. They glinted in the moonlight like nuttin’ I ever saw before. Pale, and crisp, and glowey.

We’s all gather’d ours stuff, and quick as a mare, were at th’courtyard, shovels and pitchforks in hand.

Before then, none of us’d even seen a Moonstone before. Stuffs of myths an’ fables they were. But before our own peepers we saw them. But we also saw the others.

I don’t know how they knew, but they were there. The Goblins of Darkwood. They had arrived in numbers, and with them they brought The Firespitter!

Sure, you all laugh now, a Goblin that spits fire! What’s next? A Giant that farts rainbows? But as true as th’wart on my nose, it was there.

This beast was no man, no noble, but a true behemoth of danger. On it’s back it carried a barrel full of, I don’t know what. In one hand it held a device that looked like some monstrous head, and in the other some sort’a candle. It’s face was truly horrid, with fat lips and a matted beard. It lumbered forward, with every step it tugged on a smaller goblin, attach’d to it by some sorta pipe, as the little one pumped air, or gas, or something, into the big one’s weapon of fear.

Some of us laughed at the brute, they shouted insults, and began taking bets on how long before it blew itself up with it’s own candles. But all laughing soon ended when that beast unleashed it’s gouts of flame across our people.

The horror was unimaginable. I saw people running, screaming in pain as the beast’s fire licked at their skin and burned their bodies. Such a sight, I wanted to tear out my eyes and run on the spot. No man should’a see such a thing.

I know not why it happened, but out from the woods there appeared another goblin, one covered in scars, tattoos, and some sorta horrid mushrooms. It cackled and rejoiced at the carnage, before dancing on the spot. It’s manic laughter filled the air, an’ before we knew it, the Firespitter was on us! It’s foul breath an’ lumbering movements right amidst our flanks. It was then the brute’s fuel tank exploded. The shock roared through our people. Those who were untouched before, now covered in burns and blisters.

Out of all the town, I was th’fortunate one. See those scars on my face? The ones that you sneered at when you arrived at Bumbleton’s cosy inn? That was what I walked away with.

So laugh if you will at the ol’ drunk. Laugh at the stories of the fire spittin’ goblins. Jus’ remember my story, an’ remember this.

I was the lucky one.