Jazeer was tired of living. The pain throbbing through his limbs, stiffening his joints, was but a minor curse when compared with the fate he had been laden with. A few hours ago, he had been the Crown Prince of an ancient power; his name was glory, honour and promise. Now he was an outcast, thrown to the wolves by his own brother - and none of his 'loyal' soldiers did anything to intervene. He had treated them personally for their wounds, seen to their every need as any good commander should, and he plied them with the luxuries destined for his command tent. Yet, in the end, it seemed that warriors always appreciated the physically strong: Basar was such a man. 

The former Crown Prince was not angry at this twist of events, however, he was just bitterly sad. Life's dwindling rays of hope had been snuffed out from under his own nose, and now his beloved brother, Mundhir, was facing annihilation. He had little doubt that the plot arrayed against Mundhir had consumed him too, but what really irritated Jazeer was not the shooting pains in his knees as he walked the endless green, but that he had no idea of the plot's goal. 

Eblistan's history was bloated with acts of regicide. If his father was murdered and supplanted, war would reign for a time, followed by peace, but eventually the citadel would shrug off the stain like it had always done. A new regal line would be established, Duranar's chosen would thrive for another century; rinse and repeat. What was the point? Surely Basar was not that stupid, as to try and seize the throne? He was a meat-headed imbecile with a taste for rape and slaughter, this much was unfortunately true, but he had little love for a crown. He saw himself as a War Lord, first and foremost, the serving sword of Duranar. So why would he give his hand in Mundhir's death?

Jealously perhaps? It was no secret that Mundhir's defeating of Nillanor on the plains of Eblistan, and then at Baalor, had won him the love of the people. His father had seethed with rage, as the Elven delegation entered his palace and demanded an explanation. However, he never made mention of killing Mundhir, only that he should retire and spend his life administering the people through civil means. Personally, Jazeer felt that the Caliph had always favoured Mundhir over he, for Mundhir was brave, strong, noble and fiercely intelligent: the embodiment of a perfect Duranar Blessed Mamaluk. Basar, on the other hand, was seen as a thug and a beast. How much gold had the Caliph lavished noble families for their silence in fell-matters? 

Jazeer remembered bitterly Basar's assault on Lady Talia of House Felmar; that was a nightmarish affair. It was Jazeer, not Felmar's physicians, who tended to her wounds. The worst part of it all however, was not that damage done to Talia's body, but what the attack had inflicted on her mind. She never left the confines of her house after what Basar had done, and spent days staring out at the elaborate terrace of her father's estate. She was broken, dead inside, and Jazeer's earthly medicine was no match for the stain that had marred her honour and dignity. 

Basar's punishment? A temporary station on the borders of Uchfos Forest. Jazeer conceded to himself that stripping the monster of his titles and lands would have been a better path to go down, but alas, Talia's father cared only for gold, and sought to profit from the grim occurrence. Profit he did, and now it was no secret that House Felmar's prominence was on the rise. A woman's life and well-being was cheap in these times of religious zeal and power gluttony. 

Something screamed as Jazeer passed an outcropping of rocks, a few miles from Baalor. The scream was not a human one, and sounded more like that of a wounded animal; a horse maybe? Did horses scream? Jazeer was not certain, nature and the animal kingdom being far from his intellect's comfort zones. Still, his life was over as far as he saw it, and so rewarding curiosity was no longer a question of stupidity. He stalked towards the direction of the scream. 

Sleeking around the corner of a rock, Jazeer looked upon a Goblin staked to the ground by several metal pins. It squirmed, twisted, and shrieked as bloodied limbs tried to flail their way out of the restraints stuck through them. The former Crown Prince had read of Goblins, seen portraits of them, but this was the first time he had seen one in the flesh. He had learned that they were vermin and pests, hunted for their hide and teeth by some, but otherwise culled by most. He did not see vermin, though, he saw only pain and anguish. 

If Jazeer was to die, wretched and wasted as his wards faded from him, then he would die as he lived: noble and compassionate. He approached the pitiful form, and knelt beside it. 

Immediately the Goblin spat at him, shrieking curses that even Jazeer's worldly knowledge could not translate. Its ghoulish face shot forwards, struggling against rope that held it down, and its jaws clamped towards the kneeling Prince. 

"I mean no harm," came Jazeer's muffled voice.

"Suck my cock, human," screeched the Goblin. Jazeer noticed one of its ears had been sliced from its head, and dark blood had pooled and dried on the grass alongside. 

"As tempting as that may be," Jazeer said, smiling behind his mask, "I would much rather help. Who did this to you?" 

"Kill me now, you cock gobbler, I ain't one for entertainin' torturing cunts," it hissed, and continued to snap its powerful, teeth-thick jaws at him. 

"I am no torturer, just a lost soul left out here to die," Jazeer said softly, as he examined the wounds. "These pins have not struck your arteries, from what I can see; whoever did this knew their way around a Goblin. Who were they?" 

"You should know, you bastard," the Goblin wined. "They all wore that stupid, fucking mask you're wearing." 

Jazeer recoiled. Eblistani soldiers did not wear masks; masks were a sign of weakness, for they hid a man's shame. Warrior's had no need to hide shame. 

"I do not know them. How long ago did they do this?" 

"What do you care?" It spat at him, the discoloured slime running down the gold of his mask. 

Jazeer sighed, "I will release you from your torment. If you wish to kill me for doing so, you would only be fast-tracking my story by a few hours." 

With careful and practised hands, the Crown Prince pulled the metal pins from the Goblin's wrists and shins. It shrieked with each tug, and as it became free, it lunged at Jazeer, beating his face and chest with clenched fists. 

"Die, die, die!" It screamed. 

Jazeer did not resist. As the small fists rained down on his frail body, he merely closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. 

"Fight me, I've enough in me to kill you, you pig fucker," the Goblin growled, wheezing with exhaustion.

"No," Jazeer's voice carried pain. 

The Goblin stood from his victim, stumbled a short distance, and collapsed. Jazeer took a few minutes for his bruised face, and clawed ribs, to let up on their pain, and then he staggered to his feet. He looked down on the poor creature, and shook his head bitterly. It was on death's door, already the dark veins of infection were spreading from its wounds, and no doubt his attackers had used poison. Kneeling besides the fallen Goblin, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small pouch of herbs. 

"These are harvested from the Welltrees of Uchfos. They are as expensive, as they are essential in treating infection. As possibly my last and final act in this world, I, Jazeer Sadek of Eblistan, will see that you walk away from here," Jazeer said, breathing heavily.