March

Exhausted from the fight and the **** march the goblins demand of you, you collapse after hours of treading through thick jungle. When you come to, you find yourself bound to a crude carrying device crafted from sticks and vines, which two of the goblins hoist triumphantly. Your gear and most of your clothing has been stripped from you, leaving only a few skimpy undergarments to preserve your modesty. The two goblins carrying you frequently try to grope and paw at your half-naked figure to your displeasure, but the leader seems to put a stop to it each time.

The jungle thins noticeably as you are carried inland, and you can make out the tip of an active volcano in the distance, smoke visibly belching from its peak. Heat and light filters through the treetops, and you can see that the sun is now high in the sky. Tribal drums can be heard in the distance, which by the more excited chattering of the goblins you take to mean you are approaching their encampment.

Sure enough, by twisting in your bindings you can make out the crude, ramshackle fortifications of a primitive tribe of tropical goblins. Trophies adorn the perimeter, from sun-bleached skeletons warding off enemies to lewd displays of bound women. You shudder as it dawns on you that you are their newest catch.

You are carried into the camp where throngs of cheering goblins greet your arrival. Beady eyes leer at you from every direction and you cringe as clawed hands grope at you as you are hoisted past. Eventually, you are deposited upon a raised dais dominated by a throne constructed of wood and bone, where a cruel-looking goblin sits imperiously. Two women, naked save for a few leaves and scraps of leather draped about their hips, fan the goblin king with large palm leaves.

One of the goblins cuts you from the sticks you were lashed to, and you are **** to kneel before the king under the urging of several spear-tips. The king rises, crude jewelry glittering in the bright sun, and the gathered crowd of goblins hushes reverently. A few words from the goblins' chief rouse the crowd again, and they cheer all the more excitably. The king then turns to you, his eyes glittering with intelligence.

"Welcome," the king says, speaking your language with surprising proficiency. "You are new to the Island, I can tell. Be thankful that the Bone Grit Tribe claims you... we only eat the male prisoners." The goblin king gives you a yellow, toothy grin, and you can't help but shudder.