Caislen Campaign Notes

In the tangled underbelly of The Mistwood, a scrawny Goblin named Sniv trudged through the ferns with a battered copper pot slung over one shoulder. Wiry as a starved weasel, and possessed of two great loves: sharp knives and the sizzle of oil in a wok. Back in the goblin warrens south of Oakenshire, they had called him “Sniv the Seasoner” for his uncanny knack with foraged roots, wild game, and just enough chili oil to make a grown orc weep with joy. But the warrens had grown too crowded, the raids too frequent, and Sniv had dreamed of something better. A quiet cave kitchen where no one would steal his soy sauce!

One misty evening, while hunting mushrooms that glowed like tiny lanterns, Sniv heard the crunch of heavy footsteps. He froze. A shadow fell across the glade. It came from a creature full of mottled green muscle, tusks like broken daggers, and a belly that rumbled louder than distant thunder. The troll stopped, nostrils flaring. “Meat,” he growled, eyeing the goblin.

Sniv’s first instinct was to bolt, but his second much sharper instinct was to notice the troll’s breath. It smelled of old blood and despair, the unmistakable odor of someone who had never once in his miserable life tasted anything properly seasoned. “W-wait!” Sniv squeaked, holding up his pot like a shield. “You eat people raw? That’s… that’s just wasteful, big fella. No technique. No depth of flavor.”

The troll, Fuggut, though Sniv didn’t know the name yet, tilted his head. A slow, stupid grin spread across his face. “You cook?”

Sniv swallowed hard. “Best goblin chef this side of the pass. Kung Pao Squirrel. General Glitz Chicken. I can make your prisoners taste like they deserve to be eaten.”

Fuggut’s belly gave an interested gurgle. He reached down, not to crush the goblin, but to pluck him up by the scruff of his ragged tunic. Sniv dangled like a caught rabbit, feet kicking. “You work for Fuggut now,” the troll rumbled. “Cook good or I eat you.”

And that was how it began. Fuggut’s cave was a disaster. Bones everywhere, bat guano in the corners, a stagnant pool that smelled like regret. But Sniv saw potential. He cleared a flat rock for a prep station, strung up drying herbs from the ceiling, and turned a stolen iron shield into a passable wok. The first meal he prepared was a nervous triumph: stir-fried venison (liberated from a hunter Fuggut had waylaid) with wild onions, fiery peppers, and a sauce Sniv had fermented from Mistwood berries. Fuggut devoured it in four bites, then licked the shield clean. For the first time in decades, the troll looked almost content.

From then on, Sniv became the troll’s personal chef slave. Fuggut would lumber into Havenspass under cover of night, snatch some unfortunate soul who wandered too far from the Goat Tavern or the commune gates, and drag them back. Sniv would prepare them with as much dignity as the situation allowed; marinades, careful butchery, a sprinkle of toasted sesame. He told himself it was survival.

He told himself the screams were just part of the process. But late at night, while Fuggut snored like an avalanche, Sniv would sit by the glowing fungus and dream of the day he might season something that wasn’t destined for a troll’s gullet. He sharpened his knives, stirred his pots, and waited.