Under the relentless sun of Amol-Kalit, the pale sand stretched out, assaulted by the unforgiving intensity of its rays. Nanleuth had once feared this endless desert, but its character was slowly shifting. Here and there, small trees dared to encroach upon the arid landscape, and the sand beneath his feet transitioned from fine and loose to a hardened, denser terrain. In the distant horizon, the vista transformed entirely, revealing a tapestry of green, dotted with more trees. It was a savanna, though the word held no meaning for Nanleuth; he simply recognized it as a place far more welcoming than the brutal desert he had traversed for months.
Villages were a rare sight amid the vast open expanse of the desert, and those few that existed were teeming with humans. Nanleuth had swiftly learned that humans held a deep disdain for his kind, their aggression immediate upon sight. Survival in this harsh environment had forced him to resort to theft, pilfering food and water, even once attempting to lead away a strange brown creature, towering and adorned with two massive humps on its back. Curiously, this animal had fled during his slumber, leaving Nanleuth perplexed. It seemed docile with the humans, but fiercely combative when confronted by him.
His encounters with dogs had followed a similar pattern. Most villages harbored dogs, medium-sized creatures with fur the color of sand. Nanleuth was immediately drawn to them, their loyalty and nobility capturing his heart. He had even tried to steal one, but these noble creatures fiercely resisted his advances, biting him with unwavering resolve. It was a harsh lesson that he begrudgingly accepted - humans, dogs, and even the enigmatic humped creature shared a common sentiment.
They all despised what he was—a Goblin.
Lost in thought, Nanleuth's keen eyes caught sight of the village in the distance, its square, sand-colored structures forming a huddled community. This village was unlike any he had seen before, with more than two dozen buildings clustered together. The sheer size made him instinctively flatten himself against the sandy terrain, belly down. The flat landscape offered clear sightlines, and his mere presence had often incited humans to rush out, determined to end his life. His pale yellow skin blended seamlessly with the sand, rendering him nearly invisible at a distance, save for the most astute observers.
His hand brushed across his belt, searching for the waterskin he had pilfered early in his journey. It felt thin and mostly empty. As he continued to observe the village, he realized the urgency of his situation. It was bustling with activity, and the reason soon became apparent. A caravan of carriages, drawn by those same humped creatures, was approaching from the west. Nanleuth did not know it, but this was a merchant caravan from the trade town of Maraan, come to collect the unique textiles and goods crafted by this desert village.
His cat-like eyes fixated on the men accompanying the caravan. They wore the flowing attire common among the region's humans but carried round metal shields on their backs and possessed wide, curved blades at their hips. Armed guards, likely mercenaries or adventurers - to Nanleuth, they were merely armed men.
Raiding was out of the question. The village's size alone made it a risky endeavor, but armed and possibly trained men? Nanleuth had never faced such a challenge. It would be a fool's errand to rush in blindly. Fearless, yes, but not suicidal.
His choices were few and fraught with peril. Should he wait until nightfall, attempting to stealthily infiltrate the village to secure water? Could these humans prove different from those he had encountered, risking a direct approach? Or should he move onward, praying for a water source before succumbing to the relentless desert heat? Each option teetered on the precipice of danger, each encounter a potential death sentence. Freedom was a tantalizing elixir, but its trials mirrored the brutality of the whip and chain.
For now, he decided to wait for the cover of night, knowing that it was his only viable choice.
As night descended, the relentless heat of the sun gave way to a chilling cold that cut deeper than the most piercing wind. Nanleuth lay in the shadows, resistant to the impulse to take reckless risks, mindful of the unforgiving nature of the desert. On this fortuitous night, the moon's light was but a feeble glimmer, its feeble glow obscured by both its natural cycle and the shrouding clouds in the sky.
The caravan had set up camp just outside the village, forming a protective circle with their wagons. The guards maintained a vigilant watch over their cargo, yet the very object of their protection left the rest of the village vulnerable, their attention solely focused on safeguarding the caravans, creating openings for a cunning intruder.
Nanleuth moved with a sinuous grace, his form nearly prone as he crawled forward, only rising to a crouch when necessary, and bounding with silent agility across the densely packed sand. His bare, clawed feet made no sound, as was the trait of his kin. Much like other villages, the water source in this settlement was a well located at its center. He scanned the buildings surrounding it, his luminescent yellow eyes cutting through the deep darkness, and his steps quickened as the promise of quenching his thirst neared.
Reaching the well, he encountered an obstacle - a wooden hatch secured by a thick metal lock. His frustration was palpable, for this was a sight he had rarely encountered. Most villages had covers for their water sources but not locks. Drawing one of his stolen daggers, he wedged it into the shackle of the lock, exerting his immense strength. With a loud metallic pop, the lock yielded, and the hatch was free.
