The Return of the Chieftainess

The days passed. Recovery took time, but order began to reassert itself in the dungeon stronghold. Resources were gathered, as hand carts laden with roots, meat, and herbs rumbled in and out of the gates. Messengers hurried back and forth, delivering reports from distant watchposts and scouts. Communications flowed between Ingunde and the clan, maps unfurled and marked with chalk.

On the third day, the sharp clatter of hobnailed boots rang down the stone corridor.

“The Chieftainess is back!” came the cry, bouncing off the walls in alarmed excitement.

Grashok, mid-discussion with the blacksmith, Rutha, froze. Confusion flickered in his brow.

Chieftainess?

Then it hit him.

His heart leapt. His mouth opened in silent recognition.

He shoved the heavy door aside with one mighty arm and dashed down the corridor, his steps quick and eager. Like a boulder breaking free of the mountain, he thundered down the halls, turning sharply until he burst into the entrance hall.

There she was.

Snippa.

Even after hard travel, caked with mud and specked with bramble, her beauty struck him like a hammer blow to the chest.

Her dark green skin shone through the filth, luminous beneath the dim torchlight. Her lithe form moved with effortless grace even as dust and road wear clung to her. She wore a supple leather corset‑dress, expertly tailored in dark green to blend with forest and field. It hugged her frame tightly, plunging low at the front, showing off a warrior’s poise and a woman’s form.

Around her slender waist was a wide leather belt adorned with gleaming silver studs that caught the torchlight with every motion. Her boots—black, knee‑high, scarred by terrain—rose up her powerful legs, the bare skin of her calves flexing with each step. The corset‑dress flared slightly at the hips into a short skirt, fluttering as she walked.

Fur scraps and bone jewellery adorned her body, trophies from the hunt and markers of ancient rites. Her long brown hair was drawn into two firm braids that trailed down her back, each threaded with beads and feathers, every ornament a memory, a tale of conquest or survival. They hung behind her like a war banner.

Her yellow eyes lit up the moment she saw him.

With a joyous cry, Snippa broke into a run. As she neared, she leapt clean off the ground, soaring two feet forward into his arms. Her legs wrapped tight around his hips, the firm grip of her boots locking behind him. Her lips crashed against his, fierce and claiming.

“Oh, big boss, I missed you so much!” she gasped between kisses, her breath hot and wild.

He held her tight, laughter bubbling in his chest.

Another kiss, then another, and another. They devoured the moment with the hunger of long-parted lovers. At last, they paused, breathless.

“This is the most wonderful surprise,” Grashok said, grinning. “Why weren’t you announced?”

“Because your guards never saw me,” she said with mischief glittering in her eyes. “I shall be having words with the scouts. I watched many of them from the shadows—and not one spotted me.”

He laughed, deep and proud. That was Snippa. Always one step ahead. If the scouts had failed, she'd make sure they never failed again.

His eyes swept over her once more, pride swelling anew.

“You’ve gone up two levels,” he said in amazement. “You’re at eleven now?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” she promised, running a hand along his neck, her fingers trailing fire. “But first—before I carry you off to bed—where is my son?”

Her voice was warm and light, but still fierce with love.

Still clinging to his chest, Grashok turned and began walking, carrying her as if she were weightless. Down the torch-lit corridors they moved, laughter and heat between them. He made for the mess hall, knowing the children would be there now, gathered for their midday meal.

As they turned a corner, he caught sight of Nyxie, who stood at the entrance to the hall. Her eyes widened in delight as she beheld Snippa, and her face broke into a wide, genuine smile.

The joy spread like fire.

And Snippa, eyes scanning, leaned forward in Grashok’s arms, already searching for the one face she most longed to see.

Grashok carried Snippa round the corner and into the mess hall, the warm glow of firelight spilling across the long wooden tables, which were already populated with the hungry members of the clan. The air was thick with the mouthwatering aromas of cooking—roasted meats seasoned with wild herbs, fresh bread still warm from the oven, hearty stews bubbling in iron pots, and sweet-smelling root vegetables roasted to tender perfection. The chatter and laughter of the clan mingled with the clatter of utensils, creating a homely atmosphere.

Waddling through the aisles between the tables was Crikka, the cheerful and slender goblin known for her infectious laughter and remarkable skill in the kitchen. She carried plates piled high with food, her bright eyes twinkling as she moved with surprising agility despite her small figure.

As Grashok’s gaze scanned the room, it settled on the younglings clustered around their own smaller tables, tumbling over each other with boundless energy. Then his eyes caught sight of one little figure—a small hobgoblin boy with bright eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair—who suddenly spotted him.

