Glub watched the little Goblin child weep over Sword Goblin's head. The little Goblin child with a flower tucked behind a pointed ear. Flower... Flower Goblin? Glub watched Flower Goblin pull Sword Goblin's head close to her chest. Flower Goblin was a child and Goblin children were so small. Sword Goblin's head was nearly half of Flower Goblin's height. Flower Goblin sat on the ground, holding the head close to her chest, with tiny green arms wrapped around the head.

Glub wiped at his eyes. Was it raining? Goblins did not cry. Goblins should not cry. It was what their Chieftain told them. The act of crying was a pointless waste. But Flower Goblin was young, she did not know this. If she did? She probably did not care.

Glub stepped towards Flower Goblin hesitantly. What was he doing? What would he do? What did he want to do? He wanted her to stop crying because Goblins should not cry. So how was he going to get her to stop crying? If his Chieftain wasn't so busy trying to organize the tribe, Glub figured he would have just hit her. But Glub didn't feel comfortable with hitting another Goblin so how could he hit a child? He couldn't.

So Glub took another step and started fidgeting with his claws. Then he realized how stupid he was being. He did not have time to waste trying to figure this out. The Chieftain was planning something. Something big. Retribution.

It was more than simple revenge. Yes, Sword Goblin had been slain. Yes, it was a tragic affair. But if Glub had been more aware, he would have called it an excuse. Just a reason to lash out at the evil Humans that kept killing Goblins. A reason to kill Humans. Of course most Goblins have more than one reason to kill Humans besides the glaring obvious because Humans killed Goblins. Humans killed Goblins, hunted them down, and wiped out entire tribes. But that wasn't all Humans did.

What Glub was aware of just like any other Goblin in the Bitterbow Tribe, was that Humans were monsters. They had all heard the stories told by their Chieftain. Humans setting traps and capturing Goblins, taking them away from their tribe. Taking them away and performing monstrous acts. The Chieftain had gone into detail with the few Goblins that ever managed to escape from the evil Humans. The Chieftain had told the tale about a Goblin who had suddenly vanished one day. Only to return weeks later with something burned onto his face, back, and chest. Something called a word. Goblins couldn't read. A few could talk, but not even the Chieftain could read. But Chieftain had not needed to read to know what the word had meant, burned onto every surface of the Goblin's body.

Horror stories. Survivors from Humans. Their Chieftain was one such Goblin. The Chieftain might not have escaped from a cruel Human captor, but he had survived when the rest of his old tribe had been hunted to the last. The Bitterbow Tribe Chieftain had been lucky. Lucky not to have been killed. Luckier not to have been captured. Most captured Goblins had also been lucky enough to not have been female.

Because Humans were terrible creatures that stole Goblin heads and Goblins alike, they captured and tortured Goblins, and some Humans used captured females in ruinous manners. It was only fair the Chieftain treated the Human females in kind.

Humans are monsters. This is what the Bitterbow Tribe knew. Even if Sword Goblin had not been slain by a Human, the tribe would still be gearing up for a raid once Glub had returned with knowledge about the Humans on the road anyways. Not all of the Goblins in the Bitterbow Tribe were thirsting for Human blood. Some were just hungry, and a large group of Humans was nearby with a substantial amount of food stored in wagons.

This was a Goblin's life. It was full of dangers and monsters. But it was all about surviving. And to survive one needed food. The food from the farm raid was not gone yet, but it would be in time.

Glub blinked and stopped moving his claws. He looked down at Flower Goblin and smacked himself in the face! Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that before?

Glub scowled and stomped off into the camp and came back to Flower Goblin. He gave the child a light kick and chittered high pitched noise at her.

The little Goblin child fell backwards in surprise by Glub's little kick. She was still crying and holding onto Sword Goblin's head. She opened her mouth to wail when Glub jammed a mouthful of bread into her open mouth. Flower Goblin's yellow eyes widened. She made a small choking noise and the tears kept falling from her face. Then she grew quiet and chewed on the bread.

Glub stood over her, watching her chew her food. Food. He should have thought of it sooner. It wouldn't take away the pain of Sword Goblin's demise. But it would help.

Glub took a seat on the ground next to Flower Goblin and popped a second mouthful of bread into his own mouth. Humans are monsters. Humans were cruel and viscous and evil. However, Glub had to give them at least one point. They made good food. This was much better than bark and bugs.

The two Goblins sat there and ate for some time. Flower Goblin was still sad but she was no longer crying. Now she was just staring down at Sword Goblin's head in mourning. This was an improvement to Glub because Goblins should not cry. Especially not over another Goblin. Goblins die all the time.

