Fallout:Blood and the Bull

The next morning, my men acted with the efficiency that time and practice had honed. Whips and chains were deployed immediately, and they began capturing the surviving goblins. Some tried to resist, but hunger, injuries, and the loss of their leader made them easy prey. The sound of shackles snapping shut and desperate wails filled the air as every corner of the castle was secured.

With my sword in hand, I approached the goblin shaman's body. His torso, pierced by my spear, remained mostly intact, though the mage's flames had charred parts of him. His head, however, was almost untouched, the wolf pelt covering it still exuding a faint, unsettling aura, though it seemed weakened. As I leaned over him, I noticed something unexpected: his chest was still moving, with weak, ragged breaths, the sound of someone in their final moments.

Just as I raised my sword to finish him off, a feminine voice interrupted me.

"An impressive feat for someone so young," she said, her tone a mix of curiosity and condescension. Turning, I found myself facing a tall woman with an elegant bearing, her hair tied neatly beneath a battle headdress. Her attire, though slightly worn from the fight, bore a quality that only nobles could afford. She walked with confidence, as if everything around her was under her control.

"Isabella de Champlain," she introduced herself, offering a slight nod. "A mere guest in this campaign, but a cousin of the leader of this expedition. And you must be the young von Falkenstein I've heard so much about."

I didn't reply immediately. Instead, I turned back to the shaman, watching as his breathing finally ceased. With a clean stroke, I severed his head from his body and lifted it by the hair, ensuring there was no doubt who had claimed victory. The wolf pelt still hanging from his neck emitted one final flicker before falling completely inert.

"Young von Falkenstein, it seems you have a talent not only for weapons but also for trophies," Isabella remarked, observing the shaman's head with a mix of interest and disdain. "Is this meant as a message to the goblins or merely an act of vengeance?"

"Your cousin wanted his head, and he'll have it," I replied curtly, lifting the goblin shaman's head by its hair. The wolf pelt hung limply, stripped of the energy that had once made it pulsate. My only concern was fulfilling the agreement and consolidating control over the castle.

Isabella, however, didn't seem entirely focused on the trophy. Instead, she cast a probing glance my way, as if assessing something beyond the obvious. She stepped closer, her expression shifting slightly from curiosity to intrigue.

"Do you have the mage's blessing?" she asked finally, her tone full of genuine interest. "The mana surrounding you is surprisingly strong for someone who doesn't seem to use it."

I frowned, not entirely understanding what she meant. I was aware mana existed—a force enabling mages and priests to perform miracles and spells—but I had never considered it relevant to me. "I don't have the mage's blessing," I replied coldly. "If I did, I would know."

Isabella raised an eyebrow, as if unconvinced. "Strange. The mana around you is stronger than that of many mages I've met. Then, what blessing do you bear?"

"The Scholar," I replied.

"The Scholar," Isabella repeated, as if testing the words. "A blessing rarely seen on the battlefield. And yet, here you are, wielding a sword and severing heads. Why?"

I simply looked at her, raising an eyebrow at the stupidity of her question. "I'm not from one of the wealthy families that can afford to send me away to study," I answered coldly, making it clear I wasn't interested in continuing this line of conversation.

Without another word, I turned my attention back to the shaman's body, particularly the wolf pelt he wore. There was something about it that stood out, something that neither looked nor felt like a simple piece of leather. The fur, despite the flames and cuts, seemed nearly intact, unnaturally resistant. I ran my fingers over the material, noticing a slight resistance, as though it repelled touch, and a faint chill ran up my hand.

"Interesting," I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else around. Perhaps it was just a ritual adornment, but if the shaman had fought to the end with this thing on, it must have had some significance, whether spiritual or practical. If it wasn't magical, it could be sold as an exotic item. And if it was, perhaps I could find a way to use it.

Behind me, Isabella watched silently, a faint smile on her face, perhaps amused by my direct reaction or the object I now held. "It seems the shaman left more than just chaos in his wake," she commented, but I didn't respond. There were more important matters than analyzing empty words.

With the shaman's head in one hand and the wolf pelt rolled up in the other, I made my way toward the southern noble, still surrounded by his guards. Despite the victory, he hadn't left the safety of his circle, observing the outcome from a position that ensured his safety. His men, disciplined and well-armed, remained in tight formation around him, ensuring that nothing and no one could reach him without his consent.

I approached with a firm stride, the bloody skull of the shaman swinging slightly in my grip. The guards fixed their gazes on me as I neared, but none moved to stop me. They knew the battle was decided, and I carried exactly what their lord had requested.

The noble greeted me with a triumphant smile, as if the victory was solely his achievement. "Ah, young von Falkenstein," he said, rising with theatrical flair. "I see you've delivered what I promised to bring back. The shaman, no less. Perfect."

Without a word, I extended the head toward him, letting the dripping blood speak for me. His expression faltered for a brief moment, as though the reality of his request finally dawned on him, but he quickly returned to his haughty demeanor. He took a perfumed handkerchief to cover his nose before inspecting it more closely.

"Magnificent," he said, almost as if admiring a work of art. "This will make an excellent addition to my collection. My friends will be impressed."

I kept my gaze fixed, showing no emotion. "It's dead, as you requested," I said flatly. "Is there anything else you need before we finish clearing this place?"

The noble seemed taken aback by my tone but quickly recovered his composure. "No, no, this is more than enough. My men will handle the rest. You may return to your duties. Well done, young von Falkenstein, well done." I gave a brief nod and turned, leaving the head in the hands of his guards.

As I walked away, the murmurs of his men and their comments faded into the background. To them, this was a spectacle.

