Chapter Five: The Hunt of the Bufkin Herd
The cliff face stretched high above the goblins, a jagged wall of ancient stone and crumbling chalk. Every inch of their climb was a battle, muscles burning and hearts pounding as they fought against gravity and the treacherous terrain. They moved carefully, each goblin spaced out about ten feet from the next, their fingers digging into cracks and crevices as they inched their way up the perilous ascent. Sweat poured from their brows, dripping down their backs and soaking into the coarse leather of their worn clothing.
The sun had barely begun to rise when they started, and now, halfway up, its light bathed the cliffside in an eerie orange glow, casting long shadows that danced across the rock. A soft breeze swept up from the ocean below, cooling their skin but offering no relief to the ache that gripped their bodies. Their fingers burned from the strain, and their arms trembled with the effort of holding their weight.
“Rest,” Garlof grunted, his voice hoarse from the climb. He had found a small ledge, barely wide enough to crouch on, and the others followed suit, anchoring themselves wherever they could.
For a moment, they paused, panting, hearts hammering in their chests. The cliff still loomed above them, an unforgiving monument to their struggle, but they had no choice but to continue.
“We’ll make it,” Guckle muttered, his falchion strapped to his back swaying slightly as he adjusted his grip. He caught his breath and looked to Giblet, who had taken the lead just above him.
But as Giblet pushed himself up, kicking his toes into a narrow crack, he felt something shift beneath him. The earth gave way with a soft crumble, the chalky soil collapsing under his weight. For a split second, he hovered in the air, suspended in the sheer terror of the moment, and then—he fell.
It all happened in a blur, the wind rushing past his ears as he tumbled down past Guckle, then Garlof, his arms flailing helplessly as the world spun around him. The others could only watch in horror, their grips tightening as they braced for the inevitable impact.
But just as Giblet plummeted past Shookle, the archer’s arm shot out like a whip. With an iron grip, he caught the chieftain by the shoulder of his leather jumpsuit, anchoring himself to an old tree stump embedded in the cliff. The stump creaked under the strain, but it held firm. For a heart-stopping moment, both goblins dangled in midair, the weight of Giblet threatening to pull them both down.
Shookle’s muscles screamed in protest, but he held fast, teeth gritted against the pain. Slowly, carefully, he hauled Giblet back toward the cliff face, his eyes never leaving the stump that anchored them both.
Giblet’s feet found purchase on the rock once more, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a long moment, they hung there, still as death, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Guckle looked down, his wide eyes meeting Shookle’s, and gave a slow, grateful nod. No words were needed.
With renewed determination, they resumed the climb, their bodies aching but their spirits hardened by the near fall. It was midday by the time the last of them crested the cliff top, pulling themselves onto the flat plateau of grass that stretched out before them. Exhausted, they collapsed into the long green blades, their chests heaving as they drank in the sweet, cool air of the plains.
For a time, they lay there, unmoving, the sky above a bright, endless blue. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow, a far-off promise of sanctuary. But for now, they rested, letting their bodies recover from the ordeal of the climb.
After an hour, they forced themselves to their feet, weary but determined. They gathered their scattered weapons and gear, and with a final look at the cliff they had conquered, they set their sights on the mountains.
The grasslands stretched out like a vast, rolling sea, the wind whispering through the tall blades as they marched. They had not gone far when the ground began to tremble beneath their feet—a soft, steady rumble that grew louder with each passing second. Shookle was the first to spot them, his sharp eyes narrowing as he saw the distant movement.
The bufkin herd.
Thousands of the massive beasts, their furred bodies moving in unison, thundered across the plain. Each one stood taller than a goblin, their thick hides rippling with muscle, their wide, curved horns gleaming in the sunlight. The ground shook with their passage, a living tidal wave of fur and hooves that stretched from horizon to horizon.
Guckle’s eyes lit up at the sight. “Meat,” he growled, his falchion glinting as he drew it from his back. “Enough to last us for weeks.”
With a sharp whistle, he signaled to the others, and without hesitation, they broke into a run, fanning out as they prepared to hunt. The goblins moved with the practiced precision of seasoned warriors, their eyes fixed on the beasts ahead.
The hunt was on.
Garlof charged ahead, his blue short sword gleaming as he darted between the towering legs of the bufkin. With a swift, upward slash, he brought down one of the smaller beasts, its massive body crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. But as he turned to face another, one of the bufkin, spooked by the sudden attack, swung its head low, catching Garlof in the side with its horn. The force of the blow sent him flying through the air, his body slamming into the earth with a sickening crunch.
“Garlof!” Guckle roared, his falchion flashing as he tore into another bufkin, bringing it down with brutal efficiency. But his eyes never left his fallen comrade.
Shookle, from his position atop a small rise, let loose a volley of arrows, each one finding its mark in the thick hides of the bufkin. With precision and speed, he thinned the herd, picking off stragglers as the beasts began to scatter.
Guckle was the one to reach Garlof first, kneeling beside the unconscious goblin, his hand checking for a pulse. “He’s alive!” he called out, relief washing over him. Garlof had taken a beating, but he would live.
They dragged the two fallen bufkin back to their makeshift camp, their bodies heavy with the prize of meat and hides. For the next week, the goblins hunted the herd, using the towering beasts for everything they could. They smoked the meat over low fires of driftwood, preserving it for the journey ahead. Their bellies were full for the first time in weeks, and the hides they stripped from the bufkin were soon fashioned into thick blankets, their fur soft and warm against the chill of the night.
