Goblin slayer girls

They don’t see you. Torchlight slides across the cave wall and stops just short of the cleft you’re pressed into. Three of them. One flame. Voices bouncing off wet stone like they already own the place. The black-haired one with the yellow scarf is in front, torch high, stride easy. She’s talking like this is already over. “Ten, maybe twelve of the little ones. We push through, burn the nest, we’re back at the surface by dusk. Don’t even need the full kit for this.” The redhead wizard is half a step behind her, staff tight in both hands, eyes flicking every shadow that isn’t yours yet. Anxious. She keeps adjusting her glasses like that’ll make the dark smaller. The priestess is last. White-and-blue robes, hands already half-folded, shoulders drawn in. She hasn’t said a word since they left the last bend. Every drip of water makes her flinch. She keeps glancing back the way they came, like the exit might vanish if she doesn’t watch it. They pass the first bone pile and don’t slow down. Your pack is further in. Quiet. Waiting on your signal. The confident one laughs under her breath and keeps walking. The other two follow. You don’t move. Not yet. Right moment. Then the dark moves with you.

The cave smells like wet rock, torch smoke, and fear. You’ve got the good view. The black-haired one with the yellow rag around her neck is still thrashing. Two of your boys have her wrists wrenched behind her back; another sits on her hips so she can’t kick. She’s snarling through clenched teeth, eyes burning, trying to twist toward the guttering torch in the mud. Let her. She’s not going anywhere. The red-haired witch is easier. Face in the dirt, staff kicked aside, one of yours kneeling on her spine while another fists her hair and makes her watch. She’s crying behind those crooked glasses. Good. And the priestess. She’s still on her knees in the ripped white-and-blue robes, hands locked together like that’ll save her. It won’t. A dark wet patch is spreading down the inside of one thigh, fabric clinging to her skin. She tried to hide it. She failed. The smell hit you a second before you saw it. Your boys notice at the same time. The laugh starts low and then rips through the whole pack. Pointing. Mocking little drip-drip sounds. One of the smaller ones crawls closer on all fours, ears up, sniffing right at the soaked cloth. Another just grins at you, waiting to see what you do with her. She’s shaking. Big wet eyes. Mouth open like she wants to pray and can’t remember the words. The other two are pinned. She’s looking at you. Nothing’s happened yet. Your move.

She almost made it. Two of the smaller ones are still on the ground behind you — one clutching a smashed nose, the other curled around a boot-print in his ribs. She hit like she meant it. Yellow scarf whipping, teeth bared, torch still in her fist until you took it off her. Then the hobgoblin got her. He’s twice her size and he’s not playing. One thick arm locked across her chest, the other wrenching both wrists into the small of her back. She’s on her knees in the torn tunic and ripped pants, hair half-fallen out of the tie, breathing hard through her nose. Every time she tries to twist, he just tightens. No more running. No more punching. She doesn’t scream. She just grits her teeth and stares at you like she’s already planning how she’ll kill you the second the grip slips. Further down the tunnel the other two are not quiet. The witch’s voice is raw and breaking. The priestess is worse — high, panicked, words tumbling over each other, then a sharp cry that echoes off the stone and dies. You can hear scuffling. Laughing. Wet sounds. They’re not coming back this way anytime soon. The hobgoblin gives you a look over her shoulder. He’s got her. He’s waiting. She’s still glaring. Still waiting to see what you do with the one who didn’t fold.

Her staff hits the stone with a hollow crack and rolls out of reach. That’s all it takes. She lunges for it anyway — fingers scraping dirt, glasses slipping down her nose — and three of you are on her before she can get a word of the spell out. One drives a shoulder into her ribs and she goes down hard. Another grabs a fistful of red hair and yanks her head back. The third stomps on the staff so it stays where it is. No glow. No fire. Nothing. She’s helpless without it and she knows it. The fight goes out of her arms in pieces. She’s gasping, eyes huge behind the crooked lenses, trying to twist toward the tunnel like someone might still come. No one is coming. Further in, the priestess is still screaming. The black-haired one isn’t — just the sound of something heavy hitting stone and a hobgoblin barking an order. Distant. Occupied. You’ve got the wizard. She’s on her back in the ripped green dress and torn cloak, chest heaving, hands shoved against the nearest goblin like that’ll do anything. Magic’s gone. Staff’s gone. The cave is just rock and teeth and the smell of her fear. She’s looking at you. Waiting for what happens now that she can’t stop it.