The Third Gambit

The late afternoon sun spilled pale light across the grey slopes as the group trudged on in silence. Their second attempt had failed—more violently than the first. Grashok marched at the front, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead. But inwardly, his thoughts swirled with doubt.

Sylrith could have died. That single fact replayed over and over in his mind like a poorly set trap snapping again and again. She hadn’t hesitated, and she’d nearly been gored. All because he’d underestimated the beast’s reactions. Hobgoblin instincts had once more driven him to command—bold and direct—but this enemy didn’t think like a soldier. It reacted like a storm.

He glanced back at the others. Sylrith’s usual confidence had returned, her silver hair gleaming as she adjusted her high-heeled boots with a huff of annoyance. Snippa scouted ahead, her sharp eyes searching for the displaced trail. Nyxie walked in the centre, unusually quiet, clutching her herb pouch close to her face to muffle the lingering stench. Even Skarn was subdued.

Grashok’s mind ticked. They needed a plan—one that didn’t rely on perfect timing or five separate elements all going right at once. A simpler plan. A direct one. A “hobgoblin’s” plan.

He had an idea. A desperate, foolish, mad idea. One the others would never allow if he told them outright. Yet it felt natural to him. Obvious, even. It was the kind of thing born of hobgoblin instinct—unyielding, battle‑honed, and bred for risk. Dangerous, yes. Suicidal, probably.

But he knew it would work.

As evening drew near, Snippa motioned that she’d found the new location of the herd. The quest timer showed less than thirty minutes remained, and Grashok had already made up his mind. They approached quietly, threading through narrow paths above the herd’s new hollow—a shallow canyon boxed in by ridges and broken trees. The beasts were restless now, their movements more erratic. The failed traps had left them skittish.

The juvenile male—the same one they had targeted before—was again near the edge, picking through brush with twitchy snorts. Grashok studied him. Slightly smaller than the others. Still fast. Still dangerous.

Perfect.

He broke away from the others before they noticed, looping wide around the ridge. The shadows masked him as he crept down until he found the exact angle he wanted. The juvenile had its back to him. The herd was distant enough not to intervene immediately.

Grashok stepped into the open.

There was no stealth now. He stood plainly visible, just uphill of the young male. He held no weapon—only two lengths of leather strap, one in each hand. He let them dangle, relaxed. The beast raised its head.

It froze.

Then it snorted. Its nostrils flared, catching his scent. Not fear. Not prey. Another male. A challenge.

Its territorial instincts surged like lightning.

With a bellowing roar, the Yzobu charged.

From the far ridge, the others noticed.

"Grashok!" Sylrith screamed. "What are you doing?!"

Snippa’s mouth dropped open. Nyxie shouted something incoherent.

But it was too late.

The Yzobu was on the move, hooves tearing at the shale, head down. It resembled something between a warhorse, a mountain bull, and a wool-covered avalanche. Its body was thick and powerful, draped in shaggy, matted fur the colour of tarnished bronze. Dust billowed in its wake. Its massive horns swept forward like crescent blades, almost touching at the tips.

And Grashok ran straight at it.

He sprinted, muscles surging, the leather straps whirling in his hands like the ropes of some mad skipping game. The wind tore past him. The ground trembled. The space between them closed fast—ten strides, five, three—

At the final instant, Grashok launched himself upward.

The leather thongs snapped outward and wrapped around the Yzobu’s curved horns with a snap and twist.

Then, impossibly, Grashok swung himself over.

Using the taut straps as anchors, he spun himself in mid-air, somersaulting over the beast’s lowered head. His body twisted in perfect synchrony with its motion, and he landed astride its massive, woolly back.

For a heartbeat, the image froze—

The enraged Yzobu bellowing, its hooves skidding over the rock. Grashok straddling its shoulders, muscles flexed, hands white-knuckled on the straps, dust swirling like mist around them.

Then it exploded into motion.

"Fuck," was all the others heard as the juvenile Yzobu bolted.

It charged out of the basin like a fired bolt, kicking and bucking as though possessed. Grashok clung desperately, trying to maintain balance as the beast twisted beneath him like a hurricane in fur. It veered up the slope, crashing through brush, sending rocks flying.

The dust cloud thickened, swallowing them whole.

From the ridge, the others stared, stunned into silence.

Snippa’s jaw hung open.

"Did he just—"

"He did," Sylrith breathed. "He actually did."

Nyxie clapped a hand over her mouth. "He’s going to get himself killed!"

Far ahead, through the rolling fog of dust and flying debris, Grashok’s silhouette could barely be seen, clutching the back of the rampaging Yzobu as it vanished into the wilds.

No one moved.

Skarn whined once, then bounded after his master.

The chase was on….

***

Grashok's world had collapsed into a chaos of hooves, dust, and pain.

The moment the young Yzobu broke into full gallop, it became clear just how insane his plan truly was. The beast launched itself forward with staggering force, its powerful limbs turning boulders into stepping stones and loose gravel into geysers of grit. Grashok clung to the thick leather straps looped around its horns, his knees pressed hard into the matted wool of its shoulders, his muscles screaming with the effort to stay mounted.

He wasn’t riding the creature.

He was surviving it.

Every lurch, every twist, sent bolts of pain through his hips and spine. The Yzobu didn’t buck in predictable rhythm—it hurled itself sideways, jolted to abrupt halts only to whip around and charge again. Grashok’s teeth rattled. Once, he lost his grip with one hand and nearly flew off, catching himself only by sheer instinct and brute strength.

Down the slope they careened.

