My pack weighs heavily on my shoulders as I trudge through the picturesque landscape of a boreal forest. My hand finds its way to the tube secured by my shoulder, leading to the water bladder inside my pack. The tube lets out a small hiss of pressure as I undo the lock and take a sip. The signature bitterness of iodine is present as I lap at water; greedily savoring the feeling of my parched mouth being once again moisturized.

This was day two of my three-day expedition north from an isolated dwarfish mining outpost. My business is that of a merchant; though it feels more like that of a packhorse. In the times after /k/-day, the elvish inquisition had shown the lengths it was willing to go to in order to secure their hold on the knowledge of magic. Entire settlements of humans had been wiped out at the mere rumor of spellcasters.

Military presence at that time had been limited. With the mass appearance of portals, the organization in our world had become pandemonium. The heavy restrictions on the study and use of magic and artifacts continue to this day. The need for a tradesman who not only deals in these artifacts but is willing to risk life and limb to transport them became apparent. I stop briefly in my tracks, hefting the pack higher on my shoulders and adjusting the straps and kidney pads. I had never been one to squander an opportunity, especially one that would allow me to traverse the wilds and wonders of this new world.
I put up my water tube, and grasped my slung rifle, the steel rails warm from the grasp of my hands. A hearty weapon, from simpler times: A SOPMOD Block II clone, with EoTech RDS and magnifier. I had used these before in my military service, and thought so much of them that I bought one after my term had ended. The familiarity of the weapon brings comfort in these unfamiliar vistas.
In the brief silence of my pausing steps, I hear a faint whisper of sound. I listen intently, drinking in the sounds of the forest as I had my water just moments ago:
Foreign, unfamiliar birdsong,
An uneven, loping rustle of brush reminiscent of squirrels,
And… The faint babbling of a stream
I let out a satisfied breath, and started towards it. I stamp through grass and brush, pushing through some low hanging branches, fighting through as they insistently snag my pack.
Once over a small crest, there I see sand banks leading to a stream that flowed lazily over rocks, carrying pine needles off to some unknown destination.
I slide the pack off my shoulders and set it leaning against a tree. I unfasten and flip open the top, taking out my bladder and iodine tablets. I sling my rifle around behind me, and approach the stream, undoing the top of my water source. I dip it into the stream, fill it with the cool water, and add the required iodine to ensure I die of causes other than dysentery.
I walked back to my pack at the edge of the sand bank, and set the bladder next to it on the ground. This may be a good a time as any to take a short break for some rations. Digging below the space that the bladder once occupied, I pull out thin strips of basilisk jerky; A hearty meat that fills the stomach and uplifts the heart.
…or so I am told by the dwarfish shop keep, whose nose, in hindsight, was rather large.
”Empties the wallet too, I suppose,” I mutter as I gnaw on the strips of dried flesh.
I had heard while I was at the outpost that the dwarfs would often encounter basilisks when mining at lower depths; accidentally breaking into their lairs. This inevitably resulted in many dead dwarfs once a basilisk was loose in the mining tunnels; however I’m told that the creatures were always brought down. Afterwards, their corpses were transported to the surface along with the ore for processing; serving to feed the miners they didn’t manage to kill, devour, or spatter in chunks along the cave walls.
I am ripped out of my musings by the smell of cigarette smoke drifting lazily on the breeze. My heart leapt to my throat, and my mouth that had just been wet was again dry.
I cram the rest of the jerky into my mouth, grab my pack and bladder, and scan quickly for brush that could act as concealment. Patches of tall grass grew along where the sandy embankment and the forest terrain met. Not good enough for both me and the supplies. I duck low and quickly approach the grass, setting my pack and bladder behind it.
Definitely not the best; but thankfully the gurgling of the stream conceals the soft thud of my pack hitting the ground.
I bring my rifle around to my front, and move slightly into the forest. Still close enough to see where I had stashed my pack… And where I had walked to the stream to fill up my bladder.
The cottonmouth feeling doubles in intensity. There, clearly, on the sandy embankment are my boot prints leading to and from the stream.
I swear under my breath
The cigarette smell is stronger now, and my heightened sense make the taste almost palpable. Over the white noise of the stream I begin to hear the harsh babble of a foreign tongue.
Gruff, almost animalistic; but with the timbre of a spoken language. Prior experience informed me that these had to be goblins. Keeping a deliberate finger on the lever, I slowly take my rifle off safe. It disengages with a soft “tick”, and my finger traces the outside of the trigger guard.
