A Tale Ends

The damp, heavy fog of the lower foothills did not clear the stench of burning ironwood, nor could it muffle the wet, rhythmic snapping of rough hemp rope biting into ancient bark.

Bound tightly to the trunk of an oak tree, Kraevan’s small frame was completely pinned. The thick coils of rope were wrapped brutally around his bruised and bloodied torso and neck, forcing the old goblin’s head flush against the rough wood. Three mercenaries clad in deep green, scale-layered dragonhide armor stood in a tight perimeter, their heavy, broad-headed spears held at a low, threatening carry.

Goblins were notoriously resistant to the Academy's mind-bending arts. Their stubborn nature possessed a frustrating immunity to mental charms, truth spells, and compliance hexes. If you wanted answers from a goblin, the truth had to be extracted entirely through physical agony.

Standing directly in front of the captive was the vanguard leader. He wore the same dark green dragonskin armor as his subordinates, but his features were shrouded by a deep, dark green hooded cowl instead of a heavy matching dragonhide helmet. His hands were bare, fingers twitching with a volatile, unspent power.

The mage was deeply in annoyance.

“You were given the exact instructions to follow, goblin,” the mage hissed, his voice a sharp, venomous whisper that cut through the quiet dripping of the forest. 

“You were backed by a full ambush squad. Yet the half-elf has slipped through our fingers. Where is she?”

Kraevan spat a thick glob of dark blood onto the mage’s polished leather boots, his sharp, yellowed teeth bared in a fierce, mocking grimace despite the rough rope cutting into his chest.

“I told you, you hooded lizard!” Kraevan snarled, his voice a gravelly, defiant screech. 

“They didn't play by your little script! The phantom - the dark elf, Morohtar - he was the one helping her escape!" the old goblin coughed and choked. 

"A shadow with a hungry red sword! Thirteen of your brutes are currently rotting in the northern gully because he slaughtered them before they could even loose a crossbow bolt! If you want the girl, go ask the crows picking at your soldiers' eyes!” he added mockingly.

The mage’s posture went entirely rigid. His shadowed eyes flashed with a cold, unforgiving finality under the cowl. He would have none of it. Excuses carried no value to his masters.

“Thirteen men do not die to a single back-alley cutthroat without betrayal from the guide,” the mage stated coldly.

Slowly, he reached into the deep folds of his green velvet sleeve and produced a slender, black-alloy wand. The tip was crowned with a sharp, tapering crystalline gem that suddenly ignited, glowing with a menacing, cruel amber light.

“One last chance, Kraevan. Speak.”

Kraevan looked at the glowing amber tip, and then he simply laughed. It was a loud, haughty, and thoroughly mocking sound that echoed sharply off the granite ridge behind them - the laugh of an old rogue who knew his time was up anyway.

The mage didn't hesitate. With a smooth, deliberate extension of his arm, he slowly pushed the sharp gem of the wand directly into the old goblin’s chest.

Kraevan’s laughter cut out instantly. A choked, violent grunt escaped his throat as his spine arched violently against the tree trunk.

The reaction was immediate and horrific. The amber energy didn't just burn - it withered the flesh and bone from the inside out. A thick, grey, caustic smoke began to emanate from the widening chest wound, smelling sharply of sulphur and scorched leather.

The grunts rapidly dissolved into loud, agonizing hollering. It was a prolonged, terrifying howl of pure agony that tore through the quiet clearing, echoing violently through the dense woods until the birds in the high canopy scattered in panic.

 * * * *

A few minutes later, the clearing returned to a dead quiet, save for the low rustling of the wind through the pines.

The mage calmly withdrew the dark alloy wand, its amber tip now dim, cold, and entirely spent. He turned away from the tree, his shadowed eyes fixing upon a scarred mercenary sergeant who was waiting silently at the edge of the brush.

“Take four trackers,” the mage commanded flatly, pointing his spent wand toward the north. 

“Pick up the trail along the ridge tracks. The quarry is moving light and fast on horseback. Keep them in sight, but do not engage until the rest of the company is deployed.”

The sergeant nodded sharply, signaling to four of his men, who immediately vanished into the dense morning mist to pursue the vanguard.

The mage looked down at the blackened, lifeless crystal tip of his wand. 

“Sergeant,” he called out, his voice dropping into a dark tone. 

“How many of these amber tips are left?”

The sergeant paused, his rugged face tightening beneath his dragonhide helmet. “That was the last one, m'lord. We used them all to overcome the Fieri guards during the initial raid.”

A dangerous, suffocating silence hung over the clearing. The mage’s fingers tightened around the useless black alloy handle until his knuckles cracked.

“Then our deployment strategy must adapt,” the mage said softly, though the malice in his tone was unmistakable. He turned back to the remaining infantrymen who were packing up the campsite. 

“Break down the remaining tents and secure the mounts. We are heading to the Chalk Hills immediately.”

He stared off toward the jagged, white stone ridges rising in the south, his cowl casting a deep shadow over his grim expression.

“Harvest more. We are going to need much more.”

Behind them, left entirely behind in the damp, trackless woods, the tale of Kraevan was permanently over. Tied brutally to the scarred oak, nothing remained of the old goblin but a completely dried, mummified husk of blackened skin and bone. The heavy hemp ropes hung loosely around its shrunken frame, its head tilted sharply back against the bark, frozen in a final, horrified upward gaze with locked, open jaws staring blankly into the bleak gray sky.