Blood in the Rain

The steady drum of rain against the canvas did little to lull Grashok into a deep sleep, but exhaustion had finally claimed him after hours of vigilance. The damp cold of the night wrapped around him like a second skin, but for once, his mind had let go of its burdens.

Then the cries shattered the silence.

He woke with a start, instincts kicking in before his thoughts could catch up. He blinked, muscles tensed, reaching for Soulrend as his senses came alive. Beside him, Sylrith lay unmoving, her breath slow and steady. His mind sharpened. If she was still asleep, that meant the disturbance was happening on Nyxie’s watch.

Grashok rose swiftly, mud squelching beneath his boots as he stepped out of his tent. The cries grew louder—raw, stricken with grief. Not a battle cry. Something worse.

He followed the sound through the rain-slicked camp, weaving between shadowed figures roused by the noise. Goblins muttered, shifting uncertainly as they peered out from their shelters, while livestock stomped and huffed nervously, disturbed by the commotion.

Then he saw them.

Grashok’s breath came hard and fast as he took in the scene before him. The father lay sprawled in the mud, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic jerks. Blood—far too much blood—poured from the deep wound in his side, soaking into his tunic and the rain-slick earth beneath him. His wife knelt beside him, wailing, her hands pressed uselessly against the gaping injury. Her ragged priestess robes were drenched with rain—and now with blood. The boy—the one who had reminded Grashok of Rukk—stood frozen, his small hands clenched into fists, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes.

The hedge-mage stood with his hands raised, his expression shifting between fear and defiance. His dagger, still slick with crimson, clattered into the mud at his feet. Two goblin guards jabbed their spears towards him, their knuckles white on their grips.

"It wasn't me!" the hedge-mage protested, voice shrill with desperation. "He attacked me first! I— I was only defending myself!"

Grashok’s gaze snapped to Nyxie. She stood rigid, arcane energy crackling at her fingertips, the air around her humming with barely-contained magic. The spell she held was powerful—far beyond what she would waste on a simple execution. The hedge-mage knew it too; his eyes flicked between her and Grashok, knowing his fate rested on a blade’s edge.

Grashok growled low in his throat. "Defending yourself?" He jerked his head toward the dying man. "That doesn’t look like defence. That looks like a gutting."

The hedge-mage licked his lips. "You don’t understand! He—"

Grashok didn’t care to hear more. Not now.

A weak, gasping sound pulled his attention back to the father. The man’s body convulsed slightly, his head lolling, his eyes rolling back. His wife’s frantic sobs grew more desperate, and the boy—gods, the boy—was shaking, barely able to breathe through his terror.

Grashok clenched his jaw, his mind racing. A healing potion wouldn't be enough. He'd seen wounds like this before—saw them too often in battle. The blade had gone deep, severing something vital. Even if they forced the liquid down his throat, it wouldn’t fix what had been torn inside. He was slipping away, and fast.

Grashok turned wildly, searching for something—anything—that could change this. And then he saw her.

One of the bound prisoners. A human woman, her clothes ragged, her wrists still tied, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp, focused, locked onto him. She was jerking her head, making urgent sounds through the gag, desperate to catch his attention.

Grashok strode over and grabbed one of his nearby goblins. "Take off her gag. If she so much as mutters a spell, put a blade in her throat."

The goblin hesitated only a moment before slicing through the damp cloth. The woman gasped as it came free, working her jaw, swallowing hard.

"Well?" Grashok demanded.

She coughed, then forced herself to speak, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"I—I can save him."

The words hit like a hammer.

Grashok stared at her. So did everyone else. The wife choked back a sob, eyes darting between them. Even Nyxie lowered her hand slightly, the raw energy around her flickering as she processed what had just been said.

The human woman took another ragged breath, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the stiffness of captivity. "But you have to untie me."

Grashok's grip on Soulrend tightened. He didn't trust her. He didn’t trust any of them. And yet…

He looked back at the boy. The child was still staring at him, eyes filled with silent, desperate hope.

