The goblins of Feywode, that dangerous fairy-tale other-place which borders some few worlds, are of course personifications of petty human emotions.
But what then of the Goblin Farm, and do you drink the tea?
The goblins at the Farm are helpful, friendly, and kind. Sure they smile their crooked smiles, showing their crooked teeth, but there is genuine glee in their shining eyes. They are truly pleased to have you as a guest.
But do you drink the tea?
So far as the sages know, this is only place in the Feywode where the opium-smoke tendrils of Narcosa do reach. Nevertheless, the Goblin Farm appears to be quite wholesome and pastoral.
Sure the goblins grow some hemp, but they’ll offer you the finest rope you’ve ever seen and refuse even a half-penny in payment. If you do show some interest they’ll gladly give to you of their finely carven pipes, as well. Oh those are certainly poppy fields, but don’t they just glow so red, in the morning sun? However, have you a game knee then shall their apothecaries give to you finely incensed tinctures of the poppy’s dew.
Ah, and their great brews: those fields are barley and rye, and there, just past them to the south, yes just there, are those not the finest sun-soaked vineyards your eyes have ever seen? Their beer is blessed good, hearty and light, sweet and sound. Their wine would make the sourest sommelier weep so sweetly. And that whiskey? It tastes of summer days, smoky evenings, and oak shaded back lanes. Try them all, they won’t insist, the goblins just smile and bring you all the more.
But do you try their tea?
They’ll feed you full of barley stew and melons overripe. They’ve such cheeses as to please any and all types.
But would you take some tea?
And did you see, that mirrored pond? It is where the blessed lotos grows. Some fine plum-blushed mornings, I’ve seen them there, goblins you see. They dig amongst the lotos roots in some strange, old-fashioned goblin revelry.
As you see, ‘tis such a grand place, and I shall never wont to leave.
Oh but won’t you try some tea. Can’t you see their sacred motions, portioned so carefully? How they start to offer, but shake their heads so nobly?
They want to share, but can’t be rude and are so afraid you might refuse, oh won’t you take some tea?