The sounds of the melee echoed through the halls and passages - the clash of swords, the syllables of eldritch magic and the screams of the dying. Nosedrip clutched his spear tight against his leather jerkin and pressed himself back against the stonework, fervently wishing that it would swallow him up. His lips moved, offering up a prayer to whatever gods might be listening.

"It'll do you no good, lad," Onetooth muttered. Onetooth was the oldest, most experienced of the patrol. They all looked up to him. Despite his many injuries, his tally of scars, he had survived many encounters and many battles. That made hims someone worth listening to. "Those ... things out there. They're the worst. They're clever and powerful."

"But you've fought them before?" Nosedrip asked. He tried to keep his voice quiet, despite the feelings of panic and fear that threatened to overwhelm them.

"Fought them?" Onetooth nodded. "Aye. But not ones like these. These are the ones that you have to run away from."

One of the others - Mohawk - laughed. "And where's the fun in that? A good yard of iron through their bellies will kill them just as dead any other." And, as if to prove his point, he waved his sword above his head, catching the flickering torchlight on the edge of its blade.

The rest of the patrol muttered amongst themselves, voicing their opinions to each other. Onetooth held up a gnarled hand to silence them. "Only if you can get close enough," he said to Mohawk. "Them as you can, then likely you'll live to boast of having killed them. But, when they've got magic and bows and ... ." Onetooth shook his head. "Nope. You won't stand a chance against these ones. Come on. Let's get out of here."

Onetooth waved the patrol on, and they left their hiding place. The noises of battle had ceased for now, and a strange quiet fell through the tunnels. Nosedrip strained his ears, listening for the approach of the enemy.

"There! Goblins!"

Nosedrip twisted, trying to work out where the shout had come from. But, before he could, the enemy was upon the patrol. One seemed to stir out of the shadows, gutting Onetooth before he could react. Mohawk raised his sword and charged, screaming incoherently. A nimbus of energy surrounded him and three others, burning them to ashes. Nosedrip froze in terror, dropped his weapon and fled.

From his hiding place, Nosedrip heard the enemy talking.

"Goblins. I think we got them all."

"No. I'm sure one got away. Shall we go after it?"

"Why? It's just one goblin. It's not worth the bother. Nothing worth looting on it."

The enemy moved away, leaving Nosedrip cowering in a puddle of fear.