Ice cold rain buffeted the rocks of the barren landscape, sometimes freezing the ground with its impact, but more often than not impacting the stone in a ricochet of thick slush. To the refugees traipsing through the storm, it was a harsh sting against the bare parts of their skin.

Among the troupe were four green tinted hobgoblins. The elder Varsen led the pack, with the two middling louts Hammith and Skaele in between, and taking up the rear was the youngling Drakneg. Between the hobgoblins, in the midst of Hammith and Skaele were two magically bound servile slaves. One was a bugbear who wore shackles of withering around his wrists and ankles. The second was the blue goblin referred to only as Bluey, who was only bound around the neck by an ornate gold collar set with a black opal.

The powerful bugbear hunched over a makeshift oak crutch, as the magic of the shackles had withered him to the point of being sickly and sinuous in the spaces where fat had receded between his long muscles. His fur was similarly patchy and sparse, hinting at a longstanding malnourishment in his enslaved state. Occasionally Skaele struck the bugbear from behind with his sheathed blade, forcing the creature to pick up his tiring pace despite the dual stressors of the cruel storm and long march. Even then, the height and bulk of the decrepit creature was considerably greater than any of his captors.

Bluey on the other hand was fully fed, and kept in as high spirits as possible for a being bound confined to magical servitude. The blue goblin was the prize of Varsen after all, who was linked with the creature through a ring of command. Varsen wore the gold ring around his finger, and it was adorned with a large black opal of similar quality to the tight collar around Bluey’s neck.

The business of slaving was one that turned Drak’s stomach. In different times he would have chosen another path, though, the paths before him were too limited and unpredictable to refuse service to the elder Varsen with even more disdainful enemies having sacked the fort they left behind.

“Drakneg!” Skaele shouted back with a grating snarl. “Unfurl your whip for the whelp’s next misstep.” The powerful hobgoblin gestured back with a clawed thumb over his heavily armoured shoulder, at the stumbling bugbear, who struggled to keep up with a pace that his hobgoblin minders demanded of him.

Drak frowned severely, as he began to loosen the whip coiled to a clasp on his hip belt. His fingers tightened around the whip’s handle as the length of the coil fell to the sleet slick stone at his feet. Watching the barefooted bugbear trip over his own footing, Drak winced as the creature slipped on the slush covered stone and thudded chest first with a splash.

“Strike!” Skaele yelled, while the two remaining hobgoblins ahead slowed their march to a halt in order to watch the scene unfold.

Drak cautiously stepped forward, flourishing the whip so that the three jagged and rusty prongs on the popper end of the weapon sliced through the air as he pulled his shoulder back, readying a strike. Drak felt heat on his forehead even as the cold rain pelleted his skin. In a few moments, he relaxed his arm ever so slightly, realizing and resigning to the fact that he could not strike the beast. Almost immediately, he caught the disapproving grimace of Skaele, who moved his offhand ever so slightly to unsheath his blade.

Drak tightened his grip once more, ready to strike Skaele if he must protect his honour and dignity, but was interrupted by an abrupt wheeze and croak. Drakeg relaxed his arm wholly once more then as he noted Skaele’s attention had turned to the elder Varsen.

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“Hammith,” Skaele shouted this time forward, as he ran to his elder’s side, with the powerful Hammith joining.

The bugbear slave meanwhile struggled to push himself up from the slick surface while even still the freezing rain buffeted and solidified to his bare fur and skin. He struggled to leverage himself back to his feet as his makeshift crutch shook under his weak elbows while he tried to steady himself. 

Drak took the opportunity to coil the whip back to his hip before shortly after stomping over to the bugbear’s side and hoisting him to his feet by his shoulder.

The slave rolled his fearful eyes to their corners and recoiled slightly at the sight of Drak holding him up by the shoulder. The two nearly slipped with the heavy bugbear’s weak footing before Drak was able to steady him once more.

“Remain calm,” Drak whispered as he rummaged through a hareskin belt pouch and produced a strip of dried meat and palmed it into the shaky hand of the withered bugbear. “Nibble on this, only while they don’t look.”

Drak looked ahead then at the three hobgoblins he traveled with, and saw that Skaele quickly turned his head back to the hacking elder as Drak’s eyes met his. Drak realized that Skaele had watched the whole good deed unfold.

“Fear not, for I will not strike you,” Drak whispered, as he pulled a hidden dagger from his leather jerkin, causing the bugbear to brace once more for whatever might come next. “My name is Drakneg.” Drak then manoeuvred the dagger tip to loosen the shackles round the bugbear’s right wrist, and then his left.

“Rolk,” the Bugbear whispered with a deep ursine growl, almost inaudible against the heavy rain.

Drak paused and answered with a confused look before speaking. “Rolk is brute in the eastern tongue.”

“Rolk is my name…” the creature growled honorably. “Given me by the eastern tribes of your people.” Rolk looked at what Drak had accomplished so far with the shackles and for the first time in a long time felt relief.

“Skaele will make his move against me soon, but I will delay it as long as possible. With the shackles loosened, you will slowly regain your strength.” Drak stowed the small blade back in his jerkin and gestured with his elbow to the hand he slipped the jerky into moments earlier. “I will pretend to strike you with my backhand. Control your fall and take the opportunity to nibble on the foodstuffs. Save as much of it as you can muster, we must bide our time until Varsen’s strength fails again.” Drak then pulled his hand back for the feigned strike.

“Wait.” Rolk interrupted. “The blue one.”

Drak hesitated before answering. “We must obtain the ring on Varsen’s finger.” He then waited for Rolk’s approving nod, before following through with the planned backhand.

Drak’s loosely closed fist brushed against the wet fur of Rolk’s cheek as the much larger creature – albeit starved and weakened – fell back to the slick stone.

“Dirty brute.” Drak yelled, producing spittle which under different circumstances would have stung with a bite harsher than the whip. Drak turned then and adjusted his jerkin as he stomped toward the two stronger hobgoblins huddled around Varsen. “Sleep in the mud like the whelp you are.”

Drak grinned, and for a moment, it may have looked as if his harsh words were sincere.