The Spoils of Victory

The battlefield still hummed with the echoes of violence. Dying embers from torched tents smouldered in the night air, casting a flickering glow over the carnage. Groans of the wounded, the whimpering of terrified prisoners, and the occasional triumphant laugh from one of his warriors filled Grashok’s ears as he surveyed the aftermath.

His forces had triumphed. The brigands were shattered. Those who still lived knelt before him, bound and trembling. Some were his captives—women and those who had shown magical aptitude, their wrists tied securely. Others had been freed—prisoners the brigands had kept for their own cruel purposes, now standing uncertainly in the midst of their goblin liberators.

His troops moved efficiently, directed by Snippa and Sylrith. They corralled livestock—thick-furred goats and sturdy pack mules—while others gathered the spoils of war. Trade goods, stolen valuables, and crates of weapons were stacked into neat piles, ready to be transported. Amidst the organised chaos, a group of goblins nervously attempted to coax the more exotic animals into the column. They tentatively approached the massive Muskram, offering it handfuls of hay and speaking in soothing tones, trying to calm its aggressive nature. Nearby, another group of goblins struggled to guide the sleek, reptilian Duskwalkers, which darted anxiously back and forth, their forked tongues flicking in and out as they sensed the goblins' unease. Meanwhile, a trio of goblins gingerly prodded the hunchbacked Cave Bleaters, trying to urge them forward without triggering their ear-piercing honks. Despite the challenges, his forces knew their roles well; they had done this before, and their experience showed in the orderly fashion with which they prepared for departure.

Near the centre of it all, Nyxie and Zarukk stood over the hedge mage. The man, once so arrogant in his spell casting, now knelt in the dirt, his eyes wide with impotent fury. Nyxie had shoved a rag into his mouth, ensuring no whispered incantation could be uttered. Zarukk let out a snorting chuckle, his gnollish muzzle wrinkling with amusement.

Grashok stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the prisoners. Some cowered, others stared at him with defiance, but all knew their fate rested in his hands.

His eyes flicked over the battlefield once more, settling on a pile of heavy iron chains stacked against a makeshift holding pen. He strode toward them, picking one up and testing the weight in his hands. The brigands had been slavers. That much was obvious now. The thought filled him with a cold amusement. They had profited off the suffering of others—and now, by cruel irony, they would learn what it meant to wear their own shackles.

He allowed the moment to stretch, let the weight of his authority settle over them like a heavy cloak, before finally speaking.

"Chain them," he commanded, his voice carrying over the camp.

His goblins moved swiftly, fastening the brigand women together in a single line of iron links. Some tried to resist, but a sharp shove or the promise of a blade to the ribs quickly quelled any lingering defiance. The hedge mage and his lesser magic-wielders were given special attention—gagged and bound tightly to prevent any attempt at spellwork.

Nearby, Snippa and Sylrith directed the rounding up of the livestock, their sharp voices cutting through the din of the camp. Captured goats and mules were burdened with sacks of looted goods—bolts of cloth, barrels of preserved food, crates of weapons, and anything else deemed valuable enough to carry. Stolen horses stamped their hooves uneasily as they were laden with supplies, while a few reluctant duskwalkers had to be coaxed into moving, their sleek bodies tensing at every sudden noise. A lone muskram, its thick hide streaked with mud, let out a disgruntled snort as goblins strapped heavy bundles to its broad back. Even the cave bleaters, useless as they seemed, were herded together, their mournful honks echoing through the rain as Grashok’s forces worked with ruthless efficiency, stripping the camp of everything useful.

Grashok took it all in, but his attention turned toward a more uncertain sight—the freed prisoners.

He hadn’t planned on them.

Mostly Human men and women, once captives of the brigands, now stood in small, uneasy clusters. Some clung to one another, others watched his forces warily, as if expecting a new master to take the place of the old. Their eyes flicked to him, filled with questions and silent pleas.

Grashok felt a rare moment of uncertainty.

These were not his people. They were not his soldiers, nor his spoils. Yet, leaving them here in the wreckage of the camp felt… wasteful. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he considered his options.

Would he offer them freedom? Would he take them in? Or would he turn away and let the wilderness decide their fates?

He glanced at Nyxie and Sylrith, both waiting for his word.

"Well?" Nyxie murmured, watching him closely. "What do we do with them?"

Grashok remained silent, weighing the decision in his mind.

He strode toward the huddled prisoners, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. The moment they noticed his approach, fear rippled through them like a wave. Some shrank back, others averted their eyes, their bodies tense with expectation of cruelty.

