Upon cresting the hill before them the gathered goblins split themselves up. A plan was formulated through screeching threats and territory was set aside, small fights breaking out between the family as the most contested areas were divvied up. They had spent five years in the nearby swamp, and in that time their knowledge of Mirefort had grown. And while the city before them seemingly changed with every visit there were certain spots that seemed to always have the best spoils. With supplies of discarded food easily available, and often unguarded. Other areas were also exceedingly more dangerous. Often these areas were given to those in the group who needed to prove themselves, or had angered their family in some way. Young members of the family group, or outcasts were sent to these areas by their own kin. Simultaneously guaranteeing that they would not return with anything of much worth and pruning the family of any unwanted branches in the process. Facing the dangers would prove their worth, or prove to those above them that their disdain had be correct.

The territory that Runt’s family controlled on these excursions was neither the best, nor the worst of the options available to them. Fang as the head of their unit had conducted himself well upon the initial fights that had divided the city in front of them, but had kept his head and had shown a trait rarely found among his kind. Restraint. The squabbles that consumed some of the other families of their clan was proof that he had made the right decision. While perhaps the land they had claimed rarely held the best spoils, they didn’t have the other families intruding upon it either. Unlike the families that laid claim to the dumping grounds of the humans, or their most fabulous of neighbourhoods, Runt’s family rarely had to fight to protect what they claimed as theirs. It did mean they were left out of some of the best treasures, but they played their cards closer to their chests. They may miss out of the veritable feast that the midden heaps the humans set up contained but they didn’t have to spend half the night fighting among themselves.

Not to say they didn’t have their own internal issues but they avoided some of the traps that plagued others in the clan. Fights broke out over favourite skulking grounds or for warmer more densely packed human slums that would make the rain just that little bit more bearable, but there would be no brawls over the extent of their territory itself. No inter-family disputes that would tire them out before the raid had even begun. Nothing that could bleed them dry before the city had it’s chance to do so.

Tonight Runt had to pay more attention to the arguments occurring around him. On any other night he would have just been given the dregs of what was offered. As one of the members of his family with the lowest status anything he would be given would be fraught with dangers, or be completely devoid of anything worthwhile to steal. Often both. Places heavily guarded by humans, that required inordinate amount of luck to merely slip by for a handful of moments, only to find the prize awaiting him to be near useless. Young goblins quickly learned that the other mortal races had strange priorities when it came to things that they protected. Midden heaps were left completely undefended, but strange shiny rocks? Useless metal baubles? Pieces of stained papers bound in old leathers? Inedible, but apparently valuable despite their uselessness. Many a youth had been lost breaking into a heavily guarded building, only to find it contained nothing that could be used to even escape from the guards pursuing them.

But tonight Runt had to make sure he was given a specific area. One he knew no others would be vying for, but where Blackeye and he had agreed to meet. Where they would coordinate before dealing with Fang, and where Runt hoped he would be able to enact the first steps of his own plan.

The territory on the lowest rung of human society was where his family had laid their claims. In Mirefort the slums were quite literally the lowest of the low. The packed and cramped lower areas of the city that bled over the mud below and sent struggling tendrils made of wood looming over the dark waters that claimed to be a lake. It was often the first place that any visitors to Mirefort would be greeted by, for this was where the docks of the city were. Fishing boats barely held together by prayers to some unknown water god bobbed in the grim water before the city. Warehouses lined the territory, filled with half rotten fish and goods that needed to be stored somewhere but that would never be sold. Stolen goods too hot to be kept in their home cities, or long forgotten vaults of inheritance that had never made it to the right hands. Mirefort was the last stop on any service that the Empire provided, which made it a dumping ground. Ships bound for better places would unload their cargo here, just to free up space on their boats for the return trip.

Any dreams of commerce was an after thought as disposal was the primary business conducted here. Both of the goods the ships carried, and of their unwanted passengers. The spaces in between warehouses, under docks, and jammed between forgotten structural beams lay hundreds of squalid shacks. The people that lived off of what the ships left behind. These people that lay slumbering in their shacks had a rough life. The quality of said life changing with every season, with every boat that limped into shore. A day or two of plenty as a large pirate ship was unloaded of all it’s ill gotten gains, money to be made as an extra hand helping out, only for a month of nothing. A month of stretched finances and hungry mouths.

It was both the docks themselves and the slums woven into them that Runt’s family called their hunting grounds. As always Fang had his pick of the litter. And like always he made the same decision. He laid claim to a few of the docks that would house the local fishermen and their small vessels. From there the others split themselves up into smaller groups. Some aiming themselves towards the slums, others to the one or two ships they could see still docked in the night.

