Chapter 320 Passing the Word

Nearby, an older goblin was chained to a post, his back a lattice of raw, bleeding welts. The leather whip that had created those wounds lay discarded on the ground, its handle worn from use. The elder's breath came in rough gasps, each one a struggle as blood trickled from his mouth, the result of internal injuries inflicted by his tormentors.

Next to the older, another goblin lay on the ground, his limbs grotesquely twisted and broken. His fingers had been methodically crushed with a heavy mallet, each bone shattered to render him useless for escape. His eyes were swollen shut from a brutal beating, his lips split open, and his breath came in labored, wheezing gasps as he pleaded for mercy that would never come.

A particularly gruesome scene played out in a dark, dank cell where a goblin was suspended by his wrists from the ceiling. The tips of his toes barely touched the ground, and his body hung limp from exhaustion. Around him, the floor was littered with shards of broken glass, and his captors took turns forcing him to swing, his bare feet scraping against the razor-sharp fragments, leaving trails of blood. His cries of pain were met with derisive laughter, the guards deriving perverse pleasure from his torment.

One of the most horrific sights was a pit, its bottom covered in glowing embers. Above it, a goblin was suspended by a rope, his body slowly lowered into the searing heat. His skin blistered and charred, the smell of burning flesh permeating the air. The overseer would occasionally yank the chain, jerking the goblin out of the fire just enough to keep him alive, but in constant, excruciating pain.

In one corner, they saw a group of hatchlings, no older than a few weeks, huddled together in a filthy cage. Their tiny bodies were covered in bruises and cuts, evidence of the relentless beatings they endured daily. A sadistic goblin guard stood nearby, a cruel grin on his face as he swung a spiked club, striking the hatchlings one by one. Their pained squeals echoed through the air, a chilling symphony of suffering.

Further along, they came across a scene that made their blood run cold. A hatchling was strapped to a makeshift rack, its limbs stretched to the breaking point. An iron brand, glowing red-hot, was pressed against its skin, leaving charred, smoking flesh in its wake. The tiny creature's screams of agony were heart-wrenching, its eyes wide with terror and pain. The guard laughed maniacally, taking pleasure in the torment he inflicted.

In another area, hatchlings were forced to fight a hound puppy for scraps of food. The weakest ones, unable to defend themselves, were mercilessly nibbled by the puppy, driven to violence by starvation and desperation. The guards watched with glee, placing bets on which hatchling would survive the brutal encounters. The ground was stained with blood, a grim sight of the barbaric spectacle.

Timbo and Hermit also witnessed hatchlings being subjected to water torture. They were tied to wooden planks, their heads submerged in barrels of filthy water. The guards would pull them out just before they drowned, only to shove them back in again. The hatchlings' frantic gasps for air and desperate thrashing were haunting, their eyes filled with a fear that no creature so young should ever know.

Barely larger than a human palm, the hatchlings were subjected to unimaginable tortures. Tiny, frail bodies lay strewn across the filthy ground, their green skin marred by bruises and cuts. Some hatchlings were hung by their wrists from crude wooden frames, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, the weight of their bodies causing excruciating pain.

Hermit also came across a grotesque contraption designed to inflict maximum pain on the smallest of bodies. Hatchlings were strapped onto a rotating wheel, their tiny forms stretched taut. As the wheel turned, their bodies were dunked alternately into boiling hot and freezing cold water, the sudden temperature changes causing their skin to blister and crack. The hatchlings writhed and screamed, their cries echoing through the camp.

One of the worst sights, however, was a hatchling being used as a living target for practice by the guards. The tiny creature was pinned to a wooden board, its limbs nailed in place. The guards took turns hurling sharp stones at it, laughing as they made bets on who could hit the most sensitive spots. The hatchling's cries were hoarse, its voice almost gone from the endless screaming.

Hermit, struggling to maintain his composure, witnessed a hatchling being force-fed a vile concoction of rotting meat and maggots. The overseers held its tiny mouth open, pouring the foul mixture down its throat, laughing as the hatchling choked and gagged. The creature's frail body convulsed violently, its eyes bulging in sheer terror.

The most heart-wrenching scene of all was the sight of a hatchling forced to watch its siblings being tortured. Bound to a stake, its eyes were held open with cruel metal clamps, preventing it from looking away. The overseers took sadistic pleasure in tormenting the hatchling's siblings in front of it, making sure it saw every lash of the whip, every cut of the knife, and every agonizing moment of their suffering.

