Gribble plunged into the gloom of the Wild Woods, thorns raking his mottled hide. The trees loomed overhead, ancient boughs twisting into claws that snatched and grabbed. Fetid air clogged his throat, reeking of rotting leaves and stagnant pools. Strange cries reverberated from the murky depths, guttural and savage.

He shuffled forward, eyes flicking, muscles twitching. Hunting for anything even remotely edible to pacify his growling gut and prove his meager worth to the goblin clan that spurned him. Heart thudding against his ribs, Gribble scanned the damp, leaf-strewn ground for mushrooms, nuts, berries - any scrap to fill his belly and pouch.

Always that gnawing ache, that hollowness. Never enough to sate the relentless hunger. The other goblins sneered when Gribble crept back with his pathetic forage, hoarding the prime haunches and marrow bones for themselves. Their disdain burned like acid in his chest. He dug grimy claws into his palms, hatred smoldering, resolve hardening to an iron core. Someday he'd show them, make them choke on their mockery.

Gribble shoved through a tangle of moss-draped vines and lurched to a halt. Rising from the gloom ahead hunched a crumbling structure of pitted gray stone. Intricate patterns swirled across the weathered surface, ancient goblin runes and pictograms he'd never seen before. An eerie shimmer seemed to pulse from the shrine like a dying heartbeat.

A shudder crept down Gribble's crooked spine. Tales slithered through his mind, whispered over guttering cook fires, of lost magics and forgotten gods that still haunted the Wild Woods. Drawing a shaky breath, he slunk closer, some primal instinct pulling him forward despite the alarm bells clanging in his skull.

Clawed fingers reached out, tentatively tracing the grooves etched into the stone. Cryptic scenes took shape before Gribble's squinting eyes - armies of goblins clashing in epic wars, robed figures conducting esoteric rites, grotesque monsters rising from eldritch vortexes. Fragments of histories lost to the fogs of time.

Questions lanced through Gribble's mind sharp as flint knives. What secrets did the shrine hold? What terrible powers had his ancestors once wielded? And what did it mean for him, a runt scrabbling in the dirt at the bottom of the goblin hierarchy? The possibilities made his head swim.

A glint of metal flashed in the corner of his vision. Gribble pivoted, pulse quickening, eyes probing the dense foliage that shrouded the base of the shrine. Creepers writhed around a moss-furred mound like grasping tentacles. Something alien protruded from the vegetation, winking as stray sunbeams stabbed through the canopy.

Curiosity seized Gribble with talons of iron. Scuttling forward, he tore at the undergrowth with manic intensity, oblivious to the thorns gouging his skin and the sap sticking to his fingers. Clumps of humus flew as he excavated, blood roaring in his ears, desperate to unearth whatever treasure lay concealed.

At last, Gribble's claws closed around the object and he held it aloft with trembling hands. A dagger, forged from an ebon metal he'd never beheld. It thrummed against his palm, pulsing with an uncanny energy. Gribble gaped in awe at the blade's flawless edge, still razored after untold ages. The hilt was inlaid with glyphs that shimmered like captured starlight.

Wonder and disbelief warred inside him. Gribble the Runt, the clan's most wretched outcast, discovering an artifact of the ancient world? It seemed a fever dream, yet the dagger's solid weight anchored him to reality.

Shadows swirled through Gribble's mind as he pondered his next steps. Part of him longed to secret the blade away, to hide this shred of power in some dark nook where it could be his alone. But another voice whispered that Grimrock needed to know of this find. That presenting such a prize to the chieftain could be Gribble's chance to finally rise from the muck. To grasp a sliver of respect, even if grudgingly bestowed.

Gnarled fingers convulsed around the hilt as indecision gnawed at Gribble. To keep the dagger would be to accept his lowly fate, forever scrabbling on the edges of the pack. But to offer it up was to risk his only chance at something more, hinging everything on the whims of a tyrant. Gribble's shoulders slumped as the weight of the choice bore down like granite slabs.

With a ragged sigh, Gribble heaved at the dagger. His atrophied muscles quivered, barely hefting the blade from the loam before his strength gave out. The weapon thudded back to the earth, nearly crushing his foot. Gribble glowered at his gaunt limbs, cursing his weakness.

