The Tasloi’s Tale

The Tasloi village nestled high within the trees, hidden among the dense canopy of the forest. Their arboreal homes were woven from vines and planks scavenged from the forest floor, rope bridges swaying gently between massive trunks in an intricate network only they could navigate with ease.

The villagers moved with grace and agility, their long limbs and prehensile tails making them as much a part of the forest as the birds and squirrels that shared the treetops. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on their smooth, greenish‑yellow skin. Large, expressive eyes glowed with curiosity and mischief, and their chittering laughter echoed softly through the air.

That morning, the village had been alive with activity. Hunters prepared to descend to the forest floor to check their snares, while gatherers inspected the stores of fruit and nuts. Children scampered along the rope bridges, their high‑pitched giggles ringing out as they played.

Yet beneath the peaceful bustle lay a simmering unease. News of Ratkin raids had reached them through whispers carried by fleeing survivors. Villages had been burned, their inhabitants slaughtered or taken. The elders debated whether to abandon their homes and flee deeper into the forest, but no Ratkin had been sighted near their territory. They clung to the hope that their hidden village, high above the forest floor, would remain safe.

“We should have left,” the Tasloi muttered bitterly. “But we thought… we hoped…”

The first sign of the Ratkin came at twilight. A hunter staggered back to the village, barely alive, his small body torn and bloodied. He collapsed on the central platform, gasping out a single, horrifying word before he died.

“Ratkin.”

Panic swept through the village. Hunters armed themselves with crude spears and bows, while elders urged retreat further into the trees. But the Ratkin came faster than anyone could have imagined.

They surged out of the darkness like a plague, their wiry, mangy bodies illuminated by the torches they carried. Beady eyes glinted with malice, jagged teeth bared in vicious grins. Their fur was matted with filth, and their long, clawed hands gripped rusted weapons.

“They came from everywhere,” the Tasloi said, its voice trembling. “From the trees, from the ground… we thought we were safe, but they climbed as we do. Faster. Stronger.”

The Ratkin swarmed the rope bridges, cutting them with jagged blades and sending entire sections of the village tumbling to the forest floor. Screams filled the air as the Tasloi fell, their slender bodies crushed by the impact or impaled on the jagged stakes driven into the ground below.

The Tasloi’s voice cracked as it recounted the horrors. “They didn’t just kill. They laughed as they did it. They tore apart our homes, our people… they took pleasure in it.”

The Ratkin’s depravity knew no bounds. Families were dragged from their homes and slaughtered in front of each other. Those who tried to flee were hunted down and butchered like prey. Their shrill, chittering laughter filled the night, a sound that would haunt the Tasloi survivor for the rest of its days.

“I hid,” the Tasloi admitted, its voice dropping to a whisper. “I hid and watched as they… they…”

It shook its head, unable to continue, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

When dawn broke, the Ratkin were gone. The Tasloi village was nothing more than a smouldering ruin, its platforms splintered and hanging at crooked angles, rope bridges burned down to blackened threads. Smoke still curled from the charred supports, carrying the acrid stink of scorched wood and something far worse — the lingering trace of fear and violence.

Some were half‑buried in soot, others perched atop patches of earth churned up by desperate struggle. A few lay scattered along broken escape paths — dropped mid‑flight, lying at the ends of snapped vines and trampled undergrowth where the Ratkin had run them down before they could reach safety.

The few survivors who had fled into the canopy never returned.

The Tasloi crept down from its hiding place, limbs shaking with exhaustion and terror. It moved through the ruins in a daze, searching for any sign of life — a voice, a footprint, a familiar scent — but found only those silent bags. Each one was a reminder of someone it had known: a hunter, a sibling, a friend.

“I do not know if anyone else survived,” it whispered, its voice hollow and raw. “Perhaps some fled far enough. Perhaps not.”

The firelight cast flickering shadows across its face, deepening the lines of grief etched into its features. The camp had gone utterly still. Goblins and Xvarts listened in grim silence, their expressions hardening as the weight of the Tasloi’s words settled over them. Even the most battle‑hardened among them seemed shaken by the quiet horror of a village erased, leaving only ash, ruin, and a field of small brown bags where a people had once lived, children had once played.

Grashok knelt before the creature, his massive frame towering even in his lowered stance. His rough, scarred hands rested on his knees as he gazed at the Tasloi with an expression rarely seen on his battle‑hardened face: compassion.

“You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure,” Grashok said, his voice low and steady. “You’re safe now. No one here will harm you.”

The Tasloi looked up at him, wide eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and despair. It nodded weakly, its small body sagging with the weight of grief and exhaustion.

Grashok reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently placing it on the Tasloi’s shoulder. “Rest,” he said. “You’ve earned that much.”

The Tasloi nodded again, its eyes closing as it allowed itself to relax, if only for a moment, in the presence of someone who understood its pain.