It was disconcerting how stepping into the Sewers did nothing to quell Meekknuckle’s appetite. Despite three helpings of Kuosh’s hearty stew, the diminutive Goblin still didn’t seem to be satiated as he continued to gnaw on the crusty end of a loaf. Just the smell of the Sewers alone was enough to put Skrakch off even the idea of eating for a good few hours.
Still, he supposed the little creature was used to it. The Ratling followed Meek as he led the way through the damp and gloomy tunnels. Not for the first time in his short life, Skrakch was glad to have been blessed with good enough dark vision that meant they didn’t require torchlight. Gods Below knew what sort of attention they would attract at this time of night. Ornn followed behind the two of them, blindly keeping pace and unerringly following his Goblin master.
This protection did little to ease Skrakch’s mind. It was on Meek’s insistence that the Ratling joined him. Skrakch certainly wasn’t in a rush to visit the Goblin village, not since the mention of this other Iskrin.
At least navigating the familiar twists and turns of the Dray’Mel sewer system was simple enough. Skrakch glanced at the easily recognizable Goblin markings etched into the brickwork. A guide in case any of their kind lost their way. Most people, himself included, were quick to pass off Goblins as one of the stupider races but there was something to be said for them creating their own secret language that would lead the friends home whilst making sure any foe was kept at bay.
Speaking of friends. It was a bit odd that there were no other Goblins traipsing and traversing the tunnels. Usually, on the way to the village, or Kbaxg as Meek called it, they’d see a couple of other Goblins along the way.
“I suppose most of your kind is preparing for the Tribute,” Skrakch said, his voice a sudden echo off the walls of the desolate tunnel. It wasn’t like he really wanted to engage Meek in conversation. It was usually a fruitless and frankly annoying experience, but he was desperate to take his mind off whatever would be meeting him in the village. “I’m surprised your father was willing to let you leave to help out with the Casey Auction heist.”
“Meek sent to find you,” Meekknuckle replied. He was jumping between the fallen bricks that jutted out of the fetid water. “Meek just say he have trouble. Father no question. Too busy,” The Goblin explained. He paused by a cracked pipe and scraped some of the black goo off that edge of it. He fiddled with it, grinning to himself when it webbed between his gnarled fingers. “It better to not be near village when Tribute coming,” He continued. “Less chance of being one of taken.”
Skrakch nodded. He’d researched the Tribute well. There were numerous tomes in the Dray’Mel library that explained the various things involved. While the Tribute could be many things, including precious metals or even foodstuffs, a lot of the time the ‘Taken’ part of the ceremony would be other Goblins. That was the part that Skrakch didn’t really fully understand. What would the Iskin in the Depths want with Goblins? They had the Brown Iskrin if they wanted slaves.
“Me think Rats want smart and strong Goblins,” Meek said, as though he were reading his thoughts. “That why Meek leave village for heist. Everyone know he smartest and strongest.”
Skrakch let Meek witter on in the same vein while he pondered that thought. Sometimes he had to wonder if Meekknuckle was as stupid as he let on. It wasn’t the first time that the Goblin had shown a tendency to be more astute than he appeared to be. It would make sense for him to hide any intellectual abilities that he had. Especially in front of Blazock.
The trio lapsed into silence as they got closer and closer to the village. While they still had to avoid large bits of sewage and the occasional chunk of floatage, most of the tunnels leading to the village had long since been stripped of anything of even slight value.
As they rounded the bend before their destination, Skrakch reached out to grab Meekknuckle’s shoulder. “Look, Meek…I’m not the type to come over all mushy…but you’ve done right by me and saved my whiskers a few times in the past. If you need me to do the same for you, just let me know. I can’t promise anything, but I won’t let Master send you off.” He promised solemnly.
For the briefest of moments, Skrakch could’ve sworn a look of cunning flickered across the Goblin’s face as he took in the promise. However, before Skrakch was finished speaking, his expression had turned back to its usual dumb gawk.
“Meek always help Rat! We friends. Friends help friends. Scary Lady say so,” Meek replied with an empathic nod.
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Unable to help but smile at that, Skrakch grinned. “Yeah, she would say that. Just don’t expect much from me. Or her. Rule number one of the Slums. It’s everyone for themselves,” He sighed heavily with the air of someone on their way to an execution. “Let’s see what your Father expects…”
Wandering around the bend, Skrakch was surprised to see that the usual pair of Goblins responsible for guarding the entrance to the village were joined by four more. The new quartet was wielding iron-tipped spears. Their slightly ragged tabards were emblazoned with Blazock’s sigil. His personal guard, as it were. Not that they’d be able to help the Goblin leader in combat, but Blazock was plenty dangerous on his own.
