ch 9 The Goblin Fires Perish at Dusk

The hush of the Satyr Woods was disturbed only by the whisper of leaves stirred by an unseen wind. Keldrin, ever the silent watcher of the wilds, moved with the careful precision of one who had walked the forests for centuries. As he pressed forward, his keen eyes beheld a scene of grim desolation—wrecked caravans lay strewn across the woodland path, their wheels shattered and their once-laden chests emptied, their contents spilled across the moss-laden earth like the remains of a feast abandoned in haste. The remnants of wagons bore deep gashes, the markings of crude, makeshift weapons—unmistakable signs of a goblin raid.

But these were not the goblins of Eire’s merchant roads, nor the wandering jesters and daytalers who traded in mischief as much as in coin. These were primitives, wild and untamed, wielders of bone-hewn blades and scavenged metal fashioned into brutish spears. The unmistakable stench of foul magics clung to the air, a foreboding that set even the beasts of the wood on edge.

Beyond the wreckage, amidst the thickets where the moonlight barely touched, he found them—the direwolves. Their great forms, sleek and shadow-bound, bore wounds both fresh and old. Keldrin, though no master healer, bent down and placed his hands upon the fallen beasts. His magic, though faint in comparison to the high sorcery of the elder elves, hummed through his fingertips, a quiet whisper of renewal. The direwolves stirred beneath his touch, some lifting their heads to gaze upon him with weary eyes.

Then came the attack.

From the canopy above and the darkened hollows below, six goblins leapt forth with snarls of triumph, their jagged weapons gleaming with cruel intent. Yet, Keldrin was no fledgling hunter. The years had hardened him, his skills honed in battles long past. With a single fluid motion, he unsheathed his elven scimitar, the blade catching the moon’s pale light.

Two goblins rushed him at once, their reckless charge their undoing, for with a single sweeping strike, Keldrin cleaved them both, their cries lost to the hush of the trees. The others hesitated, but one, emboldened by malice, lunged forth. Keldrin sidestepped, twisting his blade, sending his foe sprawling to the ground before he swiftly dispatched him with a single thrust. The remaining creatures, seeing their brethren fall so swiftly, turned to flee—but not before Keldrin loosed two arrows in quick succession, striking down one before the other vanished into the underbrush.

Yet, as he turned to the wolves, a deep sorrow took him. One of the young pups, no older than a few moons, had perished in the chaos. Keldrin knelt beside the fallen creature, murmuring a soft elven prayer, as the others gathered around in solemn mourning

Meanwhile The morning sun cast long shadows across the cobbled street as Jesse and Jacques emerged from the Flying Marlin. A gentle breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the nearby bakery.

As they stepped onto the cobblestone square, their eyes fell upon Rhys and Meryl. Rhys, with his tousled hair and mischievous grin, stood leaning against a lamppost. Meryl, her face framed by flowing auburn locks, was engaged in a lively conversation with a street vendor.

When they saw Jesse and Jacques, Rhys waved excitedly, his smile widening. Meryl turned, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "There you are!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with relief.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, dancing shadows across the cobbled streets of Willowdale. The town was abuzz with excitement, the recent duel between the halfling hero, Jesse, and King Bertram still fresh in everyone's minds.

Rhys, the half-dwarf, chuckled as he recounted the tales of Jesse's victory. "They say the townsfolk were in an uproar," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Can you believe it? A halfling besting the king!"

Meryl, her face a picture of surprise, replied, "I thought you were taller in person. I had imagined a towering figure, not a halfling." She paused for a moment, her eyes filled with admiration. "But you're far from Willowdale, and to have drawn blood from Bertram... that's quite a feat."

Jesse, his heart swelling with pride, beamed. "I've trained all my life for moments like this," he declared, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "Adventure calls, and I must answer."

Meryl turned her attention to Jacques, her gaze taking in his muscular build. "I'm surprised you're a mage," she said. "You don't look like one."

Jacques grinned. "Thank you," he replied, his modesty momentarily overcome. "I've always been more of a hands-on kind of person, but magic has its own allure."

Meryl's eyes widened. "I'd love to accompany you on your adventure," she said, surprising Rhys.

Rhys, his face lighting up, embraced her. "Are you serious?" he asked, his voice filled with joy.

