The wretched creature huddles within a heap of rags. The debris of society surrounds it: several broken clay pots, empty glass bottles, shreds of filthy canvas, and the remains of a chicken whose bones have long been picked clean. It reaches out an olive-hued hand with blackened nails, wafting up a stench reminiscent of an open sewer and causing you to fight the urge to gag. You take out a loaf of freshly baked bread from your bag—its aroma a soothing balm to your battered senses—while from a sack you produce another chicken, plump and freshly killed, handing them both over. The goblin’s bulbous yellow eyes stare at you above a long nose, then it grins with a mouth bedecked with pointy teeth. It snatches the food from you and beckons you to follow.