“Daddy!” shouted Rukk, his voice high and clear across the hall.

Snippa’s head snapped towards the sound. “Mummy!” came the echo as the boy broke free from the hesitant grasp of his nursemaid, toddling at full speed towards the pair.

Snippa twisted free of Grashok’s arms and, just in time, caught Rukk as he wobbled perilously close to falling. She swept him up into a fierce hug, holding him close to her chest and peppering kisses over his tousled head. Rukk’s wide grin, filled with pure joy, threatened to melt Grashok’s stern warrior’s heart, the sight pulling a softness to his eyes.

With Rukk securely in Snippa’s arms, Grashok led them to the top table—the place reserved for the clan’s leaders. He helped Snippa settle onto the bench, still cradling their son, and they sat down together. The boy wriggled happily, his small hands reaching to explore his mother’s hair and the edges of her clothing.

Snippa’s gaze was bright and curious as she leaned in to ask about Rukk’s recent activities. She listened with fascination as Grashok recounted the youngling’s adventures—playing with toys crafted from carved wood and bone, babbling new words with increasing clarity, and, most impressively, beginning to learn how to swing a wooden practice sword.

“A little version of Daddy,” she said proudly, nodding with a smile at Grashok, who chuckled in agreement.

Their conversation was soon punctuated by Crikka’s return, bearing bowls and platters heavy with food and flagons of dark, frothy ale and sweet berry wine. The spread was generous—a large wooden bowl overflowing with thick stew, chunks of roasted boar glazed with a honeyed finish, baskets of crusty bread, and platters of fresh greens and pickled root vegetables. The smell alone was enough to make anyone’s mouth water.

As they ate and talked, Rukk’s youthful patience began to wane. The boy squirmed in his mother’s lap, tugging at her sleeves and casting longing looks towards the other children playing in the hall. Finally, with a reluctant nod from Snippa, Rukk wriggled free and dashed off, joining the laughter and play of the younglings.

Once the boy was safely ensconced in the chaotic joy of childhood, Snippa turned back to Grashok, her expression suddenly serious. She reached across the table and clasped his hand under the rough wooden surface, grounding herself in the moment.

“What happened here?” she asked quietly. “You went quiet for a week.”

Grashok sighed deeply, his gaze locking with hers, the burden of the recent chaos heavy upon him. “There was a temple ceremony,” he began slowly, “Our Priestess, Cicely, paired with the dark altar, hoping to bless the clan’s fertility. But something went wrong. The ritual spiralled, turning into an eight-day fertility party—chaotic and wild—and most of us have little memory of it.”

Snippa’s eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Grashok allowed a small, wry smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “You wouldn’t believe who turned up during the madness—an Elf and a Dwarf, adventurers no less, who wandered in and promptly lost control with the rest of us.”

At that, Snippa burst into uproarious laughter, the sound ringing out bright and clear despite the chaotic tale.

Grashok nodded, his own lips also twitching in amusement. “Yes, they were quite the surprise guests. Chaos all around.”

He asked after her, eager to hear how she had fared in the wild.

Snippa’s eyes sparkled with her usual fierce joy. “I’ve loved every moment out there—the tracking, the hunting, the watching over the town from the shadows. There’s been a small war brewing between my goblin scouts and the scouts of the Ratkin. It’s been tense but manageable.”

Grashok listened intently, pride and relief washing over him. His chieftainess was back, and with her, the heart of their clan seemed to beat stronger once more.

Snippa went on, her voice filled with admiration. "The work of Elenara is a masterpiece," she said. "She’s organised some of the Ingunde woodcutters to leave food and information out for us. Even without hunting, we’re not going short. It’s clever. And it seems like a lot of the townsfolk think well of you—and the clan. We’ve been doing what we can to reinforce that trust, just as Elenara asked."

Her gaze grew distant, more solemn. "In fact, the reason I reached level eleven," she added, "was because of that work. I saved a child from a Dire Cave Bear."

Grashok’s brow furrowed with concern, and he leaned in. "A Dire Cave Bear? That’s no small feat."

“No,” Snippa agreed, her tone steady. “I heard the shouting first. Kids screaming. Someone running hard through the brush. Then the roar hit — loud enough that I knew it wasn’t anything small. I haven’t heard a sound like that since Blackwater.”

She paused, eyes narrowing at the memory.

“When I got there, the boy was backed up against a fallen log bridge. Rotten thing, barely holding together over a steep drop. He was crawling away, his leg torn up, crying and trying to breathe at the same time. Six, maybe seven summers.”