Runt had to pinch the ear of Flea when she laid claim to the territory he needed that night, his younger cousin snarling but settling down as she caught the look in Runt’s eyes. She noted it, her own internal schemes working, but nodded as he demanded they switch assignments. The dark look in his eye giving her enough pause to not press the issue now. Blackeye hadn’t had to resort to violence when he did the same to Paleface, the aged goblin nodding along as his nephew pressured him into relenting. Runt relying on his nearly won fight, and Blackeye relying on his many true victories to get their ways. Soon enough individual territories were settled upon and the youngest goblins had been assigned to the ones they would shadow.

One by one the group began to split up, figures pulling away from the group and disappearing into the swamp. Finding their own way to the city that stretched before them. Eventually it was Runt’s turn, his squelching steps falling silent as he crested the hill, falling to a crouch as he crept closer to the logs that marked the edge of his goal. He could feel eyes burning the back of his skull as he moved forwards, gazes from others in his group watching his every move, eagerly awaiting whatever spoils he would bring back. What goods they would be able to take from him.

He kept himself low as crossed the empty space that laid between him and the city before him. Long ago the inhabitants of the city had decided to clear this area of any plant life, to leave any guards clear views for anything that crept towards them. Again Runt was glad for the downpour above him and the distant rumbling of thunder. Both would mask his outline and any noise he inadvertently made. Not that there would be anybody truly able to take advantage of his slip ups. The one human he could see wasn’t moving, a torch cradled in their arms as they propped themselves up against a relatively dry log in the distance. The angle the wood above them jutted out of the mud hinted at an imminent collapse, but the softly snoring figure didn’t seem to care. For a moment Runt eyed them as a potential mark, only to grimace as he saw the faintest glints of metal in the firelight. A large knife, or perhaps a sword, was strapped to their side. And while the sleeping human would potentially be easy prey, they were also potential trouble. He didn’t need to create any more issues for himself that night, there was no need to add any more risk to what he was doing. If he was lucky another of his kind, or another denizen of the swamp would take advantage of the situation, and leave him enough scraps to pick through afterwards.

Slinking by the sleeping figure he eventually made his way to one of the massive structural pillars that made up Mirefort. Running his hands along the damp torn rags of his shirt in an attempt to dry them, he grimaced as he sized up the task before him. The rain had soaked into the wood, making it soft, but somehow the humans had treated it in a way to keep it solid enough to still bear weight. It wasn’t a far climb, but as Runt extended his clawed fingers to dig into the material his mumbled swears would still rumble into the night. A few seconds later and he was on one of the docks, sliding into a dark space between crates as lantern light loomed above him. He took a deep breath, getting his bearings settled before moving on.

He sprinted from dark crevice to hidden shadow, bursts of movements and noise as he made his way deeper into the settlement. It was the dead of night, but humans always astounded Runt with how active they were. Even when some slept and lazed about in their hovels, others wobbled and shouted their way through the streets. His sensitive ears could pick out a hundred different noises, a far cry from the swamps he had just departed. Dogs barked in the distance, bottles shattered and blood was spilled. Cries lit up the night as brawls broke out in front of over packed dockside bars. If Runt had been without a task that night, that would be where he would have posted himself. Clambered on top of one of the squat buildings and waited. For a discarded half full bottle, or a midnight snack tossed aside when the human grew tired of it. Perhaps a shirt stolen from a drunk if he could manage it. But tonight was not the night for such luxuries. He skirted the edges of where the rowdy humans dwelled and made his way towards the homes they would eventually be returning to.

To any other looking upon the structures the pity would have been overwhelming. Many of the half collapsed buildings were older than the individuals who lived in them and they showed the wear of time. Room after room squeezed into whatever space was available, cramped living quarters filled with sweating bug infested bodies. Families shunted into rooms that could only comfortably house perhaps a single individual. No inch was wasted, no gap between wood unfilled. Discarded planks and old bits from other structures made up their walls, with thin rags stretched over to form roofs. Only half protected from the rain by the structures built in the layers above them. Streams of off-grey water dripping down into homes that only seemed to pool them into bedding.

Runt viewed this scene not with pity though but with envy. His red eyes scanned every morsel of food that had been left discarded, brushing over the squalor that surrounded him. In a strange way he was an optimist. In a place of such poverty and pain, he only saw what the people had. And what he wanted. To a goblin who had been raised in a swamp with a flimsy half torn tent as his most luxurious of shelters, even a half shattered shell of a hovel was an impossible comfort. Something beyond his grasp. The jealousy in his eyes burned brightly as he picked his was carefully, feet silently tapping against the wood below him as he made his way to the agreed upon meeting point.

