Something lurks below

God or not, a group of rampaging goblins is never good news. You make your way across the frost-covered slopes of the forest, as the trees slowly make their way up towards the mountain face. Your trained ear hears a distinct sound amongst the rustling; small bipedal feet shuffling through the dead leaves. Making your way closer to the sound, moving from tree to tree, you confirm your suspicions; goblins, three of them. With an ideal vantage point, you draw three arrows from your quiver, pushing two into the soft ground below, pulling the third back in your bow, waiting for an ideal shot.

With one separated from the other two, and their backs to you, you let your arrow fly, pulling the second before the first even hits it's target. By the time the first arrow hits, piercing straight through the goblins lung, you've already pulled your second arrow back, trying to strike one of the other two. Not as precisely aimed, you do make contact, grazing it's arm just beneath the shoulder. Immediately panicked, the two surviving goblins make a break for it, running towards safety. Putting your final arrow away for the moment, you let them scamper away.

Combing over the goblins body is a mixed bag of nuts. You find the typical things you would expect; a crooked dagger, a roughshod crossbow with bolts that seem impossible to work, and an empty bottle of ale. How do they always have beer, you wonder to yourself, before you find something more curious. Black marks in his dark green skin, roughly analogous to a tattoo. Stuffed in his vest pocket is a slip of paper, folded several times over and crumbled from being extensively carried. Opening it up, you find a note, written by a cool practiced hand. More curious, it's in Draconic, the language of the Dragons and their servants.

Whoever reads this note, know that you are only expediting the inevitable. For every one of these peons you kill, I will send another ten to eradicate you and all other surface dwellers who have plagued the world's existence since before the beginning of history. You cannot perceive what is yet to come, but we see all. Those of you fear what is to come know your place, those who do not will quickly fall. The vanguard of your destruction is at hand. There is no delay. There is no escape. You will die, and quickly join the cause that you have fought pointless against, and before it is over, you will swear fealty to the Lord of the UnderDark.

While the rumors of them swearing fealty to a heathen god prove to be untrue, them swearing fealty to some kind of underground tyrant could prove to be even worse. Looking up, you can trace the blood spatters and hurried footsteps up the hill towards safety. Doing so, you see the trail goes towards a large derelict tower, with an equally ominous cave behind it. Even from your safe distance, you can hear the unmistakable shouting of their indecipherable language. Stalking the site, there doesn't seem to be any **** gathering to retaliate against you, or the nearby hamlet, but it's large enough to overwhelm the population below if or when they ever decide to do so. It's also probably too large to handle by yourself, unless you were especially crafty.