Grashok exhaled through his nose, then made his decision.

"Cut her loose."

The freed mage staggered slightly as the ropes fell away, the circulation rushing back into her limbs. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, rubbing at her raw, chafed wrists, then rolled her shoulders, wincing as stiff, underused muscles protested.

Now that she was free, Grashok could finally take a proper look at her.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the moon's weak light, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were a vibrant shade of emerald, stark against the starkness of her surroundings. Her hair was a mess of red, the strands sticking to her face and neck, plastered by the rain. Her figure was not unlike Nyxie's—petite, but with a certain strength to it.

Her clothing was simple, yet surprisingly clean despite the mud and grime of the camp. A tunic of thick wool in a deep, earthy brown clung to her small, firm breasts, the fabric woven tightly to keep out the chill. The tunic ended at her waist, revealing a strip of bare, toned midriff, and a loose, well-worn skirt of the same material fell to her ankles. Her feet were bound in sturdy, mud-caked boots that had seen better days. The cut of her clothing was practical, designed for movement and comfort rather than to accentuate her form. But even in the dampness and the shadows, it was clear she was a woman of some appeal, with a slim waist and a generous, rounded bottom that swayed as she walked.

Without wasting another moment, she knelt beside the dying man.

His wife flinched at her approach, clutching his limp hand as though afraid the mage might take what little life he had left. The boy, wide-eyed, stepped closer, hovering just within reach but unsure whether to hope or despair.

The mage ignored them. She pressed a hand firmly to the man’s wound, her fingers quickly slick with blood. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly, steadying herself, then began to chant.

Golden light flared around her fingers, seeping into the wound like liquid sunlight. The air thickened with something ancient, something potent. The man gasped as his body convulsed under her touch, his limbs twitching violently as the magic took hold. His wife sobbed his name, but he was beyond responding, trapped in the throes of whatever was happening to him.

Nyxie took an involuntary step closer, her mouth slightly open in shock. "That’s not sorcery," she murmured to Grashok. Her voice, usually so sharp, was edged with something dangerously close to awe. "She’s a cleric."

Grashok grunted, watching the scene unfold. He had seen healers work before—shamans, herbalists, those who stitched wounds and used crude magic to seal flesh. But this? This was something else entirely. This was raw, divine energy in its purest form.

He turned away from the spectacle and swept his gaze across those still standing, the ones frozen in stunned silence.

"Someone tell me what in the abyss happened here," he growled.

No one answered at first. The goblin guards shifted uncomfortably, their spears still trained on the hedge-mage. Nyxie, her spell still faintly glowing in her hands, scowled at the silence and it was she who finally spoke up.

"We found him like this," she said, tilting her head toward the bleeding body of the would-be assassin. "The hedge-mage was standing over him, knife in hand."

"I didn’t kill him," the hedge-mage snapped, his voice hoarse and desperate. "He tried to kill me!"

Grashok’s eyes narrowed. "Start talking. Now."

The hedge-mage hesitated, but the look on Grashok’s face left no room for argument.

"I—I was trying to get away," he stammered, licking his lips nervously. "With the storm, the chaos, I thought it was my chance. I managed to slip my bindings, found a blade, and was making for the trees." His breath hitched slightly, his eyes darting to the woman who was still frantically working to save the dying man. "Then—then he came out of nowhere. The husband. He had a knife. He lunged at me."

"Why?" Grashok’s voice was flat, dangerous.

The hedge-mage paled slightly. "I don’t know!"

"Liar," Nyxie hissed.

"I swear!" His eyes darted between them, wild and panicked. "I was just trying to leave! He came for me, I defended myself, and—" He gestured desperately to the injured man. "And this happened!"

Something was off.

Grashok turned his gaze toward the wife, whose shoulders were trembling as she clung to her son. She refused to look up, her knuckles white as they gripped her husband’s limp arm.

