Chapter 12 Goblin Pain and Despair during Cave Disaster

A wave of grief washed over us, but we didn't even get a chance to cry for our fallen friends. The guards, with their cold, callous eyes, showed no mercy. They dragged the lifeless bodies away without a second thought. We watched in horror as our friends were butchered right in front of us, their meat thrown into the fire to be cooked for the evil goblins to eat. At the end of the day, we were only livestock for them, a food source.

Our hearts ached with sorrow and grief, we were weak and frail. The guards cracked their whips, the sharp sounds slicing through the air, urging us to move.

"The cave won't dig itself, get a move on, you shity slaves!" they sneered, laughing in our faces as we mourned our lost ones. They took perverse pleasure in our suffering, their brutal boots kicking us to get us moving.

With tear-streaked faces and trembling bodies, we stumbled to our work. The memory of our friends' lifeless forms haunted us, their faces etched in our minds. Every step was a reminder of the brutality we endured, and the hopelessness that enveloped us. We dug into the earth with our bare hands, our fingers bleeding and raw. Right away I knew that digging the cave with bare hands would only hurt us further.

The guards' laughter echoed in our ears, their taunts a constant torment.

"Look at them, pathetic worms! They can't even dig a hole properly!" they jeered.

"Hurry up, or you'll join your friends on the fire! Bragagagaghahahah!"

Before the guards started to beat and torment us, I shared my idea to use jagged rocks as makeshift tools with my fellow slaves. These rocks could be used to chip away at the softer parts of the cliff, gradually creating a cave.

 We scoured the forest floor, our frail hands trembling as we picked up the sharpest rocks we could find. Our fingers, already raw and bleeding, bled anew as we clutched the jagged stones. With a mixture of desperation and pain, we began to chip away at the cliff face, the rough edges of the rocks biting into the soft stone. Each strike sent shockwaves of pain through our already weakened bodies, but we pressed on, knowing that this was our only chance at survival.

The progress was painfully slow, each chip and scrape a small victory against the relentless stone. Our hands, already bruised, bled from the constant friction. The sharp edges of the rocks cut into our skin, leaving deep, painful tears. It became soon obvious that with rocks alone, we could not make much progress, and the despair of our situation weighed heavily on us.

Without many other options, I was forced to offer a slightly better but emotionally painful solution. 

The remains of fallen comrades lay scattered around the forest and our makeshift camp. Their bones, stripped of flesh, could serve as primitive digging tools. Larger bones, once part of our friends, were now makeshift shovels and levers. Smaller bones became scrapers to chip away at dirt and rock. Each time we picked up a bone, we were reminded of those we had lost, of their suffering, and of the brutality that had brought us here. The thought of using the bones of those who had once been our friends and allies was heart-wrenching, but the necessity of survival left us no choice.

Additionally, while not ideal, we used sturdy sticks found in the forest to pry loose dirt and smaller rocks. We sharpened the ends of the sticks with jagged rocks to make them more effective, though they often broke under pressure, leaving us with splintered hands and hearts.

We worked tirelessly, our emaciated bodies barely able to keep up with the demands of the labor. The remains of our comrades, now tools in our hands, felt like a tragic betrayal. With every scrape and dig, we were reminded of the sacrifices made, the lives lost, and the brutal reality of our meaningless existence.

Despite being meager and almost useless tools, it was a much better solution than digging with our already broken fingers, bent at awkward angles from the relentless toil. Our hands, raw and bloody, could finally find some respite, though the emotional toll was immense. Each time we wielded a bone, we felt a pang of guilt and sorrow, the memory of our fallen friends heavy on our hearts.

For the next few nights, we collapsed into the dirt, our bodies aching and our spirits weary. The cave, though still small and cramped, felt like a sanctuary compared to the cold outside. We huddled together for warmth in one big pile of stinking, filthy goblin bodies. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and the lingering scent of decay. But all we cared about was a little bit of shut-eye and warmth.

As the cave got deeper, a disaster struck. One evening, as we worked on loosening a particularly large rock, the entire section of the cave we had dug caved in. The earth groaned and shifted, a deep, ominous rumble that sent waves of terror through us. The rock came crashing down, followed by a cascade of dirt and smaller stones.

