Through the Gates of Home

The morning arrived grey and damp, but with the rain finally behind them, the air carried a crispness that made everything feel fresher, lighter. Though exhaustion still clung to the group, there was an unspoken agreement—they would not linger.

Grashok roused his forces early, ensuring that all were fed and ready before the march resumed. The ground, though still soft, had begun to dry, making for far easier travel than the previous day's struggle through mud and rain.

Despite the quicker pace, the journey remained long and arduous. The oxen plodded steadily forward, their hooves squelching in the softened earth, dragging along carts heavy with plundered goods. The goblins kept a close eye on the more exotic creatures among their spoils, casting wary glances at the unfamiliar beasts. The squat Cave Bleaters, with mottled hides and luminous eyes, shuffled obediently, their short legs carrying them across the uneven ground with surprising agility. Their occasional honking calls echoed across the line of march, a cavernous sound ill‑suited to the open air. Others, like the reptilian Dust Walkers, occasionally tried to break away, leaping with unnatural grace before being corralled once more.

The captives remained under guard, walking in weary silence. The hedge-mage had been bound even more securely, his wrists lashed tightly behind his back, and a strip of cloth tied across his mouth to prevent any muttering of incantations. Zarukk and Nyxie flanked him at all times, their eyes sharp with warning.

The cleric, however, was given some freedom, though she never strayed far from the wounded man she had saved. Her steps were measured, her head held high. Whether out of defiance or simply an innate pride, Grashok could not tell, but he appreciated the lack of whining. He had seen too many humans beg, lie, and snivel for their lives. She did none of those things.

As the sun climbed higher, the forest gave way to the familiar rocky paths leading towards his dungeon. By mid-afternoon, the first goblins at the front of the column let out calls of recognition. Their home was in sight.

Relief settled over the returning party as they approached the entrance. Grashok let out a slow breath, scanning the ridges and cliffs that concealed their home from wandering eyes. Everything appeared untouched, undisturbed.

By the time they reached the main gates, a throng of goblins had gathered, watching curiously. A few had climbed up the rock faces for a better vantage point, peering down with wide eyes.

Tilda, the beastkeeper, was the first to rush forward. Her eyes widened as she took in the sheer number of animals—both familiar and strange. She let out a low whistle, hands on her hips.

"By the gods, what a mess you’ve brought me," she muttered, half in awe, half in exasperation.

Without hesitation, she began shouting orders, directing goblins to separate the livestock into groups. She moved with the confidence of someone in her element, already thinking ahead about how to accommodate the new arrivals. The oxen were taken first, their handlers leading them down to the lower pens. The Muskrams were herded with cautious nudges, their wooly backs rippling as they moved. The Dust Walkers, already skittish, were ushered carefully, while the goblins kept their spears at the ready in case they made another break for it.

Grashok watched the commotion for a moment before turning his gaze towards the main entrance. A group of goblins had emerged to greet them, but it was the elder who stood out amongst them, walking with slow, measured steps. He was flanked by nursemaids, their small charges peering around their skirts, eyes wide with curiosity.

And there, beside the elder, toddling uncertainly on short legs, was a tiny goblin child.

Grashok stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he simply stared, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.

Then, recognition struck him like a hammer to the chest.

Rukk.

A massive grin broke across Grashok’s face.

Without a second thought, he strode forward, pushing past the others, his boots kicking up dust as he closed the distance.

Rukk turned at the movement, blinking up at him with wide, bright eyes. A moment later, the child’s face split into a delighted, toothy grin.

Grashok didn’t slow. He reached down, scooping his son up into his arms, holding him close as warmth flooded through him.

Home. He was home.

Rukk giggled as Grashok lifted him, small fingers grabbing at the thick leather straps across his father’s chest. The child smelled of damp earth and warm furs, the scent of home, and for a brief moment, everything else faded. The exhaustion from the march, the weight of leadership, the knowledge of the danger that lurked beneath—none of it mattered.

Rukk patted at Grashok’s tusked face with clumsy hands, babbling excitedly in a way that was half-words, half nonsense. The elder, standing beside him, gave a knowing smile.

“He has been restless in yours and Snippa’s absence,” the old goblin said, his voice rough with age. “Wanted to see his father return with his own eyes.”