"That’s not the whole story," Grashok said slowly, watching her reaction. "Is it?"

The woman stiffened.

A long silence followed.

Then, in a whisper barely audible over the rain, she said:

"He took everything from us."

Grashok stared at her. "Explain."

The wife took a shuddering breath. "We were travelling," she whispered. "Looking for a new life after our village was burned. We didn’t know where we were going, just that we had to leave." Her eyes searched the darkness, lost in a memory she'd no doubt rather forget. "We stopped at an inn for the night. He was there—watching me. He said things, things no man should say to a woman. I refused him, and he was angry. He said he’d have his way with me one way or another. I didn’t know it, but he was watching everybody.

Her voice grew softer, the words coming with painful slowness, like they’d been buried for so long she wasn’t sure how to give them voice.

When we left the next morning, the brigands were waiting. He was with them. One of the leaders. They took us, brought us to their camp.

The words hung in the air, heavy and thick with the weight of her suffering as she gathered her strength to continue the story.

"The first night in the brigand camp," she said, her voice hollow, "the mage took me to his tent. He had a cruel smile on his face, one that said he enjoyed the power he had over me." She paused, swallowed hard, and then went on, "He told me that if I didn’t give in to him, he would sell my son and my husband to the slavers. And so, I had no choice."

Her eyes searched Grashok’s face, looking for understanding, for some spark of anger, anything to tell her she wasn’t alone in her pain. "He hurt me," she whispered. "Again and again, he hurt me, and he liked it. He liked the power he had over me, the control."

The hedge-mage's eyes grew wide with horror. "No," he breathed, shaking his head. "It wasn’t like that, I—"

Suddenly the anger boiled up, she turned on the mage and screamed at him, “Every night, you would take me to your tent. You'd tie me down, you’d spread my legs, and you’d tell me how much you enjoyed my pain as you raped and beat me!"

The hedge-mage was shaking now, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and denial. "It wasn’t like that!" he pleaded, but his voice lacked conviction.

The cleric’s chant grew louder, her eyes squeezed shut, the golden light pulsing more brightly around her hand. The father's body spasmed again, and a gush of blood erupted from the wound, but she remained focused, her healing magic pushing against the brink of what seemed possible.

The wife looked down at her husband, her eyes swimming with tears that blurred the world around her. "When you and your...kind came," she spoke to Grashok, her voice trembling, the anger subsiding, "My husband, Janus, saw him escaping… saw his chance. The anger was too much."

She finally turned to look at the hedge-mage, her face twisting with something too raw to be just grief. "He destroyed us."

The hedge-mage took a step back. "That’s—that’s not true—that’s not how it happened"

"You know it is," she whispered.

The boy—the one who had reminded Grashok of Rukk—was still staring at him. His small hands were trembling.

Grashok looked down at him, then back at the hedge-mage.

Something inside him snapped.

He turned to the goblins holding spears at the hedge-mage’s throat.

"Take him," he ordered, his voice colder than the rain. "We’ll deal with him back in the dungeon."

The hedge-mage’s eyes went wide. "No, wait—WAIT—"

A sharp jab of a spear silenced him.

The goblins dragged him away, his protests drowned out by the rainfall.

Grashok exhaled, turning his attention back to the scene before him.

The cleric’s chant had grown more urgent, her voice trembling with strain as golden light pulsed around her hand, rising and falling in rhythm with Janus’s faltering heartbeat. His eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment, locking onto his wife before slipping shut again.

The goblin warriors stood rigid, watching with wary fascination. The power she wielded was unlike anything they had seen from Nyxie—divine and raw, unbound by the erratic, whispering chaos of the Wild.

Yet even as the light brightened, Janus’s breath grew weaker, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps.

Grashok’s eyes snapped to the cleric. "What can we do?"

Her eyes remained closed, her face a mask of concentration. "Pray," she murmured. "Pray to whatever gods you believe in."

