A flash of steel intercepted the incoming death with a sharp clang. Grog felt the weight vanish from his back. He spun around, panting, eyes wide with disbelief and relief.
Standing before him was Lark, his one-eyed lieutenant. He held a short sword, its edge nicked from the parry.
"Don't worry, boss," Lark grunted. "I got you."
Grog's face split into a fierce grin, momentarily forgetting his pain. "Lark! You're alive!"
He hefted his remaining mace, fresh hope surging through him. "Now, let's team up! Kill these annoying little flies!"
He swung his mace at the goblins, but Lark grabbed his arm, pulling him back with surprising strength.
"We can't, boss!" Lark hissed, eyes scanning the shadows frantically.
"Look at you! You're losing blood fast. And that woman…" He nodded towards the masked figure still standing calmly amidst the corpses. "…she hasn't even bothered to join in yet. This is a losing fight."
"Then what do we do?" Grog demanded, the adrenaline rush fading into panic once more.
Two more shadow goblins materialized from the darkness, converging on them.
"We've got to run," Lark urged, already backing away. "Now!"
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and sprinted towards the edge of the camp, weaving through the tents.
"Motherfucker! Wait for me!" Grog bellowed.
He abandoned all pretense of fighting and lumbered after his underling, his heavy maces clutched awkwardly in one hand as he ran.
The shadow goblins pursued like silent wraiths. One darted ahead, appearing suddenly in Lark's path. Lark didn't slow, instead throwing himself into a desperate slide beneath the goblin's slash. He came up behind it, slashing with his sword, forcing it back.
"Hurry up!" he yelled, not looking back.
Grog barreled through the tent Lark had slid under, sending it crashing down. The second goblin landed on Grog's back again, stabbing downward. Grog screamed, more in rage than pain, as he slammed himself backwards against a tree trunk. The impact crushed the goblin against the rough bark with a sickening crunch. It fell limply to the ground, stunned or dead.
The third goblin was gaining on Lark, who was sprinting towards the dense trees beyond the camp's perimeter. Lark risked a glance back, his expression grim.
"Boss! Faster! They're right behind us!"
Grog grunted and surged forward. His massive body was fueled by desperation now. He caught up to Lark just as they plunged into the inky blackness of the forest. Behind them, the pursuing goblins hesitated at the tree line, then faded back into the shadows, vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared.
The three shadow goblins materialized silently from the deeper gloom, coalescing directly before Lyssandra. They dropped to one knee, heads bowed in unison, their small forms radiating an aura of shame and subservience.
"We are sorry, Great One," One whispered, his voice thin with contrition. "They escaped."
Before they could elaborate or grovel further, Lyssandra raised a hand, halting them. Her voice, though muffled by the mask, carried a calm authority that brooked no argument.
"I am aware."
A beat of silence.
"It was intentional."
The goblins froze, confusion radiating from their faces. Lyssandra's gaze swept over them, lingering on One.
"You are injured," she stated, her tone neither accusatory nor concerned, merely observing.
"A minor inconvenience, Great One," One replied quickly, though a slight tremor betrayed his pain. "The beast crushed me against a tree, but it is merely bruised flesh. Nothing permanent."
Lyssandra nodded once. "Good. It was a small wound."
Her tone turned icy.
"I will not grant you healing. Take this as a lesson."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more menacing than a shout. "Never get injured again. Failure has consequences, even for you."
As swiftly as they had appeared, the shadow goblins dissolved back into the pre-dawn gloom, leaving no trace of their existence.
Lyssandra stood alone among the carnage of the Red Death camp. The stench of blood and death hung thick in the air, a familiar perfume.
The sky was lightening in the east, the first streaks of gold and pink staining the horizon. The forest birds began their tentative morning chorus, oblivious to the violence that had taken place below.
Lyssandra surveyed the ruins of the Red Death camp, her eyes taking in the crude wooden palisades, the torn leather tents, the rough stone and timber structures.
"Since I'm here," she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible even in the silence, "I might as well take a look around. There must be something useful among this trash."
Her steps were silent as she moved through the carnage, stepping over fallen bandits and broken debris. She paused before a long, low building that had clearly served as the armory. The heavy door got blown inward just from a kick from her leg. Inside, racks upon racks of weapons lined the walls. Swords, axes, spears, daggers. Bows and quivers of arrows. Even a few crude crossbows.
Lyssandra scanned them dismissively then waved her hand, every weapon and piece of ammunition in the armory vanished, sucked into her System Inventory without a sound.
"Junk, mostly," she murmured. "But you never know."
Moving deeper into the camp, she approached a squat, fortified building. Its stone walls were thicker than the others, reinforced with heavy timbers. A single, massive door, banded in iron and secured with a complex lock and chains, stood firmly closed. This time, she focused her power. Her hand shimmered and morphed, becoming a set of large, industrial-green bolt cutters.
"I guess this kind of tool doesn't exist in this primitive era," she mused aloud, her voice tinged with amusement.
"How...quaint."
She approached the locked door, snapping the thick chains with ease. It clattered to the ground, broken links scattering. The heavy door swung open by a casual shove.
Lyssandra's breath hitched. The interior of the fortified building was lit by a single oil lamp. But what it revealed made her eyes widen, a rare reaction of genuine surprise.
Gold. A small mountain of it.
Piled high in chests, sacks, and loose coins. Alongside gleaming gold were precious stones: sapphires, emeralds, rubies. Elaborate jewelry, crowns, and ornate weapons lay scattered among the treasures. It was a fortune beyond measure, clearly the spoils of years of banditry and raiding.
Her lips curled into a wide grin beneath her mask. "I'm rich," a satisfied sound that was almost a mewl. She spread her arms wide, taking it all in.
"Since the house host isn't here…" Her grin widened, becoming feral. "…I'll just make myself comfortable."
She swept her hand through the air, and the entire contents of the treasure vault vanished. Chests, coins, jewels, weapons, artifacts all sucked into the infinite space Inventory. The room was left empty save for the dust motes dancing in the air.
Humming a tuneless melody, Lyssandra strolled out of the now-empty vault. As she navigated the camp's main thoroughfare, her gaze fell upon a large tent. It was almost as grand as Grog's, clearly the domain of a high-ranking bandit. Curiosity piqued, she pushed aside the heavy canvas flap and stepped inside.
What greeted her was unexpected.
Instead of more loot or luxury, the tent held a series of large, crude wooden cages. Inside each cage sat several women. They wore simple, practical clothes, though clean and unmarred by the squalor of the bandit camp. Their faces were clean, their hair combed, their bodies looked healthy and unharmed, at least physically. They were, without exception, strikingly beautiful, their features and expressions wonderfully diverse, yet all shared an aura of untouched youth.
Lyssandra moved further into the tent, the heavy canvas flap falling closed behind her. The air inside was stale and heavy, smelling of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and something darker beneath it – despair.
The moment she entered, all eyes snapped to her.
Silence fell, thick and expectant.
The women in the cleaner cages watched her with wary curiosity, taking in her masked and cloaked form.
Her gaze swept past the first set of cages, pausing on the women within. Then her eyes shifted to the opposite side of the tent, and she froze.
Here, the stark contrast was horrifying.
The cages on this side were dirtier, the bars rougher. Inside, huddled forms occupied the shadows. They were still women, but broken beyond recognition. Some were crippled, missing limbs or dragging mangled ones. Others bore the unmistakable signs of venereal disease: clusters of blisters or weeping sores around their genitals, anus, or mouth. Their clothes were tattered rags, barely covering skeletal frames. Their hair was matted, their skin pale and bruised. Malnutrition had turned them into living skeletons, radiating a palpable aura of misery.