Shouts and the smell of sulfur pulled Alex out of his fitful sleep. The forest, formerly bathed in the silver moonlight, now glowed blood red. A man’s screams echoed through the trees. Alex shot to his feet and grabbed his spear, gripped with confusion and fear.

  A winged devil stood in the clearing where Lae’zel had earlier practiced her swordfighting. Her bat-like wings were fully extended and her red hair glowed like fire as she stood in front of a kneeling Wyll. A circle of glowing runes surrounded him and a mass of black sludge, dark as tar, poured from the sky and covered his body. He screamed in pain as the sludge slowly seeped over more and more of his skin, crawling towards his face.

  “I suggest you don’t try anything,” said the devil in a haughty voice, dripping with malice as Alex and the other companions ran up, weapons drawn. “You wouldn’t want to hurt poor Wylliam, after all. At least, not any more than he currently is.”

  “Mizora!” roared Karlach, hefting her greataxe, flames of anger erupting from her shoulders. “What are you doing to him? Stop it, now!”

  Mizora offered a cheerful wave, contrasting with her evil grin. “Nice to see you, too, Karlach. I’m just giving Wyll his punishment, per our contract. Just a little transformation, to show him the error of his ways.”

  Wyll’s screams grew louder as the black liquid finally reached his face, and then went silent as it covered his mouth and reached for his eyes. Shaking with rage, Karlach raised her axe and charged at Mizora. The devil simply snapped her fingers and Karlach froze in place, unable to do anything but stare in horror at Wyll’s torment while Alex and the others stood by in shock.

  Next to him, Gale leaned close. “I know you are thinking that your antimagic might save him. But do not reach into that ritual circle. Your abilities are strong, but they must have limits. Probably far below what a devil like her is capable of.”

  Alex followed Gale’s advice and simply watched with disgust, horror, and terrible fascination as the sludge engulfed Wyll. The runes in the ritual circle glowed even brighter and the sludge seeped through his skin, disappearing into his body. With an awful tearing sound, two large, curled horns erupted from Wyll’s forehead and he collapsed to the ground with a moan. The last of the black, oily sludge disappeared and the ritual circle faded, leaving behind scorched grass.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” said Mizora smugly. “When Wylliam wakes up, please tell him that he can share the details of our contract with you. I know he is dying to finally tell someone about it.” She snapped her fingers and a swirling pillar of fire erupted at her feet, enveloped her, and disappeared along with her.

  “Wyll!” Karlach yelled, breaking the companions’ state of shock, freed from Mizora’s spell. She tossed aside her greataxe and ran to his side. Shadowheart, Gale, and Alex followed, gingerly stepping over the scorched and charred grass. Karlach knelt down and carefully rolled the unconscious Wyll onto his back.

  Shadowheart knelt down alongside her, blue healing magic concentrated in her fingertips for a few seconds before she allowed it to dissipate. “I don’t think he’s physically hurt,” she assessed, bending closer to examine Wyll’s body. “Just… changed.”

  “Changed to a tiefling, or maybe even a devil by the looks of it,” said Gale, leaning forward to poke at Wyll’s new horns. “They definitely seem real, not an illusion. She must be one powerful patron.”

  Karlach sniffled, shoulders shaking as tears of helplessness flowed. “Mizora is one of Zariel’s top henchmen. Her personal lawyer, in fact. And I let her get away.”

  “It’s not your fault, Karlach,” said Alex, trying to reassure her. For good measure, he put his hand on Wyll’s shoulder, but to no effect. Honestly, it’s Wyll’s fault for signing the contract in the first place. Didn’t he get tricked into it?

  She shrugged off his words and sat down next to Wyll. “I’ll keep an eye on him. The rest of you can go back to sleep.”

  The warm glow of the moon and the familiar nighttime sounds of spring returned, and the group, minus Wyll and Karlach, returned to their bedrolls. I doubt I can sleep after that… thought Alex as he laid down, mind still dwelling on Wyll’s horrific ordeal. But his eyelids felt heavy after only a few seconds, the overwhelming exhaustion of the past couple days easily winning out. And for the first time since arriving in Faer?n, his sleep was dreamless and undisturbed.

  The morning sun cast gentle rays down through the gaps in the tree canopy, waking Alex from his much-needed peaceful slumber. With a groan, he sat up and felt his back crack in protest, sore from three straight nights of sleeping in a bedroll on solid ground.

