Stonebarrow Region, 2301 AC

The hobgoblin grinned, his incisors creasing his bottom lip, giving his smile a dangerous look. He’d done everything just as he’d been taught and now his first command would be his first victory.

He studied the scene before him to be sure. A pit had been dug across the road, ten-foot-deep but not too wide, so that they wouldn’t have to dig out any carts or wagons. The bottom of the pit was lined with fire hardened stakes, not enough to kill but enough to slow down their prey. His squad of Dakhec Druul scouts were all well-hidden, having dug fox holes, covered their armour in muck and wrapped their weapons in cloth to stop them making noise. Every one of them was trained with the bow and had their weapons ready for their targets: the four hidden on what would become their prey’s flank had orders to strike down the casters and healers; his strongest fighters were concealed at the back, with orders to rush anyone at the front or, even better, who had fallen into the pit; and finally, the main meat of his squad, hidden nearby, flanking both sides of the track. Their orders were simple, fire two shots quickly and then join the melee, overwhelming their quarry.

And now, the hobgoblin could see their first catch: four Adventurers on horseback, so busy arguing incoherently that they had no idea they were about to spring his trap!

“You are fucking bonkers mate! Episode One is a pile of old shite!” one of them exclaimed.

“Nah, mate, nah! The choreography is first rate and Darth Maul is kick ass!” argued a magic user towards the back.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Tony here maaaa...!” squealed the healer type as he fell into the pit trap.

The hobgoblin didn’t even have to give the order, so well trained were his squad. Four arrows shot out of the treeline on either side of the Adventurers’ flanks, slicing easily through the robes of the caster at the back, immediately felling him.

At the front, four more goblinoids rushed the pit, two of them quickly dropping rocks onto the poor fool who had fallen in, with an audible crunch of breaking bone. The other two flanked the human fighter at the front. He was wearing full plate and the hobgoblin smiled at the thought of the other riches this party must hold.

The group around the hobgoblin leader sprang into action perfectly, firing two shots into the plate-wearing human. Shamefully, most of these had little effect, bouncing harmlessly off the thick armour but at least two of them found their mark and the Adventurer grunted in pain. Surging forward the rest of the squad joined the fighting.

That was when everything just, well, fell apart. The Adventurers recovered quickly from their surprise. The caster at the rear worked her arcane mischief and the four scouts hidden on the flank suddenly glowed with a bright light, marking their location instantly. She then set about shooting them with bolts of fire from her staff while a magical shield surrounded her, letting nothing else through.

The plated warrior uttered a quiet prayer and his wounds healed. After that, he seemed untouchable as he swung his greatsword in wide arcs, each strike a killing blow. In less time that it had taken for the hobgoblin to gain the advantage of surprise his forces had been destroyed.

Surveying the scene, the hobgoblin calmed himself, the battle wasn’t lost just yet. If he analysed the situation without panic, he knew he would be able to find a solution. Taking a moment, his brain working though the problem quickly, he called out his orders, “everyone, focus on the caster, that shield won’t last forev… ah!”

Searing pain shot up his back and the hobgoblin realised his mistake, he’d forgotten about the fourth Adventurer, the sneaky looking halfling! The same halfling that now had jammed a dagger in his kidney. By Druul the pain was incredible! And, as his vision started to go black, the goblin witnessed the utter destruction of his first command and heard the words that would change his life forever.

“Hey! Don’t let that one die, I have a plan for him.”

***

Portsmouth 2016

“What’s the point Tony? He’s just part of a random encounter, he’s not going to know anything.”

“Listen Dave, if I’m going to increase my Intimidation score, I’ve gotta practice on something.” Looking at the fifth person sitting at the table Tony directed his next words to Mike, their DM. “I chop the hobgoblin’s little toe off,” this said with a vicious grin.

Mike often wondered at the sanity and intelligence of his players and considered again whether or not it was really worth playing with them. He decided yet again to try and reason with Tony. “Usually, when you torture someone, in game I mean, obviously, you ask them a question before going straight to dismemberment.” Mike anticipated that he would be ignored but he felt he should at least try.

Showing his teeth in a grimace, Tony tried again, “I chop off the hobgoblin’s toe!”

“Right...” Mike sighed, “You chop off the hobgoblin’s toe, he now has only nine toes. Happy?”

“Is anyone going to bring me back from the dead?” requested Dave.

“Well, no mate. You’re the healer. Dunno what you’re doing falling in a pit trap, that was a total noob move mate,” responded Tony.