Her voice dipped, softer for a moment.

“All I could think was that Rukk will be that age soon. Same size. Same look in the eyes when he’s scared. I didn’t even decide to move — my body just went.”

She exhaled slowly.

“The bear was huge. Starved, patches of fur missing, foam around its mouth. Hunger had it in a frenzy — it would’ve attacked anything.”

She lifted her hand, miming the draw of her bow.

“My bow was in my hand. The first arrow hit above the eye. It should have dropped it, but it only made the beast angrier. It turned on me. I put one in its chest and another in the throat.”

She tapped her ribs where the bruise lingered.

“It clipped me when it charged and sent me rolling. Then it went straight over the edge into the ravine. It didn’t climb back out.”

Grashok reached for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“I grabbed the boy. He was awake, barely. His leg was a mess. I wrapped it tight and carried him back to Ingunde. He was heavier than he looked, but I ran the whole way.”

Snippa’s voice softened. "When I reached the wall, I called out—just loud enough to draw attention. A guard on the watch post spotted me and raised the alarm. I saw two merchants and another guard start rushing toward the gate. I didn’t wait for them to arrive. I knelt beside the boy, tucked your mark—the tribe’s symbol—into his pocket, just a carved piece of boar bone, and I whispered to him. Told him he was safe now. Told him to be brave, and not to forget the shadow in the trees that watches." Then I slipped away into the trees before they got close enough to see me clearly or speak."

Grashok sat in silence, absorbing the weight of her words. The pride in his chest threatened to burst.

Snippa leaned back slightly and took a long draught of her drink, then added, with a note of grim satisfaction, "That’s how I earned my levels."

She paused and looked around the hall before adding with a smirk, "Of course, I went back down that cliff for the loot bag of that bear."

Without another word, she reached into her inventory and with a dramatic flourish laid a massive pelt onto the table. It was immense—thick black fur, matted in some places with dried blood, but mostly a deep, rich sheen that caught the torchlight in glossy waves. The fur shimmered subtly, the hide heavy and lined with thick scars. The bear’s head was still intact, the eyes closed, the maw slightly open to reveal yellowed fangs like daggers.

The hall fell into a stunned hush as the goblins, troll, and other creatures turned to stare. Then, almost as one, a roaring cheer erupted. Mugs slammed on tables, boots stamped on the floor, and voices howled in celebration of the immense trophy of victory.

Grashok grinned, his heart full. There was no question—Snippa was more than just his champion. She was legend.

Rukk came charging forward at the head of the other younglings, wide-eyed and brimming with awe. He ran his small green hands across the thick fur and looked up at Snippa with wonder. "Mummy... you kill dis? Big bear?"

Snippa ruffled his hair and smiled down at him. "Yes, love. Mummy killed the big bear."

Rukk gasped, his face lighting up with a mix of pride and disbelief. He spun around to his friends, arms thrown wide. "Me mummy! She bash big bear! Big big bear! Grrr! Bite-bite-bite—then pow! Arrow in face!"

He leapt backward and began wrestling with an imaginary beast, growling and snarling in a hilariously exaggerated fight, tumbling on the floor while the other younglings cheered and joined in the fun.

At that moment, the heavy doors to the mess hall creaked open again, and in swept Nyxie and Sylrith. Nyxie, the beautiful goblin magic-user, moved with her usual grace, her clothes shimmering faintly with the residue of arcane energies. Beside her, Sylrith, the dark elf gladiator, strode in with measured elegance, her silver hair catching the light and her eyes immediately locking onto Snippa.

Both women broke into beaming smiles. Without hesitation, they moved to the table and enveloped Snippa in fierce, warm embraces.

"You magnificent she-beast!" Sylrith exclaimed, running her fingers across the bear pelt in appreciation. "This is incredible. What a kill."

"Snippa, this is legendary," Nyxie added, glowing with admiration. "You have to tell us everything. From the beginning."

Snippa laughed, already recounting the tale again, hands sweeping wide as she mimicked the roar, the shot, the fall. The other goblins and warriors around leaned in closer, eager to hear the story properly this time. Nyxie and Sylrith listened with shining eyes, exchanging looks of awe and pride.

As the second telling came to its end, Sylrith stood with hands on hips, appraising the bear pelt again. "So, what do we do with it?"

The conversation turned playful, teasing suggestions tossed between the women—should it be a cloak, a rug, a wall hanging fit for a war-chief? Snippa just laughed, promising only that it would not be wasted, whatever shape it took.