  Good morning, Elena. Good morning, Melanie.

  Once again, his thoughts flashed back to his normal morning routine. I need a shower. And coffee.

  With a heavy sigh, he pulled on his boots and stood up, wincing as felt the residual soreness from yesterday’s march. Resigning himself to another day of walking, he grabbed a handful of dried fruit from his pack and joined his companions, who all stood gathered in a circle around Wyll.

  “...There must have been dozens of those Tiamat cultists. I had no choice. It was either sign the contract, or condemn the city to destruction. So of course, I signed Mizora’s contract. And I do not regret it,” he finished as Alex approached.

  “Kind of you to join us, sleepyhead,” teased Shadowheart. “Any later and we may have left without you.”

  “So much for beauty sleep,” jabbed Astarion, unable to resist piling on. “You somehow look even worse than when we first met.”

  Almost as if having Elder Evils disturb your sleep isn’t healthy. “I’ve never been a morning person.” Alex stifled a yawn and nodded at Wyll. “Sorry about missing your story, but I’m glad you seem to be okay.”

  “No worries,” said Wyll with a slight smile. “Aside from my new devilish appearance, I’m unhurt. It could have been a lot worse.”

  The group finished their breakfast rations and suited up for another day of walking, everyone thankfully tolerant of Wyll’s new horns. Alex rolled up his bedroll, put on his armor, secured his shield and pack to his back, and picked up his spear. They retraced their steps back to the dirt path, and after a quick check for any goblin patrols, resumed their westerly march.

  Unlike yesterday, when they had distracted themselves with idle chatter, they stayed relatively silent as they marched closer and closer to enemy territory. Astarion took the lead, on the alert for signs for approaching enemies. The only sounds were the calling of friendly birds, the rustling of branches in the infrequent breeze, and the occasional clink of armor.

  They walked all day, stopping only for a quick lunch of their rations. Oddly enough, they encountered no goblin patrols, much to Alex’s relief but also his concern. Everything he knew about the game and military history screamed at him that something was off. Any competent commander would be sending out scouts or patrols to stay up-to-date on enemy movements. But aside from those dead raiders at the Grove and the small group that attacked Karlach, we haven’t seen any.

  After walking for several more hours, they spotted a column of smoke rising above the trees in the distance. Astarion volunteered to scout ahead while the rest of the party hid in the woods near the path, finding relief in the shade from the late afternoon sun. After an hour, he returned. “I found the goblins. They’ve taken over some sort of ruined village up ahead, and it looks like they're having quite a party.”

  He led them back onto the path. After following the trail for only a short time, Alex could make out the sounds of booming drumbeats and raucous laughter at the edge of his hearing. Before they got too close to their source, Astarion led them off the path and into the woods, now tinged orange with the glow of sunset.

  They crept through the woods as quietly as they could after Astarion, who turned to roll his eyes or glare at them every time a twig snapped or a leaf crunched. The sounds of drunken revelry filtered through the trees. After some painfully-conspicuous creeping through the foliage, they reached the edge of the woodline and spread out, everyone hiding behind a tree or crouching behind a shrub.

  A short distance from their position in the woods, the ground dropped away in a steep slope towards a gently-flowing river. Beyond the river sat the gutted, burnt-out remnants of several wooden and stone buildings, partially hidden behind a crumbling stone wall with cracks and gaps large enough for Alex to easily walk through. An old stone bridge carried the dirt path across the river to the remnants of a gatehouse. The Blighted Village, he recognized.

  He couldn’t see any sentries, but through the gaps in the wall and between the buildings, he saw dozens of goblins standing around a roaring bonfire. They danced, sang, and raised giant tankards in celebration. War drums sounded a discordant beat punctuated by drunken laughter. But he also saw a few goblins stumble around with armfuls of weapons and armor, distributing them to the drunken revelers.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” said Gale. “From what I’ve read, goblins usually only celebrate if they’re about to go to battle or if they’ve just finished a slaughter.”

  Wyll squinted at the celebration. “It certainly looks like they’re getting ready for something insidious. We should head back and warn the Grove.”

  “Are you so quick to turn tail and retreat?” scoffed Lae’zel. “Our mission is to locate the goblin’s main camp, not a mere outpost. And if completing it will help us get to the crèche, I intend to see it through.”

