Session 9 Thoughts and Comments from Aulrick

 Midnight Watch from Aulrick 

The goblin stronghold reeks of smoke and blood. Fires smolder in cracked braziers, their greasy light stuttering over damp stone and crude carvings. Deeper in the tunnels, goblins feast and bicker—revelry, mourning, or both under Bibblebib’s new rule. Here in a side cavern set aside for the victors, the mood is quieter, heavier.

Daxxon and Longshanks lie in uneasy sleep, their breathing ragged with exhaustion. Lyra sits near the fire pit, hands folded over her closed book, silver moonlight spilling faintly through a crack above. Felix sharpens his dagger, each rasp of whetstone sharp against the stillness. Aulrick leans against a pillar, half-slouched, drinking from a clay jug of goblin swill.

Aulrick: grimacing after a swallow, then chuckling bitterly “By all the rotten gods, this tastes like it was strained through a boot. But it’s strong, and strong’s enough.” He tips it back again, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “So. Throgg’s dead. Do either of you feel safer?”

Lyra: softly, shaking her head “No. If anything, I feel less so. Throgg was just a shadow of something larger. The prophecy, the brothers, the Lion, the Dragon… nothing ended tonight. The swamp remembers, he said—and I believe it. Here, the Veil doesn’t choke memory the way it does outside. That matters.”

Felix: snaps the whetstone down, jaw tight “Meanwhile Valthoria sharpens its claws. They sent Angvar, they fed Throgg’s war. Sweetberry burned because they searched for something. My people died for it. And if they didn’t find what they wanted, they’ll come again.”

Aulrick: snorts, raising the jug in mock salute “And you’d march straight to their gates tomorrow? Brave, aye, but suicide. We nearly died bringing down one warlord in his den. Valthoria’s an empire. Empires don’t topple to whetstones and wounded pride.”

Felix: glaring, voice low but steady “I don’t care how large they are. Someone gave the order that burned my village. I’ll find out who—and why.”

Aulrick: leaning forward, tone hard beneath the drink “And what if the answer’s worse than the question? What if it was just cruelty? Or chance? Or some scheme so far above us we’re pawns on a board we can’t see? Will your blade cut through that too?”

Felix doesn’t reply. The fire cracks, and Lyra speaks, her voice low but thoughtful.

Lyra: “It isn’t just Valthoria. This swamp… it’s different. It remembers. Kerg could read what I couldn’t, the Old Oak gave me power. There’s knowledge here the Veil can’t erase. Part of me wants to stay, to see what else might surface if we linger. If the swamp truly remembers, then leaving too quickly might mean losing truths we’ll never find again.” She glances between them, hesitant. “But… Draven must be warned. If Valthoria’s moving already, Umbrafell can’t be left blind.”

Felix: nodding slowly “We should return. The prince needs to hear what’s stirring. If he knows more about the Veil or the brothers, we need that knowledge. And if he doesn’t—he’ll need to prepare for war.”

Aulrick: groans, dragging the jug up again “Gods save me from politics. I’d rather fight another dragon than haggle over crowns and alliances. And we can’t ignore Bibblebib either. Leave him unchecked and he’ll be another Throgg soon enough. Maybe worse, if Angvar finds his ear. Better to tie him to us, or to Draven, before Valthoria does.”

Lyra: nods, though her eyes stay on the fire “Maybe escort him to Umbrafell, make him look like a ruler with support. Or… maybe keep him rooted here, focused inward, not outward. The wrong choice could ruin us.”

Felix: flatly “He’s clever enough to be dangerous. If Angvar tempts him, Umbrafell could face more than raiders next time.”

Aulrick: laughs, though it’s thin and weary “Allies, rivals, brothers, crowns—every road leads to war, doesn’t it? Spiritual, worldly, it’s all the same. And we’re stuck in the middle.” He takes another long swallow, then lets his head fall back against the pillar, eyes already half-lidded. “Draven needs to know… Bibblebib needs watching… beyond that—let the gods sort it…” The jug slips from his hand, hitting the floor with a hollow thud as his words dissolve into slurred silence. His breathing shifts into the ragged rhythm of drunken sleep.

Felix watches him a moment, then sheathes his dagger with a tired sigh. Lyra adjusts her book beside her, the firelight painting her in gold and shadow.

Felix: quietly “We’ll get nothing more from him tonight.”

Lyra: nodding “No. Let him sleep. Tomorrow we’ll hear what Daxxon and Longshanks think. This isn’t a choice for half the pact.”

They sit in silence after that, keeping watch over the fire and their sleeping companions. The goblins’ distant songs rise and fall like the croak of toads, but here the chamber feels still, waiting for dawn to bring whatever comes next.