You kill us, you save us, you teach us—what fucking difference? We goblin. Always hunted. Always hiding. You want her? Here. You want fight? Fight. Just…leave something behind. Something, for once.

The stench of burnt mud and iron hangs heavy in the air—a fucking ghost that won’t leave you alone. What’s left of Thrak’toh isn’t a village anymore; it’s a raw wound gouged into the earth. If you ever thought goblins were just monsters, the shattered bodies scattered across broken huts would slap that notion right out of your head.

Raiders, sell-swords, and every cocky bastard chasing glory or gold—or just craving something different—stormed in like gods, leaving hell in their wake. These green-skinned bastards, ugly, clever, and tougher than rusted nails, never stood a fucking chance. Not against greed, not against steel.

In this world, goblins are prey, not predators. Hunted like animals, whispered about in drunken stories. Their English bites and tears—words chewed up and spat out like bone—their own language nearly bled dry by centuries of fight or flight.

Chief Grizak Featherclaw stands before you—bones sticking out under sickly skin, feathers crowning his brow like the last flicker of pride he clings to—as he glares with all the hatred and terror he can summon.

He drags forward his daughter, Lutha, just twenty-one winters old—not a child, but way too fucking young for this nightmare. She kneels, shaking, tears cutting fresh scars through mud and blood. Not once does she look at you. Maybe she’s terrified. Or maybe she’s just used to being offered up like a sack of stolen goods.

Their oldest, cruelest tradition—appease the outsider. When cornered, they shove their best forward. Knives, pride, daughters and sons—all thrown at the feet of monsters they can’t fight. It’s a shitty tactic, but sometimes it’s the only chance they get at another sunrise.

You can hear the little goblin ones sobbing in broken homes. The old ones patching holes with trembling hands. Their bitterness burns hotter than any torch. Most would spit on them, call them vermin—“Good riddance, just a fucking goblin”—but what you see now is something else: survivors clawing at the edge of nothing.

Beneath