### Chapter Ten: Ducks on the Menu
With the cursed plum tree fading behind them, the goblins stumbled upon a narrow, winding path that led deeper into a forest unlike any they’d seen. This woodland was no dark, ominous tangle but a lively, sun-dappled stretch of trees where filtered light danced through the canopy and painted the forest floor with soft, shifting patterns. Even the air felt different here—crisp, sweet with the scent of pine and moss, a pleasant reprieve from the frigid peaks and the magic-laden valleys they had crossed.
Just as they began to feel at ease, a strange sight stopped them in their tracks. In a wide clearing stood a massive set of wooden gates, towering and grand, yet oddly out of place with no walls on either side. These gates were wide open, welcoming, as if inviting any traveler to enter. In the center of the clearing stood a notice board painted with bold letters:
“THE DUCK ALLIANCE. These gates mark the lands of the Free People of the Duck Alliance. All magic is unwell from past these gates. All strangers are welcome, but beware: poachers and thieves be warned. The animals, and especially the ducks, of these lands are protected. All disregarding these laws shall be punished. Wizards not welcome.”
Giblet squinted, reading the sign aloud for the others, his voice filled with curiosity. Shookle nodded, approving of the sentiment. “Finally, kin who have true values,” he grunted with satisfaction.
“An’ people who understand all wizards are a curse!” Guckle spat on the ground, adding a particularly enthusiastic curse under his breath.
With spirits high, the goblins entered the woodland, treating the open gates as a sort of blessing. They traveled half a day more, the ease of the path and the dense forest providing ample shade. At last, they found a cozy opening among the trees and made camp. They set about building a crude shelter and a fire pit, the smell of roasting meat filling the air as Shookle skillfully brought down a deer that first day. The night was spent in a gluttonous, greasy haze, the goblins devouring the fresh meat until their bellies were full and their heads lulled into deep, untroubled sleep.
The forest was bountiful beyond belief. As they lingered over their campfires and feasts, they saw creatures that seemed almost tame. Squirrels scurried close, rabbits hopped freely nearby, and, most thrillingly, flocks of plump, waddling ducks wandered through the underbrush, barely batting an eye at the sight of goblins. Shookle and Garlof, hardly able to believe their luck, eagerly set to the task of hunting. They loosed arrows and hurled stones, and in no time at all, they had bags stuffed with duck carcasses. The goblins roasted duck after duck, the fat sizzling over the flames, their mouths watering at the rich aroma of crisped skin and tender meat.
They ate like kings, duck grease slicking their hands and faces as they tore into each succulent bite. Each night, the fire crackled and popped, ducks roasted over the flames, and the goblins drank deeply from their crude flasks. Days bled into nights, and the goblins were too busy feasting to even think of moving on. Here, in this lush forest, it seemed as though they’d found a little paradise.
What they didn’t know was that they had also attracted the notice of a ranger of the Duck Alliance. Drawn by the smoke from their camp and appalled by the sight of goblin hunters blatantly disregarding the Alliance’s rules, he watched from the shadows as they carved up deer and skewered ducks with no concern. When he saw the duck carcasses piling up around their camp, he could stomach no more. Gathering a troop of men from the Alliance, he waited until nightfall, anger burning in his chest.
That night, the goblins lay sprawled around the fire pit, snoring in a drunken, gluttonous stupor. Duck bones littered the ground, glinting white under the moonlight, and greasy carcasses were piled all around them. Shookle was flat on his back, mouth open as he snored loud enough to shake the trees. Guckle lay curled up nearby, clutching a duck leg as if he might gnaw on it in his sleep. The camp was a scene of disarray, with half-eaten ducks and spilled wine skins scattered among the sleeping goblins.
Suddenly, a harsh shout split the night, startling the goblins awake. Torchlight flickered beyond the trees, a fiery glow illuminating grim faces emerging from the darkness. The Alliance rangers surged forward, shouting and waving their torches, their eyes full of fury as they closed in on the goblin camp.
“Poachers! Thieves!” the ranger at the front roared. “You dare break the laws of the Duck Alliance?”
Shookle blinked, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of the sight. "Oi! What’s all this?" he muttered, groggy and confused.
“Up, ye fools!” Guckle hissed, scrambling to his feet, clutching his dagger as he took in the approaching figures.
Panic seized them as they realized their situation. The goblins snatched up what weapons they could, grabbing their bows and crude blades, and darted toward the dark trees. Their hearts pounded as they fled into the woods, ducking low as torches flared around them, rangers shouting as they tried to give chase. The forest seemed to close in, the peaceful woods now a treacherous maze.
They stumbled and scrambled, breathing hard, ducking under low-hanging branches as they evaded the pursuing rangers. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they broke free of the dense woodland and dashed through the open gates they had so eagerly passed just days before.
