Into the Depths

Grashok’s world became a blur of tumbling earth and suffocating darkness as he slid uncontrollably down the muddy tunnel. He twisted and reached out, trying to slow his descent, but the walls were slick with damp soil, offering no grip. The roar of rushing air filled his ears before—

THUMP!

He landed hard on the uneven ground, pain jolting through his body. Dust and loose dirt rained down around him, and for a moment, he simply lay there, dazed. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

He rolled onto his side with a groan, rubbing his bruised rear as he forced himself to sit up. The air down here was damp and stale, carrying an earthy musk that told him he was deep underground.

Blinking against the darkness, Grashok’s vision slowly adjusted. The cavern was not entirely pitch-black. A strange, greenish-blue glow pulsed faintly across the jagged walls—clusters of bioluminescent fungi clung to the damp rock, their eerie shimmer casting flickering shadows that danced like ghostly figures. But there was something else. A sharp, acrid smell burned in his nostrils, thick and unpleasant, carrying a distinct tang of sulphur. The air felt heavy, almost oily, as if tainted by something unnatural.

He took stock of his surroundings. The chamber wasn’t overly large, perhaps twenty paces across, with two tunnels yawning open on opposite sides. The walls were rough and uneven, reinforced in places with old, splintering wooden beams that looked on the verge of collapse. But what drew his attention most were the crates—scattered haphazardly across the cavern floor. Some were stacked carelessly, others had burst open, spilling their contents. His boots crunched over loose debris as he approached one. Inside, packed in thick burlap sacks, was a strange, coarse black powder. He rubbed some between his fingers—it felt gritty and dry, and the faintest spark of friction sent up a whiff of sulphur.

Grashok frowned. What in the name of the ancestors have I fallen into?

A distant sound broke the silence—howling.

Skarn.

The great wolf’s call was faint but desperate, carrying down from far above.

“Easy, boy,” Grashok muttered under his breath, glancing up. The tunnel he had fallen through gaped in the ceiling like a jagged wound, its edges crumbling and unstable. Climbing back the way he came wasn’t an option.

His gaze swept across the cavern again. If he hadn’t been turned around too much during the fall, one of these tunnels likely led towards Ingunde, while the other ran in the direction of the river. That meant…

A sound echoed through the chamber—scuttling.

Grashok stiffened. The noise was unmistakable—clawed feet clicking against stone, moving quickly. His warrior instincts flared to life, and his hand shot down to his hip.

His fingers closed around empty air.

His heart sank.

His sword.

He turned his head sharply, and there it was—Soulrend lay across the chamber, half-buried in loose dirt near the tunnel he’d fallen from.

And just as his eyes locked onto it, a figure emerged from the darkness.

A hunched, sinewy shape slithered out of the tunnel opposite, its beady red eyes gleaming in the dim light. Filthy, matted fur clung to its frame, and its long, toothy snout twitched as it sniffed the air. A wickedly curved dagger glinted in its clawed hand.

Ratkin.

Grashok cursed under his breath. His weapon was too far away, and the creature was between him and it. Unarmed, he was at a disadvantage, but he wasn’t helpless.

The Ratkin chittered something in its guttural tongue, its sharp teeth bared in what might have been a sneer. It crouched low, blade poised, clearly assessing its prey.

Grashok exhaled slowly, his muscles coiling. His mind raced. If he could just—

The Ratkin struck first, lunging low with a flash of steel. Grashok twisted sharply, jerking to the side just in time—the blade scraped against his hardened leather chest plate but failed to pierce. The creature was fast, almost unnaturally so, its wiry frame darting forward again before he could fully recover.

With a snarl, Grashok lashed out with a powerful backhand, his fist slamming into the creature’s snout. There was a wet crunch, and the Ratkin reeled back, screeching in pain. But it was barely staggered before it came slashing again, claws raking towards his exposed arm.

Grashok grunted as sharp nails tore through skin, leaving burning trails across his forearm. Pain flared, but he had no time to focus on it. The creature was relentless, its dagger flickering in the dim glow as it struck again and again, forcing him to give ground.

His heel caught on something—a loose stone or a broken plank—and suddenly he was falling. The Ratkin saw its opening and pounced.

They hit the ground hard.

The dagger came down, and Grashok barely caught the Ratkin’s wrist, muscles straining as the wicked blade hovered inches from his throat. The Ratkin’s breath was hot and rancid against his face, its small, rodent-like eyes wide with a gleeful madness.

