Little Scut gets a new name, a new "mom", and a new, if clumsy, "big brother". Wraithvine helps them pack up camp and watches over the family, and one has to wonder what ze's thinking, and feeling, knowing the small creature ze rescued now has a loving family, thanks to hir.
[AN: Fixed the pronouns up there. Wraithvine is a ze/hir just like your humble author. I called hir 'him' in one fiction, and that was from the perspective of an antagonist. (mutters: I'm never gonna live that down...)]
Picture if you will, life from the perspective of a Goblin. Your destiny is to end in a brief and crunchy squeak. If you are lucky, some Hobgoblin or Bugbear will fund your meals until they use you as cannon fodder and you fall under some Adventurer's blade.
It's not a life made for optimism. Paranoia, yes. Terror, definitely. Pessimism for certain. There are very few bright futures for a Goblin. They don't bother with long and fancy names. Something quick and efficient and, if possible, monosyllabic. So it can be shouted in warning in a hurry. For Scut, the adventurers caring for her welfare are a brand new phenomenon. She is certain it's going to end badly.
Scut watches anything sharp with evident trepidation. The knitting needles in Ma Oxbrydl's hands. The sharp point of every arrow in Kevin Oxbrydl's bow. Right now, she was watching the paring knife in Wraithvine's nimble fingers.