“Gentlemen,” Skrakch said with a curt nod, flashing the medallion that allowed him entrance to the village. “I believe Blazock is expecting me?”
The guards looked at each other for a moment. They obviously came to the same conclusion as they nodded and parted clumsily to let Skrakch through. The Ratling stepped through the gateway, Meek hot on his heels.
Kbaxg seemed like an entirely different village. Usually, its inhabitants could be found lazying around outside their shacks, or noisily devouring whatever tidbits they could scavenge from the tunnels. The Goblins weren’t known for their proactive natures. Now, however, the villagers ran to and fro as they assembled large packages.
One group of Goblins were standing around a larger shack, ripping apart bits of rotten wood with their bare hands, creating a massive pile of splinters. Another group was chewing up and spitting out mouthfuls and mouthfuls of Swampgrass, all of which were being collected in a large clay pot. Skrakch watched the activity with curiosity. The workers were being presided over by more of Blazock’s personal guard. Occasionally, one of the workers chewing the Swampgrass would collapse. They would be dragged away and replaced immediately, their exhausted body left to spasm away from the crowds.
Skrakch recalled reading about the nature of Swampgrass during one of his many visits to the Dray’Mel library. It was a powerful weed that when ingested caused convulsions which would often result in brain damage. The Goblins were obviously preparing some kind of poultice. For what, Skrakch wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.
He headed further into the village and closer to the central tower where Blazock had made his home. It was more heavily guarded than he’d ever seen it, with more of his personal guards standing outside the entrance in a somewhat haphazard formation.
Skrakch scampered up the stairs and the guards waved him through, obviously recognizing him as important. At least that’s what Skrakch told himself. It was just as likely they were slacking in their duties. You could dress them up as fancy as you liked but Goblins were still Goblins after all.
As Skrakch opened the door to the tower, he noticed that he’d somehow lost Meek and Ornn. No doubt they’d decided to make themselves scarce. Considering what he knew about what was coming up, he was tempted to do the very same.
But he needed to stay in Blazock’s good graces. The aged Goblin was the only caster that he’d found who was willing to share his magic with someone like him. Thus, it was this rarity value that made Skrakch continue to walk onwards, trying to expel the confidence that he didn’t feel.
He stepped inside the tower, becoming almost overwhelmed by the sudden blast of heat that hit him. It felt as though he were stepping directly into a fire. He felt the blood vessels in his majestic tail start to expand, allowing him to control his body temperature in the sudden heat. The cause of this heat was a massive bonfire that had been lit in the middle of the room. Blazock’s bed, chair, and other furniture had been moved out to allow for the towering inferno. Thick smoke unfurled from the flames and drifted upwards towards the hole in the tower’s ceiling that had been designed for that purpose.
Standing in front of this impressive fire was Blazock The Ancient Patriarch. The Chosen Goblin was fixated on the flames, ignoring the flickering embers shooting off from the roaring fire. He was dressed in a hooded emerald green robe with silver piping around the collar and at the cuffs. Emblazoned across the back of the robe was his own personal sigil. Such was the intensity of his fixation, he appeared not to notice the Ratling’s appearance. Skrakch approached him gingerly and cleared his throat.
Yet still, Blazock seemed not to notice him. Skrakch could see the reflection of the flames in his sparkling eyes, the slight smile he wore upon his old wrinkled lips. He reached out a paw to tap him on the shoulder but was quickly rebuked with a hard tap with a short wooden staff.
“Don’t be a fool Rotten One, I may be old but I’m not dead,” Turning to face Skrakch at last, Blazock grinned, full of malevolent glee. “I’m glad you made it. You couldn’t afford to miss this year’s Tribute Rotten One. It would’ve been…problematic.”
Skrakch bowed to his Master. He surreptitiously rubbed his paw and swallowed the curses that threatened to spill from his mouth.
“Of course, I came Master,” He replied, his voice sickly sweet. “I set out as soon as I heard you needed me. Although may I ask why I was requested in the village for the Tribute?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Blazock smiled, showing off his yellowed jagged teeth. It was a predatory smile and did nothing to put the Ratling’s mind at ease. He knew alright. But he’d hoped that it was for some reason…any other reason actually. Yet all of that hope was dashed by the old Goblin’s next words.
“The Iskrin want to make off with you, of course. They’re hungry for their pound of flesh…”