Worth or Waste

As the echoes of Lady Ameline’s desperate screams faded into the shadowed corridors, Grashok’s cold, calculating gaze shifted back to the cage. The remaining women huddled together like frightened deer cornered by a predator, their grimy faces streaked with dirt and sweat. Though exhaustion and fear had dulled their once-vivid beauty, it was still apparent beneath the layers of filth—a hint perhaps of why they had been captured in the first place.

Grashok’s lips curled into a sneer, his gravelly voice breaking the suffocating silence. “What about you?” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “Do you have worth?”

The women exchanged uneasy glances, their trembling silence speaking louder than any words could. They shrank back, pressed tightly against the rusted bars of the cage, as if the steel could somehow protect them from his piercing gaze.

“Come now,” he continued, stepping closer, his hulking figure casting a shadow over them. “Will someone pay for you outside? Or,” he paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scanned their cowering forms, “do you have skills we can use?”

The suffocating silence stretched longer, punctuated only by the occasional drip of water from the stone ceiling. Grashok’s patience wore thin, and his irritation bled into his expression.

“Speak!” he barked suddenly, the force of his voice making the women flinch violently. “You either work for food or become food. Which is it to be?” His tone darkened further, his words deliberate and cruel. “Or... I can find other uses for you.”

The insinuation in his words was unmistakable, and it sent a shiver of terror through the group. One of the women, a petite figure with long chestnut-brown hair tangled into messy knots, that fell down to her pert breasts took a hesitant step forward. Though her legs trembled, her green eyes glimmered with a spark of defiance.

“I am Rutha Greenvale,” she said, her voice trembling but audible. “No one will pay much for us. Our families—those who survived the Ratkin attacks—are poor farmers. But...” She swallowed hard, squaring her shoulders as though summoning courage. “I am skilled in blacksmithing. My husband was the town blacksmith, and I worked alongside him. I know how to forge tools, weapons, and armour.”

Grashok’s gaze flicked to her hands, calloused and rough—a stark contrast to her delicate appearance. He gave a curt nod of approval but said nothing, waiting to see if the others would speak.

Another woman hesitated but eventually stepped forward, her honey-blonde hair falling in limp waves around her shoulders. Though slim, her frame carried a natural grace, and her Hazel eyes glistened with determination despite the grime marring her face. “I’m Maren Thistlebrook,” she stammered. “I know herbalism. I can make healing salves, potions, and—” her voice faltered as her cheeks flushed, “poisons, if needed.”

Her admission hung in the air for a moment before a sturdier woman stepped up. Her auburn hair was drawn back into a firm bun, and her warm brown eyes glimmered with a mixture of defiance and pragmatism. She had an ample figure, her broad shoulders hinting at a life of hard labour. Her immense breasts were threatening to spill out of the rags that held them and wobbled delightfully when she breathed.

"I'm Tilda Bramrose," she said with the beginnings of confidence. “I'm a farmer, I am, but I know ‘ow ter tend animals—goats, chickens, wotever yer got. I can keep 'em 'ealthy an' proper productive, no problem."

Ellyn Hayworth spoke next, her voice soft but steady. Her golden hair, though tangled and matted, seemed to shimmer faintly in the torchlight. She was willowy and fragile-looking, but there was strength behind her words. “I can weave and sew,” she said. “I can mend clothes, make blankets, or create traps and nets if you have the materials.”

Finally, a tall, raven-haired woman stepped forward, her icy blue eyes meeting Grashok’s without flinching. She had a lithe, athletic build that set her apart from the others, her long legs were revealed by the gaps in her shredded dress and her voice was calm and measured as she introduced herself. “I’m Fiora Caskwell. I was the village beekeeper. I can handle insects, harvest honey, and even use venom if that’s what you need. It’s dangerous work, but I know what I’m doing.”

Grashok regarded them in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The women exchanged nervous glances, their collective fear palpable in the air. When he finally spoke, his tone was firm but less cruel than before.

“If you work hard, you will not be harmed,” he said simply. “You’ll be fed, sheltered, and you might even earn the chance to return to your people when the time is right.”

The promise hung heavy in the air, offering a fragile thread of hope to the prisoners. One by one, they nodded, their faces etched with cautious acceptance. The alternatives were too grim to consider.

A sudden notification flickered before Grashok’s eyes, visible only to him:

Accept Allies into Dungeon?

[Confirm]

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he mentally tapped the glowing icon. The notification vanished, and he turned to the Goblin Elder standing nearby.

“Assign them roles,” Grashok ordered, his voice sharp and decisive. “Make them useful.”

The Elder nodded, already taking mental notes as Grashok began to issue specific instructions. “Rutha will go to the crafting room,” he said. “She’ll help forge weapons and tools for the tribe. Ellyn will join her, repairing clothes and weaving blankets for the dungeon’s warriors.”

“Maren will be assigned to herb gathering,” the Elder suggested. “We’ll give her two gatherers to assist her in finding what she needs.”

“Good,” Grashok grunted. “Tilda and Fiora will have two scouts each. Tilda will gather goats or any other livestock from the mountains for a proper beast pen. Fiora will establish a hive and start cultivating honey.”

The Elder’s nods grew more enthusiastic with each directive. Grashok’s mind worked quickly, calculating the resources and labour needed to accommodate the new plans.

“And all of you,” Grashok added, his voice dripping with finality as he glanced at the women, “will ensure my quarters are kept clean. Is that understood?”

They nodded silently, unwilling to voice any protest. As the Elder barked orders to a group of goblins to escort the women to their respective assignments, Grashok turned away and accessed his construction menu. The glowing interface hovered in front of him, and he began to plan the expansions that would ensure his dungeon grew stronger and more self-sufficient.

First, he selected a Forge, assigning it priority construction so Rutha could begin crafting immediately. Next, he added a Herbalist Chamber, a dedicated space where Maren could cultivate healing and defensive supplies. A Loomery was chosen for Ellyn to spin threads, repair garments, and fashion durable fabrics.

Grashok’s eyes gleamed as he scrolled further, selecting Beast Pens for Tilda’s livestock and an Apiary Vault for Fiora’s bees. These additions, though costly in time and resources, would vastly improve the dungeon’s resilience and sustainability.

Knowing the golems would move on to the next items in the queue once they finished the current batch, Grashok watched the women disappear into the winding halls. For the first time in hours, he let his shoulders ease. The dungeon hadn’t just gained extra hands—it had gained real usefulness, real strength. Maybe even a future.