The Storm and the Struggle

The rain began as a light drizzle, barely noticeable against the steady march. Within an hour, it had become a punishing deluge, turning the dirt path into a slick, treacherous mire. Wind tore through the trees, snapping at cloaks and driving the cold deep into their bones. The steady rhythm of marching feet dissolved into the wet squelch of boots fighting the sucking ground.

Grashok pulled his cloak tighter, watching the storm grind his column down. What had already been a slow journey became an agonising slog. Goblins cursed as they slipped and stumbled, struggling to keep the livestock moving. The bound magic users fared worse, their feet sliding out from under them again and again. When they fell, they were dragged upright—sometimes roughly, sometimes with weary patience. Even the nimble Xvarts found themselves mired to the knees, their small legs swallowed by the churned earth.

Mud coated everything. It clung to boots and cloaks, streaked faces, plastered hair flat. Those who fell rose again dripping with it, armour and clothing heavy with sodden filth. Captives could do little to shield themselves; shackled hands left them helpless to stop their faces hitting the ground. The air reeked of wet earth, sweat, and the sour edge of fear.

The livestock struggled worst of all. Goats bleated in distress, hooves sliding out from under them. Oxen and horses strained against their handlers, flanks streaked with mud as they fought to stay upright. Even the massive Muskrams, usually unstoppable, sank deep into the mire with each step, lowing in discomfort. More than once, a goblin was yanked clean off his feet, vanishing into the mud with a furious curse.

Nyxie finally lost her footing. She hit the ground with a sharp cry, her plunging brown top and tartan mini‑kilt instantly plastered in thick sludge. Mud streaked her soft green skin and tangled in her wild dark curls, dripping from the tattoos that spiralled along her arms and back. She pushed herself up, stockings and high‑heeled boots caked in filth, and spat a string of curses.

“By the gods, I swear when we get back I’m crafting a spell just to scour this muck from me. A cleansing ward, a mud‑banishing charm—anything!” She flicked sludge from her fingers with disgust, silver earrings glinting faintly as she glared at the storm as though it had personally insulted her. A few goblins nearby chuckled nervously, though none dared laugh loud enough to draw her ire.

Only the great Rock Troll seemed unfazed. He trudged on without pause, thick hide shedding the rain, though even he grunted when the mud swallowed his massive feet.

Grashok pressed forward, muscles burning as he steadied a wayward ox that nearly toppled a cart. The storm hammered down with a cold persistence that seeped into bone and spirit alike.

By late afternoon, the march had slowed to a miserable crawl. Darkness crept in early beneath the storm‑heavy sky, the world reduced to a grey blur of rain and shadow. Even with torches, visibility was nearly gone.

Grashok clenched his jaw. His warriors were spent. The livestock were faltering. The captives were barely upright. And the storm had swallowed the world around them.

They couldn’t see.

He hated stopping, but there was no choice. Pushing on would cost lives.

With a deep growl of frustration, he raised a hand.

“We make camp here,” he called, his voice cutting through the storm. “Find ground that won’t drown us.”

A ripple of exhausted relief moved through the column. But their reprieve was short-lived.

Setting up camp in this downpour proved almost as gruelling as the march itself. The sodden ground refused to take stakes, forcing goblins and xvarts alike to drive them deeper with curses and raw force. Makeshift shelters were cobbled together, skins and tarps strung up against the wind, though they provided little true comfort. Fires sputtered and hissed, struggling against the rain, with only a handful managing to take hold under the most determined efforts.

The livestock were secured as best as possible, though some beasts still shivered and huffed in misery. The prisoners were forced into a tight cluster under watchful eyes, too drained to attempt escape, even if their hands had been free.

A handful of determined goblins managed to coax a few fires to life, shielding the flames with their bodies, but most efforts ended in wet sputtering failure.

The Xvarts, smaller and hardier, fared slightly better. They worked together in tight groups, securing their sleeping areas efficiently. One particularly stubborn Xvart, his blue skin streaked with mud, crouched over a smouldering pile of twigs, growling at it until a weak flame finally took hold. A handful of determined goblins managed to coax a few fires to life, shielding the flames with their bodies, but most efforts ended in wet sputtering failure.

The prisoners were forced into a tight, miserable huddle, their bindings making it impossible for them to properly shield themselves from the elements. One magic user, drenched and shivering, finally slumped sideways, her strength giving out. A goblin guard grumbled and hauled her upright into a seated position, propping her against a post so she wouldn’t pitch forward into the muck and drown. He secured her gently but firmly, muttering curses as he worked, more out of frustration than cruelty.

