(Taking Place At Some Narratively Convenient Moment)
The morning crowd at the Copper Kettle was thinner than usual, the breakfast rush already passed and the midday patrons not yet arrived. A handful of townsfolk lingered over cooling mugs of tea while rain tapped intermittently against the windows. The smell of fresh bread and wood smoke hung comfortably in the air.
“Professor” Marrow sat alone at a corner table near the hearth, a cluttered fortress of papers, notebooks, and loose scraps spread before him. He looked as though he had not slept particularly well. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his normally neat beard appeared to have lost a minor battle with several restless hours. Three empty teacups stood among the papers like monuments to a long night’s work.
As the party approached, Marrow glanced up from a page covered in cramped notes and immediately began gathering several sheets into a more orderly pile.
“Ah. Good. You’re here.”
His voice carried the unmistakable tone of a man who had become so engrossed in his work that he had forgotten such trivial concerns as sleep, meals, and basic self-preservation.
“I’ve made progress.”
The self-described professor lowered his voice despite the fact that nobody nearby appeared to be paying the slightest attention.
“Not as much as I would like, mind you. Orcish is difficult enough under ideal circumstances. Orcish written by what appears to be a political leader attempting to be cryptic is another matter entirely.”
He adjusted a pair of spectacles perched low upon his nose and tapped one of the pages.
“There are still portions I cannot confidently translate. Nonetheless, enough of the text is clear that I believe we can begin to understand what sort of correspondence this is.”
Marrow paused and his expression shifted slightly. “Before we proceed, I should mention that this letter is decidedly unusual.”
He slid the translated pages across the table.
“I expected instructions concerning supplies, troop movements, perhaps mining operations. What I found instead raises rather more questions than answers.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Read it for yourselves. Then tell me whether it troubles you as much as it troubles me.”
To The Honorable And Fierce Dravokh,
Your loyalty and discipline […] honor both Goghnol Mogh and all peoples […] injustices […] kingdoms of men.
[…] the leadership […] uniting the scattered goblin and hobgoblin tribes […] Hollowmere. Know that similar efforts […] Goghnol Mogh […]. Tribes long divided by […], distance, and […] stand together […].
A […] people cannot survive. […].
The humans teach their children [something in past tense?] monsters […] how many of our children they slaughtered. History written by conquerors […] warfare, and the kingdoms of men [something in past tense?] five centuries teaching lies […] truth.
They […] silence for peace. They are wrong. The betrayal at Hollowmere will one day […].
You […] instructed to lead […] work party to the […] Orcish mine [Something in past tense?] upon the […] map. [Something in future tense? Or imperative form?] gather your crew at the […] location before proceeding […] excavation site.
You will find [Have found there, are finding there? Tense not clear.] there,
- Ancient Orcish workings,
- Later human […],
- And […] lower passages.
The mine […] minerals to Goghnol Mogh before [defeat?] during the War of […]. The humans […] excavation but [stopped?] the effort without […].
[…].
The [Tribal heads? Royalty?] […] and grows […] fearful of what […] Hollowmere. Let them […] a little longer. Fear […] and […] enemies […].
Continue the […] tunnel according to the markings […]. Maintain the specified direction precisely. Upon […] five hundred lagh, [speak?] and further instructions [Something in future or conditional tense?].
Avoid all sealed chambers marked in black. [Some sort of strong negation here] your workers to enter them […]. Draw supplies […] at all times.
[…] and strike […] against our enemies. […] for five hundred years.
But victory […] the strong. […]. The humans dig above while we move beneath them unseen. [Something about roads?].
[…] your people shall receive treasure [soon?] and freedom [later?].
[Be strong? Have courage?]. The War of […] approaches.
In [forever?] solidarity,
Soulreaper
For several moments after the reading ended, only the crackling of the hearth and the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen disturbed the silence.
Professor Marrow removed his spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
“Well,” he said at length, “if I am being honest, this is not what I expected.”
He tapped a finger against the translated pages. “I anticipated something mundane. Supply requests. Perhaps orders concerning raids. Or instructions for moving stolen goods.”
His finger moved lower. “Instead we appear to have stumbled upon politics.”
The professor leaned back in his chair. “Whoever this Soulreaper is, he is not merely directing hobgoblins and goblins. He is attempting to unite them.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “And then there is this repeated emphasis on Hollowmere…. ‘The betrayal at Hollowmere will one day…’ something.”
“I have studied the history of this area for quite some time. I am aware of no betrayal significant enough to inspire this sort of language.”
His gaze drifted toward the inn window. “Which suggests it’s either a very old grievance… or a very well-kept secret.”
The professor’s attention returned to the letter.
“The mine concerns me as well. The details given are very specific. This work party was not gathering resources. They were looking for something.”
A pause. “And then we arrive at the most troubling portion.” He pointed toward the lines concerning the sealed chambers.
“I am reasonably confident of this translation,” Marrow lowered his voice, “‘Avoid all sealed chambers marked in black.’”
He looked around the table.
“If I am correct, then whoever wrote this letter knew of those chambers beforehand and was afraid of them.”
The professor folded his hands.
“As for Soulreaper…”
His expression darkened.
“I dislike that name. You might well ask why. It’s because names have purposes. A butcher calls himself a butcher, a king calls himself a king, and a scholar calls himself a scholar.”
He glanced back down at the signature.
“People choose titles that communicate how they wish to be seen.”
The professor slid the papers back across the table.
“If someone introduces themselves as Soulreaper, it is generally safest to assume they are not running a charitable foundation.”
Despite the grim subject matter, a faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth and faded quickly.
“Whatever else this letter may mean, one thing seems clear.”
He tapped the page one final time.
“The goblins beneath Hollowmere are not acting alone. And someone, somewhere, is directing them according to a plan.”