A/R:

D'nnome: You popped me, not gonna lie.

Destoyer78901: Blood's for sure gonna be shed next chapter. I hope it can satiate your bloodthirst.

Frelaljak: Technically the Lady of the Lake brought Lyle into Warhammer, Tzeentch just yoinked him and placed him in the Barrow Legion like the mischievous shit that he is. Thanks for giving this fic a chance.

Focus of the Future: It'll take some time but, his embracement of the WAAAGH! Is inevitable.

Zerkil: Yeah, I get it. Trust me the notifications have been all kinds of wonky.

Jajo Camello: Or maybe both!

…

If there was one thing that Marthe had learned about the goblin that had been healed at their behest, it was that the brain damage he sustained must have been monumental. After all, there was no other explanation for how un-goblin-like he acted compared to the rest of his kin. If nothing else, staring at how utterly out of place he seemed was a welcome distraction from her present situation, and she had to wonder if the rest of the women like her shared in her line of thinking.

First, he screamed and howled at his lack of genitalia, which was odd since, mercifully, it was well known for learned people like Marthe herself that the greenskins didn't reproduce through those means…which, in her opinion, should have been evident since she'd never heard of female greenskins whether orc or goblin. Seeing them reach into his pants and having a fit about was mildly amusing, given how much she and her fellow women suffered at these creatures at the very least.

Then the goblin started rocking in place as if waiting for a nightmare to pass that he knew would never end, and that was only mildly amusing until Marthe and her compatriots had to get back to their unpaid labor, working tirelessly in their horrid conditions.

For her and a few others, this was shoveling troll shit into wagons and pulling it out of the cave that they were sequestered in. It was not only a thankless and rancid job, given how utterly putrid troll deposits were, but it was also hazardous depending on how and when you did it. Marthe still had nightmares at the memory of one woman who had strayed too close to a troll that was feeling peckish at that moment, chomping on her arm and tearing it off.

The blood loss made saving her untenable, and it was silently agreed upon that they would only shovel this rancid manure when the trolls weren't nearby or asleep after having a hefty meal. The former spinstress couldn't help but feel flickers of fear whenever she saw the slow but long-limbed black-skinned creatures as they belched or scratched themselves or munched on the sniveling goblin or food they could get within arms reach…a fate she was sure would be visited on their 'guard' if he continued to act the way that he did.

Thinking on the odd brain-damaged goblin helped in keeping the reality of her situation at bay for small spurts, especially as she pressed her bare foot into the shovel to help lift the troll shit that she then flung into the cart that they were nearby, wishing they had something to at least deal with the horrid smell. What she wouldn't do for some shoes either…or beds. Or decent food.

What she wouldn't do with a change of pace. Now that she thought of that, she could give a cursory glance to the odd-ball goblin to see what he was doing, only to blink in perplexion when she saw that he wasn't wallowing in his self-induced misery as he had been for the past two days.

For a moment, she gave up looking as to what his whereabouts were when she heard the sickening sound of jeering and taunting that could only come from goblins, and further toward the middle of the cave was none other than the goblin in question, holding his head and wincing. He pressed his hand against his green forehead with a dribble of blood coming out of it and two goblins opposite, doing the jeering before they walked off, sniggering at the fresh would they had clearly caused.

It was all their 'jailor' could do to stand up and stagger away, rubbing the fresh wound on his skull that was just above the bandages that were wrapped around his cranium, his teeth gnashing together at the pain.

Marthe would feel a tinge sorry for him if he wasn't a goblin who imprisoned them. Even if he did have brain damage, the woman didn't have any illusions that he had been as holy and as a Shallyan before his trauma.

She hissed when she felt something strike her thigh, whipping her head to the right to see a goblin sneering at her with a sickening grin. "Oi! Quit your dreamin' about humie bitch! Git' movin' for' Oi help save rations on da trolls!"

Realizing she'd been staring too long at the goblin in question, Marthe continued to do as she was requested, feeling her flesh swell from the stinging lash her thigh had tasted; all the while, the goblin who had done the deed snickered and stalked off, no doubt looking for more victims.

It was a blood-boiling and beyond-humbling experience to do the literal dirty work of these miserable creatures. Not for the first time, she was tempted to wrap her hands around one of them and unleash the fury and indignation she had suffered. Yet, like always, she snuffed it out, clinging to the hope of escape just as she had for these past six months.

