“You see, you’ve gone and got yourself noticed Rotten One,” Blazock continued to explain. The ancient Goblin dug into the pockets of his robe and pulled out a handle of silvery powder which he tossed haphazardly into the flames, ignoring the hungry burst of flames. “Did you naively think that the Iskrin had no eyes within the City? Did you think yourself safe huddled up in your Slums? I told you, your obsession would be your end.”

“You say that like there was ever a choice Master,” Skrakch replied, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “You’re the one who told me that becoming a Chosen was my only shot at living to a proper age. How am I supposed to be delicate and discreet when time is against me?” He practically hissed the words, feeling his furcoat start to puff up with irritation. “What do the Iskrin even want with me? Why in the Gods Below do the Albinos even give a damn?”

The old Goblin stared at Skrakch in disbelief for a moment. He shook his head and started to cackle to himself, his mirth rumbling out of his withered frame.

“What do the rulers of a massive Empire want with the sole runaway slave?” Blazock chortled. “Use your brain as you are so fond of doing!” He continued dismissively as he wiped his eyes.

Skrakch sighed to himself deeply. It was clear that he wasn’t going to get any solid answer from Blazock. The ancient Goblin appeared to be reveling in the mystery of the enigmatic situation.

The Ratling prided himself on his great knowledge of the ins and out of Dray’Mel but, when it came to the Iskrin, he’d never bothered to learn much. They were his brethren, the reason that he’d been given life but, beyond that, they just weren’t relevant to him. The likelihood of some hoity-toity indoctrinated Albino Iskrin being the key to him becoming Chosen was slim to none. Why waste the precious little time he had left on this mortal coil researching something that was of so little consequence?

Yet now, it appeared that he was going to pay the price for his ignorance. The only comfort that he had was that he was pretty certain that Blazock had no intention of just handing him over to the Iskrin. The old Goblin wasn't exactly dependable but he’d spent months grooming Skrakch and sharing his magic. It’d be in his best interests to keep him safe…right?

“Listen here Rotten One,” Blazock demanded, his staff once again swiping at Skrakch's paw. “There’s no sense in getting worked up. The Tribute will be starting in about seven hours. Take this time to sleep, rest, and recuperate. Then you are to come with me and bring that oaf Meekknuckle with you. I’ll handle the vermin, you just sit pretty. And remember, as always, that you owe me,” Blazock flashed his dagger-like teeth before waving Skrakch away.

Skrakch didn’t hesitate to scamper off at first, though he did pause to take a look over his shoulder. His Master was back to staring into the fire, a pensive expression on his ancient features. As Skrakch exited the building and once again took in the sights of the village preparations, he had to try and bury the urge to flee from the Sewers completely.

It wasn’t like the Goblins could stop him, the little voice inside his head nagged incessantly. The dumb creatures who were supposed to be guards could barely find their noses on their faces, let alone track down an accomplished rogue like him. He could easily slip out and avoid this whole ‘Tribute’ nonsense.

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But, the sensible part of his brain reasoned, he wouldn’t get away with the escape for long. Blazock knew him too well, knew his hideouts within the City. It would surely be a matter of when, not if, he was discovered. And then what? Skrakch shuddered to think. There was no way he could simply run away and avoid this. He was going to have to put his trust in his Master and face it like the Ratling he was.

It wasn’t long before he’d reached Meekknuckle’s run-down hut. As usual, Ornn was standing guard outside with his customary somber attitude. Entering the home without a sound, Skrakch was expecting to see the Goblin with a face full of cheese or perhaps sprawled out on the floor asleep. Instead, however, the little scamp was on his knees, his head bowed in what appeared to be prayer.

Taking a moment to look over his friend. The Ratling was impressed by the sheer focus on his face. While usually Meek seemed either confused or totally gormless, the Goblin had a pious, content look on his ugly mug. As he leaned forward, Skrakch could barely make out the words coming from his parted lips.

“...me from dangers. Protect Ornn from vermin…Protect village from pillaging. Protect Goblins from ourselves. Protect us all Maglubiyet,” Meek muttered almost rhythmically. He drew a small mark across his chest with one finger before breaking a small bone in half as he finished his prayer. He tipped his head back and swallowed the two pieces.

He got to his feet and turned around, jumping to an almost comic height when he finally realized that Skrakch was in the hut.

“Aargh! Why you sneak on Meek?” He asked. “Scare Meek half to death!” He narrowed his eyes. “Me get Ornn to thump you hard. Make you flat!”

“Maglubiyet,” Skrakch replied, ignoring the Goblin’s idle threats. “That’s a Goblin God right? Or should I say, the Goblin God? I was never one for prayer but that was a good little speech there. I’m surprised though Meek. How does a Goblin become a Cleric as opposed to just whacking people with a stick?”

Meekknuckle looked around his threadbare home for a moment before huffing in anger.

“Meek not always strong. Not always fast. Not even that clever sometimes. Meek realize that he need help so Meek ask Maglubiyet. Now he smartest, fastest and strongest Goblin. Other than Father, Meek the best,” He puffed out his chest proudly.

While that didn’t really answer his question, Skrakch couldn’t help but chuckle. It was somewhat clever of the little guy to put his faith in a higher being. Maybe it was time he should find himself a patron. He wasn’t sure what the other Iskrin prayed to but he doubted that it would be the deity for him. Maybe there was some kind of god of thieves? Or rogues? He made a mental note to check the next time he found himself in the library.

Taking off his bandolier of potions, Skrakch dropped into the warm muck that Meek had piled against one wall of his hut. The stuff made for a surprisingly comfortable sleep though he had no intention of admitting to that. The Ratling shifted around until he was in a comfortable position, curling his tail around himself.

“No touching those vials Meek,” Skrakch added as an afterthought.

He smirked to himself as he closed his eyes to the sound of Meek’s defensive mutterings. He tried to put all thoughts of the Iskrin and Tribute out of his mind. Gods Below he needed the rest. Maybe, if he was lucky the whole thing would go off without a hitch. Maybe the Iskrin wanted to worship him and give him all their gold for achieving heights they could only dream of...

Surely crazier things had happened…