Goblins!

Your suspicions were right, leaving you mildly disappointed. The low, grumbling voices, the crackling flames of a campfire - where do they get the firewood from? - and the multiple red dots on the map had led you to believe, accurately this time, that Clémence was approaching a band of filthy goblins. Some five feet tall, a dirty shade of green and covered in warts, they are in all probability at the bottom of the food chain in your labyrinth. The many scars that crisscross their hides - you spy three of the wretches - nevertheless testify to their hardiness. Many of the less savoury species down here will not think twice about consuming goblins if food is scare, and these worms have obviously had to defend themselves in the past.

In any case, you will not deign to possess the body of such a lowly creature. This warrior, careless though she be, should easily overcome such weak beasts as these, and, if not, then she would obviously not be worthy of your time and attention. She must pass this first test, at the very least. Plus, the form of a goblin would not satisfy you. Goblins are made to fight and to die, nothing more. You, however, wish to breed.

The goblins, alerted by the cacophony of noise produced by Clémence's armour, rouse themselves quickly. Rising from the scattered logs that pass for stools amongst their grubby kind, they draw makeshift blades from rotting scabbards and hiss menacingly at the advancing shield-maiden. Clémence does not break stride and the goblins swarm towards her. She raises her mace aloft.