She had to keep repeating such thoughts within her mind after she had finished with her thankless work, covered and smelling like troll shite as others, plopping onto the uneven and unforgiving cave floor next to one of the few women she had been able to converse with and sympathize with. Amalie. "How're your guts?" Amalie was a woman with dark chestnut hair that would have no doubt flowed into beautiful locks that could have cascaded down her back into another life. As it was, like the many other women unfortunate enough to be here, it was matted down and clumpy, which paired perfectly with her tired and baggy eyes, which only concerned Marthe given the condition of the woman who was currently working on a pair of trousers that were to be given to the goblins.

Amalie smiled with a strained but hopeful curve of her lips with flecks of dirt on her cheeks. "They're getting on. Just like the rest of us." Though it was tempting, Amalie resisted the urge to caress her stomach, the spike of fear at being discovered doing so far too great to even attempt it.

Marthe couldn't help but feel concerned for her, but she knew there was no point in needling the point further. She knew it wouldn't help anything. "And besides that?"

Amalie continued to smile tightly. "We're… we're going to be ten short."

A familiar feeling of dread filled Marthe's stomach, but it didn't surprise her. It was like watching one of Sigmar's comets come and strike your city like the people of Mousillon experienced. It seemed unstoppable as it was inevitable. "Would you…want me to-

"I appreciate the offer, Marthe." The chestnut-haired woman sighed, never dropping her smile.

"But…with-

"My hands are covered in shite, it won't do you any favors." A dark chuckle broke her through her lips. "We both know even without it, I wouldn't do you and your girls any favors."

"It's not your fault your father needed you to pick up a sword instead of a needle."

"For all the good that did."

"It may do you some good still."

"I'll hold you and Ulric to that. It's all I can do at any rate."

Amalie looked as though she wanted to say something else reassuring but instead nodded. "Save your strength, Marthe. We'll… We'll get on as we always do."

That's always what we've been doing since we got here. Getting on. Surviving. Nothing more, but sometimes most definitely less. It was a bitter thought that didn't need to be compounded upon the thoughts of those around her. Looking around her as she sat on this horrid cave ground, Marthe saw nine other girls working on their own clothes, the limbs and cheeks gaunt and sharper than they should have been, their fingers worked down to the bone with a tiredness that could be felt second-hand for anyone unfortunate to look at them for too long.

It didn't help that these women had to work around the clock to make clothes that these horrid green creatures took for granted. Still, the draconian measures, if they 'felt' that the clothes weren't mended fast enough or of a high enough quality sufficient to take a crippling toll on anyone who was a victim of these measures.

Half of the tasks they had to do wouldn't be so bad if they had some men to help make the difference for the backbreaking labor. But they all knew why that wasn't the case. No. If these were goblins who were enslaving them, it would be a different story, but since this was a nearly goblin-exclusive tribe they had sadly fallen victim to, it was easier for the stunted creatures to bully around the female portion of the race rather than the masculine counterpart.

It was smart as it was dreary. What Marthe wouldn't give for some male companionship in the darkest of the moments she had been forced to endure. If wh-

"You gipped me for da last time' Fek! Gimme da shiny, or Oi'll gut ya n' feed ya to the trolls!" The two women, along with many of their counterparts, twitched and then relaxed, realizing that the scratchy and agitated voice wasn't directed toward any of them but rather toward another goblin who was squaring up to another, both glaring fiercely at one another.

Fek, the stouter and thicker-looking goblin, snarled, his eyes bulging as he gripped a shortsword and sneered at the thinner and wiery goblin. "Sod off, Srelli! Who you think you talkin' to!? Oi told ya when goozled ya! Oi snagged it first-

"N' I saw it first!"

"N' I'll feed it down ya throat if ya want it so badly!" Fek spat, looking all too capable and willing to follow through on that threat, going nearly nose-to-nose with his thinner counterpart. "Either ya piss off or I-GUK!" The bigger goblin suddenly fell on his side, a nasty skulker goblin pulling out a dagger from Fek's back. Said skulker, then ripped his dagger across the thick throat of the crippled goblin, not only putting him out of his misery but ripping off the golden necklace that he had wrapped around his neck. Marthe would have winced if such violent displays weren't so common among this decrepit tribe.

