Chapter 12: Declaration Of War
"Ragvolk, what happened to you?" one of them asked, stepping forward.
The scout—Ragvolk—waved them off with a shaky claw. "I need… to speak with the chief," it panted. "Now."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances but didn't argue. One of them turned and gestured toward the camp's largest tent, its tattered banners swaying in the cool night breeze.
[Inside the Chief's Tent]
The Rusty Stone Tribe's leader, a towering goblin with dark green skin and jagged scars crisscrossing his face, sat on a makeshift throne of bones and wood. His glowing yellow eyes narrowed as he listened to Ragvolk's frantic report.
"A dragon?" the chief growled, his deep voice laced with skepticism.
"Yes, Chief Rakgor," Ragvolk stammered, bowing low. "I swear it on my life. It wasn't just any lizard—it called itself a dragon. And it… it did defeat a Clawstalker."
The room fell silent. Several goblins, including the tribe's shaman and warriors, exchanged uneasy glances.
Chief Rakgor's claws tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his bone throne, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing as he processed Ragvolk's words. His gaze flicked to the shaman and then to the murmuring crowd of goblins in the tent.
"So, it was true," Rakgor said, his voice low but sharp. "The warrior's report about the dragon defeating the Clawstalker wasn't just a fool's tale."
The murmurs grew louder. Goblins exchanged glances, their unease palpable.
"The warrior said it was swift," one goblin whispered.
"Swift and ruthless," another added. "It struck with shards of something unbreakable."
"And then it declared the territory its own," a younger goblin murmured, his voice trembling. "I heard the warrior say it had eyes that burned like fire."
Rakgor's sneer deepened as the voices around him grew more frantic. He slammed his clawed hand on the armrest, silencing them.
"Enough," he growled. "The warrior exaggerated, as they always do. It was a Clawstalker, nothing more. A beast, no matter how dangerous, is still just prey to the right hunter."
Ragvolk cleared his throat, his body trembling slightly as all eyes turned to him. "Chief… with respect, the warrior didn't exaggerate enough."
The room fell silent again.
Rakgor's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying, scout?"
Ragvolk hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "That dragon… it knew I was there. Even when I used Stealth. It watched me, tracked my every move like it could see through the invisibility. And when it spoke…" Ragvolk's voice lowered, trembling. "It wasn't just words, Chief. It was like it was tearing into my mind, like it could see right through me."
The goblins' murmurs returned, louder this time, filled with disbelief and fear.
"That's impossible," one muttered.
"Stealth is supposed to make you untouchable," another said, shaking their head.
"And yet," Ragvolk continued, his voice rising slightly, "it didn't attack. It didn't need to. It just… stood there. Watching. Like it was deciding whether I was even worth the effort."
The exaggerated description sent a ripple of unease through the room. The shaman's glowing eyes flickered with concern as he stepped forward. "Chief Rakgor," he said cautiously, "this is no ordinary creature. Even if it's a hatchling, it's clear it possesses intelligence and cunning beyond what we've faced before."
Rakgor's sneer faded slightly, his sharp teeth grinding together as he mulled over the words. "So, it thinks itself clever," he said, his voice quiet but deadly. "Then we'll show it the price of crossing the Rusty Stone Tribe."
Ragvolk opened his mouth to protest, but a single glare from Rakgor silenced him.
"Prepare the warriors," Rakgor ordered. "We'll crush this so-called dragon before it has a chance to grow."
The atmosphere in the Rusty Stone Tribe's camp shifted sharply after Chief Rakgor's proclamation. The once-loud chatter of goblins was replaced by hushed murmurs, their nervous glances betraying the unease spreading like wildfire.
"Prepare the warriors," Rakgor's voice echoed once more, his commanding tone silencing any lingering doubts.
The shaman moved forward hesitantly, his gnarled staff tapping against the ground. "Chief Rakgor, if I may—"
Rakgor's glare stopped him in his tracks. "You doubt me, shaman?"
"Not doubt, Chief," the shaman said quickly, bowing his head. "But caution. If this creature is indeed a dragon, even a hatchling, it would be wise to—"
Rakgor slammed his clawed fist onto the armrest of his throne, the force splintering the brittle wood. "Wise to what? Grovel before it? Offer it tribute?" He spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "I will not bow to some whelp with delusions of grandeur!"
The warriors gathered around the edges of the tent stirred, their hands resting on crude but sturdy weapons. A few exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared voice their hesitation.
[Outside the Chief's Tent]
Ragvolk stood near the edge of the camp, his eyes darting nervously as he replayed the events in his mind. The dragon's glowing eyes, its calm confidence, and the chilling way it had declared its dominance—it all felt wrong.
The scout's claws twitched as he looked around, the sounds of the camp preparations only heightening his anxiety.
A pair of younger goblins approached, their expressions curious. "What was it like, Ragvolk? The dragon?"
Ragvolk's mouth opened and closed as he searched for words. "It… it wasn't like anything I've seen before. It was calm, like it didn't even need to fight."
The younger goblins exchanged nervous looks. "Do you think we can beat it?"
Ragvolk didn't answer. He turned away, his claws digging into the dirt. 'No… I don't think we can.'
…
Back in the main tent, Rakgor issued orders, his booming voice cutting through the growing tension.
"Five squads," he barked. "Each led by our best fighters. Surround the cave. Cut off any escape routes."
"And what if the goblins inside resist?" one of the warriors asked.
Rakgor's sneer deepened. "Then we remind them of their place."
The shaman stepped forward cautiously. "Chief, may I suggest sending scouts ahead to observe the dragon's movements? It would be wise to gather information before striking."
Rakgor waved a dismissive claw. "Do as you please. But it changes nothing. That whelp won't live to see another sunrise."
The warriors nodded, their resolve hardening despite the unease lingering in their eyes.
The preparations continued into the night, the sound of sharpening blades and assembling goblins filling the camp. Fires burned brightly, casting flickering shadows over the tense faces of the Rusty Stone Tribe.
In the distance, Ragvolk sat alone, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The memory of the dragon's smile haunted him, its calm, eerie confidence sending shivers down his spine.
'He's a dragon… not just a beast but something out of the legends. I doubt our tribe will ever know peace again… not that we ever truly did.'