Into a New World

The morning sunlight slanted through the high windows of the small café, spilling across the polished wooden table where Sue Storm sat alone. Steam rose from a cup of dark, bitter coffee, curling lazily in the air as she held the warm mug in both hands. Outside, the city hummed with the usual early-day chaos: cars groaning through traffic, a distant siren wailing, the occasional clatter of a dropped newspaper. For once, the world felt ordinary, almost comforting. Ordinary and completely predictable—two things she knew would vanish in less than an hour.

Sue had her nose buried in a journal, one of the many she kept from her scientific work. The writing was neat, precise, and methodical, a small anchor in a life that had grown unpredictable ever since she’d gained her powers. Today, though, she wasn’t thinking about **** fields or invisibility. She was thinking about energy resonance patterns and dimensional stability, the kind of equations Reed would obsess over late into the night. She had barely taken a sip of her coffee when the first sign appeared.

A low hum began in her chest, a vibration she couldn’t place. It started subtly, a faint ripple in the air, like static brushing her skin. She looked up from the journal and blinked. Across the street, a lamppost shivered, and the sunlight that had been steady moments ago fractured into jagged shards, spilling into impossible angles. Shadows danced on surfaces that should have been solid, and for the briefest instant, she saw a flicker—an image of a place that could not exist. Colors she had no name for burned the air, a kaleidoscope of the impossible layered over the mundane.

“Strange,” she muttered, brushing a hand across her eyes. She had seen anomalies before, of course—residual echoes of dimensional tests and cosmic energies—but nothing that behaved like this. Nothing that made the city itself feel… wrong.

Then it hit.

The hum escalated into a roar, vibrating through the bones in her chest, rattling her teeth and stiffening the hair on her arms. The journal slipped from her hands, toppling into the coffee with a soft splash, steam mingling with the scent of ink and scorched paper. The world warped again. Tables bent, walls buckled, sunlight fractured into stabbing beams, and she could feel the air itself stretch and tear around her. Panic rose, cold and sharp, but before she could even think to stand, the sensation of falling swallowed her whole.

Sue screamed—not audibly, but in the raw, internal way that made her stomach lurch and her chest ache. The café, the street, the city—they dissolved into a blur of motion and color. Gravity had no meaning here. Light and shadow no longer obeyed natural laws. She spun, twisted, and was flung through a tunnel of vibrating energy that seemed alive, almost sentient. Time fractured into slivers. For a moment she glimpsed herself, pale and terrified, suspended in the center of a storm she could neither comprehend nor control.

And then she landed.

The impact jarred her bones, bruising her muscles and rattling every nerve. She rolled instinctively, catching herself on a jagged stone floor slick with moisture and moss. Her lungs screamed, drawing in air that was thick, almost metallic, with a faint tang of ozone and something earthy, pungent, and unfamiliar. The sun hung low in the sky—not yellow, not gold, but a deep, molten orange that cast long, dark shadows between towering trees, jagged cliffs, and twisted rock formations.

Sue pushed herself up onto trembling legs, her body protesting with every movement. Her hands clutched at the air as if to grasp some tether to the world she knew, but there was none. Nothing in this place obeyed the physics of her home. She lifted a hand, flexed her fingers—her **** fields didn’t respond. Invisibility didn’t flicker into being. Panic surged again, but now edged with the first glimmer of cold, hard determination: she was alone, utterly powerless, and she had to survive.

Around her, the forest was alive in ways that felt wrong. Shadows moved independently of their sources, rustling leaves without wind. She caught a glimpse of something in the underbrush: a pair of yellow eyes that blinked and vanished before she could process what kind of creature it was. Every instinct screamed that she should run, but she knew running blindly in this place would get her killed faster than standing and observing. She crouched low, pressing against the rough trunk of a massive tree, the bark scratching her palms, tasting of sap and grit.

Minutes—or hours, she couldn’t tell—passed in tense observation. The alien forest was quiet, but quiet in a way that suggested lurking threats rather than safety. She **** herself to breathe, to focus on her senses rather than her panic. Movement, smell, sound—each became a clue. She noticed a faint trail through the underbrush, footprints too large for a human, clawed and deep, leading toward a distant hill crowned with jagged stone spires.

