By sunrise, the Ashmork village square had been transformed into a place of mourning. The usual noise that filled the settlement had disappeared, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to hang over every goblin who gathered there.
Hundreds of goblins stood around the center of the square, many with their heads lowered while others stared quietly at the large wooden pyre that had been constructed through the early hours of the morning.
Thick logs had been stacked carefully upon one another, leaving enough space in the center for the body of Elder Varg. His old red cloak had been cleaned of most of the blood, and his silver hair and beard had been carefully arranged.
Molu had even placed his staff beside him, the same staff he had carried for decades. He stood before the pyre for several minutes without saying anything. His usually cheerful and careless expression was gone, replaced by a tired sadness that made him appear older than he actually was.
He had personally refused to let anyone else prepare Varg’s body. He had helped wash the old goblin, straighten his clothes and carry him into the square, refusing to leave until everything was done properly.
Around him, the other leaders of the clan stood quietly. Crow remained with his arms folded across his chest, Kia stood beside him with her hood pulled low over her face, and even Loki stood toward the back of the gathering, his expression unreadable as he stared at the body of the old goblin.
One by one, the people began approaching the pyre.
The first was an elderly female goblin who leaned heavily on a wooden cane. She walked slowly toward the body with a small bundle of flowers clutched against her chest. Her hands trembled as she placed them beside Varg’s head, and she remained there for several seconds before lowering her head.
"Thank you for teaching my children when I could not," she whispered before stepping away.
Another goblin came forward and then another.
Soon, the silence of the square was broken only by the soft footsteps of people approaching the pyre and the occasional sniffle from someone struggling to hold back their tears. Some brought wildflowers while others carried small bundles of herbs, while a few brought flowers that had been cultivated near the farms surrounding the stream. They didn’t care about the risk as long as this great man got the funeral he deserved.
Each person placed their offering around Varg’s body before stepping aside.
A young goblin boy approached with his mother holding his hand. He carried a tiny collection of flowers that were clearly too large for his small arms, and when he finally reached the pyre, he struggled to lift them high enough to place them on the logs. His mother quietly helped him, and the boy stared at Varg for a moment.
"Uncle Varg taught me the running game," he whispered.
His mother immediately covered her mouth as tears escaped her eyes. The boy did not understand why she was crying.
He simply walked away and more people followed.
The flowers gradually formed a colorful ring around the pyre, surrounding the old shaman with the final gifts of the people he had spent his entire life protecting. By the time the last goblin stepped away, the wooden structure was almost covered in flowers.
Molu stared at the sight for a long moment and swallowed heavily before stepping forward.
The crowd gradually turned toward him.
Molu looked around the square and saw hundreds of faces staring back at him. Some were wet with tears. Some were angry. Others were frightened. Their village had suffered more losses in a few days than many of them had experienced throughout their entire lives, and now they were standing around the body of the man who had always reminded them that their clan would survive.
Molu slowly climbed onto the small wooden platform beside the pyre.
"I spent most of my life believing Elder Varg would outlive all of us," he began, his voice unusually quiet. "I thought he would still be standing when my children became warriors. I thought he would still be here when I became an old goblin with nothing left to complain about except how badly my joints hurt."
A few weak chuckles escaped from the crowd, but they quickly disappeared.
Molu smiled sadly.
"That was the kind of man he was. He made us believe tomorrow would always come."
His gaze returned to Varg.
"He was there when this village was nothing more than a handful of frightened tribes trying to survive together. He stood beside Goresh. He stood beside Grash. He watched our walls rise. He watched our children grow. He taught us our history, our traditions and the stories that reminded us who we were."
Molu’s voice gradually became stronger.
"And when Grash died, Elder Varg did not abandon us. When our farms were burned, he did not abandon us. When our warriors were slaughtered, he did not abandon us."
He clenched his fist.
"And when those monsters came through our gates, he stood in their way even though he knew his body could no longer fight the way it once did."
The crowd became completely silent.
"He knew he might die."
Molu’s voice cracked, but he continued.
"He knew exactly what was waiting for him, yet he still went."
His eyes swept across the gathering.
"Why?"
Nobody answered.
"Because that was Elder Varg. He did not protect this village because he believed he would live forever. He protected it because he believed we deserved to."
Molu pointed toward the body.
"That old goblin spent his entire life protecting people who were not even born when he first picked up that staff. He watched generations come and go, and he kept standing."
His breathing became heavier.
"And now he is gone."
Molu stepped down from the platform and walked toward the pyre. He reached for one of the flowers lying beside Varg and gently placed it upon his chest.
"But listen to me carefully."
He turned around.
"His death does not mean the Ashmork Clan dies with him."
A murmur spread through the crowd as Molu’s expression hardened.
"The people who killed him want us to believe we are helpless. They want us frightened. They want us hiding behind these walls while they destroy everything our ancestors built."
His voice rose.
"They burned our farms. They destroyed our harvest. They released our livestock. They killed our warriors. They killed Grash and now they killed Varg. They have taken enough from us."
His fist tightened and the crowd began murmuring. Molu’s eyes burned with determination.
"We will mourn Elder Varg today. We will cry for him. We will remember every lesson he taught us and every story he told us. But when this fire dies, our grief will not make us weaker. It will make us stronger."
He raised his fist toward the sky and few warriors began raising their weapons.
Molu’s voice thundered across the square.
"We are Ashmork!"
The response came from the crowd almost immediately.
"ASHMORK!"
Molu’s voice grew louder.
"We are the descendants of Goresh The Great!"
"ASHMORK!"
"We are the clan that Grash The Conqueror built!"
The warriors began banging their weapons against their shields.
"ASHMORK!"
Molu turned toward the pyre one final time.
"And we will not allow Elder Varg’s final stand to be meaningless!"
The square erupted.
Hundreds of goblins raised their weapons and roared into the morning sky. The sound rolled across the village like thunder, drowning out the fear that had consumed them since the first enemy appeared beyond their walls.
Kia watched the crowd with tears still lingering beneath her hood. Crow’s expression remained stern, but even he could feel something changing around them. The villagers were no longer simply mourning. Their grief had been transformed into determination.
Molu walked back toward the pyre and stopped beside Varg’s body. Kia approached with a torch in her hand.
For a moment, the two exchanged glances and Molu nodded.
Kia lowered the torch.
The flames caught the dry wood beneath Varg’s body and slowly climbed upward. Orange light spread across the flowers surrounding the old goblin as smoke began rising into the sky. The crowd gradually fell silent again as the fire consumed the pyre.
Molu stood there until the flames had completely surrounded Varg.
"Elder Varg," he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the crackling fire. "You protected us for your entire life. Now it’s our turn to protect what you left behind."
The flames rose higher, carrying the old goblin’s final remains toward the sky while hundreds of Ashmork goblins stood around the burning pyre.
Their elder was gone, their farms were gone and their food was running out. But for the first time since Grash’s death, the Ashmork Clan was no longer simply waiting for the end.
They were preparing to fight for their survival.
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