“Now, where am I?” Alastor mused aloud, a wicked smile spread from ear to ear but strangely didn’t touch his eyes. He tilted his head to the side as if listening to the woods. He hummed an old tune under his breath, the haunting melody hanging in the frigid air.
It was then that he noticed the subtle signs—a snare trap, crudely constructed from twisted vines, hanging limply between two trees. Nearby, the faint impression of clawed feet marred the ground, their erratic paths leading deeper into the forest. “Hehe, how fun,” he giggled. A low growl rumbled from somewhere ahead, quickly silenced by a sharp squeal.
“Ah, now that’s interesting.” Alastor’s grin some how spread even wider, exposing teeth far too sharp to be comforting. If he could see himself in that moment, he would be reminded of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. He pocketed the watch, following the tracks with an eager stride; his movements light and carefree.
The forest thickened as he walked, the trees leaning inward as if trying to shield him from whatever lay ahead. Their gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, scratching at the overcast sky and casting long, eerie shadows that danced and writhed on the forest floor. The air grew damp, and thick with the metallic scent of blood that mingled unpleasantly with the earthy stench of rot and decaying leaves. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the depths of the woods, sending shivers down his spine. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision—small, hunched forms darting between the trees, their eyes gleaming like embers in the gloom. He could hear the faint, rhythmic patter of unseen feet on the soft forest floor, a constant, unsettling reminder that he was not alone.
“Skittish little things, aren’t you?” Alastor chuckled, his voice smooth and unhurried. “No need to be shy. I’m here to... help.”
The tracks ended at the mouth of a cavern, its jagged edges framing a yawning darkness. The entrance was littered with bones and discarded weapons, rusted blades and shattered arrows sticking out of the dirt like forgotten relics. Torches lined the walls inside, their feeble flames casting wavering light on the slick stone.
Alastor stepped closer, inspecting the entrance. A broken spear jutted from the ground, its tip smeared with fresh blood. He bent down, tracing a finger over the dark stain.
“Crude. Primitive,” he murmured. “But functional. How quaint.”
A guttural snarl echoed from within the cavern, followed by the unmistakable sound of goblins squabbling. Alastor straightened, brushing off his immaculate suit as if preparing for a performance. A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed his face, a fleeting ghost of the man he once was. He remembered the void, an eternity of echoing screams and the gnawing hunger of the abyss. He'd faced horrors unimaginable, witnessed the slow, agonizing decay of sanity, and learned that cruelty, in its myriad forms, was the true currency of that desolate realm. Compared to the horrors he'd endured, a few squabbling goblins seemed almost… quaint.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice resonating with a dramatic flair, "step aside for the hero of the hour! Your saviour has arrived!"
From within the shadows, a pair of malevolent yellow eyes glinted, narrowing at his intrusion. Alastor, unperturbed, continued his descent into the cavern. His footsteps echoed faintly against the uneven stone floor, each step a deliberate punctuation in the suffocating silence. The air grew heavy with each step, thick with the stench of blood and something other, something primal.
The dim torchlight cast long, jittery shadows on the walls, their flickering shapes mimicking a frantic dance, a grotesque ballet of fear and despair. It was a dance Alastor knew intimately, a macabre echo of the horrors he'd witnessed within the void. In that abyss, fear had been a constant companion, a suffocating presence that twisted and warped his soul. Now, as he delved deeper into this cavern, the shadows seemed to mock him, a constant reminder of the darkness that still clung to him, a lingering echo of the void's corrupting influence.
Suddenly, a cacophony of shrieks erupted from the gloom. A horde of goblins, their eyes burning with a savage hunger, surged from the shadows. Alastor, however, remained utterly calm. A new faint smile touched his lips, a predatory curve that spoke volumes about the amusement he derived from the impending slaughter. With a disdainful flick of his wrist, he sent the first goblin tumbling backwards, its head exploding in a shower of crimson mist, staining the cavern walls like macabre artwork.
Suddenly, a cacophony of shrieks erupted from the gloom. The horde, their eyes burning with a savage hunger, surged from the shadows. Alastor continued to remain utterly calm. His lips, had a sinful and predatory curve that spoke volumes about the amusement he derived from the impending slaughter.
"Ah, entertainment," he murmured, his voice a low, silken drawl that echoed through the cavern. "Always a welcome distraction.”
With a disdainful flick of his wrist, he sent the second goblin tumbling backwards. The creature's arms, brittle as dry twigs, shattered upon impact, showering the surrounding goblins in a gruesome rain of blood, bone, and gore. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the sickening scent of crushed bone.
"Such…enthusiasm," Alastor remarked, his voice dripping with a chilling amusement as he surveyed the scene. "A pity they lack finesse."
