Finding Fang wasn’t as difficult as perhaps it should have been. With Barghest leading the way and Runt’s knowledge of his kin, the hunt only took a few minutes of searching near the squalid docks that ringed Mirefort. Despite all that occurred that night in Runt’s life only a handful of hours had passed by, and many of his family members were still prowling the dark streets of Mirefort. Still tending to their tasks, scrounging for food and scavenging for supplies. Every so often as they travelled they picked up on signs. Rummaged through piles of garbage with their contents scattered over a dank alleyway, small claw marks that marked the side of a wall, flickered scurrying noises and rapidly moving shadows. Runt’s kind maximized every moment they spent in the squat town, leaving only moments before the crack of dawn, and Runt was armed with that knowledge. He knew that Fang would still be digging through the midden heaps that littered the docks. Searching for the best pieces of still edible animal life, and the discarded items of any of the fishermen. Normally he came back to the small goblin encampment with ruined nets, broken fishing rods, and half finished drinks that the humans had set aside. Runt knew that gathering all of that took time to do.

So he had advised Barghest what to look out for, what to catch with his sensitive nose. And before long they spotted him. Fang almost strode casually as he picked his way below the wooden structures that made up the docks looming above him. Up to his knees in mud he slogged his way through the terrain. Every so often he lifted a bit of wood or other refuse, gnarled fingers digging through the muck before he moved onward. Already laden down with his haul of food, he seemingly was spending the rest of the time simply searching for anything that could be of use. A crude misshapen iron knife was used to pry open stoppered glass jars, nose twitching as he tested their contents.

There was a reason his uncle chose this particular haunt. Food and refuse were plenty, and danger was minimal. Barghest had explained that the docks perhaps had the lowest stray dog population of any region of the city. They were cold, damp, and rarely had food worth digging through the mud for. The ample biting flies and stinging muck bugs only made the region that much more inhospitable. The cold and humid fog that settled over much of the swamp seemingly concentrated here to provide as much discomfort as possible. Seeping into anything that could hold moisture, making the entire region slick with a near permanent dampness. Any dog that called this place home was desperate, and lived a short and uncomfortable life. If Fang had spent too much of his time here he would have possibly agreed, but as a visitor it was a veritable gold mine. Biting insects were annoying yes, but the rewards out weighed them.

Runt slapped at one such bug as it crawled across his face, gore smeared across his tongue a second later as his crunched it between his molars. Another reason goblins didn’t mind this place, it provide eager snacks while they searched. Absentmindedly he stared at his uncle from the perch he had picked out above him. Scratching one dirty claw behind his ears, he watched his uncles routine from a vantage point he may never have again. An outside observer. There was a moment of hesitation, of worry in his breast that he quickly dismissed. A moment where there was a flicker of morality within him, a heartbeat where he considered the impact of what he was doing. That was quickly brushed aside, the squeaking puppy held to him squeezed gently as it began to pipe up. He needed to do this. Fang was the primary target of any action he needed to complete that night. While Blackeye was perhaps closer to what he could call a true rival, there was a reason he had suggested going after Fang first.

Fang’s death would leave a much bigger hole for him to gain a foothold with. His uncle, the leader of their little family unit, would be missed more. He was competent, agile and clever, which meant if he missed this chance he might never have another. Runt was not the type to let a chance escape from his grasp when he caught sight of it. He was stubborn, and no matter what made him hesitate he decided to press forwards. Dropping to his stomach he kept the cradle package in his hand distracted with a small bone, watching the beast begin to gnaw upon it for a moment, before giving the signal. A harsh, high pitched whistle left his lips. He had gone ahead to confirm the identity of the goblin beneath him, and now that he knew it was Fang he sat back to watch he had unleashed.

Fang’s ears twitched as the whistle rang out through the swampy terrain, his gaze instantly turning to Runt’s in the gloom. Two nocturnal eyes flickering in the faint starlight, both watching each others features. Fang’s face masked in confusion for a moment, before his eyes began slowly narrowing as worry deepened across his features. Runt upon seeing that finding himself unable to stop the grim grin that began to cross his lips. Whatever hesitation there was within his frame was banished the moment he caught the look that grew upon his uncle. His tired eyes were finally watching the unfolding of all he had worked for, and he couldn’t help but feel glee rise within his chest.

For his part Fang knew a signal when he heard one. Fang was one of the older and more experienced goblins within Runt’s tribe, and that came with years of dealing with his own kind. This was not the first ambush he had been the victim of and he immediately shot into action. Expecting another goblin to come at him, to fly from the shadows or drop down from above, Fang began moving at a pace and a pattern that he hoped would be unpredictable. His footsteps now dampened by the muck he had casually been crossing took on a desperate cadence. His scaled cloak dragging across the mud as he scrambled towards the rough beam that supported a section of the docks above him. His knuckles white against the knife he held in his hand, grip tightening with every step he took towards the wooden pillar. There was a confidence to his movements born from the knowledge that he employed now. He had been in and won more fights that Runt had even seen in his short life. Fang knew what to expect from a goblin opponent and moved to counter it before it could any plan could be enacted. He aimed to put his back to the pillar, to ward off any would be attackers with his knife, and take advantage of any disunity in the group assaulting him. Bribes screamed out, promises given, for this was how a fight between goblins normally ended.