Mike seriously didn’t know why he invited Tony, he really was an utter prick.

Dave, valiantly, tried again, “But you’re a Paladin Tony. If you’re quick enough you can stabilise my character with Lay on Hands.”

Tony smiled wolfishly and looked towards the DM, opening his mouth to speak. “Sir Tarquin, third of his name and Paladin of Starm, The Mighty God of War…” pausing for dramatic effect, he turned his gaze, locking his eyes on Dave, “…loots the corpses,” he finished, chuckling to himself.

“Oh, burn Dave!” laughed Daphne, Tony’s girlfriend and the other reason Mike didn’t like Tony. If Tony was a prick, then Daphne was a… well, she was definitely no fun to play with either.

Dave’s face dropped, his eyes feverishly scanning his character sheet for something to save Podrick, his dwarven Cleric.

“What if I offered you my Gem of Storing, Tony? Or a thousand gold pieces, or my potions?” he pleaded.

“I don’t think you heard me right mate,” Tony’s grin was turning seriously nasty, “I said, ‘I loot the corpses’, all the corpses Dave, starting with your Cleric’s gold!” This showed his excitement.

This was what Tony played for, getting one over on the DM and the other players. And this was the moment Mike made his decision: after tonight he wasn’t playing with Tony or Daphne again. But, seeing Dave’s bottom lip start to tremble, Mike realised he’d have to step in, now.

“Right, and that’s the end of the campaign. Well done, you, er… beat the evil hobgoblin warlord and have saved the region. Great work guys. I’ll um… contact you about when the next game’s starting.”

“What? This is bullshit Mike, that can’t be the end of the campaign?” Tony’s tone became aggressive. “We’re gonna keep playing, Dave will just have to roll up another character.”

That was it. Mike wasn’t going to take this. He wasn’t going to be bullied in his own home, certainly not by someone whose dream was to deliver Chinese food and smoke pot his whole life! Taking a deep breath to steady his breathing, Mike planned out his next words carefully. “Tony, Daphne... you’re both fucktards!” he announced to the stunned silence of the players, “and I’ve had it with your shit. You’re right, the campaign’s not over but your part in it is. You’re not welcome in my house or in a game I run anymore.”

By this point Tony was on his feet, leaning menacingly over the table. Mike considered that perhaps he could have said all this after they’d left, maybe by text? But, it had just felt... right.

In the silence, the sound of Tony’s grinding teeth sounded like a rockfall. His face turned an unpleasant shade of puce, “Daphne, get our shit, we’re leaving.”

Daphne, who was in a state of shock, was slow to act.

“For fuck sake you dippy tart! I said get our shit!” screamed Tony and with that he stormed from the room and, wrenching the front door open, left. Daphne quickly grabbed her stuff and followed, neither of them bothering to shut the door behind them.

After a moment, Mike got out of his chair, crossed the room and closed the door, making sure he locked and bolted it. Coming back into the dining room he slumped back into his chair and took a deep, calming breath, realising that this was the first time he’d breathed since his last words.

“Fuckin’ hell Mike!” exclaimed Dave.

“Really, Mike. I’ve been waiting for you to do that since that thing in Pamor.” Jack, the final member of his gaming group, was normally as quiet as the characters he played. He was a great player too: always planned his moves to perfection, striking only when and where his Rogue could do the most damage. He worked for the MOD and Mike was pretty convinced that Jack was actually a spy.

“So, does that mean we’re not playing anymore?” asked Dave timidly. Dave was the newest player to Mike’s table. He was polite and kind and hadn’t so much chosen to play a Cleric as had been bullied into it by Tony. What he’d really wanted to play was a Paladin.

“I have a couple of colleagues that seemed keen to play. I held off inviting them while Tony and Daphne were still part of the party but now see no reason why I should not, with your consent of course Mike?” offered Jack.

“Please do Jack, please do,” the tight feeling in Mike’s chest relaxed.

“Jack. Do you think they’d mind if I played a Paladin for my next character?” requested Dave.

“I’m sure that’ll be fine. They, like me, seem to favour more subtle characters.”

Dave grinned, “in that case Mike, is the hobgoblin leader still alive?”

“Er, yeah. Why?” Mike had an intuition he knew where this was going but he thought he’d give Dave the opportunity to explain.

“I... I wanted to use the hobgoblin to make my next character. Is there still time to roll stats?” Dave’s face was beaming, his voice quivering with excitement.