Grashok chuckled, shifting Rukk to his hip. The child had grown since he’d left. Still small, still delicate in the way all young were, but stronger, sturdier. When Grashok had last seen him, he had barely been able to crawl—now he could toddle on unsteady legs, determined to explore the world around him. His bright, intelligent eyes darted about, taking in everything with curious wonder.

But the moment of warmth could not last forever. The camp was still in motion, his warriors still returning, his prisoners still in need of processing. Duty called.

Grashok exhaled and turned to the elder. “Take him,” he said, passing Rukk into the old goblin’s arms. “I have work to do.”

Rukk whined in protest, reaching for his father again, but Grashok only ruffled his son’s hair. “Later, little one.”

The elder nodded in understanding, cradling the child as he stepped back towards the nursemaids. Rukk continued to reach for Grashok for a few moments longer before losing interest, now distracted by the elder’s long beard.

With that settled, Grashok refocused. His warriors were already moving, herding captives towards the lower tunnels while their looted goods were divided among the storage chambers. The work was efficient, routine. His goblins, despite their small stature and chaotic nature, knew how to move quickly when orders were given.

Nearby, Tilda was still issuing sharp commands, her patience wearing thin with the more stubborn beasts. A Dust Walker shrieked as it tried to make a break for the trees, only to be stopped short by a crude net thrown by one of the younger goblins. Tilda stomped over, her face red with frustration.

“If you let another one loose, I swear to the gods I’ll have you mucking out the latrines for a month,” she snapped at the goblin handler, who swallowed nervously before doubling his efforts.

Grashok smirked but left her to it.

Instead, he turned his attention to the prisoners. The hedge-mage was dragged towards the prison cells, still bound, still gagged. Zarukk shoved him forward roughly, earning a muffled grunt as the man stumbled over his own feet.

“I want double guards on him,” Grashok ordered. “And I want his bindings checked every few hours. No mistakes.”

“Zarukk nodded, his expression grim. ‘I’ll see t’ it meself.’”

Satisfied, Grashok’s gaze shifted to another prisoner—the cleric.

She stood apart from the others, her arms now free, though goblins still lingered nearby, ensuring she didn’t wander too far. She was watching the chaos of the return with a quiet, unreadable expression. Her red hair was still damp, stray strands clinging to her freckled face.

She caught Grashok’s gaze and tilted her chin up slightly. Not a challenge, but not deference either.

Nyxie approached then, shaking the rain from her cloak. “She’s been keeping an eye on the wounded man,” she murmured, referring to the husband the cleric had saved. “But she hasn’t stepped out of line. I don’t think she’s planning anything.”

Grashok grunted. “She’d be a fool to try.”

Nyxie smirked. “Even fools get ideas.”

He considered that, then nodded. “We’ll check her story soon. Until then, keep her within sight. No bindings, but if she steps one foot where she shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be watching,” Nyxie assured him.

With that settled, Grashok took another sweeping look at the entranceway. The fires were being relit, the cold and damp of the previous day already being driven away by the warmth of returning bodies. Goblins swapped stories of their bravery, exaggerated retellings already forming as they boasted about their triumphs.

For now, things were calm.

For now.

Grashok took a deep breath, his mind sharpening as he surveyed the semi-organised chaos around him. The sense of relief at being home quickly gave way to duty—there was work to do. His forces had grown, his dungeon had swelled, and with it came new responsibilities.

He began running through his mental list, prioritising what needed to be handled first, but his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a familiar, sharp voice calling from across the entrance.

"Big Boss!"

Grashok turned just in time to see Tilda wrestling with a particularly stubborn Cave Bleater, the creature's squat, rubbery body straining against her as it braced its clawed hooves against the stone. Tilda's auburn hair was tied back in a loose, practical knot, already damp with sweat from the effort of managing the influx of beasts.

“These 'ere pens ain’t near big 'nuff fer all this lot! If ye wanna keep 'em from fightin’ or tramplin' each other, we gotta get 'em expanded proper, and sooner 'stead o’ later!" she shouted, barely keeping hold of the thick rope looped around the beast’s head. "That’s if ye don’t want ‘em runnin’ loose through yer tunnels!"

