Del stared down at the crumpled body of the goblin at his feet, its leathery, greenish-grey skin now dulled and smeared with grime and blood. The acrid scent of its lifeless form mingled unpleasantly with the earthy undertones of the forest floor. He still felt a pang of revulsion at the act of killing—this was no mindless beast, but a creature with at least some semblance of sentience. Yet the nausea and turmoil that had gripped him after his first kill had faded. The visceral horror of that scout’s death felt distant now, as if it belonged to someone else.
‘Must be true what they say, Del. You can get used to anything, given time,’ he thought grimly, the words echoing like a bitter mantra.
With a grimace, he crouched down, his knees cracking faintly, and grabbed the goblin’s tattered shirt. The fabric was coarse and reeked of sweat and rot, but it served well enough to clean the gore from his blade. He wiped it methodically, the streaks of dark blood glistening momentarily before smearing into the already filthy cloth. Once satisfied, he slid the sword back into its sheath with a quiet metallic rasp.
As the adrenaline ebbed, leaving his body heavy and sluggish, a sharp throb pulsed in his arm, breaking through his awareness. He glanced down at the slash wound, its jagged edges crusted with drying blood. In the heat of the fight, the pain had been distant, a faint note amidst the symphony of chaos. Now, it sang loud and clear. He flexed his fingers experimentally, relieved to find that his grip remained firm, though the ache travelled up to his shoulder.
The wound itself, though ugly, was puzzling. The bleeding had already slowed to a trickle, a fact that both reassured and unnerved him. Digging into his pouch, he pulled out a sprig of silverbloom, its silvery leaves bruising easily under his fingers. Crushing it into a sticky paste, he pressed the concoction against the gash. A sharp sting lanced through him, drawing a hiss between clenched teeth.
“Stings,” he muttered aloud, watching the paste seep into the wound with a faint shimmer.
“Misty, are you okay, girl?” he called, glancing over at his feline companion. She was crouched low nearby, her golden eyes glowing like twin embers against the muted green backdrop of the forest. Each movement of her sleek body was deliberate, her tail flicking rhythmically as she watched the sack with predatory focus. She seemed unbothered by the aftermath of the fight, pausing only to swipe her paw over her whiskers before continuing her silent vigil.
Del couldn’t help but glance at her again as he rose, the sharp throb in his arm briefly forgotten. There was a strange elegance to her stillness, as though the violence of the goblins’ ambush had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He envied her composure. For all her calm, though, there was no mistaking the tension coiled in her muscles, ready to spring at the first hint of danger.
He turned his attention back to the camp. It reeked of stale smoke and unwashed bodies, the kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat no matter how shallow the breath. A sour tang of rotten meat mingled with the acrid stench of stale piss, creating a nauseating cocktail that made Del’s stomach churn. Flies buzzed in lazy, erratic circles around the remnants of meals long forgotten, their drone a faint but incessant backdrop to the oppressive silence of the camp.
Bones littered the ground, some cracked open and hollowed out for their marrow, their jagged edges glinting in the firelight. The faint sheen of grease on a few suggested they had been chewed clean only recently. Each step brought an unpleasant crunch beneath his boots as he moved closer, the brittle remains snapping sharply in the quiet. He caught sight of a small skull—its contours too strange to belong to anything natural—and quickly averted his gaze, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise.
The goblins’ bedding, if it could be called that, was little more than rags and straw bundled haphazardly together, their damp surfaces mouldering and stained with filth. The fire pit in the centre smouldered weakly, its embers barely holding on against the damp air. A thin curl of smoke rose languidly into the canopy, carrying with it the acrid scent of burnt wood and something far less identifiable.
A discarded waterskin lay nearby, its leather cracked and dry, while an overturned pot spilled its charred contents onto the dirt. Among the mess, Del noticed scraps of fur and a handful of broken arrows, their shafts snapped and useless. The crude remnants of a hunting kit lay abandoned in a corner, a testament to the goblins' disorganised existence. None of it seemed worth taking. Still, Del prodded at the mess, his gaze lingering on the battered remnants of their crude lives, a quiet unease settling over him as the scene painted an uncomfortably vivid picture of desperation and savagery.
His eyes eventually settled on the sack. Unlike the other refuse, it moved—jerking violently, its contents thrashing as though it could sense his approach. A muffled sound escaped the fabric, sharp and desperate, neither a word nor a cry but something raw and animalistic. The noise sent a chill skittering down his spine, the fine hairs on his arms prickling with unease.