They thrashed in the dirt, rolling over jagged rocks and broken crates. Grashok managed to shove the Ratkin back, but the creature twisted like a snake, its free hand clawing at his face. One filthy claw scraped dangerously close to his eye.

Snarling, Grashok slammed his forehead into the Ratkin’s skull. The creature squealed, its grip loosening just enough for him to twist its wrist, forcing the dagger away. He drove a knee into its bony ribs, hearing something crack beneath the pressure.

But the Ratkin wasn’t finished. It let out a sudden, furious hiss and sank its yellowed teeth into his shoulder.

Grashok roared in pain, his vision flaring red. He felt the creature’s fangs sink deep, hot blood seeping from the wound. Blind instinct took over. He grabbed the Ratkin by the scruff of its matted fur and slammed it down onto the cavern floor. Once. Twice. A third time.

The Ratkin's grip loosened, its teeth pulling free with a wet schlck. It sprawled onto its back, stunned, its chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

Grashok loomed over it, panting, his shoulder burning. He grabbed a broken wooden beam nearby, raising it high to finish the job.

And then—

The Ratkin let out a sound.

A piercing, unnatural chittering squeal ripped from its throat, echoing through the tunnels like a war horn. It wasn’t just a scream of pain—it was a call. A signal.

Grashok’s stomach clenched.

The tunnels trembled with the answering echoes of many scuttling feet.

Grashok swung the beam with a fierce grunt, bringing it down on the Ratkin’s neck with a sickening crunch. The creature’s piercing scream was abruptly silenced, its body going limp. The sound of his victory was almost immediately followed by a familiar, ethereal pop, and the Ratkin’s corpse faded into nothingness, leaving behind a loot bag that quivered on the ground.

He staggered to his feet, breath coming in ragged gasps as his fingers closed around the familiar hilt of Soulrend. The moment his grip tightened, the blade pulsed with an unnatural cold, as if recognising its master once more. Strength surged through his limbs, but it did little to quiet the rising dread in his chest.

The chittering of the Ratkin was growing louder, the sound of countless claws scratching against stone filling the tunnels. They were coming from the river tunnel, a writhing mass of bodies pushing through the darkness, their voices high and fevered.

But above—above, there was hope.

Faintly, through the dirt and stone, he could hear the muffled cries of his people. The unmistakable yells of goblins, the pounding of feet. But above all, one voice cut through the chaos.

Nyxie.

He couldn't make out the words, but he knew she was calling to him. Telling him to hold on. And he would. He trusted her. She would not abandon him. But that didn't change the fact that he was alone down here for now, and he had mere moments before the Ratkin swarmed over him.

Grashok turned to the tunnel entrance, his mind racing. He couldn’t fight them all. If he held his ground, they would overwhelm him. But he could stop them. They didn’t know he was here yet, but once they saw him—once they saw the blood and the loot bag of their kin—they would come in force. He needed to cut off the entrance, collapse the passage before they flooded through.

His eyes flicked upward, focusing on the large stone lintel supporting the tunnel’s archway. It was old, cracked in places, but still strong. If he could bring it down, the whole passage would cave in.

Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the cold stone and pushed.

Nothing.

He adjusted his stance, widened his grip, and shoved harder. His muscles strained, sweat beading on his brow despite the cavern’s chill. The stone didn’t budge.

The scuttling grew louder.

He could hear them now—panting breaths, the rustling of fur, the metallic scrape of crude weapons being drawn. They were close. So damn close.

With a growl, he wiped his palms on his tunic and grabbed at the stone again. He planted his feet, bent his knees, and heaved—

His hands slipped.

He stumbled back, cursing as his grip slid uselessly off the damp, moss-covered surface. He could feel the vibrations beneath his boots now, the tremors of approaching bodies.

No time. No time left.

Snarling, he adjusted his grip again, wedging his fingers into the crevice at the base of the stone. He pulled, ripped at it with every ounce of strength in his body. His arms burned, his back screamed in protest, but he refused to let go.

A crack.

Small at first. Barely a whisper of dust. But then another. And another.

The stone shifted.

Grashok roared, pouring everything he had into one final, desperate pull.

With a thunderous crack, the lintel gave way.

The entire tunnel shuddered as the weight of the ceiling collapsed in on itself. Chunks of rock tumbled down, followed by an avalanche of dirt and debris.

Grashok barely had time to dive clear before the entrance was buried beneath a mountain of rubble.

Silence.

Only the sound of his ragged breathing remained.

