[Investigate]

You hear a loud crash, a piercing ring similar to a plate shattering on stone. Like the purses of coins the gut-stuffed snobs from the merchant guild spill on cobbled streets and can't quite reach. Like... It sounds costly no matter what you compare it to!

"Fuck..." you sigh. Living here is a collective effort. If you don't stop the drunkards from pissing on other peoples' homes, it won't be long before a golden shower finds it way to yours.

Unwilling, but bound to your duty as a neighbor, you pull yourself to the door and swing it open. As you step into the field, your hand lies ready on your sword. A quick glance, left, right. Chaos... and a scattering of broken bottles.

All around, swarms of dagger-wielding, loincloth-wearing green little shits are ransacking the place. They stink like ballsacks in a summer sear. Like fish with a hint of sweat. Their bald heads glint with grease in the morning sun, sharp-toothed mouths open wide in perverse cackles as boners curve in many shapes on the little skirt-chasers. You count maybe twelve, thirteen if you count the one missing half a face.

Oh, look. There is blood after all.

A house over, one of them flails out wildly while holding a half-empty bottle of wine, hissing "Hssk! Nyeh-hee!" before tripping over a rake, while another shed already caught fire from a lantern thrown the wrong way.

The air is thick with smoke and panic, making defense even more difficult. You hear the snap of wood, wet cracks from brutal strikes landing on the goblins, and the last breaths of a few. Scythes, bottles, a rake with half its teeth, and even an ambitious broom. The villagers arm themselves with whatever available and try their hardest to defend their homes.

"Aldreda! Gomes!" A man shouts a bunch of names.

Following the shout, a middle-aged woman and a teenage boy regroup with the man, shielding the entrance to their shed with some farming tools of their own.

Their swings are easily readable, both creatures and people. Not a single one is trained. You see elbows flail, blades bounce off handles. Casualties are certain to happen. Though you can make yourself useful, saving everyone is far-fetched.

One place, you see a middle-aged woman cornered by a pack of three, pulling on her skirt and prodding her with the tip of their weapons, just shy of piercing skin. They're laughing maniacally and her cries only further entertain the creatures. You can get there fast enough, but the situation is urgent for everyone. A younger girl is being outrun, the glimpses of underwear as her skirt jumps up and down like a carrot on a stick for the pack of green donkeys behind her. As for the elders, they are barely holding their ground but have enjoyed life plenty if you think about it. Naturally, the men are being attacked the most viciously.

Overall, everyone's in deep shit and there's only one of you.