A glimmer of something caught her eye: a crude weapon, a broken sword half-buried in the soil. Sue knelt, examining it, weighing the metal, the balance, the sharpness. In a world where her powers failed her completely, she realized, she would need tools she could wield with her own strength. Her hands wrapped around the hilt, fingers instinctively finding grip. She flexed her shoulders, arms, and legs. Her training, her agility, her intelligence—these were all she had, and she would rely on them, because the world she had landed in would not forgive weakness.

From the distance came a low, rumbling growl, resonating through the moss and stone. Sue froze, eyes narrowing, muscles taut. Whatever had made that sound was not ordinary, and it was aware of her presence. And somewhere, beyond the forested hills, a shadow moved on a high ridge, watching. She couldn’t see it clearly, but she could feel it—malevolent, intelligent, calculating.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She had landed here without warning, without powers, without allies. And yet… she was still herself. Still Sue Storm. Still sharp, still capable, still determined. Survival had just begun.

And in the far distance, where the horizon met jagged mountains, the first hint of smoke rose into the alien sky, curling in black spirals against molten sunlight. Somewhere in this world, there were beings who would understand what she was, who would exploit it, who would hunt her. She did not yet know their names. She did not yet know Morvath the Hollow waited, patient and watching. But one thing was already clear: nothing here would be easy, and nothing here would let her go home willingly.

Sue drew the broken sword into her hands, letting the weight settle. Her gaze swept the forest, sharp and unyielding. The fight to survive had begun.

Years later....

Years had carved Sue Storm into someone unrecognizable to the girl who had tumbled through that rift. Gone was the scientist with predictable routines, gone was the hero of the Fantastic Four. Here in Zardon, she had become a legend whispered in fearful tones across the savage lands: a wandering knight, a bounty hunter, a figure whose reputation demanded respect and dread in equal measure. She moved alone, or almost alone, because trust was expensive and betrayal plentiful. Over the years, she had learned the brutal calculus of survival: strength, skill, and intelligence mattered more than morality or alliances. Yet, underneath it all, fragments of the woman she had once been clung stubbornly, buried beneath years of ****, cunning, and necessity.

Her powers were gone—long since failed to return after the fall—but they were unnecessary now. She had learned to fight, to read the weaknesses in men and monsters alike, to wield blade and spear and even rudimentary magic with precision. Survival had **** her to adapt beyond anything she could have imagined. She had become feared not for what she was born with, but for what she had honed herself into: deadly, relentless, and unstoppable in her chosen methods.

The land of Zardon stretched before her now, a rolling tapestry of jagged hills, misted forests, and distant fortresses. Smoke spiraled from settlements, twisting black against the orange-burned sky, the air tinged with the scent of iron, mud, and old blood. In the distance, the city walls of Zardons capital rose like a jagged crown, domed towers and fortified battlements marking the seat of King Randorf. Sue pulled back the reins of her mount—a tall, broad-backed warv, a horse-like creature with coarse hair and long, ridged horns—and felt the muscles ripple beneath her.

She dismounted with smooth efficiency, boots scuffing against stone and mud. The warv snorted, shaking its head, and she patted its neck, her fingers tracing the rippling sinew that had become familiar under years of care and training. Skeeze, the four-foot goblin with mottled green skin and sharp, twitching features, trailed behind her. She hated having him around. He was a thorn in her side, a constant annoyance, and—most dangerously—an agent of Morvath the Hollow, the skeletal sorcerer who had long ago taken a professional, obsessive interest in her. Yet here, on this mission, she had ****. Skeeze’s knowledge of forbidden magics and his connections to Darkskull made him, for once, indispensable.

Sue felt his eyes on her as she adjusted the straps of her leather-and-chain armor, worn and dented but still effective where it counted, though far from adequate in protecting the curves of her chest and behind. She knew he wasn’t watching her for survival cues, for any tactical observation. No, his gaze lingered where it shouldn’t, lecherous and frustrating, and she suppressed a groan of irritation. Years of hard-earned discipline, years of **** and survival, and still a goblin could make her blood boil simply by breathing.

“Eyes forward, Skeeze,” she snapped, without turning. Her voice was low, dangerous, yet calm—an automatic command honed over countless dangerous encounters. He snickered, shameless, but said nothing. She had long since accepted that restraint would not come from him.

