Path to the Yzobu

The next morning, Grashok awoke to find Snippa curled up in his arms, her breaths gentle and even. The bear pelt lay across them like a warm blanket, the fur tickling his nose as he inhaled the scent of their union. He studied her sleeping form, the soft lines of her face relaxed in slumber. The memory of their passionate night played out in his mind like a vivid tapestry, each position, each sound, each touch etched into his consciousness like a sacred mark. Her skin, flushed from their exertions, was a canvas of their shared triumph.

The room was a battleground of discarded clothing—his britches lay crumpled on the cold stone floor, a reminder of their urgent need. Her high-heeled knee-high boots stood sentinel at the foot of the bed, the leather gleaming in the early light. Her bra, torn and discarded in a fit of desire, lay like a defeated foe nearby. Each piece told a story of passion and intimacy, of two lovers coming together in the most intimate of battles.

Careful not to disturb her, he eased himself from the bed, muscles still humming from the night’s exertions.

He padded silently across the room, retrieving his britches from where they had landed in a careless heap. With practised ease, he slipped them on and sat on the heavy wooden chair by the hearth, tugging on his boots and cinching the leather tight.

As he leaned back, he brought up his notifications menu, blinking the bleariness from his eyes. Most alerts were familiar—patrol reports, clan updates, the usual stream of minor tasks and events. But one line caught his eye immediately, set apart in bold:

**Unique Quest Available**

His heart jumped, and he selected it. A new screen opened before his mind’s eye, lines of glowing script forming with steady rhythm. He scanned it quickly, his eyes widening as the details unfolded.

A herd of Yzobu had been spotted nearby. The name alone made his breath catch. Images flooded his mind—majestic, horned beasts with immense strength and fierce tempers, their shaggy coats rippling in the wind. Revered in Hobgoblin culture, they were more than just beasts—they were icons of strength, guardians of tradition, and symbols of chieftain status. To tame one was to prove oneself worthy.

The quest objective was clear: Capture at least one Yzobu.

A pointer pulsed on the mental map, situated further up the mountain’s spine. A timer ticked down beside it—just under eight hours remained.

He must have made a sound—a muttered curse or a sharp intake of breath—because when he looked up, Snippa was propped on one elbow, her hair tumbling wild about her face, her eyes sleepy but curious.

“We have a mission,” he said, his voice low and steady.

His mind filled with the image of himself astride a Yzobu, its powerful frame charging across the battlefield, the wind howling around them.

“What is it?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly.

Grashok was already buckling on his weapons and slipping on his harness, excitement flashing in his eyes. "Yzobu," he said with reverence. "There’s a herd nearby. A rare quest. We’ve got less than eight hours to capture one."

Snippa looked blank for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “A what now?”

He grinned and gestured for her to hurry as he slung on his gear. “Yzobu,” he began, his voice dropping with awe. “They’re not just beasts—they’re living mountains. Massive creatures, larger than a warg, with shaggy coats thick as storm clouds and horns like twisted obsidian blades. Their eyes burn with a kind of ancient knowing, and their breath mists in great huffs, even in warm air. Their hooves crack rock, and their charge is like an earthquake given form.”

He strapped on his belt and continued, eyes gleaming. “In Hobgoblin culture, they’re sacred. Icons of our strength and endurance. Only the strongest—chieftains and warlords—dare to approach them. To capture and ride one is to claim a bond with the spirits of conquest. It is said a Yzobu doesn’t serve a master... it chooses a worthy warrior. To ride one into battle is the mark of absolute command, a signal to all clans that the rider is a leader chosen by fate and fire.”

She blinked at him, still piecing it together as she scrambled out of bed and hastily pulled on her top and skirt. “Sounds like your version of a holy beast. Why didn’t I hear about them before?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching with excitement. “You live in trees and track rats through the bramble. We don’t expect forest goblins to know our legends.”

Her eyes sparkled at the playful jab. “Well, you’d best hope this forest goblin can keep up.”