The cleanup of the goblins after the castle's fall was swift, though far from as thorough as I would have liked. Those who managed to escape scattered into the hills and nearby mines, using the tunnels to vanish from our sight. With the southern noble satisfied after obtaining his trophy, he made it clear he had no intention of pushing further into the goblins' nests or pursuing them. His priority was returning with his entourage, leaving the real work to us.

As he prepared to depart, we turned our attention to securing what remained of the abandoned village. Among the ruins and traces of goblin occupation, we found something unexpected. There were pens with animals, well-protected food stores, and, most curiously, silver coins. At first, we assumed they were loot taken from other human settlements, but the more we investigated, the clearer it became that the goblins had some kind of rudimentary economic system. They used these coins for trade among themselves, leaving hints of a social structure far more complex than we had imagined.

For the southern noble, none of this mattered. Neither the animals, the stores, nor the coins piqued their interest. All of it was left for us, an unexpected benefit after their departure. While it wasn't a grand fortune, the resources were enough to sustain our troops and perhaps even begin to restore some semblance of order to this region.

With hundreds of goblins captured after the battle, there was an obvious opportunity to secure a good payout. However, I wasn't naive: the sudden influx of supply could lead slavers to bargain the price down, reducing the value of each prisoner. Even so, with such a large number of captives, the total revenue was bound to be substantial.

That coin could be the key to something greater. If we used these resources wisely, we might attempt to reclaim the region, secure the rear mines, and establish a proper operational base here. Transforming this place into a new stronghold.

The mines themselves posed a challenge. If they still contained valuable resources, such as copper or other minerals, their exploitation could not only fund our operations but also strengthen our troops with better weapons and armor. However, clearing those tunnels and establishing control would not be easy. There were risks—traps, lurking monsters, and the inevitable cost in human lives.

Among everything we captured and collected after the battle, one item stood out above the rest: the wolf pelt worn by the goblin shaman. From the moment I found it, its strange vitality caught my attention. Despite the blows and fire, it remained intact, as if possessing more than just physical resilience. It was hard to ignore, so I decided to test it, curious to uncover its qualities.

The moment I draped it over my shoulders, something changed immediately. I felt an odd connection to the pelt, as though it were a part of me. My senses sharpened. My vision and hearing, already sharp for combat, seemed to reach new heights. I could hear the faintest movements around me and detect distant details that I would have overlooked before. It didn't take long to realize how useful this artifact would be, especially in hunting enemies hiding in the darkest and deepest corners.

The pelt's true potential revealed itself when I led my men in clearing one of the nearby mines. These were labyrinths with multiple entrances and passageways, perfect for goblins or other creatures to hide and prepare ambushes. While my men advanced, I noticed many of them struggled to orient themselves in the total darkness, relying solely on torches. But for me, the darkness posed no obstacle. Where they saw only impenetrable shadows, I saw everything as if night didn't exist.

I could spot the goblins before they detected us, guiding my men to every corner where they hid. Their resistance was minimal once their hiding spots were exposed, and the advantage the pelt gave me was decisive. More than a simple adornment or trophy, this pelt seemed to be a true instrument of power, something that could tip the scales in our favor in this kind of combat.

By the end of the day, as I carefully removed and inspected the pelt, I pondered its origin. Was it the work of goblin magic, a stolen artifact, or something even older than them? I didn't know, but one thing was clear: it gave me an edge no other leader in this region possessed. In this world, where every advantage could mean the difference between life and death, I had no intention of wasting it.

The power of the wolf pelt proved to be an invaluable tool as we continued clearing nearby goblin outposts. Each mine, tunnel, and hideout we explored ended blood-soaked, with goblin corpses piled high in the wake of our relentless offensive. Their defenses, though desperate, were insufficient to stop us. Guided by my sharpened vision and heightened hearing, we advanced with precision, tearing every corner from their control.

In one particularly distant cave, the battle was tougher. The goblins had used the depths and narrow passages to their advantage, organizing ambushes and using traps to try and slow us down. However, our discipline and the advantages granted by the pelt allowed us to push through. When the last of their resistance was eliminated and the surviving goblins surrendered to chains, the heavy air of the cave settled into an eerie silence.

While inspecting the area to ensure no one remained hidden, my attention was drawn to an irregular rock wall. Under the faint light of a torch, I noticed something different about its texture. I approached, scraping the surface with my sword, and what I uncovered made me pause for a moment.

There was a vein of iron, clearly visible within the stone. Its dark metallic sheen reflected the light with a subtle glow, unmistakable to anyone familiar with mining. This discovery was no small matter. Iron meant more than wealth; it meant weapons and tools.

"Iron," I murmured, my fingers touching the cold, solid vein in the wall. Father would be pleased, no doubt. This was what he had always wanted—a tangible reason to claim and reinforce this territory. Iron meant swords, spears, armor; it meant control. But as I thought of everything this represented, an uncomfortable idea crept into my mind.

How much of this would actually come to me? I stared at the vein with a mix of pride and bitterness. I could already see my father sending overseers, claiming the mine as family property, assigning it to my elder brother—or worse, using it solely as a bargaining chip for his own political ambitions. For me, perhaps nothing more than hollow words of recognition would remain.

The feeling was familiar, almost routine, but this time it was different. I had led my men, spilled blood, and borne the weight of this campaign while others simply watched from the safety of their fortresses. This had not been a gift—it had been conquered by my hands, by the men who followed me.

I clenched my fist, feeling the coarse texture of the wolf pelt on my shoulders, a reminder of the challenges I had overcome to reach this point. Perhaps what I would gain from this would be little, but what wasn't given to me, I would take. This iron, these lands, this fortress...