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An arrow quivered, imbedded several inches into a tree.

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Another slammed into the wood beside it.

Malcolm drew back his bow, the next arrow already nocked. Focus. He thought, while envisioning the arrow's path in his mind. He released the arrow, taking a deep breath while his fingers slid off of the string.

OWW!

Ow? Opening his eyes, Malcom looked around. The broadhead had missed the trunk entirely. Probably just a rabbit, he thought.

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Malcom jogged into the forest, and picked up the arrow. The tip was coated in a thin layer of blood. BLACK blood. Ok, that was definitely not a rabbit.

Then for the second night in a row, the cries from inside the village began.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE MY TOES?!"

Sven's plan had gone great. They had snuck in, 'procured' the toes, and snuck out flawlessly. It seemed things couldn't go bad. Nevertheless, things did.

While creeping back to camp through the woods, one of the Toe Goblins, Svangal, cried out in pain. Sven whipped around just in time to see Svangal rip an arrow out of his own side! ...Then promptly faint.

Before Svangal could even hit the ground, the rest of the Toe Goblins swept his limp body up. In what felt like a blur, they raced him back to camp, blood pouring out of his side.

But despite their best efforts, the Toe Goblins couldn't save their friend. By the time they reached camp and Svangal was lowered to the ground, he was dead.