Chapter 4 - Guards and Goblins

The morning fog had barely lifted as Arlen guided the four-member party along the rocky trail east of Breezevale. This part of town was largely untouched—its stony landscape was unfriendly to farmers, hunters, or travellers.

But for goblins, it was ideal.

Sheltered, forgotten, and just distant enough to stage raids on nearby roads and homesteads.

They stopped in front of a dark cavern set between two jagged outcrops. The wind howled faintly through its opening like a whisper warning them to turn back.

Arlen stood a few paces behind the group, cloak drawn tightly across his shoulders, staff resting lightly in one hand and the other a fairly weighted linen rucksack.

Lyra Sunwood, Ranger, took the mantle of Party Leader. She scanned the entrance with narrowed eyes, bow at her side, confidence on her face.

“This doesn’t look too scary,” she remarked, the words slipping too casually from her lips.

Arlen exhaled, slow and unamused. “And it’s that blind belief that led most adventurers to not return from quests like this,” he replied. “It’s never a simple grab-and-go.”

“Your support in there could make it way easier,” Kaelin Quill, Engineer and Lyra’s childhood friend suggested flatly. Unlike Lyra who is strapped with a bow, Kaelin wields a giant wrench—huge for many, but familiar in her hands. Buckled around her waist were several homemade contraptions and traps which could be quickly assembled, good for securing the perimeter.

“If I start doing quests for guild members, everybody’s going to expect me to do their work too,” Arlen grunted. “I’ll wait here. But don’t worry—I’ll know if things go wrong.”

Lyra smirked at that, adjusting her quiver. “I’m sure we wouldn’t need it.”

Arlen raised a brow but said nothing.

She had hunted dire wolves and even a gravetusk bear once, twice the size of a regular adult brown bear—but always from a distance, and always on her own terms. The cave system in front likely offers no similar luxuries.

Trailing behind them were Jorven and Finley, still sore from yesterday’s humiliation as they walked stiffly.

“You sure you can take this?” Kaelin asked, arms crossed, expression blank. “This isn’t chasing down drunks.”

“Don’t look down on us, little lady,” Jorven muttered, certainly more subdued than he was yesterday. “We can handle a few goblins.”

Finley tugged nervously at the collar of his armour. “I’ve never seen a goblin before, boss,” he whispered to Jorven, though within earshot of the others. “Where do we hit them?”

Lyra and Kaelin turned to glare at Arlen in unison—clearly unimpressed with his pickings for party composition. He returned their stare with a small, unapologetic shrug.

“You’ll figure it out, Finely,” he said. “Or you’ll learn. That’s what a party’s for.”

The mage placed his rucksack on the ground, loosening its strap to reveal an assortment of odd-coloured vials and clinking bottles.

“I know I said I wouldn’t involve myself in this quest,” he said as he distributed the supplies to the party. “But this is the least I’d like to do.”

“Are these… potions?” Lyra recognised.

“Indeed,” Arlen said brightly, proud of his collection. These from straight from his stash from his last adventure—collecting dust but still potent. “They can be a great help in a pinch.”

Jorven inspects a one of the vials, curiosity overtaking his usual gruffness. “Why is this one red?”

“Health potion,” Arlen explains, as he ties a bottle of dark yellow liquid onto Finley’s belt. “Seals wounds, numbs pain, gets you back on your feet if you’re bleeding out. Don’t waste it on a scratch. Drink half if you’re injured. The whole thing if you’re dying.”

It was as if that final line casted a silence spell over the group.

Even Lyra, ever the bold one, sobered and unsettled at the phrasing. They are not walking into their deaths, are they?

“Green’s for stamina, dulls muscle ache and gives you your second wind. And this,” the Guildmaster pointed on the securely fastened bottle on Finley, a small spark lit from his finger— triggering its latent alchemical properties. Blooming into a miniature sun pulsing beneath the glass.

“Helps to brighten your path.”

Kaelin watches in awe. Unlike clockwork and steel, this was alchemy—soft, unpredictable, oddly alive.

“I’d recommend still holding a torch since goblins hate fire,” Arlen said. “But this reduces blind spots. Makes you harder to sneak up on.”

He then glared sharply at Finley, already reading his mind.

“Don’t drink it.”