The mountainside blurred into a dizzying torrent of colour and movement. Bushes ripped apart in their wake. A startled group of Kobolds leapt back with panicked squeals, dropping their spears and scattering. One unlucky hunter fell over himself in the rush, staring open-mouthed as the mad pair thundered past. Grashok might have laughed, if he weren’t already spitting grit and clinging for dear life.

The Yzobu crashed through a stand of pine-like trees, snapping branches with brute force. High above, a cluster of harpies shrieked as they burst from their nests, feathers exploding into the air like a snowstorm. Their screeches echoed across the valley as they flapped skyward, cursing in shrill, musical tones.

Grashok ducked low as a twisted branch nearly took his head off. He squinted into the wind, eyes watering, teeth bared. His legs were cramping. His lower back screamed. Still, he held.

The worst moment came without warning.

They were racing along a narrow ridge, and suddenly the ground dropped away. Grashok’s heart seized. A sheer cliff yawned before them, mist curling at its base far, far below. For a moment he was sure the beast would leap, carried by its fury.

"No, no, no—"

At the last instant, the Yzobu turned sharply. Its hooves skidded, sending rock shards plummeting into the abyss. Grashok’s vision spun. His chest slammed into the beast’s back. Something in his shoulder popped. He bit down a curse.

The Yzobu bellowed again, flinging foam from its snout. It wasn't just trying to throw him anymore. It was trying to escape him. Panic had set in.

And slowly—agonisingly slowly—that panic began to tire it.

An hour passed. Then another.

The sun dipped low, bleeding orange across the jagged peaks. Shadows stretched long across the trail, and the Yzobu’s charge began to falter. It stumbled once, caught itself. Its breath came in wet, ragged heaves. Foam flecked its hide. Its gait grew erratic.

Grashok felt it.

The shift.

He no longer needed to cling quite so desperately. The wild jolts were now laboured shudders. With one hand still tight on the straps, he reached forward and pressed his palm to the side of the creature’s thick neck. The hide was hot beneath his touch, pulsing with exhausted rage.

"Easy," he muttered. "You fought well, beast."

The Yzobu gave a grudging snort. Still alert. Still wary. But slowing.

Grashok adjusted his position, easing into the makeshift saddle he’d formed with his knees. The ache in his limbs was brutal, but he forced his muscles to relax, bit by bit. The straps in his hands were no longer lifelines. They were reins. The beginnings of tentative control.

He looked up.

The moon had risen, pale and high. The sky was streaked with stars. Around them, the mountain had quieted.

He grinned, lips cracked with dust and wind.

He’d done it.

The beast was his.

A shimmering popup flickered into view before his eyes, casting amber light across the frost-shrouded clearing:

Accept Yzobu immature male into dungeon?

[Confirm] [Decline]

Grashok let out a low, exhausted chuckle and, with profound satisfaction, selected [Confirm]. The popup vanished, and in its place he felt something click in his awareness—an echoing acceptance. The bond was sealed. This magnificent, murderous beast was now his.

As the light of the popup faded, Grashok lifted his eyes—and froze.

There, a short distance away, Skarn sat quietly on his haunches. The wolf's eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, locked onto his master with a strange mix of concern and loyalty. Grashok blinked, startled. He hadn’t heard the wolf arrive. Had Skarn been with him the whole time, racing beside them unseen through the madness of the ride? Or had the beast simply found him afterward, drawn by their bond? He didn’t know.

But the sight of the familiar figure, calm and steady amid the wildness, sent a flush of warmth through him.

He gave a small nod to the wolf, who blinked slowly in return.

They had come to rest in a natural bowl of stone, a high clearing fringed by jagged frost-slick rocks and half-buried boulders. The air was crisp, the cold clinging to the back of his neck, but he barely noticed. Still mounted, Grashok reached into his inventory and produced a small treat—dried fruit soaked in honeyed spice. He leaned forward and offered it.

The Yzobu paused, nostrils flaring, then chomped down on it with relish. Its mouth worked noisily as it chewed, hot breath steaming in the night air. Grashok patted its flank as it ate, a smile tugging his lips. Then, with a practised flick of his wrist, he tossed another treat to Skarn, who caught it in mid-air with a quiet snap of his jaws before settling back down, content.

Then he pulled out a tougher ration for himself, sinking his teeth into salted meat and crusted bread. As he chewed, he noticed the Yzobu eyeing him. Its nostrils twitched. It snorted.

"No," he said around a mouthful.

It snorted again, ending with a faint whine of longing.

Grashok laughed, genuinely and deeply, and tore off a chunk for it. "Here. Spoilt already." before tearing another piece of for Skarn.

They ate together in the silver light of the moon.

When they had finished, Grashok stretched his limbs and adjusted his seat. He nudged the Yzobu gently with his knees and gave a subtle tug on the straps. The beast responded, turning slowly in a wide arc.

They began circling the clearing, first in rough loops, then tighter ones. Grashok was learning its rhythms, its leanings, its pauses. The connection between them wasn’t perfect yet—but it was forming. Muscle, instinct, balance. He could feel it.

It was then he realised he should head back.

He paused. The wilderness around them was unfamiliar, and for a moment, even he—battle-hardened and mountain-born—felt a flicker of uncertainty.

But then he looked down.

Even his untrained eye could trace the path of destruction. Torn brush, shattered stones, deep gouges in the earth. The trail of the Yzobu's chaos was plain.

He turned the beast’s head toward it.

With a low grunt, Grashok and the Yzobu began their descent with Skarn at their side, following the scar they had left in the mountain’s hide.