Goblins' Mate Pt. 01

Garrick was starting to get a little frustrated; often he came to the woods outside his village to forage for truffles. They were worth a lot, and tasty to boot, the few he kept for himself a perfect treat.

But lately, it seemed like somebody had been tearing up the areas truffles liked to grow. They were almost like animals with how rough they were, but he found tracks in the area and tool marks on the bark of trees and stones.

He wasn't sure if it was deliberate sabotage, they didn't know what truffles were, or they did know, but had absolutely no idea how to collect them and not mess up the places they grew.

Pigs were better at it, and he had heard of some truffle hunters using them to sniff out the delectable treasures.

He considered the possibility of bandits, which did make him shiver; crude methods to acquire what they know is valuable without any care for the regrowth or sustainability fit such people.

Yet, there was something odd about it; the tracks were messy, and he was no forester or tracker, his skills weren't that refined, but he thought the prints were oddly small.

Almost like children, but the local kids never ventured deep into the woods. They were too scared. And if they were found out, their parents would tan their hides. Truffles weren't a major product of the village, he was really the only one who seriously sought them out, but there was a healthy respect for anyone who earned a living off the land, multiple major farms not far off in the fields to the north.

He sighed, and decided to abandon his efforts for the day with only three truffles in his basket, making his way to a nearby stream. It ran through the forest north to south, running alongside the village on the north-western side of the woods, and splitting the forest in two. He was quite familiar with the west side, but the east side, he'd only ventured into a few times.

He came to the clear stream as it burbled, the current taking the water south. It wasn't very deep, though it was a surprisingly fast stream, enough that the village was able to run a small wheel for a grinding mill.

For him, it was perfect to sit by the edge, take off his leather boots, the rich brown colour dulled over the years with use and greyed with caked mud and dirt, and put his feet in.

He sighed as he set his feet on a large rounded stone near the edge of the bank, feeling the water rush around his legs halfway up his calves.

His frustrations were eased, and he wiggled his toes to loosen up the tension just beginning to form in his feet.

It was good to rest, though he was still grumpy from his lack of results this day; it was only just approaching noon, and normally he had a few more truffles than just three.

He mumbled under his breath and leaned forward, sunlight filtering through the trees shining off the water and letting him see his reflection; he was a bit surprised to see how grumpy he looked, his normally cheerful features scrunched into a scowl, darkening his bright green eyes. Even his dark hair seemed messier than usual, though it still did not reach his eyes.

Even the sprinkling of freckles, a lingering holdover from his adolescent years, seemed to disappear in the shallow creases of his face.

He rubbed his countenance, hoping to loosening up his expression and ease his mind; there was always tomorrow, and he could always check the eastern side of the woods, as long as he was careful.

He may have only had two dozen winters behind him, but he was more than experienced enough to roam the woods. Even if he only had a small knife for cutting truffles.

He sat by the edge of the stream for a good fifteen minutes before deciding it was time to move on, lifting his feet out of the water and drying them off with a cloth from his little brown backpack. He donned his boots and dusted down his dark black pants and his tanned shirt, stretching and finally looking for a place to cross.

He wasn't keen on wading knee deep through a stream that ran as fast as it did; he learned the hard way long ago after trying to cross just outside the village mill - south of it, he wasn't that foolish - and losing his footing. He was swept down a good dozen feet before his shirt snagged on a root sticking out just above the water line, giving him a painful jab in the process, though nothing compared to the humiliation of being stuck in the stream in a position that left him at no immediate risk of drowning and further injury.

He swore the other villagers were just slightly slower than normal to rescue him. They were laughing plenty hard.

Eventually, he found a fallen tree bridging the river; the roots at one end and the boughs at the other had been cut down, and old, rusty chains lashed the trunk down to the banks for support.

He'd never used this crossing, but it sounded like the log the hunters used.

He crawled across it, as was the safe thing to do, and continued his search.

There wasn't much difference on the other side of the stream, the trees and the bushes and the birdsong all the same. But he couldn't shake a sense of foreboding. He attributed that to his lack of knowledge on this side of the forest, but he was confident he could make his way back to the stream if he got lost. He'd done it before.