Boots thudding against stone, he strode quickly from the bedroom, Snippa just behind him, tugging her top and skirt into place. Skarn, his loyal grey-furred wolf, roused from where he had been curled at the threshold and immediately slotted in at Grashok’s side with a low, eager whine. They passed hallways already stirring with morning sounds—clansfolk chatting, armour clinking, the scent of hearth bread drifting from the kitchens.

In the throne room, Grashok swept across the floor, the firepits still smouldering from the night. He ascended the dais and settled heavily onto the throne, the carved stone cool beneath him. His fingers danced through the demesne menu, selecting Messages.

Without hesitation, he sent out batlings to summon his most trusted circle—his lieutenants, the Goblin Elder, the spy master Elenara, and their herder, Tilda. The small winged messengers zipped off through the hallways.

Then he jumped up again, unable to sit still, and began pacing excitedly across the stone floor, his mind racing through preparations as Snippa watched on amused.

Moments later, the heavy doors creaked open and his summoned advisors entered, still blinking sleep from their eyes. Grashok wasted no time.

“There is a quest,” he began, his voice rich with anticipation. “A herd of Yzobu has been sighted on the mountain. We are to capture one.”

Blank stares greeted him. Elenara exchanged a glance with the Goblin Elder, who simply blinked slowly. Only Tilda reacted—with a grimace.

“They’ll stink out my beast pen,” she muttered with disgust.

Grashok chuckled. “Some races with lesser noses do struggle with the odour,” he admitted, before turning serious again. “Yes, they stink,” he said as Tilda huffed in agreement, “but they are noble beasts. Creatures of honour and deep tradition. I have been tasked with a hunt. This is not just another errand—this is a mark of fate.”

He turned toward each of them in turn. “Elder, you will remain and manage the dungeon. Elenara, assist him and give warning should danger rise.”

They both nodded.

“Tilda,” Grashok said, “we’ll need gear suitable for capturing such a beast.”

She snorted, already making mental lists. “Reinforced hobble ropes with barbed ends to hook into their shag, scent-masking tarps soaked in bog oil and juniper to cover your presence, and a collapsible holding frame—light enough to carry, but strong, with iron rings and braided leather lashings. I’ll pack salt-laced bait soaked in molasses and laced with a sleep-draught, and calming incense to reduce panic. But you better be fast—if it wakes too early, it’ll tear that frame to splinters.”

Grashok nodded gratefully. “Perfect.”

He turned to the rest of the gathered lieutenants. “You’ll come with me. We’re going up the mountain.”

He flicked mentally through his character menu, navigating swiftly to the War Chief subsection and selecting Expeditions. There, he aligned Snippa, Nyxie, Sylrith, and Skarn. With a brief flick of thought, he hit Launch Expedition.

The cost was pleasantly light—only a small amount of food and resources, thanks to keeping the team small and elite.

He summoned up the quest timer again.

“Seven and a half hours left,” he announced. “We leave in twenty minutes. Get everything ready and meet me at the entrance.”

The room erupted in a flurry of movement as orders were given, plans set, and preparations began.

Grashok turned, excitement thrumming through him as he made his way to the entrance hall, gathering his own supplies along the way.

Less than twenty minutes later, the expedition strode out of the dungeon’s main gate and turned towards the jagged paths that twisted up the mountain. The air was crisp, tinged with pine and frost, and the stone beneath their boots was slick with morning dew.

Grashok reflected that the longest part of their delay had been deciphering Tilda’s gruff, rapid-fire instructions on how to use the trapping gear. He cast a glance at the pack strapped tightly to his back—reinforced hobble ropes neatly coiled, scent-masking tarps folded into tight rolls, and the collapsible frame strapped alongside the bait jars and incense cones. The frame was crafted of tempered ash and bound with iron-ringed joints, its lattice strong but designed for quick assembly. The bait—dark, sticky chunks of salt-infused molasses—smelled sharply sweet, and he knew from tales that it would draw the Yzobu in like flies to blood. The added soporific would knock the beast into a manageable sleep, if timed just right.

The terrain began to change as they pressed further up the mountain path. Grass and soil gave way to jagged outcroppings and loose shale, the earth growing more treacherous beneath their feet. Cracks ran between the rocks, and stubby, wind-warped trees clung desperately to the slopes. Each step was accompanied by the scrape of boots on stone, and the air thinned as they climbed higher towards the clouds.