Glub sighed and glanced away from Sword Goblin's head and towards the rest of the tribe. They were getting ready. He should be getting ready to. The Chieftain had disappeared into his tent. He was getting his halberd. Glub felt the sword that did not belong to him and finally looked back to Sword Goblin's head. Goblins die all the time. More would die tonight, Glub was certain.

Glub reluctantly stood and watched Flower Goblin. She would be safe. As would all of the Goblin children too young to fight. They would stay behind along with a couple of warriors, that or they would hide until the tribe returned. At least they would not die tonight.

Glub walked through the tribe with one claw on his sword's hilt. The weapon was longer than half of Glub's height. He'd have to figure out a way to carry it better as opposed to tying it with a cloth to his loincloth and letting the sheathed sword drag in the dirt behind him. It was Sword Goblin's sword but Sword Goblin was dead. Nobody had tried to take it from Glub so it was his. He had not seen the other Goblin Scouts in the tribe carrying swords. The ones that did have weapons had daggers and knives tied to their loincloths. A couple even had belts!

He had a sword now. That was a good thing. It meant he would be stronger. He would be harder to kill and thus, having a shortsword improved his odds of surviving the coming night. It also gave him more noticeable looks from some of the older and high leveled warriors of the tribe. Such as one of the other named Goblins, Ghark. An average sized Goblin like Glub, bald green head, pointed ears and all. The only noticeable difference between the two of them was the scar running across Ghark's cheek trailing from one ragged green ear. That and the bow strung to Ghark's back.

Ghark eyed the shortsword Glub was dragging through the dirt and snorted. "Too small."

Glub frowned. This had been Sword Goblin's sword. Sword Goblin had been the same size as Glub, maybe just a nonexistent hair taller. Sword Goblin had also been awarded the shortsword from the Chieftain. So if the Chieftain thought that Sword Goblin was big enough for the weapon then Glub was tall enough for it as well.

Glub barred his pointed Goblin teeth and chittered.

Ghark waved dismissively. "Small Goblin, big sword. Dead Goblin," said Ghark. The Hunter patted his bow. "Find better."

Glub was not too small for the shortsword. He would be fine. He didn't need a better weapon than this. So Glub shook his head and held onto his sword.

"Not Fighter," Ghark said while shrugging. "Scout, small. Faster. Need dagger."

Glub did not want a dagger. He shook his head and stuck his tongue out at Ghark.

Ghark turned away from Glub and shrugged once again.

That was when the Chieftain emerged from his tent, with cobbled scraps of leather armor and his halberd. The Chieftain of the Bitterbow Tribe was ready. And Glub wondered if he was ready too. Because unlike the raid on the farm, Glub was going to be a part of the fighting this time.

"Goblin!" It was a shout that ran through the traveling company of Merchants, Mercenaries, and Knights.

It was a word that struck each of the three occupants in the wagon in different ways. Wilb had reached for the knife at his belt and started looking around for signs of the monsters. Wilb's father, Wilfut, started calling for the nearest Mercenaries or Knights, whichever was closest to protect him and his son. And the stranger that the company had picked up along the way?

King had smiled like a toddler tasting his first candy. "Goblin!" he laughed, his bright blue eyes shimmering to Wilb. King had grabbed his old sword and jumped out of the wagon. Wilfut had immediately protested King's actions and demanded he return to the wagon. Wilb blinked as the strange man ran into the woods where nearly half of the Knights had already dismounted and were charging through the trees on foot. Weapons drawn and glinting in the afternoon sunlight, armor rattling and clanging as Knights gave chase to...

Wilb had not seen the Goblin. He and his father had only heard the shouting.

"Goblin!" Many were still shouting throughout the company.

Wilb and his father watched from the wagon as King not only caught up to the Knights, but very quickly outpaced them before disappearing out of sight. For a man getting on in his years, he could really move. It was more evidence towards his father's suspicions that the man was more than just a high leveled Steward. Wilb had crafted a theory of his own. An older man, a Steward of a noble house, seeking adventure? It was obvious. King must have been a sort of Battle Steward, maybe even a War Steward.

Classes to most seemed pretty black and white. If you were born a Crafter, then your purpose in life was to be a Crafter. The same for if you were born as a Knight and so forth. But classes are not black and white. There was plenty of grey maybe even color if you looked for it. Because classes can change according to your Path. The Church of the Paths preaches the ideals of classism in quite the educational format in their services.

