by Pirateaba
And Headscratcher’s commentary on their food also pertained to their likely fate if Rags used her power as Chieftain to expel them from the tribe. Garen Redfang couldn’t prevent that, and Headscratcher made it clear that this living rough was not for him.
The next to make a move were two Goblins, Bugear and Rocksoup. Bugear picked one of the infested mites out of his ear and flicked it at Headscratcher, which earned him a glare, but it put him solidly in Garen’s camp. So what if things were hard now? Their duty was to obey.
Rocksoup clearly had other opinions. He’d added his secret ingredient to his bowl, despite the intestinal problems it always gave him, but now he quite deliberately dropped a dirty rock in the communal pot hanging over the fire. The other Goblins scowled, but the meaning was clear: what harmed one Goblin harmed them all. If Rags was their Chieftain, than disobeying her by following Garen hurt the entire tribe.
And yet, Grunter opined with another grunt of displeasure as he fished out the stone with two fingers, Garen had lead them. He’d helped them become the warriors they were, and even if he wasn’t Chieftain, wasn’t he still stronger than Rags? Did they not owe him their loyalty, even though they obeyed Rags too?
Badarrow derisively scratched at his armpit, a commentary on Garen Redfang—he might also have just been scratching an itch. He took out two arrows – one perfectly made, the other one with a single crooked bit of fletching from staying in the quiver. He snapped the imperfect arrow with one clawed hand.
Such a dramatic statement against their former boss quieted the other Goblins. But they knew Badarrow was right. Life had been hard sometimes, for the Redfang tribe. If not for the warriors, then the regular Goblins—there was never enough food, despite their ability to take down almost any monster they wanted. The Hobs had to do all the work, and as Grunter grudgingly admitted, Garen often made mistakes when it came to choosing campsites or places to hunt.
Rags was clearly the better Chieftain. That much all the Goblins could agree on. But the fierce debate that ensued revolved around whether or not her qualifications as a leader made her a better candidate than Garen Redfang, who was unmatched in terms of combat prowess. Complicating the issue was that he had yielded to her, but clearly only obeyed her instructions at his whim, preferring to work behind her back where it suited him.
Could they really go against their leader? And what would be the consequences of throwing their lot behind Rags? Would she protect them, or despise their cowardice in abandoning her own tribe? After all, although she directly led several tribes, the others were simply following her in a coalition. She was not their direct leader—the other Chieftains were simply subservient to her. She was no Goblin Lord. But could she be?
The complexity of such a debate might have stunned any Human who was able to interpret their seemingly random gestures—and even more willing to ignore their fairly disgusting displays while they sat and ate. Bugear was especially hard to watch as he dug around in the ear where at least one nest of insects had made their home.
Most people assumed Goblins were about as deep as a puddle, and that was broadly speaking true. But some puddles are actually underground lakes, at least in certain cases.
The Goblin warriors were, even in their own minds, rather unintelligent and uninformed about many worldly matters. But even if these Goblins couldn’t perform wonders of mathematics or figure out how to read a map, they were still Goblins, experts in the field of Goblin culture in their own right. They understood tribal dynamics, and so they naturally debated such issues with keen interest.
After all, it was not unknown for Hobs or Goblin warriors to sway the outcome of a showdown between Chieftains. And the only thing Goblins had going for them was that they stuck together, regardless of what happened. So their hot debate was precisely the sort of thing that needed to occur to prevent internecine strife, which would be disastrous to their tribe.
In the end, the ones who formed the core of the debate were those who had been first to speak. Badarrow, Headscratcher, Grunter, Bugear, and Rocksoup were probably the best fighters, and certainly the most vocal. So the other Goblins deferred to them as they listened, only interjecting occasionally by flicking a stone at someone or passing wind to mock a stupid remark.
The others had names too of course, but the Goblins had only a limited amount of patience for remembering things. So often, the easiest way for them to think of each other was ‘that Goblin’ or ‘other Goblin’ and so on. Even when it came to themselves. It was only a nickname after all—if they had real names, they would have cared much more. But no one here was that lucky.
The Goblins spent around forty minutes eating lunch, upon which they packed up and kept walking in a random direction Grunter pointed. All the while they argued, until all of the Goblins present came to a conclusion as one.
Their general consensus was this: Garen Redfang was their Chieftain and leader. But—and this was a hard admission—he was a very poor Chieftain. He was unmatched in battle, but outside of it he was about as useful as an arrow up the butt. That was to say, he was actually more of a hindrance than anything else.
True, he’d lost the battle on purpose to Rags. But hadn’t she done a good job beating him and the other warriors despite that? The band of Goblins bore no particular ill will towards her for killing their comrades—they were just glad it hadn’t been them. The trap with the Shield Spider pits had proven she could outmaneuver Garen, and if you added that to her ability to lead so many tribes…
There was no comparison. Rags was the Chieftain, and Garen had forgotten that. Grunter and Bugear put it down to his interactions with Humans. He’d forgotten that he had to obey Rags, not make decisions for her. He had to be reminded of that.
