Chapter 07 The Thought of Raising Hatchlings

Meanwhile, as the beating continued, the master goblin signaled to stop and start a camp to rest for the night. The goblin guards showed no mercy to no slave and this one was no exception. The air was filled with his screams until, finally, he fell silent, killed by the ruthless evil goblins. 

But they did not stop there. The guards, their faces twisted in malevolent delight, dragged the lifeless body away from the path. They wasted no time, eager to indulge in their grotesque ritual. One of the guards, a hulking brute with a scar running down his face, drew a rusty, chipped knife. With a cruel grin, he plunged it into the goblin's abdomen, ripping it downward. The blade tore through flesh and muscle, and a spray of blood painted the rocks and dirt in a macabre scene.

They gutted him with brutal cuts, yanking out his innards with relish. The smell of blood and bile filled the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and fear. The guards laughed and jeered, their voices echoing off the rocks. They took turns cutting and hacking, their hands slick with blood.

Once the body was sufficiently mutilated, they carried it back to the camp. A fire was already roaring, and they threw the goblin's remains onto a makeshift spit. The heat of the flames quickly began to cook the flesh, filling the air with the sickening scent of burning meat.

The evil goblins gathered around, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. They watched as the meat sizzled and browned, their mouths watering. Finally, the meal was ready. They tore into the cooked flesh with savage glee, ripping off chunks and devouring them with unrestrained hunger.

Grease and blood dripped from their mouths as they feasted, their teeth gnashing and their eyes rolling in delight. They laughed and chewed, speaking in their guttural language, sharing jokes, and mocking the dead.

"Better than last time," one goblin said, gnawing on a bone.

"Yes, this one had some fat," another replied, licking his fingers.

The goblin who had wielded the knife took the skull, now a gruesome trophy, and raised it in a toast. 

"I will drink his brains! To good meat and good fun!" he shouted, eliciting a cheer from the others.

They continued to feast until only bones and scraps remained, the firelight casting grotesque shadows on their faces. They were satisfied, for now. But the memory of their cruelty lingered, a stark reminder of the fate that awaited any who dared to fall behind.

As I watched from a distance, my heart pounded with fear. The brutal display of violence and the gleeful feast that followed served as a grim reminder of our vulnerability. In this pitiless world, survival was a tenuous thread, easily severed by the sadistic whims of our captors. The sight of the evil goblins feasting on our fallen comrade fueled a desperate resolve within me. We had to find a way out, or we would all meet a similar fate.

The days stretched into an endless blur of torment and exhaustion. Every step we took was a battle against the raw, gnawing hunger that twisted our stomachs and the aching fatigue that sapped our strength. The relentless pace and the constant threat of violence weighed heavily on our minds.

The evil goblins were merciless. They reveled in our suffering, finding twisted joy in our pain. One night, as the camp settled into a fitful, uneasy sleep, the guards gathered around the fire, their cruel laughter piercing the quiet of the night. The haunting images of their earlier feast haunted us all, a gruesome reminder of our precarious situation.

Days passed, and the horrors continued. Every day, the threat of death hung over us like a dark cloud. One fateful afternoon, another of our number, a young goblin named Skree, collapsed from exhaustion. His eyes were dull, his body emaciated from lack of food.

The guards, their eyes alight with sadistic pleasure, closed in on him. One of them, a particularly brutish goblin with a twisted grin, lifted Skree by his throat.

 "Weakling! Shitty slave! You do not deserve to be a part of our march! But you will do good as a snack! Braahahhahaha!" he laughed into Skree's ear, before slamming him to the ground.

The others joined in, their fists and feet raining down blows on Skree's frail body. His cries of pain filled the air, growing weaker with each passing second. The guards, fueled by their cruelty, showed no signs of stopping. Blood spattered the ground as their blows landed with sickening thuds.

Finally, Skree lay motionless, his body a broken heap. The guards, their hands and faces smeared with blood, looked down at their handiwork with satisfaction. One of them, a goblin with a scarred face named Butcher, pulled out a rusted blade and set to work. He sliced open Skree's belly, the blade tearing through flesh and muscle with brutality.