"Geheheh. Good work de're, Stoz." Srelli cackled, rubbing his hands as Stoz, the skulker, rifled through the pockets of the now-dead goblin to see if there was anything else of value to be garnered from the corpse. Now quick! Hand over da good's n-

"Bah." Stoz shrugged, sneering darkly. "Know some gits on the outside part of da cave. Oi'll give ya you're share after I pawn it off."

The grin on Srelli immediately evaporated. "We had a deal, Stoz."

"Oi did da heavy liftin'-

"And Oi was da distraction! Ol' Fek here would a stomped ya if Oi didn't have his attention, n' ya know it!"

"Shoulda been fasta in gettin' some loot n' shoinies in da last raid den' ya git."

Predictably, an argument broke out between the two co-conspirators while a few goblins on the periphery of it all chortled and chuckled in amusement, seemingly happy with the break in monotony, even as Fek's body hadn't thoroughly cooled on the ground.

For Marthe, she couldn't even get any satisfaction about the goblins killing each other before her eyes because it was but another reminder of the ruthless and conniving behavior of the creatures that held their leashes. After all, if they were all too willing to treat each other like that, it really spoke to how they looked and treated those beneath them. What was more interesting to her was how, out of the corner of her eye, she could see none other than their new jailor staring at the display with a look of open-mouthed horror and shock. With a new but raggedy bandage that was over the spot where a rock was thrown at his head, Marthe felt some interest in the lack of amusement and enjoyment that the brain-damaged goblin saw before him. It only further showed how his senses must have been upturned, and goblin-like nature was thrown to the wayside to feel any sort of horror at what he was seeing.

Deciding to watch him further for nothing else but a break in the torturous everyday monotony and suffering that she had to endure, Marthe continued to eye the bandaged-up goblin as he slowly backed away from the fighting, which he was already well and truly far from. Though that seemed to be moot to him as far wasn't far enough. The goblin hobbled toward the rest of the female slaves, strangely finding solace in them rather than his own kind. Though in some cases, she supposed he was less likely to get gutted if he wasn't amongst his own kind in a twisted sort of way.

Unsurprisingly, he seemed to hover around none other than the wet nurse and resident healer amongst the rest of the slaves, Zenzi, who though seemed a bit strained around the goblin given that it was…well…a goblin; she wasn't nearly as tense as previously when he first woke up. Not that Marthe could blame the woman. His behavior was so ungoblin-like that she amused herself into thinking that perhaps those clubs to the head knocked the inner goblin right out of him. If it wasn't for the fact that he looked like a goblin, she would have thought him to be some other damned creature.

The fears of that, however, came rushing back with a vengeance when the goblin seemingly finished talking with Zenzi and started making his way towards her direction…moving directly towards her.

"Zenzi told her something." Marthe cursed out, her nervousness returning in spite of her own musings. "Sigmar-dammit, what could this beast want?"

"Ease yourself, Marthe." Amalie whispered, not looking directly at the goblin but seeing him coming out of the side of her eye. "Tensing yourself will grant you nothing."

"Oh, I disagree. Now more than ever."

When the goblin finally approached, Marthe felt a fear of what the true danger of this creature now represented. Since she couldn't count on it being sneering, overbearing, and cruel, it made its behavior rather…unpredictable. How could one get a read on a creature that was quite antithetical to how a goblin should normally act?

Yet she was utterly thrown for a loop when he seemed to approach her with a pensive look. "What do you know about Karak Eight Peaks?"

Once again, Marthe was thrown for a loop, not just by the question but by how utterly at odds this goblin's accent was with the rest of its kin. Whenever a goblin spoke, it was hard not to be insulted by how they utterly butchered Reiskpiel with their crass manner, which sounded similar to how norscans spoke and yet so unlike them. The only reason Marthe knew that was because she had once visited Altdorf with her late husband and witnessed a public execution of some norscan chieftans who had dared to sail down the river Reik and try their hand at raiding the inner part of the Empire.

It was a happier time, especially given whose blood was shed that day.

But, even as odd as the goblin asked the question, Marthe couldn't help but feel obligated to ask her own. "Why…do you care, goblin?"