In another section of the camp, a group of goblin children huddled together in a filthy cage. Their eyes were wide with fear, their bodies emaciated and frail. One child, no more than a toddler, clutched a ragged piece of cloth to his chest, the only semblance of comfort in the hellish environment. The others whispered to him in soft, soothing tones, trying to offer what little solace they could.

Hermit’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached another area where two goblins were strung up by their wrists, their feet barely touching the ground. Their faces were a mess of bruises and cuts, their bodies limp and barely conscious. A goblin guard stood nearby, a sadistic grin on his face as he poked at them with a sharpened stick, eliciting weak cries of pain with each jab.

The next area they passed was the "Feast of Despair." Here, the hatchlings were subjected to a cruel form of food-teasing torture. The overseers dangled morsels of food just out of reach, watching with sadistic glee as the starving hatchlings stretched their tiny, frail limbs towards the sustenance. Their eyes, large and pleading, reflected both their hunger and their desperation. Each time they came close, the food was yanked away, leaving them whimpering and clawing at the empty air. The overseers laughed at their misery, the sound echoing through the dark chamber like a chorus of malevolent ghouls.

As Timbo and Hermit navigated the labyrinthine horrors of the breeding farm, they were drawn to the pitiful cries emanating from a dimly lit corner. There, they encountered a sight so heart-wrenching it shattered their spirits.

In a filthy, cramped cage, hatchlings no bigger than the palm of a hand were huddled together, their tiny bodies trembling with fear. Each hatchling's face bore the raw marks of abuse, their eyes wide with a haunted look that spoke of unimaginable suffering. These were not just any hatchlings; they were the youngest, the most vulnerable, ripped from their caretakers to be broken in the cruelest ways possible.

The most horrifying sight was the systematic separation of siblings. Each day, without fail, the cruel guards would snatch away one of the hatchlings, dragging them away to a separate cage where they were isolated, alone, and scared. The guards reveled in this sick game, knowing that the psychological torment of isolation was worse than any physical pain.

The solitary cages were strategically placed so that the hatchlings could hear each other's desperate cries but were powerless to help. The sounds of their siblings' weeping echoed through the breeding farm, a symphony of despair that drove the separated hatchlings to the brink of madness. Each night, the hatchlings would press their tiny faces against the cold, iron bars, whispering words of comfort and hope to their unseen brothers, only to be met with silence or heart-wrenching sobs.

Timbo and Hermit watched in silent agony as a particularly brutal guard approached one of the cages. With a sadistic grin, he reached in and yanked out a trembling hatchling, separating it from its siblings. The tiny creature’s screams were gut-wrenching, a high-pitched wail of pure terror that tore through the evening. Its siblings reached out through the bars, their tiny arms flailing in a desperate attempt to hold on, their cries a symphony of despair.

"Please, no! Don’t take them away!" one of the older hatchlings wailed, its voice cracking with desperation. But his plea was met with a brutal kick that crushed him under the boot of the evil goblin. He popped like a ripe tomato, his vomit and guts shooting from under the boot. The guard's laughter echoed through the space, a chilling sound that underscored the cruelty of the act. The hatchling was tossed into the solitary cage, where it lay shivering and alone, its tiny body wracked with sobs.

Hermit's eyes filled with tears as he whispered to Timbo, "This... this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. We have to save them, Timbo. We have to get them out of here."

Timbo nodded, his face pale but resolute.

 "We will, Hermit. We’ll free them all. These monsters will pay for what they’ve done."

 To the goblins slaves, family, and kinship were sacred. An unbreakable network of support and affection. Separation from loved ones was not merely distressing; it was a profound, soul-crushing agony. The farm's sadistic overseers understood the profound bond that these small creatures shared and exploited it mercilessly.

Timbo, struggling to maintain his composure, witnessed a particularly gruesome scene: a goblin with his hands bound behind his back, his face pushed into the dirt. A large rock had been placed on his back, pressing him down, while another guard kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. The sound of cracking bones and the goblin's anguished screams filled the air.

As they passed through the breeding pits, the stench of death and decay was overpowering. They saw more goblins, their bodies used and discarded, some barely clinging to life as they were forced to endure endless cycles of abuse. Their vacant, hollow eyes stared into nothingness, their spirits utterly broken.

Timbo and Hermit exchanged glances, their resolve hardening with each atrocity they witnessed. They knew that every second they delayed was another second of suffering for these poor souls. They pressed on, whispering words of hope and freedom to those they passed, urging them to hold on just a little longer.