Meryl nodded firmly. "We're about to be married," she replied. "I'm not leaving you alone, especially now that darkness threatens to engulf the world."

Jacques nodded in agreement. "It's good to have a healer on our side," he said. "A strong backline is essential, and I've been hoping to find someone to assist me with my puzzle nexus. With you, I can focus on the front lines."

Meryl smiled. "I've been told I fight like a kensai or a sword saint from the East," she said.

Jacques nodded. "One of my instructors at the mage college was a kensai," he replied. "I've incorporated some of his techniques into my own style."

Jesse, eager to get to the point, interrupted. "We only have six days left to finish up in Eire," he said. "How difficult will it be to track a direwolf?"

Rhys shrugged. "Trust Keldrin," he replied. "Direwolves and boars are abundant in this area. He's bound to find one."

Meryl turned to Rhys. "I'll say goodbye to the children and inform Bertram of my decision," she said.

Rhys nodded. "Will the church agree to it?" he asked.

Meryl shook her head. "No, but I don't care," she replied. "Darkness threatens to engulf the world. I must do my part to spread light."

"Rhys," Jesse began, his voice filled with curiosity, "why is it called the Satyrs Forest?"

Rhys, ever the storyteller, leaned in. "The forest is dense, a labyrinth of towering trees and tangled undergrowth. It's home to many demi-human tribes, including arthos, satyrs, and fairies. Vegetation grows at an astonishing rate, making it a fertile land with numerous farms nearby."

Rhys and Meryl explained the nature of the Satyr Woods, its ancient name borne from the wild magic that ebbed and flowed through its roots like an ever-shifting tide. It was a place of primal energy, where the fae wove their spells into the very air, bending nature to their whim for tasks as simple as carrying water or shaping the weather to their liking.

“The Satyr Woods sustain not just themselves,” Rhys remarked, glancing about, “but also those beyond. Timber, fruit, and fresh produce are sent to neighboring kingdoms. The fair folk—pixies, sprites, and dryads—thrive here, preferring the quietude of the forest over the chaos of human cities.”

Jesse furrowed his brow. “There’s fae in Willowdale. Bards, mostly.”

“Aye,” Rhys agreed, stroking his beard. “Halflings, gnomes, and fae—small folk tend to favor simpler living. Cities don’t suit them, nor do their ways suit cities.”

Jacques, ever the seeker of knowledge, asked, “Is there a fae kingdom?”

Rhys nodded. “Aye, scattered across the world. The great Fae Kingdom of the West lies near Sylvanvale, beyond the jungles and grasslands. Many beastkin live alongside them, preferring their company to that of men. Some dwarves, humans, and halflings reside there too—outcasts, adventurers, those seeking fortune in trade and secrets hidden in olden glades.”

"And the Croyhill mountain range?" Jesse asked, his eyes widening. "If we move northwest towards Muse, we'll pass through the lands of the Kingdom of Serendus first, right?"

Rhys nodded. "That's correct. But I'm not as familiar with the woods as Keldrin is. He's the expert on these parts."

Meryl, ever the practical one, interrupted. "We should head to the stables and prepare the van."

Jesse remembered Keldrin's suggestion. "We should meet him at the stables in Eire, as he suggested earlier in the afternoon."

With that, the group set off towards the stables, their hearts filled with anticipation for the adventure that lay ahead.

The sun was just beginning to paint the sky with hues of pink and orange as the trio stepped out of the village gates. A brisk morning breeze carried the scent of damp earth and pine, invigorating their senses. They followed a winding path that led them north, the towering pines on either side creating a canopy overhead.

As they reached the edge of the woods, they spotted a clearing ahead. A wooden fence enclosed a large pasture where several horses grazed peacefully. A ranger, clad in a worn leather uniform, stood by a stable, his silhouette outlined against the rising sun.

Keldrin, a seasoned tracker with a keen eye, waved a greeting. "Over here!" he called out. The others hurried towards him, their hearts pounding with anticipation for the adventure that lay ahead.

Keldrin had spent the morning laying traps and marking den paths, his eyes scanning the underbrush with the precision of a seasoned ranger. Every broken twig, every faint track in the soil, told a story—and he followed them with purpose, seeking the lair of a direwolf.

