Chapter One: Shackled in Defeat The battlefield was a smoldering wasteland of crushed armor and broken dreams. Goblin bodies lay strewn across the fields south of the Hedge Wizard Woods, where once proud warriors had fought tooth and claw to resist the Red and Blue Wizards and their mercenary legions. But now, those who survived the slaughter found themselves herded like cattle, chains rattling as the victors dragged them toward the distant shore of Kelpie's Bay.
Among the prisoners, the goblin chieftain, Giblet, towered half a foot above the others, his broad, muscular frame heaving with every breath of exhaustion. His purple leather boots squelched in the muddy ground as he trudged forward, defiance still flickering in his yellow eyes. The falcon that had once soared proudly at his command was nowhere to be seen, having flown off at the crack of a whip. His familiar's sharp, intelligent eyes were now absent, and his sword—once wielded with the precision of a seasoned warrior—had been torn from his grasp. The long brown kite shield that had withstood countless blows was now tossed aside like refuse. On his right shoulder, the spikes of his armor jutted angrily into the sky, but now they seemed only for show, a cruel reminder of the might that had failed him.
Beside him, Guckle—barefoot and as grim as the dark skies above—had been stripped of his yellow buckler and journeyman falchion. His feet, calloused from years of battle and travel, carried him through the muck as his muscles strained against the heavy iron chains. His skull shoulder guards, once symbols of a fearsome raider, now hung uselessly as his captors whipped his back, each lash a brutal reminder of his defeat. His mottled dark green skin, slick with sweat and grime, made him appear less a warrior and more a prisoner resigned to his fate. But Guckle's rage still simmered beneath the surface, his prominent canine tooth bared in a silent snarl, held back only by the iron shackles that bound him.
Garloff, Guckle’s raider comrade, fared no better. His blue short sword, which had once gleamed in battle, was gone, confiscated by the wizards, and his long, metallic shield with the golden arrow motif now lay discarded among the other spoils of war. His muscular frame, similar to Guckle’s, bore the same hardened look of a soldier who had lived and breathed war, yet even his spirit seemed to waver under the weight of their capture. His gaze flickered toward the horizon, a brief hope of escape dashed by the wizards' kicks and sneers.
The cruelest torment, though, fell upon Shookle. His orchid rhinoceros beetle, his ever-loyal familiar, had buzzed frantically as the Red Wizards snatched away Shookle’s bow and shield, before skittering off into the forest, perhaps never to return. Shookle’s heart sank as he watched it disappear into the underbrush. His brass-circled shield, bearing the peace logo—a strange emblem for a goblin—was seized by one of the captors, who laughed at its irony before tossing it into a pile of stolen weapons. The majestic Apollo’s Bow, a weapon of beauty and grace, was ripped from his grasp by a Blue Wizard, who spat in his face before moving on.
But it wasn’t just the loss of his weaponry that gnawed at Shookle. Unlike the others, who were steeling themselves for what was to come, Shookle’s thoughts wandered. His chest heaved under the weight of his leather harness, the circular buckle covered in goblin writing pressing against his skin like a brand of a warrior’s past that he no longer believed in. The screams of his fellow goblins, the laughter of their captors, and the ceaseless cracks of the whips—all of it sent Shookle into a spiral of self-doubt. Why were they still fighting? Why this endless cycle of violence?
The Red Wizards and Blue Wizards—those arrogant, robe-clad masters of the arcane—walked among the goblin prisoners, lashing out at anyone who dared to slow their pace. Their eyes gleamed with contempt as they spat insults at the goblins, calling them "filthy green vermin" and "low-born trash." Their kicks were harsh, their boots sinking deep into the backs of the goblins, who could do nothing but shuffle forward. One of the wizards sneered at Giblet, shoving him hard. "So this is the great goblin chieftain?" he mocked. "A giant among his kind, yet so easily brought to his knees."
Giblet did not respond, though his fists clenched tightly, the chains binding his wrists digging into his skin. He knew he could crush the wizard's throat with one hand if only he were free, but the irons held him back, along with the knowledge that any resistance would result in more suffering for his tribe.
The march to Kelpie's Bay was long and grueling, the weight of their chains a constant reminder of their defeat. When they finally reached the shore, the sight that greeted them was bleak. A massive sailing ship loomed over them, its dark wood creaking ominously as it rocked in the bay. The banners of the Red and Blue Wizards flapped in the wind, their colors garish against the storm-gray sky. Waves crashed against the ship's hull, as though even the sea itself was warning the goblins of the horrors to come.
One by one, they were shoved onto the ship, led down into the dark belly of the vessel. The cramped quarters smelled of salt and rot, and the repressive heat stifled their every breath. Chains rattled as they were secured to the walls, their once proud weapons now distant memories. The oppressive darkness swallowed them, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight that danced along the damp wooden beams.
The goblins could hear the ship’s crew above, shouting orders and preparing for their voyage. The ship groaned as the sails were hoisted, and soon, they felt the familiar lurch of the sea as they were carried away from the shore. But they were not being taken to freedom. No, they were being transported to the copper mines—dreaded pits nestled deep within the massive mountains near the Sacred Pillars. A place where goblins went, but never returned.
As the ship sailed into the night, the goblins sat in silence, their spirits as broken as the chains that bound them. Only the sound of the creaking wood and the distant rumble of the sea filled the void, until finally, Shookle spoke softly, more to himself than to the others.
