What to do about Ingunde?

At this moment, Snippa and Sylrith walked quietly into the chamber, they moved gracefully, taking their seats beside the Elder below the throne. Grashok’s crimson eyes flicked up to meet Snippa’s, his gaze questioning but silent.

“Rukk is sleeping,” she murmured, her voice low but steady. “The midwife is watching over him.”

Grashok nodded, his gaze softening briefly before returning to its usual resolute sharpness. He shifted his attention outward, surveying the room.

The gathered residents of his dungeon had drifted in during his brief reprieve, forming a quiet, watchful assembly around the holographic map. Goblins, Xvarts and other denizens of his domain mingled in uneasy harmony, their eyes fixed on their warlord. As he scanned the crowd, his gaze caught on a tall, raven-haired woman standing near the edge of the group. Her lithe, athletic frame made her stand out even amongst the varied creatures, and her icy blue eyes seemed lost in some faraway thought.

“You used to live in Ingunde,” Grashok said, gesturing for her to step closer. “What can you tell me about the settlement?”

Fiora hesitated briefly, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before she stepped forward. Her posture was straight, her tone steady, though there was a hint of tension in her movements as she drew upon memories she had likely tried to bury.

“Ingunde…” she began, her voice trailing off for a moment as her icy blue eyes narrowed, as though focusing on a distant memory. “It’s been three months since I was last there. The Ratkin took me while I was tending my bees in the fields. A lot could’ve changed since then, but I can tell you what it was like before.”

She paused, a bitter smile flickering across her lips. “It wasn’t doing well, milord. Not at all. The Ratkin were bleeding it dry, raiding from the south. Taking livestock, food, even people—myself included. They never struck hard enough to draw the adventurer guilds’ attention, just enough to make the town weaker and weaker. Farmers had already begun abandoning their fields, too afraid of the Ratkin to work them alone.”

She exhaled sharply. “And the wall? It was a joke. The palisade was rotting through, with gaps big enough for a child to slip through. The old mayor—Lord Slakewell—was to blame. He siphoned the repair funds into pampering his fiancée—the same woman you now have in your dungeon. Silk dresses, golden baubles… her cunt mattered more to him than the lives he was meant to protect.” Her voice hardened. “Meanwhile, the palisade weakened, plank by plank.”

Fiora’s expression darkened. “Slakewell was still in charge when I was taken. From what Tilda told me, the Ratkin killed him during the raid that captured us. So I’ve no idea who’s running Ingunde now, or what state it’s in.”

She looked directly at Grashok. “But even before that, the town was falling apart. The people were terrified—mostly of the Ratkin, but there were whispers about your dungeon too. Some blamed you for their troubles, even without proof. It was easier than admitting they were being picked apart by vermin.”

She drew a slow breath. “The market was a sorry sight. A few stalls selling scraps—root vegetables, dried fish, maybe a bit of meat if they were lucky. I remember when the square was lively, full of fresh bread and roasted meats. Not any more.”

“And it wasn’t just the people who’d changed,” she went on. “The militia wasn’t always the mess it had become. They used to be solid—men and women who knew how to hold a line. There was still a core of them left when I was taken, but they’d been buried under feuds, petty rivalries, and mayors stuffing the ranks with their own loyal bullies. By the time I was dragged out of that town, half the militia were political appointees—enforcers put there to keep the mayor in power, not guard the walls. The real soldiers were stretched thin, and the rest were more likely to shake down a merchant than stand against anything that bit back.”

“The mayors were no better.” Fiora let out a dry laugh. “They’ve always been more worried about keeping their seat than protecting the people. I’d wager the new one is no different. That bounty against our dungeon — the one that sent those adventurers charging in here — that’ll be his doing. Paying them in Ingunde gold so he can parade it as proof he’s ‘taking action,’ something he can point to and say, ‘See? I’m dealing with the dungeon,’ never mind who gets hurt in the process.”

Her voice softened, her expression briefly troubled. “It wasn’t always like that. I remember when Ingunde was lively. Fields full of crops, the market bustling with fresh bread and honeyed cakes, people laughing without fear. But the Ratkin took that away, piece by piece. If the new mayor hasn’t stepped up—and I doubt they have—it’s probably worse now than when I was taken.”

Silence settled over the throne room as she finished. Grashok studied her carefully, his crimson eyes reflecting the firelight. The gathered denizens shifted uneasily, subdued by the weight of her account.

Fiora held his gaze, her posture steady despite the tension in her jaw.

Finally, Grashok leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his throne. His fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the dark stone as his piercing gaze swept the room.

“So,” he rumbled, his voice low and resonant, “Ingunde is rotting from the inside. The Ratkin gnaw at its bones, the people cower behind broken walls, and its leaders squabble over scraps and empty power.”

His eyes returned to Fiora. “And yet, they blame me. My dungeon. My people. Convenient, isn’t it?” His lips twisted into a faint sneer. “Blame the darkness in the hills, the monsters in the shadows. Easier than admitting their own failings.”