Turning the corner he adjusted his path between two hovels only to force a muffled shriek down his throat a second later. In his eagerness to get to his destination he had neglected to check the corner before turning it. The beast that had startled him bending it’s head to regard him a second later. Dark brown eyes peered from shaggy black hair as the slum dog stared at him. It was a large beast, it’s shoulders standing taller than Runt with a head almost as big as his torso. Massive jaws were paired with equally as large muscles, grimy and oily hair now laying flat from the cold rain. An almost instinctual fear gripped Runt as he scurried backwards, his ears falling flat to his head a moment later. Of all the things in Mirefort that were dangerous to goblins, dogs topped the charts. A good guard dog, and the wily humans often employed these in cities like Mirefort, was more of a deterrent to a curious goblin than even a heavily armed human guard. Not only would their barks warn anything else perhaps resting nearby, a bite would spell the end to any would be thief. More often than not these creatures were fanatic in their devotion to their humans, something which goblins could not empathize with or predict. Loyalty was a foreign concept to Runt and his kind, and the thought that a creature could simply refuse a bribe in order to fulfill a task was alien.

But as the fear gripped him and a squeal slowly rose within his throat, Runt couldn’t help but notice the dog didn’t launch itself towards him. Unlike many of it’s kind it simply gazed at him with startlingly intelligent eyes, and sat back upon it’s haunches. It looked just as confused as Runt was scared. Runt scrambled backwards anyways, wary of a trap as he slipped back into the alley from whence he had come. He tried to calm himself as he turned back, tracing a route to his assigned location, the spot where Blackeye would surely be waiting for him. A second later and his feet were slapping against the wood below him once again, thumping a drum beat as he scurried away from the creature.

Which was why his shrill scream launched itself into the night as he stumbled across the beast yet again. At first he thought it was just another dog, a pack that now had him in their sights, surrounding him and cutting off his exits. Until he caught a glimpse of those eyes. That gaze that seemingly sank past his skin and pierced the very soul held within. He slammed his own hand onto his mouth, his palm muffling his own startled cries as he launched himself to one side. Clambering onto a discarded crate he yanked himself upwards and began to ascend the wall his claws sank in to.

An inhabitant of the hovel he climbed onto let out an angry cry, thumping a heavy fist against it’s cracked walls even as Runt’s claws sank deep into the surface that was their home. Runt scrambled upwards and onto the wall that marked the alleyway, eyes flickering downwards to dodge the jaws he knew were incoming. When he saw nothing of the sort, his fear only deepened. The strange behaviour of the hound driving home a spear of panic deep within his psyche.

As he turned back to the walls surrounding him, meaning to clamber further upwards, he felt a sensation in his chest seemingly sap all the energy in his arms. His eyes twitched in their sockets as he gazed upwards, seemingly drawn to the presence he had sensed looming above him.

Upon the apex of the wall he now clambered upon sat the beast. It’s gaze cast downwards towards him. Expression without the telltale growl of it’s kind, but malice leaking from it all the same. Steam seemed to pour from it’s muzzle as it held Runt’s gaze. For a moment Runt’s eyesight flickered, a sea of motes streaming around the duo, hundreds seemingly sinking into the beast that now faced him.

A voice he couldn’t place pierced it’s way into his eardrums, burning it’s way into his senses. A deep, resonant growl that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. A snarl that filtered into his very core.

“Thief. Murderer. Stained soul green-skin. Would be kinslayer and has been burglar, I will give you once chance, you will be-” Runt didn’t give time for the beast to continue, letting his grip drop he simply let his body fall to the crates below. A crash as his body slammed into the refuse they contained, pain lancing into his body, cracked ribs almost breaking their barely healed bonds.

He turned to run, fierce panic in his eyes. Whatever that creature was, whatever other plans he had for that evening, he discarded everything else in his mind. A singular focus lit itself as a guiding force. The urge to run, the urge to flee and to scatter. A deep seated instinct that tore through his tired and bruised limbs, pushing him to yet again sprint away from the creature still towering above him. He needed to get away, to flee. He had seen what the motes had been sinking in to. Just as his eyes had flickered to see the small points of energy, he had caught a glimpse of the beasts true nature. A dog many times more massive than even it’s visible form took. Tendrils of hair dropping from it’s body and worming their way into the hovels that surrounded Runt. Every step he took flickered his gaze ever more, and sank what he had stumbled in to home. The tendrils did not stop, no matter how far he ran or where he looked. Thick strands wrapping their way into every nook and cranny they could find.

Runt had no idea what the beast was, what kind of spirit or monster he had stumbled upon. All he knew was that he had to get away from it. The hate that had been its voice had told him that much.