Spoils of War

With the battle won, Snippa wasted no time barking orders to her Goblins. The clan scurried like industrious ants, resetting traps, rearming defences, and gathering the spoils from the fallen adventurers. Grashok stood back, watching as her authority shaped the chaos into order.

Her voice cut through the busy din. “You lazy! Get to work! Traps no fix selves!” she hollered at a pair of slack-jawed Goblins who snapped to attention and scrambled to follow her commands.

At the centre of the activity, the loot bags dropped by the slain intruders were piled high. Goblins eyed the hoard with greedy curiosity, but none dared touch it. This was a rule understood even by the simplest of them: the Chief’s review came first.

Grashok stepped forward, towering over the pile. The Goblins quieted, watching with a mix of awe and anticipation. With a deliberate motion, Grashok crouched and sifted through the bags, the contents clinking and clattering as he examined them.

Among the trinkets, coins, and gear, two items immediately caught his eye. The first was a chest piece of darkened steel, etched with faint, swirling runes that shimmered in the dim dungeon light. It was surprisingly light as he lifted it, the material cool to the touch.

[Shadowcarapace]

Armour, Rare

+3 Armour Class.

Grants the wearer Advantage on Stealth Checks in dim light or darkness.

Reduces incoming damage from ranged attacks by 10%.

“Perfect,” Grashok muttered, fastening the armour over his chest. It fit snugly, its protection and utility promising to serve him well.

The second item was a weapon: a Longsword with a jagged, blackened blade that seemed to hum faintly with restrained energy. Its handle was wrapped in leather, worn but solid, and the edges of the blade were razor-sharp.

[Soulrend]

Weapon, Rare

+2 to Attack Rolls and Damage.

On a critical hit, deals additional Necrotic Damage and restores half the damage dealt as health to the wielder.

Grashok gave it a testing swing, the blade slicing effortlessly through the air. He could feel its power hum against his palm—a weapon befitting a warlord.

“The rest,” he said, his voice carrying authority, “is for the clan.”

Cheers erupted as the Goblins swarmed the pile, snatching up bits and pieces for themselves or depositing the rest into the dungeon’s inventory stores.

As the Goblins worked, Grashok opened his notifications. A faint chime confirmed what he had suspected during the fight:

Minion Level Up – Goblin, Level 3.

The next notification caught his attention.

Upgrade Available: Crafter → Alchemist (50 Fame).

Grashok didn’t hesitate, selecting the option. The notification dissolved, and a moment later, one of the crafters began to glow faintly. The Goblin’s crooked figure straightened slightly, their hands twitching as newfound knowledge seemed to pour into their mind.

Grashok smirked. “An alchemist. Maybe now we can craft some health potions,” he mused.

His thoughts were interrupted when one of the Goblins let out a cackling laugh. Grashok turned to see the creature holding up a small, stoppered bottle filled with a heavy pink liquid.

“What you got there?” Grashok asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Pink goo!” the Goblin crowed, shaking the bottle gleefully.

Grashok’s breath caught as recognition struck. Pinkmoss.

The bottle was small but unmistakable. The liquid inside swirled lazily, almost hypnotically, its colour a vivid, alluring pink that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The substance had a syrupy thickness, clinging to the glass in slow, tantalising drips.

Memories of Pinkmoss’s reputation surfaced in Grashok’s mind.

It was a plant found in the deepest, most mystical forests, its tendrils like living coral, pulsing faintly as if alive. Its intoxicating fragrance was both a lure and a warning. Harvested and refined, it became a substance that nobles and degenerates alike sought out for its potent effects. An aphrodisiac so powerful that it could reduce even the most disciplined minds to a haze of blissful, reckless indulgence. But it was as dangerous as it was tempting, for prolonged use dulled the intellect, leaving addicts fumbling in a fog of lost memories and sluggish thoughts.

Grashok plucked the bottle from the Goblin’s hands, his expression dark. “This isn’t a toy,” he said sharply. “This is Pinkmoss.”

The Goblin’s grin faltered, replaced by a confused frown. “Pink... Moss?”

“Keep this locked away,” Grashok commanded, passing the bottle to Snippa, who handled it as if it were a venomous snake. “We don’t touch it unless we have to. Understand?”

Snippa nodded. “Aye, Chief. But... what for?”

Grashok’s gaze lingered on the swirling pink liquid. “We’ll figure that out later. For now, just keep it safe.”

With the spoils divided and the traps reset, Grashok retreated to his quarters. His new armour and weapon felt like a symbol of his rising power, and the knowledge that his forces were evolving filled him with a sense of satisfaction.

Yet the bottle of Pinkmoss lingered in his mind like a thorn. Its allure was undeniable, even to him, but so too was its danger.

“A weapon,” he murmured to himself. “Or a curse.”

Time would tell. For now, there were bigger battles to prepare for.

With the battle done, everyone returned to their daily work. The tools and weapons were crafted and more resources were gathered. The Dust Golems kept hammering away, and the new rooms were gradually completed — the central training chamber where the warriors could train, and the large Mess Hall where the clan could gather for their noisy feasts. Checking the resources, he added a storeroom and an armoury to the work queue for the Dust Golems.