"Marthe…" Amelie whispered nervously, looking at the exchange with nervousness.

Yet, to both their relief, the goblin didn't fly into a rage or prod her with a pointy stick and instead folded his arms and huffed. "Look, I've been asking around. I've learned through multiple sources that you're one of the better-learned and traveled women out here. If anyone's gonna know anything, it's gonna be you."

Stabbing the spike of betrayal at so many women, possibly outing her, only led to more questions. Why would he want to know about this? Why not ask his fellow goblins?...only for her to remember how utterly allergic this goblin seemed to be when conversing with his own kind. Ultimately, that only left one other set of creatures to converse with besides trolls, which would be the equivalent of talking to rocks…the humans.

But, again, that still left Marthe with questions. "That still leaves me wondering why a goblin-like yourself would ever care to know."

Amalie winced, thinking that the goblin would finally snap now, and for a mad moment, Marthe thought that he would as well, especially as he gnashed his teeth in frustration, making the former noblewoman regret her words and just kowtowing as usual. What did challenging her captors get her? What had spurred her on? Even the other women around them stared in shock at her blatant defiance.

Yet, to everyone's surprise, he just huffed and turned around. "Hell with it. Knew I was just wasting my time." And then he started to walk off.

Only for Marthe to surprise herself as she spoke up. "It's one of the grandest and greatest dwarven holds in the old world, specifically located in the badlands, which is far south of here. I…I heard that some mutants and goblins were fighting over it before I… Before, I was enslaved.

The goblin stopped and pivoted, relieved that she answered before walking back. It only made her wonder why she spoke, but she didn't have time to dwell further as more questions came her way. "Any ideas about its defenses? Anything like that?"

"I haven't visited myself." Marthe admitted. "The only reason I have the barest idea of what it looks like is that some dwarf from Clan Angrund was visiting the empire, asking for financial support for his clan head, showing maps and a figurine of the hold itself."

"Clan Angrund?"

"The clan that formerly held Eigh Peaks. I've heard they've started an expedition to take it back. Whether they'll be successful or not…"

"You also mentioned mutants."

"To be quite honest, I think that's just some half-baked rumor that some jester could have easily conjured up." Marthe said with a roll of her eyes and a dismissive wave of her hand. "Some say that some mutants that resemble rats are fighting the goblins for the peaks, but that rumor borders on absurd."

"...how so?"

"Truly? Do I need to spell it out? Mutant Rat-men? I hope I don't need to point out how farcical that sounds."

The goblin stared at her blandly. "... we're in a world where goblins, orcs, dwarves, and other creatures exist…but mutant rat-men is where you suddenly draw the line?"

When the goblin spelled it out like that, Marthe found her argument lacking much in the foundation and felt embarrassed that the green creature before her gave her any pause on the matter. She felt so embarrassed and hot about the topic that she actually puffed up her chest. "Oh, please! We have plenty of doomsayers and conspiracy theorists about rat-men who supposedly live underneath towns and cities of the Empire, and now you mean to tell me that goblins like yourself will just as easily swallow such lies? I'll have you know that many within the noble circles like myself believe that the elves propagate such lies to sell us 'trinkets' for a threat that never exists!"

"Oh…so elves also exist in this world, and mutant rats are still something you can't wrap your head around?"

To Marthe's mortified embarrassment, she could hear a few stifled giggles from Amelie, who was evidently finding amusement in this conversation with a few other young ladies around, who were trying to hide amused and tittering smiles through turned heads and hidden lips through raised hands.

Heated by such embarrassment, Marthe replied more hotly than she thought. "If you find what I say so hard to believe, then mayhaps you could ask one of your own kind to-

"Ehh, he's good. He'd be wastin' his krumpin' time." Everyone froze, including Nick, as he turned and saw another goblin, this time with a tiny fur coat and what looked like some kind of Mongolian horned cap on his head, smirking knowingly. Marthe felt her lips go dry as she didn't realize that goblin had snuck so easily behind the one she'd been conversing with. She'd be punished now, this time for sure. She had to be. The moment she raised her voice, her fate had to be sealed.

Yet, to her fortune, this goblin seemed more intent on talking with Nick himself, who looked out of place. "...you want something?"