Fiora nodded slightly, her expression grim. “That’s the way it’s always been. Fear of the unknown keeps them from looking too closely at their own mistakes. They think you’re the villain because it’s easier than facing the truth.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the room, quiet but tense. Grashok silenced them with a single, sharp glance. He straightened, his voice hardening as he addressed the room at large.

“This is not just about Ingunde,” he said. “The humans on the surface have always seen us as the enemy. They’ve hunted us, stolen from us, tried to drive us into the dark. They look at us and see scavengers, beasts, threats to be stamped out.” His gaze hardened, but his tone remained controlled. “If that is the story they cling to, then we must be clever enough to work around it. Their fear blinds them — and blind fear can be turned aside, redirected, even used to hide our true intentions.”

He let the words settle, the room quieting under the weight of his intent.

Then he turned back to Fiora, and some of the steel in his posture eased. “You’ve given me clarity,” he said, his voice lower, steadier. “What you endured… what you’ve shared… it helps me see the shape of things far better than any rumour or scout’s report. Ingunde’s fate, its people, its leaders — you’ve shown me the truth of it. And that is no small thing.”

There was respect in his expression — unmistakable and earned.

“Your knowledge will guide our next steps,” he continued. “And for that, you have my thanks.”

Grashok turned back to the map, the faint green glow of the projection reflecting off his dark armour. “Ingunde…” he murmured, his voice low, thoughtful rather than confident. “They are divided — frightened, possibly leaderless, pulling in different directions. But division can become strength if someone gives them a common enemy.” His jaw tightened. “Push too hard, and they’ll forget their quarrels and stand together. Push too softly, and the Ratkin might claim the town before we ever make our move. The challenge is finding the weight that breaks them apart in the way we need… rather than binds them.”

The room was thick with tension as Grashok leaned forward once more, his eyes glinting in the eerie glow of the map. His voice was calm, deliberate, but carried a weight that commanded attention.

“So, what to do about Ingunde?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over the gathered figures. “I would welcome your thoughts.”

The Elder was the first to step forward, his wizened face creased in thought. “Milord,” he began, his voice steady despite its aged rasp, “Ingunde’s weakness may be an opportunity, but it is also a risk. If we push too hard, the surface dwellers may rally, uniting against a common threat. Better to chip away at their strength, as the Ratkin have done, quietly and methodically.”

Snippa nodded in agreement. “The Elder speaks wisely,” she said, her tone measured but firm. “Subtlety suits us better than charging in blind. We watch from the shadows. Humans talk loud when they think no one’s there. Hide near their roads, their fields, their markets — places where travellers shout their worries to the wind. From there, we hear plenty. Who’s angry, who’s scared, who’s fightin’ with who. Then we leave things where they’ll be found… a broken wagon wheel here, a ratkin weapon there. Little nudges. Humans see what they expect, and they start blamin’ each other soon enough.”

Grashok tilted his head slightly, considering their words, but before he could respond, Sylrith spoke up.

“Subtlety?” the gladiator scoffed, her sharp smile curling like smoke. “What has subtlety ever gained us but scraps? Ingunde is weak. Its walls are crumbling, its militia is a joke, and its people are frightened sheep. Why waste time whispering in the dark when we can take what we want by force? A swift, decisive strike could send a message—not just to Ingunde, but to all the surface dwellers.”

Her words were met with a ripple of murmurs, some approving, others hesitant. Grashok’s gaze narrowed as he looked at Sylrith, then back to the map, his claws tapping rhythmically against the arm of his throne.

“I understand the appeal of both approaches,” he said after a moment. “Subtlety gives us the advantage of time and preparation, but it carries the risk of delay and discovery. A direct assault, while potentially effective, could expose us to retaliation before we are ready to face it.”

The room fell silent as Grashok’s words hung in the air. The gathered denizens exchanged uneasy glances, their uncertainty reflected in their shifting postures.

It was then that a timid voice, barely more than a whisper, drifted in from the corridor outside. “I may be able to help.”

Grashok’s crimson eyes snapped towards the entrance, his expression sharp with curiosity and suspicion. “Who speaks?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

The heavy silence in the chamber was broken by the nervous voice of one of the goblins in attendance, his words spoken in a hesitant tone. “Big Boss,” he began, fidgeting under the weight of the attention suddenly turned his way. “I think... I think it came from the prisoners in the hall.”

Grashok turned towards the goblin, his expression a mix of curiosity and irritation. He studied the smaller creature for a moment before leaning forward on his throne. “Summon them,” he commanded, his deep voice resonating with authority.

The goblin nodded quickly, bowing slightly before scurrying towards the corridor, leaving the room in expectant silence. The tension hung thick in the air as Grashok’s gaze lingered on the doorway, his mind clearly weighing the significance of this unexpected development.