Lower race or not, goblins had been slaughtering one another for years; it was almost a certainty that such tracks would not escape their notice. I hear a rustling on the other side of the embankment
One… Two…
They emerge from the brush, tramping across the tall grass, paying no mind to attempting to be cunning in their approach
Three… Four…
The descriptions of goblins that I had heard in fairy tales as a child were quite accurate to the real deal.
Five… Six…
Green, leathery skin populated generously with bumps and warts, not unlike a toad in appearance
Seven… The one with the cigarette.
In the crisp air of the boreal forest, the smell of the cigarette was obvious; but overpowering even that was the stench of the goblins themselves.
The seventh appeared to be the last in the group
The smell of goblin- that of stagnant water and fecal matter. It had a tendency to dig into your nostrils and settle heavy on your tongue, where it stubbornly lingered. A long, hooked nose like a Hebrew caricature hung over a drooling mouth that concealed thin, needle-like teeth.
The group sauntered out on to the embankment, taking little stock of their surroundings. They all wore stained, torn rags for clothing, little better than loincloths.
Matching the condition of their clothing were the bags they carried on their backs, and the rusty rifles they carried that looked like they had been recovered from the bottom of lakes.
The seventh goblin did not have any semblance of a firearm, but carried a stick with various feathers and beads haphazardly attached with twine at one end. The creatures dropped their packs on the sand, and they landed with dull thuds. They stretched their arms above their heads, and muttered a few coarse words in their broke tongue to one another.
I released my grip on my handguard, and fished in my left pocket for ear plugs, never taking my eyes off the goblins, nor my finger away from the trigger. I put in one with my left, replace my hand on the handguard, and put the other in as quickly as I can, feeling the pressure of not being able to fire while my right hand is busy.
The babbling of the stream, the wind rustling through the pines, and the goblin conversation becomes muted. The muffled sound refines my adrenaline into a sharp point.
The three goblins who had been first in the clearing walk over to the running water. They drop to their knees at the edge of the water, and setting aside their rusty rifles, plunge their heads in one by one to drink deeply.
Time seems to slow.
I can’t let this chance go.
I pause at the bottom of my breath, and train the red dot of my sight on center mass of a goblin who is starting to approach the stream to drink as well. The trigger breaks crisply, the goblin crumples, a clod of dirt kicking up behind him. The heads of all the goblins shoot up, with one of the ones that had been drinking choking and hacking on water.
Their movements are slow from my perspective. My dot settles on the next goblin that hadn’t been to the river; another break, he falls. The smoking goblin dives into the brush and scrambles behind a tree.
The last goblin who still hadn’t approached the river brings his rifle around to head where he aims it at my position in the brush. Much to slow; I feel the recoil of my rifle, and watch the creature fall, clutching at its chest.
The goblins by the stream are still scrambling to orient themselves and trying to find their weapons. Like a hammer sinking nails, my shots fall one, two, three into their torsos. They fall, twitching and gurgling.
My sights flick up back to where I saw the last goblin disappear to. The brush is still, and through the ear plugs my hearing is handicapped. I slowly release the trigger, feeling the “click” of the mechanism reset.
I get to my feet, but remain crouched low. I can feel my teeth buzzing from my heartbeat. I begin to move from my position towards a tree to my left, glancing between the unmoving carcasses and where I had last seen the remaining goblin.
The buzzing in my teeth I begin to hear in my ears
And feel my torso
What the Hell?
The cigarette goblin steps out from behind a tree, his stick crackling with electrical energy and producing sound like the hum of a power station. Screw moving tactically; I dive desperately behind the tree I had been walking towards, and a moment later, a bolt of energy impacts the tree, the impact sending me a flying a few feet back.
My ears are ringing, and I gasp for air, but can’t draw a breath. I roll over on to my stomach, and push up on to my hands and knees. My rifle dangles on its sling beneath me. I look around bleary eyed, trying to orient myself. I scramble in a bear crawl to behind the next tree I see, and rest my back up against it, gripping my rifle.
Again, I hear a humming to my 6 o’clock. A glowing bolt impacts a tree ten feet to my left, exploding the trunk into splinters. The bolt leaves a streak in my vision, and I can smell the burning of the pine sap.
Through the haze of adrenaline, a thought occurs to me: If that didn’t hit me, then it doesn’t know where I am right now.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
I can survive this.