Skarn prowled close at Grashok’s side, muscles tense, hackles rippling along his spine. His muzzle lifted to the wind again and again, ears twitching as though catching sounds too faint for others to notice, nostrils flaring, yet never fixing on one direction. He sniffed and turned, restless and unsettled. He didn’t growl—he didn’t need to. The taut line of his body spoke volumes.

Grashok’s hand fell to his weapon as the beast’s instincts set his nerves alight.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the rocks with a scream, scattering pebbles and dirt across the path. Snippa glanced up from her footing, eyes narrowed. “That wind just hit against the slope,” she muttered. “That’s not natural.”

Even Sylrith looked uneasy. “Something’s watching us.”

Grashok said nothing. He could feel it, too—like eyes behind the clouds, weight behind the wind.

Then: a sharp twang shattered the tension.

Snippa’s arrow flew in a blur—fast, unerring—just as a patch of stone ahead moved. What had seemed to be nothing more than slate and ash erupted upward as an Igneleon sprang from its hiding place, its scales a perfect mimicry of the rock. Its body shimmered with residual heat, as if it had absorbed the sun’s fire. The arrow buried deep into its chest, eliciting a bone-rattling shriek.

The creature was lithe, scaled in tones of granite, obsidian, and charcoal, its long tail tipped with a flickering heat that shimmered the air. Its tongue whipped out, long and glistening with venom as it struggled from the unexpected turn of fate—an ambusher now being ambushed.

The creature landed mid-path, bleeding, but far from dead. Its long tail lashed the air, glowing at the tip with an internal ember. Its jaws snapped open, heat rolling off its breath as the stone beneath it hissed and blackened.

The Igneleon screeched and launched itself toward them in a frenzy. It was a predator built for ambush—its strength in surprise and venom.

But it had no hope.

Nyxie was already conjuring a frost sigil, and Sylrith had lunged with a cry, her twin blades flashing like silver fire. Grashok stepped forward with a bellow, Skarn leaping beside him with fangs bared.

The battle lasted barely seconds.

Sylrith’s blade took the creature’s leg from under it, Nyxie’s magic froze its tail to the stone, and Skarn clamped onto its throat before it could lash out with that wicked tongue again. It shuddered once, and then fell still.

Grashok stepped back, breathing heavily, and glanced around at his companions.

“So much for a peaceful hike,” Snippa muttered, nudging the corpse with her toe.

They shared a quiet chuckle before pressing on.

The path ahead narrowed as they climbed, the terrain growing more uneven. Granite outcrops jutted from the earth like jagged teeth, and the wind began to tug more fiercely at their cloaks and hair. The sun had climbed higher in the morning sky, casting long shadows through sparse pine clusters that clung desperately to the rocky slopes. Every now and then, a scree of loose stone rattled down the mountainside, echoing faintly into the yawning drop below.

They pressed on in determined silence, each member of the party scanning their surroundings with sharpened focus. Grashok felt the pull of the quest timer in the back of his mind, each passing moment another drop in the hourglass. The cold was biting now, and even Skarn’s thick fur was rippling with unease.

Then Snippa halted mid-step, one hand rising sharply. The rest froze instantly, instinct and discipline snapping into place. Her eyes swept the ridgeline ahead, body taut as a bowstring. Slowly, she knelt and pressed her ear to the rocky ground.

The earth murmured.

Grashok could sense it too—faint at first, then rising steadily, a rhythmic shudder pulsing beneath their boots.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

Snippa looked up, her expression unreadable, and gestured with barely a whisper of sound toward a nearby outcrop. Grashok’s eyes followed her signal and spotted it—a shallow hollow in the stone wall, half-concealed by a cluster of fallen boulders. With swift, silent steps, they filed into the depression, pressing themselves against the cool stone. From this vantage, they had a clear view back down the slope without exposing themselves.

Skarn slunk in beside Grashok, his ears flattened and muscles trembling with tension. The three women crouched around them, weapons ready but unmoving, their gazes trained down the path.

The tremors grew heavier.

