Tunali, the largest of the trolls, lumbered through fields. Young, elvish ladies (all either in labor or close to it) lined the rows. Shackled to the ground, blood ran from many places on their bodies, most of which was the sacred cradle. One after the other, the elves gave birth. And nearly as quickly, the goblins came behind Tunali and gathered the newborns. Tunali’s leathery, wrinkled skin creased as he smiled a large, crooked-toothed smile, his black eyes sparkling. The thought that in just a single week these children would be ready to seed and bare their own children… It was almost too much!
The goblins were nearly finished with this crop. Harvest had come more quickly this time! But that meant that these elves would be used up faster, too. Tunali thought hard. It hurt him to think so much. The master would reward him if he brought more children. But he would punish him if any of them died.
“Take 1/3 of the babies to feed the master now. We’ll seed the others early,” he said, his voice like thunder.