Watching him work, Jesse tilted his head and muttered, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a pack of hounds from the breeders in Muse?”

Keldrin glanced over his shoulder, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Perhaps. But direwolves are not just beasts of burden,” he replied. “To us wood-elves, they are kin—wild, free, bound to the rhythm of the forest. For one like me, born of bark and blood, forging a bond with a direwolf is a sacred rite. It’s how we reconnect with the old ways.”

Jesse, ever the thoughtful halfling, nodded with understanding. “Then we’ll help you,” he said simply. “You don’t have to do this alone. We’ll search the woods together.”

Keldrin paused, eyes softening as he turned to face him. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “We are brothers in arms—blood brothers now. Together, our bond will only make the hunt stronger.”

keldrin accepted saying were blood brothers after all and together we can do this better.

The sun, a fiery orb, began its descent towards the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the satyr woods. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine needles, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

Keldrin, a seasoned ranger with a keen eye for the natural world, led the group through the dense undergrowth. Jesse, Jacques, Rhys, and Meryl followed closely behind, their hearts pounding with anticipation. They were searching for a pack of direwolves, a task that required both stealth and courage.

Hours passed as they traversed the woods, their journey punctuated by the occasional glimpse of a deer or a squirrel darting through the trees. Keldrin's knowledge of the forest was invaluable, and he guided them with a sure hand.

As afternoon drew near, they stumbled upon a small clearing. In the center lay a direwolf, its fur matted with blood and its eyes filled with pain. A small, shivering cub nestled beside her, its plaintive whimpers echoing through the silence.

Just as they approached the injured animal, a chilling realization dawned upon them. A horde of goblins, their eyes glinting with malice, were emerging from the shadows. They had spotted the direwolf and her cub, and their intentions were clear.

Panic surged through the group. Jesse, his heart pounding in his chest, drew his daggers. Rhys, his face contorted with rage, raised his hammer. Jacques, his mind racing, prepared to unleash his arcane magic.

Keldrin, ever the calmest in the face of danger, drew his bow. With a steady hand, he aimed at the goblin leader. As the arrow left his bowstring, Meryl chanted a powerful incantation, her voice echoing through the clearing. A blinding flash of light erupted, momentarily disorienting the goblins.

Seizing the opportunity, Jesse and Rhys charged into the fray, their blades flashing in the fading light. Jacques, his eyes focused, cast a spell that enhanced the strength and speed of his companions.

Amidst the carnage of the battle, Jesse found himself locked in mortal combat against the warg lord, a monstrous brute astride a beast as great as a warhorse, its fangs like daggers glinting with venom. The goblin warlord snarled in its guttural tongue, goading the warg to lunge. Jesse barely evaded its snapping jaws, rolling beneath its massive bulk before driving his blade into its flank. Yet the creature, more beast than mere goblin mount, refused to fall. It reared, sending Jesse tumbling.

Keldrin’s wolves surged forth, snapping and tearing at the warg’s limbs, their own fury meeting that of the monstrous beast. Jacques, seeing the tide of battle turning, called out, “Meryl, blind them!”

With a swift incantation, Meryl unleashed a dazzling burst of light, searing into the goblins’ eyes, forcing them into disarray. Jacques, seizing the moment, raised his staff, and fire erupted from his hands, consuming the manhunters in an inferno of wrath.

Meanwhile, Rhys waded through the melee like a tempest given form, his hammer ablaze with divine energy. The goblin shaman shrieked, its fingers weaving a spell of entangling vines meant to ensnare the warriors—but Rhys was faster. With a berserker’s cry, he brought his warhammer down, crushing the shaman’s skull before the spell could be completed. The divine radiance from his blessed weapon seared through the remaining stragglers, sending them scattering.

The slaves, though weary and malnourished, found strength in their desperation and turned against their captors, snatching weapons from the fallen and striking down the remaining goblins. Their fury was righteous, their long-held suffering given voice in the clash of steel and the cries of freedom.

At last, as the final goblin fell and the echoes of battle faded, the heroes stood victorious. The sun, now setting beyond the trees, bathed the battlefield in hues of crimson and gold, a silent witness to the valor and sacrifice that had been laid upon the forest floor.

