Will pulls his javelin from the goblin’s body, and it slumps into the forest floor, its weight no longer supported by the tree trunk. Nightshade, in the meantime, inspects the rest of the bodies. They’re the most pitiful group of goblins he’s ever seen. Thin and nearly emaciated, their ribs jut out from their torsos, their cheeks hollowed, and their skin stretched tight over their bones. Their hair is matted with lice, and their bodies are covered in bruises that never fully healed. Their weapons are crude—either literally pointed sticks, or wooden shafts with sharp stones lashed to them by fraying rope. One of the goblins carries a rusted knife, likely a souvenir from a past raid. Apart from that, their belongings are hardly worth mentioning—unless you count feathers, necklaces of animal teeth, and dried leaves as ‘treasure.’
Yakov does manage to secure some rope and binds the last surviving goblin. The creature glances over its shoulder repeatedly, searching for an escape, but once fully tied, it abandons any hope of fleeing. Instead, it falls to the ground, groveling before Yakov, its dry, parched lips pressing against his feet in a desperate display of submission.
