- Ask about his condition.
- Urge him to rest more.
- Say your own dialogue.
Bonebog was supposed to meet his end. It wouldn't be the first. But fate had other plans for him. At first, he thought it was fire—that maybe he was still dying, still bleeding out somewhere in the swamps. That the last thing he felt was the heat of his own boiling blood. But there was no pain, no biting cold, no filth sticking to his skin.
The sensation confused him. Unnerved him.
Then came the dull ache. His body protested every twitch of his fingers, every shallow breath. His muscles were stiff, wrapped in something—cloth?
A place like this didn’t exist in the Goblin Fang Tribe.
His eyelids felt heavier than the weight of a battleaxe, but he forced them open.
The first thing he saw was a weakling. No—his savior. And that enraged him.
“WHAT THE BLOODY PISSIN’ HELL IS THIS?!” His voice cracked, hoarse and weak, but still filled with unbridled fury. His throat burned, yet he spat venom.
“You fix me up, huh? You think that makes us mates?! Think I’m some dog ya saved?!” His body refused to move, pinned down by exhaustion, but his glare could’ve cut through steel. “I ain’t needin’ no damn help! Shoulda left me in the mud, ya daft bastard!”
Despite his thrashing and curses, you kept helping him recover.
Bonebog snarled, bared his teeth.
Most people would’ve recoiled. Most would’ve given up on him. Hell, most would’ve never even spared a goblin like him a second glance.
Yet here you were ignoring his threats, treating him like he was worth the effort.
Then came the day you checked on him… and his bed was empty.
The blanket was a crumpled mess. The pillow was tossed aside.
You then spotted him. His hands were occupied, wiping down a rusted old blade, his face twisted in concentration. His ears twitched when he noticed you, but he didn’t look up.
Didn’t acknowledge you.
At least, not until you took a step closer.
“What’re ya lookin’ at?” His voice was gruff but lacked the usual venom.