So the conclusion all the Goblins came to was simple: they had to go back. They would go back to Rags and tell her what Garen had told them to do. And then, depending on what she said they’d complete their mission or not. Garen would throw a fit and maybe he’d get violent—
But it was the right thing to do. Their tribe needed unity now, more than ever. Especially if there really was a Goblin Lord about to attack them. Neither Rags nor Garen were as good as true Goblin Lord, despite their Skills. But if the worked together…
In truth, the Goblin warriors didn’t know why they weren’t joining with this Goblin Lord, as was customary. But they’d heard dark rumors about this so-called Lord, and Garen Redfang had told them that any Goblin who joined the Goblin Lord he, Garen, would kill himself. Which told the Goblins a lot about how much this new Goblin Lord could be trusted.
That was a matter for later. Right now, they had to get back and throw their support behind Rags. The Goblins present were few, but they had a lot of clout even outside their own tribe. Grunt was an average Hobgoblin, but the warriors present were some of the best, and their voices would sway a lot of minds.
So! Time to go back! No more being lost. They could return with their heads held high. The Goblins all felt rather satisfied with themselves. Rather cleverly, they’d managed to address their current issue without having to bring up the fact that they were lost.
But then Headscratcher looked around at the snowy landscape. He scratched his head, stared at whatever was caught in his fingernails and brought up a dismaying point.
Did they actually know where Rags and the other Goblins were right now?
The Goblin warriors looked at each other in consternation. They scratched their heads, scratched their butts, kicked at the snow, and shrugged helplessly. After a few seconds they all agreed. They were lost.
All eyes turned to Grunter. He grunted irritably. Grunter was a heavy Hob, one of the ones who was classically almost as wide as he was tall. He was no athletic Garen with a Human’s build, but his weight helped in battle where he could use his axe to literally crush his opponents. And it also made him a rock of confidence in times like these.
After a few seconds of thought, Grunter pointed. Not in a random direction this time—he pointed towards where they h
ad come.
Liscor. That was the place to be. That was where Rags and the others had last been—they could head that way. They were sure to pick up signs of so many Goblins moving, even with their pathetic tracking abilities.
All the Goblins agreed. They would go to Liscor. In less than an hour they found the main road heading south and, after walking north for a few hours before they realized their mistake, they stealthily shadowed the road heading south.
They were going to rejoin their tribe. The only problem was that none of the Goblins knew that Rags and Garen and all the Goblin tribes in the area had already headed north, far north to the area around Invrisil. The band of Goblins were going in the wrong direction.
But they didn’t know that. And they felt confident, and that was all that mattered. That was, until they saw the other Goblins marching down the road.
—-
This is the story of a young woman. She had a name. But she had no words to tell anyone her name, even if they would have listened to her. She had lost language. And she had lost her family and everything else.
Before—she had a life. She’d been a [Florist]—an unusual class, but one she could take because her city had been beautiful and peaceful. Esthelm had been a happy city.
And then the Goblins came. The girl only remembered the chaos and screaming—shouting confusion as everyone ran. She’d tried to find her family, to escape, but the streets had been full of dark shapes, and the Goblins—
They had come and gone, and left a burned city in their wake. The girl had survived the fire, and she had been one of the first to lay eyes on her broken home.
Esthelm had been destroyed in a single night. And what remained was—
Rubble. Broken buildings. A maze of fallen masonry and tunnels of homes where the dead lay buried in the darkness. Empty souls wandering the destruction, preying on each other.
If she had found her family, she might have left with them. But no help had come, and the young woman had found herself trapped in the city. The Goblin army had left—leaving countless numbers of their dead in the streets. Goblins had slaughtered their own kind and plundered the city. Perhaps some would have called it a mercy.
But not her. And not the survivors. Rather, the many who survived the Goblin attack soon realized the true horror of what the Goblins had done. The monsters had taken goods, plundered valuables—and stolen away the food. And now, in the remains of their city, over half of the remaining population began to tear each other apart over what scraps they could find.
Death by sword or fire would have been the kinder alternative by far. The young woman had tried to find her home, and then find stores of food—shops—but she had found nothing. Desperate men and women had killed each other fighting over a bag of grain before her eyes, and she had fled.
Now she sat in the dark, broken place that had been a home, staring up at a ceiling held up by crumbling supports. Even though the structure could fall at any moment, she didn’t care. Oblivion was preferable to what she faced.
Hungry. She was so hungry. It wasn’t even words anymore just an overpowering desire to eat something. Anything.
It had been six days. Six long days since Esthelm had burned. The young woman’s clean hair was gone. Her features were gaunt; her stomach eating away at the rest of her body. She was so hungry.
And yet—she could find no food. Now she sat, staring at the one thing she could find to eat. But it was too horrible. She turned away and lay against a broken wall, trying to die. Trying to ignore the nightmarish idea in her brain.
On the seventh day she stared down at the body. Even flies hadn’t found it yet. Whoever it had been—male or female—had burned in the devastation. Their skin was blackened. And yet—
The smell. It was nauseating, horrific. The burnt flesh should have made her turn away and puke. But now it only made her mouth water. Her stomach growled. The young woman stared at the body, possessed by a terrible urge.
