As he often did when the time came to lay low, Skrakch climbed down into the sewers below The Slums. They smelled foul of course but less so than the Human stench that the streets above were drenched in. Give him rotting sewage over the freshest Human odors any day!

As soon as he dropped down into one of the sewer tunnels, he was assaulted by the usual mixture of smells one would expect. However, more importantly, amongst those scents were traces of Goblin activity. Nodding to himself, the Ratling scurried through the piles of trash and headed in the right direction.

He tried his best not to let his mind dwell on the food token debacle now that he didn’t have alcohol and food to distract him. Of course, Zach had tried shifting the blame onto him. It was only natural when yet another one of his idiotic plans had failed miserably. Skrakch was grateful that he would be getting a respite from the moronic Halfling’s company. The urge to bite his face off or maim him in some way was still far too strong for his liking.

Still, he reconciled with himself, there was always the next adventure. And with it would come the promise of a good payday and the chance to prove that he had it in him to become Chosen. It was, after all, his raison d’etre for putting up with Zach’s nonsense and Winifred’s sad addiction. Becoming Chosen always had been and always would be his life’s focus. The coin that came alongside his efforts was merely a convenient benefit. Did he want to be rich? Of course, he did. He was pretty certain that most folk, Human and creature alike, wanted a better life than The Slums had to offer. But to become Chosen…

Humming a jaunty tune to himself, the experienced Ratling quickly traversed the sewer with practiced ease. Though dark and cold, years spent traversing the sewers have acclimated him to the smell of sewer water, and the chilling touch of cobblestone under his claws. Turning from the main path, he kicked aside some debris, before stepping towards the source of the smell.

Entering into a large chamber, he spotted the two Goblin ‘guards’. The short, dumpy creatures seemed to be in the middle of a simple-looking dice game. If either of them heard his arrival, they didn’t bother to look up. So much for the quality of the security! Sighing dramatically, Skrakch suddenly reached over and snatched the few copper pieces they were gambling with.

This move finally alerted the guards to his presence. They scrabbled backward with cries of surprise, both of them pointing barely sharpened sticks at him. They spat and hissed curses in Goblin while leering at him with expressions that, Skrakch supposed, were meant to be intimidating. It was honestly no wonder that most of the sewers were held by Iskrin or Ghouls. With a glare of annoyance, Skrakch held up a cheap-looking medallion. If you squinted hard enough at the tarnished surface, a crude Goblin face could be seen etched into it.

One of the guards attempted to grab it from his paw but Skrakch was quick to slap the offending hand, with its filthy stubby fingers and grimy overgrown nails, away. Letting the thieving critters get their hands all over your belongings was foolish at best, dangerous at worst. Who knows what kind of diseases they carried? Still, the guards were quick enough to lower their weapons once they ascertained he was no longer a threat. Their intimidating growls turned to low grumbles as they both worked to pull open the makeshift wooden door aside.

Once the idiotic guards had gotten the door open, the small underground village was revealed. It was a small and squalid place, with no buildings above two feet tall. Most of them were made from rotting wood or little pieces of scrap metal that had clearly been scavenged from the city above. It showed no signs of any kind of method or planning to the layout. The buildings were placed exactly where their owners saw fit. Still, that was Goblins for you.

Making his way through these odd, crowded streets, Skrakch occasionally swatted away a would-be thief or pickpocket and the odd angry Goblin guard. It was known to be a weakness of their kind that they had short memories, so very few of them recognized Skrakch. Those that did were sure to give him a wide berth and any that had forgotten were greeted with a simple slap or bared teeth.

Before long, Skrakch reached his intended destination. Unlike the rest of the filthy hovels or sad excuses of a marketplace, the stone building ahead of him looked like a pillar of order in the middle of all the chaotic sprawlings. It had been solidly built from an assortment of stones local to the city and was guarded by a group of Goblins who were actually paying attention to their surroundings, each armed with iron-tipped spears.

Skrakch looked up at the imposing building. It was the largest of them all, with three stories. The levels narrowed as it went upwards, resembling a tiered cake. The windows were mosaics made up of broken ale or wine bottles and the main doors had been carved with a Goblin’s face on each one.

Quickly ascending the stone stairs that led to those doors, Skrakch was intercepted by the largest of the guards, one he hadn’t met before, a goblin with a thick bulbous nose, and an equally wide belly. He also appeared to be the only goblin in the area with a helmet, wearing a garish iron cap with a massive, albeit dirty, feather on top.

Scowling at the new guard, Skrakch prepared to show his medallion once more before a voice from deep inside the stone building, magically enhanced, rang out.

“Let the Rotten One enter, there is little one of its kind can do on its own.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Skrakch smiled smugly at the guard and shoved him aside. He slipped into the building and instantly felt a wave of heat press against him as he entered the single open room. He looked to the other end of this large room and saw a bonfire blazing, the light illuminating the room with its flickering light.

The room itself was very sparse, with a single stone pillar in the center, holding the entire building up. There were a few bookcases here and there crammed with leather-bound tomes as well as some potion-making equipment tucked away in one of the corners. There were little home comforts to be found. In fact, the only remotely comfortable-looking thing was the large high-backed crimson chair that had been placed in front of the fire.