And so, in that makeshift camp of mud and fear, Grashok the Hobgoblin, Nyxie the Goblin Hedge-witch, and even the trembling goblin and xvart soldiers, offered silent pleas to whatever deities they held dear.

The rain pattered against the canvas of the tents, a soft, persistent rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of their hearts as they waited for the cleric to perform her miracle—or for the man to take his last breath.

As Janus's body stilled, the cleric's chant faded to a whisper, and she pulled her hand away. The light winked out, leaving a crimson handprint on his skin. She leaned back on her heels, panting, and looked up at Grashok.

"He'll live," she murmured, her voice hoarse with the effort. "But he needs rest. He's lost a lot of blood."

Grashok nodded curtly. "See to it," he instructed two of his nearest goblin soldiers. They moved swiftly, their expressions a mix of relief and concern as they carefully picked up the unconscious father, handling him with a gentleness that seemed at odds with their usual rough demeanour. They cradled him as they would a child, moving with care not to disturb his fragile state any further.

The wife, her eyes still brimming with tears, remained kneeling on the ground, unsure of what to do with herself. Her hands were still shaking, her knuckles white from the grip she had had on Janus's hand, and the rain continued to pound down around her. The mud stuck to her skirt, the fabric clinging to her legs. She looked small, almost lost amidst the sea of goblins.

Her eyes met Grashok's, and in them he saw the unspoken plea. The need to be with her husband was written in every line of her body. She didn't have to say a word; the desperation was clear.

Grashok nodded, the smallest of gestures, but one filled with understanding. "You can go with him," he said gently, his voice carrying through the rain with quiet warmth.

The wife's eyes widened, hope sparking in the emerald depths. She didn’t move at first, as if she didn’t dare believe she’d heard correctly. Then, slowly, she got to her feet, her legs wobbly from the ordeal. The boy looked up at her, the first hint of a smile playing on his lips, and together they followed the goblins carrying Janus. The mud sucked at their boots, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes never left her husband’s still form, willing him to stay with them, to fight through the pain and the blood loss.

As the goblins carried Janus away, the wife and son trailing behind with silent prayers on their lips, the rain continued to fall, washing away the blood but not the weight of what had transpired. And amidst the chaos, still kneeling in the mud, the cleric struggled to catch her breath, the toll of her magic evident in the tremble of her hands.

The cleric’s breath came in ragged gasps as she knelt in the mud, exhaustion weighing heavily on her small frame. The aftershocks of her healing magic still tingled in her fingers, leaving her hands shaking. She clenched them into fists, as if to steady herself, before looking up at Grashok and Nyxie.

"What are we to do with her?" Grashok rumbled, his voice carrying through the rain. He wasn’t looking at the woman—he was watching Nyxie, waiting for her judgment. But he had spoken loud enough for the cleric to hear.

Nyxie’s eyes narrowed. “We have ex-slaves in our dungeon. They will not take kindly to slavers.” Her tone was as sharp as the crack of lightning overhead.

At that, the cleric flinched. "Slaver?" she repeated, her voice hoarse from disuse and fatigue. She let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You think I—?” She exhaled hard, biting back whatever angry retort had risen to her lips. Her emerald eyes flicked between them, gauging, calculating, deciding whether she had any chance at convincing them.

Finally, she spoke. “I didn’t serve Raggar willingly. And I certainly didn’t believe in what he did.”

Grashok crossed his arms but said nothing, letting her continue.

She took a slow breath, steeling herself. “I was a healer before all of this—before the Butcher.” The way she spat the name made it clear she had no love for the man. “I served the villages along the roads, offering blessings, tending wounds, helping where I could. That was my life. Until Raggar’s men found me."

Her fingers dug into the wet earth as she spoke, her expression darkening. “They weren’t just slavers. They were raiders, killers. They attacked a village I was staying in. I tried to run—I wasn’t a fighter—but one of his lieutenants saw me tending to the wounded and decided I was ‘useful.’” She scoffed. “So they took me. Said I could heal their men or die alongside the rest of the village.”

