Upon a Wyvern's Wings'
soars death quicksilver swift
slaying mortal kings
and scything to their bones
Hear their dying screams
as new blood is sown
reaping wizard thieves
and avenging long due loans
~From the verses of the chant of turmoil, hard-translated from gobbledegook.
The Nest of Peruvian Viperteeth
Second of July, 1994
The odious smell of burning coal hung thickly in the air, flowing in from notches and hollows cut into the cramped passageways, and their orange-red glow shook with each reverberating thunk and thud of a thousand pickaxes striking obsidian from the walls.
A line ten slaves long filled each turn of the sprawling, multi-tiered maze, and holding many of them where they worked were the manacles of silver chain that swallowed each ankle to the mid-calf before the chains swung down into the earth below, or else rose upward to trail away through the ceiling, attaching one to another for the better part of a league despite the walls of rock in between.
Gobbledegook sprang up in snatches continually, be they curses aimed at the Head of Clan for loaning them into this life of labor, or at the assigned Watcher, with his cat o' nine tails and the hippogriff claws notched into the tips.
Their normally alabaster-white complexions from years without proper light lay coated and darkened by smudges of black grime, working along the gnarled foreheads and down across scarred spines and shoulders, to the wrinkled elbows and shins, and it was more akin to a crusty second-skin around their stumpy toes and filed-down fingertips.
As each one in the line lifted their bronze pickaxe over a scrawny shoulder, he brought it back down with a snarl that exposed yellowed-and-brown canines within nearly lip-less maws, and more than one visualized the enemy that was responsible for their Head's choice - or their own downfall and eventual capture.
For generations, after all, the Nest of Peruvian Viperteeth had played host to the leaders of failed uprisings, whole Clans' kin that had been conquered, or ignoble and untrustworthy members of their society on an individual basis.
Stationed beneath the illustrious eye of Gringotts Bank, they toiled and tolled away for the life of their loan to the Nest, and in return for keeping their undesirable brethren from rampaging through the world, a simple charge of interest was applied on behalf of the Clans' involved - the delivery of worthy titles, deeds to lands desired, and old smith-work long overdue all given over to the Bank's holding.
For many and for the better part of the centuries since its implementation, it was a trade well-viewed by their society.
But for many more into the recent times, it had been a constant Devil's Snare in their ancestral vaults, dragging more and more luxuries away from the victors of each successive uprising.
Only thrice had the goblin society failed to uphold their payments, and only thrice in the history of the Nest had the inhabitants been rallied toward war as a result.
While wizard-kind saw only further goblin anarchy and inter-racial wars, the Nest reminded the rest of their people of why it existed, and why they - and the Bank - would not be ignored.
No one beneath the ground or tending to the affairs of wizards above it would ever breath a word of the Nest's existence to the other races until equality was finally met, and magic shared in equal measure at last.
The pounding that tedious night ceased immediately within three tiers as it was overpowered by a shrill whistle, and from the yawning vertical gap down the middle of the passageways, the Feeder slid down on an ancient chain reenforced with runes.
"Dinnertime, you heaping cur's! Sit down and open up!" his voice echoed up and down each row as he spun in place, and he produced an Ever-Contracting Spear from a pouch belted to his waist.
The copper tool glistened with a rudimentary shish kabob along its length, scraps of muscle, marrow, and a white-gray goo that was meant to aide in swallowing.
The mass of food was proven to be considerably thinner than it had at first appeared after the spear performed its function, however, shooting forward and pinning the slanted point into the eastern wall firmly.
Despite being reduced to at-most three bites per goblin, they still fell upon it like a murder of taunted crows. Fingers pinched and pulled and scraped at it, eroded incisors bit hard into the cool metal beneath, and with those who actually had proper strength available, a new set of scratches marred the surface of the haft when they were done.
The Feeder shook his end after mere seconds, dislodging any last-gnawers, and the tool retracted back into a more manageable length as he turned about and dipped it into the pouch to repeat the process for the other three rows around him.
The last slave at the far end of the eastern row, still licking his chops irritably, fingered the pickaxe's point as he eyed the Feeder.
His tendons itched to leap and drive a blow that would kill the employee, to take into his own hands a weapon once again and then press its lovely tip straight into the magical eye spiraling around within the Watcher's skull when he descended like the carrion-spit he was to survey them again.
He longed for the time now far past when he had heralded fresh blood spilt out of the enemies throat across virgin soil, and taken first pick of the spoils of war thereafter.
It was a thought commonly shared by the others in the nearby tiers. And like those others, he swallowed his bloodlust with a final lap of his pitted tongue across the stubs of his teeth, scraping up the very last drop of goop clinging to the gums.
Once the Feeder dropped down and out of sight only seconds later, another rusted chain appeared as the Watcher descended from above.
Whereas the Feeder was merely ugly in the traditional sense, with the blood of a house elf only two sires back, he at least had the grace to cover up his oddities behind a cowl and veil.
The Watcher did not.
Smoother, human-tainted ears, an softer nose, and that despicable wizard-crafted blue eye rushing about in every direction were all displayed, and it was boasted of loudly and often that the cat o' nine tails strapped to its' precious belt contained the remnants of a broken wand inside of the device.
Gray hair hung from the ears and met around the back of the head to keep it well away from the eyes, and the brown-red of the remaining natural pupil stared defiantly down each row as he examined them for hints of mutiny.
He couldn't even deign to wear natural goblin-crafted clothing or armor, foregoing it in favor of second-hand scraps from the world above.
If his viciousness with the cat had not earned the Watcher the anger of every slave in the Nest, his outlandish appearances garnered no favors amongst them, either.
Turning around abruptly, the Watcher's spidery fingers latched around the hilt of the cat and he drew it in short order, spinning the wicked tips down the northern row and driving a howl from the rising goblin near the front.
"The next one of you elf-blooded wretches to stir before I return decreases the interest on your loan by half!" the vile Gringotts employee stated fiercely.
Quiet anger whispered past four dozen rows of rotted teeth.
A diminished interest did not mean they would be released any sooner, but rather the opposite - their value to the Clan would be diminished, pushing them to the back-burner in regards to paying for - and the late-payments would add up until the interest was almost even to what it had been, accruing years of additional taxing labor to compensate.
It was a common means of keeping the less-valuable slaves at work well beyond the initial terms involved, and still obtain the same amount of gold and more in exchange.
Smiling maliciously at the effect of his threat, the Watcher scanned around with both eyes, the blue one dancing sporadically from side to side, before dropping after the Feeder.
In his wake, the four hours of rest they were allotted denied many of the slaves the embrace of sleep.
And what few managed it were consumed with spending another small eon trapped within the Nest.
End Prologue.