"Why do we keep fighting?"
No one answered.
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Chapter Two: The Lost Hold
The name of the ship was a bitter joke. Known as The Drowned Gale, it was a slave transport owned by the Red and Blue Wizards, a looming dark beast of a vessel that creaked and moaned with every wave. Its bow jutted out like a deadly spear, and from it, a twisted figurehead of the Sea Goddess watched with hollow eyes, her mouth pulled into a grim sneer. Four giant masts, once towering trees, were milled into thick poles that held sprawling sails inked with the wizards' insignias. For three days, those sails caught the winds of Kelpie's Bay, driving the ship into the open sea and toward the frigid waters of The Salt.
The goblins and other prisoners, packed like cattle in the dark belly of the ship, could only glimpse the outside world through a tiny grate, high and rusted over, leaking light like dribbles from a cracked mug. Deep below deck, in the ship’s reeking hold, they sat along rough-hewn wooden benches, shackled in rows with their hands and feet cuffed. A thick iron pin kept each of them secured to the bench, allowing no room to lie down. They slept sitting up, their bodies slumping against each other for whatever fragile comfort they could find. Sleep, if it came at all, was fitful, broken by the crash of waves against the hull and the ceaseless grating of chains.
Each day, a splintered wooden pail was dragged down the row for their needs, its stench a nauseating mix of old filth and stale saltwater. Another pail came filled with drinking water, sour and briny, barely fit to keep them alive. Stale, crusted loaves of bread were passed out in paltry portions, keeping them just on the edge of life, though they knew it was not out of mercy.
No guards watched them directly; they were too deep in the hold for an escape attempt. Instead, they were abandoned in their despair, left to fester in the dark, surrounded by the spoils of their capture. At the very back of the hold, behind iron bars, lay the remnants of their former glory—a hoard of weapons confiscated from the prisoners, destined to be sold at the port. And there, too, sat the heavy armor and brutal weaponry of three massive trolls and two brutish orcs, creatures who had been pressed into battle to try and claw out freedom. But instead, their immense strength had only sealed the goblins' fate, leaving countless dead on the battlefield.
Days bled into each other in the dark. Shookle, sitting farthest back, could almost feel the faint glimmer of his bow through the cage, the one piece of himself he wished to reclaim. His thoughts were broken and bleak. Even Giblet, their chieftain, had grown silent, his yellow eyes dulled with exhaustion. Each of them sat stewing in the same grim thoughts, the chains biting into their wrists and ankles, the incessant lurch of the ship pulling them closer to hopelessness.
It was seven days into their voyage when The Drowned Gale struck a storm.
They felt it before they heard it—the shift of the waves, the sudden tilt of the ship. Then the roar of the storm broke above them like a mighty beast unleashed, and the world outside was swallowed by thunder, crashing waves, and the frantic shouts of the crew. The Wizards and crew worked frantically to secure the vessel, sealing the hold tight as they labored to keep the ship from capsizing. Below deck, the prisoners were left to fend for themselves.
Terror spread quickly through the hold. The trolls, unused to the wild pitch and roll of the sea, panicked. They pulled at their pins, their massive muscles bulging as they thrashed against their chains. One of them, a beast of unrestrained fury, gnawed at his wrist, chewing through flesh and bone until his hand came free, blood pooling on the floorboards. With a feral scream, he yanked himself loose and set to freeing others, yet his strength, dulled by panic, led him to crush and trample some of his fellow captives in his desperate rage.
The pins tore free from the benches as chains snapped. The goblins stumbled to their feet, clutching the bruised and broken wrists that had been trapped for days. In the frenzy, Giblet gave a shout, a flicker of command returning to his voice. Shookle, Guckle, and Garloff moved through the dark, rallying those they could. In the back, their goal gleamed—a cage filled with their precious weapons. Through a brutal mix of shoves and desperate scrabbling, they reached it, tearing open the bars to reclaim what was theirs.
Yet just as they seized their weapons, the ship lurched. The hull had been breached. They heard the sharp crack of timber splitting, the groaning of the ship as seawater rushed in, a dark torrent surging through the bowels of the vessel. Panic erupted anew. Wood and water crashed all around, and screams filled the hold as prisoners flailed, many dragged down by the weight of their chains, unable to swim.
Shookle, Guckle, Giblet, and Garloff fought their way to the upper deck, slipping through gaps as the storm tossed the ship violently. Waves crashed over the sides, lightning arcing across the sky, casting ghostly reflections on the waterlogged deck. In the chaos, they seized hold of a shattered piece of wood that floated free—a broken fragment of the mast—and clung to it with desperate fingers, their soaked weapons held tight to their chests.
The sea claimed The Drowned Gale in one final, awful heave. The ship was swallowed by the waves, the last of its crew and captives vanishing into the deep. The storm raged on, hammering the four goblins as they clung to their makeshift raft. For hours, they drifted, buffeted by the relentless waves, each wondering if they would last until dawn.
But as the sky lightened, their hands raw and bodies wracked with exhaustion, they realized they had survived. They lay sprawled across the driftwood, clutching their weapons like lifelines, beaten and bruised but alive. The sea around them was quiet now, the storm having passed, and they stared up at the vast, open sky.
They were free.
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