In the quiet stillness of the abandoned ruins, the small house, shrouded in vines and moss, appeared almost peaceful. Nature was slowly reclaiming the stone structure, with tendrils of greenery creeping up the walls. Inside, the second floor told a different story. The room was a mix of forgotten history and decay. A few unique pieces of furniture, their intricate patterns nearly obscured by dust, stood alongside broken weapons scattered across the floor, remnants of battles long past. A worn mattress leaned against one wall, where a young man lay sleeping. Beside him, a small table held a few books with yellowed pages and a skull that seemed almost ornamental.

Suddenly, the skull's mouth creaked open, and it spoke in a low, gravelly voice, "Wake up, Sol, it's night time again..."

The young man stirred but didn’t rise immediately. His voice was groggy and resistant as he muttered, "Just five more minutes..."

The skull sighed, a sound of exasperation that echoed softly in the quiet room. It waited a moment before speaking again, this time with a single word, "Val..."

At the mention of the name, Sol's demeanor shifted. His reluctance gave way to a quiet anger simmering beneath the surface. He sat up slowly, his movements deliberate, and responded in a tone barely concealing his irritation, "Alright..."

As Sol sat up, moonlight filtered through the cracked window, casting a soft glow on his face. The light revealed a crown-like headband he wore, its black-silver metal glinting faintly. In the center of the headband, a dark red stone pulsed with a subtle, almost ominous light, adding to the mysterious aura surrounding him.

With a sigh, Sol rose from the mattress and moved to the small table. He methodically dressed in his familiar black cloak and leather armor, reinforced with steel plates. The movements were practiced and ritualistic, as if this routine had been repeated countless times.

Fully dressed, Sol approached the window. His pale face caught more of the moon's light, revealing features marked by weariness and something darker beneath the surface. He stared out into the night, the ruins below bathed in silver light—a landscape of shadows and silence.

He yawned, breaking the tension that had settled in the room, and murmured to himself, "Time to grind..."

----------------------------------------

Just outside the ancient ruins, the moonlit forest was still and quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves as two rugged boars foraged for food. Both boars bore the marks of past battles—scars crisscrossed their tough hides, testaments to their survival. One boar, white and missing a tusk, snuffled through a bush in search of berries, while the other, black and larger, munched contentedly on fallen fruits scattered on the ground.

The white boar, with its solitary tusk, was nearing a cluster of bushes when suddenly, an arrow whistled through the air, striking it in the side. Startled, the boar bolted, racing away from the danger. Another arrow followed, but this one missed, embedding itself in the dirt.

From the shadows near the bushes, three small green figures emerged, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. Two of them clutched crude swords, while the third, taller and more muscular, carried a spear. They moved quickly, surrounding the panicked boars. The white one, agile and swift, managed to dart past them, disappearing into the darkness and escaping the ambush.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

The black boar, oblivious to the danger until it was too late, ran in frantic circles, searching for an escape route but finding none. The spear-wielding goblin seized the opportunity, lunging forward and thrusting his weapon into the boar’s side. The boar staggered but refused to fall, driven by sheer will to survive.

Desperation fueled its next move—it charged at one of the sword-wielding goblins, knocking the creature to the ground with its sheer weight and strength. Before it could press its advantage, another arrow flew through the air, striking the boar in the back. The remaining sword-wielding goblin rushed in, slashing at the boar before retreating, wary of its strength.

The boar’s cries filled the night, a haunting sound of pain and desperation that echoed through the trees. The spear-wielding goblin, eager to finish the job, hurled his spear with precision. The weapon flew straight and true, piercing the boar’s skull and ending its life instantly. The boar collapsed, its body falling limp to the ground, the forest once again sinking into silence.

The little green figures erupted in cheers, their high-pitched voices breaking the stillness of the night. The spear-wielder thumped his chest repeatedly, gloating over his kill, as if to say, “It was all me, I did all that.” They gathered around the fallen boar, their eyes gleaming with excitement and greed. Moments later, the archer emerged from its hiding spot, joining the others as they began to drag the heavy carcass away, eager to haul their prize to a more secure location.

Their successful hunt filled them with pride, but the night was still young, and the ruins loomed ominously in the background, silent witnesses to the savage scene that had just played out.

As the goblins gathered around the fallen boar, their gear became more visible under the moonlight. The two sword-wielding goblins wore patchwork armor made from scavenged materials: scraps of metal, leather, and fur pieced together haphazardly, offering minimal protection but maximum flexibility. Their swords were crude, the blades jagged and rough, evidence of their hasty craftsmanship. The third goblin, taller and more robust, was clad in slightly more organized gear—a breastplate of iron covering his chest, reinforced leather armor on his arms and legs, and a helmet bearing the marks of recent battles. His spear was well-crafted, its shaft sturdy and the iron head polished to a deadly shine.

The goblins chose one of the ruined houses for their feast, a building that had once been a home but was now a shell of its former self. They secured the entrance with hastily gathered debris, ensuring they were shielded from any unwanted interruptions. The interior was dimly lit by the flickering light of a small fire they had managed to start, casting long shadows on the walls.

As they turned their attention to the boar, their eyes gleamed with anticipation. Their sharp, yellowed teeth were bared as they tore into the carcass with primal hunger. The scene was grotesque—pieces of the boar’s flesh were pulled apart and devoured with unrestrained savagery. The goblins grunted and snarled with each mouthful, their rough hands and crude teeth making short work of the meat. The rich, gamey smell of the boar filled the air, mixing with the acrid scent of sweat and the damp, moldy aroma of the ruins.

They ate until their bellies were full, their satisfaction evident in the way they patted their distended stomachs. Despite their voracious appetite, they didn’t consume the entire boar; large portions of the meat were left behind, abandoned in the chaos of their feast. The bones were picked clean, and the remaining scraps lay in a heap, waiting for whatever scavengers or creatures might come across them.

Once they had eaten their fill, the goblins fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Their breathing was loud and uneven, mingled with the occasional snort or grunt. They sprawled out on the floor, their gear still loosely worn but relaxed now that their hunger had been sated. The firelight danced on their sleeping forms, casting eerie flickers that played across the walls.

Outside, the night was tranquil, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a night creature. Amidst the stillness, a shadowy figure moved silently through the ruins, careful not to disturb the sleeping goblins. The figure was young, cloaked in darkness, and glided through the deserted streets with practiced stealth. The soft, deliberate steps and occasional glances toward the ruined house suggested a purpose and a mission that required both caution and precision.