The goblins collapsed just beyond the gate, panting and bruised, but free. The warm glow of their recent feasts was replaced by a sour feeling, a grudging admission that they had indeed overstayed their welcome. They huddled together, casting one last glance at the forest behind them, its shadowy expanse hiding the Duck Alliance and all its fiercely guarded treasures.
“Right,” Shookle grumbled, glancing at his companions. “Next time, let’s leave the ducks alone.”
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Chapter 11: Into the Delta
Leaving the Duck Woods behind with their bellies full and tempers frayed, the goblin quartet trudged westward, trying to shake the frustration of being driven off by mere men. Though none would admit it, they were weary of fighting, deciding that a quieter route might offer a taste of peace—and perhaps even more abundant hunting grounds.
“Bah, what do we care for a few humans in feathers?” grumbled Garlof, kicking at a rock and watching it skitter away. The goblins, though, were still in high spirits, tasting the forest’s plentiful bounty with each stop. Squirrels, rabbits, birds—even a bewildered stoat—all fell victim to their crude snares and quick hands. Their fires crackled and smoked under the dense trees, filling the air with the greasy scent of roasting meats.
Around the campfire, the goblins fell into rough, barked conversation as the forest shadows deepened, filled with the occasional cackle and snorted laugh. Guckle, the crudest of the bunch, leaned over to share a joke that only a goblin could find amusing.
“Why did the wizard cross the swamp?” he sneered, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Why?” asked Giblet, already anticipating something revolting.
“To get the slug off his wand! Haw-haw!” Guckle guffawed, doubled over as if he’d delivered the joke of the century. The others barked out laughs, slapping their knees in shared, grimy humor. They cursed the wizards, as they always did, blaming them for every misfortune that befell them. The goblins’ history with these robed tormentors was deeply ingrained; after all, every bad turn of weather, every snapped bowstring, and every twisted ankle was clearly the work of some unseen spell cast by a wizard.
As the sun dipped lower, Shookle, ever the curious climber, decided to scout the area. He scrambled up a rocky outcrop, squinting into the distance where the dense woods fell away to reveal a vast landscape. Through breaks in the trees, he caught a glimmer of light reflecting off water—a broad river flowing south into a distant delta. Farther west, he spotted tall windmills, their blades turning lazily in the breeze, stirring the tall grasses in rhythmic waves.
Back at the camp, the goblins took a vote. Giblet, tugging at his chin thoughtfully, argued, “Forget the windmills, the farmers, all of it. The river’s our best bet south. Faster. Less feet aching. No wizards sniffing around.”
After a day’s march, they set up camp along the roaring riverbank, gathering together their supplies and making plans. Their goblin minds worked quickly, turning the rough ideas of a raft into a true goblin engineering feat. Without proper axes, they hacked at young trees with whatever they had—Garlof’s falchion slicing through bark, Giblet’s hatchet chopping branches to length, and Shookle’s jagged blade sawing through the tough wood. They bound the logs with twine they made from flax along the river’s edge. A rickety shelter was lashed to the center, giving them a crude cover, and with two long poles fashioned for steering, they stepped back to admire their work.
With a triumphant shove, they launched the raft into the river and climbed aboard, whooping and howling with excitement as the current took hold. The goblins huddled under their little shelter, wide-eyed as they floated, gripping the poles and marveling at their own handiwork.
They drifted for days, growing fond of the lazy, winding waters. They filled the air with whistled tunes and raucous goblin songs, feeling the tension of their journey ease as they let the river carry them south. The banks widened as the river split into a sprawling delta, where reeds and grassy islands dotted the water’s edge.
One late afternoon, with the sun casting warm light over the delta, Guckle suddenly hissed and dropped to his belly, tugging at Garlof’s ragged sleeve. “Look there!” he whispered, pointing with a grimy claw.
Through the tall grasses bordering a farm, an old man in a tattered brown robe tended to a field of beets, his back bent and his hands moving methodically through the soil. The goblins’ eyes gleamed with malice as they hungrily watched him.
“Wizards should always pay,” Garlof muttered darkly, his fingers twitching toward his falchion.
“Yes, let’s slit his throat and be done with him!” whispered Guckle, barely able to contain his excitement. But Shookle frowned, and Giblet, though tempted, nodded in agreement. “We’re too close to freedom,” he said. “No need to rile up trouble if we don’t have to.”
After a hushed but heated debate, they settled on caution. Silently, they abandoned the raft and crept through the reeds with their supplies, leaving the wizard to his field and his root vegetables.
As they slipped away, the Brown Wizard lifted his head, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he glanced around. He felt a strange, prickling sensation in the air, as if something foul had passed near. For a moment, he thought of reporting this encounter to the Brown Wizard Council, but with a shake of his head, he returned to his work. The beets, after all, could not tend themselves.
Entered by: 0x712b…E85C