And then the figure appeared—massive, lumbering, and slow, yet possessed of an unsettling grace. A hill giant. He stood easily three times the height of a hobgoblin, his flesh an uneven canvas of lumpy muscle and soft, sagging paunch. Coarse, wiry hair sprouted from his broad chest and thick forearms, curling in greasy tufts beneath his armpits and around the base of his neck. A shadow of a beard clung to his jaw in uneven patches, the rest of his face as unkempt as his body.

But it was the head that drew the eye—disproportionately large, bulbous, and misshapen, with massive, dilated pupils squinting against the daylight. His mouth hung slightly open, revealing jagged yellow teeth, and he dragged a tree trunk behind him like a walking stick, its bark worn smooth where his hand had gripped it repeatedly.

A flicker of amber light appeared in Grashok’s vision as he focused on the creature. Hovering just above the giant’s brow, glowing text resolved into clear, readable form.

Greg, Level 32 Hill Giant

Monster, Miniboss, Giant, Explicit

Grashok’s brow twitched. “Greg?” he mouthed silently, incredulous.

He watched as the giant trudged slowly across the slope, paying no heed to anything but his own lazy trajectory. Grashok held his breath, praying silently that their scent wouldn’t betray them, but Greg never paused. He lumbered along with ground-shaking steps, each one sending a dull tremor through the hillside.

Thankfully, he continued on in the opposite direction, eventually vanishing around a high bluff further down the mountain path.

Only when the last echo of his footsteps had faded into the wind did the party stir.

Grashok exhaled slowly and gave the signal to move. One by one, they clambered from their hiding place and back onto the trail.

Without a word, they resumed their climb.

By late morning the ascent grew harsher still, winding through steep switchbacks and narrow ridgelines that demanded careful footing. The sun was now near its zenith, casting sharp‑edged shadows across the mountain’s face. Wind howled in sudden gusts, tugging at cloaks and shrouding the air with fine dust.

Nearly an hour later, Snippa, who had taken point, suddenly raised her hand. The group froze instinctively. She crouched low, fingers brushing over a patch of disturbed earth at the edge of a rocky ledge. Her eyes narrowed, scanning with the practised focus of a seasoned scout.

"Here," she murmured.

Grashok stepped up behind her, his interest piqued. She pointed to the faint indentations in the rocky soil—a broad, rounded hoofprint with two crescent clefts at its base. Beside it, deep scrapes where something heavy had dragged or scuffed across the loose stones.

“They passed through here not long ago,” she said cautiously. “From what you told me, these could be Yzobu tracks. Maybe half a dozen. This one’s especially wide—perhaps a bull?” She glanced back at him, seeking confirmation.

Grashok’s heart surged with anticipation.

Snippa rose to her feet and led the way, carefully picking a path that let them draw closer without being seen. The party moved slowly, navigating the treacherous ground while scanning for signs—broken branches, clumps of coarse hair snagged on bark, patches of dislodged scree.

As they followed the trail higher, the terrain shifted once more. The thin alpine brush gave way to sharper, angular stone. The rocky slopes grew more exposed, the path less forgiving, with loose shale and jagged outcrops replacing the earlier mossy ground. Every step required caution, and the chill in the air was now tinged with the faint scent of snow.

Further along the climb, the wind shifted—and with it came a stench.

Nyxie recoiled first, clapping a hand to her face. "By the stars—what is that?"

Sylrith hissed through her teeth, face twisted in revulsion. "It smells like something died, then came back, and died again."

Snippa pulled a scarf up over her nose. "If this is what they’re like upwind, I’m not getting anywhere near one."

Even Skarn whimpered and shook his head, tail tucking low as he nudged Grashok’s leg uncertainly.

Grashok blinked at them in confusion. "What smell?"

Snippa turned on him with wide eyes. "You can’t smell that?"

He shrugged, utterly unaffected. "Hobgoblin noses. We’re immune to Yzobu musk. One of the many blessings of strength."

"It’s not a blessing," Nyxie grumbled, pulling out a small pouch of herbs and holding it beneath her nose. "It’s a curse."

Despite the complaints, they pressed on, the trail becoming more obvious the closer they came. The ground was churned and torn, stripped of vegetation in places where the heavy creatures had trampled everything in their wake.