Grashok gave her a firm nod of acknowledgment as she turned her attention back to the goblins helping her wrangle the new livestock. She was right—the pens had been more than adequate before, but with the sudden surge of creatures they were going to be straining at capacity.

Without hesitation, he opened his dungeon construction menu and set the Beast Pens to upgrade to Level 2, marking it as a high priority. The small, industrious Earth Elementals that maintained and expanded his dungeon would get to work immediately, carving out new space and reinforcing the stonework.

Satisfied, he turned his attention to the Entrance Hall, selecting it for an expansion to Level 2 as well. More space was needed—not just for storage, but to better house his growing force. The dungeon he had once built for himself and Skarn alone was no longer sufficient. His home was evolving, and he needed to keep up.

Looking up from the interface, he called the Elder and Nyxie over.

The Elder handed Rukk off to one of the nursemaids, giving the child a gentle pat on the head before making his way towards Grashok. Nyxie followed a step behind, her keen eyes flicking between Grashok and the growing commotion of goblins exchanging stories of the raid.

Once they were gathered, Grashok’s expression darkened. He spoke evenly, but his words carried weight.

"On the way back, something happened." He glanced at Nyxie, who nodded and crossed her arms, letting him continue. "One of the captives—one of the freed humans—was nearly murdered in the night. It was the Hedge Mage. He tried to escape, and in the struggle, the man—his name is Janus—was stabbed and left to die."

The Elder's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing yet. Grashok continued.

"He would have died if not for someone unexpected—the Brigand Cleric. She healed him, even when she didn't have to. She had no reason to save a man who was once her captive. She did it anyway."

Nyxie added, her voice edged with scepticism, "She claims she had no choice in serving with the brigands. Says she was only their healer."

The Elder's brow furrowed. "And you want to know if she's telling the truth?"

Grashok nodded. "I do. I want you to lead an investigation—speak to the other freed captives, cross-check her story. If she was truly a prisoner of circumstance, then she has a choice to make. But if she’s lying..." His voice hardened slightly. "Then we deal with her accordingly."

The Elder was silent for a moment before nodding. "I'll see to it, Big Boss."

Grashok exhaled, feeling a fraction of the weight on his shoulders lessen. There was much more to do, but this was a step in the right direction.

Grashok’s gaze swept over the freed slaves, studying them with a thoughtful expression. They were a ragged collection of men and women, their threadbare clothing little more than rags, their faces caught between exhaustion and uncertain hope. They huddled close together, instinctively forming a loose group, their eyes darting around at the chaotic scene before them.

He tried to imagine what this must look like from their perspective.

To them, this must have felt like a waking fever dream—a chaotic gathering of races they had likely been raised to fear. Goblins and Xvarts moved in numbers, their small, wiry forms darting about with purpose, while a single Troll loomed in the distance, its hulking frame towering over the others. Nearby, a Dark Elf moved with silent grace, her sharp features and dark attire a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings, and a lone Gnoll prowled the edges of the hall, its predatory gaze scanning the area. These were creatures that had surely been painted as monsters in childhood tales—beasts that lurked in the shadows, thirsting for human flesh. Yet here they were, not a mindless horde, but an organised force, laughing, talking, and working together in a way that defied every expectation.

Some of the freed captives watched with cautious curiosity. Others clutched at their arms, still overwhelmed.

Grashok was just considering how best to address them when he felt a soft touch against his arm.

Slender fingers brushed over his bicep, followed by the warmth of a delicate form pressing lightly against his side. Before he could react, a pair of soft lips pressed against his cheek in a familiar gesture.

“Welcome home, Big Boss,” came the gentle murmur. “You were missed.”

Grashok chuckled, turning his head to look down at Maren—a strikingly beautiful human woman with golden hair cascading past her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes gleamed with warmth, her full lips curled into a soft smile. She stood on tiptoe to reach him, her frame smaller than his but no longer as fragile as when they had first met.

Laughing, he responded, “Good to see you too, Maren.”

His sharp gaze flicked over her, taking in the subtle changes since he had last seen her. Her body had grown stronger, lean muscles now more defined beneath her simple but well-fitted clothing. She had always been graceful, but now there was a steadiness to her posture that spoke of discipline.