Hungry. She was hungry.
She couldn’t. She would rather die. But when she’d pulled herself to the entrance of her hidden resting place, she’d seen what lay outside. Bands of men—grabbing young women, fighting each other. She’d watched in horror and retreated to her small place, covering her ears to not hear the shrieks.
On the eighth day she stared at the body. She was forcing herself not to touch it. She stared at the ground. She stared at her hands, ragged, dirty. She tried to tell herself it would never happen.
Hungry.
But something dark sat up in her body. It crawled towards the light, and salivated in the madness of her broken mind. When she heard the screaming outside—inhuman and bestial, she’d smiled and laughed uncontrollably, giggling in the silence of her pit.
And on the ninth day, she’d eaten the body. It was rotten and the flesh was—
She tore and bit like an animal, lost to reason. The only desire she had in the entire world was to eat.
She was so hungry it hurt. But then she ate and ate and—
And then it happened. She heard the voice in her mind as she slept that night, after she’d puked and wept and eaten again, letting the monster in her soul take over. She ate and ate and ate until her body was gorged on the flesh, eating until she thought she would burst. And then she’d heard the voice in her head.
[Rank 1 Horror – Corpse Eater.]
[Condition – Terrible Hunger Received.]
[Condition – Outcast Humanity Received.]
[Aspect – Body of the Eater Obtained.]
[Aspect – Rending Claws Obtained.]
[Florist Level 19 → Florist Level 16.]
[Skill – Aroma of Spring Lost.]
[Skill – Winter Growth Lost.]
She’d woken up and screamed. But the sound hadn’t been Human. And when she’d felt at her teeth suddenly sharp and pointed, her fingernails like razors and her face—she’d known.
She’d become a monster. She had damned herself and lost her humanity.
She was—
So hungry. So very, very hungry.
And there was food to eat everywhere now. So much food.
—-
Esthelm, in the darkness. It always seemed dark in Esthelm. The broken buildings and slanted walls created a labyrinth into which sound and light seemed to vanish. The bands of refugees and thugs who’d established themselves on the outside of the city had light, but it only served to enshroud the center of the city in more darkness.
The sewers had broken in places. In others, the flame had sent buildings tumbling into obscene heaps of death. Only the brave and truly desperate would go searching in these places, even among Esthelm’s survivors. Because even if they did not see anything, they knew dark things lurked in these places.
One of these dark things looked like a young woman. Perhaps. She had ragged long hair and her body was in the right shape. But clothing hung from her thin frame, and as she tore at something on the ground, other changes were clear. Her fingernails were sharp like knives. Her hands and face looked—wrong. And she was eating.
She crouched on the ground, tearing at something. She stuffed pieces into her face, rotting bits of…something. Something she still couldn’t put into words.
Because she’d lost them.
[Rank 2 Horror – Carrion Eater.]
[Condition – Wordless Thing Received.]
[Skill – Gaping Bite Obtained.]
[Florist Level 16 → Florist Level 12.]
[Skill – Quick Growth Lost.]
The more she ate, the worse it became. But now she was eating the rotting corpses, not just the burned dead. She was so hungry. Part of her wanted to puke, but she could only eat. It was all—
Delicious. Not like sweets or savory foods to make the mouth water, but something more primal. It was just food she tasted—food to fill the hole in her stomach. So she ate and bit, and chewed the bones.
Part of her wanted to die. But the rest was just hungry. She could stop herself for only a few seconds
. And then her head would lower and she would feast.
The young woman pulled more of the corpse towards her. It had been a woman, once. A young woman, like her. The knowledge was a dagger in the girl’s heart, but she couldn’t stop. She bit once, and again, tearing off bits and pieces, feeling the flesh rip and stretch. Tears ran down her face, and she choked on bile and the foulness. But she swallowed and bit again.
So hungry. She was so hungry. And she had to eat. Had to. It was that or become one of the rotting bodies. She wanted to be dead, but she couldn’t figure out how.
The girl reached for the head of the half-devoured woman. And then she heard the scream.
“No!”
She saw the movement, saw the blow coming. It smashed into her face, making her nose crunch and her flesh tear as the boot struck her. Then she heard the man.
“What are you doing? Dead gods—what—?”
Then the orb of light in his hands shone on her and she shielded her face. The man saw the corpse and he went still. The young woman looked up, gasping, searching for words. But they had all left her.
And as the horror-struck man’s eyes turned from the body to her face, he recoiled. He went pale, and his voice shook as he spoke.
“Monster.”
He whispered it, and then screamed the word.
“Monster!”
She backed away on all fours as he groped around for a weapon, a stone—anything. She saw him find a piece of wood, splintered on one end. He raised the block of wood and advanced, swinging at her.
“Get away—die you—you monster!”
She fled. He chased after her, catching her with one bloody swing on the shoulder once—but he quickly gave up the chase. She looked back only once and saw him holding the body in his arms.
This was her life.
—-
They found her as she fled. A group of laughing men, desperate and lacking hope, but reveling in their own twisted freedom to do as they pleased. They only saw her silhouette in the flickering light of their torches, but they called out the instant they saw her.