"I want somethin', he says?" The capped goblin chuckled, shaking his head. "Boss really don't like ye, do he? Dere's a meetin' goin' on. Where we be goin' raidin' next. Everyone's comin' ta see, so Oi thought OI'd be a good mate n' let ya know." He then started to walk away for a beat before twisting his head back. "I mean ya don't have ta' come wit.' Just lettin' ya know."

Nick looked back at Marthe and Amelie who both along with the other slaves kept their mouths shut, their expressions not betraying anything as he eventually started to walk toward the capped goblin, not wanting to bring any other ill-attention to himself than he already had.

…

When Nick had realized the severity of his situation, he knew that his one and only hope of returning to the life he once had was following through on the demand that had been levied against him by the jolly green giants that had literally yanked him from his world: Make sure that this tribe took Karak Eight Peaks by any means necessary, or continue to wallow in this miserable new life he was saddled with. With a choice like that, it really wasn't much of a choice.

But, after the former office worker had gotten over the mental horror of these new circumstances, there was no choice but to get over it and try to make do with what he had. First, he needed to heal up, which was coming along mercifully thanks to the kind former wet nurse who had bandaged him up quite nicely with his arm now healed up enough to move. Once that had been (mostly) accomplished, they moved to his next step: Gathering information. After all, he was now in the body of a goblin, in a world where apparently goblins exist alongside dwarves, elves, and mutant rat-men, so it behooved him to know what exactly he was up against. Much like knowing the contents of a shipment, he was analyzing it, and it paid off to know what possible assets or threats he had to work with.

Sadly, it seemed that even his own 'kind', if you could call it that, could hardly be called an asset, even with gathering information. Apparently, being a 'slave-herder' was looked down upon, even more so than a squig-herder, something that Nick didn't even know what that was. It was why he needed new bandages on a new mark on his forehead, and it may be why he had to shank this goblin he was following with a threading needle that wet-nurse Zenzi was gracious enough to give him.

"Ya know you're a weird gobbo ya know dat…eh… Wot's your name?"

"...Nick."

"Nyk. Roight, so listen e're Nyk I actually kinda admire your mindset."

"...we just met."

"Well, when gits start askin' around bout' Eight Peaks, it's gonna raise some eyebrows, ya know?" The capped goblin snickered, walking toward the entrance of the cave with Nick, making sure to walk just behind the goblin, not feeling comfortable with giving him his back. "Thing is, if ya start bringin' up Eight Peaks, ya start to get some oi's on ya. Not da good kind."

"...how so?"

"Well, den' da boss is gonna start thinkin' that dis' tribe of ours ain't good enough for ya! Moight start thinkin' you're gonna strike out with any of da other kin of ours to join in on da Waagh dat's already goin' on. Ya wouldn't wanna do dat!" The capped goblin turned his head and gave a toothy grin. "Would ya?"

Nick didn't know what a Waagh was, but he swallowed some spit and played along. "N-no."

"Ah, really? Now dat's disappointin'." The goblin admitted, surprising Nick. "To be honest wit' ya Nyk I'm actually thinkin' of splititn' meself. Not much loot, slaves, teef, or stompin' to be found round' e're. Least in moi opinion. And Oi'd like ta think moi opinion is one of da bestest around!"

That was news to Nick. Then again, it's not like he had dared to ask about such things amongst the rest of his kind. "Oh yeah?"

"Oh sure, sure!" The capped goblin nodded before walking side-by-side with Nick, dropping his voice. "Truth be told, lotta da boyz be thinkin' da same way, but nobody got da stones. Still do. Didn't think you'd get in in ya noggin' about askin' da slaves about Eight Peaks of all tings."

"...that a problem?"

"Well, da boyz moight have a laugh at ya, but Oi, 'ave to admit. Dat's actually pretty smart on your part." The goblin snickered, his voice getting even lower. "Oi, mean lets face it. None of 'dese gits got any idea on what Eight Peaks look like. None of dem' would even swallow de're pride to ask da humies of all things, but maybe Grotslik bashin' about your brains did ya some good eh? Heheheh."

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." Nick spouted out, trying to sound halfway competent. If this goblin was willing to come to conclusions that made him look good, he wasn't about to correct him. "...Also, you haven't introduced yourself."