Wilb was a Merchant. He was the son of Wilfut the Merchant and Lubelle the Tailor. It was a fifty-fifty toss up whether Wilb would have been born with the Merchant class. Classes were usually inherited from one of the parents. Though there were instances where a child could be born with one of the grandparents class. Then there was the rarest occurrence when a child was born with no class at all. A Pathless.

The Church of the Paths were the most knowledgeable organization in the world about classes and levels, as such, they were on every continent all over the world. In nearly every city they can settle in, the Church of the Paths is respected by all.

A class or as the church would call them Paths, are malleable. It was all according to a person's Path. Like if Wilb spent his life training as a Knight, his class could theoretically adapt at a higher level into a Knight Merchant. But never can a person change their Path entirely. A Merchant born cannot become a Knight. Once a Merchant, always a Merchant.

Wilb almost pitied the Pathless. To forever live a life without levels or Skills. It must be quite dreadful and dull. How did they ever get anything accomplished in a world full of levels and classes? The answer: you can't.

So Wilb would have bet all of his father's company that King was more than just a Steward. A Battle Steward perhaps. It was the only thing that made sense. King was an old Steward falling out of his prime who wanted to experience some thrills before he couldn't. That or the man was simply madder than a Fool.

The remaining Knights and Mercenaries formed rank around the Merchants who were gathering around Wilb and Wilfut's wagon. It wasn't long before one of the Mercenaries, a Wild Hunter began to snarl and shout and... cry? One of the Knights, Ser Flinn was awkwardly patting the Wild Hunter on the back in an attempt at consolation. Another short while later and only half of the Knights who had run after the Goblin had returned. One of which was carrying the dog Wilb had seen running around the company from time to time. The Wild Hunter dropped to his knees and actually started to howl.

A silence followed as everyone watched the man grieve for his slain companion. One of the Knights broke away from the group and approached the leader of the Knights, the Knight Commander who was still mounted.

The Knight saluted the Knight Commander. "Knight Commander Nour," the Knight said, finishing his salute. "We found the Goblin, it seems this King fellow cut his head off. There are numerous tracks over the area but the man was nowhere to be seen, so we left a group following Tracker Knight Ryker to follow after the man. King's tracks appear to be heading in a different direction of the Goblins."

The Knight Commander nodded under his golden helmet. Unlike the other Knights who wore steel and iron based armors, the Knight Commander was in a suit of gold armor. Similarly, the Knight Commander's horse was wearing golden armor. "I'll leave them the hour to find this man, then I will call them back. We came north to protect this company. With the looming threat of a tribe nearby, we shall begin subjugating the Goblins as soon as possible. Merchant Wilfut?" The Knight Commander turned to address Wilb's father.

"Y-yes, Ser Nour?" Wilb's father spoke hesitantly. He was addressing the Knight Commander, a local Wrunstead legend.

"I will leave twenty-seven Knights for your protection. I will lead the rest to eliminate this Goblin threat. Rest assured, we won't let any harm come to you or your men. You have my word as Knight Commander."

Wilfut nodded quickly. "Good, good. Ser Nour, I must thank you again for your presence. I have had Goblin troubles before, none so recently. But I have suffered the occasional Goblin raid in the past. I've lost good men and money to those devils south of Wrunstead years ago. You have no idea how relieved I was when news reached me when you ended that tribe. You have made many journeys much safer, so much so that I started bringing my son along." Wilb's father wrapped an arm around Wilb's shoulders and grinned. "Send those little bastards back to whatever hell they came from."

"Tonight, the Goblins die," Knight Commander Nour said. The Knight Commander adjusted his position in his saddle, nodded to Wilfut and Wilb, and rode away toward the returning Knights.

It was a moment before Wilb's father spoke. "We should set up camp just off the road. Ser Nour is a man as good as his word. Come nightfall, those monsters will be dead. We should wait here for them when they return from their little hunt. Wilbut, fetch me the Mercenary Captain. As well as Merchant Howe. We have business to discuss."

The afternoon passed into evening. The traveling company set up camp just off the side of the road and the Knight Commander led a small group of Knights into the woods in search of the Goblins. The rest of the Knights that had been searching for King had returned empty handed. Apparently, King had managed to outmaneuver the Knights and it just wasn't a viable option for the Knights to continue after the man’s trail into the night. The stranger was gone.

Under the starry sky of the night, Wilb sat in his father’s wagon and listened to the conversation from the nearby fire pit. His father was elsewhere in the temporary camp, conversing with Merchant Howe and several others. It crossed Wilb’s mind that he should be listening to his father’s conversation. Learning. But he always listened to his father. He would much rather listen to a bunch of Knights and Mercenaries.