Then—screeches. Furious, piercing cries of frustration from the other side. The Ratkin had been cut off.

For now.

The triumphant silence lasted only moments before a far worse sound took its place.

The rhythmic scrape of countless claws against stone.

Digging.

Grashok’s stomach twisted. The Ratkin were not giving up. They were burrowing through the collapse, clawing away at the debris with relentless hunger. He had bought himself a few minutes at best. He needed another way out.

He spun, scanning the cavern, but there was nothing—just crates, damp rock, and tunnels leading to certain death. The acrid smell of sulphur thickened, making his throat burn. His grip tightened on Soulrend as he listened, every muscle coiled, ready to strike.

Then—thump!

A heavy object tumbled out of the passage above, hitting the ground hard and rolling awkwardly across the cavern floor. Something small, round, and flickering bounced away from it—a lit torch, its flame sputtering as it skidded across the damp stone before coming to a stop by the nearest stack of crates.

The object groaned.

Grashok tensed, preparing for another fight—until the thing unfurled itself, revealing a wide-eyed, mud-streaked goblin.

The goblin spat dirt from his mouth and yanked at the thick rope wrapped tightly around his waist. His patched leather vest and rough-spun cloth trousers were caked in filth, and his green skin was smeared with streaks of mud. Large, twitching ears flicked as he shook his head, sending flecks of dirt flying. Despite looking as though he’d just been hauled through a swamp, his yellow eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Nyxie asked for volunteers!" the goblin blurted, his voice high and quick. "So I volunteered! Or, well, she pointed at me, which is almost the same thing! Then they tied the rope round me and threw me in, which—ha!—was not part of the plan!"

Grashok just stared.

The goblin grinned, sharp teeth flashing as he untied the rope.

Understanding hit Grashok at once. “Nyxie’s plan… the rope. We climb—now—before the rats break through.”

He shoved the rope back into the goblin’s hands. “Up. Go.”

The goblin scrambled onto it immediately, quick and nimble, using hands and feet to scurry upward. Grashok followed, his muscles burning as he hauled his weight up through the slick mud coating the walls.

Below, the torch still flickered where it had rolled to a stop. The last thing Grashok saw before he hauled himself up into the tunnel was the dry wood of the crates beginning to smoulder, orange embers licking hungrily at the black powder spilling from the split sacks inside.

The rope swayed dangerously, but strong hands were pulling from above—his warriors, his people.

They weren’t alone.

The goblin’s foot slipped on the slick mud, his yelp of panic echoing up the shaft. He flailed wildly, scrambling for a hold, but his grip failed.

Grashok lunged, snatching him by the scruff of his ragged tunic and hauling him up with one hand.

"Not falling, not falling!" the goblin babbled, his limbs flailing before he latched onto Grashok’s shoulder, using him as an impromptu ladder to keep climbing.

The chittering from below swelled into a frenzied screeching.

Grashok didn’t look back.

He climbed.

Hand over hand, boots digging into the damp stone, every pull dragging him closer to the light above. The tunnel’s mouth was crowded with figures—his goblins, Nyxie, and even Skarn, the great wolf pacing furiously, hackles raised and teeth bared.

"Almost there!" Nyxie’s voice rang down, urgent. "MOVE!"

Grashok heaved himself upwards. Fingers met the edge. Hands grabbed him, yanking, pulling—

And then he was out.

He collapsed onto solid ground, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air as the daylight seared away the choking darkness. The goblin flopped beside him, wheezing, grinning ear to ear.

Then—BOOM.

A deep, concussive explosion tore through the ground beneath them. Smoke and dust belched from the tunnel mouth as the earth shook violently, knocking goblins off their feet and sending Skarn skittering back with a startled growl.

The entrance to the tunnel caved in with a thunderous roar, sealing the horrors below in a tomb of their own making.

Grashok stared at the ruined tunnel entrance, his breath still heavy from the climb. The acrid stench of smoke and sulfur lingered in the air, stinging his nose and throat. The ground was still settling, small rocks tumbling down the collapsed shaft, but his mind was racing faster than his pulse.

What in the name of the ancestors had caused that?

His thoughts flicked back to the cavern below—the stacked crates, the strange black powder that coated their interiors, the torch that had tumbled from the goblin’s grasp and rolled to rest against them.

Could that have been it?

He had never seen anything like it before. He knew fire, he knew destruction, but that blast—that sheer force—was something unnatural. If that powder could do that, then whoever had stockpiled it had been preparing for something big.

And worse still… the Ratkin had been down there.

