Goblin Camp

Dawn was a thin silver knife across the rooftops when Morgana stepped out into the street. The air still smelled of baking bread and wet hay; the city yawned awake. 

She adjusted the cloak one more time and led the rented chestnut mare out of the stable. The beast stamped, impatient. Morgana slipped into the saddle and smirked.

“Don’t get cute on me,” she told the horse. “We both have things to do.”

By the northern gate the trio waited: Avric upright and steady in armor that still managed to look clean at dawn, Tomas leaning casual in his robes, and Borik, squat and solid, dents in his mail that told stories in a language his beard had learned long ago. 

The dwarf grunted a greeting, his eyes lighting with the small-spark of mischief of someone who’d found an amusement.

“Morning,” Morgana called, voice low and playful. “Sorry I’m not theatrically late. I try to keep my fashionably-late appearances to the weekends.”

Borik snorted. “Aye, ye look like trouble wrapped in pretty cloth. Good to have ye.”

Tomas gave a quick, sharp bow with his head. “Punctuality, then. We ride steady; two hours on the road if we keep pace.”

Morgana tilted her head. The mare huffed and nudged her thigh. “Lovely. Two hours to enjoy the scenery, the birds, and Avric’s chainmail reflection. I’ll bring a mirror so he can admire himself in comfort.”

Avric’s jaw tightened in mock offense, then softened into the practiced serenity of a man who believed courtesy solved most problems. “We leave at once,” he said simply, and the column moved.

The first hour was light chatter. 

Tomas joking about Avric’s serious face, Borik grumbling about how priests never shut up, and Morgana inserting biting little remarks whenever she saw an opening. For a while, it almost felt like they were just friends heading for a picnic instead of a battlefield.

The second hour passed in the way only travel does when you occupy it with noise and half-meaning jokes. The road narrowed, then slunk under the forest’s edge; sunlight turned green as leaf shadows fell. 

The mood immediately shifted when the group halted at the entrance of the forest.

Borik slowed his horse, giving Morgana a sideways look. “So then, lass… where’s yer weapon? Ye’re no’ plannin’ tae fistfight goblins, are ye?”

Morgana arched a brow, then smirked. “Funny you should ask.” 

She swung off her horse and raised her right arm. Black mist curled up from her tattoos, wrapping her hand in smoky tendrils before condensing into cold steel. 

Her scythe snapped into existence with a whispering hiss, its moonlit blade gleaming even in the shade of the trees. Its towering length was enough to show its uniqueness.

Tomas’s mouth fell open. Borik let out a low whistle. Avric, however, only leaned forward in his saddle, eyes sharp but impressed.

“That’s…” Tomas began.

“Legendary,” Morgana finished for him, casually resting the massive weapon across her shoulders. “That’s what the blacksmith said. Dorrik Ironhand. Gruff old bastard nearly drooled on the thing when I showed him.”

Borik blinked. “A Legendary? And ye just… carry it ‘round like nothin’?”

Morgana gave him a toothy grin. “What, should I polish it every night and sing it lullabies?”

Avric’s voice was soft, curious. “Where did you find it?”

For the first time, Morgana hesitated. She felt their eyes on her, searching. The truth, that the scythe had manifested with her rebirth, was a little too much honesty. So she tilted her head, shrugged, and decided to tell half a truth.

“Found it while adventuring. Right place, right time. Guess Lady Luck decided I deserved a pretty toy.”

Avric studied her longer than she liked, but at last he nodded, accepting the answer. Tomas still looked skeptical, but he kept his mouth shut.

The forest swallowed them as they walked deeper, horses tied off at the edge for safety. Morgana led the way. She was following her flight path, trying to look like she walked here before. 

After another hour of walking, she stepped confidently along the trail she had carved in blood just days ago as they reached the camp. 

The smell hit first, a thick, clinging stench that turned stomachs. Smoke, seared meat, and something older and ranker than raw, rot made by deliberate fire. 

Borik gagged loudly and covered his nose. “Gods’ beard, lass, this reeks worse than the warfront!”

Tomas pinched his nose, muttering a prayer. Avric, stoic as ever, forced himself to breathe through his mouth, though his eyes betrayed discomfort.

Morgana, meanwhile, only chuckled. “Oh, you poor delicate flowers. Haven’t even seen the juicy part yet.”

The campsite appeared through the trees exactly as she’d left it. Charred corpses piled high in the center, ashes still staining the soil. Tents sagged in disrepair, two crude watchtowers leaned like drunken giants, and weapons lay rusting in the dirt.

Avric grimaced. “By the Light…”

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Morgana plopped herself onto a half-broken chair and whistled cheerfully as she dug into her pack. “You boys have fun poking through the gore. I’ll just… supervise.” She unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite, humming happily.

Tomas glared at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” she said through a mouthful of bread.

They dispersed almost immediately. They were careful, practical, efficient. Avric moved like a man set to catalogue and control While Borik went elbow-deep into tents as if expecting treasure at the bottom of every nest. 

Too bad that he won't be finding any, for Morgana has already looted the place dry.

Tomas, on the other hand, walked slowly, forehead creased in prayer and inspection. 

She felt like the three of them were a play and she’d been cast in the best seat.

The camp looked as she’d left it. Tents slumped in the thin wind, two watchtowers that had never been much more than rickety perches, a central bonfire reduced to black shards and brittle bone. 

A few rusted weapons lay around like discarded promises. Nothing moved. The ghosts of the fight had left a smell and a silence as heavy as weather.

The trio worked methodically. They turned over the remains of tents, checked the perimeter for tracks, peeled back tent flaps to peer at the general’s gear before recoiling at the sight of scorch marks and symbols crudely daubed in ash. 

For half an hour Morgana simply lounged, and munched her food, occasionally offering sarcastic 'encouragements.' Then Avric’s voice rang out from inside a large tent. 

“Here! Come quickly.”

Morgana sighed and stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Let’s see what you’ve got, golden boy.”

Inside, the air was heavier, the scent worse. This had been the goblin general’s quarters, she realized. A low table sat center, candle stubs and a map unrolled and pinned with crude rocks.

Avric stood over it, expression grim. Tomas and Borik were already at his side.

Morgana stepped closer, and froze.

The map showed their city, the river like a black vein, the route past farms and ridges. Farther off was a small village, and next to it was what seemed to be a ruin sat in a bleak marker. 

Someone had circled it with a thick slash of red ink, bold and angry. 

Beside that circle ran writing. Not the tidy strokes of common script; the letters leapt and hooked at angles that made the hair rise under Morgana’s skin.

She felt the world narrow to the red ring and that alien script. Her stomach flipped. The ink thrummed like a warning drum.

“—what language is that?” Tomas asked, low.

Avric’s finger rested on the marked ruin. He looked up, voice even though his face had gone somewhat grave. “Demon tongue.”

The word echoed in the tent, heavy as stone.

Morgana’s throat went dry. For a heartbeat she had no witty barb, no smug mask to lift. Just cold, solid dread threading through ribs like an icicle.

She forced her face into something casual, something clever, and failed. The paper’s red circle glared up at her. Marks in red, pointing at an old ruin she’d crawled from the egg like a thing newly birthed and dangerous.

Around the table, the three men waited for her reaction. Outside, the forest breathed. Inside, the ink in a language she didn’t speak looked at her like accusation.

Her mind screamed a thousand thoughts at once, but none made it to her lips. She swallowed hard, forcing her usual smirk onto her face even as dread coiled in her chest.

Morgana swallowed.

“Well,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt. “That looks… important.”

And the four of them stood in silence, the weight of the discovery pressing down like a storm on the horizon.