Skrakch had woken up in worse places. At least that’s what he thought as a worm slowly edged its way across his nostrils. Still, he was just happy to be waking up at all.

Wearily pushing himself upright, he took in the small hut he’d awoken in. Filled with what could only be described as sewer mulch, bits of leaves and mud packed together so tightly it had become cake, Skrakch had to resist the urge to vomit. Swiping around in the dark, the Ratling managed to pull open a swath of cloth, letting in a burst of sunlight. Reeling backward, he fell back into the mulch, grasping at his eyes.

“Gods damn it, where the Hells am I? Meek? Meekknuckle, you rancid gremlin, what the Hells did you do to me.” Skrakch let out in a low moan, clutching the sides of his head. It felt as though he’d had a wild night in the tavern then let a bloody horse dance a jig on his skull. His head was pounding, his body aching. What the hell had happened to him?

Meekknuckle was sitting just outside the hut. He’d made a small fire and was cooking what looked like sausages and onions in a small blackened frying pan. He poked at the sausages with a little piece of stick, trying and failing to turn them over before he noticed Skrakch.

“Huh?” Meek took the pan off the heat and set it down on the filthy ground. “Oh, you awake. Meekknuckle save you, drag you back home. You not moving, so me put you in bed. You welcome.”

“You filthy little… why did you throw me in this crap?” Skrakch demanded. “Is this your home? Have some shame, for goodness sakes,” he added, groggily attempting to lean over and slap Meek upside the head. “And what the hell happened? The last thing I remember is the keg exploding.”

Grumbling to himself, the Goblin glared daggers at Skrakch. “Me send Ornn in to save you. He keep bad rats from eating you. Not that you thank Meek. Maybe next time me let you die, huh?” Meek replied, coming as close to anger as Skrakch had ever seen his normally subdued minion. The irate Goblin plucked a sausage from the pan and bit into it, sticking his chin out and chewing open-mouthed, little bits of grease spilling down his chin.

Admittedly, that did make a lot of sense to Skrakch. Falling back into the mulch, the Ratling let out a small sigh. “...thanks Meek. I owe you, and Ornn as well.” He said reluctantly. Gods Above but he was aching. It all came back to him. The fight with the leader. The injury. His body felt the pain anew. He felt around his back, expecting to feel some kind of dressing or bandage. All he could feel was a neat, slightly raised line where the wound had been closed.

Flouncing down beside the weary Ratling, Meek happily rolled about in the muck in celebration, his expression proud. “You very welcome. Meekknuckle smartest Goblin around, that why he let Ornn go first. Me even kept some alive for Father.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Skrakch gave the Goblin a considering look. “You know, you might be one of the smartest Goblins in truth. Any idea what Master wanted with them?”

“Meekknuckle not ask. Ask too many questions, Father make you go away. Meek not want to leave, all the best foods here.” Turning to face the Ratling, Meek grins happily as he points in the direction of the frying pan. “Other than tasty cheese you got. So yummy.”

Laughing, Skrakch simply lay in the mulch for a moment, taking a few seconds to recuperate. His head was throbbing, his eyes felt like they were burning, and his chest…

“So how did you heal me? I had a hole in me. How the hells am I even alive?” Skrakch asked, honestly shocked that he was even still kicking.

The Goblin let out a small chuckle, before standing up and offering a hand to the Iskrin. “Me heal you up good. Me also best healer in village. You sleep for many day, and Me use all Mana on you. But Skrakch… Meek need to ask. Why you always risk life? You almost dead, stupid.” Meek explained, shaking his head.

Skrakch dusted himself off as he considered the question. “You know Meek, I’ve been asked that before. But let me ask you this, do you know how long your father has lived? Honestly, The average Goblin doesn’t live to see its tenth birthday. But my Master is older than that. By a lot.” He answered. “I went digging into it when I was topside. I poured over texts in the Dray’Mel libraries. And I found a text that referred to him when the Iskrin first tunneled out of the Depths and ended up under Dray’Mel. That was over one hundred years ago. I couldn’t believe it until I found something that could explain it.”

Squeezing his paws in a tight grip, Skrakch spat to the side. “The reason your father has lived so long is that he’s a Chosen. Some God out there -chose- him. Raised him above us. Made him better than us. All because he reflects them in some small way.” He gazed at Meek who was listening to him, spellbound. Whether the idiotic Goblin understood a word he was saying or not, he didn’t care. “And because of that he gets to age slower? He gets to live longer than us!? There’s proof out there that Chosen can live longer than fucking elves, so long as they can avoid taking an axe to their gut.”

Grabbing the Goblin by his shoulders, Skrakch began to shake him. “I’d sell my soul to the highest bidder for that, much less the power that comes with it. The power to change your fate. Who wouldn’t kill for it? Who wouldn’t risk their meager time left?” He said, his voice getting higher, sounding more desperate.

Staring into the confused Goblin’s eyes, Skrakch took a deep, calming breath. The damned runt barely understood him at the best of times, much less following his rant against the very Fates. Tossing Meek into the mulch at his feet, the short-tempered Ratling pulled open the hut’s entrance flap, stepped over the frying pan and its contents before kicking it aside, and heading out into the Goblins’ underground village.

Focusing on the small rune on his wrist, he checked the time he had left. One year, 2 months, and 5 days before the wraiths picked him up and brought him to the Butchery.

Once again vowing to himself, Skrakch would become a Chosen or he would die trying.

The walk back to his mentor's residence was as uneventful as a walk through an underground Goblin sewer village could be. That is to say, Skrakch only had three pickpocket attempts performed on him, and he’d only had to break one of their wrists before they got the message that the Ratling wasn’t easily stolen from.

