Talwer twitched his nose as he scratched the cap on his head with his sharp, blackened claws. He was certain that there were several goblins active in this area, but they had all fled upon his arrival. Talwer smirked, but the poison flowing through his veins made the expression look crooked and fierce. They were afraid of him! Yes, it was only natural for prey to fear their predators.

Goblins are often hated and feared for their tendency to gather in groups, much like a colony of ants crawling on a sand dune. But Talwer is different. He is a lone wanderer, a terrifying bandit who roams the underground like a ghost. His style of hunting with poison is too vicious and ruthless, even for his own kind. The goblins have driven Talwer out, but that has only made this nightmare of a goblin harder to deal with.

Long, long ago — before the madness took root — Talwer was not the deranged creature he is today. The goblin no longer recalls when he first stumbled upon that colossal toadstool, nor how its vibrant hues and intoxicating fumes ensnared him. Now it clings to his skull like a second skin — is it a hat? A grotesque new organ? Such distinctions have melted away in his poisoned mind. The fungus pulses with his thoughts, yet its toxins only weave blissful delirium through his synapses.