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To most sane and civilized individuals, a goblin camp was one of the foulest, most vile places to be found anywhere in the world. It was difficult to find any other location that could match the horror show: dozens of rotten little creatures, reeking of death and reveling in destruction. The goblins celebrated all things evil and celebrated the destruction of everything that was good. They danced around the fire pit that had been erected in the courtyard of a temple that had once been beautiful and pristine; every statue and holy symbol had been meticulously defaced, covered in vulgar graffiti and smeared with blood. Overlooking the wicked gathering, two figures stood hidden atop of the temple's high stone walls — one was a blue-skinned man with long, thin horns and a somewhat sour expression etched across his face. The second was slimmer, with elven ears, a sharp jaw, and gloved fingers crackling with blue electricity. Behind him, the body of a goblin scout lay blackened and still