A brief look at what is to come

Gweedor woke, his brain still fuzzy from the hallucinogenic effects of the fungi he had eaten during the ceremony. He shuddered as he vividly remembered his dream. There could be no mistaking the summoning. He had been finally called upon by his god. He could hardly contain his mixture of fear and excitement as he got dressed.
After five years of studying as an acolyte of Crom Cruach, he had finally been given some recognition. He had nearly given up hope of ever being called, and the High-shaman Barfall had long since resigned himself to the fact that Gweedor was useless. Even being related to the High-shaman could not guarantee his safety from the sacrificial altars.
As it was, Gweedor had been given the most menial tasks to do over the last five years: long bells of scrubbing altars and floors, as well as cleaning and sharpening the sacrificial scians. The other young acolytes had already gone on to do more exciting work.
He hurried through the warren of tunnels until he reached his father’s private quarters. Gweedor scratched his claws against the rawhide curtain, waiting nervously and hoping that Barfall was already awake. No sound came from within, and for a moment, Gweedor considered sneaking back into the darkness. Barfall was cantankerous at the best of times, but he was at his worst when roused from sleep. Despite his age, the High-shaman was still quick to reach for his sacrificial knife. No Dark Goblin had ever attained high office, let alone survived to such an age, without having at least a few homicidal tendencies. Barfall had more than most.
“Don’t lurk out there like a toadstool, Gweedor. I can hear you wheezing from here. I’m awake now, but whatever it is ... it’d better be good.”
Gweedor’s throat dried up as he nervously pushed the curtain aside, and peered within. Despite years of working as an acolyte and seeing things that would drive many beyond the brink of madness, the sight before him made him shudder.
The High-shaman was one of the oldest goblins in the Blooded Hand Tribe. His face was a mask of creased scar tissue and grotesque tattoos, and he was as bald as a nussler. His hideous face was dominated by two long wolf-teeth, jutting out of his mouth. They were the longest fangs that Gweedor had ever seen. They did little to lessen the fear with which the whole tribe viewed the High-shaman.
What made it worse, however, was that he was squatting over a bucket, naked as the day he was born, and revealing all of the many wrinkles on his obese body. The gurgling noises and the stench only heightened the nightmarish vision before the young acolyte.
“Don’t just stand there catching flies, you cretin. Spit it out … whatever it is ... then I can decide whether I’ll gut you now, or whether I should wait and get you to clean out the slops bucket before I finish you off.”
“Yes, Da. I just thought you should know that I had my dream!”
“You disturbed me for that! Where’s me knife?” Barfall growled, already reaching for his razor-sharp scian.
“No, no, Da! I had my Dream-summoning,” Gweedor explained.
“What’s that you said?”
“I said that I’ve had a Dream-summoning!”
“By Crom ... really? You’re not making this up, are you?”
“No ... really I did, honest!”
“So what did Crom Cruach tell you in this summoning? I hope it was something useful like go and jump off the nearest cliff, or better still, cut out your own heart with a rusty dirk.”
At times, it was hard to know when the High-shaman was being sarcastic and when he was just being a miserable old bastard. Gweedor tended to think it was the latter, so he decided to ignore the comment. “He told me to go to the land of the Ghost-men. He wants me to go to his mountain and fetch two Ghost-men back from the dead.”
“What? What do we want with a couple of Ghost-men? Are you sure you’re not making this up, boy?”
“I’m sure! I’ve been having the same dream for days now, but I was ignoring it, hoping it would go away. Last night, I ate some of the sacred dream fungi, and it was there again, only this time it was even more powerful.”
Barfall grunted indifferently as he hobbled over and put on his ceremonial wolf-skin robe. “That’s a big summoning for a lad that’s taken this long to get one at all. Still, maybe he was saving you for this moment. Guess you’d better get your gear together then and bugger off. It’s a long way to Crom’s mountain.”
Gweedor had been expecting something more ... some fatherly advice perhaps, or maybe even a goodbye ... who was he kidding. With a sigh, he turned to leave.
“Oi! You forgot the slops bucket. By Crom, you’d forget your noggin if it wasn’t hammered on!”
Gweedor groaned and grabbed the stinking bucket, trying not to breathe too deeply as he carried it away.