Near the foothills of Gods’ Hollow, along the North Road, the Tucker family complained of noises emanating from the ground, and of several sheep disappearing. After nearly two weeks, thirteen sheep had vanished, as well as their twelve-year-old son, Henry.
It was then the Tuckers contacted me and asked if I would try and find him. Samuel Tucker was laid up with a leg injury from a kick received by a particularly disgruntled mule. I readily agreed and went into Gods’ Hollow armed with a shotgun and little else. The Hollow had been quiet for nearly a year, and I trusted in my ability to get back to safety with the boy if he could be found.
I found the boy’s tracks almost immediately and followed them to a narrow opening in a small mountain, around which were a great many hoofprints. Like the boy, I was able to slip into the opening. Unlike the boy, I was not taken by surprise.
Ahead of me, in a chamber barely lit by a single candle’s flame, was a dwarf. Around him lay the bones and innards of the Tucker family’s missing sheep, and the freshly slain body of Henry Tucker.
I got off a single shot before the dwarf rushed me. The round injured him, but not before he got close enough to try and strike me.
We found for nearly ten minutes, the battle finally ending when I gouged out his eyes and crushed his windpipe with my forearm.
The dwarf took a long time to die, and it was a pity I had to kill him. If he had kept to sheep, he might have lived for years in the safety of the Hollow.
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