“Ha! Ha ha!” the rebel screeches, pointing at the fallen champion. “Ood ood!”

  How can he be so callous? How is it that none of them care? Even about their own lives! It’s infuriating. They should be angry. Angry at me! I did this. I caused this. It’s my fault!

  Returning to my feet, I cradle my head low in my hands. How did it come to this? I only wanted him to stop attacking. I couldn’t control my power. It’s only the second time that I ever created a flame! After that first time, how could I be so careless?!

  Looking back up with muddy tears streaming down my face, something inside calls me to action.

  The appraisal gave me much more than I expected. A name? How do I know his name? They never mentioned his name, did they? Turning to another random goblin in the crowd, I try to appraise him too.

  To my shock, his name is also clearly presented to me. How is this possible? I don’t have Evaluation! What’s going on? The description too. It’s as if I’m reading his mind. Practice spar? That was only supposed to be practicing?

  The crowd slowly disperses back to their idle lounging now that the entertainment’s ended. At a loss, I squat down next to the dead brother. Ah’choo. Ah’choo? A strange name, but who am I to judge?

  The description said that the mud’s no longer in use. Because he’s dead? What’ll happen to it now? Does no one care? That last dead brother before him was knocked down the hill into the void before I could even learn his name. Is that Ah’choo’s fate now too?

  A strange emotion welling up inside me, I’m called to act. To remember his sacrifice. To honor him! Reaching down, I repeatedly grab fistfuls of his mud and thickly lather it across my entire body. His death will not be in vain. His mud will live on in me. I’ll carry his burdens now that he cannot. All his debt has now become mine due to my negligence.

  Some of the surrounding goblins moved closer to watch me while I was distracted, interested in my strange antics. After quietly discussing something, one of them pantomimes my actions, slopily wiping dirt from the ground on its head.

  “Ha ha!” the others holler in reaction, rolling around on their backs at the circle’s edge.

  Then, to my horror, one of the tumbling clowns reaches over to slash his neighbor with his claws, removing a small chunk of the other’s flesh. Hurriedly, he massages it all over his face before looking back up at the group to make a goofy, mocking grimace.

  Everyone again erupts in howling laughter at his buffonery. However, the flesh’s owner snarls and viciously tackles the clown. Tossing and tousling, the two slide precariously down the soil of the giant, floating mound towards the abyss. No one seems to care, content to simply continue laughing at the show. Somehow they manage to just barely stop themselves before the edge, transforming the violent altercation into hopping, angry words. Two tiny lives saved from their own recklessness, but how long will it last?

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  More yelling steals my attention away from the pointless quarrel. It’s at the big rock from earlier. Rebel is now standing atop it, arms raised high in victory. Another goblin at the base is glowering up at him and viciously slandering. It’s the same one that he was arguing with all throughout the fight.

  A bet? He instigated this tragedy for a bet? I don’t understand. Stumbling forward dumbfounded, I finally cross the circle’s boundary to the outside.

  “Non afras? Ennu afras,” one of the goblins loudly sighs, deeply let down by my departure.

  “Agob afras!” I scream back at him, enraged. “Agob fite! Agob ood!”

  “Gob?” he replies, puzzled. “Non non. Ood sirc. Gob melt. Non afras.”

  “Dum agobs. Agobs melt? Sirc melt!” I accuse, angrily waving my hands in his face.

  “Sirc? Non non. Der,” he plainly answers, pointing at the two distant goblins still arguing. “Agobs. Non melt. Gnos?”

  My anger boiling over with nowhere to go, I flop down onto my back in defeat. I can’t get anything across to them as I am. My simple words certainly aren’t enough and I barely understand theirs. Almost every sentence is an uphill battle, struggling to learn our broken language. I need to focus. To filter out all these distractions, no matter how alarming. What do I need most right now?

  Language. I need to understand my brothers better. To be able to communicate with them better as well. I can’t solely rely on whatever naturally spills from my mouth when trying to force my thoughts out at them. Perhaps their frustrating laziness can work in my favor?

  Realizing the opportunity in this captive audience presents, I awkwardly mingle among them. The conversations are all so rough and annoying, but I’m slowly making progress. The others of… our kind? Those other friends of the mud? They all seem to understand us. To have understood me. It must be possible.

  Hours passing by in careful study, I realize that the lighting has never changed. Is it eternally night here? Not that I’m complaining, but I’ve grown so used to the daylight cycle back on Kyklos. It’s surprising, considering how much I hated it then. Do they never sleep? No wonder they’re all so mad.

  Lazily lounging amongst the others, I spy a new goblin hurriedly sprinting across the gangways with a reckless abandon towards us. Running up the hill as fast as he can, he finally stops nearby, leaning over to catch his breath. For some reason I’m tense and on edge, expecting danger. Why? It’s only one more brother.

  Having regained his composure, the new goblin looks me directly in the eye with a familiar, cool composure.

  “Afras!” he enthusiastically yells, pointing at me. “Gob afras! Agob afras! Afras!”

  Confused, I reflexively appraise the unexpected challenger.

  What is this? Looking down at the desecrated remains of the champion’s body in the circle and then back at the newcomer, I appraise him again.

  I don’t understand. How is this possible?