Her eyes, however, were on the distant city. Bardo’s capital glimmered in the dying sunlight, the walls a strange combination of stone and dark magic, built to impress and intimidate. Inside, the mission waited: a witch named Maeven the Horrid, a sorceress whose knowledge—or manipulation—would determine the success of whatever schemes the fat king had set in motion. Sue had little love for royalty, and even less for witches, but her goal was singular: complete the contract, survive, and get paid. And if it meant enduring Skeeze’s constant prying eyes, so be it.

The terrain underfoot was uneven, a mixture of sharp rocks, loose soil, and twisted roots that caught her boots as she walked. The wind carried a faint smell of smoke and decay, and Sue inhaled it deeply. It smelled like life and ****, mixed together in the way only Zardon could manage. Every sense was alive; every muscle coiled. Years of experience had taught her to see potential threats in the air itself, and she scanned the horizon and the forests around the path with careful, practiced attention.

Behind her, Skeeze muttered something under his breath, clearly ogling her body again. Sue ignored him, focusing instead on the city, the castle at its center, and the dark spires where Maeven was rumored to reside. Her armor, minimal by the world’s standards, drew attention—both admiration and scorn—but that had become a weapon in itself. No one here expected a woman to fight, let alone to win, let alone to be Sue Storm. Her reputation preceded her; she had worked for years to make sure it did

The warv stomped its hoof and flicked its ears. Sue swung her leg over its back, settling into the saddle with fluid ease. Skeeze hopped up behind her, whining slightly but complying. Together they moved toward the city gates, a strange pairing of beauty and menace on the back of a creature bred for endurance and strength. The shadows were long now, stretching like dark fingers across the ground, and the city ahead seemed almost alive, pulsing with secrets, danger, and opportunity.

Sue’s hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her gaze unwavering. Years of survival had made her strong, clever, and feared, but every instinct screamed that this mission would test her in ways the wilderness never could. Ahead lay the witch, the king’s demands, and Skeeze’s incessant annoyance. Behind her lay Morvath, ever patient, ever scheming. Somewhere in this world of treachery, darkness, and magic, she would need every scrap of skill, cunning, and ruthlessness she had earned to survive.

She exhaled, slow and controlled, letting the warv carry her toward the city, toward the inevitable confrontation, toward another day in a world that had already taken so much from her—and yet, for all its dangers, still demanded everything she had to give.

Skeeze had been around a lot of women in his life—barely a foot taller than his own elbow, he made do with what he could see, sniff, and hear—but none had ever stopped him dead like the sight of her. Sue Storm. Years of whispered stories had filled his mind with tantalizing impossibilities, and now here she was, in the flesh, armor gleaming faintly in the late afternoon sun, the chainmail straps pressing her curves in ways that would make even the hardiest mercenary blush.

He trotted along behind her as she led the warv down the crowded cobbled streets of the city. His sharp claws clinked on stone, and he wiggled forward to steal glances at her every so often. Rumors among the cityfolk said she had never taken a mate, never bent for any man, not even for lust or gold, and Skeeze felt that tingle of daring excitement only legends could provoke.

Finally, they reached the city proper—a sprawling labyrinth of narrow streets, tall, soot-darkened buildings, and twisting alleyways. The air smelled of woodsmoke, rotting refuse, and the faint tang of iron from the smiths who pounded out tools and weapons all day. Flags with jagged sigils flapped in the wind over the city gates, proclaiming the dominion of the local king, whose banners hung over the markets and public squares. Merchants hawked anything they could, and the populace swarmed the streets like ants, moving with purpose or aimless chaos, leaving trails of dirt and waste in their wake.

Sue guided the warv into the quieter side streets where the air smelled less of smoke and more of earth and stone. Their destination was simple: find Maeven the Horrid, or at least gather the rumors that might lead them to her. Skeeze’s ears twitched with excitement as he glanced at her once more.

“Lady Storm,” he whispered, barely audible over the creature’s heavy hoofbeats. “Are we… gettin’ that meal you promised me later?” His eyes lingered where they shouldn’t, and he let a small, eager grin creep across his mottled green face.

Sue exhaled through her nose—a sigh more of endurance than annoyance. “In time, Skeeze,” she said, voice low and even, sharp enough to keep him from pushing too far. “First, we find a room, and we find Maeven.”