Not all of the Knights were sitting around just as not all of the Mercenaries were either. Some were patrolling the edges of the campsite. Others were watching the darkness, waiting for their Knight Commander, or something else.

The ones that were sitting around campfires were the ones who had been the most active or the ones who were tactically at a disadvantage under the current circumstances. They were still ready to fight, still armed and armored. They were just more relaxed than their on guard duty counterparts. The Mercenaries more so than the Knights.

A Knight with a bad leg was speaking. “And then wham! An arrow took me in the knee.”

“No,” a Mercenary gasped.

“Indeed. I could never go dungeon diving again. And that’s the story about how I quit my life as an Adventurer and took to the quiet city life under the Order of Wrunstead. But sometimes I wonder, what could have been? If that arrow hadn’t hit my knee.”

One of the other Knight’s shifted uncomfortably. “But, couldn't you have just used a healing potion? I mean no offense Ser Colt, but…”

“But a healing potion would have saved my knee, yes. It would have,” said the Knight with the bad knee, Ser Colt. The Knight had his helmet off, silver grey hair and blue eyes burned orange over the firelight beneath the small group. “Alas. I did not have any more potions on me, none of the healing variety at any rate. I had used them all up in the dungeon, that blasted spear trap nearly did me in. Just remembering those days... we were a young group then. Just starting out. Dreaming of making it big, becoming famous. So famous that King Albain would offer us an Imperial Knight position."

One of the other Knights made a quick gesture and a Mercenary closed her eyes. Wilb watched it all. King Albain, who had never had children, never taken a wife, had died months ago. Nearly a year at this point. It was still a sore subject for all of the Kingdom. Because King Albain had never left an heir of his own nor did he declare an heir before his assassination. His sister was insistent that King Albain's nephew take up the throne, but they had no supporters. What Lord or Lady would support King Albain's nephew, when they could just take the throne for themselves. So the throne lay vacant, because nobody had tried to claim it yet. But someone would eventually, the Kingdom needed a King. And when that happened-

War, Wilb thought to himself. Everyone wants the throne. The Kingdom will split into a hundred pieces if something isn't done soon.

Ser Colt sighed then continued his tale. "It was our first dungeon and our last. Before, we did the odd job here and there. Wandered around a bit. Gained some levels, got some good Skills. We thought we were ready for our first dungeon. Five of us went in. Tibalt, Vernier, Ilone, Pesis, and myself. Only two of us came out of that hellish hole in the ground. Tibalt, a Knight much like myself, stayed behind. We were ambushed two floors into the dungeon. Monsters from your worst... No. Worse. Unimaginable things, put together by the foulest minds. They were on the ceiling, they dropped down and surprised us. We tried fighting. But more just came from deeper in the dungeon. And somehow, others were attacking us from behind, from the rooms we had already cleared moments earlier. There were too many. We had no choice but to run or die. So we ran, Ser Tibalt stayed behind, a brave man till the end."

"Ser Colt, you don't mean," one of the Mercenaries began to say. "That you went into the Dungeon of The Grafted?"

Wilb leaned over from the side of the wagon. His interest piqued. The Dungeon of The Grafted? Wilb had thought the place nothing but rumor. A terrible story cruel adults would tell their children at night down in the south.

All good children come home.

For night the Grafted roam.

Come morning, leaving naught but bone.

It was an odd saying. An old one too. Wilb had heard it every now and then when accompanying his father down to the southern end of the continent. The people of the south were a superstitious lot. The Guilds down there talked about a lost dungeon. A dark place where the rhyme came from. Adventurers and Explorers had searched endlessly across mountains and ancient forests. Some had found it, never in the same place. The rumors sounded more like myths to Wilb. A moving dungeon? That was impossible. Structures couldn't just move.

Then again. Dungeons were magical. Some of the most magical places in the world, the royal palace was built upon one of the largest dungeons in the world. Wilb did not understand magic. When magical tutors tried to explain mana and souls and formulas to Wilb, it all went over his head. He was better with people and coins. People and money, now that made sense to Wilb. Wilb watched the group around the campfire, more specifically, he watched the Knight, Ser Colt with keen eyes and ears.

Ser Colt nodded gravely. His blue eyes downcast into the depths of the dancing campfire. "I was born and raised in Wrunstead. But when I was a young lad, I wanted quick money and fast levels. What better way than to sign up with the Adventurer's Guild? I happened upon another group of like minded individuals and we formed a team. When we heard about this mysterious dungeon. How could we resist? The call to fame, money, levels... it was too much. We were greedy. And far too inexperienced. We found the dungeon on a whim. The Dungeon of The Grafted. A hole in the ground, two stone doors that could fit a large class Golem, beautiful etchings on the doors. Never seen anything like it before. We should have just taken the doors and sold them, looking back. We could have been more cautious. But we were young and eager.

