A young goblin prowled the lush forest, looking through the foliage and vegetation for a certain something. He set his eyes on a purple flower that stood out from the greenery. As he reached out to pluck the purple flower, a voice called out to him in warning, “Wrong flower Zrimm.” A female goblin stepped out into his view, she wore a brown robe with a knapsack slung over her arm.

“You touch that, you’ll be scratching yourself for weeks.” She pointed at the flower. “Zozrainer have curved petals and at least one bud eye.”

Zrimm brought his shoulders into a shrug, “They’re easy to get each other mixed up. They are both purple flowers.”

“Alchemists must not make mistakes. A wrong ingredient can cost someone their life.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Now then. I think I saw some Zozrainer over here. We can use it to relieve a stomach ache for old Gasner.” As Zrimm followed his mother, she and he heard a loud crashing sound in the distance.

Zrimm’s mother went cold with fear, “The dwarves, they are attacking our village.” She said in a fearful tone. “We have to head back. To help out with the injured.” As they began making their way to Dasnir, they both perked up their ears. They had both heard footsteps near them.

“Get down into that bush.” Zrimm’s mother whispered as they lay prone in dirt. They heard voices boom throughout the forest.

“Kill me some of them green rats, today I will!” A voice yelled out. More voices joined in and Zrimm thought it must be a war party.

“Dirty buggers! Think they can just raid us as they please? A little cannon fire should show them otherwise!” Another one said, many voices yelled out aye in agreement. Zrimm also heard the sound of something being pulled on treads, most likely the cannons the dwarves were so famous for making and using. Zrimm looked at his mother, she had a look of fear on her face. She was probably fearing the worst for his father, she knew what cannons did to people, and how easily it killed them.

Eventually, the forest quieted back down, and Zrimm thought that the dwarves had finally left. But he still waited a few more minutes before speaking once more.

“They were heading straight to our village. We have to stop them,” Zrimm said.

“We are healers. We must leave the fighting to the warriors like your father.” But she still had a look of fear all over her face as she said those words.

“Why does it have to be this way? Living under constant raid by the dwarves,” Zrimm asked.

“They are retaliating against our raids,” Zrimm’s mother cooly said.

“Our warriors haven’t raided anyone in five years!” Zrimm exclaimed.

“I know. But dwarves have long memories. And they do not forgive.” She said with a sad look on her face.

“One day they will pay. And they will regret not making peace with us,” Zrimm said.

She reprimanded Zrimm, “Don’t say anything so foolish! You said you wanted to be an alchemist, not a warrior didn’t you?” Zrimm said nothing in response. Some time passed before they heard the dwarves coming back through the forest.

“I think I hear them retreating,” Zrimm whispered.

“Not retreating, they are just done raiding for today.” Zrimm’s mother responded. Their voices rang out once again.

“Got ‘em good. Did you see when Numruk crushed that goblin’s head with one swing!”

“Yeah. But we’ve lost Okug to one of them. I feel bad for whoever has tell his mother about his death.” The dwarves kept chatting about the battle, boasting, and bragging of their victories. After a while, the forest once again quieted down to its natural state.

“Now we can head back.” Zrimm’s mother said. They made their way out of the forest and into the village. While most of the village buildings lay intact and unharmed, there were several that were damaged or on fire. Goblins rushed to put out the fires with buckets full of water. The hospital laid in the center of the village, goblins carried the wounded in stretchers to it. Zrimm and his mother entered the hospital.

Groaning and screaming filled the air as alchemists, wise women, and barber-surgeons rushed around to attend to the wounded. A voice called out in the chaos, “Sathia! Come over here, girl.” Zrimm’s mother followed the sound of the voice. Zrimm’s father laid on a bed, a cut on his left arm profused blood.

“Let me fix that for you.” Zrimm’s mother hurriedly rushed over to her husband.

“It is just a scratch. Go help out someone else who is more injured,” He protested.

“Nonsense,” She said as she cleaned away the blood with a rag.

Zrimm’s father stared at his son with a strange look, “You know son, you should have been here with us. Fighting, instead of picking daisies.”

“Casner, you stop it! An alchemist is just as important as a warrior in battle, if not more so. Who would heal you if every goblin was a warrior?” Zrimm’s mother said.

“A true goblin strikes against his clans’ enemies without fear and remorse. Nothing more, nothing less,” Zrimm’s father said.

“That is where you are wrong father. Yes, we are vicious and warriors. But our greatest heroes won their battles with cunning and courage, not just with strength and mettle.” Zrimm responded.

“Listen to this! I’m being chastised about fighting from a welp who has never fought a battle in his life!” Zrimm’s mother had finished bandaging her husband’s arm.

“Come Zrimm. You must help me out with the rest of the wounded.” She said as Zrimm followed her to another patient.

“Maybe one day you will come to your senses.” Zrimm’s father called out. Zrimm ignored him and followed his mother who was helping another patient.

The goblin was missing his left arm, only a nub remained in its place. He groaned and screamed in pain.

“Zrimm, clean and dress his wound while I deal with the other patients.” Zrimm did as she ordered, grabbing a cloth and dousing it with water before cleaning away the blood and dirt. The goblin screamed out as Zrimm cleaned the wound.

“Damn dwarves! Didn’t even get to fight before I got my arm blown off by their cannons!” He said between his gritted teeth. He let out another scream as Zrimm finished cleaning his wound.

“Here. This will help for the pain.” Zrimm said as he took out from his canvas bag some sort of potion. He uncorked the potion and doused some on the rag. Zrimm then stroked the wound with the rag, with the patient immediately relaxing and going to sleep. Zrimm then began dressing his stump, making sure it was enough to stop the bleeding. “That should do it.”

Zrimm immediately began to work on another patient. It was going to be a long day, he knew, But he was doing what he loved. And while he did not enjoy seeing his fellow goblin folk injured and in pain, he did enjoy the act of healing them. He did not care about what his father said about being a traditional goblin. Zrimm was going to make his own way in life, no matter what anyone thought about him.