His relief turned to alarm as he cursed audibly - the noise was shockingly loud in the otherwise quiet village. Desperation guided his actions as he quickly lowered the rope bucket into the well, his anxiety and anticipation rising with each 'glug, glug' as it filled. The sound echoed through the well, a cacophonous symphony of danger.
Voices emerged, emanating from the vicinity of the caravan. Panic gripped him as he heard their approach. Abandoning his water skin, he prepared to flee, but what he saw froze him in place. A human man, towering at roughly six feet, stood there, talwar drawn, eyes ablaze with fury. Nanleuth had no true weapon, wielding only a pair of daggers in his sash, as swords were a rarity and beyond the reach of most villages.
Desperation surged within him, and he dropped his water-filled bucket, brandishing his second dagger, while the first remained ensnared in the broken lock. "I only wanted water," Nanleuth spoke in fluent common. The man raised an eyebrow but remained resolute.
"Surrender, and you will be granted a trial, since you appear intelligent," a female voice behind him declared. Nanleuth was unsure of what exactly a 'trial' meant, but he knew the man before him spelled certain death. Reluctantly, he dropped his dagger, extending his arms in surrender, only to receive a blow to the head, rendered unconscious by the flat of the talwar.
Dazed and disoriented, Nanleuth awoke to find himself imprisoned within a cage barely accommodating his height and wingspan. Villagers moved about, some pausing to inspect his pitiable state. He couldn't see it, but a plaque positioned in front of the cage bore the inscription, 'Water Thief - Trial at sundown.' For Nanleuth, there was only a sinking feeling of remorse and apprehension, the bars of the cage serving as a haunting reminder of the enslavement he had endured under Cerak At'Thul - a grim anticipation that he was destined to return to that wretched existence. Freedom had been an intoxicating elixir, but now it seemed to have eluded him, his mind shackled once more by the specter of enslavement.
With hollow eyes, he observed the bustling villagers, some erecting stands and setting up stalls. This small village, situated at the convergence of the Aberresai Savannah, the Fal Wood, and Amol-Kalit, had become an annual crossroads for travelers, merchants, and all manner of folk. Nanleuth could hardly suppress a bitter laugh; he had unwittingly chosen the most inopportune time to raid this place.
In silence, he awaited his impending judgment, oblivious to the peculiarity he embodied. Ignoring the constant stares and lingering glances of various travelers, he remained stoic. His trial would serve as the centerpiece of the festival's spectacle - a colossal, intelligent Goblin on trial!
Villages were a rare sight amid the vast open expanse of the desert, and those few that existed were teeming with humans. Nanleuth had swiftly learned that humans held a deep disdain for his kind, their aggression immediate upon sight. Survival in this harsh environment had forced him to resort to theft, pilfering food and water, even once attempting to lead away a strange brown creature, towering and adorned with two massive humps on its back. Curiously, this animal had fled during his slumber, leaving Nanleuth perplexed. It seemed docile with the humans, but fiercely combative when confronted by him.
His encounters with dogs had followed a similar pattern. Most villages harbored dogs, medium-sized creatures with fur the color of sand. Nanleuth was immediately drawn to them, their loyalty and nobility capturing his heart. He had even tried to steal one, but these noble creatures fiercely resisted his advances, biting him with unwavering resolve. It was a harsh lesson that he begrudgingly accepted - humans, dogs, and even the enigmatic humped creature shared a common sentiment.
They all despised what he was—a Goblin.
Lost in thought, Nanleuth's keen eyes caught sight of the village in the distance, its square, sand-colored structures forming a huddled community. This village was unlike any he had seen before, with more than two dozen buildings clustered together. The sheer size made him instinctively flatten himself against the sandy terrain, belly down. The flat landscape offered clear sightlines, and his mere presence had often incited humans to rush out, determined to end his life. His pale yellow skin blended seamlessly with the sand, rendering him nearly invisible at a distance, save for the most astute observers.
His hand brushed across his belt, searching for the waterskin he had pilfered early in his journey. It felt thin and mostly empty. As he continued to observe the village, he realized the urgency of his situation. It was bustling with activity, and the reason soon became apparent. A caravan of carriages, drawn by those same humped creatures, was approaching from the west. Nanleuth did not know it, but this was a merchant caravan from the trade town of Maraan, come to collect the unique textiles and goods crafted by this desert village.
His cat-like eyes fixated on the men accompanying the caravan. They wore the flowing attire common among the region's humans but carried round metal shields on their backs and possessed wide, curved blades at their hips. Armed guards, likely mercenaries or adventurers - to Nanleuth, they were merely armed men.