The direwolf Mel-Gaur stood beside Keldrin, her black-furred pup pressed close to her flank. The ranger met her gaze, a silent promise passing between them.

“Tonight, we rest,” Jesse murmured, surveying the freed slaves, the battered warriors, and the beasts that now walked as their allies. “Tomorrow, we plan our next move.”

The battle was fierce and brutal. Goblins fell around them, their cries of pain and fear mingling with the sounds of clashing metal. The direwolf, sensing the danger, rose to her feet and joined the fray, her snarls adding to the cacophony.

Exhausted but victorious, the group stood amidst the carnage. The goblins had been vanquished, and the direwolf and her cub were safe. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the woods in a warm, golden glow, they knew they had faced a challenge worthy of their courage and skill.

Meryl tended to the injured direwolf with gentle hands, her healing magic soothing the creature's wounds. Keldrin, a master of animal taming, coaxed the wolf mother and her cub to trust him. The brown-furred mother and her pure black cub eventually bowed before him, their tails wagging in submission.

"We should give them names," Rhys suggested, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Keldrin nodded. "Let's call the mother Mel-Gaur, after the goddess of this forest," he said. "And the cub, Bal-gog, in honor of my clan."

"I'll take care of them," Keldrin promised. "They'll be safe with me."

Jesse, his gaze fixed on the horizon, spoke. "That can wait for now," he said. "Kneel down, everyone."

Jacques, his voice hushed, agreed. "We need to be quiet."

Keldrin's ears perked up. "I hear footsteps," he whispered.

Rhys cursed. "More goblins?" he growled. "Come at me, bastards!"

Meryl shushed him. "Shut up," she scolded, her attention focused on healing the injured wolf, Bar-bol.

Jesse nodded. "You're right. There are more, but they're talking to humans. They have slaves with them."

Jacques's eyes narrowed. "It would be unwise to attack them now," he said. "We'll need to find a way to ambush them when they're asleep."

Keldrin frowned. "I suspect they must be capturing denizens of the forest. But what could be their nefarious purpose?"

The battlefield was a scene of chaos and destruction. Goblins, their eyes filled with rage, clashed with the heroes, their blades flashing in the sunlight. The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, and the cries of the wounded echoed through the forest.

"We need to report this to Bertram," Jesse said, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. "But we're too far from Eire. We must act quickly."

Rhys nodded. "Should we descend upon them?" he asked.

Jesse shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait for the perfect moment."

Jacques, his eyes scanning the battlefield, spoke. "We'll strike when the sun is at its highest, blinding them with its glare. Keldrin, fire off at the goblins riding wolves."

Bar-bol, the direwolf, growled menacingly, her teeth gnashing in anticipation.

Meryl, her face etched with concern, spoke. "We must be careful. The captured slaves will be in trouble if we're not cautious."

Jesse hesitated. "There's no time to lose," he said. "If we can't capture the manhunters for information, we'll have to ask the slaves."

With that, Meryl cast a spell, her arrows of light catching the goblins by surprise. Jacques followed suit, raining fire arrows down upon the slavers. Keldrin, his scimitar drawn, charged into the fray, followed by Rhys and Jesse.

Amidst the carnage of the battle, Jesse found himself locked in mortal combat against the warg lord, a monstrous brute astride a beast as great as a warhorse, its fangs like daggers glinting with venom. The goblin warlord snarled in its guttural tongue, goading the warg to lunge. Jesse barely evaded its snapping jaws, rolling beneath its massive bulk before driving his blade into its flank. Yet the creature, more beast than mere goblin mount, refused to fall. It reared, sending Jesse tumbling.

Keldrin’s wolves surged forth, snapping and tearing at the warg’s limbs, their own fury meeting that of the monstrous beast. Jacques, seeing the tide of battle turning, called out, “Meryl, blind them!”

With a swift incantation, Meryl unleashed a dazzling burst of light, searing into the goblins’ eyes, forcing them into disarray. Jacques, seizing the moment, raised his staff, and fire erupted from his hands, consuming the manhunters in an inferno of wrath.

Meanwhile, Rhys waded through the melee like a tempest given form, his hammer ablaze with divine energy. The goblin shaman shrieked, its fingers weaving a spell of entangling vines meant to ensnare the warriors—but Rhys was faster. With a berserker’s cry, he brought his warhammer down, crushing the shaman’s skull before the spell could be completed. The divine radiance from his blessed weapon seared through the remaining stragglers, sending them scattering.