The guards worked quickly, gutting Skree's body and tossing his innards aside. They carried the corpse to the fire, where they set up a spit. The fire roared to life, the flames hungrily licking at the raw flesh. The smell of burning meat filled the air, a sickening scent that turned our stomachs.

The evil goblins gathered around the fire, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. As the meat cooked, they chattered excitedly, their voices rising and falling in cruel laughter. When the flesh was charred and sizzling, they tore into it with savage glee, ripping off chunks and devouring them with unrestrained hunger.

Grease and blood dripped from their mouths as they feasted, their teeth gnashing and their eyes rolling in delight.

"This one’s a bit tough, the last one was better! Had a bit of meat on the bone! Brahahaha!" one goblin laughed, gnawing on a bone.

"Not enough fat! Too skinny! Maybe we cook another one?" another yelled, licking his fingers clean.

The goblin with the scarred face, Butcher, held up Skree's skull, now a gruesome bowl.

 "No, you fools! We eat those who fall. We need them to build the farm. When we have our farm then we can have a feast. Think about tender little slave hatchlings. Oh, how delicious!" he shouted, eliciting a cheer from the others.

His words sent shivers down our spines. The thought of raising hatchlings only to feast on them later was too horrifying to contemplate. As we watched from our resting spot, the evil goblins continued their macabre celebration, their voices rising in a gruesome chorus of approval.

A few days later, the goblin master finally chose a spot that suited his twisted vision: a small clearing by a cliff face, an ideal location to dig out a cave for the evil goblins and establish their hatchery.

Our caravan, numbering nearly a hundred slaves, was immediately put to work. The goblin master barked orders to his elite guards, who then corralled us into groups, assigning tasks with brutal hands. Most of us, including myself, were ordered to cut down the trees around the clearing for building materials. Others were tasked with gathering vines, accompanied by guards to prevent any thoughts of escape. The rest were forced to lay the foundation and mark the boundaries of the walls, plucking the tall grass and digging trenches with our bare hands.

We gathered around the trees, confusion etched on our faces. The guards barked orders to cut down the trees, but we had no tools. In our desperation, we stood in a stupor, pondering how to accomplish the impossible. Driven by a mix of fear and hopelessness, I picked up a sharp rock and began to bang it against the tree trunk. Before I could register the full extent of my mistake, the guard's response was immediate and brutal: a backhand that sent me sprawling.

“You filthy slave! Stop making loud noise! You will attract monsters to us, fool! Use your shitty teeth to gnaw at the trees to cut them! If not, I will crush your skull!” he bellowed.

The absurdity of the order was overwhelming. Our meager teeth against these towering trees? It was insane. But fear is a powerful motivator. We fell to our knees, our mouths opening reluctantly. We began to gnaw at the trees, our feeble teeth barely making a mark on the thick bark. The taste of wood and sap filled our mouths, mingling with the blood from our gums. My teeth, already weak and chipped, barely made a dent in the tough wood. Around me, the other slaves mirrored my actions, their faces twisted in pain and humiliation.

The sight was pathetic and heart-wrenching. Our bodies, already frail and malnourished, shook with the effort as we gnawed at the trees like desperate, starving animals. The guards watched us with sadistic glee, their laughter a cruel soundtrack to our misery. Blood stained our mouths as our gums tore and our teeth cracked against the unyielding bark. The taste of blood and splinters filled our mouths, mixing with the salty tang of our tears.

The work was slow and torturous. Our jaws ached, and our teeth felt like they would shatter with every bite. But the guards watched us with cruel satisfaction, ready to pounce on any sign of hesitation or rebellion. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as we gnawed and gnawed, making barely any progress.

 Hours passed, and the sun began to set, casting long shadows that seemed to mock our efforts. The clearing, once a place of potential, had become a scene of horror, our blood and tears mingling with the dirt and bark beneath us.

Amidst the grotesque scene, the guards continued to bark orders and dole out punishment to any who faltered. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of blood, sweat, and fear. The once-quiet forest was now filled with the sounds of our suffering - gnashing teeth, muted sobs, and the occasional scream as a guard's whip found its mark.