Gathering Supplies

The Hobgoblin slunk deeper into the thick, shadowy undergrowth of the forest. The air was damp and heavy with mist, the pale light of dawn barely filtering through the canopy. For most creatures, the gloom would have been impenetrable, but his eyes cut through it with ease. Low‑light vision was one of the few gifts his kind possessed—an edge that let him see the glisten of dew on leaves, the faint shimmer of spider webs stretched across narrow paths, and the twitch of small creatures burrowing beneath the undergrowth. Humans would stumble here, blind and clumsy, but he moved with certainty, every detail sharp against the dim grey of morning.

The forest was teeming with danger even in the absence of adventurers. Wolves prowled the thickets, Tasloi darted noiselessly through the canopy, and Xvart bands skulked in rocky outcrops to the east. Even gnolls, crude and chaotic in their ramshackle camps, sometimes wandered the edges of the woods.

This place offered no safety, but it was better than being in the open. He needed supplies. His home was woefully bare, and with the inevitable resurgence of adventurers, every scrap of preparation counted.

With a nervous glance over his shoulder, he crouched low and reached for a patch of nearby scrub. The gnarled roots of some stubborn plant peeked out from the soil, and he began tapping at them with his bare hands. Almost immediately, a small notification appeared before his eyes:

[Gathering: Wild Roots]

Harvesting Skill Penalty: -25% (Untrained)

Tool Penalty: -30% (No Tools)

Dexterity Penalty: -10% (Below Standard Dexterity)

The Hobgoblin groaned under his breath. Even simple tasks like this were stacked against him. His hands weren’t meant for this kind of work, and without proper tools, it felt like trying to dig through solid rock with nothing but his claws. Still, he tapped away at the roots, feeling the strain in his muscles.

After a moment, another message popped up in his vision:

[Wild Roots Gathered: +3]

Still, he wasn’t done. He needed more. Much more if he wanted even the smallest chance of survival against the next wave of adventurers.

He adjusted the battered short sword at his side. It was chipped and dull but serviceable, especially in his hands. Unlike the other low-level creatures that littered this forest, the Hobgoblin wasn’t entirely helpless. He had no magic, no tricks to call on, but he’d trained himself in a kind of brutal efficiency.

He’d learned to bait wolves into attacking a tree instead of him, to trip Goblin raiders with quick strikes to the knees. He wasn’t strong in the way a hero might be, but he had technique—a calculated, desperate skill honed by countless deaths and respawns.

Further ahead, he spotted a cluster of thorny bushes wrapped around the trunk of a tree. Dark berries clung to the vines, glistening faintly in the dim light. Edible, maybe. Poisonous, possibly. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

He approached cautiously and reached out to tap one of the berries. A notification immediately blinked into existence:

[Gathering: Darkthorn Berries]

Harvesting Skill Penalty: -25% (Untrained)

Tool Penalty: -30% (No Tools)

Dexterity Penalty: -10% (Below Standard Dexterity)

Despite this, berries were gathered easily in his hands, but they left small, thorny scratches on his skin. He gritted his teeth through the mild discomfort, plucking one after another and dropping them into his pouch.

[Darkthorn Berries Gathered: +5]

His hand brushed too close to one of the thorns, and a sharp sting sent a flash of pain up his arm. Another notification appeared:

[Thorn Damage: -2 HP]

"Of course," he muttered bitterly, glancing at his scratched hand. Even gathering food was dangerous.

He scanned his surroundings again, his heart pounding. Despite the silence, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him. His nerves were always on edge when he ventured out into the forest. He knew that many of the monsters in these woods had sharper senses than him, and even a Tasloi in the canopy above could spot him long before he saw them. He was weak, a runt in a world that rewarded strength.

A faint rustle of leaves caught his ear. He stopped breathing, his hand drifting to the hilt of his short sword. Every muscle in his body tensed as he scanned the surrounding trees. His sharp eyes caught movement—a shadow slipping through the undergrowth.