"Aww shite, where'd da bloody time go?" The goblin laughed, clapping Nick on the back, nearly making him stumble. This goblin was stronger than he looked! "Da name's Skargank! Skargank da Wolf Tama! Betta' Rememba' dat name Nyk, cause-oh, nevamind. Boss is already huffin' and puffin'! Betta, go here what wind he's wingin' out!"

Skargank snorted to himself, moving to the growing circle of goblins that were pushing and shoving each other to get closer to Grotslik, who stood on a mound of crates with a few other select goblins. One of said goblins that stood out the most was the familiar sight of the bigger feathered-capped goblin who leered at anyone who got close to Grotslik and even threw out a few swings and kicks at some of the goblins courtesy of a small hammer he had, trying to get near the pile of boxes.

Skargank, however, seemed content to stay on the outer fringes of the multi-goblin circle, with Nik deciding not to linger too far from him, not wanting to stand out any more than he already, especially after he got a stone to the head for his troubles earlier.

Eventually, the goblins all quieted down to try and hear what exactly their vaunted leader was saying, and though Nick had to train his ears, he was able to make out the goblin who clubbed him earlier. "-nd when we storm it, I'd betta' not hear any wingin' or complain' about da share! Da last one who complained got fed to da squigs, so-

"But boss!" One of the goblins shouted, with a cackle. "How can ya feed anyone to da squigs when ya got none ta' feed?"

When a chorus of chuckles broke out and clearly didn't impress Grotslik, the goblin chief gave a sharp nod at the feather-capped goblin from earlier, who took out a smaller makeshift hammer from a knapsack he had and chucked it with eerie accuracy at the offending goblin, breaking his nose and knocking him on his ass.

Satisfied at the punishment that had just been dished, Grotslik spat in the goblin's direction, which, of course, landed on another unfortunate counterpart of its kind. "Den' Oi'll feed ya to da trolls instead, ya git! Moight even get Achy to chew on ya guts once he's done wingin'!" A chorus of cackles came at the broken-nosed goblins' offense before Grotslik continued his 'speech' "Now as Oi was sayin' before one of ya gits spouted ya gob off! Oi don't wanna hear any wingin' about da share dat Oi get from all o' ya when we get ta' lootin' dis town! If I hear wingin' Oi'll wing ya neck n' Oi'll keep wingin' it till' your head pops off! Den Oi'll feed it and you to da trolls so ya don't go ta' waste!"

Grumbling rippled through the green tide of stunted creatures, but none dared to voice any objections, with some even casting beedy red side-eyes toward the trolls in the direction of dozens of trolls in particular who were lounging about near the cave entrance, looking bored and uninterested with the constant chatter from the goblins chieftain. "Now, unless any of ya got any other complaints ya wanna yammer out of your gums, den' get to grabbin' your gear! Get ya prodda's, choppas n' pointy sticks! Get ya wolves, n' for Mork's sake, somebody stop leavin' the Krumpin' arrows by da troll shite! Last thing we need is fo-

"Oi boss! What about Nyk here!?" Nick felt himself freeze up in terror as Skargank pointed him out, making sure to yell at the top of his lungs to get the attention of the green masses around him, especially the boss. "Does he get ta' come?"

Grotslik scrunched his face in confusion at the question. "What da Krumpin' ell' is a Nyk?"

"Dat git over here! Nah not de're boss! Here!" Skargank shouted, mildly frustrated. Nick was so put on the spot that he was tempted to just turn back and walk away, hoping that he wouldn't get noticed and wondering why, oh why, this goblin seemed determined to make his life more miserable than it had any right to be. "He's da new head slave herda' rememba'?"

When recollection came back to the goblin, his lips curled upward, and his eyes widened in disdain, and what must have really hammered the point home was just how many bandages were still on Nick's body from a few days ago. The former Office worker knew it was far too late to run once Grotslik hopped down his makeshift sop box stand and landed amongst his fellow goblins, who parted like the red sea as Grotslik started to make his way toward the former human.

Having been on the receiving end of many a superior's wrath in the past, Nick did what came naturally to him and looked away from the more heavily armored and decorated goblin's direction, almost as if he were trying to make himself seem as small and inconsequential as possible. He'd narrowly escaped death at the hands of this goblin, and if possible, he would curse Skargank's name in the afterlife if it was all for naught.