  Alex did his best to count the goblins visible through the gaps in the walls. “I think we should continue. I don’t like this either, but we don’t know for certain what their intentions are. Even if they do plan to attack the Grove, Zevlor will still need an estimate of their numbers to plan an effective defense. And that means finding their main camp.”

  “Helpful rogue that I am, I found a path across the river a little further downstream,” chimed in Astarion. “If we wait until the dead of night, I’m sure even you bumbling oafs can make it across without being seen.”

  After some more back-and-forth, the group agreed to continue their mission to find the goblins’ main camp, but to hike through the night to try to find it as quickly as possible. They retreated back into the woods, out of sight of the abandoned village, and waited. Unsure of when their next meal might be, Alex used the opportunity to snack on an apple and a biscuit. When he finished eating, he found a shaded, soft patch of grass to lie down on. Using his backpack as a pillow, he closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest before their nighttime excursion. After a few minutes, the gentle sunlight and distant thud of drumbeats made him nod off…

  …And yet again he awakened in a field of stars. As usual, he faced the circular void of Bolothamogg’s form, thankfully alone this time. By now, Alex had had enough. “Is there something I can help you with? I’m just trying to take a nap.”

  Bolothamogg shook the plane with a chuckle. “Already used to conversing with an Elder Evil? Amusing, for a mortal. Most of you would be absolutely dying to speak with me, literally and figuratively.”

  He crossed his arms in defiance. “I know you can kill me instantly. But I also know that you won’t, or you would lose your only source of fun in millennia.”

  An earthquake of a rumble, the biggest yet, toppled Alex over, knocking him off his feet and sending him to the invisible floor. When it subsided, he picked himself up, still defiant. He must have found that really funny.

  “Talking back to me?” said Bolothamogg, in a voice that filled with something resembling mirth and fascination. “I am very fortunate to have ended up with you as my lanceboard piece. You really are interesting.”

  “But you said that I am nothing special. That thousands of others were suitable,” challenged Alex, re-crossing his arms. “So why was I chosen? A mere mortal like me, when it seems your opponent chose a god?”

  “Y’chak has no imagination, just like all other beings of destruction and death. I have stood guard over the boundaries of the universe since its birth, yet none of its schemes of destruction have come close to fulfilling their intended goals. It is no surprise that Y’chak chose a minor god of murder as its champion in this little game.”

  Alex raised his hand. “Why did you and Y’chak choose to start your game on Toril? It can’t just be chance.”

  “Of course not,” mused Bolothamogg, the stars and galaxies circling endlessly around its form. “Y’chak is a schemer, a master of whispers. It cast its gaze across the universe and saw a planet with all the necessary pieces for its scheme of universal destruction: a malcontent minor god of murder, desperate to regain its power; a pantheon of other deities who are too proud, ignorant, or weak to intervene; a land of disparate civilizations, too disjointed to unite in opposition to any serious threat; and an elder brain close to achieving its final form, with just a final batch of fertilizer needed. Y’chak saw the opportunity to push forward the Illithid Grand Design and end all life in the universe. And so it whispered into Bhaal’s ear: tame the elder brain and evolve it. You will have your souls, and you will regain your lost power. And then all life in this universe, not just on Toril, will be within your bloody reach.”

  “I see,” muttered Alex, tapping a foot on the invisible floor as he processed this information. “But that still doesn’t explain why I was chosen. I’m just a random nobody. If you wanted to win, you should have chosen a god, too.”

  “But where is the fun in that? I want to maximize my enjoyment of this little game. And what could be more enjoyable than seeing a mere mortal struggle against such a difficult challenge?” lectured Bolothamogg, sounding almost like a film critic. “But I did not say that your odds are impossible. In fact, they are quite good. When selecting my game piece, I turned to a planet filled with beings that are perfectly suited to this task. Mortals, who unknowingly killed their own gods. A relatively unique race in this massive universe: the humans of Earth.”

  Taken aback, his foot grew still. Killed our own gods?

  “You may not realize it, but you belong to a race of godkillers,” continued Bolothamogg, amused by his reaction. “Mortals, once weak and at the mercy of gods and monsters, who by chance evolved the inherent ability to resist, and then dispel, magic.”