That last part, he knew, was her real focus. He had long learned the lesson: you could lust and plot, but don’t ever, ever get between Sue Storm and the job. She had survived monsters, mercenaries, and gods, and she had done so without ever relying on anyone. That reputation alone sent a thrill through him: she was danger wrapped in perfection, and he got to follow along, irritating her as he pleased.

They dismounted in front of a modest inn tucked between two taller, soot-stained buildings. Its sign swung creakily on a rusted iron arm: The Broken Goblet, painted letters faded and curling at the edges. The smell from inside was a mixture of fried meat, ale, and stale wood smoke—uninviting to the delicate, but tolerable to someone like Skeeze.

Sue led the warv to the stable at the back, a low-slung wooden structure with thick beams and a trough for water. She fussed with the creature’s reins and padded its sides, checking its harness and stirrups. Skeeze lingered, rubbing his claws along the wood, eyeing her, and imagining all the things he would do if she were… well, willing. The thought made him shiver in anticipation.

Inside, the inn was dim and cluttered, with the haze of smoke hanging over rough tables and chairs. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over faces roughened by labor and life. A few patrons looked up, appraising the newcomer—a lone woman in armor, fierce and exotic, accompanied by a small, twitching goblin. Whispers followed them, and Skeeze puffed up with pride, aware that even here, they noticed her.

The innkeeper, a stout man with a patchy beard, grunted as they approached. “Two rooms?” he asked, suspicion in his tone as he sized up Sue’s armor and Skeeze’s small frame.

Sue pulled a pouch of coins from her belt and counted quickly. Her voice was sharp as she spoke. “I can pay for one room.”

Skeeze’s ears perked instantly. “One room?” he said with a gleeful squeak, stepping closer. “Oh, yes! We share, yes! We room together!” He licked his lips and grinned, thinking of all the ways he could annoy and amuse her while she slept, or worse, while she tried to ignore him.

Sue’s eyes flicked at him, a mixture of resignation, annoyance, and begrudging acceptance. She paid the innkeeper for the single room, her expression deadpan as she handed over the coins. “Fine. One room,” she said. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Skeeze laughed softly, a high, nervous sound, and followed her upstairs, tail twitching. The room was small and sparse, two narrow beds, a rough wooden table, a cracked chair. A single candle burned low, casting a warm, flickering glow over the walls.

From the window, the city sprawled below—rooftops curling like waves, spires and towers slicing the sky, the hum of life and danger mixing together.

Sue Storm’s patience had reached its limit. The cramped inn, the leering goblin, the smells of smoke and stale ale—it had been years since anyone had provoked her this thoroughly. She needed focus, she needed tools, and she needed answers.

“I’m done sitting around,” she muttered, adjusting the straps of her dented chainmail. Her sword hung at her hip, dulled and nicked from constant use. Her shield had seen better days; a deep gouge ran across its center from a skirmish with a forest predator months ago. Even her compound bow, though functional, had frayed string and splintered limbs. Survival demanded that she repair and improve her arsenal.

Skeeze chirped behind her, tail twitching, but she ignored him. Ignored his leers. Ignored everything. She needed the blacksmith, and she needed him now.

The forge was a cathedral of fire and metal. Smoke swirled in sun-beams filtered through tall, grimy windows. Hammers struck anvils in steady, hypnotic rhythm, sparks cascading like miniature stars with each blow. Walls were lined with racks of weapons: swords of every size, shields polished to a dull shine, and racks of arrows fletched with colorful feathers. The air smelled of soot, molten iron, and sweat—a scent that made Sue’s skin tingle with anticipation.

The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered man with arms like iron bands and a beard flecked with soot, looked up as she entered. His face was kind, but wary. “Looking to repair, or looking for something new, lady?”

“Repair,” Sue said, voice clipped. “Sword. Shield. Bow. Maybe some arrows if you’ve got the materials.” She placed her equipment on the counter, eyes flicking to the racks as she spoke. Every weapon was familiar to her—every dent and scratch told a story, and every repair would be another story written in steel and blood.

The blacksmith nodded. “I can do that. But if it’s info you want, too… city folk whisper, lady. Maeven the Horrid? Nobody’s seen her for months. Some say she’s hiding in the spires outside the city, others say she’s left entirely. Dangerous, that one.”