His grip tightened on the blade, knuckles white against the worn leather of the handle. His mind raced, calculating distance, terrain, and potential escape routes. He didn’t have the strength for a prolonged fight, but if it came to it, he could create an opening to flee.

The shadow moved again, resolving into a squat, furtive shape—a lone Goblin, weaponless and seemingly scavenging. The Hobgoblin relaxed slightly, though he didn’t let go of the hilt. A fight here would be costly even against such a weak foe. He waited in silence, his breathing shallow, until the Goblin moved off, unaware of his presence.

His mind wandered to the adventurers again. They would be coming soon, wouldn’t they? After those strange messages appeared—like the one today—they’d wake up, ready to grind for XP. And he was perfect for them—low level, easy prey, worth a little experience and a handful of loot. He was nothing more than a small distraction on their way to bigger things.

The thought made his stomach churn, but he pushed it down. For now, there was still silence. A few more precious moments before the adventurers reappeared from wherever they went during those gaps. He couldn’t waste them.

He moved on, sticking close to the trees and undergrowth. His movements were careful, deliberate, avoiding open areas where he might be spotted. He came across a fallen tree, its bark rotting and soft. He knelt down, inspecting it. The wood wasn’t in great condition, but it might be useful. He started to chip away at the softened bark, prying it loose with his claws.

[Gathering: Rotten Wood]

Harvesting Skill Penalty: -25% (Untrained)

Tool Penalty: -30% (No Tools)

Dexterity Penalty: -10% (Below Standard Dexterity)

The pieces broke off easily enough, though the dampness of the wood made it less than ideal. Still, he needed firewood, and this would have to do for now.

[Rotten Wood Gathered: +4]

He stuffed the pieces into his pouch. As always, the act of gathering left him uneasy. The forest seemed to grow quieter, the shadows heavier, as if the world itself noticed his fumbling attempts. The familiar, creeping sense of danger began to settle in his chest.

He was exposed out here. Alone. Weak.

His head snapped up at a sound—branches rustling, something moving through the trees. His heart raced, and he crouched low, retreating into the shadows of a nearby bush. His eyes scanned the area, every muscle in his body tense.

For a moment, he thought he saw movement—something large and dark, passing between the trees. A wolf? A bear? Or worse… something sentient. Another monster, or perhaps an adventurer returning from their hidden place, wherever it was they vanished to between hunts.

He didn’t stick around to find out. He scrambled back the way he had come, slipping between the trees as quietly as he could manage. His breath came in shallow bursts as he darted from shadow to shadow, every sound in the forest amplified in his mind until he found cover and hid.

When the forest was quiet once more, he straightened cautiously and turned back towards his cave. Carrying supplies always left him uneasy; bark dust clung to his claws, the damp smell of rot clung to his pouch, and every scrape of wood seemed loud enough to draw predators. He kept to the shadows, his steps low and deliberate, more scavenger than warrior. Survival wasn’t noble or glorious—it was a filthy grind, a matter of clawing through mud, rot, and blood just to see another dawn.

When he finally ducked inside the safety of his cave, he dropped the supplies onto the ground and slumped against the cold stone wall. His hands ached, his muscles burned, and the faint scratches from the thornbush throbbed.

[Supplies Gathered: Wild Roots (+3), Darkthorn Berries (+5), Rotten Wood (+4)]

The notification floated briefly before his eyes, mocking him. It wasn’t much. It never was. Just scraps—barely enough to stave off hunger for a short while. It was only a pause, not an end. He had secured wood and a few berries, but nowhere near enough to keep himself fed. Sooner or later, he would have to step back into the mist and shadows, risking the forest again to fill his belly.

He glanced towards the cave entrance, where the pale light of morning still filtered through the mist. The adventurers would return before long, their weapons sharp and their ambitions high.

And when they came, they would kill him.

Again.

Better get the food now. Before too many had returned.