The laughter echoed in the dimming darkness. Hearty, full, and cheery in its tone, like a sweet song for tired ears. It was contagious in its nature, seeping into those around and encouraging its rapid spread. It made Nilbog feel giddy inside, and let his own giggles escape from what little of the conversation he understood. His elder bowed and nodded, laughed and patted the human’s arms like they were one of them.

He was never one to enjoy human company, with their forceful demeanor and unreasonable demands of his tribe in their time of need, but something about the Hero mellowed his disgust. Their small eyes, large ears, and roundheads, all of the distinct repulsive traits to Boglings, were a thing of marvel in the Hero. Blue eyes like the odd, clear waters of the river Bogling’s tended to avoid, yellow hair like the sun’s obnoxious gaze, and a wide and tall body covered in deadly steel.

On him, however, these traits were a thing of wonder. As if by some spell, and Nilbog did suspect it was a spell, every unpleasant trait and odor turned on its heel.

The Hero’s charm extended to the rest of his party mates. There were seven of them in total. A Shaman, Priest, Archer, Guardian, Warrior, Master-Of-Arms, and what was called a War Siren, someone that Nilbog avoided out of simple instinct. The Siren did not speak, neither with him, his tribe, or the humans. Nilbog only heard him hum once, when they had appeared, and that was enough to stun his entire clan and prevent them from charging in recklessly at the humans.

They appeared after recently escaping a perilous battle, as blood and the stench of death lingered on their skin. They wore their wounds and inflictions like a heavy coat wrapped around each part of their limbs, yet their resolve did not seem impacted. Just another long day in the work, their faces seemed to complain.

They did not fear death, and in that their heroism inspired the Boglings. His brothers and sisters fetched herbs, food, and any type of cloth they could harvest from the neighboring danger lands, delivering it all to the injured party.

Though in truth, Nilbog suspected they were being controlled. Only the Elder and he seemed to be in control of their thoughts.

The fire crackled. Nilbog found himself within its circle, seated next to the Hero. A relaxing odor washed over him, but he fought it back. He had forgotten something; he swore he did. A looming sense of doom stalked his shoulders, hid within the deep recces of his mind. Whenever he thought he'd catch a glimpse of its nature it would vanish into a dull headache.

“What ails you, brown one?” The Hero said, placing one heavy gauntlet on Nilbog’s tiny shoulders.

“Notng. Woon. Urt?” Nilbog asked, his large eyes wide.

“Ah, fret not little one. This is what we call a flesh wound,” the Hero said, and then proceeded to cough out his blood.

“A fleh woon,” Nilbog repeated, a thoughtful look appearing on his face.

“Watch what you teach the little kid, Idiot Hero,” the Shaman said, shaking her head. Her voice echoed and her breath, even across the fire, smelled of earth and wet grass. Nilbog saw the spirts which clung to her bare shoulders. Admiration and awe-filled his face as he listened to her wisdom. “Imagine what he would say to the next party when they come on death’s doors.”

“Why need herbs? You missing arm just a flesh wound!” The Archer said, her laughter echoing.

“Laughter is the best medicine, my dear. Our foolish Hero knows his tools,” the Priest said.

Nilbog snarled his teeth at the bald priest. Not even did not even the Hero’s charm and the Shaman’s authority could not hide the Priest’s revolting sneers and condescending smiles

He was a bad human.

“What instincts this brat has! This tribe has a bright future.” The Guardian said, slapping the Priest’s lap. “Not even two days had passed and this goblin child snarls and spits at you!” the Guardian said, chuckling.

The Priest winced and growled at the Gurdian, scooting away from the Guardian, and bumping into the Master-Of-Arms' shoulder.

A glare from the Master-Of-Arms sent him crawling back towards the Guardian, cursing under his breath.

“Be wary of that one,” the Hero said, leaning in to whisper into Nilbog’s ears. “He lost his little toys inside the Ant Queen, and now he’s sulking.”

“And whose fault was that, brave Hero?” he said, his voice cold and humorless.

“A compliment! Finally!” the Hero said, wrapping his hands around the Guardian broad shoulders and squeezing.

“No, child, I think that was the only insult spoken today,” the Guardian said, ruffling the Hero’s hair.

“Why are we talking the child with us?” a voice said, out of earshot. “He’ll only be a burden.”

