The Unbidden Arrival

An hour later, Grashok stood with boots planted firmly on the moss-laced walkway atop the town wall, Soulrend sheathed at his side but humming faintly with its restless energy. Below, the cobbled streets reverberated with heavy steps, with voices raised in orders, greetings, and occasional stifled laughter.

His forces strode into the town, the wide gates yawning open to admit them, and Grashok watched with narrowed eyes and a pride he did not often allow himself to feel. His well‑armed and disciplined goblins marched in step into Ingunde, their armour glinting, their formation tight and orderly.

There, to the flank, lumbered the towering rock troll—a creature of stone-bound muscle, skin mottled with quartz and granite. It moved with deliberate slowness, crushing weeds underfoot, each step like a drumbeat of inevitability.

Beside it strode Zarukk, his crude bone-tasseled robe billowing around his wiry frame. Scarred grey-and-white fur peeked from beneath the cloth, and his yellow eyes scanned the rooftops and alleys like a predator scenting change. Grashok’s gaze lingered on him, then shifted forward.

The goblin detachments marched with a discipline rarely seen among their kind—tight ranks, precise formation, and spears held high with unwavering focus—something Grashok himself had trained into them through months of hard work. Among the cluster of adventurers watching from a raised balcony, one leaned over to another and said, "Bruh... goblins with actual formation? That's like epic level buffed."

“Did someone mod the AI?” came the reply.

Grashok let out a short, rumbling chuckle, his tusked smile curling into a wry grin. He would not correct them. Let the legends whisper what they must.

Further down the line came Tilda, his human beastmaster, her auburn hair in a tight bun, warm brown eyes scanning the road ahead with calm precision. She leaned slightly forward in her saddle, gaze flicking across the cobbles and muddy edges of the path—not for threats, but for signs of loose stone, divots, or anything that might endanger the hooves of the animals under her care. Her ample figure rested with confidence on a saddle atop a broad-backed deep rothe, its shaggy hide rippling beneath her with each step. To her flank lumbered the yzobu, massive and snorting steam, its hooves ringing sharply against the stone. Behind her came a column of oxen, their packs heavy with supplies, trudging in tidy formation trained to follow the rhythm of her silent command.

He scanned further down the column, spotting the familiar shape of Skarn, his pet wolf. The sight sent a broad, unguarded smile across his face. Soon after Skarn’s ears shot up, then gave a sudden volley of joyous barking and wagged his tail furiously as he saw Grashok atop the wall, but he didn’t rush ahead instead he stayed patiently beside another figure emerging from shadow.

It was Elenara.

She strode in, pale‑skinned and regal, with long blonde hair spilling like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her blue eyes locked with his, intense but shadowed. The deep emerald green of her dress clung with elegance, and the black, high‑heeled knee boots added gravity to her stride. She was not meant to be here.

Her expression confirmed it—worried, urgent, yet composed. Her presence carried a weight that told Grashok something had shifted far deeper than he had expected.

Then he saw more.

Maren—honey-blonde hair shining in the late light, Her sleeveless reddish-brown leather top hugged her form, the seams reinforced not just for style but to support the weight of bundled satchels and tiny vials that clinked softly with every step—each containing salves, roots, or pressed blooms. Her short sable-dyed skirt fluttering with her stride, and her deep burgundy boots clicking against the stone. She scanned her surroundings, eyes hazel and alert.

Then Lalantra, the cleric—petite and calm, her pale skin and red hair framing her soft features. A subtle gleam of silver peered from beneath her blue cloak—the symbol of her faith, etched onto a small pendant that rested at her collarbone. The ivory tunic she wore dipped slightly at the neckline, the sash of sage green swaying with each step, her gait composed and deliberate. Her boots, black and thigh-high, whispered across the stone like a quiet prayer, each one affirming her devotion as both healer and guardian

And there—Sypha. The Myconid Sporeling moved slowly, staff almost comically large in its hands, pulsing with spores and bioluminescent glow. Its glowing cap shimmered with faint magic.

Grashok stiffened. This wasn’t just the deployment he had selected. This was something more. Something reshaped, there were additions here from his dungeon.

Sypha paused in the road, tilted its tiny head upward toward Grashok.

::You must speak to her. Things have shifted. The balance quivers.::

His eyes snapped back to Elenara.

Without a word, Grashok turned from the wall, heavy steps descending the wooden stairs, boots thudding like rolling thunder. Soulrend pulsed against his side as if sensing the coming truth. There were questions to be asked, and the spymaster alone held the answers.

At the foot of the stairs, Grashok paused, his gaze drifting towards the centre of town, where just beyond the cluster of old stone buildings and thatched roofs, he knew Nyxie and Sylrith were hard at work. The two were orchestrating the deployment of their fighters—splitting them into detachments and reserves, assigning defensive perches along the northern wall, and reinforcing the southern access near the grain stores. All of it in alignment with the war-table plan forged in hurried council less than an hour prior.

His thoughts lingered briefly on Snippa, the third of his lieutenants. She would be somewhere beyond the woods, cloaked and cunning, her scouts spread like whispers across the hills, tracking the slow tide of the Ratkin horde. A flicker of worry stirred in him, subtle but persistent. Still, she was not one to falter. Snippa thrived in the wild, where silence spoke louder than steel.

Grashok turned back toward the gate, his brow furrowed. With a grunt and a push, he stepped through the milling crowd. Elenara stood just beyond, her pale face catching the flickering torch light, tension drawn tight across her features. Beside her, Skarn barked once—sharp and joyous—before bounding toward his master, tail whipping the air like a war banner. The wolf leapt, not wildly, but with affection wrapped in discipline, and licked Grashok’s weathered jaw with exuberance.

Grashok laughed, the sound brief and rough, and knelt to scratch the beast behind the ears. Skarn whined with delight, pressing close, until Grashok straightened and faced Elenara.

Her blue eyes met his, wide with unease. She hesitated—just a breath, just a blink—then words spilled from her like an overturned flask. A torrent of rushed explanation, her voice packed tight with tension, all structure forgotten.

Grashok blinked.

She was always composed. Always deliberate. Always dignified. Except… that one time.

But that was sex.

He tried to sift through her frantic speech, fragments rising amid her nervous gestures and furrowed brow. She was worried, not about danger—but about overstepping. She had authorised a sweeping mobilisation alongside the Goblin Elder, dispatching additional forces from the dungeon: healers, scouts, two support detachments... nearly stripping the dungeon bare. All without his express command.

Gradually, he reached out, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, grounding her like a stone against a rushing tide. “it’s ok, tell me what happened slowly” he said.

She nodded, swallowed hard, steadied and started again.

"It happened in the middle of the night," she began, nervously twisting her fingers. "I was in my office after a hard days work, relaxing with Ameline...”