After the council ended, Sven and Malcolm parted with the other Goblins, who headed off down various tunnels. Before long, they were the only council members left in the entrance hall. The guards still stood their post outside the council chamber doors, eyeing Malcolm loathingly.

"So... What happens now?" Malcolm asked.

"It depends, human! Do you wish to spend the night in jail?"

"No... I...."

Sven interrupted him. "Then you'd better be comin' with me. These tunnels can be dangerous to those who are walkin' alone, even more so for a human." Sven strolled over to one of a half-dozen tunnels branching off from the room. Glancing around for a final time, Malcolm hurried after him.

They continued down the tunnel for almost an hour, occasionally making turns into other branches. Malcolm's head spun just trying to figure out where they were in relation to the council chamber. Unlike the passage they had entered Toehalla through, these corridors twisted and doubled back upon themselves. This place is a maze! How does Sven manage to remember it all?

At last, the passage opened up into a long natural cave. Illuminated by a singular torch by the doorway, the stalagmites cast fang-like shadows on the walls. Once he was inside the cave, Sven grabbed the torch, swinging it around to get his bearing. A rocky path meandered around large stalagmites rising from the cave floor.

To Malcolm's surprise, small wooden doors dotted the walls, most no higher than his chest. Toe Goblin homes! he realized. On either side of the doors were small glassless open windows. Malcolm did his best to glance inside them as he passed, but in the dim torch light, he could only catch a glimpse of more grey stone.

Despite there being a home every hundred or so feet, none had any form of light on. It was obvious some doors hadn't been opened in months, as they were covered with thick cobwebs, and the window sills were coated in fine dust. Combined with the flickering light, the whole place made Malcolm shiver. It felt as though he was in was some type of eerie graveyard, rather than a place where you would live.

"Where is everyone?" Malcolm asked.

"Why should I be knowin'?" Sven replied, shrugging. "We Toe Goblins only come back to Toehalla for emergencies, or to drop off a load of toes. I only be stayin' here a week or two a year, and that's longer than most."

"So what happens to your... homes when you're gone?"

"Nothin', I guess. They certainly ain't goin' anywhere."

They continued on, passing the abandoned homes. Finally, Sven veered off the winding path, stopping in front of a small wooden door. Reaching into pouch on his belt, he pulled out a small key, and used it to unlock the door. Swatting away the cobwebs, he waved for Malcolm to enter.

Once he had squeezed through the little doorway, Malcolm looked around Sven's home. The ceiling opened up, and he was able to stand comfortably, which was a welcome surprise. The room was quite small and sparsely furnished, containing only a table, chair, tiny Goblin-sized cot, and singular shelf carved into the stone.This is almost sad. Malcolm realized. But, I suppose it is their choice to live like this...

Hanging his torch in a hidden notch in the wall, Sven grabbed a stack of thin green wafers from the shelf. They appeared to be made of some kind of fibers, closely pressed together.

"Eat up!" The Goblin said, grinning as he held a few of the wafers up. Malcolm grabbed one from him, and tentatively took a small bite. It crunched between his teeth and bits of grit spread around his mouth, pricking his gums.

"Not bad." He mumbled through the food. "What's it made of?"

"Cave moss. It's harvested and mixed with minerals from these rocks. Lasts forever if you be storin' it right."

They continued their meager meal in silence, quietly munching away at the moss. Sven sat in the small chair, while Malcolm crouched in the corner, trying to be as comfortable as he could. The floors and walls had been chiseled smooth, but they bore small notches from the tools. When they had eaten all the wafers, Sven pushed his chair back against the wall, and sighed.

"Do humans be learnin' of the Night of the Living Toes?"

Puzzled, Malcolm stared at him. "No? Should we be?"

"Of course!" Sven laughed. "It only be the single most important story to ever exist, and perhaps the only one ever worth tellin'. For it is how we Toe Goblins came to be...."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several thousand years ago, there was a village. It was an ordinary village, full of normal humans doing normal human things. At the edge of the town lived a nasty old witch, older than anyone could remember. She rarely left her hut and garden, but when she did, it was certainly for some diabolical reason.

One late summer day, a group of children, in their infinite wisdom, decided to play a joke on her. So, they burned her garden of herbs; the ingredients for her potions. Enraged, she used her dark magic to cast a spell upon the people of the village, cursing them with a fate worse than death itself... the loss of their toes. As farmers who were always on their feet, the loss of the toes greatly limited their movement capabilities.