Eventually, they were near nose to nose with one another, with Nick noticing that Grotslik was marginally bigger than him. The former human's eyes flickered toward his boss's own beady eyes, but it only lasted a moment, trying not to appear challenging in any major way. It seemed that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same for him.

"Da git who lost da squigs. Da forma' suig herda', yeah Oi couldn't just up n' forget about ya." Grotslik rumbled, his voice low and menacing but loud enough for everyone else to hear. "What about im' Skargank? Oi've got betta things to do dan' worry about slave herda's."

Snickering laughs peeled from the other goblins, which only made Nick wish he could shrink into nothingness on the spot. But despite desiring this, Skargank seemed hellbent on making this even worse. "Well, boss! Problem is dat' since he's busy lookin' at da slaves n' whatnot, poor ol' Nyk here ain't gonna get any loot!"

Looking at Skargank as if he'd turned into a human himself, the chieftain balked. "N' what in Gork n' Mork's name makes dat moi problem? If he didn't want dat ta' happen, den' maybe he shoulda focused more on da squigs dan whateva' shrooms he got snorted up his nose!"

"But, boss! Think of all da loot dat' he'll be missin'!" Skargank insisted with unnatural steadfastness. "Think of all da enemies he'll be slayin'! Da humies, he could be killin'! Da humies wit' swords, stickas, choppas and thunda sticks! Think of da glory he'll be missin' out on if ya keep em' from da front!" Skarbrand then mosied on over near the chief with a knowing and toothy smirk. "Ya wouldn't want him to miss out on redeemin' himself, would ya?"

I would! I very much would easily pass up on the opportunity! But, Skargank had gotten into the chieftain's ear, and the look of irritation morphed into that of intrigue and then one of wickedness in short order. The row of sharp teeth that Grotslik had behind his lips was now on full display, his beady red eyes practically glowing in malice. "Hmm…well when ya put it dat way. We are a bit short on boyz. Specially since Stoz killed a few otha's not too long ago. I'd gut im' meself if he wasn't so good at killin'." The goblin chieftain then began to pace around the slave herder, looking him up and down. "Awright, den' Skargank ya a've a point. You should be grateful, slave herder! It's outta da depths of moi heart dat Oi-" The chieftain began to snicker before devolving into a full-on laugh. "Heh. Heheh! Can't even finish dat!" Many other goblins laughed at the joke, with many pointing and laughing at Nick's expense, urging him to look down in both fear and the rising anger building up at him. Even back home, he was never hazed THIS much. "Least this way, you might at least die for Gork n' Mork like a good Gobbo could, eh ya git?"

When Nick continued to look down, biting his lip, wanting to refuse the gesture but not knowing how to do so without ruining his standing with these miserable creatures than he already had. It didn't take a genius to figure out that a slave herder wasn't looked at with respect. The last thing he needed to do was make what little had left go to the wayside, where they would figure killing him and robbing the clothes on his back would be a better use of their time.

But, silence proved to be a mistake when irritation bled into the voice of the chieftain. "Oi. Ah'm givin' ya in hona' he're ya git. Ya got nothin' ta' say ta me?"

"I… I'm sorry, sir, I'm thankful." Nick then yelped as Grotslik swiftly pulled out his club and whacked the former human right on the nose hard enough to draw blood from the large snout.

"Round he're ya call gobbos like me da boss! What's all dis' 'sir' shite? Ya been speakin' wit dem' humie slaves too long or wot?"

"S-sorry, boss! Understood, boss!" Nick sputtered out, trying to stop the blood flow while trying to battle the fear and green haze that was starting to coat his vision. It was a familiar tint of green that the former human recognized from before. "W-won't happen again! Th-thanks for the opportunity!"

"There ya go!" Grotslik leered, grinning at Nick's groveling. "There ya go, slave herda, there ya go n' go. N' since Oi'm in such a good mood, ya get to go in da vanguard of our lil' raidin' party! First dibs ta' get whateva loot ya get your hands on wit' da rest of our bravest boyz!"

If I last that long. Nick wanted to spit at the chieftain but held his tongue. If he could suffer through his bosses standing over his shoulders for years, he could take this. He had to take it. His life depended on it. Evidently satisfied with the punishment he had dolled out to the goblin before him, Grotslik stamped back to the rest of the goblins, who seemingly enjoyed the display until their boss started shouting orders at them, attempting to get this rowdy bunch of dirty and loathsome goblins into an organized raiding party.