“Dave, it’s only half seven. We have loads of time left.”

“Right, cool.” Dave grabbed a handful of six-sided dice and Mike handed him a blank character sheet.

“Ok, so first, is Strength, right?”

“Yep, rolling in order, Agility, Endurance, Intelligence, Wisdom and finally Charisma. Here, give me your sheet and I’ll write them down as you go. Oh, did you have a name in mind?”

“Yeah, I um, thought it’d be cool if I called him Ninetoes. To sort of put two fingers up to the Paladin who made him that way.”

Mike grinned, he liked Dave’s thinking, “Okay, start rolling buddy!”

“Cool, so first is… nine. Nuts, not a great start but I could use Agility weapons. Next, thirteen, okay better but not great. Endurance is twelve. Balls, but he’ll have a racial bonus of plus one so thirteen, still not epic for a Paladin. Int’s next, eighteen! Shit. Wisdom is fifteen and Charisma, this is the important one, seven! Oh crap.” Dave looked disheartened.

“Hey, with the racial Int bonus he’d have nineteen, he’d make a good Wizard with those stats.” Mike tried to bring back Dave’s enthusiasm.

“A hobgoblin Wizard? Nah, if it’s okay, I’d just like to make a totally new character.”

“Of course, mate. Whatever you like, let’s just get on with it and there might be some time to play tonight.” With those words, Mike stuffed the hobgoblin’s character sheet, half-filled in, into his dungeon master’s folder.

***

Many people think they know the story of how the idea for Velcro was first imagined. About how in 1941 a Swiss hunter noticed something attached to his trousers, looked at it under a microscope, and then Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt.

But in reality, or at least the version of it we exist in, they would be wrong.

Actually, two years earlier, a mile or so north of the small, Polish town of Mlawa, a young German man, named Franz Melzl, had a very odd dream. In this dream he’d witnessed, for a time, the space between this world and another and how those two worlds were bound.

He’d dreamed of this gap, this place between and had noticed that in a few places, strands from one place hooked themselves into the mess of strands of the other.

He observed that when these hooking strands pulled, the loops would shift, vibrating with energy. Each one of these bindings was individually weak, but the more that took hold, the stronger the bond became, until those above could control those below completely.

When Franz woke up, he’d likened what he’d seen to the burdock burrs he and his friends had played with in his youth, that they had thrown and ‘tagged’ one another with.

Then, Mr Melzl was shot in the head. Because a battlefield on the Eastern Front is nowhere to contemplate the metaphysical.

Now, in this place between places, some… thing? Some...one, directs her attention to one of these bindings. A binding that has only just connected, but has already ceased to hum with intent.

She had always been here, in this space between places and for time immemorial she had tended the bindings. They had sung such beautiful songs for such a long time.

Some of the bindings seemed to hum with vibrancy, such bindings always intrigued her and so she’d watch them, listening to their stories and, although she wasn’t supposed to, she’d even give the bindings the slightest ‘attunement’, helping them on their way.

And then, with a crescendo, their songs would be spent and she would slice gently through the binding, the loop to fall and the hook to move on to create another duet.

Recently, however, something had changed. The bindings all sang the same, dull tune, with little variation. Around and around the tune would go, never stopping, never changing and thus, she found herself rather useless and worse, bored.

So irregularly did she notice anything to intrigue her, that a new, burgeoning song had nearly brushed right passed her. But this song had been so… strong? … unique? … ugly. Rather than allow this binding to remain inert, she chose to strike, severing the link and sending both strands flailing back to their origins. The loop that fell now hummed with a new and powerful sound.

Instead of collapsing into the malaise of the other lifeless tunes, it stayed above, away, alone. It did not join the refrain around it, but vibrated with its own little theme.

And soon, those strands nearby began to take up this new melody.

***

The hobgoblin opened its eyes and sat up, a strange sound ringing in his ears. Then, immediately, he wished he hadn’t. His wounds reopened and a shock of pain sliced through him. Gingerly lying back down he decided to assess his situation more carefully.

Calming his breathing, he focussed on the location of his wounds. The most obvious was the stab wound to his side, this was what was causing him the most pain. Strangely, his foot hurt like a bastard as well. He didn’t remember that injury but he had been in a battle so…

It was strange, he’d been injured before. During his training to become Dakhec Druul he’d had to endure beatings, forced marches and prolonged periods of fasting. But the pain he was experiencing in his side was much, much worse. But that wasn’t what was strange, rather it was that he seemed to be able to block the pain out of his mind by sheer force of will and his mind was as clear as ever: if anything, it felt clearer, quicker even. He understood then and there, that if he remained calm and considered his situation carefully, he could come up with a solution that would keep him alive.

