A Decision Made

The quiet murmuring within the throne room ceased as a distinct set of footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond. All eyes turned as the great wooden doors creaked open under the firm hands of the goblin guards. A moment later, the Brigand Cleric stepped through, still flanked by a single goblin warrior who had remained by her side since her arrival.

Grashok sat forward slightly on his stone throne, studying the woman with calm interest as she walked toward him.

She wore the same plain attire she had when she’d first been brought in—a modest brown tunic that ended above her waist and a shapeless, well-worn wool skirt. Her boots were still the same sturdy, travel-worn pair, thick-soled and practical. Yet there was something subtly different about her. Cleaner now, more composed, and walking with purpose, she no longer looked like a frightened prisoner. But Grashok, now more attuned to the invisible currents of his demesne, noted the subtler signs—signs that the ambient aura of his dungeon, thick with the influence of magic and subtle desire, was affecting her.

A faint sheen glistened on her brow despite the cool air of the chamber. Her hands opened and closed restlessly at her sides, and her strides, though purposeful, carried a visible tension—as if she was painfully aware of every step, every slight bounce of movement her body made. It was familiar now, this low hum of enchantment that permeated every corner of his domain. He didn’t revel in it—though some might have—but it was part of the power he held, one that needed managing as much as wielding.

When she finally came to stand before him, she bowed her head slightly. The goblin warrior stepped back, clearly satisfied that no restraint was needed.

Grashok greeted her with a warm, open expression.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice deep and even. “Before anything else, I would know your name.”

The woman hesitated. Her breath caught audibly—a sharp little inhale, nothing to do with alarm, he thought, but something else. A slight flush crept up her neck. She pressed her lips together, visibly steadying herself.

"Lalantra," she said. Her voice was quiet, a little breathy, though she tried to keep it firm. "Lalantra Reed."

Grashok nodded. “Lalantra. Thank you.”

He shifted, placing one thick forearm over the other as he addressed her. As he spoke, he watched her pupils widen just a fraction as she noticed his muscles. Her fingers twitched at the hem of her tunic.

"My clan have made inquiries. Among those you travelled with, the former captives spoke highly of you. One of them even recalled how you healed her brother, years before the slavers took you. Every account, even from the worst of that wretched lot, confirms the same—you were not a slaver, nor one of the brigands."

She lifted her eyes to meet his. There was a flicker of surprise there, followed by the faintest glimmer of relief. But her chest rose and just as quickly, the neck of her tunic shifting with each breath.

“You acted only as a healer,” Grashok continued. “And more than that, you saved the life of one of my people. Janus. That has not gone unnoticed.”

He let the words hang in the air a moment. Lalantra's tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. A small, unconscious gesture.

He continued, his tone calm, deliberate, but friendly."As such, you are free to go. No shackles. No debts. You may leave this place unmolested and return to the world if that is your choice."

Lalantra blinked, startled. Her cheeks were flushed now, but her eyes were sharp—calculating through the haze.

“However,” Grashok added, leaning forward with a slow smile, “I would like to offer you something else. A place in my clan.”

There was a small collective inhale in the room. Nyxie looked intrigued. Elenara and Ellyn both leaned forward slightly, curious. The Elder, as ever, remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with a flicker of approval.

“You’d have a place here—fed, respected, truly valued. We look after our own, and what we’re building isn’t just for goblins or trolls or humans. It’s for anyone cast out, forgotten, or underestimated. With your skills—your healing touch—you wouldn’t just belong. You’d help shape what we’re creating.”

Lalantra stood very still. Her eyes flickered—calculating, weighing. She pressed one hand flat against her thigh, as if grounding herself. The flush on her cheeks deepened, then ebbed, then rose again. She took a steadying breath and exhaled slowly. The exhale carried a faint tremor.

"I… I would be honoured," she said softly, her voice more certain now despite the slight huskiness beneath it. "I never wanted to be part of those slavers' company. I travelled with them only because I couldn’t leave. But here, I have been fed, protected… treated kindly, even as a prisoner. And more than that…"

She looked directly at Grashok. Her pupils were wide. Her lips parted.

"I believe in what you're building here. A place where people like me—like many of us—can be more than what the world has labelled us. I would serve gladly. I swear it."

Her hand trembled at her side. Just a slight shake, nothing more.

Grashok smiled, the warmth of it spreading across his broad features. He leaned back into the stone throne as a gentle chime echoed in his mind. Before him, an ethereal window shimmered into view.

Accept Lalantra Reed, Cleric of Ilmater the Rack-Broken Lord into dungeon?

[Confirm] [Decline]

Without hesitation, Grashok mentally selected Confirm.

Lalantra drew a slow, deep breath—the first easy one he had seen her take since she entered the dungeon. A tremor ran through her, visible in the slight parting of her lips and the way her fingers curled at her sides. Her pupils, wide and dark moments ago, contracted to something sharper. The flush on her cheeks deepened briefly, then settled into a natural warmth. Her stance shifted: less sway, more rooted. She rolled her shoulders back, and a soft, almost surprised exhale escaped her—low and private, like the release of a held note. Then she stood straighter, her eyes clearing, her gaze finding his without the hazy, unfocused edge that had clung to her before.

The window vanished in a blink.

It was done. She was one of them now.