It was a great labour to find a stance that humans and monsters agreed upon. Yet they all knew one thing: Do not fuck with the goblins. Nevermind that conniving glint in their slit eyes, the long misshapen nose squashed onto their sunken, narrow faces – they were master thieves. Krak’kor and the Theft of the Thirteenth Hour, Shurei and the Heist of Highest Light; even if the stories recessed into legend, it was enough to scare even the Mogker. Unless one wished for an entire estate picked clean or swaths of land to run barren, one simply, simply, did not fuck with the goblins.

Except for Noz. Noz was hardly a goblin.

A yawn escaped his gaping green lips. He had no idea how long he’d been waiting, staking out his spot in the underbrush, surveying the trail just a few steps ahead. When he got there in the morning, his hand was a vise around his knife, the leather from the handle imprinting on his grubby palms; now, he spun it absentmindedly around the loop at the butt end, the rusting metal only barely shining in the moonlight. The blade cleaved a leaf from a branch, and it was swept away in the cool night wind. Noz wished to follow.

Yun’s Streak bustled with travelers all throughout the day, humble and extravagant alike. Earlier, he caught a whiff of cumin and salt before the caravan passed. And after? A farmer reeking of dung and dirt. But none of them were a target. The caravan was surrounded by a troop of warriors clad in exotic armor and wear – Sjyrak, if he recalled correctly – with scimitars that curved and gleamed like basilisk fangs. The sight of it alone sent icicles down Noz’s spine. As for the farmer? The guy was huge! He’d stomp Noz underfoot without a second thought.

The goblin grumbled something to himself. If it were Mura or Da’jue or even Luka, that caravan wouldn’t be an issue. They’d make away with a barrel of spices or one of the guards’ weapons at the very least. Noz would’ve been skewered, but not before dropping his knife or falling off the wagon or tripping on air. ‘Daft-hands’ was hardly adequate. When it came to thieving, his entire body worked against him. And yet if he went back empty-handed, he might as well have been dead to the rest of the horde.

Suddenly, he heard a sound echoing from beyond the underbrush. In the quiet of the night it was like thunder splitting a mountain. Footsteps. Frail, timid, full of trepidation. Noz’s face brightened. He snatched his satchel from beneath a branch, gripped his knife, and dashed nigh-silently through the flora as the footsteps grew ever louder. It sounded like a single person – just one! His little heart began to pump and race, beating in his ears like a Yushet wardrum. The grin on his face grew just a bit larger. Finally, his lucky break had come!

When the leaves between the shrubs made way for the dying rays of a lantern light, he came to an abrupt halt. Slowly, with every muscle in his body tensed, he peeked a single eye out from the bush. And there she was, hunched over in a drab frock, squat as a donkey, trailing some kind of rolling case behind her. It smelled vaguely of chemicals and herbs – an alchemist, maybe? Noz could hardly see her face, but heard the rattling of labored breaths and the arrhythmic pace of her steps. She had to have been old. And old people were the perfect targets.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Setting his knife down, he slowly reached into his satchel and pulled out a set of runes and a skeleton key. Noz could hardly contain his giddiness. The sheer excitement of finally, finally, finding a target caused him to uncontrollably rustle around in the bush. Not that it mattered anyway. The hag probably would’ve thought it to be the wind.

“Inokkus,” He whispered to himself, holding the corresponding rune. The sigil at its center cast a sinister purplish-black on the leaves. He set it down and picked up another. “Xue’fokate.” He said to another rune. This one glew a muffled gray. Noz repeated the process with the six runes in his possession and spread them all out on a burgundy cloth before him. The skeleton key followed. His preparations were complete.

However, the night went quiet again, and the sound of those footsteps disappeared. Noz’s heart sank to his feet. He couldn’t believe it – had he taken too long? Had he let her get away? Noz staggered to a stand, cursing himself for his carelessness. He peeked out from behind the bushes. Sure enough, the old woman was gone. Like she vanished into the night.

But that case of hers remained.

Before he even had the time to be puzzled, he heard something drop down from behind him. Something – no, someone – was approaching. Alarmed, Noz wrenched his entire body around and instinctively turned his knife against the darkness; but there was nothing there. At least, that’s what it seemed.

Something moved amidst the trees.

He backpedaled, tripping over one of his runes, crushing it into pieces; the dark became darker, and his visage was enveloped by a viscous black fog. Fear beating in his chest, he scrambled back to his feet, making his way back to the road. But the dark shrouded everything in sight. Even with his vision, he couldn’t see a few feet past his knife tip. Panicked, he swore under his breath – it was a mistake to prime the runes after all.

Whispers, unholy amalgamations of hisses and growls, perfused from all around him. Some were vaguely familiar, like a conversation just barely out of earshot. Others were primal, like voices from the Gash; but they were enough to make him freeze in place, trembling. He was a fool to go alone! He was a fool to think that a daft-hands like him could survive without the horde. He was a fool to think that, for once in his life, he could be a goblin.

The dark took shape: a malformed, ugly figure materialized from the umbra like someone pushing through a curtain of black. Pythons of mist curled around the figure like a beast or a demon. Noz only had enough courage to barely snap his knife its way; A shadowy hand swatted it out of his hand, sending it clattering to the side, the metallic sound muffled by black grass. The figure’s head turned towards the fallen knife, and it made a clicking sound. Like it was scoffing at him.

He had to move. He had to run! Had to fight, flee, bargain, beg; anything for his life! And yet, he did nothing. His body was under a spell, daring not to twitch an inch. Even as the figure’s hand reached out for him, withered and shrunken; even as its index came closer to his face; even as its crooked fingertip jabbed against his forehead. The night swirled around the goblin, suffocating him, until he crumpled to the floor with a final glint of moonlight.