His first priority was to get a better idea of his surroundings and take stock of his available resources. With this in mind, he considered how best to raise himself from the ground. He reached across his body and felt for the stab wound. Although the pain was great, the external entry wound was small, likely from a dagger, the damage must be inside. What’s more, when he brought his hand in front of his face, there was only a little fresh blood on his fingers, probably from when he sat up; the rest was dried flakes. Good, that meant he could risk a little more movement.

Rolling slowly onto his front, he brought his knees under himself and, keeping his back as straight as possible, lifted himself up to a kneeling position. His foot hurt like crazy as it scrapped along the ground but didn’t appear to be bleeding badly.

Taking a moment, he drew a breath in deeply through his nose and then released the breath through his mouth, counting to ten on the exhale. This process calmed his heart rate and lessened the pain considerably. He couldn’t remember ever being taught to do this but it was certainly effective. Clearly, he was some kind of genius.

Opening his eyes, he surveyed the site of their ambush. Around him lay the bodies of his squad, most of them in various states of dismemberment, lying in a circle around where the plate-mailed warrior had been surrounded. Around them lay their weapons and beyond the bodies, the pit trap.

Working through the problem logically he needed to get to those bodies. Each squad of Dakhec Druul had a member trained in basic healing. If he was lucky, the Adventurers would have left their meagre supplies behind, seeing such things as invaluable in comparison to their own gear.

Keeping his back as straight as an arrow, the hobgoblin crawled slowly towards the corpses of his men in search of resources to keep himself alive. He’d mourn his comrades later.

Slowly, steadily, keeping his eyes tight shut, he covered the thirty feet between himself and, what he hoped was, his salvation. It took what seemed hours, the pain excruciating, despite his best efforts to keep his mind occupied and not dwell on it. Eventually, his hand brushed one of the bodies.

Opening his eyes, he saw one of his squad. Strangely he had no memory of the hobgoblin. He recognised him as a hobgoblin under his command but couldn’t picture the fellow in his past or conjure up a name. Come to think of it, apart from his training, he couldn’t remember much about his own past, except his name, Ninetoes. But he’d got that name because someone had chopped off his pinky toe, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d hit his head. Hard.

One at a time, he checked over the bodies of his squad mates. As he came to the final body near the pit, this one missing its arm below the elbow and its intestines spilling out into the floor, he accepted that none of these bodies was that of the squad medic. He’d have to check over the other bodies, further afield. He cringed at the thought, not sure if he had it in him to crawl that far without collapsing.

It was in that moment that the clouds parted and the sun’s light flashed off of something in the pit. Of course, the Healer! If the Adventurers hadn’t looted his body, he was bound to have something useful on him. Ninetoes crawled to the pit’s edge and looking down could see the body of the dwarven healer, still intact. Mostly. More importantly, the dwarf still had a bag strapped to his back.

Now, of course, the next problem was how to get it. He’d never be able to lift the body out in his current state and, even if he could fashion some sort of hook, he’d never get the bag off the corpse. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to go down into the pit. And that was going to hurt, like a motherfucker!

Ninetoes pondered the problem for a while but he could see no way to finesse it. He crawled to the far side. When he’d had his squad dig the pit, he’d had them leave one end free of spikes to allow them to access and loot bodies. They’d even tied a rope to a nearby tree, coiling and hiding its length in a bush. Ninetoes took a moment to find this and then prepared himself for what he knew was going to be painful. Again, he took the time to breathe deeply, centring himself. This time he found it even easier and that the pain was lessened even more.

When he was as ready as he’d ever be, he began his descent. He swung his legs into the pit and, taking his weight with his arms, carefully levered himself down into the pit, sliding the rope between his hands. The pain was manageable but he’d need to be quick or what little strength he had left would not be enough.

Just as he had that thought, the earth beneath his foot gave out and both feet slipped into open space. For a moment his whole weight was held by only his arms. And then… it wasn’t.

He fell. Hard. And rolled into the haft of one of the stakes. The wound in his side tore open, fresh blood soaking his skin. The edges of his vision began to darken and he knew he had little time.

