The ghastly passages of the cavern were dimly lit with torches struggling against the pervasive gloom, casting dancing, monstrous shadows that seemed to twist and writhe along the rough-hewn walls. A cloying, rotten smell permeated the air, thick with the stench of decay and something else... something unnatural. Muffled cries, like the echoes of tormented souls, seemed to crawl from the very stone, punctuated by the guttural roars of something unseen and the chilling, sudden burst of a human scream. The floor was slick with moisture, and the straw bedding felt damp and musty underfoot, a thin barrier amidst the cold, hard rock. Along the corridor, gaping alcoves had been carved into the cavern wall, each a rough, primitive confinement. Twisted branches and thick, gnarled vines had been woven into crude bars, giving the cells a barbaric, yet surprisingly strong, appearance.
A jolt ran through him as his hands met the cold, gritty floor. He lay on the straw, disorientation swirling in his mind like the dust motes dancing in the faint torchlight. His eyes snapped open, trying to make sense of the rough-hewn walls and the low ceiling above. Then he saw Acharya, close beside him, his stillness a stark contrast to the frantic beat of his own heart. Beyond them, other figures huddled, their silence speaking volumes of shared misery and the gnawing fear of what lay ahead. Acharya, a shadow in the dim light, noticed. "About time," he murmured.
"When did you wake up?" Ale asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
Acharya didn't answer directly.
"Did you talk to them?" He motioned toward the other prisoners. "What's the situation?"
Acharya hesitated. "No. They... they don't look like they want to talk."
Ale pushed himself up from the straw, the damp chill of the cavern floor clinging to his clothes as he moved toward the rough-hewn bars. He reached the bars, fingers gripping the rough, medieval-looking lattice. "Doesn't look promising," he said, more to himself than to anyone else, his eyes assessing the sturdy construction. He glanced around the cell at the other prisoners, their silence a heavy weight in the air. Acharya, sensing the unspoken tension, moved towards a woman who held a young boy tightly. "How long have you been here?" Acharya's question cut through the silence.
Her eyes darted around the cell, a tremor in her voice as she replied, "More... maybe more than a week, or two. I lost track of time..."
"Do these goblins interact with prisoners?"
"They feed us," she said, her voice flat, "then drag us to the mines and back again."
From the musty corner of the cell, a middle-aged man spoke, his voice raspy with disuse, "They take a few now and then, mostly women. Rarely bring them back."
"It's the young ones who vanish," another voice chimed in from the shadows, "the young men, the women, the children..."
Ale returned to his place, with a heavy sigh escaping him as he interrogated the young man, "Are they coming for us today?"
"It's random," he answered, shaking his head. "No pattern. Time... hard to tell in here. But the mines... they'll come for us soon enough."
Acharya returned and sank onto the floor beside Ale. "What do you make of it?"
"The mining, that's routine," Ale said, his gaze fixed on the cell door. "It's the other... the vanishing. That's what gnaws at me."
Acharya's hand flew to his mouth, a sharp breath, "Young men and boys, too? Gods, Ale... do you think they eat them? Or... sacrifice them?
"Guess we'll find out when it's our turn," Ale replied, the words hanging heavy in the air.
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Clanking and guttural shouts echoed down the corridor. Fully armed goblins, their coriaceous skin a sickly green, pushed past hobgoblins whose imposing figures dwarfed the prisoners. Cell doors scraped open one by one as they dragged the prisoners out, their crude weapons glinting in the dim light. The prisoners stumbled out, clad only in rough tunics and threadbare trousers that offered little protection from the chill stone. Some garments hung in tatters, revealing gaunt limbs and bruised skin. These were not warriors or hardened adventurers; their faces were etched with the weariness of everyday villagers. Even if they, somehow, seized a weapon, the sheer number of armed goblins and the darkness of the cavern made escape a distant, desperate dream. Cell after cell, they were prodded and shoved through twisting passages, deeper into the cavern's suffocating embrace. In the designated chamber, damp air clung to their skin, and the air was thick with the smell of moist earth. Each was given a heavy pickaxe, its cold metal biting into their hands. A specific area was pointed out, and under the watchful, cruel eyes of the hobgoblins, they began to dig. The younger ones, scrawny and vulnerable, were tasked with a different kind of labor. Huddled together, they sorted rough stones, gleaming coals, shimmering crystals, and dull minerals. Each full cart, regardless of its contents, was then dragged by the weary miners to a designated deposit site, a relentless cycle of toil.