“Still working out in the training area, I see?” he observed.

Maren’s smile turned demure, but there was pride in her posture.

“It suits you,” Grashok added with an approving nod.

Before she could reply, another familiar figure approached.

Ellyn, the weaver—their maker of clothes.

She was a human woman of delicate elegance, her golden hair catching the torchlight like threads of sunlight. Though willowy in build, there was quiet strength in her bearing, a self‑assurance that had grown since her arrival. No longer hesitant or deferential, she walked with composed grace, every step assured.

Her gown, a masterpiece of her own craft, shimmered like liquid gold, embroidered with silver and ivory that marked her skill. It hugged her slender frame, the hem stopping just above her knees, flowing lightly with each step. Dark leather boots completed the look, polished and precise, adding to her poised stature.

As she joined them, she met his gaze without hesitation. Once she had stood before him uncertain, poise masking doubt. But not now.

Grashok studied her, recognising how much she had changed. She had grown—not just in skill, but in the quiet strength that now radiated from her.

She glanced between Grashok and Maren before nodding in greeting.

Grashok crossed his arms, addressing them both.

“There’ll be more humans living here now,” he said.

Maren and Ellyn exchanged a brief glance. They had both adjusted to life in the dungeon, but a fresh influx of humans—many of whom had likely never lived alongside non-humans—would be a challenge.

Ellyn pursed her lips, thoughtful. “That means we’ll need more living quarters. The space we have now barely houses those of us who already live here.”

Maren nodded in agreement. “And they’re scared, Grashok. You can see it in their faces. They’ve just come from captivity, and now they’re in a place that, to them, looks like a monster’s den. We need to make sure they feel safe—like they belong here.”

Grashok exhaled through his nose. They were both right. The newcomers weren’t prisoners, but fear could turn them into one if they felt like they had no control over their situation.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

Ellyn folded her arms, thinking. “They need a space of their own. Somewhere they can settle properly. Even if they do end up living among the others later, they need time to adjust.”

Maren added, “Something away from the main tunnels, at least at first. If they feel crammed in with goblins and gnolls right away, they’ll panic.”

Grashok nodded, their words making sense. He opened his Dungeon Construction Menu and scrolled through the options.

After a moment, he found it:

Human Settling - A place where humans have settled and made a home.

Selecting it, he confirmed the expansion.

A new area would soon be carved into the stone—a separate space where the freed captives could settle, adjust, and find their place without fear.

Grashok turned his gaze back to Ellyn, who it was clear had been waiting for him to finish before she spoke.

Ellyn folded her arms, her keen eyes sweeping over the ragged-looking humans. "They need clothing," she said simply. "I have some spare garments we can give them."

She glanced at Grashok before continuing, her voice calm but firm. "And food. Water. They've been through enough—if they’re to settle here, they need to be treated properly."

Grashok nodded, his gaze shifting across the entranceway. On the far side, he spotted Rutha and Fiora working alongside the goblins, guiding the weary oxen as they were unhitched from their loads. The two women moved with purpose, their sleeves rolled up, dirt smeared on their hands from the labour, but they worked without complaint.

Turning back to Ellyn and Maren, he gestured toward them. "Go get Rutha and Fiora. The four of you will help these new arrivals settle in—clothes, food, water, whatever they need."

He paused, then added, “One of them has some experience in a forge—Rutha will know what to do with him. And there’s a young woman who knows a little about herbs. Maren, she may be someone you can guide.”

Ellyn inclined her head in acknowledgment, while Maren flashed him a quick smile before the two turned to set off. However, they were halted when Grashok continued, “But what they will really need is justice. Have them decide amongst themselves the fate of the Brigand magic users and the other brigand females we've brought back. Will they be offered the chance to serve with us, or will they be punished for the sins they've committed against those under their power? This should be decided on an individual basis, so no one can claim we were unjust.”

They both nodded, their brows furrowed with the weight of the responsibility. As they crossed the entranceway, Grashok could already hear them murmuring between themselves, deep in discussion over the duty laid upon them.