"We passed from room to room. Those abominations were everywhere, but we kept going. We avoided trap after trap and descended to the second floor. And into the trap that cost Ser Tibalt his life. We ran and we fought. But no matter how far we ran, we couldn't find the way back up. The stairs were no longer in the same spot. They had moved. Pesis, poor lass. She was our Mage. Ran right into a spear trap hidden along one of the walls. Took a spear through the leg, arm, gut, and another went through the left side of her head. Never saw it coming. We were fighting. We didn't recognize the room, no time to search for traps... A spear got Vernier in his sword arm. One took me through the chest, missed my heart. I was coughing up blood minutes after I applied a healing potion. Vernier was fatally wounded in the fighting. He died in Ilone's arms. Ilone and I found the exit later. After we sprung that damned arrow trap, got my knee real good. Had to hobble all the way back to the city. We made out with some of the loot, decent coin. Ilone wanted to keep her share of the loot. I wanted to send it to Ser Tibalt's, Pesis', and Vernier's families. In the end we went our separate ways. I gave up all I gained from the dungeon. Never saw Ilone again. I went back home, joined up with the Order of Wrunstead."

Everyone was quiet, absorbing the older Knight's story. From the wagon, Wilb turned away and stared across the camp, passed the Mercenary standing watch, and into the darkness that lay beyond. Conversation buzzed in the temporary camp, but Ser Colt's story made Wilb wish for some peace and quiet. People had died. People die all the time. To accidents, monsters, old age... the list went on and on. Wilb did not like to think about death. He did not know what came after nor did he want to know. He was fine living ignorant of his own frail mortality. But listening to that Knight's tale struck something inside of Wilb.

Is this really what I want to do with my life?

There was an entire world out there. Sure it was a world full of danger, but... Wilb understood what happened to Ser Colt and his team. That fanciful lure of the unknown. Risk and potential reward. It was out there and it called to Wilb just as it called to everyone else. Just like it had called to that Steward, King.

A man who had lived his entire life by his class, chained down like a prisoner. A man who had finally accepted the call. Wilb subconsciously reached down and his fingers grazed the knife on his belt. What if he left right now? He turned back and looked over the camp. At the Knights and Mercenaries and Merchants. At his father. Then finally he turned his eyes on the Wild Hunter who was still in mourning over his dog, killed by a Goblin. A monster.

Wilb was no Fighter. He was a Merchant. This was the life he was meant for, born for. His purpose was to haggle and sell and buy and make money. That was his lot in life just as it was for everyone here. They all knew their roles. But...

Wilb turned his back to the camp and looked out into the darkness. Because it was out there. That tempting call to adventure. Wilb blinked and noticed the Mercenary was laying down. Now that was odd. Had he gone to sleep on watch duty? Or was he simply being lazy, watching the night sky above?

Wilb's heart raced as he heard something scratching the other side of the wagon. Something small gripped the edge, long fingernails, claws. Dark fingers, green skin. Then a little bald head with pointed ears was staring at him from over the lip of the wagon.

Goblin! The word caught in his throat. Goblin. Goblin ,Goblin, Goblin, Goblin, Goblin, GoblinGoblinGoblinGoblinGoblingoblingoblingoblingoblingoblin! Why couldn't he say that one simple word? Why couldn't he shout it for all to hear? Why was he so scared? He couldn't move, frozen in place, Wilb could only watch in horror as the monster grinned at him with sharp, twisted, and pointed teeth fit to eat a Wilb sized snack. Another claw appeared over the side. This one was holding a knife. The monster never stopped grinning as it hauled itself over the edge and into the wagon with Wilb.

Chieftain Kruz of the Bitterbow Goblin Tribe sat in the darkness with his halberd in hand. His tribe sat or stood around him, nearly a hundred glowing eyes, mistaken for fire flies. He had watched and waited with trained patience. He watched as a few of his Goblin's infiltrated the camp, killing the watchers silently, moving deeper into the camp through the wagons. He watched until he could no longer see his Goblins, losing sight as they went around, under, and over the wagons. And he watched as a group of Knights ran off in another direction and shouts filled the night. Then he gave a single order.

Kruz threw the might of the Bitter Bow Tribe at the Humans. For Sword Goblin. For all the Goblins he had ever lost to the Humans. For all the Goblins these Humans have killed. Blood would spill and bodies would fall. Humans and Goblins. People and monsters.