Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“I think it's a fool's errand. If you find anything at all, like as not it'll be the sharp end of a goblin's crossbow bolt,” he'd told the young Sergeant, “But I suppose that I can't very well let you all go traipsing off by yourselves. I'll scout the way, but at the first sign of real trouble we're turning back. Understand?”

Taarven dismounted when he thought that they were approaching the scene of Engvyr's attack on the goblins. The Ranger muttered to himself under his breath as he crept slowly around the bend in the trail, his carbine at the ready. His hackles were up and he was approaching low to the ground with extreme caution. After all Engvyr had hit the goblins here specifically because it was a good site for an ambush, and the goblins had this pointed out to them in a way that they were likely to remember.

When he got his first glimpse of the scene he was certain that this must be an ambush because the five oxen were still there, the lead-rope neatly tied off to a low-growing pine. He noticed other details, like the fact the ox that Engvyr had shot was missing and that there was a dead goblin lying near the rock face. Well he looked dead…

Whack! A ball from Taarven's gun through the body confirmed that he really was. He signaled the others to stay put as he cautiously rose to his feet. He moved into the open, senses straining to detect any sign of an attack. Taarven examined the dead goblin and was surprised to discover that its chest had been crushed by a head-sized rock that was lying nearby. He could also see that a great deal of blood had run down into the creek from further ahead. He moved carefully through the ambush-zone, checking prints and other sign.

“I'll be damned,” he muttered to himself when he was finished. A faint sound caught his attention and he strained to make it out over the noise of the rushing water. Looking up along the cliff he spotted a goblin caught in the arms of a tree that grew out a crevice in the rock about fifteen feet above the trail. The sound was the goblin swearing in a weak, low voice. Taarven couldn't make out much of it but the word 'trolls' seemed to be used an awful lot. He moved closer to hear better and discovered that the goblin had a pretty impressive vocabulary and a good imagination.

The sun had yet to reach into the narrow ravine but the reflected light had already burned the goblin's exposed head and Taarven could see that the he was pretty busted up. The goblin opened his eyes at that moment, spotted him and the swearing broke off abruptly.

“Well, now, that's a hell of a spot to find yourself in, ain't it?” Taarven asked mildly. The swearing restarted immediately but was now directed at the Ranger, accompanied by a hate-filled glare. He listened appreciatively for several moments. The parts that didn't involve his ancestry or sexual preferences frequently mentioned someone called 'The Dreamer,' describing what that person would do to Taarven and his whole miserable race. After the swearing got repetitive he broke in.

“You want to tell me a bit about this Dreamer of yours or should I just leave you for the vultures? They usually wait until a man is dead before they start feasting. Usually.”

The goblin started in again but he was getting weaker.

“Actually,” Taarven said, interrupting him again, “I'm fairly certain you've never met my mother, and I'm not sure that last bit is even possible. Seriously, if you want quick death you'll have to do better than that.”

“I don' need your help, dvaerg,” the goblin spat, “And you will meet The Dreamer soon enough! He comes for you all! Walls of stone will not save you from his righteous fury. The Baasgarta will sweep across your lands like a plague, and those we do not kill will beg for the privilege of cleaning our feet with their tongues! We will dine upon the flesh of your children…”

“Oh shut up already,” Taarven said and put a ball through his skull. He called the soldiers to come up and explained what he had found.

“Seems like a group, maybe a family, of trolls came along shortly after Engvyr shot up the goblins. They butchered the dead ox and tied up the others yonder,” he said, gesturing to the animals. “The skirmishers came up the trail and interrupted them, worse luck for the goblins. The trolls threw a rock at that fella' and busted thisn' up and tossed him into that tree. The third goblin went into the river, maybe of his own accord, which wasn't his worst option at that point.”

“Why'd they leave the oxen?” the Sergeant asked.

Taarven shrugged and said, “What would they do with them up here? Besides, trolls ain't known for thievin'. I reckon we better grab that string of beasts and high-tail it while we still can. I don't fancy being caught on this trail by trolls or goblins.”