Gritting his fangs, he seized the dagger's hilt in both hands and hauled backward. His shoulders, back, and wiry legs screamed with the effort as the blade grudgingly slid free, carving a jagged furrow through the soil and leaf litter. Gribble staggered under the weight but managed to keep his feet.

The slog back to the village was a battle in itself. The dagger dragged behind Gribble, snaring on roots and rocks, nearly toppling him again and again. Branches whipped his face and hidden stones stubbed his toes but he ground forward. Rivulets of sweat cut through the grime caking his hide.

With each torturous step, humiliation bubbled like acid in Gribble's gut. Too feeble to even lift his prize properly, reduced to hauling it like a pup dragging a stick. His every inadequacy seemed to leer from the shadows, mocking him.

At last, the crude palisades of the village poked through the treeline. Gribble hauled himself forward, dagger carving a serpentine trail behind him. Raucous sounds of goblin life grew louder as he approached the gate - drunken songs, barking laughter, the meaty thunk of fists on flesh.

The guard took one look at Gribble's burden and stepped aside with a snort of derision. He trudged into the village heart, every eye fixing on him with cruel amusement. Whispers slithered in his wake like vengeful specters.

"Look at the runt, scrapin' in the dirt again!"

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"Whatcha got there Gribble? Nother dried turd to add to yer collection?"

"Pah! Grub crawlin' with his nose to the ground, as always!"

Gribble hunched his shoulders against the barbs and soldiered toward the squat stone bulk of Grimrock's hall. Even here at the fringes, that den of brutal authority exuded a palpable menace. Yellowed skulls leered from tar-smeared spikes above the door. The cracked flagstones were dark with old bloodstains.

Gribble heaved the dagger up the steps, the rough granite shredding his palms. He propped the blade against the lintel, chest heaving as he fought for breath. A tide of heartsick dread welled up, flaying his resolve. To expose his neck to Grimrock's fangs went against every self-preserving instinct.

Drawing a shuddering inhale, Gribble steadied himself before hauling the door inward. The sparse light of the hall swallowed him, reeking of old grease and stale blood. He felt the collective heavy gaze of warriors lining the hall settle on him like stones across his back.

Grimrock's guttural snores rattled the beams. The chief hunched on his bone-studded throne like a toad, jowls quivering with each phlegmy exhale. Rinds of meat and goblets of viscous black liquor dotted the floor around him.

Gribble shuffled forward with stiff formality, dragging the dagger across the rushes until he reached the dais. Painfully aware of a hundred gleaming eyes boring into him. The blade screeched against stone as he pulled it forward and lurched to his knees, head bowed.

"M-mighty Grimrock," Gribble croaked, tongue thick in his mouth. "I come bearing an offering...a prize from the Wild Woods...a dagger of the ancients..."

Silence hovered, drawn and taut as a noose. Gribble steeled himself for the blows that always rained down...

A snort, then a guffaw. Grimrock's gut shook as laughter boiled up from his barrel chest. He wrenched himself upright, beady eyes glinting with cruel mirth.

"Well, well," the chief rumbled. "The dungheap runt, come to grovel! And what has it dragged in? Some scrap even the crows wouldn't touch?"

Gribble wilted under the scorn, but pressed doggedly on. "A blade, great chieftain. Of craft and metal beyond any I've seen..."

Grimrock levered himself from the throne with a grunt and thudded down to the dais. His clawed foot lashed out, nearly crushing Gribble's fingers as he wrenched the dagger up. The weapon looked like a toothpick in his massive fist.

The chief turned the blade in the guttering torchlight, piggy eyes gleaming. Gribble held his breath, scarcely daring to hope. Would Grimrock see the value in the find? Would this, at last, be enough to earn some shred of regard?

Contempt twisted the chief's craggy features. He hurled the dagger down with a snort. It clattered across the flagstones, skidding to a halt at Gribble's knees.

"Orclord's steaming balls!" Grimrock snarled. "The runt can't even lift a proper blade!" The chief's chest shook with derisive chortles. All around, the pack took up the laughter like snarling hyenas.

Gribble's cheeks burned as if seared by brands. He hunched in on himself, wishing the stone would swallow him whole. Every jeer hammered him like a blow, reopening the wounds of a thousand past humiliations. That treacherous ember of hope shriveled to cold ash in his chest.