====

Arlen remained at the entrance, watching them disappear one by one into the gloom. As the glow of his illumination potion becomes overwhelmed by darkness, Arlen closed his eyes and extended his senses.

He wouldn’t step foot inside unless needed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching.

Inside, the darkness thickened quickly. The narrow corridor curved downward, sloping into the earth like a gullet. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, irregular beats.

Jorven took the lead, shield raised, eyes sharp for any sudden movement. His shoulders tense but ready. He was the wall, the first line should anything come charging through the dark.

Kaelin followed close behind, her wrench in one hand, the other hovering near a pouch of metal tools buckled at her hip. She moved with measured steps, her sharp eyes scanning for traps, tripwires, or signs of goblin tinkering.

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A little further back, Lyra kept her distance. She moved lightly, bow half-drawn, every step deliberate. The space gave her a clean line of sight past her allies—enough room to let an arrow fly without worry of friendly fire.

Trailing near the rear was Finley—silent since entering. His footsteps were cautious, his sword gripped tightly. The bottle of illumination tied to his belt cast a steady, golden glow behind them. Lyra didn’t mind his distance. In fact, she found it strategic. The light helped her keep track of their trail, and if anything were to sneak up from behind, Finley would be the first to spot it—at least, she hoped.

Downward they went, each step taking them further from the comfort of daylight and deeper into the goblins’ lair.

====

Kaelin was the first to signal a halt. Her hand shot up, and she dropped low beside a cluster of stones, eyes scanning the path ahead. She pulled a small spring-loaded trap—no bigger than a pocketbook and threw it a good distance in front of them.

Its mechanisms sprung open, baring its rusty iron teeth ready to receive any creature unfortunate to step on it.

A faint chittering echoed from deeper within. Then a sound like stone skittering across stone. Goblins didn’t see well in bright light—but they heard everything. And they were fast.

Two yellow eyes blinked into view ahead. Then three. Then six.

Lyra didn’t wait.

Her bowstring sang, the arrow flashing through the air to strike the lead goblin clean between the brows. It dropped without a sound. The others screeched, drawing crude blades as they surged forward.

Jorven, shield raised let out a battle cry, ready to receive intercept. He caught the first goblin’s blow and slammed it backward into the cave wall. The crack of impact echoed. Before the creature could recover, he drove his blade into its gut with grim finality.

Finley screamed—high and panicked—more from nerves than pain. He fumbled with his shortsword, jabbing clumsily at a lunging goblin. He missed, stumbled.

Then—snap—Kaelin’s trap clamped shut behind the creature with a shriek of rusted metal. The goblin wailed, thrashing as blood welled around the mangled joint.

“Behind you!” Jorven shouted.

A goblin dropped from the ceiling with a snarl. Lyra was faster—already drawing, already loosing. Her arrow struck it mid-leap, punching through its chest. It hit the ground at Finley’s feet, twitching once.

Then still.

Breathing hard, the group regrouped near a rocky outcrop. Four goblins down. None of them injured. Not yet.

Kaelin exhaled slowly and snarled at her childhood friend.

“Still think this would be easy?”

====

The tunnel widened suddenly, the air turning dank and heavy. Moss clung to the cavern walls in veiny tendrils, and the floor was littered with scraps—bones, rusted metal, scraps of leather.

Then they saw it.

At the far end of the chamber, atop a raised slab of rock, the missing stonemason tools were arranged in a careful circle—each item placed thoughtfully, almost reverently.

The hammer stood upright in the center, haft wedged between cracks in the stone like a crude altar. Chisels were fanned around it, their edges catching the low light like the teeth of some jagged sun.

“What in the hells…?” Jorven breathed.

“It’s a shrine,” Lyra muttered, eyes narrowed. “They’ve turned the tools into some kind of idol.”

Kaelin’s voice was quiet, grim. “Goblins don’t usually do this.”

A low growl answered her.

From the shadows beyond the shrine, goblins emerged—more than before. At least a dozen. Their eyes gleamed yellow and hateful, their bodies daubed in streaks of mud and ash. One wore a crude necklace strung with broken chisel tips. It stepped forward and snarled, jabbing a jagged blade toward the intruders.

The others screamed and charged.

“Hold them here!” Jorven barked, planting his feet and raising his shield.