  “Godkillers?” he repeated, his natural skepticism rising to the surface. “But we have gods. We have religions. Religion has existed almost as long as humanity.”

  “Yet the gods of your planet’s current religions do nothing,” retorted Bolothamogg. “They do not respond to prayers. They do not intervene in Earth’s affairs. Because they cannot, they are too weak. Your race’s antimagic, which has grown exponentially stronger since your planet’s industrialization, keeps them at bay. And what of your planet’s countless dead gods, relegated to little more than myths or fairy tales? What of the monsters and beasts that used to haunt the darkness, and the fairies and fey that dwelled in your forests? Knowingly or unknowingly, the humans of Earth have killed them all, and your collective antimagic prevents their return.”

  Godkillers. The word echoed in Alex’s mind when Gale gently prodded him awake, the sun now long since set. Is that what I am? Is that really my true purpose here? To kill the Absolute?

  He shook himself out of his stupor and thanked Gale for waking him up. The group readied themselves and followed Astarion through the dark forest, illuminated only by the gentle glow of moonlight. In the distance, the goblins’ drunken revelry continued in the Blighted Village, receding as they crept away. Astarion led them south, parallel to the river, until they were far enough downstream that even the sharpest goblin sentries would be unable to spot them. Then, he took them out of the woods to the flat riverbank, a welcome reprieve from the steep slope it formed near the village.

  A chain of rocks and boulders, some big and some small, led across the river. In the low light, it looked easy enough even for Alex to hop across. “This seems like an obvious place for an ambush,” he whispered. “Are you sure there’s no goblins on the other side?”

  Alex swore that he saw Astarion roll his eyes in the darkness. “Of course there’s no goblins over there. Don’t you trust me? Now, try not to fall in when we cross.”

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  In single file, the party moved across the river, hopping from rock to rock. The river lapped at their feet and Alex could barely see in the glow of the moon, but thankfully, he did not fall in. Once on the other side, they hurried to the woods and hid amongst the trees, but they heard no movement. They had crossed unseen.

  Through the night, they trekked west through the forest, on the alert for any signs of goblin patrols or their camp. On this side of the river, it was deadly quiet, as if even the woodland animals knew to hide themselves when goblins were near. Their breathing and the occasional crunch of the underbrush seemed especially loud, each snap of a twig like a clap of thunder. But they encountered no goblins, and their bumbling did not attract any untoward attention. They continued hiking in a vaguely westerly direction until the sky glowed pink with the first hint of sunrise. In the early morning light, tired from hiking nonstop, they found it.

  From a ridge overlooking a ruined temple complex, the group crawled forward and looked down on a massive, sprawling, chaotic encampment. Dozens of shoddy tents, some seemingly held up by faith alone, spread out amongst worn statues and fragmented buildings. Burning bonfires, cauldrons of mystery foods and liquids, and haphazard stacks of armor and weapons were dispersed between the tents and crumbling stone structures. And crammed into every available remaining space were hundreds of goblins.

  If the goblins at the Blighted Village were having a party, these goblins were having a full-on drunken festival. Hundreds of them gnawed on burnt pieces of suspiciously humanoid-looking flesh, raised well-used mugs and tankards, and sang in a drunken chorus that echoed through the woods.

  “Looks like an old Sel?nite temple,” observed Shadowheart with a satisfied smile. “Seems like it got what it deserved.”

  Karlach looked over the horde with wide eyes. “How many of those buggers are there?”

  Alex began counting, squinting at the revelers. Approximately ten goblins standing around each big tent or bonfire… about twenty large tents and bonfires altogether… so two hundred goblins. Plus about fifty stationed in the Blighted Village, and maybe another fifty at the roadblock that Zevlor mentioned.

  About three hundred goblins total, he realized in shock. Plus the occasional ogre or worg. How can the Grove possibly fight this?

  As if on cue, a loud war horn sounded, cutting through the drunken revelry. The partying goblins begrudgingly chugged the remaining liquid in their tankards and finished the last of their mystery meat as the singing died off. They slowly, haltingly trundled over to the stacks of weapons and began arming themselves.

  “Not good,” noted Gale. “It looks like they’re getting ready for a fight.”

  Lae’zel huffed. “Chk. Fighting while drunk? There is no reason to take these creatures seriously.”