The village woke up the next morning toe-less, with their feet healed as though nothing was wrong. But something most certainly was wrong. They didn't have toes! Suspecting the witch's handiwork, they mobbed her house, but she was gone, never to be seen again.

Assuming this was the end of things, the village returned to as close to normal as they could, silently mourning their losses. For three long weeks they worked, forcing their minds to forget the tragedy that had befallen them. Nonetheless, they just couldn't shake the nagging thought, What if this is just the beginning? Why would the witch just take the toes, then leave?

It was decided that the village would gather for the first time since that fateful night, in celebration of an mid autumn full moon. It would be a welcome distraction from the weeks of labor. When the night arrived, the whole village gathered on the common, and they sang and danced for hours. As the festivities went on into the night, the feeling of despair was slowly replaced with hopefulness. It had been three whole weeks since the incident. If something more was going to happen, then it would have already. Right?

As the festivities began to wind down near midnight, the first groups departed the town square. Waving their goodbyes, they stepped into the shadows, never to be seen alive again. An unseen enemy dragged them down, as soon as they disappeared from sight. Ear shattering and gut wrenching screams erupted from the darkness, destroying the merry mood instantly. People nearby raced after them, but they reached the same fate, brought down before they could even strike back.

Panic spread like wildfire, igniting the buried fear in the villager's minds. It's happening. They had been foolish to think the loss of toes wasn't just the beginning of some bigger curse from the witch.

Huddled together in the center of the village square, they clutch torches and various sharp objects, swinging them at the darkness. It sounded as though thousands of bare feet were running circles around the villagers, hidden just inside the shadows. Then wind picked up, bringing with it the gut-wrenching stench of rotten meat. Moved by the wind, the clouds opened up, illuminating the darkness.

Toes.

Thousands of cursed toes, stretching as far as the eye could see. They had surrounded the villagers, dragging themselves along with long, twisted nails. Crawling over each other like maggots, they writhed around the survivors in an impenetrable circle. You could almost imagine the fate of their victims, dragged down into a sea of filthy, razor-sharp nails.

A torch was tossed into the horde, its flame lighting up the sky. The toes squirmed away from it, but they weren't fast enough. There was a brief blaze as a few dozen went up in flames, writhing like maggots until the very end. Those not caught in the flames dragged themselves away, until they were just outside the ring of heat. The stench in the air rose, now with a ashy undertone.

Recognizing their chance to escape, someone grabbed another torch, and slowly paced towards the ring of toes, holding it out in front of them. The toes retreated from the flames, their twisted nails leaving tiny incisions in the dirt as they went. Seeing their companion's success, the rest of the survivors grabbed various flaming objects and followed. Gradually they made their way through the ring, shoving the flames at the toes, forcing them to retreat, and exposing a small path through the multitude of digits.

Silently, they advanced, adrenaline pounding through their veins. The toes at the edge of the path squirmed, ready to pounce the instant the light disappeared.

At last, the survivors reached the far side of the toe circle. Once the light from the torches no longer reached the toes, the villagers raced down a road. Glancing back, they could see the toes pursuing them with ferocious speed, some even crawling up the sides of houses and fences to get ahead. Out of the town they ran, the toes close behind. Slowly the pursuing digits gained, until they were leaping at the heels of the humans.

Then someone tripped, and before they could even scream, the toes had covered them, and they were no more. The horde barely paused, and simply streamed over the body as if it didn't exist. Tears in their eyes, the remaining villagers ran faster, opening up the distance between them and the toes by a few feet. Outside the main town, the rood cut through large crop fields. Stalks crumpled as the toes tore through them, nails ripping up the leaves. The only structure around was a large barn at the edge of the road.

Throwing open the doors, the villagers scrambled inside, bolting the entrance behind them just before the toes could get inside. Gratefully, they slumped against the piles of hay, chests heaving. Peering through the cracks, they could see the toes surrounding the barn, their nails occasionally scratching against the wooden walls.

Gradually conversation began, quiet at first, and then swelling as more joined in. A vote was taken and a decision was reached. They would stay in the barn until morning, and by then hopefully the toes would have dispersed. Once that had been taken care of, the adrenaline began to wear off and the gravity of their situation set in. Many tears were shed as they mourned those lost, and considered their own potential fates.

