“You are unworthy. You are too quick to anger, too eager for blood.”

“I am... unworthy?” My voice was slow, soft, completely disconnected from the pounding blood in my head.

“Yes. Your aggression and suspicion is unbecoming. The deepest secrets of the dungeon must only be revealed to the wisest of shamans, not petulant children.”

My eye twitched. “I’m a fucking eleven year old adult you hypocritical piece of shit. Bite my ass.”

The specter nodded sagely. “My point proven.”

I reached into my alchemical pouch, but then I felt a weight on my shoulder. “You have proven nothing, Iartukt.”

I darted to the side, pivoting on the ball of one foot to bring the figure who’d rested their hand on my shoulder into view along with the spectral shaman. They stood with the tall stature of a Hob and the dramatic getup of someone who considered themselves very important. Bright feathers bedecked him in color and the tall plume sticking straight up from his forehead made him seem two feet taller than he really was.

I’d wonder how the hells he’d snuck up on me if the spot where he’d touched me didn’t bear not the warm of life, but the chill of the grave.

He pounded his chest with one fist, sending the splay of feathers atop his head quivering. “How can a goblin be criticized for violence? It is who we are, built for war! To bring death is the greatest strength. To bring death to those who’ve earned it is the highest moral achievement!”

The hooded specter, Iartukt, waved one sleeve in a sweeping gesture of dismissal. “You are not the arbiter of these chambers Khavik! Heed my words and begone!”

“I don’t think so.” I twitched, but suppressed the urge to spin again. Chilling as it may be, there were clearly specters all around. Instead I forced myself to turn calmly to see the newest speaker, a Hob garbed in rags and bound in broken shackles.

“If you were to deny him you could have simply done so.” The new ghostly Hob said. “You chose to root through his mind, whatever happens next is on your head.”

Iartukt hissed at his ethereal opponents and swept his arm at me. “He is doomed whether we help him or not! Would you risk everything we have gained on this pointless waste?!”

The shackled Hob stared down the shaman. “What risk is there? His hatred is plain to see. Are you seriously suggesting that he would ever betray himself to slavery again? ”

Khavik thumped his chest. “If he be doomed to die, then let the secrets he’s earned carry him to a glorious death!”

I shifted from foot to foot. “So, what’s this about doom?”

“You are doo—”

“Don’t listen to his horseshit. He couldn’t predict his own death, he sure as shit can’t predict yours.”

“You are doomed!” Iartukt shook with rage. Literally, the vibrations were so intense that his form blurred out around the edges as if it were on the verge of collapsing. “You bear your own death writ across your soul even now. How it will come I know not, but come it shall, and when you die your soul will drift free, exposing us to any old necromancer who cares to look!”

I blinked. “You think there are necromancers just sitting around watching for stray souls?”

“Of course!”

“You’re nuts.”

Iartukt hissed, but Khavik slapped me on the back, sending me stumbling forwards through it. “See? This guy’s got some real balls!”

I fell to my knees, convulsing with shivers, as the dissipated specter reformed in front of me. “You cannot do this!”

The shackled ghost smiled, and there was no joy in it, only the threat of violence. He flickered, each step carrying him that little bit closer to the hooded shaman. “Are you so sure? Any may pass if the spirits vouch for them, that is not your right alone and to claim so is a clear abuse of your power. I myself happen to be a spirit, and anyone with the will to kill those who abuse their power is alright by me.”

The ghost’s smile flickered with the rest of him, replaced by an image of his snarling face pressed up beside the head of a blue-faced Hob desperately scrabbling at the chain that was cinched tight around his throat.

Iartukt hesitated, then sank into the floor, sweeping his hooded gaze from one spirit to the other. “You will regret this.”

Khavik snorted and strode forward over the disappearing specter’s head. He turned and beckoned for me to follow. “Come brother, and see the history of our people!”

I forced myself to my shaking feet and stepped after him, keeping a hand in my pouch and on my holy oil. “Who are you?”

“I am Khavik! Headman of the Plumebearer tribe!”

“Plumebearers?”

The second spirit shook his head. “Long since dust.”

“But our blood still runs strong in those who have succeeded us!”

“Indeed.”

I ran my thumb over the corked vial clutched in my hand. “The modern dungeon goblins are your descendants?”

Khavik nodded proudly. “How are they?”

“Um, alright I guess? I only met the Lifefather tribe, but they seemed to be doing quite well for themselves.”

Khavik laughed. “Well I’ll be fucked, that fire-farming bullshit actually worked!”

The broken-shackles spirit rolled his eyes. “I told you that young life shaman knew plants better than you ever could.”

“And I told you that he only wanted to farm so he could grow seven-leaf and get high!”

I cleared my throat. “Um, I appreciate the support, but could you explain exactly what that shaman was so afraid of and how I can get out of here?”

The spirits exchanged glances.

“Well little brother, how much do you know about gods?”