  “They may be drunk, but they have numbers,” said Wyll, worry in his voice. “And the only nearby settlement to warrant such numbers is the Emerald Grove.”

  “And that is a three day march from here, maybe longer with such a large group,” added Alex, gears turning in his mind. “Unless they bring along all their alcohol, they definitely won’t be drunk by the time they arrive.” Between the druids and tieflings, there are maybe eighty able-bodied fighters at the Grove. Many of them can probably wield a spear or a crossbow in a pinch, but like me, are not trained fighters. Most of the druids would know some magic, but probably not much more than a few simple cantrips. Eighty desperate defenders, albeit in a fortified position, against three hundred bloodthirsty goblins.

  Should we abandon the Grove and run for the Mountain Pass? It would get us out of a near-hopeless fight, but…

  We barely have any supplies. And if our little hike over here from the Grove has taught me anything, it’s that it takes a lot more time and effort to travel between places than in the game. Which means that the Mountain Pass is probably a lot more treacherous, too. And I can’t trust myself to live off the land; even back home it would have been very difficult.

  We need the Grove’s supplies to make it through the Mountain Pass and onto Baldur’s Gate. Anyway, if we abandon the Grove, I’m sure that at least Wyll won’t like it. Maybe Karlach and Gale, too. I need all three of them if I’m supposed to defeat the Absolute, or at least make it to someone who can help me get home.

  “If you are afraid of the goblins, Blade of Frontiers, then I suggest we head straight for the Mountain Pass and the crèche,” said Lae’zel, pulling Alex out of his thoughts. “The tieflings and druids may be a lost cause, but we can still get our tadpoles removed.”

  Wyll shook his head. “Not a chance. The Grove needs us. They need every fighter they can get.”

  “I, for one, do not like the idea of facing near-certain death at the hands of some stinking goblins,” muttered Astarion.

  “So what? We should just leave a bunch of innocent people to die?” retorted Karlach, growing noticeably hotter as she spoke, engine whirring.

  Shadowheart sighed. “As much as I dislike the idea of innocent children dying, I really need to get to Baldur’s Gate. I cannot afford to risk fighting a goblin horde. I will pray for Lady Shar to welcome the tiefling children into her embrace.”

  “As inviting as that sounds, the idea of leaving children to die does not exactly give me a warm, fuzzy feeling.” Gale turned to Alex. “What do you think we should do?”

  He thought for a moment, carefully planning his words to thread the needle and somehow please everyone. “Well… this is going to sound cold and cynical, but I also need to get to Baldur’s Gate. And I do not want to die here, to a bunch of goblins. The thought of innocent people who offered us hospitality being brutally killed does not make me happy, but I know that I will probably be more of a hindrance than a help in battle.”

  Wyll and Karlach both flashed him looks of disappointment and looked like they wanted to say something, so Alex continued before they could interrupt. “But I also think that we shouldn’t be so quick to abandon what is potentially the only settlement for many miles. It sounds like the only road available to us goes through that Mountain Pass, and it does not seem like an easy route. We will need a lot of food and other supplies if we are going to make it. Even if some of us are just going to that githyanki crèche, if we can find it,” he said with a pointed look at Lae’zel. “And if getting those supplies means helping the Grove, then I think we should do it.”

  Wyll and Karlach released sighs of relief, Astarion and Shadowheart appeared mercifully convinced of his logic, and Gale nodded in approval. “A coldly logical, but still satisfying, answer. You certainly are full of surprises.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Lae’zel, analyzing him in a new light. “You are a strange human. Somehow it almost feels like you are manipulating me, but what you say has merit. If continuing to assist the Grove will get us to the crèche in one piece, then I support it.”

  They retraced their steps back to the river, moving quickly but quietly. In the late afternoon, they made it back to the crossing, where they rested for a few hours, exhausted by their hours of nonstop trekking. When night finally fell, they used the chain of boulders to hop back across the river and continued east towards the Grove.

  Normally, it would have been a two-day march from the Blighted Village, but the distant sound of goblin war drums drove them forward. They hiked through the night, stopping only for a couple hours rest shortly before sunrise, eager to stay ahead of the horde at their backs.

  In the evening, they spotted the Grove's stone wall. Alex had never been so relieved. I am exhausted. Dirty. Hungry. But we made it back in one piece and at least one day ahead of the goblins. Maybe more if they take their time getting here.