“I agree with the idiot. We’re soldiers, not Priests.”

“Like the blind one said,” a deeper voice said. “We’re soldiers, not Priests, but nor are we heartless fucks. So shut it and carry him properly, he’s bouncing on your shoulder like a ragdoll.”

“Why can’t we have the Guardian carry him instead of me?” the soldier whined.

“Because you lack the strength,” the older voice replied.

“But clearly not the tongue,” a different voice replied.

“I think he might be waking up,” a feminine voice said.

“He’ll be in and out of consciousness for a while, he took a hard hit. Whatever sick bastard left him back there planned on letting him burn to death,” Caldain said, hopping over a fallen tree. Large dents covered the ground ahead of them, as well as bent trees and upheaved earth.

“What happened here?” the Rogue said, sniffing the air. “Smells like...fuel?”

“You know what fuel smells like, Aron?” Caldain asked.

“Cancer runs in the family,” the Rogue said, shrugging.

“What?”

“I said that my family works in one of the outposts that turn crystals into fuel,” he replied, smiling widely.

“I...see. You don’t take your kingdom kindly, do you?”

“Why should I, if it doesn’t?”

“Fair point.”

“Um,” the Idiot Warrior began, cutting through the stillness. He tossed Nilbog to the other shoulder, struggling to cross the dents in the field. “That doesn’t answer what all of this,” he waved towards the ravaged battlefield, remains of blood, and broken trees, and holes in the ground riddled it.

“Ents, probably,” Lia began to answer. “Their bodies require immense energy to move, and will, therefore, use a combustion chemical reaction for burst movement.”

“What-”

“Organic matter,” Caldain answered. “Once a limb crushes flesh, it slurpers it up and turns it into energy.”

“Yikes. How do you fight them?” the Rogue said, spitting on a tree’s roots as he passed.

“You don’t!” the Guardian said, knocking against one’s trunk. “No wise tribe would reward Ent farming. Their bodies contain much energy. Excellent alchemy material, but the payoff is in flesh--usually flesh that no one wants, such as prisoners, thieves, and whores!” he said brightly.

“What he...said. Ents are on the ban list, if you paid attention in class. Any sale or utilization of their bodies is prohibited. Practices, where towns and cities would feed Ents unwanted citizens and then harvest their energies via the fuel, are long abolished,” Caldain said. “Which means that in the end, they’re a waste of time, STM, and HP.”

The Ranger dropped down from one of the branches above once again. “I got bad news, and some good news.”

“Good news?” Lia asked.

“Thalls at 3.”

“Bad news?” the Rogue asked.

“Specters at 12. Nasty things, those. Not at all the pretty Maiden’s legends told them to be.”

“Oh, they are, up close and personal. Nasty status inflictions--Charm, Confuse, Madness. Let’s go for the Thall. How far?” Caldain said.

“Three minute walk."

“Good. Probably the last area. From the way this round is constructed, we’ll probably be out of Ent territory there.”

“Why are we avoiding combat, so much, sir?” The warrior asked. “We’ve only fought other parties so far. Shouldn’t we gather as many points as we can?”

“Why do you think, soldier?” Caldain asked. He hopped over another fallen branch, glancing to his left, right, and then left again.

“Because-”

“No,” Caldain cut him off. “Even if you have a good answer, take the time to ponder on it further before speaking.”

Aron opened his mouth, attempting to get a quip or two, but was promptly silenced by a glance from Caldain.

“We’re...trying to save our endurance for easier prey. We can kill Crones, Growls, Specters, Ents, but the resources spent on them is better spent elsewhere.”

“That’s right, soldier. Rarely are the Missions a pure test of strength. You have a good brain, but don’t forget to use it. Acting dumb might have improved your survival in other circles, but here, and in this time period, it will only get you killed.”

“T-thank you, Captain.”

“You look like you have something else to say,” Caldain said, causing the Warrior to jump a few feet up in the air and nearly falling. The kid was abnormally heavy for his size.

“Ar, yeah,” he said, attempting to ignore how Caldain knew without even facing him this entire time. “If we’re saving our endurance for the end, then doesn’t that mean our strategy was always to ki….to hunt the others?”

“Yes,” Caldain said after a pause. “That is the safest and highest paying method.”

“But isn’t that a bit-”

“Remember, Warrior. We are soldiers, not priests.”