Sue’s lips tightened. “I expected as much. Any idea where she might show herself?”

He shook his head. “Nothing certain. Only the shadows know, and they don’t talk.”

She exhaled sharply, straightened her shoulders, and slid a pouch of coins across the counter. “Do your work,” she said. “Make it worth my time.”

Hours later Sue returned to the Inn, weapons repaired, but no information. She found a drunk Skeeve at the lobby bar. "He lied," she said, explaining that the blacksmith knew more. Sue sighed, "Probably should have shown more skin," she admitted. Jt would work in this world.

Skeeve nodded. Eagerly.

"Im going up to bathe," she told her goblin companion. "Do not come up if you want to keep your hands," she threatened.

The air in the common room was thick with the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. Skeeze hunched on a stool, his pointed chin resting on the rough wood of the bar, a half-empty tankard clutched in his clawed hands. His mind, however, was not on the drink. It was upstairs, trapped behind a locked door with a wooden tub and a woman who haunted his every waking thought. The innkeeper had given him a lewd wink when Sue had gone up, mentioning the ‘hot water pump’ in the room. A bath. She was bathing.

His green skin felt hot and tight. The coarse fabric of his trousers was already becoming uncomfortably snug. He’d listened to her warning—do not come up if you want to keep your hands—but the words had only painted a more vivid picture in his mind. Her hands. Strong, capable, currently slick with soap and water, sliding over skin he had only ever seen hinted at by armor and travel-stained cloth.

The drunker he got, the thinner her threat seemed. The ale fueled a reckless, throbbing courage. What was the worst she could do? She needed him, didn’t she? For the mission. For his knowledge. A little look… a peek… that wasn’t touching. His hands would be safe.

With a final gulp of the bitter ale, Skeeze slid off the stool. His movements were practiced, silent, a goblin’s natural stealth amplified by years of surviving in places he wasn’t welcome. He ignored the curious glances from the other patrons, a small, twitching shadow slipping toward the staircase at the back of the room.

The stairs creaked, but he was light, placing his feet on the very edges of the steps where the wood was firmest. The hallway on the second floor was dark, lit only by a single guttering candle in a wall sconce. He knew the room. Third door on the left. He paused outside it, pressing his ear to the rough grain.

The sound was unmistakable. The slosh of water. A soft, sighing breath. The gentle drip of liquid from a sponge or a hand. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that seemed loud enough to give him away. He held his breath, listening. No movement toward the door. She was occupied.

His gaze darted down the hall. There, near the floorboard, was a knothole, dark and imperfect. It was small, but he was smaller. He dropped to his knees, the dusty floorboards cool against his skin. He leaned in, one yellow eye closing, the other pressing to the hole.

The view was narrow, a keyhole glimpse of paradise. He saw the corner of the wooden tub, steam rising in lazy curls. He saw a stretch of stone floor, a discarded pile of leather and chainmail—her armor. His breath hitched.

Then she moved into the frame.

First, it was just the elegant curve of a bare shoulder, gleaming in the low candlelight from within the room. Water droplets caught the light like tiny diamonds as they traced paths down her skin. She had her back to the wall, her head tilted back against the rim of the tub, eyes closed. Her face, usually a mask of fierce concentration, was relaxed, softened. Strands of her blonde hair, darkened by moisture, clung to her neck and cheeks.

Skeeze’s mouth went dry. He watched, transfixed, as her hand rose from the water. It was slick and soapy, and she brought it to her collarbone, rubbing slowly, working a lather across her skin. The motion made the muscles in her arm flex, a subtle display of the strength he knew she possessed. The soap slid lower, over the swell of her breast. He could only see the top curve, the water obscuring the rest, but the implication was enough to send a jolt of pure heat straight to his groin.

He fumbled with the laces of his trousers, his claws trembling. He couldn’t stop. The pressure was unbearable, a painful, insistent ache. He freed himself, his cock springing out, already fully erect and leaking. It was, as the user had noted, disproportionately large for his small frame—a thick, veined shaft of deep green, the head a darker, almost ruddy hue. He wrapped a clawed hand around it, his grip tight and familiar.

In the room, Sue shifted. She stood up in the tub.

