Introduction:
A bleeding man donning cracked spectacles stood tied to a tree. Sweat beads trickled down his cheeks as he eyed his surroundings, still in disbelief. His caravan was in shambles. The guards had fled or died deaths of a thousand cuts. A tide of goblins had descended upon them.
And now? One from this marauding bunch was standing in front of him. A curious creature, draped in dirty brown rags superficially resembling priestly robes. Its face was obscured by a hood, so that only a gleaming grin and two yellow lights shone forth from where its face was expected.
As a lifelong academic, he’d never encountered goblins in person. He once thought them pests beneath notice. Annoyances for adventurers to deal with. Now? One was staring him down with a curved blade in hand. And yet, it wasn’t immediately interested in his demise. He had to stall for time until someone could come to his aid. Humoring the creature as it asked to go through his belongings was all he could do.
He tried to stifle his rage as the goblin began rummaging through the dilapidated caravan. A prayer to preserve the priceless relics within was uttered. A lifetime’s worth of study would soon be ruined by insipid vermin. Moments later, the robed one bellowed in glee and bowed to something in a crude imitation of reverence.
It had returned and placed the urn in front of him. His disgust was barely contained. The goblin seemed particularly interested in this artifact above all the others. Fearing it’d kill him if he neglected to tell the tale, he began to stammer out its history.
“O-oh yes, that? You see, it’s a erm… d-dwarven artif-“
He stopped. The creature shrieked at the mention of dwarves. Its wiry arms flew to the heavens in what he initially thought was a display of animalistic rage. And yet, the crescent moon smile from beneath the hood hadn’t shifted.
A sense of sickly unease overcame him. His studies had told him that goblins possessed at best childlike imitations of genuine cognizance. The more he watched this creature, the more he felt a sinister sentience lied within. One masked by disturbing, unchanging delight.
He resumed his story.
“Y-yes. Quite. As I w-was saying, t-this urn was used by the dwarves many ages ago. The legend says, t-tensions had risen between two nearby clans. Conflict w-was inevitable.”
The goblin sat and listened on, the look of a sadistic cat on its shadowed face.
“…a-and a priestess of Berronar Truesilver… c-consecrated it to use as a last resort. T-to end the conflict in their moment of n-need. Of course, it’s q-quite damaged. Any magic properties it o-once had are s-severely diminished. U-unusable, eve-“
The creature rose, as if the man no longer had meaning to him. With some difficulty, the fractured urn was lifted and tied to its back. The man watched in shock as the goblin began to joyously scamper off.
“Y-YOU CAN’T!”
He screamed as his eyelids began to droop. The blood loss was taking its toll.
The goblin didn’t even bother turning to acknowledge him.