From this chair, a gnarled hand appeared beckoning Skrakch forward wordlessly. Skrakch approached the bonfire, its heat growing more intense the closer he stepped. He could feel himself beginning to sweat as he approached the chair, though it wasn’t just the flames that had the Ratling on edge.

While the umber Ratling had grown used to the sight, he can still remember how strange it had been to see a Goblin with such advanced years. There were no hairs left on Blazock’s head. His green scalp looked like gnarled bark and he scratched at it frequently. While small in stature, his age had seemed to shrink his facial features. Whatever hair that he had left had migrated to his eyebrows, turning them into large bushy white strips with errant wiry longer hairs curling up and out. His long nose was covered in bumps and scars, hooking over slightly at the end.

The aged Goblin’s wrinkled lips gave way to a full set of yellowed teeth with larger than average sharpened canines. His receding chin was covered by a white beard that curled downwards, almost reaching his chest. The only part of the old Goblin that didn’t give away his age was his eyes. They were yellow and still glinted with something that Skrakch had never quite been able to put his paw on.

“Master,” Skrakch greeted with a short bow. “I’m beginning to worry that your name-calling might stick one of these days. For all we know, you’re the reason that I haven’t been Chosen yet,” He added as he stood by the fire and watched the reflection of the flames dance in those yellow eyes.

The old Goblin laughed wheezily and took a sip from a rusted tankard. Judging by the strong vinegary smell it emitted, Blazock was partaking in the sad excuse for alcohol that was produced in the sewers.

“You’ve earned the name and more, Rotten One,” Blazock eventually spoke. He wiped his lips and set the tankard on a small, very crudely constructed wooden table beside him. “But it is quite amusing that you are finding more excuses as to why you haven’t reached that lofty goal of yours. You know Skrakch, I took you in. I treated you like one of my own and what do you do? Flounce off to Gods knows where, doing god knows what. And when do you choose to return? Only when you need a place to hide.”

“Haha, come now Master,” Skrakch let out a forced laugh, not wanting Blazock to know how much the ‘lofty’ comment had stung. “You know whatever I do, I always come back to learn more from you. Why, I’d be a fool to turn my back on such a powerful mage!”

You wouldn’t expect much from somebody living down in the sewers of a city, Skrakch mused, but the old coot was one of the most accomplished spell slingers he’d heard of. Though to be fair, it wasn’t like he knew many at all…

Blazock regarded him for a moment with those creepy yellow eyes of his. He’d always been a Goblin of few words. Even less so than your run-of-the-mill sewer dweller who understood only the basics of the language. It had always unnerved Skrakch that he was unable to read the aged creature’s expressions. The Ratling prided himself on being able to tell who was trying to pull the wool over his eyes or would sooner rob him than look at him. Blazock always had been like one of those mysterious tomes of dangerous lore, securely closed with very few, if any, ever getting to see inside of it.

Finally turning to face the Ratling fully, the wizened goblin leaned forwards before pressing his palm against Skrakch’s chest. With a swell of Mana, the goblin Englyphed an arcane rune on Skrakch’s chest.

Looking down at it curiously, Skrakch tried to parse the rune, noting the aspect of arcane magic, similar to his Feather Fall but distinctly different.

“Master, this young one admits his failure. What does altering the Feather Fall spell so minutely do? Will it allow me to fly? Or perhaps to float?” Skrakch says as he ponders the rune. The ease of which Blazock had cast it was, he had to admit, impressive.

“You’re overthinking it, Rotten One. The first rune you learned slowed your ascent. This one reverses your fall.” Turning back to the fire, the old goblin chuckles and with a snap of his gnarled fingers with their thick yellowing nails, activates the rune.

Flinching at the noise, Skrakch felt a sudden sensation of lightness overcome him. Like with Feather Fall, the magic lifted him upwards but unlike the other rune, this spell didn’t just attempt to lighten his weight, it fully reversed gravity’s hold. Taken by surprise, the Ratling desperately attempted to grab something to hold onto but failed as he smashed into the ceiling.

Pressed tightly against the stone above him, Skrakch struggled to breathe as the force pressing against him pushed the very air from his lungs. Trying his best to ignore his own feeble gasping, he focused on the way the Mana moved through his body.

The old goblin continued to stare into the flames, seemingly indifferent to the soft groans eManating from above him. He nodded thoughtfully to himself, as he drank deep from his tankard, ale spilling down his bearded chin.

“The trick to casting runic magic is simple for creatures like you and I. Humans have the luxury of talent, learning from old books or tattered scrolls, but beasts like us? We learn from experiencing the magic first hand.” Blazock explained benignly. “Feel the magic, absorb how it reacts to the Mana inscribed within. When you fully understand the principle involved, the spell will be yours.”

Snapping his fingers once more, the old goblin cut his Mana from feeding the rune. As the Mana trailed off, so too did the reversal of gravity. Thus with a squeak, Skrakch plummed towards the floor, crashing into it with a resounding thump and feeling what little air he had left in his lungs, wheeze out of his body in a pained grunt.

“Best to brace yourself, Rotten One. You’ve got a long way to go before you understand this rune.” the cantankerous goblin laughed before reaching out and re-glyphing Skrakch’s back.