20: Echoes of the Fallen God

Martin trudged along the dusty path, his feet aching with each step. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the air was thick with the scent of dried grass and earth. It wasn't so much the physical discomfort that bothered him, though it certainly had its annoyances. It was more the sudden onset of bad luck, as if a malevolent force had decided to make his life a living hell.

It started with small things - a slight headache, a case of the sneezes. But as he made his way to Rak'Thal, the misfortunes escalated. His coin pouch grew inexplicably lighter, leaving him with only a handful of copper bits to his name. When he sought a meal at an inn, the keeper swindled him with overpriced, stale bread and tepid water that left a sour taste in his mouth.

The journey through the foothills proved even more treacherous. A torrent of hail pelted him, each icy stone stinging his skin and drenching him to the bone. When he finally found shelter, his supplies had shifted in his pack, the hilt of his dagger jabbing painfully into his back all night.

Martin was no stranger to misfortune, but this was different. It felt deliberate, as if someone or something was actively thwarting his every move. He couldn't shake the feeling that magic was at play, a curse or hex woven specifically to unravel his plans. The thought made his skin crawl, but he pressed on, determined to reach Rak'Thal.

As he approached the goblin village, a sense of unease settled in his gut. The ramshackle huts seemed to leer at him, their crooked windows like narrowed eyes. Elder Mokrak, the village chief, greeted him with a nod, his weathered face etched with lines of wisdom and suspicion.

"Greetings, my friend," Mokrak rumbled, his voice like gravel. "What brings you to Rak'Thal? News or trade?"

Martin forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Elder Mokrak, I've come to propose an alliance. One that could bring wealth and power to your people."

Mokrak's eyes narrowed. "An alliance, you say? With whom?"

"With your goblin tribe," Martin replied, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Together, we could invade the Aldrich estate and seize Lumina."

The elder scowled, his brow furrowing. "The Aldrich estate? You think a tribe of goblins can defeat them? Their ruthlessness is well-known."

Martin's frustration simmered beneath his skin. "If the goblins fight as they did before, they'll stand no chance."

Mokrak's eyes flashed with anger. "We fought well," he snapped. "And you'd do well to remember that. Besides, this John and his magic pose a formidable threat."

The mention of John made Mokrak's fists clench, his knuckles turning white. "He must die," the elder growled. "He spilled the blood of my kin. I would have taken his life myself if he had the courage to face me in combat. But he used cowardly magic to bring down Shadowclaw."

Martin's curiosity piqued at the mention of Shadowclaw. "Who was Shadowclaw?" he asked.

Mokrak's gaze grew distant, as if seeing into another realm. "No ordinary goblin," he murmured. "A descendent of a Fallen God. I tasked him with leading the attack, but without his magic, we are mere ants before a beast."

The elder turned to Martin, his eyes hardening with resolve. "John's display of power proved that we cannot match his sorcery alone. We need an ally who can combat his magic. The Goblin King, Eberar the Bold, may be our best hope."

Martin's stomach churned at the thought of bargaining with a Pseudo-God. "You suggest we beg for mercy from Eberar?"

Mokrak stroked his beard, contemplating. "Perhaps. But it may be our only chance to defeat the sorcerer."

As they spoke, the elder's nostrils flared, and his eyes widened with recognition. He leaned closer to Martin, studying the faint aura that clung to him like a second skin.

"You've been touched by a curse," Mokrak murmured, his voice low and grave.

Martin's heart skipped a beat. "What? No, that's impossible."

The elder shook his head. "My nose doesn't lie. You reek of curse magic, powerful and slow-acting. Someone wants to sabotage you."

A chill ran down Martin's spine as realization dawned. "John," he whispered, his voice trembling with rage. "He did this to me."

Mokrak nodded solemnly. "If the smell is this strong, the curse is likely of the highest level. Reversing it could prove challenging. We may need a more unconventional solution."

"Eberar's emissary," Martin said, hope flickering in his chest. "Could they remove the curse?"

The elder's expression grew guarded. "Possibly, but such a feat would require a substantial offering of gold and a sacrifice of great value."

Martin swallowed hard, his mind reeling. A life of misfortune stretched before him, a bleak and unrelenting path. He couldn't bear the thought.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Martin and Mokrak haggled with the goblin leader, seeking an audience with Eberar himself. The negotiations were tense, but they eventually struck a deal to meet at the sacred site of Rak'Thal.

Exhausted and weary, Martin slumped against a tree, his eyes drifting shut. He clung to the faint glimmer of hope that his curse could be lifted and that he could finally put an end to John's meddling.

But deep down, he knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty. With a heavy sigh, he steeled himself for the trials to come, determined to see his plans through to the bitter end.