Before long, exhaustion kicked in and many of them slept, curled upon the hay. But others remained awake, nervously watching the toes through cracks, and conversing in hushed tones. What if the toes were still there in the morning? Would they spend the rest of their lives in the barn, until starvation or restlessness drove them out? They needed an escape plan, or they would surely perish horrifically in the hordes of toes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Much of the night had already elapsed and it was only a few short hours until morning's first light shone between the boards, waking up the villagers from their slumber.

And the Toes still remained, poised to strike at the first opportunity.

Silence shrouded the group; their worst fears had come to fruition. Their future seemed bleak. They had no food or weapons, and the barn was surrounded with an innumerable mass of toes. However, before widespread panic could set in, those who had stayed up all night gathered the group together and explained their plan.

There was a ladder leading to the roof of the barn. Most of the group would head up there and wait for an opening on the ground. Once they were out of the barn, someone who had stayed behind would open the doors, luring the toes into the structure. This would clear a space outside for the villagers on the roof to leap into a nearby pile of hay and escape.

Once most of the toes were inside the barn, the remaining person would light the hay on fire, destroying the toes in the flames. They would then escape up the ladder, and rejoin the rest of the group before the barn was overtaken by the inferno. A potato farmer named Sv had volunteered for this dangerous job.

With a lack of a better idea, this plan was accepted unanimously.

The mass headed up the ladder and gathered on the roof. Less than three dozen villagers remained; a depressingly small group. Once the last of survivors were safely out of the way, Sv flung up the doors and the toes poured in. They coated the floor in a carpet of flesh and nails, tripping over each other in the haste to consume Sv. He slowly backed towards the ladder, waving in front of him to keep the toes at bay.

He could only light up the barn once there was enough space outside to make an escape. The roof thumped as the survivors jumped down. This was Sv's cue. Hastily he dropped the torch into a haystack, exploding it in a blaze of heat. Sv rushed towards the ladder, but it was too late. The fire had spread faster than expected, and climbing would have been impossible. Escape was impossible. He was trapped in a roaring inferno, and the doors of the barn were blocked by the mass of toes. Even if he did make it out of the barn, the horde would consume him instantly.

All of the toes' interest in Sv was lost and survival was their only priority. They tried to backup through the doors, but as the fire tore through the old wood of the barn, their sheer numbers made it impossible. The doors bottlenecked their progress and they burned in uncountable numbers, polluting the air with a disgusting stench.

A few hundred feet away, the survivors watched anxiously for Sv to emerge. They held their breath, still as statues. When the barn collapsed, the truth was apparent. He hadn't made it out.

With him had burned three-quarters of the toes. The air reeked of their burnt flesh, and the sky lay thick with black smoke. The remaining digits desperately flung themselves away from the flames, crawling over themselves in the process. Even with the severe losses, there were still thousands of toes, more than enough to slaughter the remaining villagers with ease.

Hearts heavy with grief, the villagers turned their back to the destruction. Returning to the village would have been useless. The toes would undoubtedly regroup and then pick them off one-by-one. So many villagers had perished that surviving the winter would have been almost impossible. Therefore, it was decided that they would seek shelter elsewhere.

For the next few months they traveled from town to town, bartering work for food and shelter. However, before long news of them had spread, and the opportunities became scarcer and scarcer. Nobody would risk helping the refugees, for fear that the toes would seek vengeance upon them too.

Out of options, the survivors found refuge in the northern hills, discovering a system of caves, along with the strange creatures that had helped form them. It was there they began the tradition of stealing toes. In memory of Sv, and his brave sacrifice, all children were given names beginning with Sv.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sven sat up, stretching his arms out before continuing his story. Malcolm stared at him attentively, enjoying the tale.

"As the years passed, their decedents became the perfect specimens that you see today!" Sven said, gesturing pompously at himself.

"So you're descended from humans?" Malcolm asked.

"Did you not listen!" Sven quipped back. "Or did your puny human brain already forget?"

"But why do you cut off your own toes? Is stealing them from innocents not enough?" Malcolm instinctively tried to wiggle his toes, before realizing they were no longer attached.

Sven glared at him. "Watch your tone human. The descendents of the original group began to remove their own toes as a sign of honor and respect for what their ancestors had been through. As for the 'innocents', they refused to help our ancestors, so we be stealing' their toes! A fair and even justice if I dare say so myself!"