He passed through the trees, checking around their roots, investigating any fallen log.

He knew what to look for, but he frowned when he came upon another site that looked like it'd been torn up.

"Ridiculous," he muttered. He investigated closely, and found what looked like torn bits of truffle, the remnants of a messy collection.

He shook his head, and continued deeper into the forest, wondering just who was doing this; travellers who knew about truffles but nothing about best practises when collecting them? Bandits as he considered before?

He didn't think it was anyone in the village, he didn't have any enemies, or close friends for that matter.

He then came to a clearing, sun shining down overhead. That's when he saw something unusual; a bark mask sticking out of a shrub.

He frowned, curious at such an odd find, looking as if it'd been discarded accidentally.

He crossed the clearing, but before he could close on the mask, he heard a quiet crack as he stepped on a layer of leaves, his foot giving way about an inch into a hidden depression.

He froze, looked up in embarrassed realisation, as he heard whipping, whooshing, and the snapping of a rope.

Without further warning, a noose constricted around his ankles, and he was pulled into the air, body snapping around with the sudden inversion. He was barely lucky not to smack his head on the ground, but the lancing pain through his legs from the sudden pull was bad enough, not sure if he broke anything.

His pack fell off and he dropped his basket. He flailed around, trying to lift his body and get himself free, crying out in panic.

He head a heavy thwack, and found himself suddenly falling down to the ground, the rope slack from being cut, thankfully during a swing that meant he landed on his back, and not his head, but it still knocked the wind out of him, and his ankles were still tied.

He grimaced in pain, and tried to sit up, but before he could even get his bearings, he heard something moving up from behind.

A sack went over his head, the hole tightened loosely around his neck so he didn't choke, but not so much it was going to come off easily.

Immediately, a commotion erupted around him as more figures descended on him, their feet crunching lightly over the leaf litter and grass.

They were saying... something, barking orders and yelling at one another. They sounded feminine, but a little strange, their tones a bit guttural and high pitched. Many small hands suddenly grabbed him, and started fighting him with surprising strength, and before long, his wrists and ankles were tied together, additional ropes lashed around his torso and held taut at a length to hold him in place as he thrashed and cried out in panic.

The voices continued to yell, and it sounded like they were bickering among one another, though he had no idea what they were saying; it was a tongue foreign to him, and unlike anything he'd heard passing through his village whenever they got the occasional foreigners.

He wasn't sure what they were arguing about, or why. Two in particular were going at it, arguing back and forth.

The bickering continued, until another voice boomed over the rest, as much as their voices could boom.

The others silenced quickly, and Garrick listened to the sounds of steps approach; they were above his head, and there was a long, uncomfortable quiet, before the newcomer issued an order.

The others acknowledged with barks in their strange language, and he yelped when he found himself being lashed to a long piece of wood, and lifted off the ground to be carted off... though not too high off the ground, because he could feel his back occasionally scraping the forest floor, and bumping into the occasional rock.

He was terrified, he had no idea what was going on, who or what had captured him, and where he was being taken. With the sack over his head, he had lost his sense of direction.

All the while, his captors mumbled under their breath, words he didn't understand, complaints he couldn't discern, though the apparent leader barked at them to quit their griping.

He felt his body sway as they meandered through gullies and around trees, occasionally pausing to pat his body down for reasons unknown.

Then, he felt the warmth of the sun on him, shining through the sack; they must have entered a large clearing. Shouts of recognition went up, and the leader of the group that caught him responded. There was a pause, and then the sound of grinding wood, something heavy being raised up, like the creaking of a heavy wooden gate. He was carried beyond the threshold, and despite the stale smell of the sack, he could pick out the scent of meat, herbs and spices, among other odd odours. He heard the crackle of fires, the cutting of wood, the tell-tale sound of butchery, sharpening of stone implements, and the strange din of conversation.

All of the voices, despite their foreign tones, were feminine.

