Moros woke up feeling like Malissa had enacted all the violent acts she had promised over the years at once. His body hurt, his head hurt, his pride hurt and he felt shitty beyond belief.
It was as if someone just had burned monster cores or spent them on something entirely useless. On every conceivable layer of perceived reality, it hurt him.
It was the same feeling when his brother bought shoes that shone in the dark.
WITH MOROS' MONEY, he could have strangled him on the spot there. But love for the family won over the blind rage of that day.
Any strength had left his body, so he merely pushed his body around and lay down to look at the ceiling.
He clearly needed something to distract himself. His body was covered in wounds, still seeping blood without showing any signs of stopping and the herbs needed to be picked seemed endless too.
Although they already had collected over 15000. With 5000 to go he needed to wait till all of those were collected until he could be brought back to Elysium.
Waiting for the time limit was not an option since there was only so much blood that the human body could hold. Would it be a tight race against the time or would he still die despite going through everything?
Moros did not dwell on said question, he simply stared at the ceiling and marvelled at the painting depicted above.
It was a mural divided into 4 distinctive pictures, 4 entirely different themes. They all told stories, supported by cryptic signs he had never seen or heard of.
The first showed a landscape filled with small huts, goblin were on and about, some tended the fields, others traded goods, children laughed, parents chatted happily and old goblins were casually decapitated and offered to the younglings…
It was a different culture, but the picture seemed to be one of the good, old times.
Something was amiss, something made this whole scenery seem off. The more time he spent looking at their faces, the more the emotions shown felt fabricated, faked.
Moros focused on every detail, his eyes darting across the pictures in hopes of figuring out what gave him this ominous impression. Given the state of his body, the effort was concentrated and rather slow.
After a while, he saw white spots spread all over the goblin skin, the old ones, the decapitated goblins, were riddled with many such spots.
"Was this a disease," the thought struck Moros out of the blue. It was the first time he had ever considered that monsters could be affected by conditions of such a nature. He might not know, since he slept in school for so long, yet he was still very much surprised.
However, this detail was not the one thing that made the sight so disturbing, no it was a detail he spotted right after…why was there no sun in the sky?
Why was the only source of light a blood moon?
Moros did not know what the story was or anything about goblin culture, but he instinctively knew the circumstances in that picture were far, far removed from anything normal.
In search of an answer, his eyes fell to the picture below. A wide shot of a village, dark was the sky, few goblins stood around, tears streaming over their faces. They wore armours and were surrounded by countless piles of burning fires…green, lifeless arms barely visible in the sea of flames.
Yet, the biggest fire was in the far distance, the whole village covered in a blanket of orange, a fire spreading far and wide.
The tears and the fire both seemed alive, almost as if the picture captured that moment, forever trapping the depicted creatures in the horror of that sight, on that fateful night.
The artist behind this picture, Moros could only assume had bled their heart out and suffered the same pain with each stroke of their tools.
It felt weird for Moros to look at the sight and see emotions in them. These goblins looked almost like humans…yet, the sight could not be further removed from reality as the goblins he had killed were mere mindless beasts─incapable of ever feeling such emotions.
He would have felt some pity for the goblins, but he could not take the artist seriously.
The images could never convince him that the stupid goblins of today could ever have been as normal as they are depicted as.
But, he still wanted to know how the story at the ceiling was going to continue, there was not much else to do in this place, after all. Even if the artist took some artistic liberties in regard to the intelligence of goblins, it was still a fascinating sight.
The third picture was unlike the two before them, it was more a series of much smaller parts, spread out over the same space as the 2 prior ones.
It depicted brutal battles, death, tears and despair, but they all had the goblins on the losing side. Some had their heads cleaved, others saw the eviscerated, bisected, all gory fate displaying the goblin as crying as they were murdered by figures outside of the frame.
In every single one of them, the goblins were facing some kind of suffering. They were fleeing, running away, hungry, thirsty, missing arms, legs, eyes, ears and their bodies were ravaged by white spots all over.
These scenes caused Moros to reconsider his prior view of the artist, this did not feel like it was a creative telling of a story, this felt very much real. These goblins were the victims, hunted and murdered for reasons he could not fathom.
It felt as if the goblins of today were the consequence of the slaughtering depicted in the murals at the top of the ceiling.
Would he still kill goblins for money? Of course, but at least now he knew he was doing them a favour.
The fourth and last picture at the bottom right corner was the most different one from all. In a cave, filled with cobwebs and dust there was a small altar.
Bones of monsters, their skulls and their organs were all neatly placed before the altar.
Goblins all close to death, ridden with injuries, were seen kneeling in front of it, praying to it. Offering themselves up to it. Before the altar itself stood a goblin dressed, in a white garb…drenched in green blood.
In his hand, he held a goblin…it had a dagger, ritualistically inserted into its throat. Drops of red falling onto the offering of flesh and bone below.
The sacrifices sizzling in the air, reacting to it.
Atop the altar a thing stood, its size dwarfing the rest of its kin. It was a goblin 3, no 5 heads taller than a normal goblin. A head even taller than Moros himself.
Bulging muscles spread all over its body, its face carried a mask of blank hatred. It carried a club of obsidian, its hand capable of easily crushing any goblin head with utter ease.
Looking at the drawing of the creature alone caused Moros to feel a tingle in his body.
This creature was absolutely dangerous and he wanted nothing more than to fight it. Just how strong would the peak of all goblins be?
Moros laughed to himself, the battle might be epic and filled with violence.
Yet, the days of smart and human-like goblins were long gone. He would not come across such a strong goblin, even if he would like to. So, for now, it would just be another fantasy in his head and it would stay there.
[18000 herbs have been collected]
Moros moved his head around slightly and let his eyes wander around the dungeon he had entered, wondering what kind of purpose it may have. It seemed to carry a lot of significance for the history of the goblins, but yet there had not been one monster.
There were plenty of traps, but there would never be a dungeon without monsters.
"Where are the monsters?" muttered Moros beneath his breath. He was in no condition to fight and certainly would not be able to move an inch were the monsters to suddenly pop up from the ground.
Could dungeons have other purposes associated with them? Were their other reasons for their existence, other than being rumoured farms for the gods?
Moros laughed out loudly, the attempt ended in him coughing heavily, his body hurting still.
He would ask Mallisa this question, after he had invited her to dinner.
He felt just a bit of regret for not keeping onto the herbs in the middle of this entire ordeal.
"So much money, so much god-be-damned money lost due to some stupid goblins, who could not share. They really need to learn that sharing is caring."
Moros looked at the painting again and let his mind wander for a while, just taking the story in and not dwelling on the details surrounding it. Instead, he felt a strange sense of sadness rising up in the back of his mind.
As if a thousand voices looked at the tragedy before them and spoke as one…