"So organized," Ale muttered, the words barely audible over the rhythmic chipping of pickaxes. He adjusted his grip on the rough handle of his pickaxe, sweat stinging his eyes. "Chambers for storage, sure. But mining? It doesn't make sense."
Acharya shot a glance around, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "They don't even make their metal weapons," he said, keeping his voice low. "They just take what they want. Pillage."
"Something's off," Ale agreed, leaning heavily on his pickaxe for a moment.
Acharya scoffed softly, a humorless sound. "You don't say."
"I thought it was a regular goblin infestation at first," Ale murmured, his brow furrowed in thought. "What in the name of troll's toe is going on?"
"We have to break free," Acharya said, his voice firm, "and investigate."
Ale risked a glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the cavern. A guttural snarl sliced through the rhythmic chipping of pickaxes, and a goblin's glare met his. "Eyyaaa! Eekk! Eyak!" the creature shrieked, its voice like scraping stone. Then, a crack like thunder split the air as the goblin's whip lashed out. Ale stumbled, biting back a cry as the raw wound flared. Hours later, the pain still a dull ache, they were given their meager rations and prodded back toward the oppressive silence of the cells.
They sprawled on the grimy straw, chests heaving, each breath a painful exertion. Their bodies screamed in protest, every muscle a knot of agony from the relentless toil in the mines. They were trained, yes, adventurers accustomed to hardship. But this... this was different. Training had demanded bursts of effort followed by calculated rest and recovery. This forced labor offered no such reprieve, just a grinding, bone-deep exhaustion that chipped away at their strength and spirit.
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The wooden gate groaned open each morning, a familiar sound that marked the start of another day. The sound of footsteps approaching meant another prisoner would be taken, their screams a chilling echo that haunted the remaining captives. New faces arrived, but the fear lingered, a constant companion. Despite the grim reality, the boys clung to a sliver of hope, weaving together a desperate plan to escape and return to the village, their hope a flickering flame in the encroaching darkness.
Suddenly, the air thickened as a handful of goblin warriors arrived, their guttural sounds echoing from the cell across the way where the boys were kept. Their leader, with a glint in his eye, forced open the cell door as he scanned the confined space. He lumbered towards a young girl, reaching out to drag her away. But a woman next to her shoved the goblin aside, shielding the girl with her body and pulling her into the safer depths of the cell. Another goblin pressed forward, entering the cell, its eyes fixed on the struggling group. Before it could react, the third girl, adrenaline coursing through her veins, lunged forward. She snatched the sword from the goblin's back, its worn leather strap slapping against her hand, and thrust it at the surprised creature. The goblin captain, a low growl rumbling in his throat, began to rise, but a middle-aged man, a surge of desperation in his eyes, hurled himself onto the goblin, a fierce battle cry tearing from his lips as he bombarded. The remaining goblins, their faces contorted with rage, surged towards the cell entrance, their roars and chattering adding to the mounting chaos. A brutal fight erupted within the cramped cell. Wild, frantic swings sent bodies crashing against the walls, floors, and the narrow space became a maelstrom of desperate blows. Bystanders, caught in the fraught struggle, cried out as they were cut and bruised.
Just moments later, the heavy tread of hobgoblins echoed down the hall, their larger forms blocking the entrance. More goblins followed, their presence a chilling promise of swift, brutal order. They moved to control the situation, their movements efficient and deadly. When the dust settled, the cell was a gruesome tableau of death and severe injury. A shaman, his eyes cold and assessing, stepped into the carnage. His guttural command, "Eeheehey eek kkeke," sliced through the air. The remaining prisoners were then sorted: young children were separated, followed by a line of trembling girls, then the men. The dead were removed, their bodies a stark reminder of the fight's brutal end.
The night breathed a fragile calm after the storm's fury. The corridor was a tomb of silence, broken only by the distant, disembodied cries and roars that drifted like wraiths through the darkness. The days that followed settled into a grim routine, each sunrise a stark contrast to the darkness that had descended just hours before.