Rolling onto his hands and knees, his side was screaming in pain. Ninetoes ignored it, he had to get to the dwarf’s bag or he was done for. There, in front of him, the Healer’s corpse lay face down, a fist-sized dent in his cheek where the rock had caved-in his face. Ignoring the grizzly mess, Ninetoes rolled the body over and, with no time to lose, tore the rucksack open and searched its contents by feel alone.

He heard a slight clinking and his hands moved over two hard and rounded objects. He grabbed them and pulled them into the light. In his hand were two small vials, each full of dark and viscous liquids, one red and the other silver.

He’d heard of potions before of course, they were prime loot, prized by Adventurers everywhere, but he’d never seen one and had no idea whether either was useful to him or not.

Except, he did. The reddish one was a potion of healing. Without another thought, the pain making his fingers shake, he removed the cork and upended the vial into his mouth. A warm feeling spread throughout his body for the first time since he’d woken up.

And then he collapsed, letting the exhaustion take him.

***

Some time later, Ninetoes awoke to the sound of snuffling. The sun had set, meaning he’d slept for at least a few hours. For a human it would be dark but his goblinoid eyes allowed him to see in all but the blackest of nights. He checked himself over. He was stiff and uncomfortable but the potion seemed to have done its work and his wounds had healed.

The snuffling came closer and looking up he saw a snout moving along the pit’s edge. Then, to its left another, and another. Ninetoes didn’t need to see anymore, there was only one creature those snouts could belong to: dire rats. From the sounds of it, there was a whole plague of the filthy things! Normally he’d be unbothered by such creatures. The trainers would catch the beasts and use them to help condition the recruits, throwing the soldier in a cage with the creatures armed only with only a sharp blade and his wits.

But, in his current state and stuck down this blasted hole, a swarm of dire rats could present a problem. Checking his hip, he realised his sword was missing from its scabbard, he must have dropped it in the fighting. No matter, the dwarf had carried a mace, he could brain them as easily as he could stab them.

Ninetoes hefted the mace. It felt unnaturally heavy in his hands, he must be more tired than he thought. He must not let this fight last too long.

By this time the rats’ heads had crested the edge of the pit. They’d been drawn by the smell of the dwarf but, finding him, they had clearly decided he was fresher prey. They were chattering to each other and to Ninetoes it seemed as though they were trying to goad each other into attacking first.

Ninetoes placed his feet as he’d been taught, shoulder width apart and knees bent. His first swing would be the most important, if he couldn’t kill the first one quickly enough, the others would seize the opportunity to rush him.

He turned, trying to keep all the dire rats within sight but it was impossible in such a tight space. As soon as he turned his back on it, the largest one pounced. It was attempting to land on his back but mistimed its jump and bounced off of his side, its claws grazing him as it scrabbled for purchase, falling awkwardly on its side. Ninetoes winced in pain but didn’t miss his opportunity.

Grasping the haft of the mace with both hands he swung it over his head aiming for the monster’s exposed flank. As the head of the weapon cannonballed through the air, he knew his aim was true and that this would be a killing blow.

Except, when it made contact, there was no satisfying crack of the creature’s ribs breaking, as he’d expected. Instead it seemed, his blow had barely injured the beast and within seconds it had righted itself and was preparing for a second attack. Ninetoes had no idea what could have happened; he’d killed hundreds of these things and his attacks had never been so easily shrugged off, this creature was clearly something more than a simple dire rat.

As he contemplated this, the beast leapt for him again, this time managing to sink its teeth into his thigh, drawing blood. He screamed with rage and backhanded the mace in the rat’s hind quarters. The creature barely blinked, instead sinking its teeth deeper into his flesh. As Ninetoes blanched at the creature’s strength, another successfully performed the leaping attack of the first, landing squarely on Ninetoes’ shoulders and tearing off a mouthful of his ear.

Again, Ninetoes screamed, only this time in fear and outrage. He was going to be killed by dire rats. Dire rats for fuck’s sake!

No, NO! This was not happening. Ninetoes dug deep and grabbing the first rat by the scruff of its neck he wrenched it off of his leg and threw the creature bodily across the pit. Luck was apparently on Ninetoes’ side in that moment because the rat flew directly onto one of the upright stakes. The sharpened wood piercing its side and running the beast through.

Emboldened by his success, Ninetoes reached up to grab the second creature but got bitten for his trouble. Wincing through his pain, Ninetoes forced his hand further into the monster’s mouth, tearing his own skin as his hand grated along its teeth. Twisting his hand, he closed his fingers around the thing’s bottom jaw and pulled. In pain and fear, the rat leaped away rather than be dragged by its mouth.