  Alex waved at the sentries and the gate creaked open. They entered the Grove and found palpable tension gripping the encampment. Thankfully, he did not hear the ritualistic chanting of the druids, but the near-silence was even more unnerving. On their way to the Hollow, they passed pockets of druids huddled together, whispering and glaring as they walked by.

  “Thank the gods you’ve made it back,” said Dammon when he caught sight of them. “Things haven’t been going well since you’ve left-”

  He froze when he spotted Wyll, mouth agape in shock. Wyll sighed, then stepped forward, head bowed with embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Dammon, I am alright. Still the same Blade of Frontiers.” He put on his best reassuring grin. “More importantly, what happened while we were gone? It seems like a fight could break out at any moment.”

  Around them, the tieflings mingled nervously in small groups, talking quietly, some eying the druids and fidgeting with their weapons. Even the children appeared subdued, reduced to hiding in their ragged tents with sullen expressions.

  Dammon took a moment to collect himself, averting his gaze from Wyll’s new horns, and nervously glanced over at the gathered druids. “Zevlor is meeting with the druid’s leader. They stopped their ritual the day you left. But it seems they still mean to kick us out.”

  “We need to talk with him and with Kagha. There’s a goblin army coming,” interjected Alex, knowing there was no time to waste. “Oh, and this is Karlach.”

  “An army…” echoed Dammon with alarm before he quickly recomposed himself. “Zevlor went down to their cave by the Sacred Pool. And I’m Dammon, by the way,” he said as he extended a hand to Karlach.

  Karlach kept her distance. “Very nice to meet you, but I’ve got a bit of a touch problem. Infernal engine, burning hot. It’s a long story.”

  “An infernal engine,” mumbled Dammon, seeming to notice her glowing chest for the first time. “I’d like to take a look at it later, if you don’t mind. If we survive those goblins, that is.”

  They descended the stone steps down to the druids’ cave, hearing an argument that was quickly devolving into a shouting match. “...And you would have us expend all of our magic just to keep you all fed?! What nonsense is this?!” yelled Kagha, volume rising with each word.

  “So instead of making some plants grow, you would rather condemn us all to death? What would Silvanus say about that?” retorted Zevlor, sweeping his arm across the gathered druids.

  Kagha stood at the head of the stone table, quaking with anger as she glowered at Zevlor. She was flanked by several druids, who all cast looks of disdain at the old tiefling. Zevlor stood at the far end of the table, escorted by a pair of tiefling warriors, who both had their hands on the hilts of their swords, bodies tensed. When Kagha saw Alex and the rest of the party approach, she nearly sputtered with rage.

  “What are you strays doing back here? Our hospitality is soon coming to an end,” she spat venomously at them. Zevlor whirled around and a look of relief flashed across his face… at least until he spotted Wyll.

  With no time to waste, Alex restrained himself from rolling his eyes and stepped forward. “Zevlor sent us to find the Goblin Camp,” he said, raising his hands to placate the druids. “And you both need to know what we found.”

  “We do not take unsolicited advice from outsiders,” snarled Kagha, standing up straight. “Leave us.”

  Simmering with embarrassment, Wyll nevertheless moved to Zevlor’s side. “I’ll explain later. First, we have bigger problems,” he whispered to Zevlor. Then, he put on his best heroic face and addressed Kagha. “There is a goblin army headed this way. You need to settle this petty squabble and unite if you are to stand any chance of surviving the coming battle.”

  “A goblin army?!” exclaimed Zevlor, any traces of anger gone. “What exactly did you find?”

  Alex gave them a quick summary. “We found their camp getting ready for battle. There are about three hundred goblins marching here, a day behind us. They would only mobilize such a large number if they intended to attack here.”

  “Three hundred goblins?” echoed Kagha in disbelief, her anger momentarily replaced by surprise. The druids behind her turned and muttered amongst themselves. “No, that can’t be.”

  “Perhaps you should ask your woodland friends instead of cowering in this cave,” taunted Shadowheart, drawing a snicker from Astarion.

  Zevlor turned to Kagha, pleading. “Kagha, if you kick us out now, we will face certain death within a day. And then the goblins will move on to you.”

  Kagha looked uncertain, torn between her previous words and the realization that the situation had completely changed. Behind her, the druids grew more aggravated, calling for her attention.