If Blackeye and Runt had been the only participants in the ambush that strategy would have worked. Ultimately Runt’s plan before all of the events that night had been to betray Blackeye. To take one of these bribes or promises in the heat of the moment, just as he knew Blackeye planned to do the same. The death of Fang was not truly the ultimate goal, nor did it have to be. Both brothers had played with idea of killing Fang, but both had independently decided against it. A scheme within a scheme, an ambush within an ambush. If Fang, Blackeye or Runt died because of this intricate betrayal the survivors would be better off, but death had not been the ultimate goal. It was too dangerous. If the plan had gone off without a hitch as planned earlier that night Blackeye or Runt may have ended up with Fang’s blade between their ribs. Mutually assured destruction was a central tenet of goblin society, and risking an open confrontation was rarely worth that danger it represented.

Barghest was not bound by any of these thoughts, nor did he follow the patterns that Fang was used to. Instead of strutting forward, peaocking and exchanging threats for promises, he struck from the shadows. Dropping from above before Fang could even turn his back to the pillar. There was no show of force, nor even a single word to power a threat. Just a shaggy, much too heavy for his size, hound dropping from the docks above the scrambling greenskin. The struggle that followed was short, and reminded Runt of the forces he was now dealing with. The power that he tampered with and fought to learn about. Fang was almost crushed beneath the weight of the massive beast landing on him, a strangled wordless cry ringing out into the night before there was a sickening crunch. Skull crushed by slathering jaws, a life taken in an instant and that began to foam across the muddy earth as blood began to flow. Barghest held the limp body in his grasp for a moment, shaking it violently and allowing more cracks to fill the air, before he dropped Fang.

Moving from his perch Runt slunk forwards, clambering down the pillar with one arm before joining Barghest above his uncles now soon to be lifeless corpse. There was a pang in his heart as he approached the body, a glimpse of the face nipping at some instinct deep within him. Forever locked in that horrified and worried expression, Fang’s face and skull had been mutilated in a way that seemed to only deepen the emotion. The death had been quick, but it left it’s mark. Blood dripping from a dozen teeth marks, broken jagged shards of skull peaking up from beneath the thin skin of his scalp. A twitched rocked the body, a shuddering last gasp wrought from lips struggling to bring in air. There was a moment where Runt’s face came into Fang’s view, a flicker of recognition that perhaps only Runt imagined was there, before a cold seeped into the eyes that reflected Runt’s own.

Goblin’s were immoral creatures. Greed ran their lives, and the pursuit of such greed was what they truly lived for. Still they were mortal, and while not creatures of good, they were not soulless or bonded to forces of evil. They had connections and understood the emotional impact of actions upon others. The difference between them and many other races, was simply what they put before all else. Some put honour or heroic deeds. Some put kindness or charity. Goblins put greed. To say that Runt didn’t care about the life the petered out below him would be a mistake. He did. The goblin below him was an individual he cared for in some ways. A family member that had done good things for him over the years. Who had guided their family to greatness, and who lead them into better times. He had also participated in beating Runt down. In abusing him and his cousins. In taking the spoils for himself whenever a gain was made. Runt mourned for his uncle in that moment, silently staring at newly lifeless eyes, but knew he had made the right decision. Runt was coming into his own, and just like Fang had done, Runt had to take what was his due. There was a whispered prayer, an offering to a god that didn’t really care, and then a bit of phlegm spat to one side.

“Goblin funerals are truly a beautiful sight to behold,” rumbled Barghest, shaking his fur and scattering droplets of moisture out around him, “You wish to leave him here?”

“Where else would I fucking take him?” spat back Runt, more sharply than perhaps he had wanted too. Something about the death still needling him, “He liked foraging here.” There was a pause, perhaps a hitch of emotion in his voice before he shook his head. No room for regrets, just forward motion. “Let him rot where he stole from, it’s seems fitting.”

“Cluny and his kin will eat him,” Barghest reminded Runt, his voice holding the smallest portion of pity for the short individual before him. He unlike Runt had the power of empathy, and his deep brown eyes could see the turmoil in Runt’s face, even if the greenksin was not aware of it himself, “Though I suppose that doesn’t matter to a murderer.”

Runt glanced at Barghest, a smile cracking across his face before he slowly nodded, “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Should it?”

“To me it would matter I suppose, but again this in not my kin it’s yours. I wouldn’t leave one of mine here, but I have left plenty of yours. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite for even bringing it up then,” there was a moment, a second of time left hanging before both individuals nodded.

“Give me a moment and we will go after Blackeye,” mumbled Runt, kneeling down to pat down his uncles corpse, “It’s going to be tougher.” He unclasped his uncles cloak, the rough leather sliding onto his shoulders as he stood. As long as it was on his uncle, it was much larger on his thinner and shorter frame. It was warm though, still retaining a hint of his uncle’s spirit as Runt pulled it tight to himself. With a nod to Barghest, he strode through the muck. Following the path his uncle has made, his stride shorter and ill suited to carve his own. Glancing down at the puppy held under one arm, the cost of all he had done that night began to loom over him.

He just hoped he hadn’t dug himself a grave like Fang’s.