"Consider yerself lucky to kneel in my hall, scum!" Grimrock boomed. His foot lashed out, catching Gribble in the ribs and flipping him like a turtle. "Now crawl back to whatever fungus-hole ye sprouted from 'fore I make a boot scraper outta yer spine!"

Gribble scrabbled to his feet, every joint howling. The laughter followed him in a jeering wave as he limped for the door, cheeks searing, eyes stinging. He didn't look back as he dragged himself across the threshold, knowing Grimrock was already pawing greedily at the blade, like a hound with a fresh haunch.

Flayed raw by despair, Gribble trudged toward the lonely hovel that served as his den. Even the raucous din of the village felt distant, muted by the fog of misery choking him. He was nothing to the clan - a worm, a parasite, an embarrassment to be expunged. That truth hollowed him out inside, scraping him to a brittle husk.

Gribble barely registered reaching his own rotted door. He shoved through the curtain of moldy hides and crumpled onto the pile of dank straw that served as his bed. Curling into a fetal ball, he hugged his gangly limbs to his chest, feeling the sharp edges of his own bones prod at his papery skin.

Dry, racking sobs seized him. He mashed his fists to his temples, furious at his own weakness but unable to stem the flood. All the hurt, the loneliness, the burning sense of injustice swelled up and crashed over him in a drowning wave.

Gribble didn't know how long he lay there, limbs twitching, snot and tears streaking his face. Time bled away, marked only by the slow wheel of shadows across the packed earth. At some point, exhaustion dragged him down into a black, shifting oblivion, where dark figures jeered and titanic beasts rose from eldritch swirls of mist.

He woke to pale dawn light creeping through the gaps in the hide walls. Gribble uncurled with a groan, joints popping, head pounding like a stoked forge. His tongue felt thick and furry in his parched mouth.

Rising creakily, he stumbled to the wooden chest that held his meager possessions. Digging past the scraps of hide and chipped bone spoons, his claws closed on the cool roundness of a salvaged glass vial. He pulled it out, holding it up to the wan light. A few precious drops of water sloshed in the bottom.

Breath shaking, Gribble's thoughts slunk back to the day before. The dagger's uncanny thrum against his palm. The arcane runes glinting with otherworldly menace. The way it had been swallowed by Grimrock's meaty fist like a minnow by a river pike...

A surge of directionless rage clenched Gribble's innards. He gasped and doubled over as if gut-punched, fingers whitening around the vial. That blade, his one chance to rise above the muck, to grasp something like respect. Snatched away almost before he could blink.

The glass creaked ominously as Gribble's grip tightened, nails gouging the surface. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden sting of fresh tears. Three decades of pent up fury and despair seethed like magma in his chest, seeking an outlet before it tore him apart.

With a choked howl, Gribble hurled the vial at the wall of his hovel. It exploded in a spray of jagged shards and precious liquid. He sank to his haunches, shoulders heaving, struggling to master himself.

Slowly, as if emerging from a sea of black tar, a new thought congealed. An ember of determination, fanned to life by the bellows of his rage. That shrine in the forest - the ancient carvings, the aura of power. Secrets lurked there, answers to questions he hadn't even thought to ponder.

Perhaps it was time to stop scrabbling for scraps from his tormentors' table. To quest for something more, even if it damned him in the end. If Grimrock and the others insisted on grinding him underfoot, maybe his path lay elsewhere, out in the beyond...

Rising on shaky legs, Gribble gathered up his few tools - a rusted shiv, a coil of frayed rope, a stained waterskin. He lashed them to his makeshift belt, movements methodical, almost ritualistic. A strange calm settled over him, grim and cold as a winter sky.

Thrusting aside the curtain, Gribble emerged into the pale dawn. Woodsmoke and faint snores drifted from the other hovels. He turned his back on it all, limping for the gap in the palisades. The Wild Wood stretched out before him, dark and rife with uncertain promise.

Gribble forged ahead, melting into the gloom beneath those twisting boughs. Thorns tore at him, rocks bloodied his feet, but he pressed forward, nursing the flickering coal of purpose in his heart. Come what may, he would unravel the mysteries of that shrine. And wrest for himself some scrap of meaning from an uncaring world.