The slaves, though weary and malnourished, found strength in their desperation and turned against their captors, snatching weapons from the fallen and striking down the remaining goblins. Their fury was righteous, their long-held suffering given voice in the clash of steel and the cries of freedom.

At last, as the final goblin fell and the echoes of battle faded, the heroes stood victorious. The sun, now setting beyond the trees, bathed the battlefield in hues of crimson and gold, a silent witness to the valor and sacrifice that had been laid upon the forest floor.

The direwolf Mel-Gaur stood beside Keldrin, her black-furred pup pressed close to her flank. The ranger met her gaze, a silent promise passing between them.

Amidst the carnage of the battle, Jesse found himself locked in mortal combat against the warg lord, a monstrous brute astride a beast as great as a warhorse, its fangs like daggers glinting with venom. The goblin warlord snarled in its guttural tongue, goading the warg to lunge. Jesse barely evaded its snapping jaws, rolling beneath its massive bulk before driving his blade into its flank. Yet the creature, more beast than mere goblin mount, refused to fall. It reared, sending Jesse tumbling.

Keldrin’s wolves surged forth, snapping and tearing at the warg’s limbs, their own fury meeting that of the monstrous beast. Jacques, seeing the tide of battle turning, called out, “Meryl, blind them!”

With a swift incantation, Meryl unleashed a dazzling burst of light, searing into the goblins’ eyes, forcing them into disarray. Jacques, seizing the moment, raised his staff, and fire erupted from his hands, consuming the manhunters in an inferno of wrath.

Meanwhile, Rhys waded through the melee like a tempest given form, his hammer ablaze with divine energy. The goblin shaman shrieked, its fingers weaving a spell of entangling vines meant to ensnare the warriors—but Rhys was faster. With a berserker’s cry, he brought his warhammer down, crushing the shaman’s skull before the spell could be completed. The divine radiance from his blessed weapon seared through the remaining stragglers, sending them scattering.

The slaves, though weary and malnourished, found strength in their desperation and turned against their captors, snatching weapons from the fallen and striking down the remaining goblins. Their fury was righteous, their long-held suffering given voice in the clash of steel and the cries of freedom.

At last, as the final goblin fell and the echoes of battle faded, the heroes stood victorious. The sun, now setting beyond the trees, bathed the battlefield in hues of crimson and gold, a silent witness to the valor and sacrifice that had been laid upon the forest floor.

The direwolf Mel-Gaur stood beside Keldrin, her black-furred pup pressed close to her flank. The ranger met her gaze, a silent promise passing between them.

The battle raged on, a whirlwind of steel and magic. Goblins were felled by fire and sword, while the manhunters were overwhelmed by the heroes' relentless assault.

A manhunter, his eyes filled with desperation, lunged at Meryl. But Jacques was quicker, his battle axe cleaving the attacker's face in two.

A goblin, intent on setting the forest ablaze, was met with a ferocious roar from Bar-bol, who tore it apart with her powerful jaws.

Rhys, his hammer raised high, struck a devastating blow against a golden shaman, crushing its skull.

The battle was a decisive victory. The heroes had emerged triumphant, saving the lives of countless slaves, including demi-beasts, humans, nymphs, and dryads.

The aftermath of the battle was a mixture of relief and lingering shock. The freed slaves, still trembling from their ordeal, looked upon Keldrin with astonishment, whispering amongst themselves. Many of them had known him not as a warrior, nor a ranger, but as a trader—a familiar face who had once bartered goods with them in the outskirts of Eire. And now, here he stood, blade still slick with goblin blood, having come to their rescue.

One among them, a gaunt man with a weathered face, stepped forward hesitantly. “Keldrin… you? You were always a merchant. How…?” His voice trailed off, unable to comprehend the sight before him.

Keldrin sighed, brushing a streak of dirt from his tunic. “Aye, I was. But trading and fighting are not so different. Both require knowing your enemy, knowing when to strike… and knowing when to retreat.” His voice was steady, yet there was something else beneath it—weariness, perhaps, or sorrow.

