In the darkness that enveloped a single warehouse, a warrior who had long thought their fight to be over, opened their eyes to a necrotic ooze. Their skin, their clothes, their hat and jacket all slowly burned and decayed, rotting as they lay submerged in a liquid of shadow and death. A massive creature, one of the two oozes that had been fighting the warrior, was now rolling atop it. Rolling over it like they were a piece of litter to ignore.

Within the body of an ancient warrior, beat a heart tempered in the fires of creation. That had spent years of their life submerged in worse, more corrosive mixtures. Broken bones, broken skin, broken teeth. None of this was worse than that hell. That nightmare that never stopped haunting them.

With the raising of their hand, their fingers bent, cut and bleeding from being beaten into the stone below, they spoke, their throat and lungs burning with necrosis. In the curt, simple, and direct language of the goblins, they spoke.

“The Chosen of the Brood, the Final Abomination, marks you.” No comprehensible noise left their lips, only the vibration and intent left them. Rising up and into the blood that leaked from the hand.

Two drops of dark blood burned for a moment like flickering stars of green. One flew up into the core of the slime passing above. The other seeking the ooze still marked by radiance. Both creatures stuttered for a moment as Madra’s Bane fell upon them both. Each succumbing to the effects before they could determine where they were inflicted from.

With a speed that did not show any sign of the massive injury they had sustained; the goblin roared and rose to their feet in the slime and ooze. A surge of might, of strength and energy pulsed through their body. Drawing their lifelong companion, they pulled the trigger while aiming directly at the core mere feet away.

Three direct hits, a ray of burning light, an explosion of sound that rocked the slime’s very membrane to the edge of collapse, and the violent slamming pure, magical force rocked the core to its breaking point. The furry of a small, insignificant goblin that it was content to just swallow and dissolve within its depths, broke it into a rain of falling rock shards and an expanding puddle of decaying fluid.

The goblin took in a deep, desperately needed breath that filled their lungs like the winds of heaven and life.

Only for a familiar glow from the rafter to catch their eye before one, and then a second devastating impact that pierced through the last remaining giant ooze. It seemed to not react as massive parts of its body were splattered in every direction. For the only thing in its eyes was the violent death of the bug beneath it.

With a single swing of its three tendrils, they temporarily merged into a mass of slime that slammed into the exhausted goblin. Throwing them into and through a support pillar. Sending them into a slide until they hit enough boxes to slow to a stop. And shifted themselves to start sliding towards the threat in the rafters.

****************************

Dag savored the single second that the stunning strikes gave them. In that brief moment, Spoke launched another attack, three cards of varying colors, carrying the elements of cold and poison, while the third was a psychic card. The poison card did nothing to the creature, while the others had barely any effect at all. She could almost see his frustration as their rapier floated and struck the same ooze again. But did little, if any real or substantial damage.

They were cornered, Spoke was too slow, and was running out of spells that could effectively damage the oozes. Dag was less than useful, as every sime they struck the things, they would soak her in their decaying juices. Her focus could help her lessen the damage from their strikes but did nothing as the juices ate away at their fur and skin. Fear began to creep into her heart. Not the fear of death, not the fear of pain or struggle. But fear of failure. Fear of falling and being the reason, her brother, her sister, and her mother died.

The fear continued to grip their heart as indecision tried to keep them still long enough for the slime to recover. But she needed to act. She had to.

In that moment, the memory, the sensation of her brother’s touch on her leg. The pride, the passion, the love, but most importantly, the trust, that passed from him to her, ignited something inside. A moment of inspiration triggered the next step for the gnoll on her path of broken oaths. And she took it. A step, a stance, a gait. The Unrelenting Gait.

When a monk moves, their strikes are blinding. They are like the strikes of snakes and cracks of whips. But for most, there is a flaw. Yes, they have the flurry of blows that can turn them into a whirl of fists temporarily, but they carry with them the tradition they follow. These traditions focus on something, a well traded path of discovery and talent. Almost none but the creators of a Way will ever know the freedom, the sensation of discovering, and then codifying their Way into the path they walk.

Dagger Glora, born of the Miodóg Tribe, felt this at that moment. Her stance subtly lowered, widening more towards a horse stance, but not quite there. Her hips felt lose, almost as if her upper body was unrestrained by the bounds of the lower half. The wide, toned back of the gnoll flexed with power begging to be released in an unrelenting tide of violence, to wash away and knock aside all that stood on their path, who tried to alter or cause her gait to falter.

With no more hesitation, Dagger Glora began to unleash a series of blows, regardless of the consequences to herself. Blow after blow after blow. In the span of a heartbeat, eight palm strikes had punctured and beaten down upon the slimes. Who retaliated as quickly as they could with their bodies shuddering like a leaf in a hurricane. Each tendril was knocked aside by the unmoving monk with their bare hands. Once, where there was a hardened pad, was now rotting flesh. On the right hand, that had managed to connect with and strike directly at the core of the slime, the gnoll could see the bones peeking through the sloughing off meat from her hands.

No mercy, no hesitation, no reprieve. Only violence. Only victory.

