That lovely, warm summer's night, with the full moon and the stray melodies of the nightingale looming over lands exotic and mundane alike, was certainly not one for beginings. It was rather an ending night, the last act of some peculiar yet wonderful play that had already bypassed its climax. Now the end was fastly approaching, and it would mean death. The rogue was well aware of that.
He ran wildly through the thickest parts of the Hedge, elbowing his way deeper into its expecting bowels. It would do him no good, he knew: his pursuers knew the Hedge better than the back of their inhuman hands. Yet desperation speaks in queer measures. The man pushed on, frantically wrestling with the hellish branches that spawned all around him, constantly attempting to grap him, pull him down, claim their human prize. He ran further, praying to all entities of Faerie, struggling to channel his fast waning Glamour in his favor. Yet that front would soon be lost, and his luck with it.
He paused for a moment, listening for any sign of pursue. This time, there was only silence.
After five seconds, he felt an immense wave of relief washing over him.
After a few more, he thought the better of it. He rushed forward, inch-long thorns sprouting everywhere, injuring his blistering skin, bleeding his wary soul. Suddenly, the way grew wider, and a few moments later, it crossed a distinct path. He turned, following the vague sense of direction he'd been left with. The pathway led him to a small Hollow - just a glade, perhaps thirty yards across and ten yards wide. In its center, a tall, old oak tree stood, spreading lovingly its withered bulk over all other vegetation. A weird symbol ran over the veins of its half-stripped trunk.
Exhausted, he felt the Wyrd forsake him. At that very moment, cries came rumbling like thunder through the glade, and he saw how conveniently he'd been led to a trap. A score of goblins emerged from the Hedge, surrounding him from all sides. They were hideous creatures, uglier with their crude clubs and axes, yet deadly nontheless, if you ever happened to insult them... or owe to them.
One of them, appearing rather unexceptional but for a leader's aura, approached him in a most enraged state.
"Fine, you have me", started the rogue, his trembling, billowing voice awfully betraying the panic he veiled behind a perfectly straight face.
"What is it you'll..."
The goblin struck him, hard, bringing him to his knees.
"That's fer runnin' away!", he shrieked, and struck the man again on the jaw, knocking him on the damp, grassy ground. "Nobody runs away on the boss, ye hear? Fookin' human, usin' our aid 'gainst us!"
It was all the rogue could do to maintain his composure. "Yes", he said, and that was it.
"You'd ask whate'er we'd 'ave from ye, ah?", the goblin asked aggressively, and grabbed his shoulder-long, brown hair. "Naught but what ye owe us".
The goblin threw back its misformed head and sniffed the still air. Then it turned its wandering gaze toward the oak. Moonlight glimmered in the glade, and the sign took form and life: three towers and three gems on three concentric circles. When the rogue saw it, his blood froze in his pumping arteries.
"A pledge for a life, human", the goblin said, slyly smirking. "Make decision".