Lyra let fly her while Kaelin scattered more traps to intercept the goblin’s footwork. Finley hesitated, then gripped his blade tighter and stayed close behind Jorven.

Arrows whistled. Human steel met goblin flesh.

A goblin broke through the line—low and fast—making straight for Lyra just as she loosed another arrow. She didn’t see it until too late.

But Finley did.

In a surprising show of courage, he threw himself sideways, shoulder-checking the goblin out of its leap. The creature clawed at his neck, biting and snarling, but Jorven grunted and hurled it against the wall. A heartbeat later, Lyra’s arrow struck it through the neck.

“Thanks,” she panted, eyes flicking to him.

He couldn’t speak from the adrenaline—holding back the blood dripping from his nape.

Before he could notice, the shadow of another goblin to leap at him from the side— spear-ready to land a kill.

But Jorven was already moving.

“Get away from my friend!” With a cry more born of instinct than skill, Jorven charged and slammed into the goblin mid-air. They both went down in a heap as he drove his shortsword wildly down again and again until the goblin stopped twitching.

Silence broke through the chaos—just for a moment.

They party had ended over a dozen goblin lives that day and the other cowering few ran deeper into the cracks, crying for their lives.

Kaelin uncorked a red health potion and offered it to Finley, still finding his nerves from ordeal. “That was quite impressive back there.”

He gulped half the bottle down, perhaps more than he should have—it did not taste entirely unpleasant, rather earthy but not bitter.

“Did you mean it, boss?” he mustered to Jorven, unsure of his right to ask. “You called me friend back then.”

“Finny!” Jorven managed an uncharacteristic assurance, patting his fellow guard at the shoulder, somehow almost letting out whimper. “You and me—thick and thin.”

Lyra smiled warmly at the pair, then onto Kaelin.

“Shall we wrap this up then?”

====

Arlen stood where they’d left him— just at the cave’s edge, staff in hand, eyes half-closed as if he’d been listening the entire time.

He opened them as the party emerged, tired but upright, the heavy tools bundled in Finley’s arms. The sack that once held them was torn beyond repair—slashed, stained, and partially burned.

“They made a shrine out of them,” he mumbled. “Like… weird, worshippy stuff.”

“Tools are fine,” Jorven added. “Bag’s torn to shreds, but I doubt the mason’s gonna care.”

Arlen reached out to inspect the tools closely—feeling the supposed enchantments emitting from it. He counted six instruments, just as the stonemason describe.

“The mason will be pleased. You did well,” the Guildmaster finally returned to his usual warmth—resting a hand on Finley’s shoulder before his gaze moved to the others.

“You all did.”

Lyra moved away from Arlen’s gaze, partially ashamed. “I should’ve listened.”

The Guildmaster turned to her.

“I treated it like a routine skirmish,” she admitted. “Didn’t think they’d be that organized, or… strange. You warned us.”

“I can’t make your choices for you out there. I can only offer perspective,” Arlen shook his head lightly. “But you all returned safely—together. That’s what matters.”

She returned a faint, appreciative nod.

Jorven chuckled, leaning on his shield. “I’ll say this much—adventuring’s a hell of a lot more exciting than standing around gates all day. Not nearly as safe, but… I think I needed this.”

“You handled yourself well,” Kaelin said. “Both of you.”

“So? You gonna keep chasing pickpockets, or are you in?” Lyra faced the guards, causing Finley to blink furiously.

“You mean like… actually join you?”

Kaelin shrugged, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “We could use a proper shield. And you’ve got guts, Fin. Loud, clumsy guts—but guts, nonetheless.”

Jorven gave a single, solid nod. “Count us in.”

Finley flushed but grinned. “I—uh… yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Lyra clapped them on their backs. “Welcome to this sorry excuse of a party.”

The small moment stirred something deeper in Arlen than he expected. Pride, yes—but also something more enduring.

Hope.

He stood quietly, letting the scene imprint itself into memory.

Given time, he had once told himself, Breezevale’s adventuring spirit would grow.

And now, standing before him, were four individuals—strangers not long ago—battered, bruised, and smiling through the pain. Different in age, in backgrounds, in strengths and flaws.

Yet somehow, right here, right now, they stood together.

Not because they had been ordered to. Not because they owed anyone anything.

But because they chose to.

A true adventuring party.

The first of many, Arlen hoped. The first of many to come.