If they had access to that substance, if they understood how to use it, then this war had just changed.

Whatever the Ratkin were planning, they couldn’t allow anyone to know about it, which meant they’d be coming for them. But then he pictured the scene below, before the explosion. The image formed in his mind with stark clarity.

The Ratkin, clawing and scraping at the fallen debris, their beady eyes gleaming in the dim light. The frantic chittering as they wriggled through gaps, eager to pour into the chamber, oblivious to the danger mere inches away.

The torch, its flickering flame hungrily licking at the splintered wood of the crates. The acrid scent of sulfur thick in the air, the strange black powder packed tightly within.

Then—

Boom.

The force of it would have ripped through the chamber like a thunderclap from the gods, turning stone, flesh, and bone into unrecognisable fragments. The tunnels, already unstable, would have crumbled in on themselves, burying whatever remained beneath tons of rock and dust.

No one could have survived that.

No witnesses. No one to report back. No one to know he had ever been down there.

For the first time since he had clawed his way back to daylight, Grashok let out a slow breath. He hadn't planned it, but fate—or sheer dumb luck—had just wiped away the evidence of his presence.

But the implications still gnawed at him.

What had the Ratkin been doing down there? Why were those crates there in the first place? And, more importantly—what might have been the plan for using that black powder?

Nyxie dropped to one knee beside him, her expression a mix of shock and concern.

“What in the depths was that?” she murmured, eyes darting to the collapsed tunnel.

Grashok exhaled slowly, still catching his breath.

“Trouble,” he rumbled.

Beside him, the goblin let out a wheezing cackle. “I volunteered!” he declared proudly, grinning despite the mud smeared across his face.

Grashok pushed himself upright, shaking the grime from his arms as his warriors gathered around, their gazes flickering between him and the ruined hole. Skarn shoved his massive head against Grashok’s shoulder, letting out a huff that was half concern, half reproach. His ears flicked back, as if scolding his master for stumbling into such chaos.

Grashok ran a hand through the thick fur, sighing. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Nyxie crouched beside him, her eyes flicking between him and the ruined tunnel, worry for him shining through. “What in the abyss happened down there?”

Grashok wiped a slick of sweat and grime from his brow, his expression grim. “Ratkin,” he said, his voice low and edged with frustration. “A lot of them. More than we expected.”

A murmur ran through the gathered warriors. Sylrith, having just rejoined them after escorting the ex-captives to Ingunde, crossed her arms. “You’re certain?”

Grashok met her gaze, his own dark and unwavering. “They were already digging through when I got out. If that explosion did its job, then we got lucky. But we can’t count on it.”

A heavy silence settled over them.

Nyxie’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Then we need to move. If they survived, they’ll be coming—and I’d rather not be standing here when they do.”

Grashok nodded, pushing himself to his feet. His grip tightened around Soulrend. “If the Ratkin have tunnels this close to Ingunde and the river, they’re planning something big.” He cast a glance toward the horizon. “And we’re not going to wait around to find out what.”

The goblin volunteer, still sprawled in the dirt, lifted his head. “So… uh, no second rescue mission? No more tunnels?” He forced a grin. “Because, y’know, I already volunteered once—”

Nyxie shot him a sharp glare. “Get moving.”

The goblin scrambled to his feet with a quick, exaggerated salute before scurrying to join the others.

Grashok’s voice cut across the bustle, firm but carrying warmth. “Hold, goblin.” The volunteer froze, wide‑eyed, as Grashok stepped forward. “You showed courage when others hesitated. That matters. A clan thrives on bravery as much as strength.”

He reached to his side and drew forth the fallen brigand leader’s weapon—the War Axe of the Fallen. Its edge still gleamed faintly, a relic of the battle just won. Grashok extended it toward the goblin. “Take this. You earned it. Carry it with pride, and let it remind the others what courage looks like.”

The goblin’s hands trembled as he accepted the weapon, cradling it as though it were sacred. Awe spread across the watching goblins, their eyes wide, murmurs rippling through the ranks. Nyxie’s stern expression softened into a smile as she watched the moment unfold.

Grashok exhaled and turned to his warriors. “Double the pace. Weapons ready. We head for the dungeon—now.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The steady, controlled march became urgent, purposeful. Goblins hurried the livestock forward, warriors tightened their formation, eyes sweeping the treeline, and the captives—both freed and bound—were urged along with sharper commands.

Grashok stole one last glance at the collapsed tunnel, his gut twisting with unease. Then he turned and moved on.