Barston smelled like boiled cabbage and damp surrender.

  It squatted low against the southern road like it had given up trying to impress anyone a long time ago—mud-brick buildings sagging inward, porches held together by faith and bad nails, pig pens too close to wells and wells too close to graves. A bell tower leaned drunkenly over the square, its rope long since rotted away, the bell inside hanging silent and judgmental.

  Sludge lagged into town with a wet, uneven gait. It's lumberjack legs had no reference on how long they'd trudged through the gnarled forest, and the mire, and back again into the forest.

  Goblin blood had dried dark and flaky across its lumberjack arms. The axe hung loose in its grip, the edge still faintly green where it had bitten deep and been remembered. With every step, something inside the sludge shifted and resettled, digesting slowly, thoughtfully.

  That goblin meat still tasted damned and sweet.

  The old trapper followed a few paces back, staff tapping softly against stone. He said nothing. Just watched.

  The small pig-market town noticed, though.

  A woman hauling water stopped mid-pour. A baby’s cry cut off sharp, like a string plucked too hard on a damp violin. Somewhere a door shut, then another. A dog growled low and crawled under a stoop.

  Sludge stopped in the middle of the haphazard square. It looked around. Folk were staring.

  That was… new.

  Then—a whisper rippled through the crowd, soft but fast.

  “That’s him.”

  “Gods above…”

  “Poor bastard.”

  "His poor boy like..."

  Sludge blinked, mud flaking from its lashes. It shifted its weight. The axe dripped putrid green blood—a single drop—onto the packed earth.

  Plop.

  A man with a butcher’s apron—thick neck, soft hands, eyes too tired for his size—stepped forward cautiously.

  “You… uh,” he began. “You’re the one, yeah? The fella?”

  Sludge stared at him.

  The man swallowed. “From Pickleberry.”

  Sludge nodded slowly. The movement made something slosh unpleasantly behind its eyes.

  “My boy,” the butcher continued, lowering his voice. “Got took last winter. Goblins. Same as yours.”

  Sludge’s mouth opened.

  “Oh,” it said. Then, after a pause: “I …smash… five.”

  It wanted to say ate instead of smash, but the lumberjack brain felt weird as the word bubbled and rose from it's lumberjack throat. Silence fell like a dropped plate.

  The butcher’s face went pale. Then red. Then something like awe crept in, slow and dangerous.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Five,” he repeated. Louder now. "Five?'"

  Someone behind him gasped.

  Another voice chimed in, reverent. “Five today, or…?”

  Sludge frowned. It had to think about that.

  “Today,” it said.

  That did it. A murmur swept the square, swelling and turning sharp at the edges.

  “Five today.”

  “Gods help us…”

  “Still breathing, ain’t he?”

  "Burn the green scum!"

  The old trapper cleared his throat quietly from behind, but no one noticed. Sludge felt a strange pressure in its chest—not pain. Not hunger. Something else. The weight of eyes. Of expectation. It didn’t like it.

  It took a step back as the crowd surged forward. Sludge froze.

  Someone laughed nervously. “Look at him. Ain’t scared one bit.”

  Sludge was not scared. Sludge did not know scared. Sludge was confused.

  The effect, however, was identical.

  Regardless, they ushered him into the tavern whether he wanted it or not. The place was low-ceilinged and warm, thick with the smell of stale ale and old wood. A boar’s head hung over the hearth, one glass eye missing, the other watching everyone like it knew something. Sludge was sat down hard on a bench that creaked in protest. Before it knew anything more, a mug was shoved into its hand.

  “On me.”

  Another followed. Then another. Sludge sniffed the ale. It smelled wrong. Sour. Yeasty. Alive in a way it didn’t trust.

  It drank it anyway.

  The liquid sloshed into its gut and did not behave itself. It separated into layers, some sinking, some floating, some fizzing angrily against the sludge like they’d taken offence.

  Sludge hiccupped. It sounded like a blocked drain giving up.

  Laughter erupted.

  “That’s the sound of a man who’s seen cleaved himself silly,” someone said knowingly. The crowd laughed once more, slapping Sludge on the shoulder and around the midriff. It could feel the nearly-fully-digested goblin sizzle and pop the last of its eyeballs as the lumberjack flab-rolls shifted atop it.

  The old trapper sat quietly at the edge of the room, nursing a single drink. His eyes never left Sludge.

  Then, the questions came fast.

  “You hunt alone?”

  Sludge shook its head. “Sometimes… old man come with.”

  “You go for the nests or the scouts?”

  “They go… inside.” Sludge pointed a lumberjack finger at its lumberjack chest.

  A pause.

  Someone leaned forward. “You leave any alive?”

  Sludge considered this carefully.

  “No.”

  The tavern roared!

  A woman wiped her eyes. “Saint Guther preserve us. He has been delivered.”

  Another mug was pressed into Sludge’s hand. It drank. Foam leaked out of its nose and down its chin in a thin, unpleasant ribbon.

  Eventually—inevitably—someone said it.

  “Let him speak.”

  Sludge stiffened.

  Speak? About what? Was that the lumberjack, or the boy, or the goblin, or the hogs... or—something else? It fizzled away as quickly as the urge had burst and popped.

  The room quieted. All eyes fixed on him. The pressure returned, heavier now, like wet earth piling on top of a coffin.

  Sludge stood because sitting felt wrong.

  The bench sighed in relief, and Sludge opened its mouth.

  Nothing came out.

  Its throat worked. Something gurgled. It swallowed hard, black sludge briefly staining its teeth before sinking back down.

  “Goblins,” it said finally.

  The word landed heavy in the tavern.

  “They…” Sludge paused. Thinking was hard with this much ale sloshing around inside. “…keep coming.”

  Murmurs of agreement. Of anger.

  “I’m,” it continued, then stopped. Its stomach growled loudly. “…still hungry.”

  A hush.

  Then—cheers!

  Someone slammed a fist on the table. “Aye! He ain’t done yet! He ain't bloody done yet!”

  A cold, neat sensation slid across Sludge’s perception, like a ledger being updated.

  [Reputation Gained: Barston Commonfolk +15]

  [Title Unlocked: Goblin-Hunter (Unverified)]

  Sludge did not notice, although something much deeper inside it did.

  Outside, pitchforks were fetched. Rusted swords dragged from beneath beds. A man with a limp strapped on armour that hadn’t fit him in twenty years. A woman thrust a sack of dried meat into Sludge’s hands.

  “For the road,” she said. “You’ll need strength.”

  Sludge stared at it.

  “Thank… you?” it ventured.

  By dusk, they were ready.

  Sludge had tried to leave quietly, but the crowd followed it's every move.

  It stopped.

  They stopped.

  It turned, confused.

  The butcher grinned fiercely. “Lead on.”

  Sludge looked at the old trapper.

  The old man sighed, adjusted his grip on his staff, and fell in step behind him.

  “Well,” he muttered, “reckon I’ve followed worse plans.”

  They marched out of Barston as the sun dipped low, a ragged line of common folk behind a thing that did not know it was leading them, and an old man who hadn't been this entertained in years. Funny how folk just happen, isn't it?

  Sludge’s belly gurgled, warm and pleased.

  Ahead, somewhere beyond the fields and the forest and the mire, there would be goblins. Which, all things considered, felt close enough to a plan.