The struggle had now become one of endurance. Who would give up first? The rat made its play and clenched its jaw down tighter. Ninetoes could feel its teeth gripping and grinding on bone and he screamed again. This seemed to have been a day of screaming and it had been a very. Long. Day.

Ninetoes had had it with this shit. This morning, his first command had been destroyed by a bunch of bastard Adventurers! Then, someone had cut off his fucking toe! And now? Now he was being bested by a mob of mother fucking dire rats! Well, that. Was. It!

He punched the rat in it’s ratty fucking face. And then, he punched it again. And again. Repeatedly punching out all his anger at this shitty day straight into the thing’s stupid. Fucking. Face!

Breathing heavily, Ninetoes looked down at his mangled hand, the bloody and lifeless rat dangling limply by what was left of its face. Around him he could hear squealing. The other rats were running away, driven mad with fear.

Ninetoes heaved in huge, wracking breaths. The adrenalin and exhaustion finally catching up to him. Prying the disgusting creature from his hand he surveyed the damage. His hand was ruined. Between the dire rat’s teeth and his own rage, great gouges had been torn across the palm and back of his hand.

Wasting no more time, Ninetoes wrestled the dwarf’s pack from the corpse’s shoulders and emptied its contents onto the pit’s floor. There was little of immediate interest at first: some rations; a trinket or two; a pot of oil; a tinder box; a leather pouch and some rope. With his good hand Ninetoes grabbed a cake of hardtack and ripped off a huge bite, hardly chewing before swallowing and tearing off another bite. This second mouthful he chewed more sensibly, emptying the leather pouch while he did so.

Perhaps the Gods were smiling on the unfortunate goblin after all. The pouch contained linen bandages and healing herbs. What’s more, they were of far superior quality to those his squad had been carrying.

He couldn’t prepare the herbs properly one-handed, so stuffed them instead into his mouth, chewing them into a gummy wad. They tasted bitter and nasty but he could feel them working immediately. Placing the mixture onto the wound, Ninetoes carefully wrapped his hand in one of the bandages. He actually did a pretty good job of it, much better than he could ever remember doing it in training.

With that sorted, he packed up the dwarf’s gear and then considered its armour. The dwarf wore a breastplate of good quality, on closer inspection, almost certainly made of Ffestynian steel! It was held in place with straps at the shoulders and waist. It wouldn’t be horrific to remove. After the day he’d had, however, Ninetoes wasn’t sure he had the energy left to try.

Greed won out in the end. The breastplate was worth real gold and a goodly amount of it. Plus, if he wore it, it wouldn’t feel so heavy. Still, working with only one good hand, the armour took some time to remove and he was unable to do up all the straps. The dwarf had also been a stout bastard and there was space between his stomach and the plate, but it would serve its purpose well enough.

Ninetoes wasn’t much looking forward to climbing the rope with his ruined hand and so instead he fashioned a set of simple steps using two of the stakes and the dwarf’s corpse. Getting out was still a painful struggle, achieved only with a mixture of screaming, prayer and swearing, but he finally managed.

By this time, the sun was again rearing its bright and cheerful face above the horizon. Mother fucking thing... Ninetoes took in the scene of the battle and realised that he would not be heading back to his village anytime soon.

Checking over each of the bodies he noticed something strange. Each of the hobgoblins had exactly the same items on him, apart from their weapons. Twelve silver coins, fifteen copper coins and a day’s worth of rations. He pocketed all this, just so that it didn’t go to waste, of course.

Once he was sure the corpses had nothing left of any use or value, he dragged their bodies into the pit. His squad had been made up of sixteen hobgoblin scouts, including himself. When all fifteen bodies were in the pit, he set about dousing them with the lamp oil that he found in the dwarf’s pack. The oil caught quickly and the bodies began to cook. Ninetoes turned away from the pit, doing his best to ignore the fact that the smell of the roasting corpses reminded him of pork.

Ninetoes didn’t look forward to returning to his people. While squads were lost occasionally, losing the entirety of his first command and worse, being the only survivor, was worthy of punishment. He’d be stripped of his command to be sure, but he worried what else he might face.

With few other options available, however, he set out for home, angling his course by the sun. His situation would only be worse were he to have been found to not only to have failed so horribly, but also to have shirked his duty to report on the disaster.