  “Look,” began Alex, recognizing the leadership vacuum and trying to sound much more confident than he felt, “the situation is difficult, but not impossible. Between your druids, the tieflings, and us, there are several dozen able-bodied fighters. We are outnumbered, but we have a fortified position and a day to prepare.”

  “He’s right, Kagha,” implored Zevlor. “If we don’t work together, they will overwhelm us separately. But together, we stand a chance.”

  Surrounded by alarmed druids, Kagha closed her eyes and released a deep breath. “...Fine. For the sake of the Grove, we will fight together against a common enemy. But do not expect this to blossom into anything more.”

  The party returned to their lean-to, which Dammon had thankfully kept reserved for them. Hungry and exhausted, they split up. Wyll took Karlach to the storage shed to get her a bedroll and change of clothes; Shadowheart and Gale laid down to rest; Lae’zel headed to the kitchen for a meal; Astarion slunk off, presumably to find a creature to feed on; and Alex headed for the underground stream for a much-needed bath.

  The water was cold, but he didn’t care, grateful to finally wash off a couple days worth of grime. Brown, soapy water flowed into the stream as he rinsed himself, carrying away the layer of dust, dirt, and sweat that had caked his body. I suppose this is how a snake feels when it sheds its old skin, he thought, sighing in relief.

  After his bath, he slipped into a set of clean clothes, then returned to the stream to attempt to wash his equally dirty adventuring outfit. I know this probably makes me look out of place, especially with an upcoming battle, he thought as he swirled the stained tunic, pants, socks, and underwear around the wash basin. But I don’t think I could ever give up basic hygiene.

  When he returned to their shelter, he found the Hollow abuzz with urgent activity. Tieflings carried around stacks of armor and weapons and Dammon pounded away at his forge, trying to remove dents from a dull breastplate. Even some druids pitched in to help the tieflings roll several barrels marked with red warning paint out of the storage shed and up towards the gate. Those must be smokepowder or oil barrels, he recognized. I’m glad that Kagha and Zevlor seem to have some sort of plan.

  His stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him just how hungry he was, and he headed to the kitchen to grab some more flavorless gray mush. It was the same bland, tasteless food as a few days ago, but at least it was warm, which made it slightly better than their road rations.

  After his meal, he practically crawled back to his bedroll, the exhaustion of the past few days finally catching up with him. The sun began to set, but the tieflings and druids bustled about, desperately trying to get ready for the coming battle. Perfectly content to leave the battle planning to the experts, he scribbled a short entry into his journal and then let sleep take him.

  When he woke up after a thankfully dreamless sleep, the Grove lay relatively quiet. With the goblins arriving potentially as soon as the late afternoon, and the tieflings and druids having worked through the night to prepare defenses, everyone used the time to rest and mentally ready themselves for the coming battle. The mid-morning air was still, chilly, and tense.

  Alex got up to eat breakfast, passing small groups of gathered tiefling soldiers. Some were relaxed, hiding their anxiety with bravado and laughter. Others were very clearly scared, hands shaking as they fiddled with their armor and weapons. And a few sat by themselves, hands clasped in prayer.

  In the kitchen area, Alex was pleasantly surprised to find that the usual gray gruel had berries and honey mixed in. Not bad for a final breakfast. Almost like the oatmeal I would make back home. He filled a bowl and sat down by himself. I’ve been here for a week. I wonder if Elena and Melanie have given up hope of finding me. God, I miss them…

  He pushed them out of his mind for now, trying to focus on eating and on surviving the coming battle. As per usual when he was anxious, he did not have much of an appetite, but forced down the gruel anyway, aware that he needed the energy.

  “May we sit next to you? If you don’t mind, of course.”

  He lifted his eyes from his bowl and saw Gale and Lae’zel standing nearby, each with their own bowls of gruel. Lae’zel was her usual serious self, but Gale seemed quite worried. “Go ahead, I don’t mind,” replied Alex around a mouthful of gruel. The two sat down across from him and began eating while continuing an earlier conversation.

  “...So are there any rituals for githyanki who find themselves in a situation like this? Any ‘last meal' type of rite?”