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Although their bodies adapted, hardened by the grueling work, the boys remained prisoners within the cavern's depths. The physical resilience the human body offered couldn't translate into the courage needed to break free from the cavern's suffocating grip. Their only hope lay in the distant possibility of a rescue party or reinforcements from the fifth floor breaching the goblin burrow they were trapped within. But as the days turned into weeks, a deeper, more unsettling realization took hold: the goblins were not acting on impulse or typical savagery; there was a method to the madness. The goblins' actions deviated from all known lore; their shamans might be cunning, but their level of organization transcended anything the boys had ever read or heard.
The cart groaned under its load as Ale pushed it through the narrow passages. The air grew colder with each turn, the damp rock walls pressing in, until the tunnel opened into a surprisingly vast chamber. On one side, mounds of newly extracted minerals rose like miniature mountains. In the center, a huge magic circle, etched into the stone floor, seemed to lie dormant. Sweat-stained goblins hefted crates, their movements clumsy but determined, filling them with the raw materials. Others piled the filled crates carefully within the circle's confines. Off to the side, oblivious to the labor, three shamans sat hunched over a meager meal, their low grunts and slurping sounds reaching Ale's ears. He upended the cart, the minerals spilling onto a heap, and then turned back to the relentless gloom of the mining site.
As the goblin patrol completed their rounds and the corridor fell silent, a hushed exchange began among the boys. Whispering in the darkness, they exchanged the information they'd gathered, comparing notes on the chambers where they'd been forced to deposit minerals, crystals, and coals. One chilling constant emerged from their reports: crates, a prominent magical inscription in the center of each room, and the unsettling sight of three goblin shamans gathered together. But the inscription...it was unlike anything they'd seen or heard described in any lore of goblin magic; far more complex and advanced than any crude goblin could create. And the presence of three shamans, when only one usually accompanied groups for intelligent tasks, struck a chilling chord. There was a chilling logic to the goblins' unusual behavior, a disturbing organization that went far beyond what they understood, and it filled them with a growing sense of dread.
Acharya threw up his hands in exasperation. "We're not adept at magic," he stated flatly. "How would we even begin to understand that magic circle?"
"Were they trying to disguise, transmute, or fortify those crates?"
"Magic..." Acharya shook his head, a grimace on his face. "Forget magic. It's nothing like what we're good at. I can't make sense of it, and frankly, I don't even want to try."
"One thing's clear," Ale stated, a sense of awe mixed with fear in his voice. "That magic circle's sucking up magic like a thirsty sponge."
"Yeah, and the shamans," Acharya added, his voice low. "Three of them. Maybe they're all needed for whatever that magic circle does, like some kind of ritual. Or..." He paused, his brow furrowed. "Or maybe they're taking turns, keeping a constant watch, ensuring that thing stays... active."
Ale nodded slowly, a grim realization dawning. "That's it," he stated firmly. "Three shamans are needed to activate that magic simultaneously."
"What makes you so sure?" The question was pointed, accusatory. "Or have you been holding out on us, hiding your magical prowess?"
Ale's eyes narrowed as he held Acharya's gaze. "No, I'm not hiding anything from you," he said, his voice flat. Ale pressed three fingers to his forehead. "The goblins were stacking those crates in the middle of the circle."
"Huh?"
"Think about it," Ale said, his voice gaining conviction. "They were stacking those crates in the center of the magic circle, remember? And there were three shamans there, not one or two, and they weren't taking turns. That means they're all needed at the same time. They must need their combined power to activate that thing."
"At least we know this charade is not the goblins' plan."
"Now, about the missing prisoners... my conjecture is not complete yet."
"We'll figure this out."
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That night, the brief respite from labor ended as the familiar sounds of the goblin patrol echoed down the corridor. The air thickened with unspoken dread; everyone knew this was the time when some would be taken, and most would vanish forever. The wooden gate of the boys' cell opened with a scratch, and goblin warriors, their faces impassive, began rounding up the young boys and girls. The boys looked at each other, their eyes reflecting a shared resolve born of desperation, a silent agreement to their perilous plan. This was a part of the cavern's grim reality they hadn't witnessed firsthand, a horrifying glimpse into the fate that awaited those who disappeared.