The impacted tree gave a few loud cracks, then a creaking noise filled the forest. With a groan that seemed to come from a creature, the pine falls through the trees and lands with a “fwoosh.” I take another breath.
I get down on my belly and begin to crawl and quietly as I can through the brush. The pine needles dampen the sound of my movement, and the running stream provides masking noise.
I make it back to brush on the edge the embankment, and glance up and down the steam. About thirty feet up stream I see the corpses of the fallen goblins, the sand around them now saturated in crimson. The cigarette goblin is nowhere to be seen, although its odor still lingers in the air, mixing with burnt pine.
I try to slow my racing thoughts, and drag my mind out of the adrenaline rush. It’s common for goblins to travel in packs, but usually large bands; less than 50 is uncommon. This may have been a scouting party of some sort.
If I stay in my current position, it’s possible that the remaining goblin returns to a larger war band, alerting them to my presence in the forest-- But chasing after it when it has the ability to cast magic powerful enough to fell trees would be risking putting myself in harms way.
My finger absentmindedly traces the trigger guard.
The buzzing and electrical hum that I experienced were a few seconds before the bolt was actually cast. If I could land a shot on him fast enough, I would be able to disable or kill him before he could finish the casting process. Its current position was a mystery, although the still lingering smell of cigarette smoke informed me that it was still close by.
I glanced downstream again at the goblin corpses and the surrounding sand. I settle deeper on to my belly and look through my flipped-out magnifier: Although difficult to make out, I see that my tracks on this side of the stream are still by themselves.
So, it hadn’t crossed the stream to come after me.
My vision sweeps back over to the corpses of the goblins, looking for anything that may give me vital information. Even now I see the blood continuing to soak into the sand. The three that had been drinking and fell near the stream now bleed into the water, trickling red into the clear flow.
A rustle in the bushes-- And my nerves are instantly strained to breaking. My sights train over to the moving foliage. I hold my breath, waiting for it to appear.
A second passes…
Two seconds…
A small, furry creature resembling a vole the size of a rabbit emerges from the bushes
It waddles unhurriedly towards the stream, presumably to get a drink.
I exhale, and feel slightly light-headed-- Then, a buzzing.
The small creature is vaporized on the embankment, sand blowing in all directions.
From downstream?
I blink rapidly to try and clear the afterimage from my vision. I see the goblin burst from the tree line on the same side of the stream as I am, staff crackling with energy, and his cigarette burnt down to the filter. The bastard must have been walking inside my tracks to cross the river!
I clamber to a kneeling position to have a better shot. It’s head whips around to me, detecting my haphazard movement immediately-- We raise our weapons simultaneously.
I feel that horrible buzzing in my teeth as I lock eyes with the thing through my sights. I jerk the trigger in my rush; my shot goes wide, and wings it in the right shoulder instead of center mass.
The goblin reels back, his staff also going wide. The buzzing increases, and I again feel it in my chest.
The bolt flies narrowly to my left.
As it passes I feel the hairs on my arm stand up, and an intense heat. The bolt impacts somewhere far behind me on the opposite side of the steam--Even so, the blast wave causes me to stumble slightly.
Not enough, though
I steady myself and again train my sights on the creature. It screams gutturally at me, cigarette falling onto the ground. Its staff raises, as if to cast again.
I squeeze the trigger, feel the clean break, and the goblin stumbles backwards from a center mass impact. I fire again-- and again.
It falls, still gesticulating with its staff, and twitching. Even as it lies still on it’s back, I continue to put more rounds into it.
My bolt locks back
I slowly lower my rifle while keeping my eyes on the body. My legs are trembling, and my rifle that I had carried for so long suddenly feels too heavy to lift. I drop to one knee, and take deep breaths. My rifle is slung around to my side, and I take my ear plugs out.
The dampening of my hearing is lifted, and all at once I am basking in the ambience of the now quiet forest. The stream seems to whisper sweet comforts to me, and I feel my heartrate decrease, and my heart descend from my mouth to its proper place in my chest.
A stinging sensation on the left side of my face makes itself apparent-- Must’ve caught some shrapnel when the tree exploded. I get to my feet with a grunt, also now feeling an ache in my left leg. Hopefully it’s nothing serious enough to delay me on my delivery route.