Rhys, still breathless from the fight, turned his attention to Jacques, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe you fight like that,” he said, voice hoarse but filled with admiration. “By the gods, I thought you were a scholar, not some arcane gladiator.”

Jacques chuckled, though there was little mirth in it. “Don’t be too impressed,” he said. “I can only cast intermediate spells. Nothing grand.”

Then, before their eyes, his towering, muscular form seemed to waver, his shoulders sinking slightly. His physique, once striking, diminished as if air had been let out of a bellows. Jesse blinked in surprise, stepping closer.

“You... you maintain that with magic?” Jesse asked.

Jacques smirked. “An illusion of strength is often enough to dissuade a fight,” he admitted. “And it keeps me from falling apart when the real battle comes.”

Jesse’s gaze lingered, noticing something new—the faint outline of a scar, running in a jagged line down the mage’s back. It was an old wound, long healed, but deep.

Jacques, catching Jesse’s eyes upon it, shrugged. “Fell down the stairs when I was a boy,” he said, his tone casual, but there was something unspoken in his words.

Before Jesse could question him further, Meryl turned and threw her arms around Rhys, squeezing him tightly. “Thank the heavens Keldrin had the presence of mind to block with his cape,” she murmured into his shoulder.

Rhys grumbled, but there was no anger in it. “I could’ve handled it,” he said, but his arms wrapped around her nonetheless, holding her close.

Jacques, watching them, tilted his head. “Was this your first real battle, then?” he asked.

Meryl pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “It was,” she admitted. “But not my last.”

Jesse, meanwhile, crouched beside Keldrin’s direwolves, running his hands over their thick fur. They were still on edge, their ears flicking back and forth, but when Jesse reached out, they allowed his touch. Around him, the refugees, shaken but grateful, began tending to the wounded, murmuring quiet prayers for those lost.

Rhys turned to Meryl, his expression serious. “You should return to Eire,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

But Meryl’s eyes hardened, her voice firm. “I won’t.”

Jesse, watching the exchange, let out a slow breath before glancing at Keldrin, who had been silent for some time. The ranger stood apart, his gaze distant, sorrow creasing his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Jesse asked.

Keldrin exhaled, his voice quiet. “The woodland elves,” he murmured. “We worship Dea Dia, the goddess of growth and rebirth. Those who live long enough—five thousand years or more—become treants, protectors of the land. They oversee the balance of nature itself.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “I saw a face tree among the ruins. Destroyed. The manhunters defiled it.”

The weight of his words settled over them. Jesse could only nod in understanding.

A moment passed before Jesse, perhaps to lighten the air, recalled something from his past. “You know,” he said, “I remember fae merchants selling pixie dust, glowing mushrooms, enchanted lanterns…”

Rhys, ever the pragmatist, nodded. “Good things to buy. They cure paralysis, ward off hypnosis. And if the fae ever try to trick you, those charms will turn their tricks against them.”

Jesse reached for the chain around his neck, pulling free a small amulet—a delicate, rune-etched charm. “I have this,” he said. “Given to me by a fae bard.”

Meryl peered at it, studying the runes. A small smile touched her lips. “That,” she said, “is a blessing.”

“For what?” Jesse asked.

“For luck

Keldrin, his breath heavy, approached the freed slaves. "What is happening?" he asked.

One of the slaves, a young woman with tears streaming down her face, replied. "They were taking us to Drakthar, a goblin camp. They wanted to force us to mine ore for their weapons."

Jesse nodded. "We need to tell Bertram and Captain Madeleine about this," he said. "We can't enter a goblin cave without an army. We should also ask Faun, the beast master, or Mischief, the imp, if they know any other entrances."

One of the rescued nymphs, her eyes filled with hope, approached the heroes. "My tribe knows of a secret entrance to the goblin cave," she whispered. "We would be honored to join you on your journey to Bertram."

"The satyr woods are in danger," she continued, her voice trembling. "The goblins are growing bolder, and our people are afraid."

Keldrin nodded. "The night is dark," he said. "We should rest in the village and listen to the elders. We must understand the full extent of the danger."

The heroes agreed, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of the impending threat. As they made their way towards the village, they could hear the distant howls of goblins, a chilling reminder of the evil that lurked in the shadows.