Among them, a man stood protectively before his family—his threadbare tunic, once finely woven, now hung in tatters, the fabric stained with dirt and frayed at the edges. A woman clutched tightly at his side, her ragged priestess robes, once symbols of devotion, now reduced to little more than torn, weather-beaten scraps barely holding their shape. Faded embroidery of forgotten prayers traced the hem, though much of it was obscured by grime and dried blood. Behind the man’s legs, barely visible, a small child peered out with wide, fearful eyes. The boy’s tiny fingers clung to his father’s shredded cloak, his own tunic full of holes, too thin to keep out the cold. Yet, despite the terror reflected in his gaze, a spark of curiosity flickered within.

Grashok stopped a few paces away, watching them.

For a moment, he saw not a human child, but Rukk—his own son, safe in the dungeon, likely keeping the nursemaids on their toes. The thought softened something deep inside him.

He exhaled and spoke, his tone firm but absent of cruelty.

"You have done me no harm," he stated, his deep voice carrying over the silent captives. "And as such, I bear you no ill will."

Some of them blinked in surprise, as if struggling to comprehend his words.

"I will not see harm come to you," he continued. "You have a choice."

He folded his arms, watching their reactions carefully.

"My forces can escort you to Ingunde," he explained. "Return you safely to your kind. Or..." His gaze swept over the group. "If you have nowhere to go, if you would rather not return to a place that failed to keep you safe in the first place, then know this—I command a dungeon where many races, including humans, live. They are treated as equals, not slaves. If you choose, you may come with us. You will be protected. You will be given a place among us."

Murmurs spread among the prisoners, uncertainty warring with hope.

The father held his wife closer, but his grip on her was not one of rejection—it was of desperate consideration. The child, still peering at Grashok, tilted his head, as if trying to understand this strange monster who spoke of choices rather than death.

Grashok let them process his words.

"You do not need to decide now," he said. "But you will, soon."

Then, he stepped back, allowing them the space to talk amongst themselves.

Behind him, Nyxie and Sylrith watched, exchanging a glance before looking back at him.

“Kindness,” Nyxie murmured with a small smile. “I didn’t expect to see you show it so openly… but it suits you.”

Grashok’s gaze lingered on the prisoners, his voice low but steady. “They’ve suffered enough. If I can give them safety, a place where they’re not hunted or broken, then that is strength worth having. A clan is strongest when its people feel protected, not afraid.”

And with that, he turned, leaving them to their decision.

As the last embers of the burning brigand camp faded behind them, Grashok signalled for the column to move. Their return journey had begun, though it was far from a triumphant march. The weight of their spoils—livestock, trade goods, and wealth—slowed them, and the prisoners, both those freed from the brigands and those taken captive, made for a cumbersome procession. Unlike their swift and silent approach the night before, their movement now was noisy, cumbersome, and vulnerable.

The animals bleated and snorted as they were driven forward, hooves churning the damp earth. The captured brigand women shuffled along in chains, some staring ahead with blank resignation, while others cast dark, defiant glares at their captors. The magic users among them, gagged and bound, had their hands secured behind their backs to prevent them from attempting any last-ditch spells. Among the freed captives, Grashok spotted the human family—the father keeping a protective arm around his wife while their child clung to his side, eyes darting nervously at the monstrous figures surrounding them.

As the column trudged forward, a goblin soldier passing by caught sight of the wide-eyed human child peeking out from behind his father’s legs. With a mischievous grin, the goblin slowed his pace, tilting his head and contorting his face into an exaggerated, comical grimace—his tongue sticking out, eyes rolling wildly. For a heartbeat, the child stared in stunned silence, then a giggle burst free, bright and unexpected. The goblin chuckled in return, giving a toothy grin before trotting off to rejoin his unit, leaving behind a flicker of warmth amid the wary tension of the march.

Grashok walked at the head of the column, Skarn padding silently at his side. The great wolf was restless, his ears flicking at every distant sound, his nose wrinkling as if scenting something on the wind. That alone was enough to keep Grashok on edge. His forces had won a decisive victory, but they were still in contested territory, and they were not the only predators lurking in the night.

Nyxie, Snippa, and Sylrith walked just behind him, each keeping a careful eye on different aspects of the march.

“This would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush,” Snippa murmured, her sharp eyes scanning the darkened treeline. “We’re slow, loud, burdened. If the Ratkin were going to strike, this is when they’d do it.”

Grashok grunted, his grip tightening on Soulrend’s hilt. The Ratkin had been a looming concern for some time now, but their absence was almost more worrying than their presence. They were scavengers and opportunists, yet none had shown themselves in numbers.

“This should be their path of advance,” he muttered. “One of the few places they can cross the river. If they were mustering a force, they’d have to move through here.”

