Recalling the past
The little goblin hesitated, its gaunt fingers fidgeting with the loose threads of its ragged tunic. Its yellow eyes, wide with fear and uncertainty, glimmered faintly in the torchlight as Volk loomed above. The other goblins shrank back against the rocky walls, their expressions wary, but the little one seemed to draw strength from Volk's intense gaze. Slowly, it began to speak.
"My father… he was strong," the goblin said, its voice trembling but growing steadier as it continued. "Not strong like your ogres or orcs, but… clever. Always working, always building. He made things with his hands, strange things that glowed in the dark or sang when the wind touched them. The birdmen… they didn't like that."