Her gaze hardened, and she looked up at them with a fierce defiance, daring them to challenge her story. "I did what I had to do to survive. I healed them. I travelled with them. But I never took up arms for them. I never raised a whip. And I never, never aided in taking slaves.”

She shook her head, her sodden red hair sticking to her face. “Raggar was a monster. I hated him. I hated everything he stood for. But the moment I tried to run, I’d be dead. And I knew that. So I stayed. I healed who they told me to heal, and I prayed every night that someone would put a sword through that bastard’s black heart.”

She let out a short, breathless laugh, her exhaustion giving it a hollow edge. “And then you did.”

Grashok’s eyes remained unreadable, though he did not interrupt.

She swallowed hard, her voice quieter now. “I know what I look like to you. A brigand. A slaver. But I didn’t choose this life.” She took a breath and straightened her spine, even though she still knelt in the mud. “And now that Raggar’s dead, I won’t mourn him. I’ll swear that on any gods you like.”

She met Nyxie’s gaze. “I healed that man because it was the right thing to do. Not for a master, not for orders. Because that’s who I am."

The rain continued to drum against the earth, the only sound in the silence that followed. Then she tilted her head slightly, looking between them. "So, tell me—do you kill me here and now? Throw me in a cage? Or do you let me do what I was meant to do?”

Grashok and Nyxie exchanged glances.

The cleric held Grashok’s gaze from where she remained kneeling in the mud, her breath still uneven, her limbs shaking from exertion and exhaustion. Though defiant, there was no deceit in her eyes—only a weary sort of relief, as if a weight had been lifted with Raggar’s death.

Grashok exhaled heavily, shifting his stance as he considered her words. The rain had eased into a light drizzle, the rhythmic patter against the tents and trees filling the space between them. He could hear the goblins murmuring in the background, restless but waiting for his decision.

Finally, he spoke, his voice firm but not unkind. "Your story must be checked. If it is true, then you’re welcome to stay with us in the dungeon—as our healer. We have need of one." He let the words settle before adding, "If that is not what you want, then a life for a life. You saved the man, so you may leave freely."

The cleric blinked, surprise flickering across her pale face. She had expected suspicion, perhaps even another cage, but not freedom.

"In the meantime," Grashok continued, "you will remain under guard, within sight of my goblins. But you won’t be bound or gagged again. You’ve earned that much."

The woman nodded slowly, flexing her hands as she worked feeling back into her fingers. Then, without another word, she rose stiffly to her feet, mud clinging to her skirt, and made her way to the tent where the wounded man lay. She did not waste time. She did not plead further for her life. She simply went to do what she did best—heal.

Grashok exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he watched the red-haired cleric disappear into the tent where Janus was being tended to. Her gait was unsteady, her exhaustion evident, but she didn’t waver. The moment she stepped inside, the flickering glow of a lantern briefly silhouetted her slight frame before the flap closed behind her, leaving Grashok alone with Nyxie.

She stood beside him, arms crossed, her piercing eyes still fixed on the spot where the brigand hedge-mage had stood moments before. The goblin was rigid, her usual smirk absent, replaced by a tightness around her mouth that spoke of restrained frustration.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” she said finally, voice low but firm.

Grashok nodded. He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He agreed. The hedge-mage should never have slipped free, should never have had the opportunity to take another life. His gaze flicked to the goblins standing watch over the bound mage now, their grips on their spears tight, their posture stiff. There would be no more mistakes.

Nyxie’s eyes darkened. “Zarukk and I will watch him like a hawk.”

Grashok met her gaze and gave a single nod. “Good.”

Nothing more needed to be said. They stood there, side by side, watching as the first streaks of sunlight broke through the heavy grey clouds. The rain slowed, then stopped entirely, leaving only the scent of damp earth and wet wood in its wake. The fires of the camp smouldered, thin trails of smoke curling into the morning air.

It was a new day. And there was still much to be done.