Quiet pen-scratch by lamplight, that was the goblin’s comfort. She sat on the edge of a stone obelisk etched with Post-Exodus Sarmadi cuneiform, bare feet dangling against the stone words, feeling their ancient meaning rubbing against her skin. Her campsite was nearby, fire nearly embers around a pair of potatoes - a forgotten, quickly carbonized meal. She had only stepped away for a moment to enter the day’s findings in her journal, only a moment with her paper and quill. Xenon’s gree. . .