And they seemed to rise in agitation and excitement as he was carried through the space, bumping against slopes and crooked stairs several times, before he was finally cut down from the rod he was bound to, thumping on the ground... only for several hands to grab him and tie his wrists and his waist to a stake.

Then, and only then, did his captors remove the sack from his head... and he stared dumbly at the sight.

Arrayed around him, in front of a crudely erected animal-hide tent, were several women. Only, they were definitely not human, owing to the various shades of green of their skin, some sporting mottled patches of darker colour, their broad, pointed ears that stuck out away from their heads compared to more vertically, their eyes shades of yellow and amber, their noses hawkish and angular, their teeth sharp and sporting stubby tusks that just poked out from the bottom of their lips, and lastly, their claw-like nails gripping crudely fashioned wood and stone axes and spears.

They also ranged from just around half his height or two thirds of it. But they were hardly childlike; though some sported petite frames, many were quite voluptuous, with wide hips, pudgy bellies, heavy thighs, and weighty busts... something they didn't hide at all, as most wore barely anything, save hanging loincloths of straps wrapped around their breasts, if they bothered at all to contain their bust, baring them freely.

Some didn't wear anything at all, save for bands of wood and copper trinkets. Many had simple piercings, but all of them had marks or tattoos, intricate in design, arranged on their bodies, in red, black and yellow. The clothes they wore, though some appeared frayed, bore similarly intricate stitching.

But many had masks on their person, lifted up atop their head or hanging on their hips, painted or etched with fearsome visages or disruptive patterns.

Goblins.

Garrick had heard tales of these diminutive, tribal beings, living in groups in secluded places, going out to hunt, to find treasures, and sometimes becoming nuisances by raiding farms and robbing travellers, returning to their villages once they had what they wanted. Generally though, they lived wild lives.

Oddly enough, though their hair was long or short, braided or curly or straight, and in varying shades of orange, brown, and black, some streaked with natural dyes, they had none below their eyes; not their armpits, not their groins, not even fuzz on their limbs.

Which added to their effeminate qualities; despite their stubby tusks and sharp noses, they had plush green lips and taut but pretty faces. Even the petite ones were attractive.

It didn't exactly match wild, tribal beings.

But their expressions were stern yet inquisitive... and he was still tied up. His heart still raced with fear.

They turned to talk amongst themselves, as a crowd gathered down the slope.

The tents around him were larger than the rest, sat atop of a small hillock overlooking what appeared to be a village fortified by wooden palisades, the walls made of tree trunks sharpened at their tops.

Then, one of the goblins with a darker green skin tone stepped forward, their upper arms and thighs, and chest partially protected by deer bones held together with leather strands, serving as a crude armour.

She pointed an iron dagger at him, glaring.

"You! You wreck our trap! It was meant for deer, not for human! Now we do not eat!"

Her grasp of common was tenuous, but Garrick understood her well enough, despite the accent.

"I didn't meant to break it!" he pleaded his case. "I was just checking out a mask I saw in a bush, I swear!"

He felt sweat bead across his brow, his eyes too fixated on that blade tip to ogle the curves of the goblin women around him.

"See?" another spoke up, stepping forward arms wide, their tone one of vindication. "Girish drops her mask, makes the human spring our trap! It is her fault!"

Another Goblin turned to face the other, looking offended. She shot back in her own tongue, prompting the two to bicker in words Garrick couldn't comprehend, until the apparent leader once again ordered them to silence.

She shook her head, muttering something in her goblin tongue under her breath before fixing Garrick with another glare.

"We finally find place to call home, but food is hard to get. It does not matter which goblin is at fault, you still wrecked our trap. You will pay."

"Please! I have a wife, a family, I beg of you, let me go, it was an honest mistake!"

It was a lie, he didn't even have someone he was smitten with, but he hoped maybe they had a shred of mercy in them.

"Lie!" the goblin shouted. "We know the smell of humans! The smell of women! You have no mate's smell!"

Yet another goblin stepped up, getting uncomfortably close. She sniffed him deeply multiple times, working her way up from his chest to his neck, before growling and stepping back.

"I check again, and no mate's smell!" they proclaimed.