Shookle, ever resourceful, crafted leather pouches from the softer hides, filling them with fresh water from nearby streams. The goblins moved like a well-oiled machine, their survival instincts honed by years of battle and hardship. By the end of the week, they were stronger, their bodies healed and their spirits lifted by the bounty of the hunt.
But even as they rested by the fire, their thoughts were never far from home—and the wizards who had taken everything from them.
Their journey was far from over.
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Chapter Six: Desecration and Despair
The great Bufkin Plains stretched before them, a vast ocean of green and gold rippling under the wide-open sky. Shookle lagged a few steps behind, his gaze drifting over the endless expanse, his heart heavy with thoughts he rarely allowed himself. This past week of hunting and rest had been a rare gift, a goblin blessing of sorts. Days of peace and plenty like this were as fleeting as a warm spring rain, and he cherished the feeling that something as precious as joy was possible even in a goblin’s harsh life.
He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the plains, the earthy scent of tall grass mingling with the sun’s warmth. Here, under the open sky with his kin by his side, he felt… free. How long had it been since he felt anything close to this? He couldn’t remember. War, blood, violence—these were a goblin’s birthright, along with fleeting glimmers of honor and death ever waiting at the next misstep. But here, trudging across the Bufkin Plains, for just a few days, he was allowed a respite, a stolen breath of life outside the endless fury and pain.
The goblins drifted across the land like seeds caught in a breeze, traveling for days without a hint of worry. They rested by streams and ate from their carefully dried supplies, sharing quiet words and, at times, even laughter. But on the sixth day, or maybe the seventh, the soft green grass began to fade, replaced by sparse shrubs and rough, stony outcrops. The gentle plains were giving way to something harsher, more jagged.
It was Guckle who saw it first, rounding a rocky bend with his falchion in hand. His steps slowed, and his face twisted in a grimace. Shookle noticed and followed his gaze—and then, he too froze. Horror lay before them, painted across the land like a nightmare.
Bones and skulls lay strewn about, bleached and gnawed upon, scattered in macabre piles. Charred remains of wood and ash hinted at past pyres, long dead but their memories etched in blackened earth. Poles jutted from the ground like the teeth of some ancient beast, and nailed to these poles were the bodies of Northern Kooplings, their small, twisted forms beaten and broken. Their flesh hung from their bones in rotted clumps, and the sickly stench of decay clung to the air like a shroud. The goblins had known death in every form, but this… this was something else.
The goblins moved forward slowly, silent with a reverence that only deepened their rage. They gathered around the scene, taking in every detail. Shookle’s hand tightened around his bow, his knuckles white as bone. Garlof, his blue sword strapped to his side, stepped closer to one of the bodies, his face twisted with fury.
“Look at what they’ve done…” he muttered, his voice laced with disgust. “Even the Kooplings, harmless as they were… they didn’t deserve this.”
“They were only magic-dabblers,” Giblet spat, his voice rough. “No threat to the Blue Wizards, not really. The bastards slaughtered them for nothing but existing.”
The goblins glanced at one another, their faces twisted in anger. The Blue Wizards had always been ruthless, always imposed their twisted vision of order upon the world. But this… to kill such a small, peaceful race? Even to a goblin, it reeked of cowardice.
Shookle’s eyes fell on a scrap of leather nailed to a nearby tree, an ancient oak that had somehow survived the desecration around it. He yanked it free, his eyes scanning the message scrawled in blue ink.
"By decree of the Wizards of the Blue Bastion, these Kooplings have been sentenced to death for practice of magic and rituals not sanctioned by the Blue Wizard Order. May all who bear witness be warned."
The goblins erupted in a cacophony of shrieks, curses, and fury. Shookle tore the decree from the tree, his teeth bared in a snarl. “Even here… even here, the filth of the Blue Wizards spreads,” he growled, his voice shaking with rage. He looked back at the bodies of the Kooplings, once a small, strange race of magic-users who’d done nothing to harm anyone.
“No love we have for the Kooplings, yet they were harmless,” Guckle said, his voice low and filled with anger. “And still, they were deemed unworthy.”
The others nodded, their anger growing with every word spoken. They saw themselves in these Kooplings—the outsiders, the despised, those who lived beyond the reach of the so-called “civilized” world. And like the Kooplings, they too had felt the hand of the Blue Wizards pressing down upon them, smothering their lives with arrogant cruelty.
In silence, they began to work, taking down the bodies with grim determination. Shookle’s hands moved with care as he freed the nails from one of the bodies, the sight of each wound and bruise stoking the fire in his chest. One by one, they gathered the bones, stacking them carefully beside the remains of the pyres. They found driftwood and snapped branches from the scraggly shrubs nearby, building a great bonfire around the fallen Kooplings.
The fire roared to life as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the land in blood-red hues. The goblins stood around the pyre, their faces lit by the dancing flames, silent as they watched the bodies burn. There was no chant, no ceremony. Only the quiet crackling of the fire and the smoldering rage in their hearts.
As the bodies turned to ash, their resolve hardened like iron in a forge. The Blue Wizards had shown their true nature once more—ruthless, unyielding, and arrogant. And they would pay for it. The goblins would see to that. Their revenge would be swift, and it would be brutal.
As the last embers died, the goblins turned away, their faces set in grim determination. They would not linger here any longer. This place, this desecrated ground, had been laid to rest, but the memory of it burned within them, fueling their hatred with every step they took.
The sun had set, casting the world in shades of blue and black, but the goblins pressed on into the night, their eyes glinting with the promise of vengeance. They would not stop. They would find the Blue Wizards, and they would show them the same mercy that had been shown to the Kooplings—none at all.
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