The Scouting Mission Returns

Later that day, Snippa and the small group of scouts returned to the dungeon. Their arrival was marked by the subdued clatter of their gear as they stepped into the wide entrance hall, the torchlight from the wall sconces throwing long, shifting shadows across the stone. The moment Snippa spotted him, she launched herself at Grashok, peppering his face and jaw with eager kisses until he caught her by the waist and steadied her, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“What did you find?” he asked, his caring voice softening as she pressed her forehead briefly to his, holding him as though drawing strength from the simple contact.

For a heartbeat she stayed there, breathing him in, her fingers curling into the fabric at his sides. Then, with a reluctant exhale, she eased back from his arms. She glanced at her companions, her expression shifting from relief to something far more serious.

“The Ratkin are gone—for now,” she said, stepping back fully to face him. “Their side of the river is quiet. Too quiet. It looks like they’ve been driven back. But the land… Grashok, it’s changing.”

Her tone dropped, and the hall seemed to lean in.

“The river’s turned brackish, coated in a sickly green film. The trees are nothing but blackened husks clawing at the sky. The air stinks of rot and sulphur, thick enough to cling to your skin. Strange fungi glow in the mud, and the pools bubble like something beneath them is breathing. And there are whispers—faint, drifting on the wind. You can’t make out the words, but they sink into your bones.”

Grashok’s brow tightened. “What could cause that?”

Snippa swallowed. “Carrion Wraiths.”

The room fell silent. Even the goblins working along the walls paused, ears pricking at the name.

“We saw them,” she continued. “Ghostly, translucent things drifting above the ground. They feed on whatever’s dying. One of them consumed a wounded beast—it just… withered into dust.”

Grashok turned to the Elder, who had been listening quietly. “Elder. What do you know of them?”

The Elder stepped forward, his staff tapping softly against the stone. “Carrion Wraiths are born from blood‑soaked earth and the cries of the slain. Where battles end in rage and pain, they rise. Blackwater Crossing has become fertile ground for them.”

His milky eyes seemed to look beyond the hall. “If left unchecked, they will claim the land. They are drawn to conquest and despair. Soon, Blackwater Crossing may belong to the dead.”

Grashok frowned. “And the Ratkin? Did they flee because of the Wraiths?”

“It seems so,” Snippa said. “Their camps were abandoned—fires cold, supplies left behind. Whatever drove them out must have terrified them. And after the hiding we gave them—us and that infernal Bog Lurker—they were already weakened. I’m guessing they didn’t have the strength, nor the will, to stand their ground once the Wraiths appeared.”

Grashok rubbed his chin. “If the Ratkin fear them, they won’t return soon. But if Blackwater becomes a nest of undead, that’s a threat to us as well.”

The Elder nodded. “The land is poisoned. Cleansing it will be difficult, but leaving it to fester will be far worse.”

Grashok’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll need a plan. Elder, I want you to research ways to deal with them. There has to be something we can do.”

The Elder bowed his head. “As you command, Big Boss.”

Grashok turned back to Snippa. “At least for now, Blackwater Crossing is blocked to the Ratkin. They can’t cross directly into our lands. That leaves the west or the east. The Xvarts to the west will make noise if anything stirs.”

His expression darkened. “But to the east lies Ingunde. They won’t see it coming. If the Ratkin push that way—or if the Wraiths drift—they’ll be caught in the storm.”

Snippa’s gaze sharpened. “Should we send word to Ingunde?”

The Elder shook his head. “Humans are distrustful. They may see us as a threat.”

Grashok’s jaw tightened. “Then we watch. If danger moves toward them, we act—whether they trust us or not.”