Kill goblins, worry about the other details later

You charge towards the open gates of the goblins’ camp. There is only a single sentry guarding the **** gap in the crude wooden palisade. The revolting short green-skinned creature is waving its gangly arms in alarm and crying out for aid from its comrades within the camp. Briefly it tries to pull the gates shut, but the shoddily-forged and rusted hinges barely groan as they refuse to move. As you thunder closer in your clanking shining partial plate armor the hooked-nosed thing gives up and readies a crude scimitar.

Though you are consumed with righteous rage you are no barbarian from the frost-rimed fjords or steaming jungles. You know the odds are against you. This charge is brave and good but it is dangerously close to suicidal. You have slain four goblins since last night, but they were unarmed and surprised. A single one of these wretched monsters is a trivial but hazardous obstacle for a paladin of Lucretia. But if three of the dozen goblins in this camp come at you together you will be in serious peril. And if more can gather then they will likely cut you down. Or worse you will join the prisoner in that central hut, bent over and filled with berries and goblin cum.

With a mixture of fear and fury, quickened with adrenalin and focussed by your training, you are planning ahead even as shining polished Lover and the goblin’s corroded and pitted scimitar meet in the first ringing clash of blades. The momentum of your charge and the weight of the greatsword smashes the goblin’s scimitar down and round, and to keep its grip the foul creature is **** to half-turn with it. The goblin desperately tries to bring its blade back on guard but it is too slow. You bring Lover back against your own swing, reversing the direction of its travel, with a great groan of effort and strength.

Lover slashes into the goblin’s sword arm just below the shoulder and you hear the crunch of bone shattering. The goblin drops its curved sword from limp fingers and then drops to its knees, the other hand going to the wound as if to hold the dangling arm on. Bits of bone protrude and green blood squirts between its fingers. It makes not a sound, silenced by the shock of its wound.

You ready yourself to give the undeserving goblin Lucretia’s mercy, but there is a strange **** in your sword arm. Lover doesn’t want… There is a strange and unfamiliar urgency in your hand. What does Lover want?!

A trio of goblins, two with spears and one with a shortbow, come running round a hut two dozen yards away. More will be here soon.