Another goblin, armed with a crudely fashioned club, swung wildly, its eyes filled with a desperate rage. Alastor effortlessly deflected the blow, his hand snapping out with the speed of a viper. The goblin's arm, severed at the elbow, flew across the cavern, landing with a sickening thud in a pool of rapidly spreading blood. The creature let out a high-pitched squeal, its voice cut short as Alastor delivered the coup de grace, a swift, precise kick that shattered its skull.
"Truly a spectacle," Alastor observed, a hint of disappointment in his tone. "Lacking in… panache."
More came at him, an overwhelming tide of green, a cacophony of shrieks and the clatter of crudely fashioned weapons. Jagged clubs, sharpened bones, and even the occasional jagged rock rained down upon him, a veritable storm of steel and savagery. Alastor, however, remained utterly calm. A faint smile touched his lips, a predatory curve that spoke volumes about the amusement he derived from the impending slaughter.
"Ah, such amusement, such pleasure. It is a refreshment on a hot summer’s day!" he chortled, his voice a low, silken drawl that echoed through the cavern. "Such delightful chaos! This is… invigorating!" A manic glint entered his eyes, a chilling reflection of the years spent enduring the void's endless torment. "To finally inflict the suffering I once endured… it's… cathartic."
The remaining goblins, momentarily stunned by the brutality of the display, hesitated. Their frenzied assault faltered, replaced by a terrified uncertainty. Alastor seized this brief window of opportunity, his movements a blur of motion. He danced through the melee, a whirlwind of death and destruction. Goblins were impaled on his outstretched fingers, their bodies exploding in fountains of gore that rained down upon the already blood-soaked floor. Others were crushed beneath his boots, their bones snapping like twigs under his inhuman strength.
The cavern floor quickly became a gruesome and horrific tableau, a terrifying tapestry woven from blood and severed limbs, a testament to Alastor's cold, calculating efficiency. He moved with a chilling grace, each strike deliberate, each kill a work of art. The screams of the dying were a symphony to his ears, a testament to his power.
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Soon the goblins turned and ran, more afraid of this single man than anything else they had faced.
“Charming,” Alastor muttered, adjusting the cuff of his suit as his eyes swept over the narrow tunnel ahead. The walls were slick with moisture, streaked with grime and old blood. The oppressive stench of unwashed bodies and rot clung to everything, making the forest air outside seem like heaven by comparison.
He shrugged it off and continued into the heart of the dungeon, where the boss should be waiting. The passage widened into a larger chamber, where the ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow. The room was a chaos of crude construction: uneven platforms made of splintered wood and bone, filthy straw nests tucked into corners, and pits filled with refuse. Torches lined the walls, their flames burning low and sputtering as if struggling to stay alive.
A growl rolled through the cavern, low and guttural, followed by a series of sharp yips. Alastor cocked his head toward the sound, his grin creeping back.
“Ah, so the natives are restless,” he said, his voice echoing softly in the damp underground dungeon. He strolled forward, unhurried, the faint tick of his pocket watch filling the silence between the goblins’ noises.
Dozens of goblins moved about the room, their hunched forms scuttling between tasks. Some dragged broken weapons or patched-up armour, while others fought over scraps of food. The squabbling ceased when Alastor entered. One by one, the goblins turned to face him, their glowing yellow eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Now, now,” Alastor said, raising his hands as if addressing an audience. “Don’t let me interrupt your... festivities.”
The goblin chieftain emerged from the shadows of the cavern. He stood taller than his kin, his bony frame draped in mismatched armour cobbled together from scraps of metal and leather. A crooked crown of rusted nails perched atop his head, and in his gnarled hand, he clutched a crude iron mace stained with dried blood.
“Who you?” the goblin demanded, its voice a raspy bark. “Why you here?” The massive golbin sneered at Alastor, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing. “You not belong here,” he rasped, thumping the mace against the stone floor, sending faint sparks scattering.
Alastor’s sharp gaze lingered on the crude weapon before meeting the leader’s defiant glare. “Belong? My dear man, I was made for places like this. The question is, do you belong?” Alastor’s grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the torchlight. “I’m here to make you an offer. An offer you can’t refuse.”
The goblins exchanged confused glances, their growls softening to uncertain murmurs. Alastor took a step forward, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor.
The chieftain snarled, raising his mace, but Alastor raised his hand in a placating gesture. Shadows rippled at his fingertips, the air around him growing heavy with malice.
“Patience,” Alastor chided, his grin stretching wide. The goblin chieftain didn’t know why, but he froze at the moment and was forced to listen.