"Lying will not get you anywhere," the leader stated. "But maybe we need to reassure you. We will not kill you. We do not kill humans. Our kin long ago, they killed humans. Tribes that kill humans and other races, they do not live long. But we, we were cursed. But you..."

Her expression adopted a sly grin.

"... you will help with the curse. The Chief and the Shaman will agree."

She turned to the others, and made a proclamation, one that was met with excited chattering from the immediate gathering and those milling about just down the slope, and soon, he could hear excitement throughout the village.

Garrick had no idea what 'curse' they were talking about, or how the hell he'd help with it. But he didn't think it was anything good.

He wondered how long they'd been here; he suspected they were responsible for all of the stolen truffles and torn up ground, and that was only recent. And none of the village hunters or foresters reported signs of goblin inhabitants nor had anyone gone missing.

He also wondered if they were going to kill him; maybe his 'help' would involve a sacrifice to the curse, a ritual murder to sate some dark magic.

Maybe the shaman mentioned would do the deed. The goblin had said they wouldn't, but he didn't trust them at all.

But before he could even ask questions or beg for forgiveness and freedom, a goblin rushed up with a wooden flask in her hands.

She unstoppered it, and with a pop, a noxious green haze lifted up from the bottle's neck, held right beneath his nose.

It was a rancid smell, one that made his head spin and his face scrunch in disgust. He sputtered in reaction, and the goblin immediately seized on the opportunity to pour some of the foul concoction into his mouth; it had a bitter taste, and the fumes filled his nose from his throat.

He coughed and gagged, unable to stop himself from swallowing some of it. The goblin stepped back, and gave him a wry look, before stoppering the flask and dashing away with it, shaking her head to dispel the fumes she was exposed to.

Garrick continued to cough and gag... and then he felt woozy. He began to sway a little, starting to see double. His vision darkened, and his eyes felt heavy. Everything felt heavy, and time seemed to lose meaning.

He eventually fell into a stupor, and was completely unaware of himself by the time he passed out, unknowing of how long that took.

Garrick stirred with a groan; he felt groggy, and his head pounded, though at least it wasn't painful.

His eyes cracked open, and though they were bleary, he could make out the animal-skin tent cover above him, confirming that what had occurred before was no dream.

He licked his lips instinctively, but as he grew more aware of himself, he discovered that his throat and mouth weren't parched, and the horrid cocktail they'd forced him to drink had not left its taste in his mouth.

However, when he attempted to sit up, his limbs did not come to him.

He tugged a few times, and then shot his neck up to look over at his limbs; they'd been bound by heavy rope knots, tied to the stakes that held aloft a leather bed of sorts, stretched tight between the stakes and a simple wooden frame. It was quite large, enough for at least two more people, one on either side, if he weren't spread eagle.

He also discovered that he was naked. It looked like he'd been washed too.

He sunk his head back and groaned miserably; it was looking more and more like his end was going to be ritualistic sacrifice. He wanted to cry.

His eyes shot open when he felt a small, soft hand brush over his flaccid member.

He craned his head up, and spied a curvaceous goblin with spiralling patterns painted onto her breasts and her cheeks and glutes, mottled pale patches clustered here and there. Her orange eyes fixed on his once she realised he was awake, and she gave him a toothy smile.

"Ah, you are awake!" she exclaimed excitedly. "You are comfortable, yes?"

"Let me go!" he pleaded, prompting her to laugh playfully and shake her head.

"No no, you ruin our hunting and trespass. We cannot let you go for that," she explained.

"Wh-- trespass?! Nothing was said about trespassing!" he proclaimed.

The goblin shrugged, and went back to caressing his member.

"Hey, what are you doing?!"

"I do not know what the Chief thinks. She said you trespass, it is so. But do not worry, we will take good care of you. We need to, to keep up your strength," she said, ignoring his question.

He loosed a bewildered gasp, his member beginning to stir thanks to her efforts, her delicate fingers tracing his contours as blood flowed into his manhood. She dabbed her lips salaciously, watching his girth slowly rise to attention.