Even Skarn, Grashok’s great wolf, was miserable. He paced near Grashok’s tent, his fur slick with rain, letting out occasional huffs of displeasure. He hated the storm almost as much as the goblins did.

Grashok strode through the sodden camp, overseeing the final preparations. He doubled the guard, positioning sentries in a wide perimeter. The rain would dampen sound, and he wouldn’t risk an ambush in this mess. Goblins perched in what trees they could still climb, their sharp eyes peering into the gloom.

At last, with the camp as secure as it could be, Grashok allowed himself a moment to breathe. The fires sputtered weakly under the relentless rain, casting flickering shadows across the sodden ground. Goblins huddled under makeshift shelters, their exhaustion palpable, while the livestock muttered and shifted uneasily in their pens. Despite the hardship of the march, there was a quiet sense of relief—at least for now, they could rest.

Nearby, Nyxie and Sylrith approached, both drenched and bone-weary, their usual sharpness dulled by fatigue. They exchanged glances before looking to him.

"We need to set the watch," Nyxie murmured, rubbing at her temples.

Sylrith folded her arms, though even that small motion seemed sluggish. "The goblins are exhausted, but we can rotate small groups through the night. I’ll take the first shift."

Grashok shook his head. "No. Get some sleep, both of you. I'll take first watch."

Nyxie frowned slightly, but the protest never left her lips. Sylrith hesitated, then let out a breath and gave a small nod. The weight of the day was evident in their postures, and though they were proud, they were not foolish. They knew better than to argue.

"Wake me when you're done," Sylrith said, before turning towards her tent. Nyxie squeezed his arm briefly before she too disappeared into the darkness.

And so, Grashok remained.

Even as exhaustion gnawed at him, his mind refused to quiet. The Ratkin tunnels. The black powder. The explosion. The knowledge that something stirred beneath them, unseen but dangerous. His grip on Soulrend tightened as he scanned the night, the rain hammering down, the shadows stretching long.

He watched. He waited.

The night was a shroud of incessant rain and shivering shadows. Grashok stood sentry, his eyes piercing the veil of darkness that clung to the camp. The steady rhythm of rain pattered against the fabric of his tent, a mournful lullaby that constantly battled his vigilance. The campfire’s embers smouldered, their dance lost to the relentless downpour, leaving only a damp warmth to cling to. The goblins and Xvarts lay sprawled under their makeshift shelters, the captives shivering in their bonds. The livestock had quietened, their misery carried in the low, restless sounds drifting through the rain.

The hours crawled by like a slug through the mud, each moment a battle to keep his eyes open and his mind sharp. The rain had soaked everything—his armour, his cloak, his very spirit—but the Hobgoblin’s resolve remained unyielding. He knew that the quiet was deceptive. In the shadowed embrace of night, danger could come from any direction, swift and silent as the predators they’d encountered in the deep woods.

It was only when Sylrith’s soft footfall approached that he allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease, just slightly. She stepped into the light of the dwindling campfire, her skin beaded with rainwater, her silver hair plastered to her skull. Her eyes searched his, finding the unspoken question there. She nodded, confirming that she would take his place.

He handed her his spear with a quiet grumble of thanks, the wood feeling slick in his palm. Without a word, she took it, her grip firm and sure. Grashok knew she was as capable of keeping watch as he was, perhaps even more so. Her elven senses would be sharper in the dark.

He ducked into his tent, the flaps slapping against the mud. Inside, it was little more than a patch of damp canvas, the air thick with the scent of wet fur and leather. A single fur blanket lay crumpled on the ground, offering no comfort beyond the pretence of shelter. Grashok didn’t bother to strip down—his armour was already soaked, and the thought of peeling it away for cold fur was worse. He dropped heavily onto the blanket, his body aching with every movement. The fur clung to him, but exhaustion dulled the discomfort.

Skarn padded in after him, shaking the rain from his thick coat before circling close. The wolf pressed against Grashok’s side, sharing his warmth in the chill damp. A rough tongue licked at the hobgoblin’s cheek. Grashok grunted, half a laugh, and reached out to scratch behind Skarn’s ears, fingers working through the wet fur with gentleness. The wolf sighed, settling down against him, and together they huddled beneath the sodden blanket. The rhythm of Skarn’s breathing steadied him, and with Soulrend resting within arm’s reach, Grashok let the weight of exhaustion pull him into sleep.