After scurrying home as quickly as his little legs would take him (which was actually really bloody fast; goblins were surprisingly spry), he tore through the piles of clothes both in and out of his wardrobe. Soon enough, his hands landed on the item he'd been searching for: the orc's fur coat.

To say it was massive was an understatement: the garment covered Glintsprock from head to toe and there was enough left over to trail along behind him. It even had a hood to hide his ears and, if he didn't mind not being able to see where he was going, his face too. Perfect.

Covered in fur, he left the house and returned to the market. As he'd expected, everyone turned to stare at the small, but very hairy newcomer. There were murmurs of "what in the gods is that?” and "why does it smell like it's already dead?”. Glintsprock ignored them.

The gnome woman at the stall looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It was clear that she didn't want to cause offence by outright staring at a new customer, but she was also the suspicious sort... not to mention she had no idea what she was looking at. The fur was a mix of brown and purple, and smelt like it had been out in the rain for a few days. Glintsprock had no idea what animal it had come from.

"Anything I can help you with?” she asked.

"Er...” Glintsprock started to talk but then stopped. If he was going to all this trouble to disguise his looks, he may as well disguise his voice too. He coughed, and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper and gruffer. "Not at the moment, ta. Just lookin'.”

"Well, I'm here if you need anything,” the gnome replied. She picked up a random trinket and began to polish it. Even though she seemed occupied, Glintsprock knew she was keeping an eye on him. He'd have to work quickly.

But now what?

His plan now seemed very thin and like it was going to fall to pieces at any moment.

He needed a distraction. But how could he get one? Usually, when the Shit-Stained Lizardz played, they were the distraction while their buddy skulked around the crowd and stole whatever he could lay his fingers on.

Now Glintsprock was on his own. He needed a new plan, but it would look weird if he sat down and started nibbling on his toenail now. It was a marvellously good toenail though. Glintsprock was sure he would be able to get another six or seven genius ideas from its pungent flavour, but it wasn't to be at that moment. All that was left to rely on now was his own noggin.

'I'm doomed,' he thought. 'I never think of anything good without a chew... I just think of stupid simple things.'

At that moment, inspiration struck! He could just use a stupid simple plan! It was perfect. Well, apart from the stupid part, but beggars can't be choosers.

Going with the first plan that came into his head, Glintsprock pointed at something behind the gnome and said, "'ere, what's that?”

It was certainly both simple and stupid.

Nevertheless, the gnome still looked behind her. "What?” she said. "I can't see anything.”

Glintspock continued to point. "There, right there. It looks dangerous. Wouldn't want it anywhere near me.”

Just the mere mention of the word 'danger' in Red Fern was enough to get anyone's attention. Some wanted to avoid it at all costs. While others felt a hunger to either be right in the thick of it, or to see someone else's misfortune. As expected, the gnome and everyone else within earshot, turned their attention to the direction Glintsprock was pointing.

"I can't see nothin',” someone said.

"Ain't nothin' there,” someone else chimed in.

"It's right there! Look!” Glintsprock said, as he slid over to where the mirror was propped against the stall.

"What are we meant to be looking at?” another person said, as Glintsprock attempted to cover both himself and the mirror with the fur coat. While the others were distracted, he started to move.

"Ain't nothin' there,” a voice repeated. "But that little furry thing looks weird. It's got a hump now. That can't be natural... I hope it ain't contagious.”

At that, Glintsprock felt a marketplace's full of eyes on him. It was time to run. And fast.

As he ran, the hood slipped from his head and he chanced a look behind him. The gnome was on his trail... with a whopping great axe in her hands.

"Bugger,” he muttered as he increased his speed. To his surprise, so did she. "She must really want this mirror.”

While goblins are fast and have a multitude of talents and abilities, they are not infallible, and Glintsprock proved this, by tripping over his fur coat. Gravity was determined to have its way with him, pulling him - and the mirror - to the ground. It would be disappointing to go to all this trouble only to smash up the very thing he'd just stolen.

Glintsprock muttered a prayer (and a bribe) to Volkdrow, the god of luck, and tried to right himself.

Volkdrow was on his side.

But the gnome - and her ridiculously huge axe - had now caught up with him. This was not turning out to be a good day.

The axe's blade glinted in the afternoon sun, its sharp edge alight with the desire to part the goblin's head from his shoulders. Goblins are notoriously hard to kill, and unless that thing was made of dragonbone, there was a good chance that Glintsprock would keep his head. However, just because it wouldn't end him, it didn't mean it wouldn't hurt.

And it didn't mean it wouldn't be embarrassing. Perhaps even more so than tripping over his own disguise.

If word of the gnome catching up with him got back to the goblins in Skrillbrat, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd be Glintsprock the Laughing Stock for the rest of his life. Thinking about that made him prefer the nickname he'd recently acquired: Frog Licker. 'Gimme that any day,' he thought.

In an effort to keep his dignity, he slipped out of the fur coat while still managing to keep one hand on the mirror. Don't ask how. It was a combination of luck and sheer determination. Once out of the coat, he launched it at his pursuer. The gnome was about the same height as the goblin, so it swamped her, providing him with one more distraction and the chance to race home with his new prize.

He'd mourn the loss of the coat later. Maybe he'd even steal it back. Perhaps under the cover of night.