Then, just beyond a crest, Snippa held up her hand again—this time to signal a halt. She dropped low and crawled forward to peer over the edge.

Grashok joined her, and one by one the others crept up to see.

Below, nestled in a shallow basin between two ridges, was the herd.

Massive, shaggy beasts lumbered slowly between sparse trees and jutting rocks. Their coats were a mix of dark browns and greys, streaked with mud and tangled with debris. Their horns curled like sickles of obsidian, each unique in shape and length. Steam rose from their bodies, mingling with the afternoon mist. A few lay resting, others grazed lazily, tearing up entire shrubs with their enormous jaws.

There were six visible—five females and one bull, unmistakable for its bulk and the gnarled, thickened ridges of horn spiralling above its brow. It paced slowly, occasionally bellowing a low, thunderous note that echoed across the basin. There may have been more hidden just beyond the lip of the basin, obscured by the uneven terrain.

Grashok felt a chill of reverence run down his spine. They had found the herd. Instinctively, he flicked open the quest timer, his breath easing as the numbers confirmed they still had over four hours remaining—and seven hours of daylight to work with. Relief washed through him; there was ample time.

He narrowed his eyes and began calculating the approach. The creatures were magnificent, but the group had little time to marvel. Every movement, every shift of weight had to be precise—any mistake could send the herd into a stampede that would crush them beneath hooves as broad as shields.

The group backed away from the ridge, settling into a natural crevice in the rocks to plan. Grashok crouched low and began laying out the items Tilda had provided them. The reinforced hobble ropes were tightly coiled, each end capped with metal clasps for quick binding. The scent-masking tarps were folded neatly, treated with a pungent oil that overpowered most animal musk. He unwrapped the collapsible holding frame—light but strong, it unfolded like a cage without a roof, with iron rings at each corner and thick leather lashings to fasten it shut. Then came the salt-laced bait, dense and pungent, imbued with a sedative powder designed to knock out a Yzobu once ingested. Finally, he pulled out a set of small brass censers packed with calming incense, meant to dull the creatures’ aggressive instincts.

“Right,” he said. “We bait the edge of the basin and wait for one to approach. Once it takes the bait, we trigger the frame and get those ropes in place.”

Snippa, Sylrith, and Nyxie all nodded, though none looked especially eager. The smell still lingered thick in the air.

Slipping down the rocky incline with practised stealth, they took up concealed positions just beyond the basin’s fringe. Snippa, quick and quiet, crept forward and carefully placed the bait and frame beneath a scrubby pine. She signalled once, twice—done.

Now they waited.

The herd shifted slowly in the distance, the bull keeping a constant watch. After several agonising minutes, one of the smaller females ambled towards the bait, drawn by the scent. She lowered her head, sniffed—and began to chew.

Grashok clenched his fist, watching.

The beast stumbled slightly. It had worked. The bait was taking effect.

Grashok gave the hand signal.

Sylrith and Snippa sprang from cover, ropes in hand. Nyxie followed with the frame, unfolding it with deft speed.

But the moment the frame clanged into place, the Yzobu let out a guttural, blaring roar—not of pain, but of alarm. The sound shattered the calm like a war horn.

The rest of the herd reacted instantly.

The bull bellowed, hooves thundering across the basin. The other females scattered. The one under the frame thrashed violently, snapping the ropes before they were fully secured. The frame held for a breath—then crumpled as the beast surged forward, its sedated mind overridden by instinct and panic.

“Fall back!” Grashok roared.

They retreated fast, slipping into the rocks as the stampeding herd churned the clearing. Skarn barked sharply, covering their exit.

The baited Yzobu crashed into a tree, spun, and staggered, but instead of collapsing, it righted itself unsteadily and bleated hoarsely. With dazed, limping steps, it rejoined the others, who were already retreating across the basin and vanishing into the high ravines.

The damage was done. The herd had shifted position, now deeper into the rugged terrain and further from reach.

Grashok cursed under his breath. They had gone too soon, before the bait had sunk in.

“Next time,” he growled. “We bring more bait.” But for now, they had no choice but to adapt. Hesitation was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

They pushed on.