  “First, there is no hunger in the Astral Plane, so a ‘last meal' such as this would be completely unnecessary,” said Lae’zel as she spooned some mush into her mouth. “And second, we have no need for such superfluous rituals. We live for Vlaakith and we die for her. And if that death should be glorious, then even better.”

  “Well, what do you make of our current predicament?” asked Gale, anxiety clear in his voice. “We seem to have gotten ourselves backed into a corner.”

  “A creature is at its most dangerous when it is backed into a corner,” replied Lae’zel sagely. “And I am not afraid of these goblins. They are unserious creatures who seem more concerned with spoils and festivities than actual combat. If we can break their morale, then this fight should be easy.”

  “Ah, well, then you are certainly more confident than I am.” He turned to Alex. “What do you think? You were sitting here alone, seemingly lost in thought. Are you feeling the least bit nervous about this upcoming battle?”

  Alex took a moment to swallow and contemplate an answer. His stomach roiled with anxiety, but otherwise, his mind was completely at peace. “To be honest, yes and no. I can tell that I'm nervous because I don’t have much of an appetite. But I also know that there’s little I can do individually to change the outcome of the battle. So right now, I’m kind of just going with the flow, not worrying too much about whether I live or die.”

  Gale’s brow furrowed, clearly not getting the answer he was expecting. “You don’t care about whether you live or die? Won’t you have any regrets?”

  Alex sighed. “If you asked me that before I ended up here, I would have said no. I’ve lived a fulfilling life and I know that my family will be taken care of. But now that I’m here…” His voice drifted off and he blinked away the tears that threatened to form. “Here, I would rather not die yet, at least before I can tell them what happened to me. I know that my wife and daughter are probably very worried.”

  “...Wife and daughter?” Gale gawked. “Huh, I would not have expected that from you. You seem a bit too young for that.”

  “Does he?” asked Lae’zel. “Your human concepts of age and family structure confound me.”

  “Um, well, I am thirty,” said Alex sheepishly.

  “Thirty? Older than you look, but still a tad younger than me. Maybe a bit more mature, though,” conceded Gale. “I don't have a wife or child, but I do have a loving mother and a tressym. Both of whom would miss me very much if something were to happen to me.”

  “Chk. It is almost embarrassing to listen to you both ramble on about your familial bonds,” huffed Lae’zel. “Stay out of the way and let the experts fight, and maybe we’ll all survive this.”

  The tension rose in the camp as the hours passed. Alex paced back and forth in the Hollow, wearing a new path into the ground. He saw Shadowheart praying in a corner, Gale nervously tapping his staff against a rock, Astarion wiping non-existent dirt from his tunic, and Lae’zel tapping her fingers against the scabbard of her greatsword. Wyll and Karlach were up on the wall, keeping watch, but it was clear that they were just as worried as everyone else.

  They waited and waited for the sound of the horn that would signal the arrival of the goblins. But they heard nothing. Finally, with the sun setting, Wyll and Karlach came bearing news: flocks of birds sent by the druids had reported back. The goblins were setting up camp just down the road.

  A trick? To get us to lower our guard and surprise us with a night attack? He tried to see the situation from the goblin leaders’ perspective.

  In the game, there were three leaders. From what I remember, Priestess Gut was just a religious figurehead and Dror Ragzlin was a typical brutish chieftain; Minthara was the one who was really in charge. If she had drow warriors, she would probably lead them in a night attack, but definitely not goblins. She probably views them as incompetent, bumbling, good-for-nothing fighters who are little more than cannon fodder and need strength in numbers. If anything, she is probably giving them one final rest to keep their morale up before the fight. Which means: no battle tonight.

  With the fight delayed, Alex stripped off his armor. After a quick meal of more ‘everything soup’ from the kitchen, he returned to his bedroll to add another entry to his journal. Possibly his last entry, depending on the outcome of tomorrow’s battle.

  …We are outnumbered about four to one. Not good, but not too bad. Defenders have won against worse odds. Look at Watling Street or Rorke’s Drift.

  Or maybe I am just trying to reassure myself. If we lose this battle, I love you. Hopefully Volo or some other wanderer will find this journal and make use of it.

  After an hour of tossing and turning in his bedroll, he finally began to drift off. Before sleep claimed him, he heard the low rumble of Bolothamogg’s laughter and the grating static of Y’chak’s cackling at the edge of his consciousness. They were eagerly watching him.