Skeeze’s stroke faltered, a choked sound escaping his lips. Oh, by the dark gods. Water cascaded off her body in sheets. He saw the full, heavy weight of her breasts, tipped with taut, pink nipples that beaded in the cooler air. He saw the dip of her waist, the powerful curve of her hips, the strong lines of her thighs. The thatch of blonde hair at the junction of her legs was darkened by water, clinging in wet curls.

She stepped out of the tub, one long, perfect leg after the other, onto a small, rough mat. She reached for a thin linen towel. The act of drying herself was a slow, sensual **** Skeeze had never dreamed of witnessing. She dragged the cloth over her shoulders, down her arms, patting the water from her skin. She lifted one foot, balancing with effortless grace as she ran the towel down her calf, over her ankle.

But it was when she bent forward, drying her legs, that Skeeze truly lost control. The view was obscene, glorious. The rounded globes of her ass were presented to him, full and high, still glistening with moisture. He could see the faint shadow between them, the hint of deeper, forbidden pink.

“Fuck,” he hissed, the word a breathless prayer. His hand began to move in earnest, stroking his cock with a frantic, **** rhythm. The pre-cum made his movements slick, the sound of his flesh a soft, wet slap in the silent hallway. His eyes were glued to the knothole, drinking in every detail. The way the candlelight played on the damp skin of her back. The shift of muscle as she straightened. The slight jiggle of her breasts as she turned, toweling her front now, her hand moving with casual indifference over the very places that held him captive.

She was a goddess of war and water, utterly unaware of her worshipper. The dichotomy was intoxicating. This was the feared Sue Storm, ****, naked, and so close he could almost smell the clean, soapy scent of her. His fantasy wasn’t just about flesh; it was about conquest. About the idea of her, of all people, wanting him. Of those strong hands not pushing him away, but pulling him close. Of her lips parting not for a command, but for a moan.

His strokes became shorter, harder, his hips bucking into his fist. He imagined it was her. Her tight, wet heat instead of his clenched hand. He pictured her beneath him, those powerful legs wrapped around his small waist, her head thrown back, crying out his name as he drove into her. The fantasy was vivid, overwhelming. The sight of her pinching one nipple between her fingers as she inspected a small scar on her ribcage was the final trigger.

A guttural groan was torn from his throat, muffled against his own arm. His body locked, spine arching. Thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from his cock, painting the dusty floorboards in front of the door in pearlescent streaks. A second pulse, a third, each less powerful than the last, until he was spent, trembling, leaning heavily against the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Reality crashed back in. The sounds from the room continued—the soft rustle of cloth. She was dressing. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the post-release haze. She could come out. Now.

With clumsy, sticky hands, he stuffed himself back into his trousers, lacing them hastily. He cast one last, longing look through the knothole—she had her back to him again, pulling a clean, simple tunic over her head—and then he scrambled away from the door. He moved down the hall on silent feet, slipped down the stairs, and melted back into the smoky gloom of the common room, his heart still pounding, the evidence of his transgression cooling on the floor above.

Minutes later, Sue opened the door. She felt cleaner, more human. The grime of the road and the metallic scent of the forge were gone, replaced by the simple, clean smell of plain soap. Her damp hair was combed back, her body clad in soft, worn linen underclothes and her leather breeches. She felt a minor tension ease from her shoulders. A small luxury, but a vital one.

She stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her. Her bare foot, seeking purchase on the wooden hallway floor, came down not on clean planks, but into something warm, wet, and strangely viscous.

She froze.

What in the…?

She lifted her foot. In the dim candlelight, a stringy, opaque substance stretched between her sole and the floorboard. It was slick. It had an odd, musky smell that was distinctly not part of the inn. She wrinkled her nose, peering at the small, glistening puddle just outside her door.

Her mind, ever analytical, raced through possibilities. Spilled ale? Too thick. Some odd cleaning solution? Unlikely. Animal? There were no pets in the inn.

A slow, cold suspicion began to dawn. Her eyes narrowed. She looked down the empty hallway, then back at the substance. Her jaw tightened. Skeeze.

The door to the common room swung open at the far end of the hall, spilling noise and light for a moment before shutting again. The inn was alive below her. And somewhere down there, a certain goblin was probably trying very hard to look innocent.

Sue stared at the mess, then at her soiled foot, a storm gathering in her eyes.