“This... establishment,” he said, gesturing to the squalid room with a sweep of his hand, “has potential. But you lack a proper leader. Someone with a vision. Someone who can transform this pit into a palace.”
The hulking goblin snarled. “No leader but Grib!” it bellowed, thumping its chest.
Alastor chuckled, the sound low and cold. He extended a hand, and the shadows in the room seemed to ripple in response.
"Oh, Grak," Alastor purred, his voice a silken caress that belied the icy glint in his eyes. "Such…petulance. Truly, a most unbecoming trait for a leader."
The large goblin chieftain, Grib, roared a sound like a wounded bear. "I am Grib! Tiny man will die!" Green spittle flew from his mouth, liberally decorating Alastor's pristine shoes.
Alastor sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping we could avoid unpleasantness, Grib. But if you insist on this…unfortunate turn of events, I suppose we must." He paused, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Though I must say, your…enthusiasm is rather…predictable."
“Now, now,” Alastor chided, his voice smooth and laced with menace. “Before we proceed, let’s see what makes you tick, shall we?”
A flicker of darkness passed over Grib as Alastor activated his ability. The system’s familiar hum filled his ears, followed by the faint tick of his pocket watch.
System Notification:
Scanning Target...
Name: Grib the Strong-Arm
Race: Goblin Chieftain
Class: Embercaller
Level: 25
Attributes:
- Strength: 29
- Dexterity: 24
- Constitution: 30
- Intelligence: 13
- Wisdom: 11
- Charisma: 8
Abilities:
- Fire Pulse (Active): Unleash a wave of fire energy, dealing moderate damage to enemies in a small radius.
- Goblin’s Guile (Passive): Increases evasion and critical hit chance when fighting in dim or dark environments.
- Command the Horde (Active): Temporarily enhance nearby goblins’ combat capabilities, increasing their attack speed and morale.
Equipment:
- Chieftain’s Mace: A crudely forged weapon that emits faint sparks when swung. Slightly increases fire-based damage.
- Chieftain’s Crown: A poorly crafted but symbolic artifact that boosts Charisma by 2 when dealing with goblins.
Threat Assessment: Minor
The information scrolled across Alastor’s vision, glowing faintly against the dimly lit cavern. He clasped his hands behind his back, his smile deepening as he took in the details.
“An Embercaller,” Alastor mused, his tone laced with amusement. “How quaint. You’re a matchstick playing in the shadows. Little chieftain, but you’re a mere candle to my abyss.”
“You think you scare Grib? Grib lead strong goblins!” Grib growled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his mace. “You mock Grib? Grib strong! You leave now, or—”
Alastor raised a finger, and the shadows around him surged, snuffing out the torches lining the chamber. The chieftain froze mid-sentence, his defiance crumbling under the weight of Alastor’s presence.
“Or what?” Alastor interrupted, his voice silken and sharp as a knife’s edge. The torches around the room sputtered and dimmed as the shadows at his feet deepened. “Let’s not overestimate your position, my fiery little friend. Swear your loyalty, and I’ll turn this rabble into a force worth fearing.”
Grib hesitated, his confidence wavering under Alastor’s unrelenting gaze. He glanced at the other goblins, now cowering in silence, before lowering his mace.
“Let’s not make this messy, Grib,” Alastor said, his voice a velvety whisper that seemed to echo from every corner of the room. “I see potential in you. Swear your loyalty, and I’ll make you more than a forgotten ruler of rats.”
“You... promise power?” Grib muttered, his voice barely audible.
Alastor’s grin widened as he extended his hand. “Power, glory, and a purpose greater than you’ve ever known.” The radio announcer’s grin widened, and he extended a hand. “Oh, my dear Grib. You’ll have power beyond your wildest dreams.”
The torches flickered violently as the shadows around Alastor deepened, curling like smoke. His pocket watch ticked faster, the sound sharp and rhythmic. The goblins shrank back, hissing and chittering, as the room seemed to darken.
Grib hesitated, glancing at his followers, but it was too late. Alastor’s eyes glowed faintly, and with a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged forward, engulfing the hulking goblin in a writhing mass of darkness. Grib’s roar of defiance was cut short, replaced by a strangled gasp as the shadows constricted around him.
When the darkness receded, Grib lay crumpled on the ground, his weapon shattered beside him. Alastor stepped over the body, barely breathing, his grin never wavering.
“Now then,” he said, addressing the room. “Shall we get started?”
The goblins stared at him in stunned silence, their glowing eyes wide with fear. One by one, they knelt, their heads bowed.
Alastor spread his arms, his voice ringing through the cavern like a triumphant anthem. “Good. Let’s make history, shall we?”