In the sulphur drenched mountains of The Smell where the air weighs heavy and evil drifts on the wind, Shookle, Dispatcher of Nasty Town, reveled in his goblin nature. His days were filled with the grotesque joy of goblin raids, the crunch of bones underfoot, and the stench of victory so potent it could wilt flowers at twenty paces. His heart, a cauldron of dark delight, beat in rhythm with the vile curses and grunts of his Masters brigade. In these moments, Shookle found a perverse sense of belonging, his grotesque visage a mirror of the world he helped to shape. He sharpened his knives with a sound that set the mountains' teeth on edge, recounting tales of raids in a voice like gravel being ground into dust. To him, this was the essence of goblin life, a testament to the chaos that thrived in the absence of light. Yet, as the moons waxed and waned, a disquiet settled over Shookle's gnarled heart. The warriors he had gleefully tormented, the souls he had helped to jail, began to weigh heavy on his spirit. His master's treatment of these warriors, once a source of glee, now gnawed at him with sharp teeth. It was not just the physical confinement that troubled Shookle, but the denial of these souls' chance to cross over, to find peace or purpose beyond their earthly shackles. The laughter and camaraderie that once felt like a balm now rang hollow in his ears. Amidst the mire of their existence, he glimpsed moments of genuine joy and simplicity among the brigade, a stark contrast to the sorrow and desperation of the jailed souls.

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