Sylrith frowned, crossing her arms. “It’s possible they’ve found another crossing point.”

“Or they’re waiting,” Nyxie added. “We assume they should be here because it makes sense to us. But maybe they’re thinking further ahead than we give them credit for.”

Snippa let out a quiet huff. “Or maybe they’re watching. Letting us think we’re safe before they come for us later.”

No one had an answer for that.

Still, the march continued without incident. No skittering figures lurked at the edges of the firelight, no rustling brush betrayed the presence of hidden enemies. If the Ratkin were out there, they were keeping their distance.

The journey stretched on through the night, the pace slow but steady. The freed captives, exhausted and still wary of their monstrous rescuers, kept close to one another, flinching at the occasional barked order or sudden noise. The brigand prisoners, shackled and in some cases gagged, had no choice but to march, though some stumbled in their restraints.

Despite the tension in the air, no attack came. The further they travelled, the more it became clear that, for now, they were safe.

As dawn began to lighten the sky, the column crested a final ridge, and Grashok raised a fist, signalling a halt.

Before them, still shrouded in early morning mist, lay the hills that marked the final stretch before Ingunde. They were only a few hours from the town, and with the safety of cover still around them, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. Soon, Snippa and her scouts would need to break away again, returning to their hidden watch over the town.

Grashok turned to her, his expression unreadable. He had grown used to her presence beside him, and he did not like the thought of separating so soon after their reunion.

She smirked, though there was a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Grashok. You know I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I still don’t like it.”

Snippa stepped closer, her leather-clad body pressing against his. She reached up, her hand cupping the side of his face, her thumb brushing against his tusk.

"Snippa," he warned, his voice thick with desire.

Her grin grew wider as she pushed even closer, pressing her body against his. He felt the heat of her, the firmness of her muscles, the beat of her heart—felt it all through the layers of his own armour.

Snippa leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "But before I go," she whispered, "I think we should celebrate."

Without waiting for a response, she turned her face up to his and captured his lips in a kiss that was both fiery and tender, a promise and a taunt. Her hand slipped down his body, her touch as stealthy as a forest creature stalking its prey. When her slender fingers found their way into the folds of his britches, Grashok's eyes widened in surprise.

Her grip was firm, yet gentle, as she wrapped her hand around his cock, feeling it swell to life beneath her touch. A soft groan rumbled from his chest, muffled by their joined mouths. Snippa's smile grew against his lips as she felt his arousal grow. Her thumb traced the length of his shaft, sending a thrill of pleasure through him that made his knees threaten to buckle.

"Mm, I see someone's missed me," she murmured against his mouth, her voice low and playful. "Don't worry, my love, I'll be back soon to make sure you're thoroughly satisfied."

Withdrawing, Snippa stepped back and gave Grashok a lingering look that was part challenge, part promise. She knew she had him hooked, and she enjoyed every second of his discomfort. The hobgoblin's cock strained against his armour, a clear sign of his arousal. Nyxie couldn’t help but smirk at the sight, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"Snippa," Grashok growled, his voice strained with desire.

"What, darling?" she replied, her tone as sweet as honey. "Is something the matter?"

She stopped, and the teasing smile dropped away, to be replaced by a tender look. “We’ll see each other again soon,” she promised, her voice quieter now. “You have your path, and I have mine. But they always meet in the end.”

He exhaled heavily, then nodded. It was the way of things. But that didn’t make it easier.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Snippa and her scouts prepared to slip away into the undergrowth once more. Grashok watched her go, his eyes lingering on the seductive sway of her hips, the way her green leather corset‑dress clung to every curve of her lithe body like a lover's embrace. The skirt she wore was a clever piece of design, offering her the freedom of movement she needed while still hinting at the shapely ass beneath—an ass that had haunted his dreams for too long. Her knee-high boots revealing enough of her firm, muscular thighs to stir his loins.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Snippa and her scouts prepared to slip away into the undergrowth once more. Grashok watched her go, his eyes lingering on the seductive sway of her hips, the way her green leather corset‑dress clung to every curve of her lithe body like a lover's embrace. The skirt she wore was a clever design, offering freedom of movement while still hinting at the shapely ass beneath—one that had haunted his dreams for too long. Her knee-high boots revealed enough of her firm, muscular thighs to stir his loins.

It was a vision—round and firm, the muscles flexing and shifting with every step. The thought of her in his bed, legs wrapped around his waist, body arching as he claimed her, was almost too much to bear. But he knew he'd have to wait. For now, she had her duty, and he had his own path to follow.

He turned his gaze back to the distant human settlement.

There was still much to be done.

And beyond Ingunde, the Ratkin remained a shadow on the horizon, silent and unseen.