They were herded through the cavern's corridors, each twist and turn deepening their sense of disorientation. As they passed a well-lit chamber, veiled by curtains that seemed far too opulent for this grim place, a voice cut through the muffled sounds of the tunnel. It was a language they understood, a jarring anomaly in the goblins' harsh grunts: "For the Blood." A ripple of shock and curiosity swept through the children; heads instinctively turned, but the looming presence of the goblin guards behind them, their movements blocking any view, was a stark reminder of their captivity. A low growl from the guards, a visceral warning, forced them onward.
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They were ushered into a chamber of immense size, far larger than any they had previously encountered in the cavern's depths. Candles and torches blazed, casting a warm yet unsettling glow that reflected off the stone surfaces and the chamber's many pillars. At the chamber's heart, before a tiered throne flanked by smaller seats, a complex carving dominated the ground. Circles within circles, overlaid in a vibrant, intricate pattern, seemed to absorb the light. At its center, a raised, bowl-like protrusion gleamed with a dark crimson hue, matching the surrounding floor, which accentuated the chilling design etched into the rock. On one side, a cluster of small cages stood, their bars casting sharp shadows as the terrified children were led, bound, and escorted inside.
On a raised, almost podium-like mound, stood a goblin shaman unlike any they had encountered, radiating an aura of unsettling power. Seven more shamans circled him, their forms silhouetted in the flickering torchlight. They began to chant, a strange, resonant cadence that felt alien to the very stones of the dungeon, a language completely unlike anything the humans had ever heard. The eerie sounds sent a chill down the children's spines, and soon, the silence was broken by the sound of muffled crying.
"Oi, Ale!" The whisper was sharp, urgent. "That shaman... the one on the podium!"
"Aye," came the grim reply, a sharp glance at his restraints. "Careful. Every action counts."
"The first chance we get," Acharya said, his voice hard with determination. "We act."
The eerie chant continued, a discordant melody woven with the terrified cries of the children in the cages. Goblin warriors moved amongst the cages, their gruff voices silencing the panicked sobs. Hobgoblins, imposing figures even in the flickering light, surveyed the scene, ensuring the ritual proceeded unchecked. The leading shaman, its chanting abruptly cut short, its eyes, twin embers of malevolent magic, glowed with an eerie light as arcane energy coalesced in its outstretched hand. It pointed a gnarled finger towards one of the cages. A goblin warrior responded instantly, flinging open the cage door. He yanked a boy out, ignoring the child's desperate struggles as he dragged him towards the carved altar in the chamber's center. The boy twisted, his small body writhing, kicking, and screaming, a desperate, futile struggle against the goblin's iron grip.
[A/N: mana and energy are equivalent and used synonymously depending on the situation.]
The child hung suspended over the altar, held by his hair, his body dangling over the edge, a stark, vulnerable silhouette against the crimson gleam of the carved pattern. More chants, now layered with the terrified screams and wails of the caged children, filled the chamber. As the ritual intensified, the goblins in the chamber became frenzied with ecstatic shrieks, howls, and chattering, their excitement reaching a fever pitch. The magic circle on the floor began to emit an unnatural glow, the intricate patterns pulsating with an eerie light. A hobgoblin, his face adorned with bizarre paint and his body marked with symbols, emerged from a side chamber, dragging a large, antique sword that gleamed with a sinister beauty. He approached the altar, standing near the goblin warrior and the struggling boy, and began to dance, a wild, unnatural movement that suggested possession. The chamber throbbed with a cacophony – the relentless chants, the terrified cries, the goblins' deranged noises. The arc shaman, its eyes burning with magical power, pointed at the hobgoblin and uttered a guttural command: "Eyeeek!" The sudden silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise. The hobgoblin, his eyes still glowing, continued his strange dance in the stillness, the heavy sword held aloft. The goblin warrior, positioned at the altar's edge, made a final adjustment. The hobgoblin's dance stopped. The sword, a glinting arc against the dim light, rose higher, then plunged downwards in a swift movement...