The gnoll barely registered as the rapier left a final slash into the side of their target before flying back to its owner. Only to be replaced by the flight of cards that buried themselves into the largest of the oozes.

Seizing the moment, the monk let out a silent whistle of air. The next step of their Unrelenting Gait commencing. They were on the very edge of what their body was capable of achieving. Their back, their arms, their fingers, their very bones and tendons themselves strained as every fiber of their being was dedicated, was honed completely upon their enemy.

Eight strikes that carried with them the very core of the monk’s being, stepped forward... And brought the might, the power, the honor that the name of Clan Glora carried. To bring it down with mastery, with beauty, and without mercy, the death of the Clan’s enemies.

The three pieces of the slime’s whole core shattered under an onslaught of unrelenting violence. Casting a massive wave of necrotic acid across the gnoll.

No agony, no pain, no suffering pierced the heart of either of the siblings. As their eyes shifted from one enemy, to the next. The last remaining slime, as it threw their matriarch, their mother, like a ragdoll.

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Tanny held back every emotion as she slammed the bolt of her rifle open. The high caliber casing glowed a soft blue as the inscribed runes upon it burned the last of the energy within them. Her fingers fell into the darkness that was her cloak and withdrew two more of these rounds.

The sounds of cracking ribs that echoed just under the sounds of shattered wood did not draw her vertical pupils away from the ooze as it lumbered closer and closer to her. She did not think about her mother’s body possibly crumbling, wilting and no longer getting up. She did not allow herself that waste of time, that waste of energy. Every piece of that, every aspect that was the being known as Tanner Glora, dedicated itself to the next few moments.

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She was unable to move while firing this beast of metal and gunsmithing insanity. The Abomination was Glora’s only attempt to recreate, or mimic those powers of their revolver, O’Re. But the goblin was unable to do so. The ammunition alone, while it would on paper do more damage to an enemy than a single round of the revolver, it was not by much. Even Cerberus could barely match or go above the revolver in terms of damage. But it was slow to reload. Requiring both more time and skill to load and lacking any additional elemental effects.

The addition of the effects came at a cost. An even worse reloading speed. For even an enchanted barrel to withstand the forces it was put under with a 50 EMG, Elemental Munitions of Glora, round, would simply kill most people if it failed, even fairly seasoned adventurers. It needed a system that was loaded by hand. Because any magazine ports weakened the structure too much. So, the rifle was unsuited, and less effective than their own partner. Leaving it to the only other firearm specialist in the clan, Tanny.

The heavy behemoth took up nearly a third of her Shaded Storage due to its weight alone. Requiring that if she needed to flee, she would need to abandon the rifle or be slowed to a crawl. So, her greatest weapon, and the testament to her mother’s brilliance beyond the battlefield, could not be tossed aside until the final, last, hopeless moment.

The shadows enveloped her body, cloaking her from the ooze, even if it knew generally where she was. But generally was not enough for those who walked the path of shadow and spirit.

The Wraith of Glory, the Spirit Collector, the Shadow’s Silencer, prepared themselves, and pulled the trigger as they braced themselves for the kickback. One of her feet dug her claws into the wood of the rafters, while her tail and the other leg wrapped around and braced. Her ears were laid flat as the bang that threatened to dislodge her shoulder reignited the ringing in her ears, raising them from a gong to the constant rattle of a church bell.

Before her body finished shuddering under the recoil of the first shot, her bracers began to glow, providing a final moment of haste, of bursting movement. She slammed the bold back, throwing it more than pulling it open smoothly. The spent cartridge of ice barely had the chance to even tilt up and out of the way before Tanny’s paw slammed the round into the battery. She brought her whole shoulder up to push the bolt forward, barely getting her claws out of the way to grab the bolt handle and lock it in place. Only for the instant it closed, the trigger dropped the firing pin. Slamming down and igniting the powder and engaging the expulsion of energy.

Tanny truly regretted the fact that she had not taken the time since she went hunting for heat and fire elementals to replace her stock of rounds with a variety, instead of a single type. Ice and cold did not affect this monster like a normal living thing, which is what she had been expecting to face this evening. She would mark that failure on her personal board in her mind to improve upon later.

The blue, icy round punctured the ooze, and glanced against its core. But it left no lasting damage to it. Just as the ooze kept moving forward, and passed where her mother still lay, three shots streaked out. Each glows a pure metallic color. The first to pierce the ooze has a trail that leaves an after image of a rapier. The Second impacts and causes the ooze to stagger as if it just received a blow from a giant hammer. The third bares down and cleaves the monstrosity in two. Striking the core at its center and causing it to split into three pieces.

Before the creatures even have a moment to fully reform themselves, the shimmer of a mirage and the frantic, wild and metallic twang of a banjo accompany the shimmering opening up, exposing a wild, almost zombie like gnoll with how badly their flesh has been eaten into by necrotic poison and rot, and a small, scowling goblin of dark, nearly untouched complexion.

The goblin screeches and stabs his rapier forward into the nearest slime, piercing and shattering its core piece. The gnoll makes not a sound, and dashes straight out to grab onto and crush each of the remaining core pieces from the ooze’s chests and crushing them into dust.

