A lifetime of memories, etched in the grime of the deep. Tales of goblins, whispered in the echoing caverns, clung to the damp walls like fungus. This one's about me. I scavenged the deepest, darkest veins of the earth, where shadows were absolute, a suffocating blackness broken only by the whispers of scent and the rustle of movement – the language of nose and ear. Most goblins didn't die from wounds or fights, not really. We weren't fragile. A cracked skull? A punctured gut? We'd cling to life like ticks, the cockroaches of a forgotten age. Our stain, indelible.
I fought in the Dark Coven. Other goblins, shadows themselves, would lure me into the pitch, strip me of everything – ragged clothes, stray bugs, meager copper – and leave me stranded. The air, thick and hot, choked with chlorine, ammonia, the cloying stench of rot and rusted metal. The very earth pressed in on us, a low, oppressive ceiling that scraped our backs and chests, showering us with deadly rubble. Each morning, we mined, hauling minerals to the surface for the humans above, while we hoarded anything that gleamed. Human overseers, in the service of goblin "kings," would entice us with promises of work, of transport, of anything to get us pulling carts, to make us slaves in all but name. We fell for it every time, only to be driven back into the suffocating depths.
The gases ate at our lungs, a slow, agonizing rot. One day, we breached a new pocket, the twentieth gas leak. This one… this one was different. Flammable. It engulfed a quarter of the colony in a searing inferno – the Fiery Pit, where they tossed the condemned. The smoke, thick and malevolent, choked us. It worsened over months. Everything tried to move upward – insects, rats, goblins, all the creatures of the dark. We gasped for air, a memory, a craving, like a phantom limb itching. We remembered the taste of clean air, a forgotten elixir, and now we clawed for it, scrambling toward the throne room, the highest point in the cavern, where the goblin "kings" held court, and beyond which lay the gate to the upper world. We fought each other, not the kings, blinded by greed, by the short-sighted belief that whoever controlled the throne room controlled the air, oblivious to the vastness of the world above. The kings, sensing the shift, abandoned us, locking the gate behind them. A brutal free-for-all erupted. Goblins tore at each other's throats, their dying gasps mingling with the dust.
They were fools. A friend, driven by desperation, forced his blistered nose through a crack in the rock, drawing in a single, life-altering breath. It was an addiction, a craving he'd never known, a reawakening of a long-dormant memory. He clawed at the crack, widening it, and escaped. I followed, hot on his heels. As we emerged into the blinding light, a human guard spotted him. I watched, hidden in the shadows, as the guard's blade flashed, splitting my friend in two. Blood, brain matter, intestines – a grotesque rain of viscera. I used the chaos as cover, but another guard's whip, crackling with a strange, purple aura, lashed across my back. The first guard caught up, his blade slicing down, from my right ear to my arm. I lived. Barely. Blood streamed down my side, staining the street a gruesome red. The sky darkened as I stumbled away, weak and terrified.
I collapsed in a nearby alleyway, where a young human boy found me. Mistaking me for a child due to my size and the tattered rags that hid my face and frail frame, he stared, then his eyes fell on my bleeding arm. He screamed, alerting others. Stones rained down on me, one bursting my eye, others tearing small punctures across my head. My head became a grotesque melon – green skin mixed with bloody red, the embedded dirt and stones like black seeds. I found refuge with some of the city's outcasts. One, a man with a full beard, missing teeth, and the lingering stench of drink, took me to a hidden corner where others like him huddled. He said I'd fit in.
He tried to cauterize my wounds, but the smell of burning flesh ignited their hunger. Their stomachs growled. They brought strange herbs, spices, even salt, claiming it would help. Then they rubbed oil on my body and set me ablaze as I lay there, helpless. As I screamed, they held me down and began to tear at my cooked flesh, devouring it. A horrifying frenzy erupted as others joined in, desperate for a taste. I fought back, the flames licking at their clothes and beards, driving some away. My body, a patchwork of burns and missing flesh, ribs and bone exposed, leaked blood, a grim echo of the gas-filled caverns.
Then, a figure appeared. A man in a plague doctor's mask. He offered me a choice: a healing potion or a pile of gold, spilled at my feet. For the first time, a flicker of logic pierced the haze of pain and instinct. I lunged for the potion, but as the masked man bent to gather the gold, something primal took over. I swiped at the coins, my hand closing around a handful. My body moved of its own accord, a surge of pure, animalistic joy flooding my senses. I blushed, a strange sensation amidst the horror. The masked man lashed out with the same purple-tinged whip, striking my back. My body exploded, a shower of blood and bone, leaving only a skeletal frame draped over the pile of gold, a macabre embrace of earthly treasure. Even after death, I still watched over that gold.