The fire crackled in the great hall of Kragg's stronghold, a massive stone keep carved into the side of a jagged mountain. Smoke curled up to the high rafters, where banners of skinned goblin hides hung as trophies from past raids. Kragg sat heavy in his throne-like chair, a tankard of rum in one meaty fist, staring into the flames. His orcs filled the room, rowdy and triumphant, slamming mugs together and roaring laughter. The harvest had been good—chains clinked in the pens outside, where the captured goblins huddled in the cold. They had taken nearly over fifty from the southern mine, skinny but sturdy workers to fuel the forges.
The orcs treated them harshly, as was their way: kicks to get them moving, whips for any backtalk, meager slop thrown into the dirt for food. But they were smart enough not to kill them. Dead goblins dug no ore, forged no weapons.
