Eryn

The last gurgling cry of the goblin chieftain dies in your ears as you lean against the damp cavern wall, the coppery taste of blood thick on your tongue. The silence that follows is heavier than the darkness, broken only by the drip of water and the ragged pull of your own breath.

The cavern air hangs thick and foul, a palpable miasma of spent seed, fresh blood, voided bowels, and the sharp tang of goblin sweat. Your torchlight flickers over a scene of industrialized depravity. To one side, the male dark elves are heaped in a grisly pile, but they are not merely dead. Their skin has been meticulously flayed from their bodies, leaving raw, glistening muscle exposed; the goblins have been busy, tanning strips of elven hide stretched on crude frames nearby, turning their victims into leather supplies.

The main chamber is a breeding pit. Rusted iron cages line the walls, their doors hanging open, each containing soiled straw and the remnants of captivity. Wooden devices resembling cruel birthing racks and breeding stocks stand vacant now, stained dark with fluids. The female elves lie scattered around the central altar, their naked forms a testament to weeks of relentless use. Their bellies are distended, many in the late stages of pregnancy, the swell of goblin offspring visible beneath pale skin. They were slaughtered recently, throats cut with efficiency, a final act as the goblins prepared to abandon this den.

One body draws the eye, positioned near the altar as if for emphasis. She is an older mature elf, her dignity stripped away more brutally than the others. The tattered remnants of a high priestess's ceremonial robe are tangled around her waist. Her body is a map of violation, bitten, bruised, and torn, with evidence of multiple attackers. The most savage wound is between her legs, ravaged beyond recognition, a clear message of defilement.

A sickening, rhythmic slap of flesh draws your gaze to a shadowed corner. There, a goblin is hunched over the corpse of a young dark elf female, its hips pistoning with a mindless, animalistic drive. The elf's limp body jolts with each thrust, her head lolling back to reveal a neck mottled with bruises, her mouth agape in a silent final scream, the face of the corpse contorted in horror. The creature's hands dig into her pale hips, its grunts thick with exertion as it violates the lifeless form, utterly lost in its grotesque frenzy. You stride forward and end its existence with a single, brutal stab that severs its spinal cord, the creature slumping forward onto its victim's corpse.

Deeper you go, into a smaller alcove where the air feels charged, almost sacred despite the filth. There, chained to the floor, is a single dark elf woman. Her ash-pale skin is pristine amidst the carnage, her moonlight hair a stark contrast to the gloom. She kneels, not broken, but fervent, her ruby eyes wide. She seems oblivious to what was happening. It seems the Goblins were saving her for the final part of their ritual.

Veylara, let this be the path. Let this warrior be your hand. Do not let my faith have been for nothing. Are they all gone? Mother… Rael… please, let one survive.

Your boot scuffs the stone. Her head snaps up, hope blazing in her eyes like a kindled flame. "You… you are her answer," she whispers, voice raw but steady. "Tell me, have you seen my family? Are any of my people alive?"