I trudge over to the corpse. The smell of goblin filth mixes with the stench of their foul blood. A least 10 holes are dotted around the torso, arms, legs, and one in the neck. I’m standing on its left side, the corpse between the river and I. In its gnarled hand it still clutches the beaded and feathered stick
Placing my heel on its arm, I yank the stick from its grasp. It tingles in my hand, similar to licking a 9-volt battery. Might be able to get a few copper pieces for something like this, although it’s doubtful it’ll work when it’s removed from the forest.
I walked back down stream to where the rest of the goblin corpses lay on the other side. Parting the tall grass, I grab my bladder and ruck from where I had concealed them. The stick goes into the molle strips on my pack for the time being. I move to a large pine tree, and take a seat, my back resting against the trunk.
Finally, the rest that I had intended to get
It would be wise to move on quickly, though. No doubt if anything nasty was in the area, it was curious what the gunshots and magic bolts had resulted in. The iodine-infused water tasted like a delicious reward after such a close call
”Better see if they had anything worth taking,” I mumbled, while getting to my feet with a groan.
The running water can’t be more than two inches deep, and several stones stick above the water, offering an improvised bridge across without the need to get your boots wet. Stepping on to the other side, I take note of the sand that now appears dark brown, saturated with blood.
Glancing around at the weapons they held, I took stock. First, of the three by the river: Two AK patterns, probably 47s, and a Gewehr 98 pattern rifle. Curious, I pick up the Gewehr from the river.
Its wood is rotted, and the whole thing looks like it had been left out in the rain several times. Rust spotted the metal from the bolt to the bayonet lugs. I noticed that the sights had been set at the furthest distance. How strange.
Before setting it aside, an etching in the stock catches my eye-- Long faded, and blending into the rotting wood, a faint “ANA.” A name? Or maybe an invocation of the Kube? Perhaps a rifle belonging to some long-forgotten novitiate of the old board? Doubtful. Probably someone’s sweetheart… But just in case…
I plunge the barrel down into the sand.
From my belt, I draw a knife, and prick my fourth finger. Blood drips on to the body of the rifle, running down the length of the tired wood, settling into the grain and pooling in the cracks and gouges. Under my breath I mumble a prayer.
”Be you noble soldier or wandering vagabond, wherever you are, I hope you have witnessed this revenge, and this blood sates you. May you find peace.”
A moment of silence passes.
Distance birdsong returns me to my senses.
Moving away from the three at the river, I inspect the packs that they had dropped on the sand. Rummaging through the first pack, I find foraged berries that were mostly crushed, coating the contents in sticky juices. Loose bullets of various calibers, none of which I can use. Ammunition on this side is often difficult to come by, and is always a valuable item in bartering-- Into the pockets they go. Some hard tack wrapped in large leaves. It’s probably edible, so into the cargo pockets it goes.
Second pack, more of the same berries, loose ammunition, hard tack, as well as a small knife with a flint blade, and a wooden handle attached with twine. At the bottom of the sack, an unopened box of Federal blue box .308. Very valuable.
The third pack contained only various water skins and hard tack. Not going to risk consuming more goblin food than I have to. Rising to my feet, I inspect the other three goblins that had fallen nearer to the tree line: Another AK, this one with synthetic furniture, and an AR, which upon closer inspection, was revealed to have a bent barrel.
At the very least the lower and bolt carrier group and be scavenged. I pick up the rifle, disassemble it, and put the BCG into a pocket, and set aside the lower to retrieve later.
The final rifle, the one that a goblin had brought around to aim at me with, was a Remington 700 clone. I picked it up, and cycled the rounds out on to the ground. More .308 to sell at the next town. As I do this, the thought occurs to me that I should grab the magazines from the AKs, they’ll be able to sell for something.
Nothing else of note was in any of the other packs, more of the same berries, ammunition, and a few loose magazines that were promptly pocketed.
I refill my bladder, drop a few iodine tablets in, grab everything of any value from the goblins, and prepare to leave the steam that had caused me so much trouble. My leg and face were now causing quite a bit of pain.
I had intended to sell the acetaminophen at the next town, but if I wanted to make it there it was better if I used it on myself now. I heft my pack up on to my back, and adjust the shoulder straps and kidney pads.
On the road again.
As I cross the stream and head into the trees, I take one last look back at the Gewehr, anchored somberly in the sand. A chill runs up my back-- A cold reminder of my own mortality.
I shake myself.
A life like this was preferable to the torturous monotony of back home. There’s money to be made, and I’m behind schedule. I grip my rifle, new magazine in place, and round chambered-- the weight now comforting instead of burdensome.
”I’ll survive. One way or another.”