Dagger takes the final burns to his arms, while Spoke ignored the damage to himself to grab his brother’s hand and start casting a spell while pulling him over to his momma, who lays slack against a crate, a pained grin of pride on her face, and tears in her eyes as she takes in her eldest boys. Her smallest child wrapped her in a hug and dumped all but his most powerful remaining spells into her frail, shattered body. His last spell, regeneration, was applied to his older brother, leaving him, if not physically like his family members, but at least mentally if not more so exhausted.

****************************

Agatha sat at her main crystal ball, waving her hands and whispering to it. Swirls of incense and the vapors of boiling tea follow her hands as she whispers to the ball its required incantation. Around her sits the two younglings of the Glora Clan, both rested, having been hosted by the witch for the past few hours.

She insisted upon them waiting, as sunrise was only two hours away, and their patriarch might want them to see what was going to happen. As the sun disappeared beyond the walls of the city, she began to cast the spell. Bringing up and image at first from her two crow familars that sat perched above the warehouse. Watching from the sky light.

These views were projected into two smaller balls, placed in front of the two teens. They watched intently as Dag began his fight first. Then Tanny, and finally their parent, who appeared in the central ball as a part of a scrying spell.

To all three of their shocks, the spell actually connected with completely no issue. Agatha was confused and suspicious. Glora was one of the hardest creatures she knew personally to scry. This left a sinking feeling in the witch’s gut. For the Mad Goblin to fail so catastrophically was something she had never seen before. As she was master enough to know the difference between an allowed scry and a successful one.

The fights were, as all expected, brutal and devastating. Tanny and Spoke coming out the worst in the first engagements. With their mother having practically a flawless victory over the councilman. But, when the goblin turned away, and began to walk away from the puddle of slime and shattered core, Agatha felt not just what Glora felt, a fear of the insane powers that sought to create an unholy abomination, but fear as the usually silent, unnoticeable eye that watched every being of city turned its full attention to a single place.

Barg’s attention was stolen, something almost nothing could do. But Agatha figured that what would amount to the birth of his sibling or cousin would be a reasonable cause for this reaction. Even if it was the kind of family connection one might try to hide and bury to never see the light of day again.

The trio, all watched with bated breath as the violence ensued. Agatha had to order her familiars to fly in after the roof collapse to give them all a better view. But none of them spoke as they all watched the battle inside the warehouse. The siblings held each other's hands tightly, squeezing them for reassurance as they watched their mother or father and eldest brother get beaten down or slowly rot away into nothing.

The fight ended with their victory, while the scrying ended in the middle of the spell casting for Dag’s regeneration. Glora’s body had held up much better against the necrotic effects of the Shadowfell than their gnoll clansman. With one bird overwatching the group, the second took the chance to fly out and around the building, taking in the outcome of the fighting outside.

The lass was engrossed, most concerned about their mother goblin. While Agatha and the lad inspected the surroundings. Estimating casualties.

From the way it looked to the witch and wizard, it seemed that after the surprise attack, the advantage had been lost and evened out. With the assassins seeming to take the lead on the East and West Flanks. Until the Northern side buckled and folded under a massive retaliation of some kind. Where the now free northern group shifted to help smash and root out the remaining Black Hand companies. There was almost total annihilation of the Hands, who were all meant to be archers and snipers, meant to rain down dozens and dozens of arrows onto the building or anyone attempting to exit or enter. And were not prepared for the full, half, scale and chain armor the warriors of the clans were equipped with. With over half the number and the advantage in close quarters, for every dead clan member, there were four dead guild members.

The crow paid special attention to the hooded figures who made up the fewest casualties, but also the fewest in number. Each one was a tall, slender figure. And from the few fallen who had their hoods knocked off, it was clear to see that they were all drow. Dark elves from the Underdark. But strangely, they all wore the symbol of a green entrance to a cave, framing the sun above.

“They be the Green Weavers... They are not a good sign...” The witch hummed to herself, guiding the bird towards a group that was making their way around and towards the entrance from the south.

“Oh Madra, no... Drow are not a good match for them now. Brother Spoke is too exhausted to use his charms.” The lad worried, glancing over to his sister’s orb to see the four huddled together, passing around a flash.

“Momma brought it out.” The halfling girl added. Seeing the question in her brother's eyes. “You know she ain’t gonna drink a potion. She doesn’t like them. But Tanny bound their body with some healing salve and holy bandages from her kit. Our goblin ain’t kickin’ it today.” She said, trying to sound confident and reassuring as she squeezed the slender hand of her brother.

The gnome let out a sigh and nodded, turning back to the orb on the table. He would have to read the lips of his family and the drow if he wanted to ease drop. But suddenly, the pictures cut out. And both teenagers turned their heads to look at the witch with concern, who just shook her head and laughed.

“I don’t know why my scry worked on your pappy, but he most certainly knew my crows were there. If I ain’t call them off, they aint comin’ home t’ me.” She explained frankly, enjoying the annoyed, but understanding looks they gave her.

“But now you two, ya gotta get home. Them adults gonna be hungry, sore, and cranky. And I think they’d ‘preciate some home cooked meal, and some wine.” She said, staring clearly at the small bag around the halfling’s neck.