Ideas. A book of short stories.

I have a vague memory of a goblin. A naked goblin at that. Somehow he had armor and other pieces of cloth on him. Let me repeat... NAKED. How he carried all of us on him, I'm still loath to imagine.

The goblin died. Of course he died. Here, let's rewind even more. I come from a world similar to what you would call a "fantasy mmorpg". Not a game, mind you... a real world just like yours. Except with a leveling system and physical stats, traits and skills, magic and pure unbridled mayhem.

Fast forward to the dead goblin. It was my first "owner" I suppose. Girl or boy made no difference, it was dead. An adventurer was the cause. No resentment on my part. I didn't have much of a chance to get attached to a freshly spawned mob.

The adventurer looted us. I fit in a bag with about a dozen other pieces of cloth. That lasted about as long as my first owner. A sudden *riipppp* and suddenly owner #2 was in a city. Turns out that town portals sound a lot like a tear in space. In no time I found myself being put into an auction warehouse. It was a cold nothing sort of space, similar to the warm nothing space on the goblin.

Shortly I found myself in owner #3's bags. 100s of pieces of cloth were packed in tight with me. The pile rapidly dwindled and new bags formed. *Ding!* More bags kept forming. *Ding!* Again and again... then nothing?

It took me a while to learn and understand what was happening at that time. I was farmed for selling, then farmed again for crafting experience. Except... I was still a piece of cloth. Only a few were left.

I then experienced a strange kind of horror. Sitting in a bag, I watch every one of those bags get shredded, disassembled as if by magic. Piles of cloth soon joined me again. And then the process kept repeating. Each time I was left, the last piece of cloth. Not enough left for the finsl bag each round.

After a while of mind-numbing anguish, I watched the pieces of cloth dwindle to the last few. Finally there was only enough for 1 more bag. Enough including me.

I became more. I became less. No longer was I the whole cloth, I was just part of a bag. I could feel and hear my brethren as part of me. Each of them whispering and screaming at nothing and everything.

They had gone mad. Being made into something more then ripped asunder, remade then unmade. They were parts of many bags and many cloths. No longer whole, or even wholly themselves. Just parts and notions and threads.

Their cacophony deafened me. I waited for us to being broken down. I waited, and waited. Owner #3 just stood there, staring blankly into space. We, us, I... I did not know what to call the new me that is the bag. I gradually came to blindly accept that some owners just do that.

4 small slots or 2 medium slots or 1 large slot.