Panic ensued. Goblins screamed, scrambling to get out of the way. The dust choked us, and visibility was near zero. I could hear the cries of my comrades trapped under the rubble, their voices filled with agony and desperation. We dug frantically, using our makeshift tools to claw at the debris, our fingers bleeding anew as we tried to free them.

I watched in sorrow and terror as my fellow goblins were buried alive, some of them managing to dig themselves out, their bodies mangled and broken. They crawled on the dirt, leaving streaks of blood behind them, their painful squeals echoing in the small cave. Their limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, bones protruding through their torn skin. Their eyes, wide with pain and fear, were hauntingly empty. They gasped for breath, their cries growing weaker with each passing moment.

"WREEEEEEE! Help! REEEEEEEEE! Help me! Wreeee! Big ouchie! It hurts! It does! Owies!" wailed one goblin, his leg trapped under a massive boulder. His eyes were wide with terror, tears streaking down his dirt-covered face.

Another goblin clawed desperately at the rubble, his tiny hands raw and bleeding. 

"Hold on! I'm coming! I'm coming!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. But his efforts were in vain; the debris was too heavy, too vast.

Goblins struggled and writhed, some of them managing to free themselves only to find their bodies broken and useless. The painful squeals of the injured filled the air, a chorus of agony that seemed to go on forever.

I found myself beside a particularly large pile of rubble, where Scrag was buried up to his waist. He panted heavily, his face a mask of pain. 

"Hermit, help... can't feel my legs..." he gasped. I dug with all my might, my hands a blur of motion despite the searing pain. Blood mixed with dirt under my fingernails as I tried to free him.

Nearby, a few young goblins huddled together, their wrecked bodies trembling with fear. They clung to each other, their eyes wide with horror. One of them looked up at me with tear-filled eyes.

 "Will we die here?" he asked, his voice cracking.

I couldn't answer him. The sight of the young ones, so innocent and terrified, broke my heart. I had to do something, anything, to give them hope. But all I could do was continue digging, my tears mixing with the dirt and blood on my face. I unearthed Scrag and quickly dragged him outside, with him safe I rushed back in to help the others.

One goblin, a young one, managed to free himself from the rubble. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, bone protruding through the flesh. He dragged himself towards me, his eyes wide with fear and pain, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

 "Reeeee! My leg! It hurts! Reeee! Help me," he squealed. I reached out to him, my own hands shaking, but before I could grasp his, a loose rock fell straight down on his head, crushing it like a grape. His blood and brains plastered on my face, making me wince in horror.

The scene was chaos. Goblins were everywhere, their faces streaked with tears and grime. Some were on their knees, digging with everything they had, while others tried to move larger stones, their emaciated muscles straining with the effort. The dust made it hard to see, and the constant cries of pain and fear created an atmosphere of despair.

Near me, a fellow goblin was digging with fierce intensity. His hands were a blur of motion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He glanced at me, his eyes wide with panic. 

"Gobbie friends are trapped! We have to get them out! We do! We can't leave them like this!"

I nodded, feeling tears stream down my cheeks.

 "I know! Keep digging!"

A sudden cry pierced the air, another fellow slave had found a hand protruding from the rubble. It was limp and bloodied, the skin pale and lifeless. He grabbed it, pulling with all his might, but it wouldn't budge.

 "Help me! Gobbie friends, help! Fellow gob is buried alive! Someone, please help!" He desperately squealed.

Two other goblins rushed to his side, their hands joining his in a desperate tug-of-war with the earth. Slowly, agonizingly, they began to pull the trapped goblin free. When they finally succeeded, the sight that greeted us was horrifying. The goblin's body was twisted and broken, his legs crushed beyond recognition. His eyes fluttered open, and a weak, gurgling sound escaped his lips before he fell silent, "Thank you... friends...." his life ebbing away in front of us.

"No! Wake! Wake! Gobbie friend! Wake up! No! No!" one of the goblins screamed, cradling the lifeless body in his arms. His wails of grief were heart-wrenching, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

"We're losing them! We're losing them all!" another goblin shouted, his voice filled with despair.