Raiding was out of the question. The village's size alone made it a risky endeavor, but armed and possibly trained men? Nanleuth had never faced such a challenge. It would be a fool's errand to rush in blindly. Fearless, yes, but not suicidal.
His choices were few and fraught with peril. Should he wait until nightfall, attempting to stealthily infiltrate the village to secure water? Could these humans prove different from those he had encountered, risking a direct approach? Or should he move onward, praying for a water source before succumbing to the relentless desert heat? Each option teetered on the precipice of danger, each encounter a potential death sentence. Freedom was a tantalizing elixir, but its trials mirrored the brutality of the whip and chain.
For now, he decided to wait for the cover of night, knowing that it was his only viable choice.
As night descended, the relentless heat of the sun gave way to a chilling cold that cut deeper than the most piercing wind. Nanleuth lay in the shadows, resistant to the impulse to take reckless risks, mindful of the unforgiving nature of the desert. On this fortuitous night, the moon's light was but a feeble glimmer, its feeble glow obscured by both its natural cycle and the shrouding clouds in the sky.
The caravan had set up camp just outside the village, forming a protective circle with their wagons. The guards maintained a vigilant watch over their cargo, yet the very object of their protection left the rest of the village vulnerable, their attention solely focused on safeguarding the caravans, creating openings for a cunning intruder.
Nanleuth moved with a sinuous grace, his form nearly prone as he crawled forward, only rising to a crouch when necessary, and bounding with silent agility across the densely packed sand. His bare, clawed feet made no sound, as was the trait of his kin. Much like other villages, the water source in this settlement was a well located at its center. He scanned the buildings surrounding it, his luminescent yellow eyes cutting through the deep darkness, and his steps quickened as the promise of quenching his thirst neared.
Reaching the well, he encountered an obstacle - a wooden hatch secured by a thick metal lock. His frustration was palpable, for this was a sight he had rarely encountered. Most villages had covers for their water sources but not locks. Drawing one of his stolen daggers, he wedged it into the shackle of the lock, exerting his immense strength. With a loud metallic pop, the lock yielded, and the hatch was free.
His relief turned to alarm as he cursed audibly - the noise was shockingly loud in the otherwise quiet village. Desperation guided his actions as he quickly lowered the rope bucket into the well, his anxiety and anticipation rising with each 'glug, glug' as it filled. The sound echoed through the well, a cacophonous symphony of danger.
Voices emerged, emanating from the vicinity of the caravan. Panic gripped him as he heard their approach. Abandoning his water skin, he prepared to flee, but what he saw froze him in place. A human man, towering at roughly six feet, stood there, talwar drawn, eyes ablaze with fury. Nanleuth had no true weapon, wielding only a pair of daggers in his sash, as swords were a rarity and beyond the reach of most villages.
Desperation surged within him, and he dropped his water-filled bucket, brandishing his second dagger, while the first remained ensnared in the broken lock. "I only wanted water," Nanleuth spoke in fluent common. The man raised an eyebrow but remained resolute.
"Surrender, and you will be granted a trial, since you appear intelligent," a female voice behind him declared. Nanleuth was unsure of what exactly a 'trial' meant, but he knew the man before him spelled certain death. Reluctantly, he dropped his dagger, extending his arms in surrender, only to receive a blow to the head, rendered unconscious by the flat of the talwar.
Dazed and disoriented, Nanleuth awoke to find himself imprisoned within a cage barely accommodating his height and wingspan. Villagers moved about, some pausing to inspect his pitiable state. He couldn't see it, but a plaque positioned in front of the cage bore the inscription, 'Water Thief - Trial at sundown.' For Nanleuth, there was only a sinking feeling of remorse and apprehension, the bars of the cage serving as a haunting reminder of the enslavement he had endured under Cerak At'Thul - a grim anticipation that he was destined to return to that wretched existence. Freedom had been an intoxicating elixir, but now it seemed to have eluded him, his mind shackled once more by the specter of enslavement.
With hollow eyes, he observed the bustling villagers, some erecting stands and setting up stalls. This small village, situated at the convergence of the Aberresai Savannah, the Fal Wood, and Amol-Kalit, had become an annual crossroads for travelers, merchants, and all manner of folk. Nanleuth could hardly suppress a bitter laugh; he had unwittingly chosen the most inopportune time to raid this place.
In silence, he awaited his impending judgment, oblivious to the peculiarity he embodied. Ignoring the constant stares and lingering glances of various travelers, he remained stoic. His trial would serve as the centerpiece of the festival's spectacle - a colossal, intelligent Goblin on trial!