With immediate matters delegated and nothing pressing demanding his attention, Grashok became acutely aware of the hollow ache in his stomach. The long march and the chaotic return had left him drained, and the thought of a hot meal was suddenly impossible to ignore.

His gaze shifted to the goblin nursemaids, watchful as ever over the younglings. Nestled in the crook of one nursemaid’s arm sat Rukk—his son.

Grashok's expression softened as he stepped forward and held out his arms. "Come here, little warrior."

The nursemaid hesitated only briefly before carefully passing the child to him. Rukk let out a delighted giggle as he was lifted, his small fingers grabbing at the rough fabric of Grashok’s tunic. Despite the exhaustion that still lingered in his bones, Grashok felt a deep sense of contentment as he held his son close.

"I’m getting food," he said to the nursemaids. "You can follow, but give us a little space."

They exchanged glances, then nodded, stepping back just enough to allow him a sense of privacy while still remaining close should he be called away.

With Rukk nestled securely in his arm, Grashok made his way toward the mess hall, the familiar scents of roasted meats and earthy stews growing stronger as he neared. Inside, the atmosphere was lively—goblins, Xvarts, and a handful of others sharing meals, voices rising in chatter as they recounted the events of the last few days. But as Grashok entered, a few heads turned, nodding respectfully before returning to their meals.

Finding a seat at one of the long wooden tables, he settled Rukk onto his lap, steadying him as the child wobbled slightly but remained upright. One of the cooks, a wiry goblin with a keen eye, noticed him and hurried over with a bowl of thick stew and a plate piled high with roasted meat, root vegetables, and fresh bread.

Grashok dug in without hesitation, spearing a piece of meat and bringing it to his mouth. But as he chewed, he felt a tug at his sleeve.

Rukk was staring up at him, his wide eyes filled with curiosity.

Grashok huffed a quiet laugh and, with exaggerated slowness, broke off a small piece of bread, offering it to his son. Rukk took it with both hands, gnawed at it eagerly, and then immediately dropped it onto the table with a squeal of delight.

"That’s not how you eat, you little gremlin," Grashok chuckled, retrieving the bread and placing it back in Rukk’s grasp.

The child grinned toothily and stuffed it into his mouth this time, though more crumbs ended up on his chin than anywhere else.

Grashok continued his own meal between helping Rukk eat—handing him small bites of softened meat, letting him play with pieces of vegetable before sneaking them into his mouth. It was a slow process, filled with tiny messes and occasional spills, but Grashok didn’t mind. The simple act of sharing a meal with his son, of watching Rukk’s small hands grasp at the food with increasing confidence, filled him with a quiet pride.

At one point, Rukk attempted to grab the wooden spoon from Grashok’s bowl. Amused, Grashok let him hold it, watching as the child clumsily waved it around before smacking it against the table with a triumphant shriek. A few nearby goblins chuckled at the sight.

"You’re getting strong," Grashok murmured, adjusting Rukk on his knee to keep him from toppling over. "Strong and clever."

The words weren’t just idle praise. He meant them. His son would grow up to be more than just another goblin. He would be something greater.

As the meal time wore on, Rukk’s energy began to wane. His movements grew slower, his once-enthusiastic babbling fading into soft murmurs. His tiny hands, which had been so eager to grasp and explore, now rested limply against Grashok’s arm. The child’s eyelids grew heavy, fluttering shut before snapping open again, as if he were fighting the pull of sleep. But the fight was a losing one. Gradually, Rukk’s head drooped, his body sinking deeper into the safety of Grashok’s embrace. His breathing steadied, becoming slow and rhythmic, until finally, he succumbed to sleep, his small form nestled trustingly against his father’s chest.

Grashok lingered for a while longer, enjoying the warmth of his son’s sleeping form in his arms. Rukk’s tiny breaths were steady and soft, his plump cheek resting against Grashok’s chest. It was a rare moment of peace, one that he savoured even as he knew duty would soon call him back.

Eventually, he exhaled and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Rukk’s head. The moment he gave a subtle nod, one of the goblin nursemaids stepped forward, moving with quiet efficiency. She carefully took Rukk into her arms, cradling him with practised ease before slipping away to take him for his nap.

Now untethered from fatherly duties, Grashok stood, rolling his shoulders before making his way towards the throne room.