Skargank, in the meantime, meandered his way back to Nick, who was still trying to massage his long nose and stem the blood dribbling out of his nostrils. "See! Don't say Oi didn't do anythin' for ya, Nyk! Heh! Least dis' way you can go out like a true gobbo. Or somethin' like dat." The goblin cackled, passing by Nick as he went to tend with his wolf, leaving the human turned goblin standing there as others pointed and had a laugh at his expense, clearly getting some form of joy or entertainment out of his suffering.

Nick didn't know if Skargank thought he was genuinely helping him or just did what he did for some form of entertainment, but the sufficiently cowed slave herder couldn't help but mald over the new injury that he now sported. He was tempted to go back to the wet nurse and see if she couldn't spare more bandages for the blow, but his pride held him back. These goblins, these…creatures who had already looked down on him from the get-go, didn't need any more ammunition. The idea of crawling back to the woman as nice as she was only wounded his already diminished pride.

An idea that only furthered the resentment he had toward the goblin who'd battered and beaten him from the moment he got here…resentment he also had toward himself for not standing up for himself…for being so meek.

But, it was all irrelevant. Pride was nothing when you had to survive. Survive another day to take some massive hold that so many armies were fighting over.

Even thinking about such thoughts felt like a great weight was crushing Nick's lungs. Surviving another day already seemed like such a daunting task. Now, he'd have to endure a raid and whatever the hell that entailed. Problems upon problems, upon problems, upon problems that were compounding onto the very physical problems that Nick already had as he massaged his nose, hoping it wasn't broken.

Yes… he'd take the mental abuse at work compared to this. The mental strain he could handle. A physical one on top of it? How could anyone live like this?

It only made the resentment he felt against the goblin boss who was consistently putting him in this position grow ever more, which was barely contained by years of self-preservation at his former workplace.

…

"He's going to die." Amelie sighed, watching as the goblins slowly left the cave, barely over one hundred goblins remaining to ensure they couldn't leave while guarding any valuables their Black Venom tribe had. In theory, the women probably outnumbered their goblin guards, but it still made for a poor fight since many of said women were malnourished and had no weapons against the albeit poorly made ones the goblins already had.

Marthe scoffed, lying on the ground and staring up at the cave ceiling tiredly. "I'm sure the Gods will weep for him."

"Come now, Marthe. He was kind."

"Was he?"

"He was kinder than the rest of his kind."

Marthe rolled her eyes, her pride still stinging from her conversation with the goblin. "As if that's an achievement."

Marthe continued to just busy herself with her sewing, looking down at her work with sullen eyes. "He said please and thank you. He also never struck any of us."

"Give it a few more days, and he would have had the chance."

Marthe looked sadly at her grumpier counterpart. "Once he dies, we won't have to wonder whether that will happen anymore."

THAT statement was a sobering thought for Marthe, fully realizing the full implications of what the death of that goblin would entail. He hadn't demanded much…in fact, he hadn't demanded anything, seeing as too fretful about his current circumstances, only mostly interacting with Zenzi since SHE was the one who tended to his injuries the most. It was telling that the former wet nurse looked utterly crestfallen at how her most recent patient was getting battered and bullied by his own kind and being pulled into what would most likely be a suicide mission.

Undoubtedly, it would be business as usual after he inevitably perished. Someone with a more cruel and spiteful personality would come and fill in since they had the pleasure of their brains not being rattled, and some of the woman would probably die from harsh work exhaustion they were being put under.

Marthe would never admit this to anyone, but she considered sending a prayer to Sigmar to at least consider letting the goblin die quickly for what was to come, only to realize that would be in bad taste. No. She would pray to Shallya instead. Perhaps she could find it in her heart to have mercy on the soul of a greenskin.

…

A/N:

And so concludes the second chapter and so begins the segway to what will be Nick's first taste of blood. I thank you all for giving this fic a chance and deciding to see where it goes.

Not much else to say besides get ready to buckle up for a skirmish for the next part, because I can promise in some parts it's gonna get ugly. After all, when Greenskins are involved it almost always has to be.