Luckily a handsy Goblin had volunteered to showcase their scream of pain as the would-be thief’s ulna was broken. Unsurprisingly, that seemed effective enough to send the message that Skrakch wasn’t to be messed with.

Still, his excursion down here reminded him of simpler times. He hadn’t grown up in the Goblin village or even the sewers itself, but he’d spent the better part of two years down in this squalor dump. Sure the smell was awful, but it’s not that much better above ground, what with all the Humans and undead running about.

At least down here, he could command respect amongst the stupid creatures. That and the body odor of a Goblin, as nasty as it was, was much preferable to that of a Human’s. Skrakch screwed his face up at the thought. He was not missing the smell of the crowd up above on market day. All those disgusting bags of flesh running to and fro in an effort to snag the best deals on day-old bread and withered vegetables. It was enough to turn even his strong stomach.

Of course, his first attempt to enter the village ended with him stabbed in the leg. The average Goblin didn’t exactly trust any member of the Iskrin race. They could be a feral, or worse, an albino Iskrin.

Thinking about it, Skrakch had to admit most of his plans involved him being stabbed. And yet there was still no inkling of him being Chosen. A quick glance inwards revealed that his pool of Mana seemed to have deepened, so there was at least a silver lining to his last outing. Everyone knew that Chosen had the greatest reserves of Mana. The bigger his reserve, the closer he was to his goal, that’s what he told himself anyway.

Strutting confidently through the street, especially now that his fur had returned to its perfect shade of brown, Skrakch made his way to his Mentor’s residence. Nodding at the guards, and quickly flashing his medallion, he walked inside with a grin on his snout.

Not much had changed in the past few days, other than the appearance of what seemed to be the survivors of the Grey Iskrin pack, tied to the pillar in the center of the room. Each Iskrin was alternating between howling with rage and snarling in pain. Occasionally one would try to reach out with a broken claw in an attempt to swipe at nothing. Others bore their chipped teeth or tried to gnaw ineffectually at their bindings. Gods Below, they were pathetic creatures to behold really. Skrakch couldn’t help but feel all the more smug about his flawless coat and beautiful tail. He walked past one of them, casually swishing his tail in its direction. It strained against its restraints in a desperate attempt to get at him. Skrakch chuckled to himself.

On the other side of the pillar, still standing by his fire, Blazock was staring at the prisoners with a hungry look in his eyes as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d show up, Rotten One. Thank you for capturing these trespassers. Meekknuckle told me you were instrumental in taking care of them”, the Goblin greeted, stroking its long winding white beard.

“It was no trouble at all, Master. Most of them were easily knocked out with a small bit of Fernglow. I’m surprised Meekknuckle left any of them alive though, he sent his golem out with the intention to kill.” Skrakch said with a smile, stepping forward to jab his claw into a hissing feral’s shoulder.

The old Goblin scoffed at him, before twisting his gnarled hands in the air. An intricate rune shimmered into existence, seeming to suck the Mana in the air into itself as it grew. Stabilizing at over 10ft tall, the rune burst into a dome, covering the snarling prisoners.

As the dome came into existence, Skrakch felt the Mana push past him, as all the noise from the Grey Iskrin died out. Taking a moment to try and memorize the rune he’d just seen, Skrakch was startled as a voice rang out from behind him.

Stepping into the room, Meekknuckle greeted the two of them with his finger in his ear, trying to dig out some earwax. “Morning Father, Skrakch. Meekknuckle not sure he can hear, why the rats not make noise? Can you hear Meek? Can you see Meek!?”, he shouted, his voice rising as he rambled. Successful in his personal excavation mission, his finger came out of his ear with an audible pop, the tip covered in brown wax. Skrakch looked away when Meek started to lick it off.

Rubbing his nose dramatically, the old Goblin stepped over to his son, before kicking him in the shin. “Yes you fool, we can hear you fine. I simply cast a Zone of Silence on them, so I could hear myself think. Best you be quiet too, or I’ll put a spell on you and turn you into a mute.” Blazock warned.

Ignoring Meekknuckle as he gasped and covered his mouth, Skrakch eagerly turned to his mentor. “That rune was massive! Is it something that can be cast on the move? Think of how useful it could be when trying to sneak!” He squeaked excitedly. “I’m already quiet, but perfect silence? I could slit a guard's throat and let him scream and still get away unheard!”

“At your level of mastery, you’re more likely to bungle the rune and manage to amplify the volume,” Blazock replied, snubbing him. “Plus, even if perfectly cast, it remains in place. It’s predominantly used to counter mages who rely on verbal catalysts for their spells.” He offhandedly replied, as he returned to watching the Iskrin squirm.

The aged Goblin watched the creatures carefully for a few moments, clearly enjoying every second of their pain and panic. It seemed to take little concentration on his part to maintain the cast and Skrakch had to admit he was impressed.

“Regardless, that’s not why I wanted you here.” Blazock continued. “These poor fools represent a perfect opportunity for you both. Magic is best learned on unwilling subjects. They’ll help you test your spells on someone actively resisting.” The elderly Goblin nodded sagely.

Meekknuckle let out a small whimper at his father’s words. “But they no hurt. How me fix if they no hurt?” He said in a small voice.

Scoffing at his son, the wizened Goblin stepped forward and brought his foot down on one of the feral Iskrin’s legs, snapping it to the sound of silence. The wild creature’s mouth opened wide but his scream of pain was muted.

Twitching at the sight, Meekknuckle resignedly walked over to the prisoner, hands glowing soft white light.

Watching this unfold, Skrakch shook his head. At the end of the day, his magic was one of the few talents he had to his name. If he wants to learn, sacrifices must be made.

He was just happy that today it wasn’t him making the sacrifice.