With brutal movements, they pulled the spears out of his body. The sensation was excruciating, the barbed tips tearing through already damaged flesh, making Kyne grit his teeth tightly.
But he did not scream. He only took a deep breath, observing.
As soon as the spears were removed, the goblins dragged him into the forest, his feet leaving trails of blood across the vegetation. Kyne could have struggled. He could have tried to fight, even wounded. His piercing resistance at Rank E- meant the injuries were severe but not immediately fatal. He could have survived long enough to try something.
But instead, he simply smiled.
It was a maniacal, unsettling smile that made the goblins exchange confused looks as they dragged him along.
Kyne was not afraid. He was curious. What awaited him? Where were they taking him? How many goblins were there? Were they really like the stories he had read? Cruel, hungry, numerous?
He tried to speak to them.
"Hi. Do you have a chief? A village? Or are you just taking me to eat?"
The goblins ignored him, continuing to drag him across uneven terrain. Roots and stones tore into his already bloodied back.
Kyne tried again, louder this time.
"I SAID, WHERE ARE WE GOING?"
One of the goblins, the largest of the three, with a scar running across his green face, stopped for a moment, looked at Kyne with irritation, and then delivered a strong punch to his head.
The impact was surprisingly powerful. Kyne felt his skull shake, his vision blur for a moment. It was not strong enough to kill him, not even to knock him unconscious, but it was a clear demonstration.
Silence.
"Tsc." Kyne muttered, frowning as he felt the onset of a throbbing headache.
"It seems there won't be any communication."
He was dragged for another twenty minutes, his consciousness floating between pain and observation. The forest changed as they advanced.
The violet and silver trees became denser, the light scarcer. The smell in the air changed as well. Less the clean aroma of the forest and more an odor of rot, dung, and decomposing flesh.
If it were anyone else, they would be desperate. The situation was horrific. Gravely wounded, he was being dragged by hostile creatures toward an unknown fate that would certainly involve more pain and a slow death.
But Kyne was not desperate. He was… interested.
He would not truly die anyway, or if he died, he would return. So what was the real danger? Pain was transient. Death was temporary. Everything that happened would be just another experience.
He decided to let himself be taken.
He observed the goblins as they dragged him. He noticed that the smallest of the three limped slightly, an old wound on his right foot. The one with the scar on his face was clearly the leader, making decisions about which path to take. The third had an animal tooth tied on a cord around his neck, a trophy or talisman.
He observed the forest. He noticed marks on the trees, rudimentary symbols scratched into the bark, probably to mark territory or paths. He noticed primitive traps, pits covered with leaves, snares made of vines, and suspended logs that could crush an intruder.
And then, he began to hear sounds.
At first, they were distant shouts, not of pain, but of conversation. The same guttural language of the goblins, but louder, more varied.
Then, the sound of hammers striking metal or something similar to metal. The smell of smoke was not that of a clean campfire, but of something burning dirty, with wet wood and perhaps… other things.
Finally, they arrived.
The forest opened into a clearing that was not natural. Trees had been roughly cut down, their stumps serving as seats or primitive tables. At the center, a large bonfire burned, its black smoke rising into the already darkening sky.
And around it, dozens of goblins.
Kyne was thrown to the ground in the center of the clearing, his body slamming against the hard earth. The impact made his wounds bleed more heavily, and he groaned involuntarily.
Immediately, all eyes in the clearing turned toward him.
There were goblins of all kinds. Some were like his captors, short, green, and armed with wooden spears. Others were slightly taller, wearing armor made of rawhide and bones tied together with ropes.
Some carried stone axes tied to wooden handles. One, larger than the others and seated on a "throne" made of bones and hides, wore a crown of animal horns, clearly the chief.
The goblin chief stood up, his red eyes, different from the yellow ones of the others, fixing on Kyne. He emitted a series of grunts, and the other goblins responded with shouts and the banging of weapons against the ground.
Kyne, lying on the ground, bleeding, smiled.
"A village." He murmured to himself.
"Or a camp. Interesting."
The chief pointed at him, then at the bonfire, then made a gesture of eating. The message was clear.
Kyne laughed. It was a weak, bloodied laugh, but genuine.
"So that's it." He said, knowing they did not understand.
"You're going to eat me. Well, good luck with that."
Two larger goblins approached, grabbing him again. This time, he was not being dragged, he was being carried toward a primitive structure that looked like a cooking spit.
Metal rods, stolen from some source probably, were suspended over smaller embers beside the main bonfire.
Kyne observed everything with curious eyes. The method of execution. The preparation. The expressions on the goblins' faces. Anticipation, hunger, cruelty.
They tied him to the spit, not through his body, but by binding him with thick, damp ropes that smelled of rot. The goblin chief approached, a rusty cleaver in his hands.
He looked into Kyne's eyes. He expected to see fear. Please.
He saw only curiosity.
That seemed to irritate him. With a guttural grunt, he raised the cleaver.
Kyne closed his eyes, not out of fear, but to better focus on the sensations.
The cleaver came down.