By early afternoon the sun angled westward as the group traced the displaced herd, weaving through jagged ridges. The failed attempt had left a bitter tang in Grashok’s mouth, but he pushed the frustration aside. There was still time—although it may be tight. And he would not return empty‑handed.

Sylrith rubbed a long scratch on her arm where one of the ropes had lashed out during the scuffle. “We got close,” she muttered, “but not close enough.”

“They’ll bed down again,” Snippa said, eyes on the trail. “They’re creatures of habit, even when spooked. If they find another hollow, they’ll settle. We just need to follow carefully.”

Grashok nodded. “We don’t let them rest long.”

The group moved through the stony slopes, skirting outcroppings and winding through defiles of ancient, crumbling stone. Their pace was careful now, each step measured, each breath shallow. Skarn padded beside Grashok, his muzzle twitching with the lingering scent of musk.

As predicted, Snippa caught new signs barely half an hour later—fresh droppings, scuffed stone, a branch snapped too cleanly to be old. The trail led them to a split in the mountain: a narrow ravine flanked by high, broken cliffs. A thin stream trickled through the centre, catching slivers of afternoon sun. Beyond it, a gentle bowl of rock and brush cradled the returning herd.

There they were again—eight now, confirming Grashok’s suspicion that more had been hidden earlier. The bull stood vigilant at the far end, his horns scraping a tree trunk. The others grazed or rested. The baited female lay slumped near a log, still sluggish from the sedative but alert enough to follow.

The group took cover behind a jagged spine of basalt, huddling close as Grashok gauged their position. A quick glance at the quest timer steadied him further—two and a half hours still remained, enough to plan their strike without rushing.

“We do it differently this time,” he said. “Sylrith, you and Snippa will circle left. Nyxie, you follow me on the right. We flank from both sides, surround one near the edge, and use the rocks to channel it. The tarps go over its eyes—fast. Then we use the incense and bait together. Enough to confuse it before it can bolt.”

Sylrith adjusted her boots, the high heels clicking softly on the stone. “And if it charges?”

Grashok smiled grimly. “Don’t let it.”

Positions were taken. Sylrith and Snippa slid into shadow, moving like shades along the ridge. Nyxie unrolled the tarp and set the brass censers in her belt. Grashok kept the bait pouch ready.

The selected target was a juvenile male—not yet full-grown, but old enough to be independent. He grazed on the edge of the herd, occasionally flicking his ears. As they neared, he raised his head, nostrils flaring.

Grashok gave the nod.

Sylrith broke cover first, tossing her tarp high. It landed over the beast’s head, disorienting it as she dashed forward, ropes in hand. Snippa followed, incense smouldering. Nyxie appeared from the opposite angle, bait in one hand, binding rope in the other.

Grashok surged last, moving fast.

The Yzobu let out a startled bray and bucked wildly. The tarp slipped, revealing one eye—wild and rolling.

Then it charged.

Straight at Sylrith.

She turned to dodge, but her boot caught in a crack between two stones. She stumbled, off-balance.

The Yzobu bore down, massive hooves kicking up stone.

Grashok roared and leapt, shoulder-first, into Sylrith’s side. They tumbled together behind a boulder as the beast hurtled past, brushing the hem of her skirt with a gust of hot breath.

Skarn lunged, snapping at the creature’s flank to divert it. Snippa loosed an arrow that glanced off its shoulder, enough to make it veer away.

The juvenile bellowed and ran, crashing through the scrub and into the herd. They bolted again, the bull bellowing, leading them out of the bowl and into the high cliffs beyond.

Dust and silence settled in their wake.

Sylrith groaned beneath Grashok. “You saved my life.”

“You’re light on your feet,” he muttered, helping her up. “But those boots will be the death of you.”

She gave a rueful smile. “A girl has to look good.”

Nyxie retrieved the tarp. “So much for that one.”

Grashok stood, eyes fixed on the now-empty ravine. He wasn’t angry, only more determined.

“They’re getting further,” Snippa said.

“Then we climb faster,” Grashok replied.

They regrouped and turned toward the narrowing trail ahead, chasing the fading echoes of the herd once more.