DORULL SAGA - SWAMP OF DEATH
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Tied tight to the long, wooden
beams, Grodish and Roshnak patiently waited for their journey to end. Goblins
had carried them through the dark, narrow tunnels, for over more than thirty
minutes. Enormous, underground labyrinth of corridors, caves and crevices, was
an exceptionally marvelous undertaking, built by generations of goblins. Laying
for miles underneath the hills, it was a home for thousands upon thousands of
them. Nual-Deu was an enormous city by anyone's standard. Its main corridors
formed the concentric rings around the living quarters, and were intersected
with existing tunnels. Many of them were not even explored, giving a much
needed defense.
In the middle of it, stood an
enormous, king’s cave. Highly secured, hidden room, in which no other being
except goblin had never walked in. A sacred place, for everyone who called
Nual-Deu a home. Cave was dominated by a large, somewhat over-decorated throne,
standing on the high, stone podium. Weathered stone stairs, covered in skin and
leather, led all the way up to the king’s chair. Two long rows of tables and
chairs, surrounded the sides of the small fighting arena, enclosed in a heavy,
rusty cage.
Deep beneath the hall, in the dark
and damp hallways and holes, goblins constructed the catacombs. In the old
glory days, they were filled with prisoners used in the arena fighting. But
now, they were just a half empty, waste disposal repository. Goblins stopped in
front of the first cell. Tart stench of decomposition, once they’ve opened the
doors to the dungeon, was a deterrent. In the far edge of the cell, chained to
the wall, was a long forgotten prisoner. Now just a deformed mess of rotten
flesh and bones. One of the goblins, scraped and picked the remains in the bag,
while the rest brought the two, tied up orcs, inside.
They threw them onto the wet, slimy
ground, spatting the torrent of curses and insults. Goblins were fast in and
out, locking the heavy doors, and leaving the prisoners in the absolute
darkness. Eerie silence would inlay discomfort into hearts of the bravest,
bringing chilling, blood freezing fear, with every sudden noise. No wonder they
fled soon. For goblins, the catacombs were cursed grounds, which they gladly
avoided. Horrific stories of dreadful doings from the past, that happened in
the prison’s torture chambers, just deepened the mystery and superstitious
beliefs of this sinister place.
“Are you awake, boy?” Shaman
mumbled through the band covering his mouth.
“Roshnak, I…I am ashamed.” half-orc
whispered “These filthy, verminlike, goblins jumped me and all of the sudden
I…”
“Don’t do that to yourself boy.”
Roshnak interrupted him “The fault is all mine. I wished for the rest, far too
soon.”
“I was the one defeated by the
handful of mole rats.” Grodish sounded contrite “I guess I did turn into a
woman.”
Shaman smiled at his remark, but
knowing well that outcome of the fight could’ve been the same even with him
beside the half-orc. He was sure of sensing a quite potent energy, coming from
the newly crowned goblin king. What confused and bothered him, was the lack of
confidence and knowledge in using it in the duel he witnessed. That amount of
power seemed sufficient to defeat the old king in the blink of an eye. Where
and how did that goblin get this energy, Roshnak could only guess. And it
interested shaman so much, he almost forgot they were the prisoners. He had to
find out this mystery. No matter the circumstance they found themselves in.
Far away, above them, an ever so
louder echo of the drums, announced the beginning of the celebrations.
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