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Del crouched beside it, the coarse weave of the fabric rough beneath his fingers as he inspected the bindings. Whatever was inside, it was strong enough to strain against the sack’s seams. His gaze flicked briefly to Misty, who had shifted closer, her body low to the ground, tail twitching in sharp, measured movements. Her golden eyes, narrowed with intensity, stayed fixed on the sack as if she could see through its layers to the source of the frantic motion within. Her ears swivelled forward, capturing every faint sound. A low growl rumbled in her throat, quiet but tense, vibrating with readiness.
“Stay sharp, girl,” Del murmured, his voice just above a whisper. The words felt more like an invocation, a plea for composure in the face of the unknown. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, a steady rhythm that seemed louder in the still air. He adjusted his grip on the knife, the blade glinting faintly in the weak firelight.
With a steadying breath, he slid the knife under the knot holding the sack closed. The coarse fibres strained under the blade before snapping with a sharp twang, the sound cutting through the uneasy silence. As if triggered by the release, the sack burst open with a sudden, violent motion. Something small and filthy hurtled out, a blur of limbs and snarls. The figure moved with startling speed, its claws bared and teeth flashing in the dim light.
Del staggered under the unexpected weight, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. His boots scraped against the dirt as he fought for balance, arms raised instinctively to ward off the attack. Nails raked against his forearms, sharp enough to draw thin lines of blood, and he winced at the sting. Misty’s growl deepened, a warning snarl that vibrated through the tense air, but she held her position, coiled and ready to spring if needed.
The figure’s strength was startling, far greater than its size suggested. It twisted and thrashed with a feral desperation, clawing at him with every ounce of energy it had. Del’s larger frame eventually gave him the advantage, and he managed to shift his weight, using his arms to pin the writhing form to the ground. His breathing was ragged, the exertion leaving him winded, but he held firm, his gaze finally focusing on what he had subdued.
It was a girl. Big, dark eyes stared up at him, wide with terror and glistening with unshed tears. Her tangled hair framed a face smudged with dirt and streaked with something darker—blood, perhaps, though he couldn’t tell whether it was hers. Her chest heaved beneath his grip, her breaths shallow and panicked, and her ribs pressed sharply against her skin, a testament to hunger or worse. Del’s stomach tightened, guilt and disbelief warring within him as he forced himself to speak.
“Okay, calm down,” he said, his voice low and as steady as he could manage. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His words sounded hollow to his own ears, but he pressed on, glancing briefly at the goblin’s corpse nearby. “The goblins are dead. You’re safe now.”
Her gaze darted toward the body, her trembling slowing as she seemed to process his words. Del loosened his grip, raising his hands slightly in a show of peace. “I’m going to let you go,” he said slowly. “Don’t run. It’s dangerous out there.”
He shifted back, his movements deliberate and slow, watching her every reaction. The moment his hands left her, she scrambled to her feet and backed away, her bare feet barely making a sound against the forest floor. Del raised his palms outward, his posture open and unthreatening, and took a small step back. The log behind him pressed against his legs, and he lowered himself onto it carefully, motioning toward the fire.
“There, that’s better,” he murmured, keeping his tone soft.
She stayed where she was, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, though her wide eyes tracked his every movement. The tension in her frame didn’t ease until Del shrugged off his jerkin and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it toward her in a careful arc. She flinched but caught the fabric, her gaze darting between him and the shirt as though expecting a trap.
“For you,” he said simply, gesturing for her to put it on.
Hesitantly, she turned her back and pulled the oversized shirt over her head. It hung loosely on her small frame, brushing her knees like an ill-fitting smock, but it was enough to make her seem less vulnerable. Del retrieved a length of rope from his pack, cutting off a piece and holding it out to her.
“For a belt,” he offered, though he doubted she could understand him. To his surprise, she stepped forward cautiously and took the rope, tying it around her waist with fumbling fingers. When she looked up again, the terror in her eyes had dimmed slightly, replaced by something else—relief, perhaps, or gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice hoarse but clear.
Del’s eyes widened, startled not only that she spoke but that he understood her perfectly. His concern rose as he saw tears carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks.
“I thought I was dead,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly. “They catch and eat young elves all too regularly.”
Elf? The word struck him, heavy with implications. Quickly, his mind reeled toward the Overmind system. ‘Identify.’
Elven youth
Level: 1
Naturally arcane
Strengths: Wisdom, Dexterity
Weaknesses: Unknown
Attacks: Unknown
Skill: Growth
Lore: Shy and retiring, elves are often found in deep woods where they live in harmony with nature. Naturally skilled in arcane magics. They are seldom aggressive unless threatened.
The words floated in his vision, stark and unyielding, confirming what she had said.